She held up her index finger to indicate the next question.
A bead of sweat rolled down Olsen’s forehead, as he had four queries left. “Will your school be open to women, only women?”
A smirk played across Florence’s face. “Are you considering applying to be a student?”
He took up the playfulness in her response. “If you will be personally investigating each applicant, Miss Nightingale. Will your students be of the strictest moral character for I am told that many women who take to nursing have led less than upright lives before turning to your profession.”
“Was that an insult, Mr. Olsen?” Florence responded in such a way that the reporter seemed to shrink before my eyes. “So, you believe the nasty rumor that only fallen women choose to care for the sick and injured? By the way, that was your third question.”
“You play a hard game, Miss Nightingale,” he said, smiling a roguish smile. “The following is not a question but rather an elaboration on my third question—so do not count it. Do you lay claim to the ability to discern character by merely looking at someone?”
“I am well versed in the human spirit simply by reading a person’s demeanor. For example, I knew much of what there was to know of you when you entered this car.”
Olsen’s mouth fell open. “Do tell me.”
Florence held up the fourth finger of her right hand. She cleverly switched the conversation and cost him another question.
“Your right leg is shorter than your left by one inch. To compensate you alter your gait to favor your right side.”
The flickering sunlight crossed Olsen’s face, his expression clearly exposing the fact that Florence was correct. The fellow looked so flustered, I thought he might just give up on his interview, then and there.
We all held our breath waiting for her to continue; even the Carbuncles were frozen in place waiting to hear more.
“You are an American by birth but now prefer to live in England. This choice may have been the result of a love affair with a British lady but the relationship is no longer.”
Olsen turned an interesting shade of crimson over tan that went well with his blond hair.
“You have been traveling in the desert for your skin has been severely burned over a period of time. However you currently spend a good deal of time rowing on the Thames. Your face is bronzed, but lighter around your eyes, which tells me you wear protective eyewear while boating.”
He touched his right eye with his right hand, while looking agog at the lady he had thought to dissect for his readers. “Please tell me how you know about her, for I have told no one of my affair.”
“It is clear you came from America and by your evident lack of experience in your profession, you did not relocate because The Times sought you out. You secured the position after you moved to London.”
“Since it was not The Times that brought you to our shores, that would leave romance to have drawn you across the Atlantic for a long term stay. Your complexion gives you away because a man in the throes of romance would stay by his lady’s side; but instead you have been roaming the Sahara, perhaps, trying to lose yourself in adventure. As to the rowing on the Thames, most of the upwardly mobile young men now scull with goggles to protect their eyes.”
Poor Mr. Olsen wrung his hands over his face as if to gather the pieces of his wits that he had lost.
“Coupled with an occasional shiver, your slightly jaundiced eyes would indicate you have recurring bouts of malaria probably the result of your desert travels.”
There was silence in the car as Florence was at her best. I longed to stand and applaud but thought it best to be nonchalant.
Unable to resist striking one more time, Florence said, “And I would add that you are currently staying in a bedsit in Putney.”
Olsen’s eyes grew so large they almost fell into his open mouth. “How…?”
“Everyone sheds simple clues which not only diagnose illnesses but also reveal much about the life and character of a person.”
“How did you know about the bedsit in Putney?”
“Your job requires you to be within a close commute to the City of London—the location of The Times office. Putney is affordable on a reporter’s salary, whereas Fulham and Wandsworth, which are of the same distance from your work would be too costly. Also you seem to be more the pub than club type, and Putney is known for its friendly pubs. That would be your fifth question.” Florence held up her pinkie finger.
Florence Nightingale had given the reporter no information he might twist into a headline. I was delighted. Looking up I noticed Lord Melbourne was beaming.
James Olsen, roving reporter, grimaced as he punched the air with one fist. He shook his head in amazement while he scrambled from the floor.
Chapter 17
Our group continued on to Athens. It had become routine to exchange clandestine glances with Moon whenever we changed our mode of travel. Each stop found me imagining more about this friendly footman; was he well read and did he play chess? He was clearly strong and mannerly. When I would sense Roger studying me I would pretend to be watching the Dragoons wrestle with their horses while our trunks were tossed from carriage to train and back.
As we journeyed on I had become adept at negotiating between the cars in order to spend my nights in the ladies’ sleeping car—the only place I could avoid Roger, except for the short jaunts in carriages when he was forced to ride with Mr. Olsen.
Strangely the light daily banter between Florence and Mr. Olsen became something I looked forward to as any distraction caused time to go faster.
For an experienced reporter, James Olsen was a disappointment. He made repeated stabs at engaging Florence in conversation, desperately attempting to pry quotable lines from her. I would have dared him to get one damaging quote, as I was certain he would not crack Miss Nightingale’s shell; she was protective of her goal and would not have her school sullied now or in the future.
As our maids assisted the conductor in serving tea and sandwiches, I continued to be amused by Olsen’s antics. I perched just so, fearful of a bump or a lurch, as there are few things more painful than hot tea in one’s lap.
Olsen made another attempt to breech Florence’s private thoughts. “Have you nursed many people on their deathbeds?” he asked, managing to casually slip in his query between bites of a cucumber sandwich.
