The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection

by Joanne Bischof

  “It’s all right, young man,” he said calmly. “You’ll not let this get the best of you, will you? Here, then, some sweetened wine to refresh your mouth.” He pressed the glass to the man’s lips, setting it aside after he managed to swallow. “And some quinine to fight the fever.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the patient whispered. He couldn’t be much older than Cal himself, but at the moment with his yellowed skin and haggard cheeks he looked twice as old. “I’m sorry, so sorry….”

  “No need for that,” Cal assured him, helping the man to swallow the quinine.

  Afterward, stopping only to clean himself as best he could at a basin, he decided removing his jacket was the only answer. He must order more broth and creamed rice for those patients who could tolerate such things. More tea, more wine, and definitely more quinine. None of it would cure them, but they would do far more good than some of the old-fashioned treatments he’d seen here since leaving Dr. Van de Klerk’s practice.

  They’d agreed that Cal was needed here, but Cal wondered if Dr. Van de Klerk had noticed his eagerness to sever ties. He likely hadn’t guessed it was too easy to admire the man, his work, and his dedication to healing. The last thing Cal needed was to grow fond of another mentor, and even in the short month they’d worked together, that had happened. But mentors, like fathers, too easily died.

  Several patients had been admitted this very day. Cal’s visit to the health officials had produced no result. He would go to the hospital committee next, to see what they intended to do. Already he’d given explicit instructions to every nurse he encountered—not nearly enough for the growing number of patients—about cleaning soiled linens quickly, keeping the patients, the beds, the floors, the walls, everything under this roof as clean as possible. Fresh air helped to alleviate some of the worst odors from the illness, but he was convinced that in and of itself wasn’t the cure, either.

  He turned and scanned the room. With every new crop of patients in the few days he’d been here, it seemed they lost either a doctor or a nurse. Some to illness, others fleeing the city altogether.

  Movement on the far end of the long room caught his eye. A new nurse? Although she wore the familiar white apron, she was missing the white cap that went along with it. Not that it mattered, but it was unusual for any of the staff not to wear the complete uniform.

  Then he went on to the next patient, too busy to pay attention to anyone but the sick.

  “Which orders are we to follow, then?” Abigail asked after being told this ward was adopting different treatments than the one just across the hall, which was under the direction of Dr. Dawson. She knew Dr. Dawson, not well, but he’d been a doctor for at least as long as her father. New York Hospital had invited her father to the permanent staff several times every year, but he’d always refused. Although he never said it aloud, she thought her father’s resistance stemmed from reluctance to work with Dr. Dawson.

  “Just don’t get confused about which side of the floor you’re on,” whispered Miss Pasario. “This side, it’s tea, sweet wine, fresh air, and quinine. Over there, it’s the old ten-and-ten.”

  Abigail knew well enough what that meant. Dr. Rush’s cure, they called it, though some never gave it that much respect. Ten grains of calomel with ten grains of jalap, two poisons powdered together and administered so the body would work to void itself—ridding, it was hoped, the fever along with the poisons.

  “Who is in charge on this side, then?” she asked.

  Miss Pasario nodded in the direction of the opposite end of the long room. “Dr. Stanfield was quick to hand over authority to our newest staff member since he came straight from the tropics. He’s dealt with yellow fever himself.”

  Abigail’s heart tumbled around in her chest, but she held back her gasp. “Not Dr. Tallery?”

  “Why, yes, how did you know?”

  “I thought he came to New York to work with my father.”

  “Ah, yes, someone did mention that. Well, then, you already know him so I won’t bother to introduce you. Not that he’d take much time for any social niceties. He’s aloof, stiff as a plank, but he’s a saint in his efforts to relieve suffering. I’m surprised your father could let him go, but then your father’s a saint, too.”

  Nurse Pasario filled her in on the amount of quinine each patient was to be given, followed by what food to allow, and special emphasis on cleaning each and every bed as often as the supply of linens could withstand.

