The nurse called Briggs bustled up to her bed, a hairbrush and mirror in her hands. She shrank from the mirror. She didn't want to look at herself. She didn't want to be reminded of what she was.
“Here hen, we're going to fix your braid and then Dr. Gillian says you can get up and sit by the window for a few minutes. Won't that be nice?” She didn't think it sounded nice to sit by a sooty window and stare out at nothing but other buildings, but she kept her opinions to herself. They meant well. Briggs helped her sit forward began brushing her hair. She wished they wouldn't fuss so. They had more important work to do. Once her braid had been restored to good order Briggs placed the mirror in her hand. Too late she realized what was going on. They wanted her to look at her face, to see if she gained some spark of memory. No, she'd stare at buildings all day long if they wanted her to, but she would not look in that mirror. She didn't want to see that face again, to see what she'd become. She struggled, but nurse Briggs soon had her way and she caught sight of her own reflection. She gazed at it in mute horror. No, that wasn't her. That couldn't be her. Surely that girl staring back at her was some evil imp masquerading as a person, but it wasn't her. She wouldn't let it be her. Not anymore. She began to cry as she looked at the familiar peaks and hollows of her face, the nose and chin that had inspired songs and poetry, the mouth that had once been able to call forth a young man's adoration with a well-practiced pout. She howled her agony at the mirror in her hand, wanting to cast it away from her so she could deny the image she saw reflected there and wouldn't have to claim it as her own, but nurse Briggs kept it firmly clasped in her hand by wrapping one of her own around it.
She tossed her head from side to side begging that Briggs take it away. She heard the damning words in her mind. ‘Your face is your fortune, puss. By God, it's all our fortunes.’Briggs let go of the mirror and looked down at her patient in disbelief. It didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered. She'd seen what was left of her and it had no value in this world no matter what anyone said. Nurse Briggs shook her gently by the shoulder.
“Gracious, what a fuss you're making. The bruising is all but gone. It's nothing like it was when you came in here, my girl. You're lucky your face wasn't permanently damaged. That happens to plenty of others, I can tell you. You'll still be a beauty once you're all healed up and that's something to be grateful for.”
She couldn't hear the nurse, though. Other voices had begun to whisper in her head drowning out the sound of Briggs words, other voices from people who knew how ugly she really was inside and just how worthless she'd become.
Belle
Port of Balaklava, The Crimean Peninsula
July 1855
A group of orderlies struggled to unload stretchers from one of the ambulances – not an easy job at the best of times, but these men were exhausted as were their team of horses. The animals suddenly shifted in their traces, unnerved by their fatigue and the mayhem surrounding them on the dock. One of the orderlies stumbled, jostling the wounded man they carried and making him cry out in pain.
“Take care with those men, blast you, or I'll have the skin from your backs,”Admiral Boxer shouted. Boxer was a man known for his calm stoicism, but no one witnessing the scale of suffering on the wharf at Balaklava could remain unmoved. Belle certainly couldn’t, though most of the time she managed to tuck her feelings away. She offered warm smiles, a gentle touch and a calm, reassuring voice to frightened, wounded men, many of whom would not see another hour, much less the next day. To the others who awaited transport to hospitals in either Scutari, or Buyukdere, she offered water and what small treatments as were available.
Belle picked up her water bucket and moved to the next man lying in the endless line along the dock. She passed Admiral Boxer and dipped her head in deference. He looked at her coldly, turning his head away without acknowledgment. Hardly surprising. He'd made his feelings about women in the Crimea quite clear to Mary Seacole when she'd first arrived and despite Mary's success in treating some of the men since then, little had altered the man's perceptions.
The summer sun showed no mercy to the fallen, or to those striving to aid them. Flies buzzed around the man Belle tended, landing on the blood-soaked bandage that covered his abdomen. Belle shooed them away, but it did little good. The bandage told the tale and the insects knew the smell of approaching death. He stared sightlessly up at her and licked his dry lips. Belle lifted up his head gently in one of her arms while she used her other to bring a tin cup of water to his mouth. She trickled a little between his lips. The man blinked and his eyes focused on her. His feeble attempt at a smile and the trace of tears shimmering in his eyes gripped her heart and Belle recognized something she'd never thought to see in any man's face. Love.
