Florence Nightingale Comedy Mysteries Box Set

by Barbara Silkstone

  Florence Nightingale Comedy Mysteries

  Box Set Books 1 - 3

  Barbara Silkstone

  Edited by

  Deborah Fortin

  Re: Historical Note

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, or specifically mentioned in the Historical Note at the end of this publication, are fictitious and any resemblance to any real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Introduction

  Queen Victoria did in fact honor Florence Nightingale, recognizing her services during the Crimean War. In 1856, Queen Victoria awarded Florence Nightingale a brooch known as the Nightingale Jewel. At that time suitable awards for female civilians did not exist. Designed with the assistance of Prince Albert, the unique brooch was engraved with a dedication from the Queen that read, “To Miss Florence Nightingale, as a mark of esteem and gratitude for her devotion towards the Queen’s brave soldiers, from Victoria R. 1855.”

  It is with respect and reverence that I have taken liberties in creating a humorous sleuthing career for Miss Nightingale, which occurs before she became the legendary ‘Lady of the Lamp.’

  Journal of Miss Poppy Throckmorten

  Derbyshire and London England ~ June, 1839

  Queen Victoria (age 20) has been queen for two years.

  If someone had told me when I was a little girl, that one hot, sticky day in my sixteenth summer I would be riding in a carriage with Miss Florence Nightingale speeding toward Buckingham Palace in response to an urgent request from Queen Victoria, I would have thought her to be telling fairytales.

  Although I had always hoped for a future out of the ordinary, I certainly did not expect my life to be extraordinary. All the hours spent while a child sitting on the floor of my closet, eyes shut tight, wishing and wishing with all my might for an adventure now appeared to be coming true.

  I studied the stern expression on the face of my heroine. Her growing reputation in the healing arts had attracted the Queen’s attention. That and a bit of mischief I had perpetrated. My mind raced through the possibilities of what we might encounter, foremost among them was the concern that someone at the Palace might be seriously ill. It was a stretch to imagine that Florence’s fledgling skills were required to heal royalty. But then what was the reason for this cryptic call to arms?

  Settling back in my seat I contemplated the mysteries of life. Be careful what you wish for my grandmother had often cautioned. Was I about to be given more than I asked for? Granny Alice’s head bobbed as she snoozed beside me. My father’s mother had been designated to act as our chaperone, since Florence was insistent that neither her parents nor mine accompany us. One or the other of the four interferers would be certain to upset the Queen and attempt to circumvent Florence’s newly recognized authority. She might be only nineteen years old but she carried herself as an experienced lady of more than forty years.

  Derbyshire girls, like all proper young women throughout England, were expected to lead lives according to a precise calendar. At a certain age they would marry a man of similar if not better circumstances. From their wedding day forward, a woman would manage her husband’s household and endeavor to increase his social standing, but most important of all as a wife, her primary duty would be to supply him with an adequate number of male heirs for his estate, plus a few daughters to sweeten his life.

  The concept of being a broodmare did not appeal to Florence or me. I was not the sort of girl who played with dolls; all my mothering went to my moody cat Diana, who routinely rejected my ministrations. It was not that I did not like children; I enjoyed the company of little ones as long as they could be returned at the end of an afternoon.

  Spending my life devoted to a litter where each child became a rope anchoring my ship to the dock of life incited a trapped sensation within me. I would be unable to feel the wind in my sails if I remained moored at some manse in the country. By the time my brood set out on the course of their own lives, my clipper ship would be too worn to strike out in search of adventure, my topsail would be wilted, and my passion for adventure drained. No, I wanted more for Poppy Throckmorten—that’s me. I might be shorter than the average lady, but my ambitions were always very tall.

  Chapter 1

  Tucking a pale yellow curl under the lace edge of my bonnet, I attempted to remove my smug grin as our coach rolled south towards London. Queen Victoria’s request for Miss Nightingale’s presence at Buckingham Palace had caused all of Milton-on-the-Marsh to indulge in a mass case of the vapors, but when it became known that I was to accompany Miss Nightingale, my parents were more than a little upset. Their only daughter had called attention to herself in some inexplicable manner and they were uneasy; but since the invitation had come at the bidding of the Queen they could not withhold their permission.

  Over the years my parents had grown none too happy at my “nipping at Miss Nightingale’s heels” as Mama often sniped—most sarcastically, I might add. Florence Nightingale first became my idol on the day we met; she was everything I wished to be. Three years my senior when she entered my life, she showed up just after an accident occurred, acting the part of a rescuing angel, dressed in dark colors and bearing a no-nonsense attitude.

  The girl who would become a legend found me cradling my younger brother, Archie, who had fallen from the huge oak tree in the village square. The little chap whimpered as I sat on the ground holding him in my arms. In his almost eight years Archie had not met a tree he could not scale. Not until that day when he challenged the oak in the center of Milton-on-the-Marsh.

  Having, from a very young age, been intrigued with the workings of the human body, I was certain my brother had broken his arm. Truth to tell the way his arm was bent in an unusual direction, and the fact that it had begun turning a peculiar shade of eggplant would have led anyone to the same conclusion. Archie began to wail as I pressed him close to me, while glancing around in the hopes that someone would come to our aid.

