by Erica Nyden
“Here we are,” Olivia took the cup and held his right hand aloft. “Let’s get you dressed and back to bed, Major.”
Though it was still early, the skies had grown dark, proving James’s forecast correct. Coastal rain fell in sheets outside the tall windows, echoing in the vast kitchen where Olivia and Mrs. Pollard were taking tea. The flicker of pillar candles cast warmth on their modest supper of boiled pork, potatoes, and carrots. The older woman likely took her meals here alone, for James and Annie, the young girl she’d seen upstairs, were nowhere about.
“Tell me, Mrs. Pollard, how long has the major been home?”
“One week exactly. Haven’t seen Dr. Butler for days. Seems he had to travel to London, so it’s good you’re here.” She leant across the table and patted Olivia’s hand.
“Have you worked for the family long?”
“I came to Keldor as a young woman, nineteen years old and already a widow. The sea took my husband a month after we wed, and I needed work. Mistress Charlotte knew of my plight and asked if I’d serve as nursemaid to her child once he or she arrived. Mr. William was born, and I took care of that little man like he was mine.” Her eyes brightened, and the shallow creases around them deepened when she smiled. “Years passed and he went away to school—he didn’t need me anymore, not in the same way, like. So when Mrs. Carne retired, I took her job as head housekeeper. A fine family to work for. Even after all these years, I can’t imagine myself anywhere else.” Long wrinkles shortened, and the sober face from upstairs returned. “But through the years, this house has endured one tragedy after another. Sweet, selfless Charlotte died of Spanish flu when Mr. William was still a boy, after his father, Colonel Morgan, returned home from war. The doctor told you about the colonel?”
Olivia shook her head. “I’m afraid I know nothing about the family.”
“Mr. William had been missing for months, like. And the colonel, I found him dead”—she thumped the table between them—“just weeks before they found Mr. William.”
The poor man upstairs had no one, then. “Dear God.”
Mrs. Pollard nodded and wiped her eyes with her cloth napkin. “Such a shock, too. It’d been James and me working for the late colonel. When he died, and with poor Mr. William missing so long, Mr. Bather, the family’s solicitor, told us the house would sit empty. Requisitioned, more like. We’d had our bags packed. But the day before we was to leave, James to his brother’s and me to my sister’s, a telegram came. Mr. William was coming home. I can’t recall having been so happy. He’s like a son, you know.”
Immersed in the darkness of her new bedroom, Olivia struggled to sleep. The storm clouds outside had waned, and the night’s stillness ushered in a blanket of maddening doubts over her new assignment.
Her first few weeks at St. Mary Abbot’s had been miserable too. Back then she’d been reprimanded for minor yet frequent mistakes. Meaningful friendships were scarce, and homesickness constant. She’d begun questioning her career choice until, in late May, Dunkirk happened. On temporary assignment at an emergency hospital in Sutton, she witnessed horrors they never told her about in nursing school: bleeding stumps, faces blown away, men begging for death.
But amidst the stress of tending to the endless stream of critically injured soldiers, she thrived. She assisted the doctors in surgery, managed her own caseload, and picked up the slack of her more delicate colleagues. Her tender hand brought smiles to all men, even those who no longer could physically show it. She learned the names of each patient she met, and because of her efficacy, the doctors and head nurses learned hers. After the crisis, they praised her attention to detail. Knowing she’d helped so many boys—boys who fell over themselves with gratitude—had given her a sense of satisfaction she had yet to feel here.
She likely never would.
Before taking herself to bed earlier this evening, she stopped by the major’s room. He woke as soon as the door creaked open and sat up with a grimace. Mrs. Pollard scampered in behind her, announcing their presence and placing his meal tray by the bed before coaxing Jasper to join her for a quick trip outside. Obviously unhappy with the intrusion, the major climbed out of bed and plodded to the toilet, finding his way there and back quicker than Olivia expected.
