by Kathy Otten
Doctor Bliss groaned.
Gracie wasn’t sure if the sound was good or bad, but at least he seemed willing to let her keep her jars.
He rolled his chair close to his desk and rested his forearms on the green felt blotter. “When you have a problem such as the one you describe, you are to take it to the ward surgeon, Doctor Colfax, or to myself, or to another doctor at this hospital. Let a man handle it.”
Gracie sucked in a breath and opened her mouth to argue, but Doctor Bliss hastily continued.
“To be honest with you, Mrs. McBride, I have considered transferring you to another hospital, but I don’t know who would replace you. Most of the military nurses have gone to Falmouth, and the nuns who serve here seem given to prayer at the most inopportune times.”
He reached for a piece of paper from a pile on his left. “So I would like to offer you the opportunity to renew your perspective. There is a boat leaving for Aquia Creek Landing a week from today, with food and medical supplies from the Sanitary Commission. Volunteers are needed to help distribute those supplies. I suggested you.”
“Ye want me to go to Falmouth?” She shot to her feet.
He stood. “You would only be gone a few days. I realize this decision is entirely yours, but I believe time away from this place will do you good.”
Gracie stared. She felt like a worn-out shoe. Though she served a purpose, she was still unwanted. This trip to Falmouth was only to put a bit of polish on the scuffed leather.
“When you return, the new dormitory for the lady nurses should be complete, which will afford you the opportunity to escape each day from the dreary atmosphere and smell of the ward. I can only hope that a fresh outlook and renewed spirit will make life here more agreeable, and you will no longer feel the need to challenge every order.”
Heat surged through her body. Her nostrils flared, and she pressed her lips together. Struggling to hold back the curses she ached to spew at the man, she swung around, and chin high, she marched from his office, down the hall, and out the door.
The discordant pounding of multiple hammers echoed between the buildings. This morning she thought the activity exciting, now it seemed ominous. Each thud of hammer to nail was like the echo of her mother’s voice inside Gracie’s head, “Ye be a woman, and ye’re Irish. Remember your place. Remember your place.”
It had only been once Gracie left her job as a maid and married William, that she’d gained the freedom to speak her mind, to develop a skill, and use it to help others. She’d lost that after he died, and she’d been forced back to work on Beacon Hill.
Even Doctor Ellard, for whom she had the highest regard, firmly believed this place too rigorous for a mere woman and constantly suggested she return home.
A lump formed in her throat, and she swallowed. Would she ever have the kind of relationship she’d had with William? He’d been the love of her life with his easy laughter, and his low tones rumbling the endearment, Gracie-lass.
And while the lonely woman inside her was attracted to Doctor Ellard, his views on women and their place in society constantly reminded her that the mutual respect and easy camaraderie she’d had with William was something she’d never have with Charles Ellard, no matter how much she missed the man.
At least Doctor Bliss hadn’t sent her away permanently. Remember your place. She’d managed to tamp down her feisty spirit before, she could do it again.
****
Inside the ward she set the jars of beef tea on the table.
Tom sat beside one of the nearby patients, writing a letter. He rose and joined her. A grin spread across his face. “Ya got it. Did ya get caught?”
Still feeling the sting of anger in her eyes, she kept her gaze averted. “Aye.” She nodded. “Though neither the cook nor Doctor Bliss are too fond o’ me now.” She jotted the corporal’s name on a piece of paper and slid it under one of the jars.
“Ye best keep this for Corporal McAuley. Give him a wine glass full every two hours. And if Doctor Colfax will not write it on the list himself, we’ll not be getting more.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As she straightened, she met Tom’s gaze. Older than she by a several years, Tom’s shrewd brown eyes studied her with a wisdom that Robbie, with his enthusiasm for life, had not yet acquired.
Replying to his silent question, Gracie offered a half-smile. “’Tis no more than a headache. A nap ’tis all I be needing.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, though a shadow of doubt remained.
“I’ll be back to help with the medication pass at five.”
He nodded, accepting her excuse. “Ma’am, for what ya do for the men…well, they all know how hard ya try. They…we…we all appreciate it.”
Tears stung her eyes, and she pressed her lips together for a moment. “Ye be a fine man Tom Halleck, you and Micah and Harvey. ’Tis proud I am, to be working with ye every day.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, studying the pencil in his hand.
“Go on with ye, now, and finish yer letter.”
He replied with a nod and a quick smile.
She made a shooing gesture with her hand, and though he hesitated a moment, Tom whirled and hurried back to the patient.
With a last glance at the jars, Gracie turned away and headed to her partitioned room at the end of the ward.
As much as she longed for a door to slam in frustration, she could only yank the curtain closed instead. It wasn’t fair. She paced the confines of her space, her shoes silent on the rag rug she’d found in a donation bin.
Frustration and anger welled in her eyes, and she pressed the heels of her hands against the sting before the tears spilled over and her sobbing could be heard by the patients.
