Castaway Dreams

Castaway Dreams

1817

Alexander Murray spent his lifetime dissecting bodies, trephining skulls, and seeing gray matter splattered across the decks of warships. He knew one could not exist without a brain. Nonetheless, Miss Daphne Farnham appeared to be the living, breathing example of a brainless existence.

Perhaps he'd write a paper on it for the medical journals, he mused as he poured himself more coffee.

He was unsure why he found Miss Farnham so irritating. It wasn't their being in close quarters. If anything, the
Magpie
was roomier than the
Caeneus.
Maybe it was simply after living for years at sea, higher-pitched voices grated on his nerves.

No, that wasn't it, he thought as he sipped the harsh brew and listened with half an ear to the conversation around him. Some of the warrant officers had their wives aboard ship, and it was not as if he disdained the company of women. No, it was purely about Miss Farnham, a fellow passenger traveling from Jamaica to England.

Just now at luncheon she asked Mr. Carr if he had in his possession the latest issues of
La Belle Assemblée.
She
desperately
needed to know if her Oldenburg bonnet was still fashionable enough to wear while walking along the Serpentine.

The war was finally over, England was at peace, and the best thing this woman could find to talk about was hats.

Alex looked at the others through the steam rising from his cup. The gentlemen at the table didn't mind Miss Farnham's breathy little voice and fatuous conversation. They weighed in with their opinions, all of them agreeing, naturally, that she would look lovely no matter what bonnet she wore. Mrs. Bertha Cowper, Miss Farnham's companion, ignored the byplay and continued to shovel plum duff into her mouth, her florid coloring not helped by the heat.

Miss Farnham looked as fresh and winsome as if she'd just stepped off the pages of her journal of fashion. She sat across from him, giving him an opportunity to observe her whether he wanted to or not. Her dog sat on her lap, his beady black eyes glaring at Alexander over the edge of the table. The cur had a rose-colored ribbon tied around its neck, a ribbon that exactly matched the one threaded through Miss Farnham's curls, curls glowing a sunshined gold in the dim cabin light. Her large eyes twinkled at a comment from her shipboard swains, eyes one crewman swore were violet, while another said they were the blue of bluebells washed in the dew. Her dainty mouth was bracketed by two deep dimples highlighting her white and even teeth when she smiled, and her nose was exactly the complement needed to her other features--not too long, not too short. Her form was all that could be desired, the men swore, slim where a woman should be slim, rounded where it mattered.

The first mate, Mr. Carr, was bright enough to recognize an opportunity when it was dangled in front of him and now did his best to make a positive impression. Alexander had seen women flock to him in Jamaica, drawn by his smooth conversation, well-tailored coats, and vapid handsomeness.

But he was a competent mate, which was all that mattered on a voyage like this. Besides, Carr's interest in their passenger was no concern of Alexander's.

"It is all about the blunt the girl will bring with her," Carr said over breakfast that morning, where none of the passengers were about and it was only the senior officers and the surgeon.

"Tyndale's bad luck could be my good fortune, Mr. Murray," Carr smirked. "With her reputation in tatters and Tyndale dead, it's a grand opportunity for me."

"Her father's a nabob," Captain Franklin said repressively, reaching for the plum jam. "He'll be looking to buy a title for her, boy, not wanting to marry her off to a sailor. There will be some lord with pockets to let or gambling debts who will take her, you mark my words. Farnham's money can cover all of her sins, especially with her looks!"

The only child of a gentleman who'd made a fortune in India, Miss Daphne Farnham would make someone an acceptable wife, save for two things, and Alexander acknowledged only one of those mattered to most of his peers.

George Tyndale ran off with her to Jamaica, then like so many other Englishmen newly arrived in the tropics up and died of yellow fever. Even Alexander heard the rumors and questions about whether Tyndale had indeed married the young lady.

The fact that everyone continued to refer to her as Miss Farnham, rather than Mrs. Tyndale gave credence to these rumors, and Miss Farnham did nothing to correct that impression. Perhaps the captain was correct. Enough gold could buy an understanding husband and return one to society. It was only poor women like Janet Murray and her bastard son who had to suffer the indignities of life on the fringes of the community.

The other problem with Miss Farnham apparently was only an issue to Alexander. Her purpose in life, as far as he could determine, was to be ornamental. Even her most common fashion accessory was ornamental rather than useful. There was no place aboard ship for little dogs unless they were ratters, and any proper ship's rat would sneer at Miss Farnham's white puffball of a bichon.

That animal was another source of irritation, and had been ever since the first day he'd come aboard with his mistress. Within an hour of sailing, Miss Farnham was frantically knocking at Alexander's cabin door.

