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Your friend Charles Best is right, of course; you do you need to go to the sick bay for this nasty cough that’s been getting progressively worse over the last two weeks. You’ve managed to avoid going to the sick bay for so many things already: your infrequent but minor headaches, your lower abdominal pains, and the occasional splinter suffered when doing work on the upper deck. But there’s no denying that you’ll need medical attention for your chest pain and this phlegm-laden cough. With any luck, maybe there will be a simple tonic you can take, and, under doctors’ orders, you’ll need to rest and to not exert yourself for a time. Sir John and Commander Fitzjames will be informed, and surely they’ll both agree so that your full recovery may be ensured.
But then there’s the matter of “doctor’s” orders. And the absolute last person you want to see about this is Dr. Stanley. It has to be Mr. Goodsir. You’ve seen him at times on the decks: he’s mild-mannered and friendly, and he’s even greeted you by name more than once. He seems to be a kind man; much more approachable than Dr. Stanley. And if – God forbid – something should go terribly awry when you visit him in the sick bay, you’re confident that he may show understanding for your particular plight.
That plight being that you are an impostress, and have been going by your brother’s name, George Chambers, from the moment you made your appearance at First Muster.
The time has come. It’s the end of the workday, and you’re seated at a table near enough to the sick bay so that when Dr. Stanley leaves with medical bag in hand, you can quickly and easily slip in to visit Mr. Goodsir. You’d once told Charles about your preference to see Mr. Goodsir for this matter, and although Charles has no idea about the real reason for your preference, he’d agreed that if he had a choice, he’d do the same.
The moment you’ve been waiting for has finally arrived: Dr. Stanley emerges, stone-faced. You catch his eye for but a second, and without his giving any acknowledgment that you exist on the planet, he speeds along the deck. When you’re certain that he’s reached officers’ country, you spring up and head to the sick bay door. A few deep breaths, and then you quickly rap a few times.
“Come,” Mr. Goodsir calls.
You walk in. “Sorry to disturb you, Sir. But if it’s not too late for today, might you have time for one more patient?”
“Certainly, Chambers. I always have time for patients. Close the door, please.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“What brings you here?”
You take a deep breath, and the wracking cough that follows tells all. Mr. Goodsir steps forward. You step back in reflex, thrusting your hands forward. “I’m all right, just a moment,” you manage between bouts of coughing. For weeks it’s been a struggle to keep the pitch of your voice lowered sufficiently when overcome with coughing, but thankfully you’re succeeding even under this duress. “It’s been two weeks now, Sir,” you say once you’ve settled and cleared your throat.
“Two weeks?” Goodsir’s response seems more a stern admonishment than kind concern. “Why have you waited so long to seek help for this?”
“My hope was that with time it might improve on its own.”
“Well, no matter, because you’re here now. I’m sorry to have scolded you. Please, have a seat on the examination table.”
Oh, no. This doesn’t bode well. “I-I was hoping for perhaps… a tonic? Do you have one? And something for the pain in my chest?”
“Yes, a tonic for the cough, and also mandragora may be warranted for your pain, but regardless, your symptoms are such that a thorough examination will be required first.”
It’s as you had feared. “But is that really necessary?”
Goodsir reassumes his stern tone. “You’ve waited two full weeks, and now you would question my diagnostic process.”
“I’m sorry, Sir.”
Goodsir sighs and shakes his head. “As am I. It’s been a very long and stressful day, but it’s no excuse for my being cross. You must be nervous, and I’m afraid I’m not helping you, am I…”
“But you are. I specifically wanted to see you about this, and not Dr. Stanley.”
Goodsir chuckles. “You’re not the first to have said so. So let’s you and I not tell Dr. Stanley, hmm?” He adds a conspiratorial wink – and it makes your heart melt.
”Now, onto the table,” Mr. Goodsir says. He goes to a nearby cabinet and withdraws a stethoscope. “Remove your upper garments, please.”
“All of them?” you eke out in a voice pitched a few tones too high for your own comfort.
“This will be best accomplished with your shirt off, Chambers. I’ll be better able to listen to your heart and lungs.” The man turns around and, while he offers a genial enough smile, his eyebrows crowd together. “You may go to the table now. That’s right. Good.”
