by Erica Nyden
“Mm. Yes, of course.” Peder’s footsteps moved toward the door. “Best of luck to you, mate.”
Chapter 5
November brought the changeable days of October to an end. The sky no longer toggled between gray and blue, for the rain had come to stay. With it, unvarying cloud coverage kept even midday dark. Olivia and her patient spent many of these dim days in her new favorite room, the library. As soon as Mrs. Pollard knew the major wished the room reopened, she whisked away tarps, dusted shelves, and unearthed precious family heirlooms. A tapestry hung beside the marble bust of some unrecognizable figure. Daguerreotypes in gilt frames joined tomes of Cornish history bound in leather on the surrounding shelves.
Beside a radiant fire, Olivia practiced patience whilst knitting socks for soldiers. Annie had been kind enough to teach her how and even loaned her a few supplies, although her first pair proved a huge disappointment and would go nowhere but her drawer.
Just as industriously and with somewhat more success, the major responded to letters from well-wishers with a contraption designed to aid the blind in writing. Thick paper lay under a series of horizontal cords that guided the writer's pen in a straight line.
His first letter was to Miss Werren. He had granted Olivia permission to read it; she insisted she need not but was glad when she did. The bit about wishing he hadn’t survived North Africa was positively alarming.
* * *
4 November, 1940
Miss Jenna Werren
Auxiliary Territorial Service
Bristol Branch
Dear Jenna,
I’m sorry for the distress you suffered during your recent visit to Keldor. I know you’re worried about me, but please, Jenna, don’t be. My physical strength is returning and my outward wounds are healing. However, I’m no longer the man you fell in love with. I’ve witnessed and lived through events I shouldn’t have. Oftentimes, I wish I hadn’t survived them at all. Despite our former relationship and care for one another, I don’t wish for you to spend the rest of your life managing my hardships. These experiences will haunt me the rest of my days and affect anyone who dares enter my life henceforth. I wish to suffer alone as only I can. You are free to pursue someone who completes your life and makes you truly happy.
I’m proud of you for joining the ATS. You’re doing the right thing for your country. Your family must be proud. My best wishes to you, Jenna.
Sincerely,
William
* * *
“Excuse me, Mr. William, Nurse Talbot,” Annie said at the library doors. “Dr. Butler has come for you both. Nurse Talbot, he’d like a word with you first.”
Olivia glanced at the major. He possessed his father’s desk as if it’d always been his. With clearly no need to address the visitor, he continued writing.
“Thank you, Annie,” she said. “Major, I’ll return shortly.”
She swept yarn remnants off her blue pinafore and gave a silent thanks to God for giving her the sense to wear her uniform today. Nothing surpassed the comfort of casual dresses and here at Keldor, wearing the scratchy get-up hardly seemed necessary. Her patient couldn’t tell if she wore her uniform or not, and Mrs. Pollard didn’t seem to have an opinion one way or another. But instead of doing away with the outfit altogether, she’d chosen to wear it intermittently. She left the library with a smile. So far, this meeting was off to a good start.
“Ah, Nurse Talbot, splendid nice to see you,” said the aged physician, drying his glasses with a handkerchief.
“Hello, Dr. Butler. We can sit in here.”
She led him to the empty receiving room, where a budding fire endeavored to vanquish the damp day. They took seats across from one another and huddled close to tiny blaze.
“Someone will bring tea shortly,” she said.
“No matter, my dear.” He paused to look around. “Are you finding yourself at home?”
“Mrs. Pollard has been so welcoming.”
“She’s quite a brick. Your parents send their best.” He reached into the breast pocket of his tweed jacket. “Here is a letter from your father. He’s eager for a full report on your well-being. You aren’t missing much, by the way. You may feel somewhat isolated here in the country after living in the city your entire life, but I tell you, London is no place to be. The situation is absolutely dreadful.” He separated each syllable the way Mrs. Pollard chopped carrots. “Air raids, sirens, warplanes, the stench of fear and uncertainty looming round every corner … I assume things are more peaceful here?”