“Lizzy,” he whispered. “I've come back to you, girl. I'm home now and all will be well. You'll see.” His eyes shone with such happiness. “Do you hear me Lizzy, I'm home.”
Belle swallowed around the lump in her throat and nodded. She smiled at him as she reached down to take his hand in hers. She gave it a gentle squeeze. “Yes, love, you're home and I'm so happy to see you.”
“Oh, my Lizzy girl. I've missed you.” He coughed weakly and Belle murmured to him. “Where are the children? Don't they want to see their Pa?”
“Yes, dear, but you have to rest now. You'll see them...tomorrow.”
“I am tired, Lizzy, but I just want to keep looking at you. Prettiest girl at market day. Loved you from the first, I did...get better now I'm home. You'll...see. Love...you so.
“I love you too,” Belle answered through the tears filling her eyes. It wasn't her he saw or heard at all. And just like that it was all over. She gently laid him back and closed his eyes before pulling the worn blanket up over his head. She stood up fighting to keep her tears from falling. They wouldn't help him now, nor would they help his widow, Lizzy, the prettiest girl at market day. She glared, twisting her face to hold in her emotions, but it wasn't helping. She couldn't, wouldn't give in to them here.
Suddenly, she felt a hand grip her shoulder firmly and looked up to see Admiral Boxer. One of his staff stood beside him watching her with concern, but it was the Admiral who commanded her attention. “You did what you could for him,” he said, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “You did well, lass. Now get on with your job.” She looked up into his stern face and understood why his men followed his orders without question. She also understood that in this moment he considered her one of his 'men' and that she owed him that same obedience.
Her tears dried and she nodded, “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” then she picked up her bucket and moved down the line.
***
“He claims it was an accident,” Rafe Kingsford said, “though I notice that each one of these boats has suffered similar accidents each time they transport our cargo. We've lost three or for four crates per boat and funnily enough, some other boat always happens along to salvage those supplies.” Rafe spat out the cigar he'd held clench between his teeth and prepared to draw his pistol. He was a second too late. Michael Lassiter, the new Earl of Stowebridge, had already drawn his own pistol and laid the barrel against the temple of the fishing captain who'd made the mistake of trying to cheat him.
The fleet of small boats used to ferry cargo from Michael’s ship, the Sarabande, belonged to some of the local Greek and Maltese fishermen. They routinely charged ships exorbitant fees for the use of their crafts and made certain that several crates of goods were 'lost' over the side on each trip. The crates were always salvaged and the contents resold to the British at triple its value. Michael had no problem with their attempt to make a living – he'd done similar things during his early days in India and Ceylon, but this was his cargo they were looting and the medical supplies and food were needed by the British troops. No one would be stealing one more damned crate from them. He cocked his pistol and the fisherman trembled in front of him, babbling apologies and guarantees that no further cargo would be lost.
Six hours later the
last of the supply wagons trundled up the steep road heading towards the main supply route for the encampments that dotted the hills and plains around Sevastopol. Michael watched them go, wiping his arm across his forehead before replacing his canvas hat. The sun beat down relentlessly on the hard, dry earth and rocks, making every puff of breeze from the water a fleeting, but blessed reprieve from the heat. Rafe joined him on the narrow, dusty trail and offered him a drink from his water skin. Michael gratefully accepted it and drank deeply.
“How soon do we weigh anchor?” Rafe asked, taking back the skin and swallowing a mouthful of water himself. During the past two years the men had joined in several business ventures, some in partnership with the present Duke of Strathmore, Rafe's brother-in-law, Jules Wentworth. Time and proximity had formed a solid friendship between Rafe and Michael, but by tacit agreement, neither man spoke about theSeason of the Furies,as Michael had dubbed it, and neither of them had anything to do with Lord Ambrose.