You had considered the possibility of this happening – but there may yet still be a way to prevent it from going much further. The man will certainly hear how your heart is racing, should that stethoscope make contact with your skin. Your chest tightens, rendering your breaths short and shallow, and bringing on another round of coughing. Atter it subsides, you take a hard swallow. "May I keep my shirt on? Please?"
Goodsir’s brow lifts, displaying several horizontal lines of concern. He speaks slowly, softly. “Is there a particular reason why you are reticent to do this? You went through physical examinations when you applied to be a part of this expedition, did you not?”
“Yes, Sir. But I…” You lower your head. “If it’s all right with you, I’d prefer to keep my shirt on.”
“Very well. Remove your coat, then.”
Goodsir watches in supervisory fashion, stethoscope at the ready, as you complete the task and place the coat beside you. He circles around the table and directs you to breathe slowly in and out during the examination. You comply with a few starter breaths, and then he applies one end of the stethoscope to your covered back.
As quickly as he’s set the instrument against your back, he’s withdrawing it. “Chambers, what is this underneath your shirt?”
“It’s … it’s nothing, Sir.”
Goodsir speeds back to face you. “It’s a bulk of fabric. A cloth. Is it a bandage of some kind? Have you suffered an injury that you haven’t yet reported?”
It’s a struggle to utter a complete sentence: too many stuttered consonants precede vowels, forming words that spill forth with insufficient forethought. “Yes, Sir… p-perhaps a few cuts… on my chest… Charles Best and I were wrestling in the orlop a few days ago… just for the sport of it… and he won the contest. I was bleeding a bit… b-but it’s only minor. I-I saw no need to come to the sick bay. I wrapped my own bandage, using an extra shirt.” Even as you speak, you’re losing this battle; your voice gradually softening and rising, its overall tone eroding.
“Let me see your wounds,” Goodsir says gently.
“Sir?” Your voice has lost all semblance of feigned masculine depth.
“Remove your shirt, please. Or will you need assistance?”
“No, I’ll do it myself.” And with those words, you’ve admitted defeat. In truth, you’ve fantasized countless times about Mr. Goodsir undressing you slowly, tenderly – but none of those fantasies had the sick bay as its setting. This situation is yours to own.
You slide your braces down over your shoulders and tug at your shirt, struggling at first to draw it forth from your trousers. But after loosening the buttons on your trousers, you’re able to easily pull the shirttails up and out. Crossing your arms in front of you, you lift the shirt up and over your head, plopping it on top of your coat.
Mr. Goodsir’s eyes widen. He backs up several steps and drops his stethoscope on a worktable. “How – and when – were you able to acquire such a large bandage, Chambers? And… why?”
“Weeks before we set sail. Please don’t be angry with me?”
“I-I don’t understand,” Mr. Goodsir says. “Why should I be angry with you? I merely asked how you acquired such a large bandage. Have you fabricated the story about you and Best to cover for a more serious injury that occurred before we set sail?”
The first twinge of tears come to the corners of your eyes. Your vision goes hazy. You fight it all back with several rapid eyeblinks. “No, Sir. No recent injury.”
“Then might you be severely scarred in some way? Is that why you've hesitated to remove your shirt?”
You wipe your nose, unable to contain a sniffle.
“No need to be upset, Chambers. Do you have a large wound that hasn’t healed properly? Or has it opened up again? If so, then we’ll need to treat it aggressively. I’m sure you’d agree that we can’t risk infection. Please show me.”
Mr. Goodsir’s earnest demeanor, coupled with your realization that your impostress status is about to be revealed, brings on your first audible sobs. Worse still, those sobs morph into another episode of coughing.
Mr. Goodsir steps forward and gently sets his hand on your shoulder, magically calming your coughing attack. You’re sadly aware that there’s likely nothing in his touch beyond the caring concern of a medical professional – but still, the warmth of his skin against yours sends a pleasurable tingle down your body to your privates. When he trails his fingertips along your shoulder blade, eventually insinuating his fingers under the tucked end of your bandage, your breath hitches in your throat.
“It’s all right, Chambers,” Mr. Goodsir says in a honeyed lilt. He inches the free end of the bandage away. “I’m here to help.”
You let him.
