It was amazing how life could put things in perspective. After you have contemplated dying of thirst and exposure in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, a tropical island, deserted or not, is a paradise by comparison. He and Miss Farnham appeared to be whole and relatively unscathed. There were birds here, and birds meant meat and eggs. He would build a fire. There was, most importantly, fresh water.
It could be much, much worse.
Alex hummed a Rabbie Burns melody to himself as he scrubbed his arms at the edge of the pool. When Miss Farnham returned, she stopped and whirled about at the sight of him and presented her back.
"This is terrible," she said, throwing up her hands in the air. "This changes everything! We slept together!"
"We were on a boat in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean."
He could see her arms were crossed in front of her, her back stiff.
"Miss Farnham, we are both the victims here of false assumptions."
She did not turn around, but she stopped tapping her bare foot on the ground.
"How so?"
"Think about it. You looked at me, and saw what you wanted to see, and perhaps what you expected to see. An elderly man. You made that assumption based on my white hairs."
"And on your demeanor." She sniffed, giving him a glance over her shoulder.
"I will grant you my demeanor may seem to you to carry a certain gravitas not found with many of your contemporaries. How old are you, anyway? Eighteen?"
Daphne turned around and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
"I am twenty-five years old, Dr. Murray."
He stopped still.
"You are that old?"
She did not appear offended at his blunt assessment.
"I suppose you were fooled by my appearance, and by my demeanor. I do not have any--what was that word?"
"Gravitas."
"Yes. I am not a grumpy, dowdy, stick-in-the-mud who never smiles. But how does that make us both victims of false impressions?"
"You looked at me and saw a crotchety old man. I looked at you and saw a porcelain-headed fashion doll."
"I can see how you might think that about me, since you are so full of gravitas, Dr. Murray." She flashed her teeth. "But you don't think that now, do you?"
"We need to look for food," he said, looking around the glade where the rock pool was, and glanced up at the sun through the trees. It looked like mid-afternoon from the sun's position. This spot had possibilities.
"We must construct a shelter also--"
"Dr. Murray--"
"I suppose we can make a lean-to out of those palmettos. It won't be very adequate--"
"Dr. Murray!"
"Would you please stop babbling, Miss Farnham, this is important. We need to have shelter, and food. If you will leave me alone, I can construct something for us."
"Oh, very well, Doctor. You stay here in your leaves. Pompom and I will sleep at the cottage."
He stopped talking and felt his head whip around, not a good feeling considering how battered he was from being tossed ashore.
"Cottage?"
"Yes," Daphne said, looking annoyingly smug. "There is a building up there, through those trees. I explored while you were sleeping on the sand."
Alexander tried not to think of the things that could happen to a young woman exploring on her own.
"I had Pompom with me."
"That does not reassure me," Alex said. "Before we trot up there, was there anyone at this house?"
Daphne shook her head, her disarrayed curls bouncing about.
"It looks unoccupied. Come and I will show you."
So Alexander followed her, along a path so narrow he hadn't spotted it earlier. It wound up through the lush foliage and trees, opening up in a clearing where there was indeed a cottage. He stopped just behind Miss Farnham. It was more of a wooden hut, actually, but it looked sturdy for all of that. The land in front of it was cleared, and there were scatterings of wood around the hut that gave him a clue as to its purpose.
"A cedar plantation."
Daphne looked at him, an eyebrow raised.
"We might be in the Bermuda Islands, and someone is here harvesting cedar."
"Are they on the island with us?"
"Not likely. More often the owner will send over a crew once or twice a year to chop down the trees and haul them down to the beach. That hut is where the overseer sleeps at night."
"Do you think the owner will mind if we use his cottage?"
"I am not overly concerned with that, Miss Farnham."
The cedars had thick brown trunks, rising up into the air and awaiting their date with the axe. There had been some near the beach, their trunks twisted from exposure to the constant sea winds.