  After that, Abigail was simply too busy to worry about letting Dr. Tallery know she was now working under his direction.

  Chapter Ten

  If Cal was thankful for anything, it was for the nature of a forgiving nose. Smells that made his stomach turn could be tolerated if exposed to them long enough, and there was no shortage of exposure in a ward besieged with a fever often known as “black vomit.”

  He sat alone in the dark corner of the main hall. He’d discovered the spot underneath a staircase last night when he’d decided to stay here rather than going home in the hope of saving time. Although a veritable army of hospital maids still remained that came to wash floors; take away soiled linens; and empty buckets, pans, chamber pots, and anything else that had been used in association with the indignities of disease, this little corner was seldom disturbed because it led nowhere.

  He knew he wasn’t the first to discover the spot; the chair he sat upon had been placed there intentionally, opposite another just like it that invited his feet. He leaned back, feet up, eyes closed, and relished the comfort of being away from the smells, the cries, the disorientation, and death that permeated the hospital in these waning days of summer.

  It was on the tip of his tongue to pray for an early frost—how long had it been since he’d prayed?—but he was asleep before any words took shape. “Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t see you in the dark.”

  For a moment Cal was convinced he must be dreaming, though his eyes had been closed only a moment ago. Now he was fully awake. Standing before him, of all people, was Miss Van de Klerk! But instead of the chiffon and linens of the latest fashion, she wore plain, dark garb covered by the white cotton apron of a nurse. The hair that had been so elaborately entwined with ribbons and lace when he’d first met her was now pulled out of the way as if it were an inconvenience and not something with which to draw a man’s eye. Worse than any of that, instead of the scent of flowers she carried with her the same noxious odor he suspected he carried himself, remnants of treating yellow fever victims.

  “Miss Van de Klerk?”

  She’d already turned away but stopped upon hearing his voice. “Yes, it’s me. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

  Then he heard the soft footfalls of a slippered retreat. How did she know to wear the traditional leather soles to avoid disturbing the patients?

  There was little chance of sleep now as he asked himself what she was doing here. Despite all the evidence, he could hardly believe she was tending patients. Not the frothy, beribboned and bejeweled society maiden who talked only of silly books, worthless theater, and pretty uniforms. Surely he’d dreamed her appearance, though he could not guess why.

  It was well into the evening, and he’d been there since shortly after dawn. There was so much to do Cal was tempted to stay again, but he reminded himself he was better off healthy. So rather than settling for the bed of two chairs, he headed for home in search of a much-needed bath, fresh set of clothing, and a few hours’ rest.

  “I plan to leave later this morning,” said Early to Cal, after Cal had bathed and changed into odor-free clothing then slept the rest of the night.

  “And Mindia’s mother is aware of this invitation to the Pipperday country house?”

  He held up a slip of gold-rimmed paper. “Sealed and delivered with her signature. I shouldn’t be so proud of myself because I’m beholden to Mindia, but this will be my first portrait. And I couldn’t imagine a subject I’m more interested in painting.”

  Cal wanted to caution his young co
usin, since caution about love came so easily. Instead, he smiled and wished Early the best. Perhaps if Mindia’s mother liked the portrait enough, it would not only garner Early more commissions, but pave the way for her approval of his intentions toward her daughter.

  In any case, it would get them out of a city rife with fever, and for that Cal could only be grateful.

  “Father, how could you not have told me? The fevers are far worse than last summer or the summer before that.”

  They’d met at the top of the stairs before going down, just the way they always had when their clocks directed them to the breakfast table if they were both at home.

  He frowned. “I didn’t keep it from you, daughter. I’ve just been too busy tending my patients. You’ve always understood our lapses in communication in the past.”

  “But this! I’d have come at once if I’d known how much I was needed.”

  “I haven’t given permission for you to come home, and I’d prefer you return to Mindia’s. Her family is likely going to the country once news of the fevers reaches the papers.”

  She didn’t mention she’d received a note that morning from Mindia, saying they were leaving that very afternoon. “I have no intention of fleeing when I’m needed here.”