He then considerately stations himself at your back to remove your bandage. Wide though it may be, it’s wrapped tightly in multiple layers around your torso, as it must be, due to its originally intended purpose of binding your breasts. Mr. Goodsir takes his time, first looping the fabric around your back, then setting his hand on your shoulder to anchor himself when reaching around to the front, then looping around to the back, over and again.
He’s now down to the final layer of cloth. How has he not noticed your feminine contours before this? True, you’re not nearly as blessed as your older sister, but your bosom does have an appeal of its own, because whatever you may lack in pendulous fullness, you make up for with a shapely and firm perkiness.
Mr. Goodsir remains behind you as the last folds of the bandage slide down your chest. It’s done: your bosom is fully exposed. “There, Chambers. That wasn’t so bad, was it? Your wound, it must be on your chest, then? I’ll come around now to take a look. Will you be all right with this?”
You save him the trouble by slowly pivoting on the leather-upholstered table to face him.
Goodsir draws a sharp breath and falters back several steps, his arms lowering to his sides. Your binding cloth, wrapped loosely around his arm, slowly unfurls and begins its slow coiling descent to the floor.
“My name is Elizabeth,” you say, offering both information and apology. “Elizabeth Chambers. George is my brother.” In this moment, you can take appreciation in the fact that Mr. Goodsir’s gaze is still glued to your perfect breasts, but it’s no doubt an awkward moment for him. You snatch up your shirt and hold it against your bosom just as Mr. Goodsir is turning away.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to stare. It was entirely inappropriate and unprofessional of me to do so.”
“I’m covered now, Sir,” you say.
“We must keep our talk low.” Goodsir turns, bringing his gaze back to you, and gives a nervous shake of his head. “Surely you must understand that this is not… This is highly…. ” and then he’s stuck.
You know what he means to say: that this is not conventional, that it’s highly irregular, and that it’s not permitted. You hope he won’t say what you fear most: that he’ll need to alert command. Because after that, who knows what might happen? Would they dare flog you, stripped naked to the waist, and with your breasts bared for all to see? Will they force you to leave the ship when they reach the next port?
Mr. Goodsir finds the words to complete his first intended sentence. “This is not conventional,“ he says.
“Please, don’t tell anyone, I beg of you! I so dearly wanted to be a part of this expedition that George agreed to go through the entire application process. He attended all the interviews and physical examinations. He stood in line with so many other crew members, here, on the lower deck of this very ship, and received the official papers from Lieutenant Le Vesconte. At First Muster, I took his place and presented those same papers to the lieutenant. He welcomed me onto the ship.”
“But how? He asked no questions?”
“None, Sir. He had no idea that I was a girl. You see, George and I look similar enough – and I rehearsed for months, lowering the pitch of my voice and learning to move like a lad. I had my hair cropped short the day before First Muster.”
“And your parents condoned this arrangement between you and your brother?”
“They know all, and they fully support me in this endeavor.”
“Your family must love you very much to have allowed you to pursue this dream.”
“It’s no longer a dream, because here I am. So, please don’t tell anyone? I ask not only for me, but for George’s sake, as well as the rest of my family. I can’t bear to be the cause of any difficulties that may arise for my brother if my identity is revealed. We’d both be the subjects of shame. My parents would be ridiculed, and their reputations ruined. Our entire family would suffer. And my poor sister… Please, Sir…”
Mr. Goodsir quickly rakes a trembling hand through his hair. His cheeks puff out from the force of a hurried sigh. “I’m not aware of any precedent for this, so as to how we are required to proceed … I confess that I don’t know… ”
“Couldn’t we keep this between us? We’ve been at sea for months, and until now no one has suspected.”
Mr. Goodsir drops his gaze to the floor and stays silent for too long.
“Please! I’ll do anything you want, Sir,” you say. “Anything!” You hop down from the table, letting your shirt fall to the floor, and approach the man. But – does he even desire women? Or is he just another one of those blokes that prefers other blokes? You’ve known of numerous dalliances on this ship; you’ve even been propositioned. Naturally, you’ve refused. You once briefly considered being a bottom in the pitch black of a storage space on the orlop deck, if only to keep up your image as just one of the lads, but wisely declined. All Charles Best would’ve needed to do was reach around front for a cock while pounding away, discover that there was no cock to grip, and then your secret would be out. Or, if you were to bend over too far, the soft folds of your female privates could have been accidentally discerned in the absence of male trinkets – not to mention that the distinctively sweet and musky scent of those same privates might have also been detected.