Miss Farnham walked around the empty cabin, lifting plants that trailed on the ground and examining them. Morning glories crept along the back wall of the hut, their bright blue bold against the verdant ferns and vines.
"There was a kitchen garden here, Doctor. It's mostly gone wild now, but there are peas and corn, beans, and I think those are pumpkins."
"How do you know that?"
"Hah! I am not as ignorant as you think I am!"
"You have no idea how ignorant I think you are, Miss Farnham."
She looked at him sharply, no doubt wondering if she'd been insulted.
"I am the one who explored and found us shelter. I located the food and water. Perhaps I should be in charge, Dr. Murray, not you! After all, it was different when you were elderly. I was willing to listen to you then. Now, maybe you should listen to me."
"That statement is so ridiculous as to not deserve a response."
Alex left her fuming at his back and went to the hut. It was dusty inside and looked like mice had nested in one corner of the dirt floor. Ideally the dog would earn his keep by keeping the rodent population at bay. There was a table, and one chair. A scattering of cheap pottery dishes and metal implements sat on a shelf, candle stubs alongside them. There was also an earthenware pot sitting on a trivet.
No bed, no lamps, no other amenities. Only rough shelter from the elements.
It seemed like a castle after days in an open boat.
He went back outside and looked around. There was a line of sight down to the beach through the trees, no doubt cleared that way to help the caretaker keep an eye open for returning supply ships.
Or ships that did not belong on the island.
"I am going down to the beach to fetch my chest, Miss Farnham."
Daphne Farnham stood there, barefoot and ragged, her face red from the sun with no hat to shield her. He made a mental note to bring some of the aloe he'd spotted growing down near the shore, and try his hand at weaving palmetto hats for them. A seaman had demonstrated the craft when Alexander first shipped to the Indies, and he hoped he remembered how it was done.
But for all of that she looked approachable, in a way she had not when she was dressed up and properly turned out from head to toe. Now she looked like a woman, a woman whose lush, nubile body was exposed by her torn clothing, even her bare feet giving his head--and other parts of his body--new things to ponder.
A distraction was what Alexander needed right now, and he knew what he had to do.
"Miss Farnham, after I check on my instruments I will see about finding us some supper."
"Will we have to eat raw fish again?"
"I hope not. I should be able to start a fire. You check the garden for other food."
"Oooh, that sounds heavenly." She clapped her hands together and strolled over to him, her dog following behind. Pompom paused at the sight of a blue-tailed skink sunning itself on a rock, his entire body stiffening. The two humans watched the dog, who was totally focused on the lizard.
"If he was only a little larger, Pompom could hunt for us, Dr. Murray."
Alexander started to say something snide about the animal, then stopped himself.
"Would he bring us a deer, do you think?"
Daphne giggled, the soft breathy sound soothing to Alexander's nerves, because it meant she was happy, and not despairing about their situation.
"A deer? Do not be ridiculous, Doctor."
"Well, perhaps some mice then," Alexander said with a small smile of remembrance that Miss Farnham did not see, because she was watching her animal.
"You will be all right here, by yourself?"
She looked at him, her head tilted to the side.
"I am not alone, Doctor. I have Pompom. And you."
"It is good to know where I rank. If you need me, Miss Farnham, yell loudly. I should be able to hear you."
But Daphne wasn't watching him, her eyes caught by a bird flying overhead.
"Oh look, how pretty he is with his red head. Is that a woodpecker?"
The bird landed on a nearby tree and commenced hammering with its beak, searching out its own supper.
Alexander watched her, her face alight at the sight of the bird. He'd come to realize that Miss Farnham was not simple, yet she had an almost childlike ability to seize enjoyment from the moment.
He couldn't understand it at all. If he had been asked during the first few days aboard the
Magpie
to describe what Miss Farnham might be like in this situation, he would have said she'd be crying hysterically, and whining about how unfair it all was, and demanding he take care of her.
Daphne Farnham was doing none of those things. She was cheerful and cooperative and helpful, and it suddenly struck him how lonely it would have been in that boat without her, and how close he could have come to despair.
