Castaway Dreams (20 page)

"Well, yes, I would eat chicken, but a chicken is not beautiful. It is only a chicken."

"Ah. Then the value of a creature lies in its beauty? An interesting concept, Miss Farnham."

"You are twisting my words, Dr. Murray. And you yourself said the value of a person lay in her usefulness, so you are also a judgmental type. You are just judging by a different standard."

"That is a profound statement, Miss Farnham."

"Try not to look so surprised it came from me, Dr. Murray."

He ducked his head and she looked at him suspiciously because for a moment she thought he had smiled, but when he looked at her again his face was as composed as ever.

"We should talk about how to organize our days, Miss Farnham, to maximize our chances of rescue, and if it does not happen immediately, how to plan for our future needs."

He picked up one of the eggs and turned it over in his hand.

"I am still confident at some point someone will come to check on the cedar plantation. Until then we need to make sure we have enough food, and food of the right kind. People do best when their diets contain variety, so we want meat, vegetables, and the fruit. We need salt, but that can be obtained from the seawater. We can distill it through evaporation."

He set the egg back down.

"I do not worry about us having enough fresh air and exercise, and at this point the insects don't seem too bothersome.

"Clearly, you are in charge of our garden, Miss Farnham. What do you think can or should be done to keep it going?"

The glow returned.

"Let me think about this a minute, Doctor."

He was watching her, waiting for her answer. He did not rush her, or grow impatient with her while she hummed and thought about how to best answer the question.

Daphne cleared her throat.

"The plants are surviving untended, and that is a good thing, Doctor. It shows they're hardy. What I need to do is weed the garden, which will be difficult without a hoe, but maybe you can find me a pointed stick and I could use that. Some of the plants can be re-seeded, but I hope we will not be here long enough for it to be an issue."

"Very good, Miss Farnham. That is a task for tomorrow. In the meantime, our fish is ready."

He used his stick to push the sand away from their supper, then took the forceps and plucked the packages off the rocks and set them aside. Daphne ran into the cabin for a few bananas and some water, and when she came back Dr. Murray was snipping the vines with his knife.

"That crowbait is a handy tool, Dr. Murray."

"Crowbill," he corrected absently. "I should have thought of using it last night with the crabs."

He picked it up and turned it over in his hands, opening and closing it at the hinge. She sat across from him, cross-legged, and Pompom climbed into her lap. He liked this new way of sitting. She blew on a piece of the hot fish before passing it to her pup.

"Maybe it is good to see things in a new light, Doctor. You showed me how a hairnet can catch fish and keep us from starving. Tonight you used an instrument that causes pain to help us serve supper."

He looked at her, a piece of fish halfway to his mouth.

"I believe this island sojourn is turning you into a philosopher, Miss Farnham."

Daphne giggled.

"That's just silly, Doctor. Philosophers are old men with long beards."

"You will start a new fashion, Miss Farnham. Philosophers who dress in pink."

"And do not have beards."

They ate in silence, and after a few minutes Daphne said, "This fish tastes wonderful, Doctor. In fact, I do not recall fish ever tasting this good."

"Now I will wax philosophical, Miss Farnham. Your hard work today gave you an appetite, and that is the finest seasoning. This fish is very fresh, and the onions helped give it extra flavor. I imagine you eat fish in London covered in preparations from some French chef who feels compelled to demonstrate his skill and imagination with the saucepan. Sometimes, though, simple is best."

Daphne nodded in agreement.

"It is like when you braided my hair, Dr. Murray. A simple style, but practical when one is working in the garden or fishing."

Daphne wiped her hand on the edge of her skirt, then picked up the end of the braid snaking down her shoulder like a golden rope.

"It might be better if I cut it off, Doctor. Less to fuss over."

"No! I mean, there is no need for you to cut your hair, Miss Farnham. I will help you care for it."

"You don't mind helping with it?"

"Brushing and braiding your hair is not an...unpleasant activity. I do not mind."