Mrs. Pollard had prepared something he could consume independently, a broth-based soup easily sipped from the bowl and a hunk of crusty bread. But despite Olivia’s urging that he eat, the major only grumbled.
“You need to eat, sir,” she said. “You’ll not get better otherwise.”
“And why should I want to do that, Nurse Talbot?”
She wouldn’t be baited by his rancor. “How did you sleep this afternoon?”
Rather than answer, he reached for his meal. She handed him a piece of bread and he stuffed it into his mouth. He chewed slowly.
“I’ll ask again, sir: How did you sleep?”
He held his hand out for whatever else she had to offer and took a swallow of broth. “Fine.”
“Brilliant. I’d like you to drink more of the tea I gave you earlier. Mrs. Pollard will bring a pot up with Jasper. And I’ll not be giving you your prescription tonight.”
“You’re in charge.”
Yes, she was. Once they’d settled the major in for the night, Olivia strode alone to her new bedroom, flush with promise.
But her optimism was dwindling. The unhappy man across the corridor clearly resented her presence here. He had no wish of getting better, and it was impossible to change the mind of someone who had no desire to change. A lifetime of refusal from her mother to her most benign requests had taught her this much.
Olivia hugged her pillow and snuggled the blankets around her shoulders. A soft rhythmic sound from the open door across the hall broke the silence. She lifted her head. The major was in deep slumber. Reduced to skin and bones on the outside, he was filled with misery on the inside, where her greatest challenge would lie. She couldn’t fix his despair, but once he regained his health and she taught him to become self-reliant, perhaps that would wane.
She lay back down, somewhat encouraged. He was her patient, not her mother. Despite the major’s contempt, she had a job to do, and as she’d done in Sutton, she would succeed.
Chapter 2
The bedside clock read 7:02 a.m. Olivia stretched, ready to get a head start on the morning. Hopes that the major had managed the night soundly buoyed her through the open door across the hall.
Beside the bed of his sleeping master, the Labrador sat up at her approach. Olivia tapped her leg and the dog followed her out, tail wagging. She closed the door behind them and exhaled between her growing smile.
Mrs. Pollard was already busying herself in the kitchen. “Is the major still asleep?”
She nodded. “And when he wakes, I’d like to give him his bath. Then we’ll have breakfast. Where would you like us? In a room with many windows, perhaps?”
“You mean to get him out of his room?”
“Oh, yes. You said yourself he never leaves it, so why not? I know he can’t see the sun, but being someplace its presence can be felt will do him a world of good.”
Mrs. Pollard’s brows knit. “Whatever I told you about the major hasn’t touched who the man really is—or was. He’s never been like this. Backalong, the man I knew was full of life. He played at pranks, making us laugh, even if his antics were sometimes wicked. But to get him to leave his room? I can’t even get him to the cellar during an air raid. Don’t you think you’re being a bit ambitious, like? He’s some stubborn. Nothing’s changed there.”
She had to start somewhere. “I think it’s worth a try.”
“Well then, I wish you luck.”
Olivia reentered the major’s bedroom, her earnestness impossible to puncture. He lay on his back, blinking sleepily. She strode straight to the windows and stripped the blackout drapes. The view was spectacular. The green meadow below stretched until the land descended into woods and bramble. Beyond that, the flat top of the noiseless ocean ex
tended forever. Last night’s storm had left a handful of puffy clouds dotting the horizon.
On tiptoes, she removed the curtains from the en suite bathroom windows, which showed the same view. From the shelf next to the washbasin, she pulled a clean towel and placed it on the floor beside the porcelain tub. Steam and the sweet smell of lilac bath salts enveloped her face as warm water spewed from the spigot. The vessel would take time to fill, so she returned to the major’s bedroom.
Last night, the wainscoting had looked as dark as black coffee. This morning, ribbons of blond and amber meandered throughout the mahogany paneling like caramel at the center of a chocolate bar. Within the room’s patterned wallpaper, crimson flowers with black and gold stems twisted across the upper half of each wall, accentuating the blood-red bedspread.