It depended on how one defined the word peaceful. Yes, there were far fewer air raids here than in London, but they still happened, as did the major’s maddening response to them. Arms crossed, he claimed the Nazis were seeking airfields and docks, and since Keldor was located far from both, they should all carry on without worry. It took Mrs. Pollard’s commanding tone to force him down the narrow stairs to the wine cellar, a process as peaceful as immersing a cat in water. The steep steps confounded him. The ceiling was quite low as well, and every time he grazed his head, he spewed obscenities she’d never heard before, not even out of her older brother and his friends.
She smiled at the doctor.
“Well then,” he continued, “tell me about our patient. How is the major doing?”
“He’s shown some improvement since my arrival. The minor wounds on his back have healed. I’ve removed those sutures, but the deeper gashes are taking more time. The few marks on his legs have healed completely. He’s gaining weight, and he’s learning, ever so slowly, how to use his white cane.”
“And what about nightmares? How’s he sleeping? The pills I left, do you find they’re effective?”
Her gut dropped. The major hadn’t taken a single pill since she arrived; he’d had only her grandmother’s tea. “He’s been sleeping well, Doctor, though not perfectly. But he’s no longer taking the medication you left him.”
“And why is that, Nurse Talbot?” His frown reminded her of her father’s the first (and last) time she’d bunked off school.
Still firm in her resolve to give the major a better remedy than the conventional prescription, she sat straighter and recounted her first hour at Keldor and the nightly administration of her grandmother’s tea.
Dr. Butler chuckled at her confession, pulled a black notebook and pen from his leather medical bag, and began to jot some notes. “Oh, and how you remind me of your grandmother. He’d only been taking the medication two, maybe three days. Results may not appear for an entire week. You hardly gave it a chance.”
Heat crept up her neck to the tops of her ears. The flame burning her cheeks infuriated her. “I suppose you’re right.”
“I suppose I am.”
“But the tea is working. I’ve been documenting every time he wakes with night terrors. Since that first day, there have only been a handful. He often moans in his sleep and sometimes he shouts or cries, but nothing like the day I arrived.”
“No matter. I have something new for the major to try.” He pulled a brown bottle from his bag. “Still in the experimental stage, but just in time to help these mutilated souls coming home from the war. The good news is that the major’s system needed be clear of the other medication well before taking these. You say he’s been off them for a month; therefore, he can begin the new medicine straightaway.”
She took the bottle. The white pills shifted as she turned it over in her hand. Silently, she read the label, hoping her scrutiny hid her skepticism. “What are these for, Doctor? I don’t mean to overstep my bounds, but I’m not sure the major needs a new sleep aid.”
“These aren’t only for sleep. They’re for depression, anxiety, stress, even”—he paused, cocking an eyebrow—“suicidal inclinations. You haven’t noticed these signs in the major, have you? Last I examined him I thought it likely, especially after he learned about his father.”
The major’s letter to Miss Werren had exposed this disturbing truth. “He broke off his engagement to his fiancée, c
laiming she shouldn’t be exposed to his troubles—troubles he wished he hadn’t lived through.”
“That settles it, then. Before I leave today, I’ll fix you with dosage information. I’m telling you, Nurse Talbot, physicians in London are witnessing remarkable results with soldiers who’ve come home with appendages intact but minds broken. These men have hope again. In a matter of days, you’ll be amazed at what these pills will do for your patient.”
“William! How are you getting on, my boy?”
William stood at the doctor’s entrance into the library, aware of his contrary demeanor. “I’m well, Dr. Butler.” He shuffled around the massive desk and put forward his right hand.
“Very good.”
The doctor’s hand was familiar, like Mrs. Pollard’s. Having known the man his entire life, William took comfort from it.
“I see you’ve put on weight—Mrs. Pollard’s marvelous cooking, no doubt. Even with the latest round of rations, I’d wager she’s a genius in the kitchen. And how is our Nurse Talbot treating you? I hope you’re finding her services satisfactory?”