"There is something wrong with Pompom, Dr. Murray!"

The dog shivered, its tail tucked between its legs. Before Alexander could share with Miss Farnham the most obvious conclusion, she thrust the animal into his arms. He immediately pushed the heaving dog at arm's length, but it was too late. The little beast cast up his accounts all over the front of Alex's coat. Pleased he didn't drop the creature to the deck, Alex set him down, whereupon the dog vomited again, this time on his boot. However, he did look more chipper after purging his system, and Miss Farnham swept him up into her arms.

"Oh, Pompom, you had an upset tum-tum! But now my puppy-wuppy's all better, isn't he?"

Miss Farnham looked at him, her brilliant blue eyes filled with admiration.

"You are the best doctor. You cured my precious Pompom."

"Your animal is seasick, Miss Farnham. Feed him dry biscuit and water for a few days, and keep him away from me."

Miss Farnham had appeared startled that Alexander didn't find her odious little animal as adorable as she did.

"Come, my darling. Dr. Murray is being a big old grumpy-wumpy." She'd stuck her retrousse nose into the air, and turned on her heel, offering the surgeon a flash of a neat ankle before exiting his cabin.

Now back in that cabin after luncheon, Alexander was engrossed in one of the many journals he'd accumulated during his tenure on the
Caeneus
but had not had time to read. The war brought advances in surgery and medical techniques, some he'd experienced firsthand, but it was time to catch up on those other innovations uncovered by his brother surgeons. He hoped to observe them in London, but study now would prepare him to discuss them.

So when there was a timid knock at his cabin door he was less than pleased at the interruption and set the journal aside with a sigh. His fiercely negotiated passage to England included being available to the crew of the
Magpie
should they need his services. When he was not feeling put out by interruptions, he had to agree staying busy at his craft was better than boredom.

On the other hand, boredom could be better than more time spent in the company of Miss Farnham. But there she was, standing in his doorway, clutching the front of her dress. Her animal was not with her, so maybe this time she would not need veterinary services.

"Yes?"

"Oh, Dr. Murray, I am having trouble breathing!"

"Come in," he said to her. He looked down the passageway but did not see her chaperone.

"Where is Mrs. Cowper?"

"She wanted a 'lie down' after luncheon. She says it helps her digestion."

With as much wine as Mrs. Cowper consumed at lunch, it was a wonder she hadn't fallen down the companionway head-first to have her "lie down."

"Sit down, please, Miss Farnham," he said, gesturing at his bunk. "Now, tell me what the problem is."

"When I climb the ladder it feels like I am choking and not breathing enough air!"

Her slim hand fluttered to her shapely bosom and he studied her critically.

"Does this happen if you loosen your stays so they are not too tight?"

"Dr. Murray! Such a thing would never occur to me, to loosen my stays."

"It should occur to you, Miss Farnham," he said mildly. "I have seen this before with so-called ladies of fashion--and a few men as well. You are so tightly laced that you cannot give your lungs enough room to expand. I will demonstrate."

He pulled her to her feet by that slim hand and instructed her, "Now, take a deep breath, as deep as you can."

She tried, but it was obvious to his eye that her corset constricted her to the point where it was impossible for her to fully pull air into her lungs.

He grunted.

"My prescription is this, Miss Farnham: loosen your stays and give your body room to do what it is meant to do. Nature did not intend for you to be swaddled like an Egyptian mummy."

She stared at him.

"I cannot loosen my stays, Dr. Murray. If I do that my clothing will not fit properly."

"I am a surgeon, not a man-milliner, Miss Farnham. You asked for my medical advice, I gave it to you. What you do at this point is entirely up to you."

He opened the door for her to leave so he could return to his reading, but she paused in the doorway.

"Thank you, Dr. Murray, I will consider what you said, even though it sounds like silliness to me."

"I am addressed as Mr. Murray, Miss Farnham."

"But the sailors call you 'doctor.'"

"Aboard ship a surgeon also acts as a physician and an apothecary, so some sailors and seaman have that habit."

"I believe I will call you Dr. Murray also. Someone of your many years of experience deserves a more exalted title than an ordinary 'mister.'"

"Someone of my many years?"

She nodded vigorously, golden curls bouncing, and other parts of her bounced as well, which distracted him for a few seconds from the bizarre conversation.

"You cured my lovely little Pompom when his tummy was upset, and now you cured me, so you must be a truly talented medical man! After all, you just said you are experienced at physicking people, maybe even more than my physician at home. And you look like you have been doing this just forever and ever."

"There are days, Miss Farnham, when I feel I have been dealing with the minor complaints of silly people for, as you say, forever. Good day to you, ma'am."