  He now looked at her curiously, as if her words took time to register. Though he led the way downstairs, he asked, “What do you mean?”

  She sucked in a deep breath. “I went looking for you at the hospital yesterday.”

  His frown deepened, but he said nothing.

  “They fairly begged me to stay and help, and so I’ll be working there until this passes.”

  “Ah, so it’s come to that, has it?”

  “Yes, Father.” She looped her arm through his as they entered the dining room. “Even with all the fever victims, the hospital may be safer than various neighborhoods—some of the places you visit every day. If the patients are any indication, Battery Park and other low areas have been the worst hit. Please, Father, come up to the hospital. The air is foul inside, but with the windows open, it’s not nearly as bad as some of the spots you visit too often.”

  “I’ll go with you this morning,” he said, “which is what I’d planned doing anyway. But if I cannot convince you to go with Mindia, I’d rather you were home. You should be planning the dinner for me to meet your Reverend Mr. Lebsock, remember?”

  “Father, how can you believe for a moment that I would stay home when I know there are so few people helping at the hospital? Half of the staff has fled if they have someplace else to go.”

  He sighed heavily. “Then as you say, at least it is up ground. I will be there when I can, but I’ll not abandon my circuit, no matter how foul.” He managed a wink, conjuring her image of the cheerful man hiding beneath too heavy a load these days. “You see, I am every bit as stubborn as you.”

  “Yes, you’ve modeled that trait well.”

  “Miss Van de Klerk is here often,” said Miss Pasario to Cal after he’d inquired about her. “She was here nearly all day yesterday, and I expect her to be back. She often works with her father, but everyone on staff knows she has an open door here whenever her father can spare her.”

  She works with her father? The vapid girl who read nothing of more importance than a novel of seduction? That same girl?

  He was half-tempted to repeat the name, just to make sure they spoke of one and the same. But the lingering memory of seeing her face the night before, albeit in a darkened hallway, confirmed the truth. He would make a point of acknowledging her today, if only to witness the miracle of transformation from society girl to one of true value.

  He soon found not only Abigail Van de Klerk at the bedside of his weakest patient, but her father as well. Dr. Van de Klerk looked pleased to see him, despite Cal’s abandonment of his practice.

  “Ah, Dr. Tallery! Have they been keeping you as busy as I suspect?”

  “There is nothing like calamity to offer opportunity for great responsibility,” he said, his gaze traveling easily from father to daughter. He hadn’t noticed they were nearly the same height, making Miss Van de Klerk taller than he recalled. Nor had he ever observed such a sedate look on her face as she gently swabbed away the foul sweat from the delirious patient. She showed not a trace of repugnance over the task.

  “I didn’t know your daughter had any interest in your work, Dr. Van de Klerk,” he said, still watching her, although she seemed to be making a point of looking anywhere but at him.

  “Keeping that a secret was by design,” Van de Klerk said, as if he were a bit embarrassed. “She’s quite talented in medicine, but such a gift isn’t often accepted when first meeting someone.”

  He could have told them he’d not only have welcomed knowing such a thing about her but extolled such knowledge. Yet it hardly seemed appropriate, given his previous reluctance to befriend either one of them. What, really, had changed? That he was relieved Van de Klerk hadn’t sired a dull daughter? He must still keep to his own company if he was to honor the barriers he’d so carefully erected to protect himself from the kind of loss he was too tired of experiencing.

  Somehow, though, keeping such a distance didn’t seem quite as easy as it had been before.

  Chapter Eleven

  After her father left her to see to patients on another floor, Abigail belatedly stopped at the nurses’ office to let them know she was reporting for duty. To her disappointment, instead of returning to Dr. Tallery’s ward, she was sent across the hall. They were short two nurses and could use her help.

  Abigail’s shoes could have been made of rocks for all the trouble she had moving her feet. Most fevers, especially yellow fever, were hard to tend. But Dr. Dawson’s poisoning and purging, bleeding and blistering seemed only to add torture to an already sick patient.