You drop to your knees at Mr. Goodsir’s feet, your chest rising and falling with each panicked breath, and knowing that, from his vantage point above you, he must be getting a wonderful view indeed. You dare to gently set your hands against his thighs, and then you creep them upward toward his trouser placket. “Sir,” you say in a tremulous voice, “I assure you, I’m quite skilled.” It’s a bold lie, of course, because you’ve never blown anyone in your life. You’d heard from your older sister about how it’s to be done - and once, in fun, you practiced the techniques described on a small squash you picked from the family’s vegetable garden – but you’ve never set your mouth upon a cock.
Goodsir pushes your hands downward and away. “Stop. We’ll not do this.”
Your heart sinks. “You prefer blokes?”
“No – but you needn’t demean yourself in this manner.”
“I’m sorry to have offended you…”
“Shh, Elizabeth, be calm. What I’m saying is that I will keep your secret.”
“You will?”
Mr. Goodsir nods, which sets you to springing up and throwing your arms around him in a full embrace. “Thank you, Sir!”
He doesn’t reciprocate; he’s shirking backward, keeping his arms and hands firmly planted against his sides, despite the betraying red blush that’s spreading across his cheeks. “Please, hasten back to the table and sit. Let us continue to keep our voices low.”
You obey, bending to pick up your fallen shirt first. Once seated, you hold it against your chest, modest once more.
“We must both be discreet,” he says after taking an expansive breath. “From now on, when you need medical assistance, you will come to me just as you have today, after Dr. Stanley has taken his leave.”
You nod.
“Now, let us resume the examination in the matter of your cough.”
He retrieves the wooden stethoscope he had previously set aside. You follow his orders to breathe deeply when he places it against your back. One breath too deep, and you succumb to coughing, for which you instantly apologize. The man takes the instrument away sets it back on his table.
He opens a cabinet door and brings out a bottle of liquid and a small vial, which he sets on the same table. “For the pain,” he says. Next, scissors and other supplies are drawn from the cabinet’s top sliding drawer. “You’ll also need a plaster,” he explains.
It’s fascinating to see the man engrossed in his work; this same man who welcomed you into the sick bay, then rightly scolded you for waiting too long to do so. After all that Mr. Goodsir’s experienced in the last several minutes, working seems to have a calming effect on him.
“We’ll begin with mandragora. Tomorrow I'll give you another dose. If you need something stronger after the first few days, then we’ll discuss other options.”
He hands you the vial, and you drink down the proffered tonic. “Thank you.”
“This plaster…erm… it could be applied to either your back – or to your chest.” He clears his throat. “We’ll begin with your back today. After it’s applied, we’ll wait for twenty minutes, and I’ll remove it. Tomorrow, we’ll apply the next one to your chest. We will alternate thusly, every day, until your symptoms are relieved.” With that, he passes behind you and carefully sets this evening’s plaster against your back. He then walks across the room, collects your binding cloth that he had let fall to the floor earlier, and returns to the examination table with apologies for not having picked it up before now. “Have this cloth ready for binding yourself again after the plaster is removed. Roll it up, please,” You keep your forearms firmly against your chest the entire time as you follow his directions.
During your twenty minutes’ wait, you happily converse with the man. You are asked, in hushed tones, about your brother, your family, your interests, and hobbies, among other subjects. What do you enjoy most about being on this expedition? Who’s your best mate on Erebus? How do you find the fare from the Goldner tins, and do you have a favourite variety? Have you had occasion to meet Jacko? Fagin? Sir John gives wonderful sermons, does he not? Are you looking forward to visiting the Sandwich Islands? What are your plans for after the expedition?
For your part, you ask Mr. Goodsir the obligatory formal questions about why he wanted to join the expedition, and about what in his background may have specifically led to his being appointed. After that, you ask the more trivial questions: What do you enjoy most about being on this expedition? Have you read The Vicar of Wakefield yet? Did you like it? How does anyone stomach Mr. Wall’s supplementary fare, I wonder? Have you ever been seasick? What are your plans for after the expedition?
