Oppy says, “I’m going to fetch the doctor, Captain. Dick will stay here. I’ll be back as quick as I can.” When he lifts the silk, a fresh trickle of blood flows from the wound. Isabel takes it from him and presses it to the captain’s stomach again. The skin around the wound is colored by the sun, too, and there are ripples where the muscles have arranged themselves in a pattern of squares. A thin line of black hair runs down the center to the right of the wound. She feels strangely moved by it, by the vulnerability of him. George was fair-haired and had some hair on his chest, but not down here, down his stomach.
The blood is still flowing. She presses down harder and the captain swears before saying to Oppy, “Take Dick with you, in case you run into trouble.”
Oppy looks doubtful, but the captain glances up at her, and there’s that smile again, very faint, despite everything, despite her hurting him with the cloth and the fact that he’s bleeding all over her mattress and he may be dying, just like George. He says, “I believe I’m in good hands.”
“Are you sure, Captain?” says the wiry man called Dick.
“Go. The sooner Rowell gets here, the better. Be sure to steer clear of the path.”
“Aye.” Dick takes one of the two pistols he’s been holding and puts it on the bed by the captain’s right hand, which lies limply on the blanket.
“You won’t need that,” she says shakily.
“It’s not for you.”
When the door shuts behind the two men, the captain closes his eyes again. He keeps them closed for so long she worries he has fallen asleep or perhaps he’s dying. He has lost an awful lot of blood, but he doesn’t talk like a dying man. He has too many things to say, still, to be dying. That doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen. She hopes the twomen, Dick and the other one, will be back soon with the doctor. She doesn’t know what she’ll do if the stranger in her bed dies. The thought is too dreadful to contemplate.
Just as she thinks he isn’t going to wake up until the men get back, the captain opens his eyes and says, “You’re the Bucca’s child. They said you were coming.”
She looks around for another clean cloth, and when she doesn’t see one, dips her hand into the pink water in the bucket and rubs some onto his brow. His skin is cool under her touch and she thinks maybe she’s doing the wrong thing, maybe she should be making sure he’s warm. She hasn’t felt the cold herself since she woke up. Meeting his eyes, she says, “I’m not a child.”
His gaze moves up from her knees, leisurely and squinting a little, as if she’s made of glass and she’s catching the sun. When it reaches her face, he says, “I can see that.”
She grows hot under his look. She’s conscious of the way the pelisse falls open at the front and the chemise under it clings to her, outlining the shape of her hips and legs. A rivulet of sweat runs down her back. She wishes she was wearing her stays, at least. Maybe she should do up the buttons of the coat. But she’ll get blood on the pelisse and it’s her only one, her favorite of the four she used to have—thick, luscious green velvet—and with the way things are, she’ll never have another. She leaves the coat unbuttoned. The captain is still looking at her. To hide her confusion, she says, “Are you cold? Shall I make a fire?”
“There’s no need. I’m perfectly warm. But thank you.”
“I’ll remove your boots for you.” She moves to the foot of the bed and takes hold of the left one. They’re black leather Hessian boots, similar to those worn by the men in town, coming up to a pair of buckskin breeches that is entirely unlike the fashion for knit pantaloons in London. The breeches have bloodstains at the top. She wonders if it’d be possible to wipe them clean, since they’re leather, or if the stains are permanent. The boots are tight fitting; she has to pull hard to remove them. She worries she’s hurting the man, but if she is, he doesn’t leton. “That’s better. Thank you,” he says as she places the boots on the floor.
“Would you like some water?”
“Have you got anything stronger?”
She likes the sound of his voice. Even when it’s strained and a little raspy on account of the pain, it’s deep and, she thinks, full of feeling. Shaking her head, she says, “I’ve only just moved here. And I’ve no money.”
“Haven’t you? Your manner of speech says otherwise.”
She dips the silk chemise into the bucket, rinses it, squeezes out the water. The trickle of blood has stopped. The edges of the wound are ragged raw. She presses the cloth to it again. “My manner of speech doesn’t tell of my husband’s debts.”
Just thinking about it, she feels it: the chill when she discovered George’s disastrous investments after his death, the series of failed and nonexistent crops overseas. His uniform, purchased on credit. For years, she held off their creditors with the promise of prize money from the ship his captain captured—money that never came. To flee the subject, she says, “What’s your name?”
“Jack.”
“Jack what?”
A smile tugs on his lips. “Nothing you need to know. What’s yours?”
She’s going to say Mrs. Isabel Henley, or maybe just Mrs. Henley, or maybe that’s nothing you need to know, but she finds herself saying, “Isabel.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Just Isabel?”
“For now, yes.” For you, she thinks, yes, I can be just Isabel. It’s a strange thought. She hasn’t beenjust Isabelsince she was found in Helford nineteen years before.
“Very well, just Isabel. And where is your husband now? May we expect him soon? Shall I be able to count on his discretion as I count on yours?” His hand moves around the butt of the pistol, the tips of his fingers grazing the flintlock.
“You may not,” Isabel says. “My husband is dead.” After a moment, she adds, “He caught a bullet at Trafalgar.”
Jack is quiet for some time. She wonders if he’s thinking of his own gunshot wound. She wants to ask,Are you dying? She wants to say,Don’t. Don’t die. Don’t you dare.She doesn’t know if she would be saying it to him or to George. Eventually, Jack says, “Do you miss him very much?”