  As I brushed tears from his eyes, I caught sight of the tips of two black boots standing within inches of us. At first, I could not see the owner of the boots as the sun was behind the figure. My eyes are light blue and intolerant to bright light; I could only discern the shadowed shape of a woman or perhaps a tall girl.

  “Careful! Don’t move him.” I jerked at the sound of her voice, despite the comforting tone —bossy, but comforting. The stranger knelt beside us. She murmured words of reassurance to my brother in a manner I would attempt to emulate for the rest of my life.

  As the stranger sat on the ground, the sunlight was no longer behind her and I was able to discern she was just a bit older than I. Her dark hair was parted down the center and tied back in a neat cluster of curls, the simple style calling attention to her lovely features. Her wide-set eyes held a tenderness that I have never been able to describe in words. She had a difficult beauty—Mona Lisa in a serious mood. Whoever she was, she would help me care for my little brother. What I could not possibly know at the time was that she would become the standard to which I would always strive.

  “My name is Miss Nightingale,” she addressed my brother in a voice barely above a whisper. “What is your name, young man?”

  “Arch-ouch-ibald Jo-siah Th-rockmorten,” Archie stammered through his pain.

  Miss Nightingale continued to speak to her patient, paying little attention to me. “Do not move for we must hold your arm steady while we carry you home. I am certain your parents will wish Mr. Parker to tend the bone for it seems you have a dandy little break there. Not to worry as it will heal stronger than before. Now wait here while I find a stra
ight stick to brace your arm.”

  A dandy little break, hmm. I gave her my very best smile of thanks, for without her kind assistance I did not know how I would get my brother home. “My name is Poppy Throckmorten, by the by. I am Archie’s sister!” I felt the odd sensation of being a little chick chirping at a large raven. “Our parents are not at home. They are visiting the Broadribbs’ estate, which is some distance from the center of town, but they could be anywhere at the moment for the Broadribbs and the Throckmortens intended to make social calls in the neighborhood.”

  “It is lovely to meet you, Miss Throckmorten. Remain with your brother while I secure a stick and a cart,” she spun on her black heels calling to mind a good witch in a Grimm Brothers’ fairy tale.

  A fine kettle of fish I was in. Wishing to avoid Mama’s endless, mindless chatter on the fantasy of my marriage to the Broadribbs heir, I had volunteered to mind my brother as he begged to explore the village. Young boys are like snoopy mice, only happy when they were venturing into new territories.

  Mama had singled out ginger-haired Roger Llewellyn Broadribbs as the nearest to best young man I might someday manage to drag to the altar; she had long given up hope on civilizing me and worried she might only prevail on family friends for a match. To that end she made certain the Throckmortens and the Broadribbs frequently spent time together, thus securing my future.

  Roger and I had been playmates since we were in nappies, and it was no secret we had been considered potential second choice mates—if we failed to marry up, we could always marry sideways. Throckmorten to Broadribbs. Bishop takes rook.

  Marriage to Roger held an appeal on the same level as eating worms, which was something he delighted in taunting me with. “When we are married, you shall have to obey me,” he would say, dangling a worm in front of my nose. “And as your husband, I shall command you to eat a worm every day.”

  He would fling the worm at me and I would shriek, batting the poor invertebrate in his face—Roger’s face, not the worm’s. I am given to understand that earthworms do not have faces. The worm game was one of our favorite taunts, by which you may discern the depth of our romantic feelings.

  With Archie’s broken arm wrapped in an improvised splint consisting of a short downed branch and strips of cloth from Florence’s petticoat, we carried him home to Evensong, our family estate. It was but a two-mile journey, which we made in a goat cart Florence commandeered from the cheese shop. Few could resist her requests, which was another reason I determined to make her my best friend. The alliance of a girl, who always got her way, was not to be valued lightly.

  Once at home, Florence ordered the footman to carry Archie into the parlor. I was agog at the way she issued instructions while seeming perfectly at home in our house. Notwithstanding she had never been in our house before, she possessed an uncanny sense of her surroundings.

  Florence eerily knew where we kept the parlor and which of the sofas would comfort a small wounded warrior. I can still recall the sound of her voice as she directed the footman. “Go quickly now and find your master and mistress. Tell them their son has fallen from a tree. It will be impossible not to alarm them, so tell them you understand he may have broken his arm but seems to have his wits about him.”

  The footman nodded as if being instructed by a grown person and not a young girl. “Advise them that Mr. Parker has not been summoned and then volunteer to bring the doctor here with great haste,” Florence directed.

  The footman all but saluted. I thought to call after him. “They were visiting the Broadribbs. You might inquire there as to where they might be!”

  “Yes ma ‘am!” the servant replied as he turned on his heels and left the parlor.

  It was the first time I had been called ma’am instead of miss and it felt just dandy. I noticed how tasty that word was and from that day forward I began to insert dandy in all my conversations.