Checking his pocket watch, Mr. Goodsir announces that twenty minutes have passed. “I know you’re well-practiced in binding yourself, but I would be pleased to assist you. If you’d like.”
“I would, Sir. Thank you.” A steady warmth creeps up your chest, your neck, and fills your cheeks. The prospect of being dressed by the man is equally as exciting as any fantasy you’ve had about his undressing you.
“You been starting your wrap in front, yes?” he asks. “I’ll stand behind you. You begin in front, hold the edge firm, and I’ll wrap around your back and pass the cloth back to you for your chest, and then you’ll hand it to me, and so forth, continuing in that manner until the job is done.”
He slowly and carefully sets the cloth across your back, then smooths it firmly with his palm during each cycle of binding. His touch is authoritative and gentle in equal balance, and never hurried. With each pass of the cloth across your back, he asks questions to check on your welfare and his technique: How are your faring? Is this comfortable, or do you need it tighter? Looser? Do you feel any ridges or wrinkles of the fabric? I can make it smoother, if you like. The concern he shows while participating in this simple task indicates that he would likely be a patient and caring lover…
But now you’re allowing your fantasies run away with you again…
“Finished,” Goodsir says. Tuck the loose end under, and then let’s finish getting you dressed properly.” He comes around front and takes care to avoid setting his gaze at your chest level. He picks up your rumpled shirt and hands it to you. He seems to take a curious pleasure in watching as you don your shirt, adjust your braces, tie your cravat, and button up your coat; in effect, becoming George Chambers, Ship’s Boy once again.
“You’ll return tomorrow at about the same time for your next plaster, and more mandragora, if needed.”
“Yes, Sir. And thank you for keeping my identity a secret.”
“I’m pleased to do so. I see no logical reason to quash your dream. Sir John once told me you’re the best ship’s boy he’s ever sailed with. You’re hard working, always in good spirits, willing to assist at any opportunity, and you get along well with the rest of the crew. No one has issue with your abilities nor your performance here on the ship. You’ve earned all of our admiration.” His mouth widens to full smile. “In fact, I admire you even more now, Elizabeth. Lovely name, Elizabeth… ”
You wonder whose face is most pink in this moment. Goodsir’s complexion has gradually gone to a full rosy blush, but your own face feels warm enough that your colour could well be matching his – if not steadily surpassing it.
You clear you throat and lower the pitch of your voice. “I’m sorry to have troubled you today,” you say, slipping down from the table, the soles of your feet finding the floor. “I’ll be going now. Thank you, and enjoy your evening.” You head for the door, but Goodsir’s call stops you a few steps short of it.
“Mr. Chambers?”
You turn and chuckle. “Yes?”
“Pardon my asking a question that may seem personal, but is entirely medical.” The man seems suddenly fidgety, darting his gaze about, and has just folded his hands after some initial fingertip twitching. “But… do you happen to suffer from lower abdominal pain? On a somewhat... regular basis?” He clears his throat, and then finally centers his gaze on your eyes. “Specifically… erm… monthly? Every three to four weeks?”
It's amusing to see Mr. Goodsir fumbling through these questions, but considering he never thought to be talking to a girl while on this voyage, you’re finding his current awkwardness utterly charming. You nod. “I do.”
“Does the pain distract you adversely? Does it interfere with your ability to perform your duties?”
“Yes. Three days is the worst of it.”
“Then you’ll come to me on each of those three days, and I’ll mix you some drops to help dull the pain.”
The man’s generosity is unending. Before he has time to react, you’re swooping forward, giving him a quick peck on the cheek, and then withdrawing as quickly as you’d gone in. “Thank you, Sir. You’re too kind.”
Mr. Goodsir shrugs it off. “Until tomorrow evening, Elizabeth. For the plaster, of course…”
“Of course.”
“And, if you like, you may call me Harry here in the sickbay. Only If you choose to do so. But if you do, I certainly won’t mind it.”
You nod. “Goodbye... Harry, Sir. And thank you again.” You’re out the door and already looking forward to seeing Harry tomorrow evening.
Elizabeth and Harry… With time, it seems your fantasy may become reality after all.