They finished supper and cleaned up after themselves, and a long night still stretched before them. Neither mentioned going to sleep early.

Daphne felt keyed up and tense. She worked hard today, harder than she could ever remember working, and by all rights should be exhausted. But all she could think about was that kiss earlier, the one Dr. Murray regretted so much, the one opening a door she did not want opened. Daphne had been congratulating herself on resisting her own proclivities once she realized what kind of man she was stranded with--one who was beginning to resemble the hero of the gothic novels she enjoyed so much. A strong man, capable and no-nonsense. He threw more wood on the fire and by its light cared for his instruments, sharpening them, checking them for damage. There was no hesitation in his movements, his fingers caressing the cold steel as if he felt affection for these instruments of pain.

A shudder ran down her spine.

"How do you do it, Doctor? How do you know when to cut someone? Do you ever hesitate?"

He paused, and looked at her across the fire, then resumed caring for his tools.

"The human body is an amazing machine, Miss Farnham. I have seen people survive horrific injuries and diseases and in some cases live out a normal span of years. Whatever I can do to help someone survive, I do. Even if I must remove a limb to ensure that survival."

"My mother did not live out her normal span," Daphne said abruptly. She had not thought about her mother for days, but she knew even now, all these years later, her mother was a constant presence in her life.

"What happened to your mother?"

Daphne sighed. Pompom, sensing his mistress's mood, snuggled closer and licked her hand, and she patted his round belly.

"She died giving birth. The baby also."

He nodded, not offering sympathy or words of comfort.

"How old were you when that happened?"

"I was seven."

She remembered it so well. She was not allowed into the room, of course, but she hid outside the bedroom, in the hall, and watched the servants scurry back and forth. First her mother's abigail, then the midwife, and finally the man-midwife her father hired for the birth. The hours dragged on. While there were shrieks in the beginning, in the end there were only moans, and then silence.

Late that night, the servants came looking for her, and then her father came looking for her. He found her hiding behind the drapery, rocking back and forth and humming to herself, hoping that if she was a good girl her mama would call for her.

Her papa picked her up and held her tight and she'd felt his tears wetting the back of her neck. He carried her in to say goodbye to mama and to the little brother who would never grow to be a playmate for her. Her mother looked asleep, but pale, so very pale.

"Why do people die, Doctor?"

"Their hearts cease beating and they stop breathing," he said calmly. "If you are looking for a theological or philosophical answer, you will have to look elsewhere."

He set his saw aside and looked at her.

"I learned many, many years ago, Miss Farnham, death is one of the few things you can be sure of in this world. We are all dying, all of us, from the moment we first draw breath. I cannot beat the Grim Reaper, but there are days I can hold him at bay."

Daphne thought about this. It explained why the man was the way he was. Dealing every day with death and disease, if he became emotional or hysterical or swooned at the sight of blood, it would be difficult for him to do his job.

It was comfortable sitting here in the night air in front of the fire, with Dr. Murray. They were talking about serious things, the kind of conversation no one wanted to have with her. Who knew how long they would be here together? The more she knew about the doctor, the better she would be able to deal with him.

"It occurs to me, Dr. Murray, that you could probably call me 'Daphne,' instead of 'Miss Farnham,' considering the circumstances."

"Would you then want to call me Alexander, Miss Farnham?"

"Why would I want to call you-- Oh! That is your name."

"Your mind is unequalled," he said beneath his breath, but she heard him and smiled at his compliment.

"No, let us keep our relationship at a more formal level, Miss Farnham. We shall be rescued soon, and the less conjecture there is about us, the better. Too much informality would only feed gossip."

Daphne blinked at him. She knew people thought her naive, but this...

"Dr. Murray," she said gently, "I ran off with George Tyndale. There is no way people will put anything but the worst possible interpretation on
our
being stranded together here. I will have to work hard to regain a place in society, a place amongst people who love gossip. They have nothing of real substance to discuss, other than fashion, of course, so they spend their time tearing down peoples' reputations. They're not like you and me, doing important and useful things."

