She was allowed to see their patient again only after she had a long-lasting swim at the waterfall, was talked into drinking a glass of much cherished and rationed stock of the red wine at Edward's insistence and changed out of her wet clothes into a dress. She could not explain why she was suddenly drawn to a garment she had last worn over a month ago. With her hands cleaned and her hair pinned up she looked presentable.
At least Edward seemed to think so. He was waiting for her by her home, hiding in shade of the wall where it was less suffocating than inside the hut. He bowed low, sweeping his arm side-way with fervent over-exaggeration. "Allow me to escort you, my lady. That is if you will not be ashamed of your much shamed escort whose two months overdue clean up look has been put to shame by your beauty.
Constance smiled although her stomach was in nervous knots. "I don't believe your sudden bout of self-depreciation. Not when it's coming from a dandy who even drew Tanga markings on his face to keep up with the fashion."
"All to impress a lady. What would a man not do to obtain the desire of his soul?"
"If I recall correctly your plan was a wild success."
"It was so until two months ago she decided to kick me out of her hut. Women are such strange creatures, gentle and yet so cruel, breaking my heart so."
"I doubt not your resourcefulness to mend it."
Edward sniffed, feigning hurt. "This is where you should have paid me a compliment and assured me that I am handsome to console me. Your sarcasm, instead, is not fitted for a lady who has the reputation for being most kind."
Constance laughed, giving up. "We can stand here all day and argue. There is no winning a bantering contest against you. I will be honoured to be escorted by such a handsome, although a bit scruffy escort." She accepted his arm with the same flourish that he had demonstrated.
"Always thinking about other men," Edward sighed. "I suppose I must tell you then that Reed had stopped by your home while you were changing and told me about our patient. He informed me that Simmons was nearly done with treating all the injuries and thus released him to his other duties. They seemed to have found some unpleasant scars, but those are fully healed. He had a few wounds and a good measure of hurt. There was nothing life threatening, however."
"There was lot of blood on is back," Constance remembered.
"It came from a fresh scrape that overlapped with an already existing scar. I'm sure the Admiral will be pleased to know that it didn't get infected."
"Did you call him an Admiral? What makes you think so? Does this mean he has regained consciousness?"
"Not yet. I referred to him as Admiral because we don't know his name, whereas the Captain thinks that this man is an Admiral. When Simmons peeled our patient's uniform off, the Captain had examined it. He has an excellent eye for these things. I've never known him to make a mistake. Of course, it is difficult to believe. Reed told me that the man looks no older than I am."
"Some people look much younger than their true age. Maybe this is the case. He might be in his forties. Still, it is rare to rise to that rank before fifty."
"I'm sure he will enlighten us when he wakes up."
"Is it not odd that he is still unconscious?"
"Not at all. He might have suffered a trauma. He needs the time to cope with stress, thus he has blacked out. Simmons thinks that he will soon come out of it."
Unknown to herself, Constance was tugging him along, and Edward complied silently. He was curious as well about their patient, although not as anxious as she was. But, he had to admit, he had never had to fish anyone unconscious out of the water. Perhaps that formed a subconscious obligation to see that person fully recovered.
When they've reached the healing house, Simmons was out in front washing his surgical tools. Edward thought that possibly the wounds were not as pleasant as Reed had described them to be if some cutting was necessary. He had no reason to worry though. With his sleeves rolled up and his collar unbuttoned, Simmons appeared to be at ease, which he wouldn't have been had his patient been in trouble.
Constance too took it as a good sign. "Mr Simmons how is your patient?" she asked urgently as soon as he could hear them.
The doctor, working as methodically as he had prior to their arrival, finished rubbing a blood stain off the blade, stored it properly and only then responded. "My patient is lucky that I will be cutting down a palm tree on Christmas for my hut instead of his arm. There was a danger of infection setting in and an eventual amputation that I have been able to remove. But the rest of this man is as good as it can be expected."
"Ha-ha," said Edward just as dryly. He noticed when Constance flinched and wondered if it would have killed Simmons for once to be less of a git. "I find your sense of humour entirely inappropriate, given the circumstances, but I've never liked it to begin with."
"I find it inappropriate to trail dirt through my, should be clean, healing house," said doctor with a haughty glare which made it obvious that Edward was failing to meet this requirement.
"When can we see him?" Constance interrupted impatiently.
"You, Constance, may see him immediately. Your escort, however, must wait outside."
"Well that's what happens when you go out to hunt, you return with half of the jungle clinging to you," Edward muttered, but he yielded gracefully.
Constance thanked him, but asked him not to wait for her. She had distracted him from his duties long enough.
She followed the doctor through the healing house. The boards creaked lightly under their feet. It was a spacious, well lit structure. Simmons treated wounds and performed operations in the outer part of it. The second half of it was hidden inside a cave. It was a place where part of the crew took shelter during their first days on the island. It was used as a recovery room. The air inside was much cooler, thus the patients could recover there without an additional heat aggravating their state. Simmons frequently hid there during the hot afternoons, even when he didn't have any patients.
