“The dead surgeon?”
“Yes. But it’s a strange, havey-cavey set-up. He’s not regular navy. He’s the old man’s son who’s been sailing with the ship the last ten years and serving as his assistant.”
“That is odd. Is he competent?”
“He’s a hard worker, knows the job. He’s a dab helper, thorough, exacting. In fact, he should go to Edinburgh and get his degree, set up his own practice. God’s teeth, just this week we had some crew tumble from the tops, and he helped me sew up and save one of them.”
“Then what’s the problem? You and your father could give him references.”
“That’s just it. He doesn't want to go.” Cullen fell silent for a moment and then added, “The young cod is sullen as hell and refuses to go.”
Sophie put down her tea cup and gave Cullen an odd look. “What would cause a young man to remain on a ship where he doesn’t fit in and work with someone who doesn’t want him? If he could study to become a physician on his own, why stay?”
Cullen ran his fingers through his unruly ginger hair. “Why, he even tries to hide from me in the evening when he’s getting ready to climb into his bunk. As if he’s afraid I might stare at his bony feet and toes.”
Sophie’s mouth dropped open. “What did you say he looked like?”
“Hair as dark as a crow, a tall, thin lad, rarely smiles, but his eyes are a puzzlement. They don’t seem to go with the rest of him.”
“What do you mean?” Sophie scooted to the edge of her chair.
“Well, I don’t know. His eyes are hazy gray with thick, heavy lashes that make you think there’s something, or someone in there he’s trying to hide. He’s a sly little swab, very evasive.”
Arnaud interrupted. “And you’re uncomfortable around him?”
“What kind of question is that?” Cullen raised his voice.
“I’m just wondering why you’re tip-toeing around the stripling. I’ve seen you lash plenty of young crew with your tongue when they’re not quick enough in the surgery.”
“The lad’s just lost his da. What kind of man would I be to make his life more miserable in the middle of his grief?”
“Of course, you’re still in port.” Sophie’s tone was soothing. “Perhaps he’ll change once the ship sets sail for the St. Helena station.” She stood and poured them more tea. “Both of you may be in better spirits once you’re under sail and occupied with the crew’s ailments.”
“Is that what you think of me, too, m’dear?” Arnaud touched Sophie’s arm while she poured another cup of tea for him. Cullen winced at the intimate gesture. He’d overstayed his welcome.
After saying his good-byes and apologizing for interrupting their evening, Cullen swung back along the waterfront toward the Arethusa. He still had no idea what he should do about young Morton, but felt better for having poured his misgivings into his friends’ sympathetic ears.
The night watchman walking Arnaud and Sophie’s short street tipped his hat to Cullen who nodded back. The breeze rolling in off the sea along the Royal Navy basin feathered raw against his neck above his rough woolen jacket collar. It was already late August. The wheel of seasons would soon turn toward fall and winter.
Sophie was right. He itched to return to sea. He would feel much better once he found the rolling deck of a sea-bound ship beneath his feet. He couldn’t speak for the Morton sprig, but he feared his young assistant would soon learn life would be much simpler if he learned to keep his ill regard to himself.
Arnaud snuffed out all the candles in their small parlor until only the lantern he carried lighted their way to the bedroom on the third floor. Lydia and her maid occupied a tiny room off the parlor on the second floor. Neville had found a convenient second lieutenant in the Marine barracks to entertain Lydia’s maid each evening while he and Lydia walked the small parks of Portsmouth. At the rate he was going, he’d wear holes in his boots before they set off to rejoin the squadron.
Arnaud put the glowing stub on the nightstand while he helped Sophie out of her dress. The one maid she allowed his mother to send to them went home to her family each night. Arnaud was secretly glad. This was his favorite time of the day. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his boots before changing into a nightshirt.
“What do you make of Cullen’s description of his surgery assistant?” Sophie picked up a tortoise shell-backed brush and began to smooth the tangles from her hair.
“I don’t know. I’d have to meet him for myself to figure out what’s going on. Why do you ask? Do you think I should?”
“No. This is Cullen’s problem. It is going to be complicated, but only he can solve this riddle.”
“Wait a minute. You haven’t been reading those gypsy cards again, have you?”
“Of course not,” she said, an odd look in her eyes.
“Then how do you know…?”
She cut him short by placing a small, warm hand on his chest. “You have to trust me. I know things.”
She turned away and washed her face in the corner china basin before settling in front of the mirror to continue brushing her heavy, dark hair. He always joined her and took over the long strokes needed to finish off the back side of the curls that tumbled down below her waist.
The thin muslin night dress she wore revealed the outlines of the body beneath he’d come to know so well. When he finished brushing out the tangles, he reached around to the front of her gown to run his hand gently over the slight swell of her lower abdomen that had appeared just that week.
Thank the gods he’d made sure she’d agreed to be his wife the first time they’d made love. Sophie had been a very difficult woman to convince.
She turned in
