Cherishing the Captain (Men at Arms Book 2)

by Elise Marion

  No, not her brother. Her patient.

  Before her death, Sylvia’s mother had passed on her knowledge of healing and herbs, limited though it was. There was not much she could do for Fergus or Gideon, or for the other young men across the sea fighting in what felt like a pointless war. She could not bring them home or make the combatants of this strife lay down their arms. She could not eradicate the very idea of war from the world, or remove it from the deep-seated nature of man. But, fighting to save Conall was something she could do.

  Weeks had gone by during which the entire household revolved around her brother’s needs. Spirits were heated over the fire for pouring into his festering wounds. Poultices were applied to his ribs to draw the poison out. Lancing of the abscesses on his hand had relieved it of the swelling and pus caused by infection, and a makeshift splint with clean bandaging helped immobilize the crooked fingers.

  She sat up through the night bathing Conall with cool cloths and pouring willow bark tea down his throat to fight off his fever, then spooning up broth for him when he could take it without vomiting. Fatigue had plagued her limbs, and hunger twisted her belly, but Sylvia had pushed her own needs aside for Conall, somehow feeling that if she could save him, everything would be all right. She’d clung to that belief until Conall’s fever broke and he slept peacefully; until he could eat meat and bread instead of only broth, and the wound in his side began to turn a healthy pink around the stitches.

  In the days after Conall had left his bed, Sylvia allowed herself to revel in the joy and triumph of it all. Her brother had nearly died, but she had done something the overworked doctors of the London hospital were unable to achieve. She had saved Conall’s life.

  Her relief at that realization hadn’t been enough, for news reached Duddingston every week of the death and destruction happening in the Crimea. Britain’s men were coming home ravaged and dying from all manner of illnesses. Hospitals were so crowded that those who could offered their homes as a place for soldiers to heal. Doctors were scarce and dear for those who could not afford them.

  However, during her weekly trip into town for supplies and the latest news, she’d overheard the news that would change her life. The sisters of a convent near Glasgow were offering to instruct anyone woman who wished to learn the rudiments of caring for the sick. With so many wounded and ill returning from the Crimea, the service of nurses who could do more than spoon broth and change bedding was direly needed.

  So, Sylvia packed her things and took all the money she had in the world to purchase train fair to Glasgow, then rode the stage to the far-flung convent. Weeks under the tutelage of the nuns had seen her prepared to journey to London, where she was fortunate enough to find a position. The hours had been long and the work usually thankless, but every man who passed beneath her hands made her think of Fergus and Conall and Gideon. Each one was her brother, her husband, and thus she cared for them to the best of her ability.

  It wasn’t until after the war ended and she returned to Duddingston to await Gideon that everything had changed. Months had gone by with no word from him, and several inquiries turned out fruitless. No one could tell her whether Captain Gideon Whitlock might be alive, missing, or presumed dead.

  Sylvia blinked to find herself virtually alone in the small sitting room where the meeting of nurses had been held. She’d gotten lost in her thoughts, and berated herself for entertaining the painful memories. There could be no dwelling on the past. Gideon’s intrusion in her life didn’t have to change anything.

  She glanced up to find Dr. Wickham standing near the door, head bent as he listened to something Josephine Davies was saying. The petite woman was smiling, face animated as she gestured with her hands, her excitement clear.

  Davies House had been Josephine’s idea, born from a desire to do more for men like the lieutenant, who had endured horrible pain and suffering. Her passion for the cause was clear on her fairy-like face, her golden brown skin aglow with it. Though, the swell of her belly beneath a demure morning gown might have something to do with that glow. The woman had disclosed to Sylvia that she was approaching her seventh month.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Josephine said, offering the man her hand in farewell.

  The physician kissed her knuckles before making his exit, giving Sylvia a polite nod on his way out. Josephine caught sight of Sylvia and offered one of her sweet smiles.

  “Nurse Whitlock, I’ve been meaning to speak with you.”

  Sylvia stiffened, but did her best not to show her discomfiture. Of course her employer would want to take her to task for the dramatic scene that occurred this morning. Gideon had appeared as if out of nowhere, and Sylvia had been too devastated to do anything other than seek escape.

  “Of course, ma’am,” she murmured, hands folded neatly before her. “If ye want to let me go after the scene this morning, I—”

  “Of course I don’t want to let you go! You’re one of our most experienced nurses, and have already spent well over a year caring for wounded soldiers. No, the thought never crossed my mind.”

  The tension in Sylvia’s shoulders melted away, and she released a slow breath. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  The kind woman placed a hand on her shoulder, large, brown eyes warm with sympathy. “What has transpired between you and Gideon is none of my affair, and I want you to know it has no bearing on the respect I have for you or him.”

  Something inside Sylvia bristled with envy and suspicion, as there was a note of affection in the other woman’s voice when she mentioned Gideon. But, it quickly melted away as she remembered the clear adoration in Josephine’s eyes when she looked at the lieutenant. The Davies were newlyweds and very much in love. Whatever Josephine felt toward Gideon must surely be due only to his friendship with her husband.