He might even go so far as to say he owed Daphne Farnham his life.
"I believe it is a woodpecker, yes."
"I'm glad someone's having supper today."
At the word "supper" the dog barked and wagged its tail, and Daphne looked down at him ruefully.
"Oh dear, I should know better than to say that word around Pompom."
"If you will check on items growing around the cabin, I will see what I can do."
Daphne smiled at him and said, "Come, Pompom, let's go dig in the garden," and Alexander watched them as they walked off, her bare feet placed carefully to avoid stones and stickers.
Down at the beach he took a moment to scan the horizon, hoping against hope that there might be a sail. But there was nothing. However, the beach itself held unexpected treasures. In addition to his chest, there was driftwood from their boat, one piece of which had Daphne's valise snagged to it.
He opened his surgical chest, wincing. The velvet indentations holding his instruments were darkened by saltwater. More importantly the instruments themselves were wet and would rust if not cared for properly. It was a lesson he'd learned from his very first days of cleaning up after his teachers, assisting them at their post-mortems and the dissections performed on the corpses stolen and smuggled into the schools--a surgeon's tools were an extension of his arm and must be always ready for use.
The rags of his shirt served to dry the instruments, followed by an oiling with the sealed bottle in the bottom of the case. He examined each item, giving the saw particular attention. While he hated to use it for this purpose, it was a tool of a different sort on the island.
He found a sapling of the right thickness and cut through its base, sharpening the end into a point. He set it aside. Once he had a fire going he could harden the tip in the coals. If necessary he could lash one of his knives to the spear, but the very idea of treating his instruments in that manner made him wince. Maybe the clasp knife, which had survived in his pocket as they tumbled through the waters.
"Fire first," Alexander said to himself. He was about to raise his voice and call for Daphne when she came through the brush, the dog at her heels.
"Just the person I need. Your valise is here, Miss Farnham, but it's half-empty. It must have come unlatched in the surf. If you can leave it sit to dry, I could use your assistance gathering wood for the firepit in front of the hut."
He paused and looked around the beach. Some holes in the sand gave him a clue as to their supper possibilities.
Daphne trotted off with her dog, and Alex took his case and some of the aloe spikes and went back to the cabin. From the bottom of his case he drew out his pistol. It was a necessary evil, especially during wartime. The ports of call of the Royal Navy were not populated by sterling characters. If it came down to his life or that of a brigand, Alexander was willing to shoot first and heal later.
Today the pistol would bring welcome heat and light.
He stepped outside as Daphne unloaded some dry wood. She'd pulled her skirt up to make an apron to hold more, and he carefully kept his eyes up on her face. He could hardly help but note, however, that her lower limbs were as shapely as the rest of her.
"Whew!" She wiped her hand across her forehead. "Is that enough, Doctor?"
"No, I'm afraid not, Miss Farnham," he said gently. "We will need a goodly amount of fuel to keep the fire going long enough to cook our supper. Then we will bank it so there are coals in the morning."
"Oh." She looked dismayed for a moment, but then her usual sunny disposition asserted itself. "I will look for more then."
"As soon as I am sure the fire is going strong, I will help you."
She flashed him a smile and turned back to the beach for more sticks. Alexander watched her go, then cleared the firepit of debris and prepared some kindling. He took his pistol and the tinder, and angling the pistol pulled the trigger, striking the flint against the steel and throwing a spark. After a few strikes, a wisp of smoke rose from the tinder, and he patiently nursed it into a flame.
Daphne returned with another load of wood, her face red from exertion.
"Drink some water, Miss Farnham. You do not want to become overheated."
"My arms are sore," Daphne said. "Do people work like this every day?"
Alexander looked up from the fire he was tending, but he did not give her a sarcastic answer. He could not expect Miss Daphne Farnham to understand how most of the world earned its daily bread. That would be like expecting the dog to start spouting Shakespeare.
"Yes, Miss Farnham, some people do have to work like this. Every day."