Four
A knock sounded on the door. Flynn looked up as Maeve Murphy opened it and peered in. She had bound her wild red hair and donned a plain coarse apron in preparation for her duties. He liked that she was efficient and punctual, adding those qualities to her quick thinking and kind manner with the boy. So far he liked everything about her.
“Come in, Miss Murphy. I’ve only just opened the first of the supply boxes.” He gestured to the wooden crates lining the wall in the rectangular room.
She walked toward him, her bright blue gaze taking in her surroundings. In the morning’s confusion he hadn’t looked her over, and he did so now. She was a tiny thing, her flaming red hair creating ringlets that framed her cheeks, while the rest had been contained in a braid. Her skin appeared as fragile as porcelain, with healthy pink cheeks and a mouth like a China doll.
If a person judged on appearance, he’d think she was nothing more than a sweetly pretty girl, and overlook her wit and courage. Not many people had the knowledge or the compassion to jump to the McCorkle boy’s aid the way she had.
She glanced with keen interest at the sturdy cabinets with chicken wire instead of glass in the doors, where only a few bottles and tins stood. “If you’ll be so good as to acquaint me with your system, I’ll store the supplies.”
“We’ll both work on it.” He led her to the other room, where Sean lay sleeping on a low cot, a blanket pulled to his chin.
“How is the laddie doing?” she asked softly.
“Very well, indeed,” he replied. She smelled good, too, like clean linen and spring heather, and his reaction startled him. He hadn’t noticed a woman in that way for a long time. He took an unconscious step away.
Her inquisitive gaze took in her surroundings, fastening on the storage cabinets and workspaces. There were no rimless surfaces in his dispensary. Everything had been designed to accommodate the normal rock and sway of the ship or even a storm. He explained his mortar and pestle for grinding roots and seeds, the scale and weights for measuring ingredients, the piece of marble on which he prepared salves, sets of measures, dosage spoons and a plaster iron. The young woman listened with interest and apparent understanding. She asked surprisingly insightful questions. He was glad now that he’d learned of Hegarty’s true nature before the ship sailed. Maeve Murphy looked to be the better choice.
He described the contents of each crate as he carried and opened it. Between each ocean voyage, he spent weeks preparing bottles of saline draughts and barley water, jars of calves’ foot jelly and plasters. He saw to it that those who fell sick on a ship he worked received the best care possible. His meager pay didn’t begin to cover the cost of medicines, but he drew from his inheritances and vast investments.
He’d left his father’s practice over the objection of his family to make a difference and to forget. He truly believed it was his calling to help people so desperate to start new lives that they risked a journey like this. Everyone he encountered had a dream of a new beginning he didn’t share. He didn’t think about his future, only about the work he had to do today.
“I wish I’d had half as many cures when my friends and neighbors were ailing,” she said wistfully. “I may have been able to save more of them.” Tears shone in her wide blue eyes as she gazed at a bottle of vitriolic acid.
Uncomfortable with the intimate glimpse at her suffering, he placed the bottles he held inside the chest and withdrew from his pocket the key he carried at all times. “We’ll lock the mercury, laudanum and calomel in this chest under the case here.” He stood slowly.
“Truth be told I wouldn’t have known what to do with half of them.” She raised her gaze to his in an earnest plea. “I’d like to learn.”
He couldn’t ignore her sincerity. “It won’t be a bother to share their uses and common dosages,” he said. “You have a natural instinct, Miss Murphy. I might even learn a few things from you.”
He handed her his checklist and a pencil. As they worked he explained the contents of each bottle and their uses. She knew most of the more common medicines and was fascinated by others. He also took the opportunity to educate her a bit about ship life.
“They’re electing the council today,” he mentioned.
“What does that mean?”
“Each voyage the male passengers meet and select a group from among them to form a council. When problems arise—and they will—these men govern by representing the passengers.”
She couldn’t imagine what would come up that would require their government, but she trusted the process.
“Are you ever on the council?”
“No, I’m technically not a passenger. I’m part of the crew.”
When Sean woke up, Flynn’s new assistant efficiently saw to his needs, inquiring about food supplies and then making the boy a gruel of millet and rye flour. Though Flynn grimaced at the concoction, the boy lapped it up and lay back with a contented smile.
“You’re a blessing, you are, Miss Murphy,” Sean said to her, his dark eyes adoring. “I be grateful for your care.”
“You might well change your mind when I wash that head of hair of yours. It’s going to need a good scrubbin’. I’m going to fill a pail now, and you can lie right there with your head over the edge of the table.”
“I’ll catch me death of cold, I will,” the lad howled.
Flynn turned aside to hide a grin. “I have free access to the barrels of rainwater, Miss Murphy. Just ask a sailor for help toting buckets.”
Sean’s smeared face showed his concern. “I’d just worked up a good skin coverin’ afore the doctor began to scrub it away.”
“It’s June, not December,” she argued. “You’ll not catch cold. And it’s a good thing the doctor got a start on scrubbin’ off the filth, otherwise we may have mistaken you for a bit of firewood lying on the wharf. You’ll be washin’ your face and hands every mornin’ while you’re here.”
As she argued with the boy, her brogue got amusingly thicker. Flynn chuckled.
The room grew silent, and he turned to see the both of them staring at him. Perhaps his laugh had sounded as rusty to them as it had to him. “I don’t think you’re going to win this one, laddie. We’ll find you some clean clothing, as well.”
“Aye, sir,” Sean said, putting aside his bowl. “Thank you, Miss Murphy. ’Twas a delicious gruel.”
“I don’t know that it was delicious,” she said with a raised brow. “But it will build up your strength. Tomorrow I’ll make you a flavorful potato soup that will stick to your ribs.”
The boy beamed at her promise. “I’ll not fight you on a quick washin’ today. The doc’s already done me feet.”
She’d known just what to do with the meal to make it palatable, and Sean had eaten it as though it was fare fit for a king.
Flynn didn’t know Maeve’s background, but her clothing, while clean and pressed, indicated a lack of means. Her older sister had whispered how desperate they were to earn a wage. And Sean, an orphan,
