The Surgeon's Lady. Carla Kelly

comfortable with this.”

      He tried again. “Madam, these are uncouth men.”

      “They are injured men,” she replied, and decided on some plain speaking, since she was beginning to understand his degree of discomfort. “I am a widow, Sir David. I recently nursed my late husband through his final illness. I doubt anything in this—block, you call them?—will surprise me.”

      He shook his head. “These are battle injuries, Lady Taunton. I cannot guarantee you will not be shocked.”

      “I expect no guarantee, Sir David,” she said, trying to keep her voice serene. She took a deep breath, and wished she hadn’t. Under a strong odor of carbolic, it was hard to ignore corruption. Take a shallow breath now, she advised herself, but only one or two.

      Heads popped out of rooms as they walked to the stairs, which made her wonder how often Sir David visited the wards.

      Perhaps he read her thoughts. “Sick and hurt officers are housed in separate blocks,” he explained, as they mounted the steps. “That is where I am usually in attendance.”

      She didn’t think powder monkeys often came to his attention. “Who takes care of these men?”

      “My surgeons. I have two, and each has four assistants, as well as orderlies.”

      He took her to the next floor and opened a door. “B Ward, Lady Taunton. Let us find, er …”

      “Matthew,” she said patiently. You would remember if he was an officer, she thought.

      “Matthew. I will locate the surgeon. As you can see, we are overcrowded. Let us blame Bonaparte.”

      She looked around the spacious, well-lighted room with windows on both sides to let in the sea air. She counted twenty beds, each with an occupant, plus two cots. A thin woman with a permanent frown between her eyes was seated at a desk. Eyes popping out of her head, she rose when she saw the admiral, and smoothed down her stained apron.

      “We’re looking for Matthew.”

      “Pollock,” Laura said. “He’s eleven.”

      “Go get the surgeon,” the admiral ordered. The woman scurried from the room.

      Then Laura saw Matthew, the youngest one in the room, lying propped into a sitting position, on one of the two cots. He had looked up when he heard his name, hope in his eyes. When he did not recognize her, he looked away.

      It was impossible to overlook the misery in the room. Men had limbs missing, and some were lying still, as if any movement was painful. Some had that inward expression she recognized from tending her dying husband.

      She sat on a stool beside Matthew Pollock’s cot and touched his good arm. “Nana sent me,” she said. “She’s expecting a baby, and Captain Worthy didn’t want to tire her. I’m her sister, Mrs. Taunton.”

      The boy looked at her and released a shaky breath, as though he had been holding it for days. He was small for his age, and she had to remind herself that he was a veteran of the Royal Navy. Oliver had said Matthew had been a powder monkey for three years, one of two little boys on the Tireless whose sole duty was to carry powder from the magazine to the gun deck.

      He was pale, which was no surprise, considering the insult to his system. He didn’t look overfed, either, although there was an uneaten bowl of mush on the table by his cot. His eyes were a crystal blue that made her think what a handsome man he might become someday. The skin was stretched taut across his face, which seemed to throw his nose into prominence.

      She could not overlook his empty sleeve, with its bloodstains. It was rolled back to expose the thick bandage that made the rest of his body seem much smaller.

      “May I call you Matthew?”

      He nodded.

      “Speak up, lad, when you’re addressed,” the admiral ordered. “You don’t nod at ladies.”

      “He’s but eleven, Sir David, and wounded,” Laura reminded the admiral.

      She heard smothered laughter from one of the other beds, and knew she should not have spoken out of turn, not in front of this powerful man. “I’m sorry,” she said contritely. “I should not presume to know what is best for him.”

      She knew it was on the tip of the admiral’s tongue to agree with her, but he refrained, perhaps remembering the fool he had made of himself earlier. He was saved from further comment by firm footsteps, and then a comfortable laugh.

      “As I live and breathe, Lady Taunton. You’re a sight for sore eyes, and we have plenty of those here!”

      Laura glanced at the admiral’s face, whose sudden relief had just as soon turned to outrage, and then at Lt. Brittle, who came into the room in front of the woman sent to fetch him.

      “Lieutenant! I’ll have you remember your manners, too!” the admiral exclaimed in a loud voice, which caused two of the bed-bound men to moan and stir restlessly.

      Brittle went to one of the men and touched his face, keeping his hand there until he was still again. He nodded at the other one and winked, which seemed to settle him down.

      “Beg pardon, Sir David,” he said, his eyes on Laura now. “It happens I know Lady Taunton.” He bowed in her direction. “How are the Worthys?”

      “I left Nana in complete charge of the captain,” she told him.

      She couldn’t help but notice the interest this conversation created among the invalids. All these men must be from the Tireless, she thought. “I’ll have you know she is a worse tyrant than your captain,” she said, addressing the room. “He hasn’t a prayer of leaving that house until she says so.”

      Several men laughed, and one cheered feebly. The admiral looked around, obviously out of his depth, not knowing if he should reprimand them all or leave well enough alone. He chose the latter, backing toward the door ever so slightly.

      To Laura’s gratification, Lt. Brittle played his superior like a violin.

      “I know Captain Worthy’s men are deeply grateful for your kindness in bringing his sister-in-law here, Sir David,” Brittle said. “We all know how busy you are. With your permission, I’ll see to Lady Taunton now, and make sure these tars behave.”

      “You do that,” Sir David snapped, looking around the room again. He left without another word.

      Some of the tension went with him. Brittle nodded to the silent woman standing by the desk and she sat down again. He perched on the edge of Matthew’s cot, one knee on the floor, careful not to overbalance it. “Matthew, you’re the luckiest tar in the room, as far as I can see, with a visit from a pretty lady.”

      A series of emotions crossed the powder monkey’s face. His lips trembled and he closed his eyes, exhausted with pain. “I wanted to see Nana,” he whispered, and then began to cry—not loud tears, but the hopeless kind, the kind she was familiar with.

      Laura wanted to touch his face. She glanced at the surgeon, and he nodded his approval. She touched Matthew’s face, cupping her hand against his hot cheek, and then moved closer to circle her other arm around his head. Matthew turned his face toward her arm, which told her that she could console him.

      In another moment, she had changed places with the surgeon, who moved to the stool. Careful not to bump his arm, she gathered Matthew close and let him cry.

      The moment passed quickly. She took the damp cloth Lt. Brittle held out and wiped Matthew’s face. “Maybe I can wash your hair tomorrow,” she told him, keeping her voice matter-of-fact. “I always feel better when my hair is clean.”

      She didn’t know what to say then, but the surgeon took over. He ran a practiced hand over Matthew’s upper arm, feeling for swelling. His eyes on Matthew, he spoke to Laura.

      “What a brave son of a gun Matthew is, Lady Taunton. I had to take