his damned occupation had rendered him immune to females.
“That’s beautiful,” he said at last, reluctantly removing his hands from the dark mass. “What do you pay for hair like that?”
The wigmaker ran his own fingers through the slightly curling locks. “Usually I give eight to ten shillings for hair this length.” His eyes looked troubled then.
“And?” Oliver prompt ed.
“I paid a pound.” The wigmaker shook his head. “I tried to talk her out of cutting it. Imagine that. She told me to go ahead, they needed the money.” He returned the hair to his drawer. “She cried when I finished.”
“I can imagine,” Oliver murmured. He had to leave, not so much because of his throat this time, but because he couldn’t stand the sadness. “Let me ask my father what he thinks about a wig. Good day, sir.”
The thing is, she seemed so proud to be able to help her Gran, Oliver thought as the hackney delivered him to the Mulberry. He paid the jehu and walked up the path, pausing to note that the pansies had been resuscitated and given clean earth. He stood there a moment, looking down. Maybe everyone got a second chance at the Mulberry.
Nana met him in the hallway. “I thought I heard a hackney, Captain.”
He wanted to tell her his name was Oliver, but he didn’t. “Ah, yes, returning from the docks. Looks like you’re stuck with me for three and a half weeks, until my ship heals,” he joked.
He must have been more ill than he thought, because her eyes filled with tears. Should he ignore it, or comment? “It’s a tough ship,” he said.
Bless her heart. She dabbed at her eyes, and looked him square in his. “I was thinking you need more time, Captain,” she said, with only the slightest quaver in her voice. “If you don’t take care of yourself, who will?”
It was a good question, but not one of great concern to either Admiralty House or anyone except captains junior to him who would rise higher on the rolls, if he should suddenly slough off his mortal coil.
“I’ll be fit by then, too. Probably even sooner, Miss Massie.”
She seemed to have recovered herself. “Yes, certainly,” she agreed. She traded concern for belligerence, and he wasn’t sure which emotion touched him more. “See here, Captain, you forgot to drink another of Pete’s draughts before you left this morning. I intend to see that you do.”
“You and who else?” he asked, amused.
“Just me, I suppose,” she said in confusion, then looked at him more closely. “You’re quizzing me.”
“And stalling, too. That’s a rough brew.” He looked toward the stairs. “But right now I admit to being weary beyond belief. Please excuse me, Miss Massie. I think I want to lie down and die.”
“You aren’t allowed to die at the Mulberry,” she said, teasing him back.
He crawled into bed and slept the afternoon away, after drinking down another remedy, administered by Pete Carter himself. He found himself dreaming of Nana, which only left him embarrassed, and thinking he had left behind such dreams in his midshipman days.
He was aware later of someone adding more coal to the fire, and then tucking a hot brick, wrapped in a towel, at his feet. When he started to sweat, someone applied a cool cloth to his face. Another wheat poultice went around his neck and crossed over his throat, which made him dream of bread this time. He could have sworn then that Nana Massie rested her hand on his forehead, because it was cool and soft and he thought there was a hint of roses. He didn’t think Pete had much to do with roses.
When he woke finally, the room was dark, except for a glow from the fireplace. It was too much to hope that Nana would be in his room, but she was. She sat in the chair by his bed, and she appeared to be asleep. He needed to use the chamber pot, but not badly enough to disturb her slumber. He wanted to watch her.
She had leaned her head back and to one side against the high back of the straight chair, sitting somewhat in profile. The light was low, but he was impressed by the length of her eyelashes. She had even propped up her stockinged feet at the foot of his bed.
He slowly moved his right foot until it rested close to hers. He knew better than to touch her foot, but he felt her warmth, and that was enough to send him back to sleep.
When he woke later, he could have cried to see Nana gone and Pete there instead, holding a urinal in his lap. Oliver sighed. I go from the sublime to the embarrassing, he thought, wondering if Nana had vacated the room when he began to move around restlessly and finger his member, like a little boy with the urge to piss.
“I think you’re needing this,” Pete said, his voice gruff, but not unkind.
“My blushes,” Oliver said. “I hope I didn’t embarrass Miss Massie.”
Pete put the urinal under the covers. “She’s tended me when I’ve been too ill to get out of bed. Gran cut up stiff, but Nana’s not a shrinking violet. If I hadn’t been available just now, she’d have done for you, too.”
Horrors, he thought, horrors. “I could get up and use the chamber pot,” he protested, but only feebly.
“And have you tumbling arse over teakettle because you’re too sick?” Pete scolded. “I’m not in your navy now, sir, so I can speak plainly.”
“Indeed you can,” Oliver agreed, chastened. “And you’re right.” He finished and handed back the urinal. I can be matter-of-fact if you can, he thought. I just hope I don’t have to see Nana Massie again for the next three and a half weeks.
She was at the door and knocking, only moments after Pete left. She had a tray in her hands, and it occurred to him that he was more hungry than embarrassed. So much for the delicacies.
She came close to the bed and set the tray at the foot, then picked up the extra pillow from the side table by the window. He sat up so she could place it behind his head, and then adjust the table over his lap.
“It’s cod and leeks, cooked in cream. Mr. Proudy said you liked it, and Gran said it will go down easy.”
He was almost afraid to look at her, but he had to. He knew he would always have to. There was nothing missish about her expression. Well, if she doesn’t mind I am human, I suppose I shouldn’t, either, he decided, as he picked up a spoon.
It was delicious, and flowed easily around the boulder in his throat. “My compliments to the chef,” he told her, pleased to see her smile.
“Gran made it, but I watched. I think I can do it now.”
She sat down, then got up again to tuck a napkin in the front of his nightshirt. She pulled the tray a little closer, then picked up another bowl and spoon. He hadn’t realized she was planning to eat with him.
“This is so you’ll know I’m eating, too,” she said. “So are Gran and Pete and Sal. We made plenty for us all.”
So the inmates of the Mulberry had come to an understanding. Good. “Who is Sal?” he asked between mouthfuls.
“Our scullery