The stuffed rabbit watched in silence from the nightstand. “I only want to help,” she whispered to the toy, with its big ears for gathering secrets and no mouth to share them. “’Tis not fair to be punished for wanting to ease the suffering o’ these brave men.”
What was she to do? Spend a few days distributing supplies for the Sanitary Commission, then return here to a different ward where she would have to meekly remember her place, or return to Boston and clean houses for rich pretentious women with boxes of apples? Why did William have to die? Having tasted independence, to lose her freedom now was worse than never experiencing it.
She grabbed the rabbit by the ears and hurled it with every ounce of rage inside her. It hit the outside wall with a thud and fell to the floor. Then she threw herself on the bed and cried.
Keeping her face buried in her pillow to muffle her sobs, she let the tears flow. Doctor Ellard had been with her the last few times she’d cried. At least when he wasn’t trying to kiss her or tell her a foolish joke, his warmth and awkward pats had offered a measure of comfort.
Maybe she should go to Falmouth. She could find Doctor Ellard and…what? She didn’t know, but suddenly it was where she wanted to be. Maybe Doctor Bliss was right. And if she ran into Doctor Ellard…at least he was a friend.
Wiping her eyes, she sat up. The rabbit watched her from across the room, where he leaned crookedly against the white-washed wall.
She rose and stepped over to pick it up. One ear had torn away from the head and dangled down to the seam where the arm met the body. Guilt washed over her leaving her ashamed for having hurt the poor thing. She held the damaged ear upright. But something poked from the sawdust inside the rabbit’s head. Curious, she pulled out a tightly rolled piece of paper about two inches long.
She smiled to herself, wondering what sort of secret message Charles the boy had hidden. Tucking the rabbit under her arm she unrolled the yellowed paper.
mY nam is JaSon
CharelZ is ded
I wesh I WaS tO
She blinked and stared. Her breath caught in her chest and lodged there until the pain reminded her to take another.
Cold washed through her insides the way it had when her brother Callum told her William had died. She shivered. Her
knees gave out, and she dropped to the floor, sitting back on her heels, her hand clamped tight against her mouth. Her fingers trembled.
The childish scrawl made no more sense to her numb brain now than it had a moment ago.
Had Charles written this? Maybe this toy had once belonged to another child. But who was Jason? What could be so horrible that such a young boy would wish for death?
An idea took root in her mind, even as she denied its growth with a slow shake of her head.
No. Charles could not be Jason. Impossible. Because for that to be true someone would have had to… No. That couldn’t be right. Jason was not Charles. Charles was not Jason.
She rolled the note up and shoved it back into the rabbit’s head. Then she pushed to her feet, tossed the rabbit into the corner, where it landed on top of the hat box. Sad and silent, that rabbit had just shared his deepest secret.
She grabbed her shawl and tossed it over the rabbit and hat box. Next, she grabbed her coat and threw it on top. Still the pain of that long ago child called to her.
My name is Jason. Charles is dead.
She backed away from the mountain of box and clothing—away from the rabbit. She couldn’t stay here.
Tom glanced up when she strode past but didn’t say a word. She grabbed a book from the cupboard behind her table and headed to the end of the long room where she usually read to the patients. She chose The House of Seven Gables by Nathaniel Hawthorne, partly because reading aloud would drown out the haunting words that reverberated in her head and partly because Doctor Colfax had decreed that the story of ghosts, murder, and witchcraft too stimulating for the men.
Harvey pulled chairs around some of the bedridden patients who wished to hear the story, and he and the other orderlies assisted those who needed help to find seats.
Gracie read until mental pictures of the Pyncheon house overshadowed the haunting images of a stuffed rabbit and a child’s words printed on yellowed paper.
Her voice grew hoarse, and she closed the book. Some men stayed to talk to each other, and others went back to their beds.
“Please, ma’am.” Sergeant Baker asked as she walked with him back to number thirty-six. “Any…car’s?” After two weeks his voice was still barely more than a harsh whisper.
She went to the cupboard and grabbed the last deck.
“Here you go, Sergeant.”
He sat waiting for her in a chair positioned alongside his bed.
“Thank…you,” he whispered as he accepted the cards.
“Ye are welcome, but ye really should be careful not to be straining yer voice.”
“Try. Wish I…thank doc…tor…saved life.”
“I know ye do, and I’ll pass along yer thanks in me next letter to Doctor Ellard.”
“No.” His raspy whisper was far less emphatic than his accompanying head shake. “Reee.”
Gracie sighed and dropped to sit on the edge of his bed. It had been a long day, and she didn’t have the energy for this conversation.
“’Tis sorry I am to tell ye, but ’twas Doctor Ellard who operated on yer throat and removed yer tonsils. But he’s gone back to his regiment.”
The sergeant toyed with the cards in his hand. “Looks like…sister…hus-band.”
The sergeant’s voice grew fainter. Gracie rested her palms on her thighs and leaned close.