Florence settled her cup in its saucer and gave him one of her piercing looks to which he must have by then become numb. “Now that is truly a rude question,” she said. “The families of those who have passed would not be pleased to read of their loved ones being counted as statistics.”
“I understand. That was inconsiderate of me,” he said. His remark was obviously an attempt to placate.
Silence gripped the car, as we were worn from idle banter. Each of us appeared lost in our own thoughts so I found myself imagining the demeanor of Mr. Averoff. He would, no doubt, be exotic with dark hair and a serious bearing. Because he was funding a school to educate female nurses, he must be a man who held women in high regard—consequently I already liked him.
Mr. Olsen interrupted my imaginings. “Tell me about your father,” he addressed Florence. I had to admire his tenacity even if my friend did not. The last thing she wished to do was draw attention to her family.
Avoiding her glare, he continued, “I have learned that your father changed the family name from Shore to Nightingale, why was that?”
Florence turned to stare at the passing scenery as if Mr. Olsen had not spoken. Mrs. Carbuncle ceased her coughing, while Dr. Carbuncle leaned forward, perhaps hoping to discover some little tidbit that might undermine the lady whom he was supposed to be supporting.
The nosey reporter spoke to the back of Florence’s head. “Your mother is the daughter of William Smith, an abolitionist Whig member of Parliament? Did that connection have anything to do with the Queen’s assistance in funding your school? I am given to understand that Her Royal Highness favors
the Whigs.”
I held my breath, for had it been me, I would have spilled my tea over Olsen’s head. I could almost see Florence considering it, but the headlines must have registered in her mind just as they did in mine. FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE THROWS TEA ON TIMES REPORTER.
She rose and stepped past the fool, walking steadily to the seat next to Lord Melbourne who had taken some private time to retire to the front of the car. To see them sharing a window view warmed my heart. I wished for Florence to treat him as a friend; I now judged him to be a good man in possession of a clear mind.
The last legs of our trip would be completed by steamship traversing the Ionian Sea and culminating by carriage into the city of Athens. I could hope that my mother was reading about our journey in The Times and turning pea-green with envy.
Now accustomed to the motion of travel, I found myself walking about the final ship unable to sit still. It was not the endowment that sent me into fidgets of agitation but the idea that I would actually be seeing Athens! It was the source of every lovely mythological book I had ever read—Helen of Troy, Hercules, and Zeus all dwelled in Greece. If only I could lose my self-appointed bodyguard, Roger Broadribbs, I might wander the city on my own, pretending to be a resident. I would explore and take notes, for someday I might write a novel about an English lady who travels to Greece. Perhaps I could evade the lad?
Chapter 18
We left the ship and boarded a cavalcade of elegant coaches sent by Mr. Averoff. Each carriage was made of dark wood polished so that the reflected sunlight burned my eyes. Perfectly matched spirited chestnut horses stomped and snorted eager to be off with their passengers.
Moon and his fellow footman worked side by side with the Greek servants to transfer our luggage. I lingered for as long as possible before entering the carriage as I was becoming rather adept at classless flirting. What if Moon were really a prince who had traded positions with a footman, merely for an adventure? My novel-reading brain was misbehaving again.
I had enough of travel and would surely end in a pickle if we did not arrive at our destination soon. One of the Greek footmen handed me into the first coach—why couldn’t it be Moon who took my gloved hand? Each of my fellow travelers returned to the positions we had assumed throughout the journey.
Leaning out the window I studied the picturesque scenery falling into a feeling of having arrived, almost. White buildings stacked like toy houses covered the steep hillsides, leaving only small areas of bare rocks exposed which were sprinkled with dark green trees that I guessed to be olive bearing.
“Wouldn’t it be lovely to live here?” I spoke over my shoulder to Florence. “I wonder if the people are happy. It seems like it would be a joyous place to reside.”
Ever the person who carried a fact to deflate a dream, Florence responded, “The life expectancy in Greece is less than fifteen years at birth. That is one of the reasons Mr. Averoff wishes to build his medical school here.”
“Oh!” It was all I could say. Such a lovely country, with all the sun they could possibly enjoy and yet they struggled. A warm feeling flooded my heart, for not only would we take but we would be giving as well.
The caravan made a spectacular entrance into Athens with the three-carriage parade and the Dragoons mounted on their prancing horses. I had a small sense of how our queen must feel—the heroine in a fairytale, but awfully thirsty.
My love for Greek mythology made it all so much more quixotic than I could have imagined. I was like a pot bubbling over and my elation amused Florence. Looking up at the bright blue sky, I thanked the angels that I had met my dear friend. If my brother had not fallen from that tree I would not be hanging out of a fancy coach, smelling the sweet air of ancient Greece.
A sharp command cut through my reverie. “Please Miss Throckmorten,” Lord Melbourne cautioned. “Keep your head in the carriage! How would I explain the loss of your noggin to the Queen? See how closely the horses pass us by?”
“Forgive me!” I sat back in my seat. Happy to be temporarily free of Roger’s nagging, I forgot I still had another guardian watching out for me. A tinge of guilt tweaked my conscience for I had sent poor Roger on a bit of a goose chase by asking him to befriend Mr. Olsen and learn what he could about reporting for a newspaper compelling Roger to join Olsen in the last carriage.
