Harold Lowe has managed to claw his way up the career ladder of the British merchant marines, rising from a ship's boy to a master mariner with one of the world's elite passenger lines. Along the way, he's learned to master not only his craft, but...
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Corrine slept for some time, but was eventually awakened by a doctor coming into the room. He was there to check her progress, he said. Apparently she was suffering from severe exhaustion and a sprained shoulder, and in addition had narrowly avoided having her legs amputated; the frostbite was at first thought to be so severe as to be irreparable. However, a second opinion from the Hungarian doctor on board convinced him to take a more conservative approach.
"And he was right," admitted Dr. McGee, after examining her now. "The tissue looks much healthier today. You may end up keeping your legs after all." He gave her a disapproving look. "You might need them to run away from that man outside your door, miss. He has been quite adamant about your care. And, I daresay, none too polite about it either." He sniffed. "I'm only supposed to be attending to the first-class passengers, but Officer Lowe has bullied me into taking on you as well. Not that I'm unwilling," he hastened to add, at her look of chagrin. "It's a very fascinating case, after all."
She gave him a halfhearted smile, hoping he'd just go away. Eventually, to her relief, he did. "Just eat as much as you can, and move your legs and arms whenever possible. Vigorous circulation will keep the limbs in good repair," he advised as he left.
As if on cue, Harry stepped into the room. He was carrying a mug of hot tea and a bowl full of something that looked and smelled like soup. He rolled his eyes at the door as he closed it. "That man hates my bloody guts," he said by way of explanation.
Corrine laughed. It felt good to do that again, despite everything. And it reassured her that Harry seemed to have returned to his usual irreverent self. Seeing him so emotional, so vulnerable, had upset her deeply. She never wanted him to experience unhappiness or torment, even for a minute - and especially not on her account.
He weaved his way over to the bed and pressed the cup of tea into her hands. "Drink," he ordered. She raised one eyebrow at his tone, but did as he instructed. It was heavenly: fragrant, warm, and soothing. She had no idea how long it had been since he had had anything to eat or drink, and she found she desperately needed the nourishment. Just a few sips invigorated her, and she discovered she was finally able to pull herself into a sitting position.
"How are you feeling now, my brave girl? Better?" he asked, eyeing her closely.
She nodded, and a look of relief flashed over his face. He sat in the chair and watched as she greedily slurped down the tea.
Finally, she drained the last few drops and sat back with a satisfied sigh. Quickly, he reached out to take the empty cup from her hand. "Don't you dare try to read the tea leaves. I don't want to know," he said. His tone was light, but his eyes were serious. She furrowed her brow in confusion, but he waved her off. "Never mind that. Are you taking that wanker's advice and exercising your legs?"
In reply, she wiggled her feet under the covers and then pulled her legs up to her chest, giving him a smug look.
He grinned. "I daresay you'll be dancing a jig again in no time, Miss Donnelly." She pushed her legs back down until they were lying flat again, stretching them out. To her surprise, he reached out and began rubbing them through the covers, massaging from her knees to her feet. "Vigorous circulation," he said, and winked at her.
