Mrs. Carbuncle appeared befuddled as she alerted to her name but said nothing in response. From what little she had mentioned on the deck of the ship, she was from a proper British family and although she acted feisty she was in fact a malleable lady much given to obeying the men in her life.
In our brief chat Mrs. Carbuncle had mentioned that her father, though very elderly was still prominent in the Tory party and a man of great dignity. I assumed that was Lord Melbourne’s concern—for the father to learn that his daughter had been treated like a trained monkey in order to demonstrate her husband’s skills would have sent him into a tizzy of accusations against the Queen.
By the expression on Dr. Carbuncle’s face, he knew he had crossed a line in propriety. Like a petulant child he followed the Prime Minister out the balcony door, leaving Florence, Granny, and me to chat with our host under the watchful eye of Roger Broadribbs and the vacant stare of Mrs. Carbuncle.
Mr. Olsen, being the hound he was, surreptitiously followed the two men to within eavesdropping distance. I watched him; certain anything they said might be bent and shaped into news to be published in The Times. He stood in the shadows of the doorway, virtually invisible to Lord Melbourne and the doctor.
Unable to tolerate his spying, I excused myself and crept up behind the reporter, “Ah hem!” My throat clearing caused him to jump two feet off the ground. He came down hard, landing in an odd one-two step. It was then I remembered one of his legs was shorter than the other.
“Miss Throckmorten!” He gasped choking on his embarrassment. “I was—”
“You were prying, like a little mouse!” I had to look up at him as I spoke but that did not make him less of a rodent. “Did your editor not instruct you on proper behavior when in the company of the Prime Minister and Miss Nightingale? You should consider yourself very fortunate to be included and act accordingly!” I clenched my jaw. “If you do not remove yourself from this portal immediately, I shall inform Lord Melbourne of your presence!”
“I was merely practicing the techniques Miss Nightingale demonstrated when dissecting me in front of everyone. To be a good reporter, I must become a student of human behavior, not only listening to the spoken word, but more importantly observing even the slightest movements made by the person under scrutiny.”
He turned to me flashing a flirtatious grin. “You are fetching when you are angry. It is a shame you are promised to that dunderhead, Broadribbs.”
“I am not promised to Roger Broadribbs or anyone else for that matter!” I spoke in a loud whisper. Too late I realized I might have given the wrong impression—one that said I wished him to consider me available. Despite wanting to return to Florence’s side, I foolishly stood there, adding more fuel to his tabloid fire by sharing more of my personal passions. A temper can be a lady’s worst enemy; I should have bitten my tongue.
“I have no intention of allowing any man to bully his way into my life,” I said, and before I could stifle the words, I kept going like a bicycle with no brakes racing down a steep hill. “I will have a most singular career without being bothered with a husband or children!” Oh dear! I could hear my mother groaning as she read the bits and bobs about her darling daughter in The Times.
The bounder continued to taunt me. “So, you will follow in Miss Nightingale’s footsteps? May I quote you as saying that you eschew society in order to devote your life to nursing?”
I squinted my eyes and placed my fists on my hips. “You have a way about you which begs to be put down. Unlike you, chasing after gossip and twisting it to fit your readers’ tastes, I have positive intentions. I shall become a writer—an author of great works, historic biographies.” There I said it and I was instantly furious with myself, for he would have to be completely dense not to assume I planned to write a biography of Miss Florence Nightingale. Could he guess I might be keeping a journal? Would I ever learn to hold my thoughts close?
“That means you are chronicling Miss Nightingale’s exploits and intend to make your name recounting her adventures?” There was a hungry look about him, like a wolf that had cornered a rabbit.
It occurred to me that Lord Melbourne would be none too pleased to see me chatting with this slug and so without so much as a ta-ta, I spun on my heels and returned to the conversation that was underway with Mr. Averoff. Glancing back, I watched Olsen slither back into his eavesdropping position; his reporter’s ears were perked like a hunting dog on the trail of a juicy quail.