“She’s been helpful, albeit dictatorial at times.” The bite in his voice couldn’t be helped. He wasn’t brave enough to tell the doctor his true feelings about having a nurse, so perhaps the intimation would be enough.
“Precisely what I would expect from a proficient caregiver. I hope you haven’t been too beastly.”
“Nothing she can’t handle, I’m sure.”
Dr. Butler checked his vital signs. “I’ve known Nurse Talbot’s family for many decades, almost as long as I’ve known yours. She’s a lovely girl, very sweet and more than competent. You’ll not have her forever, though; her time here is up come March. However, if you choose to dismiss her before then, do contact me well in advance of letting her go. I promised her father I’d keep her out of harm’s way as long as I could.”
So she’d come here for safety, and it was William’s responsibility to see she remained. How brilliant that his dire situation had created a haven for this coddled city girl. Unwilling to discuss the matter further, William remained silent as the doctor took his time checking his eyes, turning his head this way and that.
“William, I still see nothing physically wrong with your eyes. These rudimentary instruments should detect something that shows your eyes aren’t in proper working order. Can you tell me, now that some time has passed, were you exposed to anything that could’ve rendered you blind? Too close to an explosion, maybe?”
“No.”
“That’s good—and it would make sense, as I see no damage of that sort.” The rustle of instruments ceased, and the doctor’s bag clicked. “I believe you suffer from a condition called conversion disorder, once called hysterical blindness. Similar cases arose during the Great War, but rarely. The disorder is a psychological one, caused by a traumatic experience. I suspected as much during my last visit, but since you were unwilling to discuss North Africa, I couldn’t be sure. Based on what you’re saying today, I’m certain this is what you’re dealing with.”
A traumatic experience. The words knocked around the inside of William’s head until memories of the villain’s face dampened the back of his neck. The insults would come next, disguised as compliments, each word meant to wound, break, and eventually destroy.
A door slammed shut in his mind. Help me, please. Is there anyone who can help me?
“William? Are you all right, my boy? Why, you’re shaking like the dickens.” Dr. Butler placed a hand on his shoulder.
William recoiled. “I …” He had nothing to say: no explanation, no apology.
“Here, take this.” The doctor pried William’s hand from its tight grasp on his elbow and dropped a tablet into it. “I’ve given Nurse Talbot a new medication for you to try. It’s working wonders for our wounded boys returned from battle, boys with a touch of shell shock. In a matter of days, you’ll sleep better and your mood will improve, to boot.”
The small pill scraped the back of William’s dry throat.
“Some in the field of psychoneuroses believe that the more a patient reveals about their trauma, the quicker the disorder will disappear—but not forever, necessarily. We aren’t completely certain how the brain works in such matters, you see.” A friendly pat landed on his back. “If you’re ready, let’s get that shirt off. I’d like to check your back.”
William fumbled over his buttons until the doctor swooped in to assist. Stripped bare to the waist, he allowed the doctor’s silent scrutiny to torment him: the questions, the judgments, the bafflement. It was the same whenever Nurse Talbot examined him.
“I know that whatever you’ve gone through came close to killing you, and you’re not willing to talk about these raw memories,” Dr. Butler said. “A wise decision. I want you to put all that bad business out of your mind and enjoy the peaceful landscape here at Keldor. Understand?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
Dr. Butler guided his arms through the sleeves of his shirt. The calm was immediate.
“Your back looks shipshape, William. Nurse Talbot is doing a fine job indeed.”
“If you don’t need me for anything else, Doctor, I’d like to lie down.”
“Of course. I’ll have Nurse Talbot take you to your room. I’m off to London tomorrow and not sure when I’ll be back to Cornwall. I’m committed there until Hitler eases up on our cities, and I’m afraid that won’t happen any time soon.” He took William’s hand and shook it. “Look after yourself, young man, and try thinking of happier times. It’s what your father would’ve wanted.”