Wisely Lord Melbourne had insisted the reporter not travel with the maids, for it would have been too easy for him to learn about court gossip from an unwary maid. The Queen did not need her laundry aired for all of England to see. The three maids traveled in the second coach with our trunks.
Florence and Granny both smiled at me. “Your face is quite flushed, my dear,” my grandmother said. “You should keep your head inside as Lord Melbourne advises for baring your lovely cheeks to this scorching sun will burn them.
“The ruins are lovely, aren’t they?” Florence said, turning to address her question to Mrs. Carbuncle who did not look well. Her cough had worsened, and her complexion had turned an odd shade of green.
Altering the concerned expression to one of a tourist, Florence pointed out the window. “Look now! We are coming to the Parthenon. Mrs. Carbuncle, you may not know this but my sister is named after this wonder.” It wasn’t quite the truth as Parthenope was named after the Greek name for Naples, where she was born. Florence had explained her sister’s unusual name to me when we were first introduced, but her anecdote was intended to distract the poor lady from her cough.
Dr. Carbuncle growled. “Naming a girl after a Greek ruin—your parents have an odd sense of humor.”
I bit my tongue but could not hold it in check. “I think it’s a lovely name for a girl and a breathtaking place. Dr. Carbuncle, perhaps you don’t realize what you are looking at!”
He gave me a jowly smirk.
“Florence, tell him! This is one of the wonders of the world!” I wasn’t sure, but it sounded good.
“The magnificent structure you see before you was once a temple dedicated to the goddess Athena.” Florence announced seeking to interest the doctor in the awesome sight, but he made a show of holding back a yawn. She persisted. “This astonishing edifice was built four-hundred years before the birth of our Lord.”
Dr. Carbuncle still showed no interest. It was as if he was being deliberately obtuse. His dislike for Florence was palpable. Sneaking a peek at Lord Melbourne I could see his patience was being tried.
“Those huge columns are made of marble,” Florence continued, not willing to give ground until she got a response from the doctor. “How do you think they were able to raise those stones to such heights?”
Not a word, not a grunt, not a groan escaped the worm-like lips of the doctor. I vowed not to put myself in his care, no matter what disease I might contract or what body part I might break. This man exhibited something I have encountered often as I accompanied Florence about her healing. Dr. Carbuncle resented women, particularly those more knowledgeable than himself.
The carriage hit a rocky patch of road, two huge bumps and Florence screamed out, “Stop the carriage!” She leaned out the door and banged on the side of the coach until the driver heard her and reined in the horses.
She kicked open the door and jumped down not waiting for the footman to unfold the stairs. Clutching her skirts around her, she ran back in the direction we had just come from. I leapt from the carriage, tumbling and scraping my arms, I dashed after her using every bit of pent up energy to catch up with my friend.
I could hear Lord Melbourne calling after us, but not wishing to risk a fall, I did not look back.
A gang of boys stood arguing under a large olive tree. The tallest boy was taunting the others, holding what looked to be a small ball over their heads just out of reach. As we drew closer I realized it was a bird. The hoodlum had crushed the bird in his hands and was about to toss it into the air. It would surely fall and be trampled by the rowdies.
Florence yelled out something in Greek. Whatever it was, it was potent, for the tall la
d brought the bird down to chest level just as Florence broke through the mob. Again, she spoke in Greek and the now terrified looking boy handed the bird to Florence. It was a baby owl.
Holding the little bird in her large hands she pressed it against her chest. I was able to see two large terrified eyes, and battered feathers. It looked as if it was about to die from fright.
Florence turned away from the gang just as Lord Melbourne joined us. The poor little owl was terrified. She tucked it in the pocket of her cloak holding her hand over the top. “It must have fallen from a nest in that tree.”
“Is it a baby owl?” I asked.
“I believe so. It seems too injured to fly.”
Lord Melbourne could not contain his frustration, as he stood at our side, with his valet and two Dragoons, all prepared to do battle with some unseen foe. “Miss Nightingale, please do not repeat this action. I am responsible for your safety!”
“I will do whatever I deem necessary, Lord Melbourne. Thank you for your concern.”
Holding her hand on her pocket she strode back to our carriage. I followed after her looking like—you guessed it—a Pekingese in a bonnet. Unfortunately, the hubbub had roused Roger and he stood at my side prepared to protect me from a gang of twelve-year-old lads. Mr. Olsen stood some distance off, looking amused as he scribbled notes. All the bird lovers in London would adore Florence when headlines proclaimed her the savior of a baby owl.
Placing her hands protectively over her pocket, Florence permitted Lord Melbourne to help her climb into the carriage. I sat at her side, as she kept her hand over the trembling bump in her pocket.
“May I see the little fellow?” I asked.
“Not here. Not now. Wait until we have settled for he has been through a very frightening ordeal.”
I was concerned since the owl remained perfectly still and did not struggle to get out of her pocket. “Is it still alive?”
Florence Nightingale Comedy Mysteries Box Set Page 7