The Surgeon’s Lady

by Carla Kelly

  “When he returns, I’m going to order Oliver to shoot you dead,” Nana said. “I will laugh and scalp you like a Mohican.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a minute,” he replied with a smile.

  Laura took his watch in her hands and lay down beside Nana, hiding her smile.

  “Rub her back, Laura,” Oliver said as he left the room.

  Laura did, gratified to hear Nana’s even breathing in a few minutes. The peace lasted for ten minutes, then Nana grunted softly and relaxed as Laura reminded her to breathe slowly.

  After an hour of dozing and waking, Nana sat up and asked Laura to help her walk. “Like only yesterday,” Nana said. “Down to the quay and back.”

  Arms around each other, they paced the room.

  “What do you think Oliver is doing right now?” Nana asked.

  He’s sound asleep, Laura thought, amused. “He’s thinking of you,” she said.

  “No he’s not, silly. He’s asleep.”

  They walked until Nana stopped and clutched her. “That was stronger,” she said when she could straighten up. “Let’s keep walking.”

  They walked some more: Nana stopped more frequently now as Laura timed her contractions. When they were four minutes apart, Nana asked to lie down, and Laura helped her back into bed, where she lay on her side again, grunting softly.

  When the contractions were three minutes apart, Laura kissed Nana’s forehead and went to her room, where Philemon slept in complete comfort, his hands relaxed and open. She looked at him, wondering how it would be to see his face on her pillow every morning for the rest of her life, at least, as often as Napoleon would permit. She barely touched his shoulder.

  He grasped her hand before he opened his eyes. “Three minutes?”

  “Yes. She’s straining more but not complaining. My sister is an angel.”

  “She knows what she is doing and why,” he told her, tugging on her hand until she was sitting on her bed beside him. “Don’t worry, Laura. She’ll be fine.”

  She gave him a thump. “Get up!”

  Another hour passed, with the contractions not budging beyond three minutes. Philemon dozed in the chair, his stockinged feet propped on the bedside table. Mrs. Brittle came over when the sun rose, bringing with her some ice in a glass. She gave a piece to Nana. “I’ve been setting out a pan each night, and this is the first morning it was cold enough.”

  Nana rolled her eyes with the pleasure of it and smiled her thanks, just before the next contraction took hold. She chewed relentlessly through three more contractions, each one closer than the others. Laura patted Philemon awake.

  It was as satisfactory a birth as he could ever remember, and more comfortable than most. Red-faced and pushing hard when the time came to bear down, Nana would never have appreciated the stories he could have told of delivering a baby on the gun deck during battle—where was it decreed that babies come at most inopportune times?—or tending to the harsh women in the Stonehouse laundry.

  But here they were in a warm room, with early December battering the windows outside and reasonable people within, ready to do what he asked, as Nana labored and delivered.

  The hardest moment came right before the birth, as Nana struggled then sobbed for Oliver to comfort her. Philemon had to look away for a moment, as tears came to his own eyes, followed by the deepest hatred of war he had ever felt. It was even stronger than the moment on the Victory when Admiral Nelson died. This moment in the Worthy bedchamber was more awful, because it showed him the implacable power of war to mock and harrow the innocent.

  All eyes in the room were on Nana; only Laura left her perch on the bed and came to his side to put her hands on his head, kiss his cheek and pull him against her body. She wiped his face, and he looked deep into her eyes, which showed complete understanding of his feelings. There was love, too, from the lady he adored, also a harrowed innocent.

  Then came the matchless moment he knew he would never tire of. Protesting her dislodgment from a cozy nest into an uncertain world, Nana and Oliver Worthy’s daughter made her appearance. I love this, he thought, as he caught her slimy body expertly, cleared her mouth quickly, gave her toes a flick and flopped her on her mother’s belly.

  Here’s to the ladies, he thought, as Nana, weary no more, reached for her baby, crooning to it, trying to pull her close. He gently brushed her fingers aside with his scissors, tied a knot and handed the scissors to Laura, who cut the cord binding mother and daughter, who were already firmly bound in that way of mothers and offspring.