  This was what the dratted man had done to her—making her jealous of a woman who was only his friend, because she’d been denied the things that were her due as his wife. Companionship and laughter, smiles and affection. Love.

  “I appreciate your willingness to overlook the matter,” Sylvia managed after fumbling with words for a moment. “I have enjoyed helping prepare the home to open, and look forward to getting on with my new duties.”

  “Excellent. That was one of the things I wished to speak with you about. I’m certain you already know that there is to be a dinner tomorrow evening. All the patrons of Davies House have been invited to celebrate the opening, and I thought it might be a wonderful idea to have some of the staff attend. Both Dr. Wickham and Dr. Scudder are to be there, as well as Head Nurse Roberts. I’ve selected yourself and one other nurse. I want our patrons to speak with our more knowledgeable staff, so they can feel confident that their money is going to good use. One of our guests happens to be a viscountess whose brother will be one of our first patients. I want her assured that he will be in the best of hands here.”

  Sylvia’s first instinct was to refuse the invitation. Not only would Gideon be in attendance as one of the patrons of the home, but the entire affair would consist of people from the cream of society. People with money and high social standing, who might look down on the daughter of a Scottish farmhand.

  But then, she recalled the pride she felt in being selected from a large crop of other nurses for this position. She wasn’t just some poor chit from Duddingston anymore. She was Nurse Whitlock, and she had saved several lives with nothing more than her own two hands and the sweat of her brow.

  “I’d love to,” she replied. “Thank ye for thinking of me. I am honored.”

  Josephine’s face lit up with another bright smile and she clapped her hands in excitement. “Oh, good! I had hoped you would say yes. Perhaps a tour could be arranged after dinner, and you and the other nurses might then show off how well appointed the rooms are.”

  Sylvia inclined her head. “O’course. Anything I can do to help impress yer guests, I’ll do it.”

  “Oh, but … well, Gideon will be there, of course. He’s one of the home’s bigg
est contributors. I suppose I ought to have thought of that before I asked, but … will it be a problem? I will understand if—”

  “Dinnae worry about that, ma’am,” Sylvia replied, a bit of an edge creeping into her words. “This cause is too important to me. I’ll let nothing distract me from that.”

  Josephine looked uncertain, but nodded her understanding. “Very well. Shall I see you tomorrow evening in the main drawing room at eight o’clock? The staff will have all of tomorrow off, so you’ll have the morning and afternoon to yourself.”

  Sylvia agreed, then took her leave. Dinner would soon be served in the large dining room off the kitchen reserved for the staff. The nurses ate there before the servants were allowed to come and have their own dinner, and Sylvia did not like to be responsible for making them wait. So, she made her way there now, her eyes darting down every corridor and around every corner, her skin prickling with awareness as if Gideon might appear before her at any moment.

  All she had to do was get through dinner with him tomorrow night, then the home would open and she would have her work to keep her busy. She would avoid him until he decided to depart from Davies House, leaving her to get on with her life.

  Gideon strained against the ocean waves as they rolled over him in endless ripples, his entire world consisting of nothing but salt and seafoam, the open sky above him and the merciless sea around him. He cut through the water with smooth strokes, raising his head to take in the occasional breath before plunging back in. There was nothing here for him to battle but the sea, the exertion of his body overwhelming him enough to quiet his mind.

  He’d swam out farther than was probably wise, considering that the loss of sight in one eye made him terrible at judging distance. But, he had left his bed at dawn after a restless night plagued with guilt and memories he could not escape. Now, he needed the physical exertion to divert his mind.

  Gideon dreamed about his wife quite often, but those dreams had a surreal quality to them. Time and solitude had dulled the edges of the memories, making them feel like something that had happened to someone else.

  But now … he’d seen and touched her again. There had only been his hand on her shoulder, but it was enough to remind him of the things he’d thrown away. It was enough to make him hope she hadn’t fallen too far out of his reach. And that notion, no matter how appealing, was completely insane. He had abandoned her, cutting off all communication and failing to return to Duddingston for her as a husband ought to have. As he had promised he would. It was a wonder she didn’t have his liver for breakfast, with his heart diced in tiny pieces on the side.

  Aside from that, there was the very stark reality that he’d changed. It wasn’t only the matter of his obliterated eye, or he would have gone running back to her the moment his feet touched English soil again.

  No, there were other changes, darker and deep-seated, twisting him into someone even he didn’t recognize when he looked into a mirror. Gideon had resolved to stay away from her because a young, sweet girl like his wife deserved better than a hollow shell of a man. She deserved a husband who could give her all the affection she could withstand, not one that would shrink away from being touched or fall into a panicked fit at the slightest provocation.

  As Gideon reached shallow waters and came to his feet, he steeled himself to hold fast to his resolve. Seeing her again had rattled him, made him hope for things that couldn’t be his. But time to think had restored his determination. Neither of them had known what they were doing when they’d made the rash decision to get married. Gideon blamed himself for giving in to wild, romantic impulses when age and experience ought to have made him pragmatic. Sylvia blamed him, too; as well she should. He would shoulder it all—her hatred, her scorn, her loss. Anything to save her from being saddled with a ghost of the man she’d loved for the rest of her life.

