have an easier time dismissing her. He could go about his business and forget this little wrinkle in his life’s plan, if he even had a plan.
No luck. She came on deck quickly, a shawl draped over her arm. He smiled to see that she still couldn’t quite reach that centre button in back. I won’t touch it, he thought. Her face was rosy from slumber, her eyes bright and expectant. She merely glanced at him, then cast her whole attention on the beautiful harbour that was Oporto. She had wound her long hair into a ridiculous topknot and skewered it with what looked like a pencil. She looked entirely makeshift, but instead of disgusting him, he wanted to plant a whacking great kiss on her forehead and see where it led. Lord, I am hopeless, he thought in disgust.
She was too excited to even say good morning, but tugged on his arm. ‘Where is the hospital?’ she demanded.
He pointed to the southern bank. ‘Over there, in that area called Vila Nova de Gaia. Turn round.’
She did as he demanded, and he buttoned up the centre button. ‘You need longer arms,’ he commented, but she was not paying attention to him.
‘I have never seen anything so magnificent,’ she said in awe. ‘Perhaps it was worth all that seasickness. Have you been here before?’
‘Years ago, Brandon. I think I was your age.’ He chuckled. ‘For what it’s worth, my reaction was much like yours.’ There, Miss Brandon, that should remind you what a geriatric I am, he thought grimly.
If she heard him, she didn’t seem to mind. Brandon watched as a cutter swooped from the southern shore to the side of the Perseverance and backed its sails, then watched as the flag Lieutenant ran up a series of pennants. ‘What’s he doing?’ she asked.
‘Giving the cutter a message. Our surgeon told me the hospital sends out this cutter at every approach of the fleet, to enquire of the wounded. Ask the flag Lieutenant what message he is sending.’
Surefooted now, Polly hurried to the Lieutenant. ‘He is signalling “Wounded man on board. Prompt attention.” He said the cutter will take the message to the hospital wharf and there will be a surgeon’s mate with a stretcher there when we dock,’ she told him in one breath as she hurried back to his side.
‘It appears that your brother-in-law doesn’t miss a trick,’ Hugh said. ‘I’m impressed.’
Polly nodded, her eyes on the shore again. ‘I asked the Lieutenant if he could also signal “Brandon on board”, and he said he would.’ She leaned against him for one brief moment, or maybe she just lost her footing. ‘I have not seen Laura in nearly two years.’
The winds were fair into Oporto. As the harbour came nearer, she hurried below to finish dressing. When she came back, she was as neat as a pin. He stood close to her when they approached the mouth of the mighty river, knowing there would be a series of pitches and yaws that might discomfort her, as the Douro met the Atlantic. Besides, it gave him plenty of excuse to grip her around the waist to prevent her losing her footing. He couldn’t deny he was touched by how completely she trusted him to hold her.
‘I may never get used to the sea,’ she confessed, as he braced her.
‘It isn’t given to everyone to relish going down to the sea in small boats, despite what the psalm says.’
‘No argument there,’ she agreed cheerfully. ‘The less business I have in great waters, the better.’
It wouldn’t hurt to ask. ‘Of you three sisters, are you to be the only one who avoids the navy?’ What about Marines? he wanted to ask.
She wasn’t listening to him, but was back at the railing, intent on the shoreline, her mind and heart on her sister, he was certain. He tipped his hat to her and went belowdeck to find the letter Surgeon Brackett wanted him to deliver to Philemon Brittle. Better to just hand it to Brandon and let her do the honors. The voyage was over, after all.
He couldn’t bring himself to hand it to her, not there at the railing, or after the gangplank came down on the wharf, and certainly not when Polly had thrown herself into the arms of a tall, beautiful woman with auburn hair.
It was a brief embrace. The woman—she must be Laura Brittle—quickly turned her attention to the foretopman on the stretcher, as her husband planted a quick kiss on Polly’s cheek, shook hands with the Perseverance’s surgeon, and engaged him in conversation.
‘Are you planning to stay in Oporto, Colonel Junot?’ Captain Adney asked.
‘Perhaps,’ he temporised.
‘We’ll be at the navy wharf today and then sailing the day after, if winds and tide are willing.’
‘Very well, sir. I’ll sail with you.’ He couldn’t very well say anything else. He stood at the railing, uncertain, wanting to go down the gangplank and introduce himself, and suddenly shy. He looked at Polly for a clue, and she beckoned him.
That was easy. In another moment he was smiling inwardly at Polly’s shy introduction, and bowing to Mrs Philemon Brittle, who truly was as beautiful as her younger sister had declared. Philemon Brittle held out his hand and he gave it a shake, impressed with the strength of the surgeon’s grasp.
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