Come Looking for Me. Cheryl Cooper

on a hook by the head of her bed, then pulled up the footstool and sank down upon it, watching her as he did so. She wore his muslin nightshirt, which hid the curves of her breasts. Her pale hair was damp with sweat, and bits of it curled around her face. Her cheeks were flushed and tears clung to her lashes, making her look more like a frightened young child than the self-assured woman of eighteen years he had been used to seeing. A wave of intense feeling swept through him and he longed to hold her in his arms.

      When Emily’s heart had slowed, she opened her brown eyes and looked at Leander as if seeing him for the first time. He was dressed in a blue-striped, open-necked nightshirt; his rumpled hair stood up in small tufts on the crown of his head, and a shadow of auburn stubble was visible around his lips.

      “Would it help to talk about it?” he asked, resting his elbows on his thighs.

      Emily exhaled through her open lips. “Thank you, but no … not yet.”

      He nodded and gave her a half smile. “The sea is calmer now. Shall I open the gunport? A bit of fresh air might help.”

      “Please.”

      Emily’s eyes followed him as he stood up and walked around the foot of her bed – his head and shoulders sloped forward to avoid hitting the ceiling – then slowly they dropped below the hem of his nightshirt as he worked to unlatch the gunport. His calves and ankles were well turned out and she took pleasure in the bone structure of his feet. A breeze, making its way through the open gunport into Emily’s corner, ruffled his nightshirt, outlining his slim form. Her eyelids grew heavy as a surge of warmth spread throughout her body.

      Leander retraced his steps to the stool and sat patiently in the event she needed anything. For several minutes, with his head leaning on an upturned fist, he looked upon her quiet face and closed eyelids, and was therefore startled when her lips suddenly twisted into a grin and one of her eyes popped open.

      “Doctor Braden,” she whispered, “you have a lovely, fine nose.”

      Leander lifted his head and raised his eyebrows, uncertain that he had heard her correctly. He opened his mouth to question her remark, but her breathing had steadied and her features had relaxed. He knew she was sound asleep.

      5

      Monday, June 7

      11:30 a.m.

      (Forenoon Watch, Seven Bells)

      BEFORE NOON THE NEXT MORNING, Meg Kettle waddled through Emily’s curtains, balancing a washbasin on one hip. Her thick face was scarlet and there were enormous sweat stains in the armpits of her beige calico dress. “Git up, git up. It’s Monday. Wash day fer ya.” She dropped the basin next to Emily’s hammock and stood, hands on her hammy hips, huffing and puffing.

      Emily sat up in her bed and wiped the sleep from her eyes, unable to decipher Mrs. Kettle’s ensuing mumbled irritation as the woman headed towards the gunport, her backside swaying like a prodigious pendulum.

      “We’ll ’ave to close this up,” she said gruffly. “We’re hove to, so Captain Moreland and his men kin ’ave their wash in thee sea, and it wouldn’t do fer ya to have a peek at their bare behinds. Mind ya, Mr. Austen looks fine without his britches. What I wouldn’t give ta …”

      Emily’s hands shot up in surrender. “Thank you, Mrs. Kettle. I’m up then.”

      With a bang, Mrs. Kettle shut the gunport. She wheeled about and with her squinty eyes sized up Emily in her crumpled nightshirt.

      “Well then, it’s wash day fer yer clothes as well. Gimme yer shirt and whatever’s underneath and that what Magpie made ya. I’ll ’ave ’em all back ’fore thee supper bell.”

      “The supper bell? And what shall I wear in the meantime?”

      Mrs. Kettle snorted. “A pair of thee doctor’s boots fer all I care.” She grabbed Emily’s jacket and trousers, which were hanging from a hook, ignoring Emily’s protests that her new clothes hardly needed cleaning at all, then trudged through the curtain, shouting over her plump shoulder, “Toss me what yer wearin’ now onto thee floor and ye can hide yerself under thee blankets for thee day.”

      Out in the hospital room Emily heard Leander’s warm voice. “Being your usual solicitous self, are you, Mrs. Kettle?”

      “I’m washin’ that woman’s clothes only on yer account, Doctor. If ya want me opinion, I would ’ave – ”

      “As a matter of fact,” said Leander, elevating his tone, “I do not.”

      With hands on her hips and a scowl between her eyes, Mrs. Kettle pounced upon Dr. Braden’s patients with a loud warning. “Ye lads keep yer trousers on whilst that woman’s walkin’ naked amongst ya.” Their heads bobbed obediently on their pillows. She waved a fat finger at Leander. “And you, Doctor – be sure to tie thee lads down in their beds while she’s ’avin’ her wash.”

      “I assure you I have rope ready for just such a purpose.”

      With a grunt, Mrs. Kettle bent over to scoop up Emily’s discarded clothes lying on the floor by the curtain. When she was done, she growled, “Fer all thee trouble that woman’s bin causin’, woulda bin plenty easier if we’d just pitched ’er overboard in Bermuda.”

      Leander laid his slim, freckled hands on her shoulders and steered her gently towards the exit. “Mrs. Kettle, with bated breath we shall await your return at suppertime with our clean clothes.”

      Sitting in her hammock with the blankets pulled up to her neck, Emily could hear not only the older woman’s cursing as she passed from the hospital into the galley, but the subsequent snickers from the men as well. Of them all, Osmund Brockley possessed the noisiest laughter, braying like a possessed animal, and when finally he had laughed himself dry, he asked of Leander, “May I take in her breakfast now, Doctor?”

      “No,” came the terse reply.

      Leander was soon standing before her curtain. “May I come through, Emily?”

      “By all means, Doctor.”

      Leander sidled in, his back to her, carrying a bundle of clothes.

      “Good morning,” he said, holding the clothes up for her to see. “I managed to get these for you from the ship’s purser, Mr. Spooner. I’m afraid they won’t fit well, but they’ll do for Mondays.”

      “I am quite decent, Doctor.”

      There was a shy look of uncertainty on Leander’s face as he laid the new clothes by her feet and turned towards her.

      “I was beginning to worry you would not speak to me again after finding me with Biscuit and his messmates.”

      Leander quickly cleared his throat. “Yes, well.” He looked at her over his spectacles, his blue eyes meeting hers, and drew in breath. “But – do you not remember anything of last night?”

      “Last night?” Emily angled her head. “What happened last night?”

      Leander hesitated, uncertain how to proceed. “You – you had a nightmare.”

      His words hung in the humid air of her little corner. Emily’s eyes shifted past him to stare absently at the closed gunport.

      “Perhaps I – should not have reminded you …”

      “No, I remember. And you gave me some water and laudanum.” She looked back at him. “If you are not careful, Doctor, you will surely waste your entire supply of laudanum on me. And here Mrs. Kettle thinks I am nothing more than an idler. Perhaps we should tell her that you perpetually have me in a drug-induced slumber.”

      Leander moved closer still to the head of her hammock. “We will tell no one of it.”

      The ship rolled and he raised his slender arms to steady himself on the boards above his head. He grew suddenly sombre. “After breakfast, Captain Moreland would like to have a word with you in his cabin.”