"It does not sound like a pleasant milieu, Miss Farnham. I am surprised you choose to dwell in that setting."

"For now, it is where I am comfortable, Dr. Murray. I am used to it."

He cocked his head to the side and looked at her.

"Where would you be more comfortable?"

"I like this," she said wistfully. She pulled up her knees and rested her head on them. "Not for the rest of my life, but I like being stranded here, away from people judging me and gossiping about me. Of course, I would also like to wear shoes and a proper hat, so I do hope we will be rescued."

"Did you just insult my handiwork, Miss Farnham? I believe that is a most excellent hat I made for you."

Daphne giggled.

"You are teasing me, Doctor. But I do like your hat. It is practical because it keeps the sun out of my eyes."

"Exactly. A hat should protect your head from the elements. It does not need fripperies to make it function properly."

"Those fripperies you dismiss make wearing the hat fun as well as functional. And there is nothing wrong with that," she said firmly.

"So you say," he said, but even in the firelight she saw the glint in his eye and the lessening of tension around his jaw that might be the most this man could conjure up in the way of a smile. It would do until he learned how to smile properly.

* * * *

Alexander was enjoying himself. And that was a problem. It was one thing to avoid intimacy with Miss Daphne Farnham when he thought her a china-headed fashion doll. It was much harder when he saw her as a person, a person capable of involving him in conversation he found pleasurable rather than burdensome.

And he could not banish that kiss from his mind. It reminded him of when he was sixteen and everything, every passing thought, seemed focused on women and sexual relations. Bread rising on the kitchen table made him think of intercourse. Of course, at that age it had all been hypothetical. Now it was worse. The craving carried with it an idea of just how marvelous it would be to have Miss Farnham beneath him, responding to his caresses as she'd responded to his kiss earlier.

He could not count on her rebuffing him if he made advances toward her. Her response earlier was all he could wish for in a woman he wanted to bed.

That was part of the problem. Miss Daphne Farnham, society beauty and toast of London, wanted
him
, Alexander Murray, a Scottish bastard with few social skills and a lifetime of gore and disease in his wake. He was not an idiot, he knew his looks were at best passable. He did not flatter himself he was the answer to a maiden's prayer, but he was only human. Being desired by a beautiful woman was making it hard to resist doing something stupid.

Miss Farnham was no shy retiring damsel, her response to his kiss proved she was a young woman of passion. He feared if her fiery nature came into contact with his dry-as-dust sensibilities it would cause a conflagration of epic proportions. A true disaster. Which is why he had to resist looking at her, and try not to think about the coming hours when they would adjourn to their little shack, and he would lie next to her voluptuous form, her skin in contact with his nearly naked body.

Alexander stood abruptly and said, "Your pardon, Miss Farnham, I will be back shortly."

He knew walking about in the dark was a good way to trip and break a leg, but logic was overridden by the need to put some distance between them, at least for a few more minutes.

Eventually, he had to return. Miss Farnham was sitting with her arms around her knees, humming to herself. She looked up at his approach and smiled at him as he sat across from her.

That was the thing. She smiled at him
all the time.
As if there was something about him worth smiling at, something that inspired in her feelings of warmth and...friendship? It could not possibly be anything stronger, not between the two of them. It was not just the difference in their status, it was that they were such different people. No doubt in a different place they would bore each other to tears. It was only here, now, without other distractions he was able to tolerate her. And vice versa.

He also had the proof of his own eyes that Miss Farnham smiled at strange men with little provocation. He'd seen it aboard the
Magpie.

"Miss Farnham, why do you smile at me?"

The abrupt question wiped the smile from her face.

"Because I like you?" she asked tentatively, as if unsure of her own feelings or his reaction. Then she rallied and said, "Smiling is something people do, Dr. Murray. Some of us, anyway. I am not sure you know how to smile. Have you always been such a sobersides?"