I promise you, you won’t frighten children. Not even your own.”
Captain Worthy gingerly touched what remained of his ear. “Just as long as I still terrify midshipmen.”
“You will, sir. Lady Taunton, observe how well it is granulating.” He pointed at the raw rim. “Barnhart threw some nice blanket stitches on the lobe, or what’s left of it.”
She looked closer, because he seemed to expect it. As she gazed at the injury to her brother-in-law’s ear, it suddenly occurred to her that a common surgeon with the preposterous name of Philemon Brittle was treating her as an equal. She thought how appalled Sir James Taunton would have been by her even being in the room, much less in Torquay visiting a sister as illegitimate as she was. The sheer audacity of it all made her smile.
“It is funny-looking,” Brittle said, which made the captain grin.
“I’m not laughing at your ear, Oliver,” Laura protested. “Lt. Brittle, I might tell you later what was amusing me.”
“Very well,” he said, holding out his hand. “Give me that same pad, please, and then the bandage. I’ll reuse it now, but you should replace it tomorrow with a length of gauze I will leave you.”
He seemed to take for granted she would tend Captain Worthy. “I will if Nana lets me,” Laura replied. “After all, this is her ear.”
Both Worthys laughed and exchanged glances that told Laura she was going to busy herself somewhere in the house that afternoon, far from their bedroom.
Lt. Brittle finished his work. “Take good care of him, Nana,” he said. “If he tries to leave the house in less than three days, you have my permission to shoot him.” He replaced the scissors and pocketed his instrument envelope. “Captain, when you return to Plymouth for your court martial, drop by Stonehouse. I’ll compound a salve for you. G’day now.”
She followed him into the hall. “Court martial? What do you mean?”
“Every captain who loses a ship goes through a court martial,” the surgeon explained, as she walked with him. “It’s routine, and from what my father said in his letter this morning—he’ll be here in a few days—the captain was as brave and coolheaded as anyone could wish. He will have another ship quite soon. My da said he already convinced the admiral of the port to keep his crew together and not disperse them to other warships in the harbor.”
It was afternoon now, and Mrs. Brittle had mentioned how her son had to be on his way immediately to Plymouth. Still, he seemed to slow down as he approached the door, giving her all his attention. He put his hand on the knob, but just held it there.
“What were you smiling about?”
“I had the distinct feeling that you were treating me as an equal. Sir, I know nothing about medicine.”
“I disagree,” he replied.
Still he stood there. She put out her hand, which would have astounded her proper butler, and shook the surgeon’s hand. “Thank you for that marvelous performance in there. Nana didn’t have any choice but to relax, did she?”
“No. Under ordinary circumstances, Mama tells me Nana is as tough and resourceful as a Cornish tin-pit pony,” he said, still holding her hand. “Let’s just say I like to handle expectant mothers gently.” He looked into the distance. “Something I learned at university, and most decidedly not at sea.”
“Where you physic cows and cut hair, on occasion?”
“Aye.”
She thought he would release her hand, but he tightened his grip instead and his eyes had gone deadly serious. “Nana knows better than any of us that one half inch to the right, and that splinter would have taken off her husband’s head.”
Laura could think of nothing to say to his candor, but she didn’t have to say anything. He stood even closer, his hand on hers, the sheer size of him reassuring her.
“We all fight Boney in our own way, even Nana.”
She nodded, absurdly wanting to burrow in close to him, because he seemed so sure of himself, so capable.
He released her hand and opened the door. “Now it’s time to kiss my mother adieu and return to the grind. Take a good look at the captain’s ear tomorrow, if you please. If there are red streaks or he is feverish, send Joey Trelease for Mr. Milton.” He hesitated, then plunged ahead. “When you get tired of being a widow, Lady Taunton, I can offer you gainful employment at Stonehouse. What a cheeky tar I am. Goodbye.”
She couldn’t have heard him correctly. After a moment to allow her high color to return to normal, she walked toward the sitting room. The Worthys were already at the top of the stairs. Nana leaned across the banister.
“Laura, Oliver declares he will not lie down and rest unless I am there,” she said.
Laura laughed and blew them both a kiss. You would not let him out of your sight, even if he wanted you to, which he does not, she thought. She went into the sitting room and was standing there, looking out the window a half hour later, as Lt. Brittle left his house, shouldered his sea duffel and started for the harbor.
“I suppose you will take the mail coach,” she said out loud, admiring the pleasant swing of his hips, something she had already noticed in Plymouth, while observing the seagoing fraternity. It must be the loose walk of the deepwater sailor, used to shifting balance on a heaving deck. Whatever it was, she watched him until he was only a small speck, heading down the hill. She doubted she would see him again.
Mrs. Brittle didn’t seem surprised when Laura knocked on the side door. “Come in, dearie,” she said. “I suppose you are a fifth wheel next door right now.”
“Decidedly so,” Laura agreed. “Have you something useful I can do?”
“I do. Phil told me to give you some gauze and wadding for Captain Worthy.”
She followed Mrs. Brittle upstairs to a small bedroom tucked under the eaves. “Watch your head,” the woman advised. “My boys can’t come home often, but I like to have their beds ready.”
She reached under the bed and pulled out a small chest, which contained rolled bandages, and a batt of lint. She set the items on the bed between them, and reached into the chest again, this time pulling out a well-worn case. She opened it, and Laura gasped to see several knives and a saw. Mrs. Brittle touched the dark-stained cloth band on the tourniquet, then closed it again.
“That’s the set Phil used on the Victory, where poor Lord Nelson, God rest his soul, was struck down. He has a much better set now, but he said he’d never part with this one. I don’t know how he does what he does.” She shuddered. “Through the years, I patched up four little Brittles for this and that, but I could never …”
Like mother, like son, Laura decided. Without any discernible urging on Mrs. Brittle’s part, she found herself telling the woman all about the last few years of her life, as she had tended her ailing husband without respite.
“I was grateful when he died,” she finished, “because I was so tired. It was a thankless task.”
Mrs. Brittle cleared his throat. “Forgive my plain speaking,