“Old Boxer wants us out of the harbor as soon as possible. We sail on the tide, but at full dark,” Michael replied. “No sense in giving the Russian artillery an easy target. Too bad, though. I'd like to have gone and seen The British Hotel for myself. I hear this Seacole woman sets a fine table with plenty of good wine and whiskey – even champagne.”
“Too bad,” Rafe agreed. “I'd have enjoyed separating some of the officers from their money.” The two men began their slow trek back towards the dock.
“As I understand it, Mary Seacole doesn't allow gambling in her hotel,” Michael offered. “It's one of her hard and fast rules. She won't risk violence in her establishment, not when she depends on the commanding officer's good opinion.”
The Jamaican woman had arrived in the Crimea earlier in the year. Born of both Creole and Scottish descent, she had first achieved notoriety as a nurse and healer in the West Indies and by assisting the people of Panama during a severe outbreak of cholera. Mrs. Seacole, or Mother Seacole, as many of the sailors and soldiers called her, had run a successful hotel and infirmary for officers in Kingston, Jamaica which became the inspiration for her current enterprise, The British Hotel.
“One of Nightingale's birds, is she?”
Michael shook his head. “No, she applied to come with them, but was turned down. Even the Home Office refused her aid. I don't know the whys and wherefores, but luckily she has some very rich and powerful friends who helped her raise funds to come to the Crimea. She's been known to go right to the front lines to treat the wounded on the battlefield. There are many young men who owe her their lives.”
They'd no sooner reached the turn towards the dock when Emerson, one of Admiral Boxer's aids, a bright, energetic young man who acted as liaison between the port's command and the ship captains, approached them at a run. The Admiral wished to speak with them before they returned to their ship, he explained as he led the way along the wooden dock used as a debarkation point for the hospitals across the Black Sea.
Ambulances stood in line waiting to unload the sick and wounded and as fast as the sailors and orderlies finished with one of them, another moved in to take it's place. Michael turned to look grimly at the sheer number of litters already covering the dock. Two surgeons worked at a frenzied pace triaging the wounded. Some were placed in lines for loading onto the steam ship bound for Scutari. Others were simply shunted to the side. Nothing could be done for those poor devils. They would never survive the journey and there was no sense in them taking a space for some lad who might make it.
The smell of blood and death surrounded them. Drew had been here at one point, Michael realized with an agony that tore at his heart, and thankfully on that day someone had decided he might well survive the voyage across the sea. His brother had not only survived the voyage to Scutari, but the journey back to Britain as well. The familiar bite of guilt coupled with rage gnawed at Michael like some giant rat. He should never have kissed her, never have held her and given the witch the opportunity to use those moments against his brother. Arabella Winston should be here. She should see this infernal place and know what had become of the young man she'd scorned. A sense of helplessness washed over him. Drew might never walk again, because of him, because of her.
This was Michael's third trip to bring medical supplies and food; one to Scutari when he'd gone there to bring Drew home, as well as two other such trips to Balaklava. This supply run would be his last. The risks were too great and his title that had been thrust upon him so unexpectedly, came with responsibilities, not only in the House of Lords, but to the people who lived on his estates and depended on him for their livelihood. He also had his brother to look after, although Drew rarely spoke to him these days.
Emerson’s voice dragged Michael back to the present. “The Admiral would like to thank both you, my lord, and Mr. Kingsford, for your efforts to bring us aid. Many supplies never reach us before the Russian artillery sends them to the bottom of the sea.”
“Let's just hope they don't decide to blow us out of the water again on our way home,” Rafe said darkly, “though we certainly gave a good accounting of ourselves on the way here.”
“I believe the Admiral has a plan to help you avoid the Russian guns, sir. That is, if you don't mind a detour.”
“What is his plan?” Michael asked. He was not in any position to take more risks, but he'd hear Emerson out.