  He finished his work below while the women in the room took charge. His mother wrapped the infant in a dry towel and handed her to Nana, who smiled her thanks. She gazed in utter rapture at her daughter, who stared back solemnly.

  “We’re naming her Rachel, after my mother,” Nana told him. She looked at Laura then, her eyes filling with tears. “I want Oliver here!”

  “So do we all, dearest,” Laura murmured, kissing her sister’s sweaty hair. “I’ll write him before the hour is out.”

  Taking Oliver’s assignment again, Philemon held Nana and her child in his arms while the women changed the bedding, then tucked her in. A word to his mother passed on his next assignment. When he left the room, she was showing Nana how to coax the baby to her breast. He watched a moment, satisfied, then glanced at his timepiece: half past eleven, seven bells in the forenoon watch. The Royal Navy had another dependent.

  He watched as Nana tugged her sister down to the bed and whispered in her ear. Laura looked at him and nodded. Nana gave her a push, then turned her attention to the demands at her breast. The room was warm and smelled of birth. He could have stayed there all afternoon. Too bad most surgical duties were not as pleasant as this one.

  Laura joined him at the door, and closed it after them. She took him in her arms, and he closed his eyes in satisfaction as the dear woman tended to his needs. How was it women did this?

  “Nana ordered me to marry you tomorrow,” she said speaking into his neck. “She said I deserved to be as happy as she is.”

  “You do,” he told her, kissing her.

  “She told me to trust her. Everyone wants me to trust them.”

  “When are you going to listen to us?” he chided gently.

  “Now,” she said, her voice decisive. “I hear you have a special license.”

  “It’s in my uniform inside pocket.”

  “Do you know any vicars?”

  He had to be sure. “Are you certain of what you are doing?”

  “Of course I am not,” she replied honestly, “but it does not follow that I do not love you. I do. And you have already pledged to sustain me during moments when I do not.”

  He swallowed several times, trying to speak. He would have thought his heart turned over, except that he knew such a phenomenon was medically impossible.

  “Produce that license, Philemon. I believe it entitles us to be married whenever and wherever we choose, and I choose the Worthys’ bedchamber tomorrow morning.”

  His arms were around her then, gathering her as close as he could, but it was his turn to temporize. “Let’s give Nana another day and a good night’s sleep. If you send a timely letter to Bath, Polly will come, and I have a little sister in Portsmouth who will come, too.” He held her off to look at her face. “Do you need to send to Taunton for your late husband’s certificate of death?”

  She blushed, which only made her more endearing, a thing he could not have thought possible. “No, actually. When Mrs. Ormes went back recently, I asked her to fetch it.”

  “You’ve been making plans,” he said, in a voice soft with wonder. “Yes, I do know a vicar.” He opened the door. “Mama, is Mr. Matheson still holding forth at St. Mary’s Church, railing against sailors and other evils?”

  “He is,” Mrs. Brittle said. “You know where he lives. Hush now!”

  “Laura, write Gran,” Nana said, her voice drowsy and distant.

  “You’re supposed to be asleep!” Laura said,
not leaving his embrace. “Philemon, let me go so I can write some letters.”

  “You’re the one who grabbed me,” he teased.

  “And you’re the one who has to find that vicar who has such umbrage against the Royal Navy. Will he be amazed?”

  “No, indeed,” Philemon said, stepping away from her and untying his apron. “He had high hopes I would not spend my entire life with a capital knife in one hand and a finger on someone’s pulse.”

  Quickly, she raised her wrist to him, and he placed his lips on her pulse point. “A bit too rapid for my ease, Laura.”

  “You two!” Mrs. Brittle scolded. “How are the Worthys to get any rest if we are all in such an uproar?”

  “Look behind you, Mama,” Philemon said. “They’re asleep.” He returned his attention to Laura. “Will two days from now suit?”

  “Yes. Let us make it at…at four bells in the forenoon watch. Is that right?”

  “As rain, my love.”