Under that bedspread, the major struggled to sit up. His tired eyes squinted in the bright morning light.
Olivia glanced at the window and back at him. “Can you see that?”
“See what?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I can’t see anything.”
“The light. I’ve had blind patients in the past who could detect brightness and sometimes shapes.”
“Well, I cannot.”
“Yes, well, let’s get your day started. We’ll begin with your bath.”
His wasted body hunched forward. His beard, several shades lighter than the dark hair on his head, had grown in unevenly without proper upkeep, and whoever last cut his hair had butchered it. Although it was short at his neck and around his ears, long hunks fell over his forehead.
She took his hand. “Would you stand please, Major?”
He flinched. “I don’t need your help.”
“Of course.”
She let go, and he stood. “Are you really going to bathe me?”
His smirk, or maybe it was a smile, did not intimidate her. He wasn’t the first man she’d seen undressed.
“Not entirely. You’ve enough water for a sponge bath, and I’ll see that you don’t fall or bump yourself. You can manage most of your own washing, but I’ll check your bandages and change them if need be. Will that do?”
He mumbled consent and shuffled toward the bathroom.
“Ouch!”
“Forgive me, Major.” Olivia dabbed another rivulet of blood from his chin. “All faces are different. I’ve shaved many, and it takes two or three times before I’m used to the particular curves and contours.”
She sat back and admired her handiwork. Not as stick-straight as before, his newly trimmed hair swept across the top of his head in dapper waves. His eyes, though vacant, shone like the English Channel, slate-blue and cold. He might even be attractive if it weren’t for his permanent scowl.
“I thought we’d go downstairs for breakfast.” She’d learned early in her career that stating one’s intent (rather than asking) was the best way to make it happen—usually.
His eyes darted and settled on her face as though he could see her. “Nurse Talbot.”
She stalled with a fake cough, bracing for what was clearly coming next.
His eyelids fluttered with renewed impatience. “Nurse Talbot, if Mrs. Pollard hasn’t told you, I prefer to have meals in my room. Alone.”
“But Major—”
“No.”
“You must leave this room someday—”
“And it won’t be today.”
“All right, then. We’ll have breakfast up here. Together.” She rose briskly. “I’ll tell Annie.”
In less than an hour, Mrs. Pollard had transformed the stuffy bedroom into a clean and cozy haven. A floral cloth draped the round table by the bedroom hearth, where a hearty fire glowed. Comfortable in a sturdy chair that had no business accompanying such a small table, Olivia rubbed her ankles together, basking in glorious heat. Keldor, though majestic and grand, was also drafty and cold. Her eyes drifted to the window. France wasn’t far away, and the Channel Islands were even closer. War and occupation raged not much farther than the horizon, yet here on this estate, all seemed calm and peaceful.
“Is there tea?”
“What? Oh, yes.” She reprimanded herself for letting her mind stray. That was twice today. She handed him a cup from among the plates of eggs, toast, and jam made from Keldor’s own strawberries. “Tell me, Major, how have you been managing to eat?”
“Excuse me?” He lowered his teacup.
Her hand shot out, halting the cup’s unintended track to his plate and placing it on the table herself.
“How are you eating? Have you been finding food with utensils yourself, or has someone been feeding you?”
“Mrs. Pollard helps me eat sometimes. I find it extremely unpleasant.”
His honesty surprised her.
“I ask her to leave a plate in my room so I can fend for myself,” he finished. “I’ve managed.”
She smiled and hoped he heard it in her voice. “So that explains the bits of food and crumbs in your bed, then.”
He folded his arms.
“It’s humiliating to have someone feed you as though you were a child, which you are not,” she said, “and it’s rotten feeling helpless. Whilst I’m here, I’ll do my best to teach you how to care for yourself. I hope you’ll be cooperative in the process, sir.”
“I’ll try,” he said, as though it was the last thing he’d do.
“Excellent. Let’s begin with this morning’s breakfast.”