Mr. Averoff had not given up on his wish to see Dr. Carbuncle perform hypnosis and made a second request. Knowing it was important to please our host, Florence motioned him to follow her. “Please escort Mrs. Carbuncle to the balcony. Let us see if the doctor will give us a small example of how hypnosis is employed to alleviate a chronic illness.”
On cue, the doctor’s wife began to cough again. Mr. Averoff took the poor lady’s arm and guided her to her husband who remained locked in a heated discussion with Lord Melbourne. Granny, Roger, and I tagged along.
Florence inserted herself between the two men. “Mr. Averoff’s query falls within the bounds of sharing our medical knowledge. It would please our host and me to see just how the doctor is able to put his wife under a trance that will relieve her discomfort.”
Lord Melbourne bowed politely hiding a grimace in the half-light of the torches that lined the balcony. “Allow me to step aside as the doctor demonstrates his technique.”
It was thrilling in a spooky way. Mrs. Carbuncle gave herself over to her husband’s control. He stepped forward and placing one hand in what appeared to be a rather firm grip on her shoulder, he dangled his pocket watch before her. “Edith, you are under my control. You will do exactly as I tell you. Your coughing will cease immediately. It will not return until we have finished eating our meal.”
Mrs. Carbuncle’s torment ceased and the doctor released his grip on her. “You see it all has to do with the movement of a shiny object before the subject’s eyes; but it must always be the same item for my wife is conditioned to respond to it.”
“I do wish you would teach me how to do such a thing,” said Mr. Averoff. “Can this mesmerizing be used to relieve extreme pain? Perhaps battlefield injuries?”
Dr. Carbuncle nodded in such a pompous, know-it-all way that I wanted to poke him in his red nose. Florence seemed to have the same reaction, for she quickly changed the subject. “I find myself fascinated by the design of your home, Mr. Averoff. It is so open to the fresh air and there is such energy about it. It is a place that speaks to good health of body and mind.” She dangled her hand over my head. “Just feel that breeze!”
Mr. Averoff preened. “I am quite proud of my design. It is an architectural theme I first developed in Cairo. Nature should freely enter an abode, unless of course there are sullies in the environment. There are parts of Cairo that would rival London for the filth the poor must endure.” He flushed. “I did not mean to insult your wondrous city!”
“You have not said anything we are not aware of. London must look to the future if we are to turn back the vile diseases that have plagued our poor. I plan to discuss just that topic with the Queen,” Florence said. “It saddens me to know that Cairo suffers from the same pea soup air. We shall each work on behalf of our beloved cities to create a cleaner world.”
A sigh escaped my lips for Egypt was at the very top of my list of dreams. “I would love to spend time in the land of the pharaohs, helping to clean Cairo.” I did not realize I had spoken out loud and blushed to think I might have sounded forward.
“Someday, Miss Poppy,” Mr. Averoff said. “Perhaps sooner than you imagine.” His eye contact was brief before he turned to Florence. “I beg your forgiveness but I have need of your opinion. It will seem a strange question, but I have a personal need to know. It is a treatment I am, how you say, most uncomfortable with and yet it may be imminent for one of my household. If it is not too disturbing a subject right before our meal, I would like to know your thoughts on leeching.”
Roger groaned at the word, which brought Olsen scurrying from his tour of Mr. Averoff’s artifacts. He happily took out his notebook and scribbled away. I was certain he would need another graphite stick by the morrow.
Seeing Florence’s eyes light up, I knew exactly what she was thinking. She had a very hungry little bird in her pocket and Mr. Averoff had just offered her the perfect opportunity to trade information for owl food. “I shall be most happy to discuss my thoughts on leeching, but first I must request a favor.”
“You have only to ask. You are a guest in my house and so I can assure you that your slightest wish is my command.”
Without flinching, Florence responded. “I should like a small urn of earthworms placed in our bedchamber while we are at dinner.”