  It was a quiet wedding, each guest crowded into Nana’s bedroom a friendly face. The vicar’s homily was taken from the Book of Ruth, which made Philemon squeeze her hand tighter.

  Laura was amazed at her own calm, which far exceeded that of her husband. When Nana started dabbing her eyes, she knew she did not dare look at Philemon, or she would cry, too. She kept her eyes on their hands, looking up finally to give her responses and look into deep blue eyes swimming with unshed tears. If there was a better place to be in all the world, Laura couldn’t imagine it.

  He had told her the ring once belonged to his Grand mother Brittle, nothing more than a copper circle, such as an illiterate wife of a pig farmer in Yorkshire would wear. “When I have a minute in Plymouth, I’ll find something much better,” he had assured her. “Still, that was a good marriage and we could do worse.”

  He warned her it would turn her finger green, as sure as the world. Looking at the ring now on her finger, she could hardly wait for that to happen. From this moment forward, green would always be the color of love to her, and not the diamonds and rubies in her last ring. She couldn’t even remember where she had left that bauble.

  There were hugs and kisses from all present, even Captain Brackett, who looked fine in his best uniform. He had brought her former dresser with him from Stonehouse. Laura couldn’t help but notice Amanda Peters darting glances at Brackett. Well, well, she thought.

  Samantha Brittle Wyle greeted her as a sister, with her embrace taking in Laura and her brother, and the admonition not to be a stranger to Portsmouth. And there was Polly, eyes lively in her excitement.

  After a professional look at Nana, Philemon shooed everyone downstairs to a wedding breakfast. “You’re looking a tad finely drawn,” he told Nana. “Let me guess—It’s been two days. Your milk is in and you’re wishing us to the devil.”

  She nodded, wasting no time in pulling back the shawl around her shoulders, unbuttoning her nightgown and putting her baby to her breast. “My goodness,” she said, as Rachel began to gulp, her eyes wide with wonder at a superabundance of milk. Nana leaned back in relief. “Pardon my rag manners!”

  “No pardon needed. Remember, both breasts per feeding, or you’ll be lopsided. That’s the last wisdom from me, except to keep Captain Worthy at arm’s length if he arrives home sooner than four weeks from now.”

  “You told me six weeks!”

  “I am a realist.”

  Nana blushed. “I wish him here tomorrow.”

  “So do I,” Philemon said, “except that I distinctly remember you telling me he would shoot me dead.”

  “That passed,” Nana replied, with some dignity. “Go on, both of you.”

  Not until late afternoon did they bid goodbye to the last guest. Gran had come from Plymouth on the last mail coach, stammering her apologies. It was nearly impossible to get away from the Mulberry these days, what with all the business, she said, already on the stairs.

  Laura knew better than to stop her with conversation. “You may have my room tonight, Mrs. Massie,” she said.

  “And that is that,” she told Philemon. “We are sleeping in your house tonight.”

  She had second thoughts, when she came into the room under the eaves an hour later. It must have showed on her face. Her husband sat her down on the bed.

  “You’re frowning, my love. Let us just sleep tonight. You get the side closest to the wall.” He took off his uniform jacket. “Turn around. I will unbutton you.”

  She did as he said, closing her eyes when his fingers touched her bare skin, feeling her heart race a little faster, even though he had frankly declared there would be only sleep in the attic. What he said had intrigued her.

  “Why should I be next to the wall? I would think a wife would be on the side closest to the door. You know, to get up when children cry, and…and those kinds of things.”

  “Not in the Brittle family,” Philemon replied. He took off his neck cloth and draped it with the uniform, then pulled his shirt over his head. “I’m not sure why he told me that several years ago—I had no matrimonial prospects then. Papa said, ‘When you marry, let your wife sleep next to the wall. You can protect her that way.’ Absurd, isn’t it?”

  “I think it’s lovely,” she said, as she let her dress drop.

  “That’s my father. You’ll come to love him, too.” He took off his trousers and reached under the near pillow for his nightshirt. “After you, Laura.”