  Chapter 2

  A tad bit over one hour later, Mr. and Mrs. Reginald Throckmorten, also known as my parents, burst through the front door. They rushed to the parlor, unnerved to learn of the injuries to my father’s only heir. Once they satisfied themselves that Archie’s arm was repairable and more importantly that his head was intact, they turned on me.

  “How could you let this happen to your brother?” Mama barked; this from a woman who had spent no time outdoors with her overactive son, therefor she had no concept as to how challenging it was to keep him from taking risks. She continued to berate me in front of Miss Nightingale and I felt my face redden in response. A subtle wink from Florence stopped the tears that had begun to pool in my eyes. It was due to that winking I reconfirmed I had to be her friend, no matter what.

  With a look that radiated superiority, Florence projected her voice, “Pardon, allow me to introduce myself.” I will forever remember how self-assured she appeared, jutting her chin and thrusting out her chest; she reminded my parents of their manners. They quickly turned cordial acknowledging her kindness, and exchanging glances, as it was clear this young girl had performed a task most surely meant for a man.

  Papa stepped away from the conversation, uncomfortable in the presence of injuries. I have since noticed that most men, aside from doctors, are that way—squeamish around sickness and hurt. He packed his pipe, lit it, and took long comforting puffs, satisfied that Archie seemed not to have suffered any permanent damage.

  Taking up his post near the fireplace, he gathered himself recovering from the initial shock. I could not imagine how my father would ever get on without the hearth, for it was his out-in-the-open hiding place. With his elbow mounted on the mantel, he could drift from feminine chatter, losing himself while sucking on the stem of his pipe.

  Never discreet when sizing up a new acquaintance, Mama brazenly studied Florence’s understated appearance, considered the high quality of the fabric, but disapproving of the bland design she wrinkled her nose. It was clear she was receiving mixed messages from the countenance of the self-possessed girl who stood before her.

  “You are a Nightingale?” Mama sniffed; the tone of her sniff indicating she was impressed. “Your father owns the Lea Hurst estate?” The entire village from the vicar to the dowager to the milkmaids was eager for gossip about the Nightingale family. Some years earlier the young master of Lea Hurst had wed, and when the final vows were spoken, he swept up his bride and left on an extended honeymoon—the ink on the wedding contract being barely dry. Four years later they returned to Derbyshire with two baby daughters.

  Despite the volley of invitations that were launched at the Nightingales, they did not respond and in fact left again within three days. To the best of my mother’s calculations they had been away from Lea Hurst for nearly a decade. This sort of unconventional behavior tantalized the gossips and the Nightingales were mentioned whenever there was a lull in conversation.

  The family became a legend in Milton-on-the-Marsh, the details of which I would overhear at regular intervals. Because Mr. William Edward Nightingale had substantial holdings in Derbyshire and Hampshire, the family’s odd behavior was excused. They were relegated to the respectable status of eccentrics; curiosities that begged to be solved by the one tool at hand in any small community—gossip.

  Needless to say, the Nightingale passion for travel greatly confused the locals who were inclined to stay in the village from the day they were born until the day they were interred in the churchyard. For what could there be outside of their hamlet that they didn’t have here?

  Though William Nightingale’s behavior came to be regarded by some as peculiar, and by others as exotic, Wanderlust was the general diagnosis. I watched my mother lick her lips like a fairytale wolf about to pounce, for Miss Nightingale was a delicious treat from whom she planned on prying the truth.

  “Yes ma’am. I am a Nightingale and Lea Hurst is but one of my homes,” my new friend responded with more dignity than a girl of twelve could be expected to manage. She had stood almost level with my mother for even then she was tal
l for her age, and her height along with her dignity further befuddled Mama.

  “It appears you have done well in seeing our son safely home. Like all young boys he does not know his limits. His sister should have taken better care of him.” Mama studied Florence, growing uneasy at the straightforward manner in which the girl met her gaze. “How did you come by the knowledge of wrapping a broken arm and why did you sacrifice your petticoat? Your mother will be quite upset when she learns of your recklessness.”

  Florence remained standing, despite Mama’s offer to be seated. A tweak of irritation played around the corners of her mouth but she held steady. Hands at her sides, she remained at ease with my mother’s inquisition, despite the frustrated tone in which the questions were delivered. “I have an interest in caring for those in need—those who have been injured.”

  “But surely, living in such a fine estate as Lea Hurst you have no reason to witness such things. I am certain your mother will be quite upset to see that you have ruined your petticoat. Perhaps a new ruffle can be added?”

  Standing even stiffer, Florence cut Mama an icy look, although she softened her face with a smile. “The welfare of your son is more important than the condition of my petticoat.” The remark was made with a slight laugh, as if in jest, but the point was taken and swords were crossed from that day forward.

  Mama smiled but a glint of anger lingered in her eyes. This tit for tat relationship, a game of one-upmanship became the manner by which these two women would continue to engage during the rest of my mother’s life. It was only the importance of and her fascination with Mr. Nightingale that kept my mother in check. There was a glamour about the man, that even ladies like my mother found alluring.