A steaming pot of tea and a small tray of tarts reminded her of who she was. She was the daughter of a well-respected Royal Navy surgeon, and a competent physician’s assistant in her own right.
She took a long sip of the hot, black tea and made a mental list of her current assets and liabilities. On the plus side of the ledger: She’d escaped the fast deteriorating situation while at the mercy of Dr. Partlow, and her father’s solicitor in London, now her guardian, had been contacted by Captain Still. As soon as she found a permanent position, she would send the solicitor her address so that he could provide her with the disposition of her father’s estate. Dr. Morton had made detailed arrangements for her care in the eventuality of his death.
On the minus side: She was living in a half-world, straddling two identities. She’d always suspected Captain Still had been aware of her gender as well as a few of theArethusa’ssailors who worked with them in the surgery, but as for the rest of the world, who knew?
She had a bit of the ready to tide her over, but not enough to establish a domicile on her own until the estate was settled. She had to find a position, and soon. She considered taking a room in a Peterfield boarding house as a temporary solution, but feared Dr. “Hands-Like-an-Octopus” might discover her lodgings and insist she return to his protection. And with whom would the people of Peterfield side? She could not allow that question to be raised.
As Willa Morton, her options were few. But as Wills…
Chapter Six
Cullen and Fergustook turns at the ribbons and drove on through the night until they were close to the outskirts of Portsmouth. Cullen breathed in the salt air. The harbor stretched out below, ships’ masts as thick as a nest of porcupines. This…this was where he belonged.
They’d stopped at coaching inns twice to change horses. Aunt Elspeth’s fine grays were being cosseted at Godalming’s White Hart Inn and would be retrieved by Fergus on his trip back. Cullen’s innards lurched, as if the carriage had dropped into a deep hole. His hands were clammy, and he reached into his saddlebag lying at his feet. He gripped the piece of parchment he’d procured, with the help of his aunt and Fergus, from Doctor’s Commons. Was it only a month ago his captain and closest friend in the world, Arnaud Bellingham, had done a similar thing for his bride?
Now Cullen would take to wife Wills, or whatever she would call herself as a woman, unhappy he would wager, at the church in Portsmouth. His aunt had warned him he must at least make an attempt to woo the woman. An eligible clansman like Cullen could no longer drag a woman off for hand-fasting.
“It’s 1820, for heaven’s sakes,” she’d said. “Scotsmen are not savage brutes anymore. You can’t just take a woman against her will. We’re well respected business owners and traders.”
Both Cullen and Fergus had given her incredulous looks when she’d gone that far. “Well we are,” she insisted. “And I expect the two of you to uphold the reputation of the clan.”
Fergus had leaned close to Cullen and whispered, “Dinna worry. Blood will tell.”
“I heard that, Fergus MacKenzie. I’m right here.” His aunt bristled and batted at her skirts in a show of hiding her annoyance.
“Och—ye always did have the ears of a flappin’ gorse rabbit.”
Cullen had called for tea at that point to soothe the two battling Scots in their elegant London townhouse.
Even though they’d secured the cooperation of Dr. Morton’s London solicitor once they explained the situation, Cullen realized with an ache in the area of his chest that the resolution of this farcical situation was now in his hands.
The solicitor had made his position clear. He realized the danger of the situation to Miss Morton, but he’d exacted a solemn promise from Cullen. The final decision to marry had to be Miss Morton’s. And the dowry would be modest, he’d warned them, since the bulk of the late physician’s fortune was to be entailed to Miss Morton and her children. Cullen had snorted at that disclosure, and his aunt had shrugged.
“Dr. MacCloud, as well as his future wife, will be under the protection of his mother’s clan, the MacKenzies. We will ensure they have sufficient funds.” His aunt’s steely stare for once had been directed at someone besides him. The solicitor had blinked first, and had signed off on consent for the marriage to proceed.
After enduring that ordeal, Cullen was not so surehewas up to the task of convincing the mysterious, stubborn Miss Morton.
“Where are ye, lad?” Fergus gave Cullen’s shoulder a brisk shake. “Out wool-gatherin’ again?”
Cullen ignored the question. “There’s a fine inn near the harbor, the Still and West, I believe it’s called. I’ll leave you there so you can drink your Scotch whisky in peace while I deal with the Morton lass. Once I talk to the captain, find her a decent dress…and talk her into wearing it, we’ll come find you and then on to the vicar at St. Mary’s Anglican Church.
“Ye don’t think ye might need a cooler head like mine to make sure ye don’t make a muddle of everything?”
If Cullen hadn’t needed to rein in the horses to a stop in front of the inn, he would have reminded Fergus of all the times he had been the last person to maintain a “cooler head.” A groom and stable boy ran out of the yard to take charge of the team and carriage.
He reached over and took the older man’s hand. “If I make a muddle of this marriage proposal, you have my permission to drum me out of the clan.”
Fergus nodded in assent, just like when Cullen was a lad and they’d had one of their “talks.” “Ye’re not going to make a muddle of anything.”
At that his oldest friend in the world dropped down from the carriage seat and headed toward the inn. Cullen handed the lads holding the carriage a few coins before he also stepped down onto the street to walk toward his destiny, or maybe his doom, at the Royal Navy docks.
Willa brushed the leaves from the knees of her serviceable trousers, the same kind of trousers she’d adopted for everyday work the last ten years at her father’s side. She’d found a secluded wooded area near Peterfield to exchange her drab mourning dress she’d procured when she left the ship for the male garb that would change the way the rest of the world viewed her.
She’d become so accustomed to being accepted as a young man aboard theArethusa, she’d forgotten how restrictive the lives of other women her age were. Most of her female contemporaries would have been married by the time they were twenty. Their lives would be under the purview of their husbands, after having been controlled by their fathers before that.
An unmarried woman of her age could become a governess, but only if she had an education sufficient to be useful to her employer. All Willa had learned, and practiced, had been medicine. She was not even supposed to be trained in medical arts, let alone teach them.
And then there was the post of nurse, or nanny. She’d had enough of wailing brats in the Partlow household, and, besides, she would need references. All that remained were positions in service as a maid, housekeeper, or cook, all of which would also require references.