  Trudging onto the wet sand, he sucked in great gulps of air, his chest burning and his muscles worked to the point of exhaustion. The sun had nearly completed its ascent, but the air of early spring in Cornwall stabbed the naked skin of his chest like a thousand needles. He shuddered and clenched his teeth, telling himself that to feel pain was to remember that he was alive. There were many times when he’d thought he would never feel clean air on his face or taste the salty air off the ocean ever again.

  His discarded clothing had been left on a flat rock, save for the wet trousers clinging to his thighs and calves. Hands shaking, he pulled his shirt on over his head, then reached for the eye-patch he only ever abandoned when he knew no one else could see him. He’d seen his own reflection often enough, and knew how unnerving his right eye looked. He couldn’t stand to be gawked at.

  As he began tying the strings around the back of his head, his left eye darted upward, drawn by the premonition tingling down his spine, telling him he was being watched. The steep incline he’d descended to get to the shore was clear, so his gaze traveled higher, searching out the top of the cliff overlooking the sea, upon which Davies House sat.

  He froze, his coat held in numb hands as he spotted a lone figure at the top of the escarpment, a dark cloak fluttering about her body in the breeze. Unlike when he had seen her yesterday, her hair was left loose and free, the wind making the long, sable locks flutter and dance.

  Gideon would know that figure anywhere, the statuesque proportions and the fearless tilt of that chin, the determination squaring those shoulders.

  “Sylvia,” he whispered, the word carried away on the wind.

  He couldn’t see her eyes from this distance, but felt them on him. Did she realize who haunted the shores this early in the morning? Did the sight of him make her want to return indoors to avoid him? Sighing, he pulled his coat on over his damp shirt and bent to retrieve his boots. He’d already cast a dark shadow over her new life and position; the last thing he wanted was to rob her of the peace of a morning walk. Picking his way along the shore, he sought another path he knew would lead back up to the house, but would help him steer clear of her as she had requested. If nothing else, while he resided at Davies House, he could respect her wishes.

  However, it was damned hard to keep from glancing over his shoulder to catch one last glimpse of her, as still as a statue at the edge of the cliff, head lowered while her hair danced on the wind.

  Chapter 4

  Sylvia took one final look in the mirror hanging over the washstand in her quarters. The space was small but comfortable, and filled with more niceties than she was accustomed to. A narrow bed just big enough to fit her, the washstand and mirror, a privacy screen hiding the small hipbath she’d just used, and an armoire in which hung her nurse’s uniforms and the only three gowns she possessed. She wore the finest of these frocks now—a simple block printed cotton with long pleats accentuating the bell-shaped skirt. Layers of petticoats made the hem float about her legs when she moved, and the tight cinch of her corset drew in her waist to heighten the effect. She’d left off the chemisette she might usually wear under it, despite the deep plunge of the neckline. She needn’t be so modest in the evening, and already had the disadvantage of being plainly dressed compared to those who would come as the Davies’s guests.

  Holding her chin high, she decided she looked rather well considering she was a woman of limited means. She had arranged her hair in a simple style, weaving a bit of jade ribbon through the braid across her crown to match her dress. Her only jewelry consisted of the one piece she owned other than the wedding ring resting in a box inside her trunk—a cameo choker that once belonged to her mother.

  The mirror only showed her from head to shoulders, but a cursory glance downward ensured everything lay as it ought. The watch she wore as part of her uniform lay face-up on the washstand, telling her she only had a few minutes to meet everyone downstairs for dinner. She peered through her door to find Head Nurse Roberts already making her way down the corridor. The older woman wore dark gray silk, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a tight knot at the back of her head. Sylvia hung back, no
t wanting to engage in conversation until it became absolutely necessary. She let the other nurse continue downstairs before emerging from her own quarters.

  She reached the ground level to find the front doors hanging open to admit a group of arriving guests. Lieutenant Davies and Josephine stood nearby, along with a trio of footmen taking coats and hats. The couple greeted the new arrivals, while those who had already been divested of their outerwear made their way into the main drawing room.

  Sylvia followed the procession of bodies into the space, finding it nearly filled. Along with the invited guests, she found Dr. Scudder and Dr. Wickham, engaged in conversation over glasses of sherry. Head Nurse Roberts urged Sylvia to join her near the hearth with a group of finely-dressed women. There were three of them, all looking as if they’d never needed to worry where their next meal might come from, or whether a season’s bad crops might see them go hungry through winter. Sylvia felt dowdy and common in the face of their fine clothes and glittering jewels, but held her head high as she was introduced. The women were kind, and very interested in hearing about the duties of a nurse.

  Accepting sherry from a footman, she forced herself to relax and fell into light conversation with the women, explaining the parts of her job that would be easiest for them to stomach—making no mention of infected wounds, her unflinching familiarity with the bodily fluids of others, or the unforgettable stench of death. She did not think these fine ladies needed to hear of such things, nor was it appropriate to speak that way right before sitting down to a meal.