The first changes in the major’s behavior happened two days later, during his morning shave. Olivia had become an expert on his facial reliefs: his wide jawbone, chiseled chin, and narrow upper lip. His shave was usually a quiet time, save for the gentle scraping that echoed through the tiled room.
But not today.
“Nurse Talbot,” he said as she rinsed his razor, “you’ve barely told me about yourself since you’ve been here, and I must know. Why aren’t you married?”
Her wet hand paused, dripping, over the basin. “Well, I—I haven’t met the right person, I suppose.” She plunged the razor back into the water and splashed it around needlessly. “Nor have I had time to do so.”
God help her to not sound so defensive.
“I see. You’ve been too busy. Nursing school, then the war. Does that sum up your last few years?” The more he prodded, the more playful his voice became.
She relaxed a little. “Yes, that’s it exactly.”
“But what about your soldiers in London? Your patients? You must’ve fancied a few of them. I’m sure they fancied you. Or”—he paused before erupting like a detective close to cracking a case—“perhaps there’s a special sweetheart off fighting somewhere, and as soon as he returns, you’re to be married and have loads of his children. Am I right?”
She laughed. “What does it matter to you?”
He shrugged. “Can’t a man be curious about the woman charged with his care?”
She was patting his smooth face with a dry flannel when his hand found her wrist. He brought her forearm to his nose and sniffed. “Do you wear perfume here?”
“It’s not perfume, it’s oil,” she said quietly, pulling from his grasp. A ring of warmth encircled her forearm for moments afterward.
“It reminds me of lavender, but not sweet like a perfume,” he said. “It’s fresh, like the plant that blooms in my mother’s garden every June.”
“It’s also what I use on your back from time to time—that and jasmine oil. Both are good for anxiety. Lavender is especially good for burns.”
“But why do you wear it? I’m not that much of a brute, am I?”
She wasn’t about to answer the latter. “My grandmother, the one who makes your tea, created a mixture of geranium and lavender oil for me to wear a few years ago when I’d been quarreling with my mother an awful lot and struggling in school. It helped at the time. I’ve never stopped.”
“Hmm, a lovely fragrance for a lovely woman. Dr. Butler was right, I’m sure.” He turned on his broad smile and aimed his eyes toward her voice.
“Dr. Butler?”
“Dr. Butler told me you were a lovely young woman, and I daresay I believe him. Do you think you’re pretty?”
What a morning this was turning out to be. “I’m sure the doctor was being kind. He’s a friend of my father’s.”
“You haven’t answered the question.”
“Because it’s not a fair one. If I think I’m pretty, then I’m conceited. If I state the opposite, I haven’t an ounce of self-worth.” She scraped her chair back across the floor tiles and rose. “I will not answer it.”
He reclaimed her arm. “Please. Sit. I’d like to finish our conversation. You’re right, the question isn’t fair. But tell me, what do you look like? What color are your eyes?”
“Brown.”
“And your hair? Is it wavy? Stick-straight? Dark as a raven?”
Miss Werren’s sable tresses came to mind. “My hair is brown as well, and rather straight.”
The major sighed. “I may be blind, but I’m not ignorant of the fact that there are many shades of brown, especially in the areas of eye and hair color. That being said, please take pity on a blind man and give me examples of your brown. What would you compare your shade to?”
She leaned forward, entranced by his captivating banter. “All right, then. My eyes are rather dark, like the brown of your father’s desk in the library.”
The major nodded as though he’d guessed the same.
“And have you ever seen a meadow after an unusually dry summer? My hair is the same shade as that lifeless brown straw, I’m afraid.”
The major chuckled. “Dead grass? You do lack self-esteem. And I’m afraid the color you’re describing is more golden than brown.”
“I’ve plenty of self-esteem, and my hair is far from golden. My older brother called attention to this fact one year on a family trip to Scotland. He claimed the parched moors resembled my hair exactly. The comment upset me at the time, and of course my parents said nothing to counter his remark. Because really, he was right.”