She stood and took his fork. With it, she scooped a pile of scrambled egg. As soon as she transferred the load to his hand, the food tumbled to his plate.
“Right, then,” she muttered. She traded the fork for a teaspoon, which proved a more reliable vessel. A bigger one would be even better. She made a mental note: next time.
Once the spoon was in his grasp, the major found his mouth easily, if without much enthusiasm. After several bites like this, he asked, “When will you eat, Nurse Talbot?”
On the other side of the table sat her steaming eggs and toast. The glistening dollop of jam made her mouth water.
“I’ll eat now,” she said brightly.
With little fanfare, she dragged her bulky chair beside his so they touched. The heat from the fire felt miles away, but far worse was the view. A closed door and a blank wall weren’t nearly as captivating as the swaying treetops and endless sea. In the future, she’d face them both toward the window. Heaven knew she’d take cheer anywhere she could find it.
Not surprisingly, Major Morgan found little interest in anything, not just his breakfast. Olivia’s attempts at conversation were met with monosyllabic grunts. When she asked about his childhood and the experience of growing up in such a fine home, he said he’d been away at school for much of his upbringing. Questions about his schooling went unanswered. He scorned the idea of being read to, and since he refused to leave his room, Olivia abandoned the idea of a walk.
The wireless might’ve been something they could both enjoy, until he dashed her desire to hear music by insisting upon listening to the news. Activity in North Africa topped the bulletin, whilst Hitler’s meeting with Spain’s leader, Franco, filled the rest. The raging Nazi, expertly translated by the British reporter, choked the room like a poisonous gas.
The major’s brows rose and fell as he slumped in his leather chair by the window. When the reports intensified, so too did his response. His arms and shoulders quivered. Olivia called his name softly, but he didn’t respond. His eyes squinted and his mouth twisted as though he were experiencing dreadful pain.
She moved to touch him and then stopped, unsure. As a girl, she’d befriended sparrows, squirrels, and bunnies, devising fantastic schemes for mending a broken wing or torn ear. She’d even considered becoming a veterinarian until the time a neighbor’s cantankerous cat got its claw stuck in her palm. The gash was deep and the pain severe. The incident had put her off animal care, especially after her father had informed her that humans were much more civil—a statement she’d begun to question over the last twenty-four hours.
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The news report ended. Olivia retracted her hand, thankful for the harmonious sounds of the Andrews Sisters that dispersed the room’s toxicity.
Next to her, the major straightened as his antipathy returned. As though nothing had been amiss, he coolly asked, “How old are you, Nurse Talbot?”
“Twenty-one, sir,” she said, perhaps too eagerly.
“Hmm, I’m curious. I assumed young people were keen on doing their bit for the war. Isn’t that why you became a nurse? If so, then why are you here in the country and not in the thick of the action in London? Or on the Continent, even?” He sat back, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair with his index fingers together, poking the flesh under his chin. “You find war a bit too frightening, do you?”
Perhaps she misheard him. Not likely.
She leant forward, her hands balling into fists. “Sorry?”
“I simply cannot find another explanation as to why a young woman like yourself would take a job like this, isolated in the far corner of southwest England to help an ungrateful, privileged chap like myself. Pray tell me, Nurse Talbot.” He too bent forward, his striking features sullied by his arrogance. “Why … are … you … here?”
This was the longest conversation they’d had yet. She drew a deep breath to keep her temper in check. “I’ve been a nurse for two years. I chose this career because it’s something I’ve always wanted to do. My father is a doctor and my mother a midwife. Healing and care run in our family.”
“Ah! So you are experienced. A relief, surely, but it doesn’t explain why you’re here. I assume my theory is correct: You’ve had your share of the action, then? Did the bombings come too close one day? You’ve relocated to the country looking for peace, have you? Safety? Migrating like the rest of England’s city children? Not that anywhere in England, Cornwall included, is safe from Jerry. Look at Falmouth, bloody hell. You hear the rumbles every night, same as I do, no doubt.”