Constance paused at the border between the two parts of the healing house, letting her eyes to adjust to the twilight. The cave was shrouded in deep silence, interrupted only by their breathing and heartbeat. It was a highly secluded atmosphere.
"I'll be outside. I must finish cleaning up," Simons informed her.
"Thank you."
His leave made her aware that she very much wanted a moment of privacy. Constance felt that she had established a bond with this man down at the beach when he tried to take the water flask from her. She feared that a third party might somehow interfere and unintentionally break that fragile connection between them. She wanted a moment alone with the man, she considered, carefully making her way along the row of beds.
He was resting on the furthest bed from the entrance. A water flask by the bedside within his reach glittered dully like a reminder. Just as she recalled, the man was tall, nearly too tall for the short healing house beds. The bed was too narrow as well, Constance thought, seeing how the man looked so out of place on it, not quiet fitting in. Partially this impression came from the stress emanating from his clenched fist, the tension of his back, slightly bent knee. He looked like he was expecting to be startled awake surrounded by his enemies. The bed cover slid down, exposing his shoulder and part of his back. After many years of living on an island where accidents happened on daily basis, Constance had seen enough men in all sorts of undignified states, yet the sight of his bare skin was intimate, causing her to drop her eyes, but then she was drawn to look again and admire the strong lines and finely toned muscles, lost in trepidation.
She was nervous because this man was unfamiliar, unlike the crew of Fortuna Minor, Constance sought an explanation. She had lived in a secluded community so long that she had forgotten what it's like to meet new people. Nor did he have a chance yet to reveal what kind of man he was, which was enough to make her uncomfortable around him.
His arm hung limply off the edge of the bed. It would surely grow numb if left that way, and he will need it, considering that his other arm was fully wrapped in bandages up to his finger tips. She knelt by the bed to make it easier for herself to move his arm without disturbing him. The floor was hard and cold on her knees. She rested his elbow on the bed and gave his hand one assuring stroke. The limb was too tense, just like the rest of him. More than a little curious, she withheld his hand, seeing that her touch had no effect on him. The hands could say a lot about a man.
This hand claimed that if this man was a commander, which she decided to believe, he was not the type to stand back and give orders. He liked to act and to be involved. A couple of white scar lines, thin as threads, were crossing his hand and patches of skin toughened along the thumb and finger bases told her that this man was no stranger to fighting. Yet, the hands were not calloused or rough, betraying that he was no commoner. They were just as easily familiar with the quill and parchment. These marks made him likable, Constance decided.
She was intrigued by the shape of his hand, the oval palm and long fingers. She turned it, wondering if the rest of it had any more scars. Her sharp intake of breath met the silence. A smile fled from her lips at the sight of a birthmark, neat and tiny, on his thumb. She placed his hand on the bed and adjusted his bed cover nervously to cover him. There was only one other person in the world who had exactly the same mark, in exactly the same spot. James had beautiful hands. She always paid attention to them whenever he was consumed by some task, taking no notice of her watching him. He had never fumbled with anything; all his movements were quick and highly skilled, that she admired so much. Thus, she remembered the mark perfectly.
It had to be a coincidence. She ran her hand over her face to shatter the illusion. Her cheeks were burning hot. This was simply a man of a similar age, the same profession, most likely an Englishman, if the uniform was anything to judge by. His face was obscured by a brown curtain of tangled hair. For the sake of her peace, she brushed his hair aside and leaned closely to study his face, their faces mere inches apart. She registered an elongated face with strong features. A straight nose, a chin with a dimple that was said to betray stubbornness, eyebrows set low, adding to the air of severity. Yet, the face was not grim although strict. His lips were curved in a line indicating that the man did not lack sarcasm and had maintained a sense of humour when need be that came from realising that the world was not a nice place to live in but not worth despairing over.
She missed a subtle change in his breathing. Suddenly, her wrist was trapped in his grasp, and his eyes snapped open – a sea of green. Constance shrieked and tore herself away violently. She fled from his side.
She nearly collided with Simmons who was urged to her rescue by her scream.
"What's happening?" he asked, blocking her way.
"Your patient is awake!" Constance informed him.
"I was under impression that you wanted to talk to him. Why are you leaving?"
She mustered a fragile smile. "I have a personal matter to attend to." The embarrassed, pointed look let him know what kind of matter it was.
"I see," Simmons told her. He clearly didn't believe that she would have rushed off the take care of natural needs with a shriek, but he let her off the hook. "It would be rude of me to leave my patient unattended now that you no doubt were loud enough to awaken the dead."
"You would have been startled too if a supposedly unconscious man suddenly grabbed your arm."
Simmons gave her a mocking smile and swept out of her way. Choosing between the two, the well being of his patient was of a greater concern.
Left alone, Constance fled the healing house.