Mr. Averoff started, stepping back with a surprised look on his face. But then a smile took over. “You are experimenting with something for the health, no?”
Florence nodded, but said, “No.”
Chapter 22
With a promise of worms in an urn and a chastised Carbuncle, we went in to dinner. Our party entered a softly lit, entirely whitewashed room—floor to ceiling. It was furnished in light oak. The round table comfortably sat nine of us. “We do not sit at the table to eat, but we eat to spend time together,” said our host, he bowed, motioning our group to the chairs.
The aromas that greeted us from the foods that were set on the center of the table nearly knocked me over. I did not realize I was so hungry, and the aromas caused my mouth to water. Lord Melbourne adjusted a chair for Florence so that she sat at our host’s left side, while a manservant seated me to his right. By mutual agreement their discussion about leeching was put off until after dinner.
The servant circled the table in order to assist the Carbuncles. Roger and Olsen sat directly across from us. It was impossible not to be affected by the joviality of George Averoff and we soon fell into easy conversation.
Our host lifted his glass of wine and toasted the founding of the Florence Nightingale School for Nurses. “May it be the first of many such universities of education for women in medicine.”
Dr. Carbuncle turned an odd shade of purple, and then frowned taking on the appearance of an angry eggplant. I was certain he was not keeping an open mind. Since the doctor was completely against the founding of such a school he must have pretended his way onto this trip, but for what purpose?
Being seated next to me, I was unable to read the reaction on Lord Melbourne’s face, but wondered how he could accept such a mistake in judgment on the Queen’s part for Carbuncle did not seem wily enough to fool anyone.
Shrugging off my concerns for the moment, I turned to the food displayed on the center of the table. Many of the items were familiar and yet spiced and displayed differently from our English cuisine. Mr. Averoff reached for one of the serving platters and passed it to Florence who helped herself. Each dish was passed to the right around the table, with a running commentary by our host. “This is domates yemistes—stuffed tomatoes.”
I waited for the luscious looking platter to make its way to me, gulping back the water that filled my mouth.
“Do try that dish. It is lamb roasted with a mint sauce,” Averoff encouraged us to try the meat platter. “And the chicken is roasted in oregano and bay laurel leaves.” His continuing commentary made my head spin and my stomach call out.
Soon my dish was brimming with portions of food that I could never eat. There was stuffed zucchini, and something called dolmades that turned out to be delicious stuffed grape leaves in a lemon sauce. A bowl of yogurt with mint made its way around the table. Each time, I was the last to receive the fare and could only marvel at how very much there was to eat.
Just when I thought I could not possibly eat another morsel, it came time for a cheese tray. Discreetly I peeked at Roger knowing he adored cheese of all kinds. The poor dear was so pleased it looked as if a white light glowed around him as he dawdled over his choices, licking his lips, and behaving most indecisively.
I surveyed the faces gathered round the table as they sipped their tea. What a wonderful end to an arduous journey.
“Is it to your liking? Are you pleased?” Mr. Averoff’s gaze lingered on each member of our party.
“This has been a brilliant repast—a divine meal,” Florence said, and our host beamed. “You must allow us to return the kindness when you visit England.”
“I do not know when I have eaten such splendid food,” I said, addressing Mr. Averoff directly. It was then that I noticed the thin threads of cheese that hung from his mustache. I feared I would be unable to resist picking the food off his lip and I motioned as if rubbing my own lip. It seemed not to have any effect as he continued to speak through the cheese.
Thinking it prudent to turn away before I did something rash like picking his lip clean, I turned to face the rest of our party. Mr. Olsen seemed to be concentrating as if he were taking notes in his head, trying to remember all the details for the newspaper stories he would write. If he planned carefully he might be able to make a serial of this adventure. I suppose I could not blame him, for I imagined there is nothing like holding hundreds of readers enthralled barehanded with only your words to bind them.
Granny nodded in contentment. It was a motion I had observed all of my life. She was attempting to stay awake as a full belly always sent her to dreamland. She seemed to have grown cuter as she aged. A precious little lady who held many tantalizing secrets I hoped to learn.