“Simply this, my lord. The Russians will not fire on ships evacuating the wounded. The Admiral wishes to use your ship to transport the overflow of wounded to the hospital in Buyukdere.”
“Done,” Michael answered succinctly.
Emerson smiled and enthusiastically laid out plans for docking and equipping the Sarabande as soon as The Melbourne finished loading wounded and pulled away. Emerson finished his explanations and hurried off to find Admiral Boxer leaving Michael and Rafe to wend their way behind him.
A movement seen from the corner of his eye snagged Michael's attention. He turned and saw a woman's soft, gray-colored skirts billow in the offshore breeze that blew lightly across the dock. He hadn't expected to see a woman here amongst this wreckage of humanity, though he knew that Mrs. Seacole often came to lend what aid she could. However, this woman wore the worn and faded, dove gray gown of an English woman, not the brightly colored fabrics said to be favored by the flamboyant Mrs. Seacole. The woman's features were obscured beneath her straw bonnet, one that had clearly suffered similar travails as her gown and apron. One of Nightingale's birds, most likely, though he wondered what she was doing so far from Constantinople. She stood beside one of the empty ambulances angled away from him, a bucket setting at her feet. She arched her neck and gracefully lifted the back of her hand to her forehead in a gesture of weariness. Those simple motions conveyed a world of information to Michael; fatigue certainly, even resignation in way she squared her thin shoulders, but more than that, he saw breeding, a subtle elegance in her movements that not even these deplorable conditions had managed to eradicate. He moved slightly towards her willing her to turn in his direction as he'd done in another place and time to another woman. He wanted to see her face, damn it. He had to see it. His stomach tightened in a noxious mix of hope and dread. There was something so familiar in her carriage. Something that...no, it was insane to even consider the possibility.
Just then a tall, broad-shouldered man with reddish hair man joined her. His shirt and hands were spattered with blood. The woman dipped a cup of water from the bucket and poured it over his hands without comment. He rubbed them together as she repeated the process and then handed him a rag as if it were an action she’d performed countless times. He wiped his hands as he murmured his thanks. Then, as gallantly as if he was escorting her for a drive in Hyde Park, her assisted her onto the drivers seat of the wagon and climbed up after her. The driver slapped his reins and the horses started off towards the hot and dusty trail to town.
“What are you staring at, Stowebridge?” Rafe asked as came to stand beside him and follow the line of his vision.
“Did you see someone you know?”
Michael shook his head as he continued to watch the ambulance make its way up the dock towards the village. “No,” he said quietly. “I'm just chasing phantoms.”
Chapter Ten
London,
March, 1858
Anger and indignation served to shield ones pride, but shielded little else. They did nothing, for example, to shield one's clothing from the encroachment of foul weather, or to shield one's shoes. Belle's half boots, survivors of the battlefields around Sevastapol, as well as numerous repairs, were saturated almost past the point of redemption from the rain water that collected into grimy puddles along the street. She shifted the weigh of her valise and medicine box in her cold, aching arms and conceded that she'd made a serious error by letting her pride get the best of her. She should have waited for the hackney. “Pride goeth before a fall,” Belle muttered darkly.
The rain and wind continued their vicious attack. Within blocks of leaving Lord Isley’s home Belle’s cloak had given up all pretense to dryness and her gray, merino gown clung wetly to her shoulders. She kept moving down the street grimly calculating how much farther it was to Nettie's rooms. Hiring her own hackney was a luxury at this point and she would have to forgo luxuries to preserve her meager resources. Another lesson life had taught her was the importance of frugality. She’d also learned the value of self-reliance – if only she’d learned that lesson earlier, perhaps her mother and herself.... Belle stopped the thought before it finished forming. Regret was a bitter companion at the best of times and couldn’t change the past, only mar the present and the future. The sodden brim of her bonnet chose that moment to collapse against her forehead, causing icy water to dribble down her face. Belle grumbled an oath that no respectable woman should know, much less say and pushed locks of her wet, black hair out of her eyes.
A Terrible Beauty (Season of the Furies Book 1) Page 15