  By midmorning, if it weren’t for the suffering she hoped to relieve as best she could, Abigail might have been tempted to leave with or without Dr. Dawson’s permission. Though she’d hardly needed it, he’d instructed her on how to properly bleed a patient—a technique her father had grown to abhor in recent years. He’d come to reject so many of the ancient ways, far preferring anything to help the body naturally heal itself if it could.

  When Dr. Dawson was otherwise occupied and no longer monitoring her every move, she brought in warm broth rather than administering poisons like mercury or dogwood bark. It was no less than insubordination not to follow his orders, but she doubted they would ask her to leave. Considering the procedure was being carried out right across the hall, she had plenty of reason for her boldness. Dr. Dawson may not be losing more patients than other wards, but it didn’t take a trained eye to see which contained more suffering.

  At least they agreed on fresh air, and for once there was a breeze—hot as it was. She welcomed the puff of air as she spoon-fed one of the patients.

  “Nurse Van de Klerk.” Dr. Dawson’s reproachful tone was clear in the brief address, but he used it so often it could mean nothing more than a request for her to help him bleed another patient. Again. “I will see you in the hall as soon as you’ve finished here.” He glanced at the near-empty bowl. “Which I assume to be within the next minute.”

  Then he turned on his heel. Whispering apologies for not staying a moment longer than necessary once the broth was finished, Abigail followed Dr. Dawson’s path to the hall.

  “Like your father, I believe every illness has a cure,” he began, giving her his profile, chin lifted, brows high. “I’ve done a considerable amount of study regarding fevers, and for this one in particular when it’s obvious the stomach must be filling with blood, it’s my opinion that bleeding is—”

  She was as exasperated as she was tired. “I beg your pardon, Dr. Dawson, but I’m sure the books you’ve read about such techniques are outdated. You can see your method isn’t curing anyone any better than other, more palatable treatments.”

  Now he turned to face her, his brows gathering over eyes filling with anger. “Despite my respect for y
our father, girl, I have no intention of standing here to be questioned by his offspring. You’ll do as I tell you or I’ll have you arrested for endangering my patients.”

  “Endangering! By giving them broth instead of poison? I’m here to alleviate suffering, Doctor, not to add to it.”

  “I’ll not stand for this kind of insolence—”

  “Well, then,” came a voice from the other side of the hall, a surprisingly friendly tone. When Abigail turned to see that it was none other than Dr. Calvin Tallery, she was sure her surprise over his congeniality nearly matched Dr. Dawson’s astonishment at the interruption. “I’ll gladly invite Nurse Van de Klerk to my ward, where her practices are most welcome.”

  He looked from Dr. Dawson to Abigail, to whom he extended an open palm inviting her into the room behind him.

  “Now just a minute, Tallery,” said Dr. Dawson, “I’ve already had enough of your interference when it comes to how we ought to manage this summer’s fevers. First your insistence that this is yellow fever, when it could be any number of others: camp fever or perhaps just as easily autumnal fever. You, a newcomer—perhaps from the very ship that brought this plague to our city!”

  Dr. Tallery’s eyes narrowed. “This hospital and its committee asked me to help deal with an unusually high number of fever patients. I’m happy to do so because I’ve served where tropical fevers lurk year-round. I have no obligation, however, to listen to you or to allow you to redirect the staff of my choosing. Good day, Dr. Dawson.”

  Then, far more gently than she’d expected from the harsh tone in his voice, Dr. Tallery took Abigail by the elbow and directed her inside the ward he’d been assigned.

  Once they were well away from the openmouthed but silent doctor, Abigail faced Dr. Tallery. If he thought she would be grateful for his coming to her defense, he was mistaken. Did he still think of her as the society maiden she’d mistakenly presented herself to be? In need of his heroics? “Dr. Tallery, in case you didn’t notice, I was in the process of explaining to Dr. Dawson that his methods are outdated. I did not need, nor did I welcome, your effort to act the knight in shining armor.”