  Too shy for words, she finished undressing. She needed his help for her corset, which he unlaced expertly, then retied much looser. “From now on, please don’t wear it any tighter than that,” he said. “You don’t need it, and it’s harmful.” He loosed the strings again so she could remove it.

  She touched his cheek tentatively. A second later she was clasped belly to belly in his arms, not sure if she had reached out first or he. He rubbed her back, then his hands went lower, as he pulled her closer.

  She felt her breath coming faster, until she felt light-headed and unable to stop the shudder that went through her. “I cannot,” she cried out.

  Philemon pulled away immediately and sat her down. “Calmly, Laura,” he said. “Just breathe. You’ll be fine.”

  She could not help the tears that filled her eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “Forgive me.”

  He dabbed at her eyes with his sleeve. “Nothing to forgive.”

  Miserable, she crawled into bed. He joined her, then reached over and opened his timepiece, placing it by the candlestick. “I have to be up early to catch the mail coach. Laura, don’t cry. It’s been a long day. I revise that—it’s been a long week. I expect you to stay in Torquay until you are quite resolved to come to Stonehouse.”

  He dabbed at her eyes again, and she made no objection when he pulled her close enough for her head to rest on his chest. “I’ve left my spare house key on the bureau over there. Aunt Walters went home to Yorkshire last week for a visit, or she would have been here today. If she is not back by the time you come home, you’ll need the key.”

  By the time you come home. He could not have said anything kinder. She nestled closer to him, and he gave her shoulder an answering squeeze.

  “I’ll have the extra bedchamber made up for you, and there will be mine down the hall, of course. Choose either one.” He kissed her cheek. “Good night, Mrs. Brittle. I’ll try to be quiet in the morning.”

  She wasn’t sure when she finally dropped off to sleep—it was long after Philemon—but she woke at some point, aware that she had snatched most of the coverlet and bundled herself into it. She turned over to look at Philemon, who should have been shivering, but who seemed oblivious, so deep was his sleep. My apologies for being a blanket thief, she thought, looking at him. His nightshirt had ridden up to his waist, as those garments generally did, and there he lay, exposed and relaxed.

  In the last few months, she had seen many patients’ privates. It was a necessary part of nursing, and fazed her not in the least. This was different; this was her husband. The sigh
t of him intrigued her and she wanted to touch him there, something she had only done to Sir James when he was invalided and needed her help for every function. This man sleeping beside her was a young man in his prime, and she wanted him.

  It was an odd sensation for her, one she had never experienced. She felt her own body grow warm as she watched her husband. Maybe Nana is right, she thought, as she carefully covered Philemon and settled against him again. His arm went around her, and she wondered, red-faced, if he was awake. It must have been a reflex; his breathing was as measured as ever.

  He was up in the morning before the room was fully light. She lay there quietly, her eyes closed, listening to the homely sound of him washing his hands and face, and smothering an oath when he bumped his head on an overhead beam by the washbasin. She started to laugh, and kept laughing when he grinned at her, made a rude gesture and sat on her. Her laughter turned into a shriek when he suddenly growled into her neck.

  She gave him a push. He landed on the floor, then tipped his head back to gaze at her. “I hope your mother didn’t hear that,” she whispered, trying not to laugh.

  “She’s two floors down,” he said cheerfully. “Kiss me. It will make up for what I declare are splinters in my ass. If the Brittle buttocks get infected, you will be removing the splinters, and not my mates or, God forbid, Owen Brackett. There are some things I will not explain.”

  He dressed quickly, ordering her to stay in bed. She sat up, rumpled in sleep, and watched him, her arms clasped around her knees. She had never thought of him as handsome, but in the growing light, he was precisely that: solid as a road mender, with character in his profile, and his hair that pleasing brown that would look even better if he had more of it.

  “Would you grow your hair longer for me?” she asked.

  “Not even for you,” he told her as he put on his uniform jacket. “I work with too many louse and flea-bitten patients and don’t like little visitors in my bed. You’ll appreciate that someday.”