Dr. Carbuncle reached for the plate of lamb but then withdrew his hand for it was clear the plate held only drippings. Mrs. Carbuncle had barely touched the food her husband had place on her plate. Now the brute reached over stabbing her food with his fork. “Since you have no appetite, dearest,” he muttered.
I was relieved when I turned back to see that Mr. Averoff had removed the cheese from his beard. I could now enjoy his conversation without the fear of a humiliating de-cheesing incident.
“First we shall enjoy some baklava with our coffee,” he said. “It is the favorite sweet of Greece. I can promise you will get your fingers sticky; I give you permission to lick the honey off.” I imagined that the baklava could not be any sweeter than his smile.
A servant circled the table while each of us took a pastry half the size of a playing card, placing it in on a small plate that had magically appeared before us. The pastry was layered with honey and walnuts. Someone moaned with pleasure; I was embarrassed to discover it was me.
“And now, Miss Nightingale, if you would be so kind as to lick the honey off your fingers, I would like to offer up the pièce de résistance.”
“I have taken the liberty of inviting the captain of your Dragoons and five of his men into our company for we will require their protection.” He first addressed his declaration to Lord Melbourne and then smiled at Florence. “I take great joy from surprising people; but I am unfamiliar with your protocol. If I have stepped on your rules by instructing your men to attend us, please forgive me.”
A dessert served with six armed guards? I would have laughed but no one else seemed to see the humor and so I bit the inside of my cheek, and forced myself to look serious. What was the little man up to?
Mr. Averoff clapped his hands once, loudly and a manservant led the captain of the Dragoons, followed by five of his men into the room.
It was then that Mr. George Averoff reached inside his shirt and brought out the dessert.
Chapter 23
“I have requested the presence of your soldiers, Lord Melbourne, to protect our—how you say—dessert—for I have decided to place the endowment into your hands this very evening. There is no need to wait to negotiate the fine points of the transfer; that can be left to discuss for the morrow. This makes a perfect ending to our first evening together!”
Mr. Averoff’s countenance was that of an excited child. Although we expected the funds to be presented to Florence during our visit, serving the endowment as our dessert was a great surp
rise. Where was all the pomp and circumstance that went with such a gift? What happened to the bands playing, the citizens marching, and the grandstand festooned with the flags of both our nations? The grand bequest had become the last course of our first meal in Athens. I must make notes in my journal since it is surprises like this that sweeten life. It was all just dandy!
If our host had grinned any wider, I feared his face would crack. “I could not wait to see the joy on Miss Nightingale’s face when she received my gift in its current form,” he said to Florence. “She shall have her school for lady nurses through the gift that I hold in this little bag!” A small velvet bag attached to a thin cloth cord hung from his neck.
“And to be honest, I have been very anxious about having this on my person,” he now spoke to Lord Melbourne. “I was most pleased to see that Queen Victoria complied with my request to send soldiers to protect my gift. Since I returned home from Egypt with the benefaction concealed on my body, I have been most fretful to see it safely on its way to England.”
He took spectacles that hung from a chain attached to his vest pocket and stretching the ends, he secured the eyeglasses on the bridge of his nose. He removed the cord that fastened the velvet bag and placed the sack on the table. Ever so carefully he eased it open. Then with a delicate movement, he pulled out what looked like a glittering piece of dark green glass. Florence gasped, I dropped back in my seat and Lord Melbourne leaned over me struggling to get a closer look.
What lay on the table was an emerald almost as large as one of the baklavas. Someone else gasped. I think it was Granny. Dr. Carbuncle adjusted his glasses and leaned over the table. Mr. Olsen leaped from his seat and ran to get a closer look, but two Dragoons stepped forward and blocked his approach. Roger’s mouth hung open, his eyes were as big as a hen’s eggs.
Florence Nightingale Comedy Mysteries Box Set Page 9