He whispered, “Thought doc…his son…”
She struggled to understand but couldn’t grasp the last part. With a sigh she leaned back.
Mistaken identity was a common occurrence. Everybody looked like someone else. But the sergeant was so persistent in his belief that Doctor Ellard was another person.
My name is Jason.
She shot to her feet. No! Sergeant Baker suffered from either mistaken identity or the confusion of a fevered dream. Yet…
“Can ye write?”
He nodded.
She swung around and marched down the aisle straight to her table. The solid click of her heels echoed her sense of purpose. She set down the book, picked up her notebook and pencil, and in moments she was back with the sergeant.
That she even considered this only proved how tired she was. There was no logical reason for her brain to even conceive the idea that the note from an unknown boy and a case of mistaken identity from a delirious patient were related in any way.
“Now just to be understanding ye proper,” she lowered herself onto the edge of his mattress and passed him the pad and pencil. “The man ye be speaking of, was he tall and clean shaven, with dark brown hair and pale blue eyes?”
Baker nodded.
“Did he have high cheekbones, a bump in the line o’ his nose, and a small scar on the left corner o’ his chin?”
He shrugged and cocked his head, looking at her oddly.
Heat singed her cheeks. She glanced at the row of seven cards he’d laid out across the blanket, but didn’t notice their number or their suit.
Pressing the tip of the pencil against the paper, Sergeant Baker wrote.
Gracie leaned forward and read the words upside down as fast as the sergeant could write them.
Doc looked like my sister’s first husband.
“And where be yer home?”
Broken Creek Hollow, Virginia.
“Doctor Ellard cannot be this man.” She shook her head. “He be from Philadelphia.”
Sergeant Baker scribbled furiously in the notebook while Gracie continued to make her case.
“His grandfather, be the man with the cane, who come here weeks ago. And I saw Doctor Ellard’s pocket watch, me own self. Engraved it was, from his mother to his da, with her miniature inside.”
He finished writing and shoved the book into her hands, tapping the page with his finger.
Jonathan went to Phil. 25—26 yrs. ago. A doc too.
Gracie stared at the words. She shuddered, that ominous feeling of someone walking over her grave.
That Baker would share this story now was a portentous twist of fate, but there were still gaping holes. She wouldn’t even pursue this if it hadn’t been for that note, which right now she wished she’d never found.
“But Doctor Ellard knows who he be. ’Tis all a strange coincidence, for ’tis not unusual for one man to look like another.”
He held her gaze for a moment then took the book and began writing.
When he passed her the book, she was almost afraid to read the words, as though once she learned the truth there would be no going back.
Jon went to Phil to bring back med supplies. His boy, my nephew went with him. They never came home.
Nausea rolled through her stomach. She glanced up from the paper and met Sergeant Baker’s dark brown eyes.
“What was the name o’his son?”
His gaze locked with hers. He whispered, “Jason.”
Gracie clamped her hand across her mouth. “Sweet Mary, Jesus, and Joseph,” she gasped against her palm.
Like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, the bits of information spun around in her head faster than she could sort through them. “And how old would the lad be today?”
Sergeant Baker rubbed his chin then shrugged and wrote. 29—30?
“On yer sainted mother, ye are sure o’ this?”
He nodded and wrote. Doctor looks just like Jonathan.
“What happened to them?”
Never knew. Thought them dead. Now??? He shrugged.
Trying to make sense of this would drive her to the madhouse. And to what purpose? None of this was her concern. No one but her knew about the rabbit.
If indeed Doctor Ellard had been born Jason, he was Charles now. Speaking of this to him would destroy his life.
She forced a smile and rose. “’Tis quite a tale, to be sure, but likely a coincidence. If he be here now, ye’d see that without yer fever, he’d look to be a different man.”
Sergeant Baker frowned. “Maybe,” he whispered with a shrug.
Notebook in hand, she returned to her desk in the center of the ward
. Four days until she left for Falmouth, and somehow, she wasn’t as confident as she’d like to be.
Chapter Ten
“Son-of-a-Goddamn-bitch!” Charles wadded the letter into a tight ball and flung it across the tiny hut. It bounced off the log wall and hit the floor. Seething, he snatched the pitcher off the make-shift wash stand and hurled it at the door. With a crash, the pitcher hit the wood and shattered.
He stared at the ruined stoneware, his chest heaving, his heart pounding. The audacity! How dare his grandfather presume to—
The door pushed inward, and Major Dennis stepped inside. Pottery crunched beneath his boot.
“What the hell happened here?” Major Dennis poked at the shattered pitcher with the toe of his boot.
“It broke.”
Dennis snorted. He pulled his gum rubber rain blanket over his head and gave it a shake before hanging it from a bent nail in the tent’s ridgepole. “Well don’t expect me to clean that up or fetch a new one.”
Charles said nothing. He merely stepped forward to hunker down and gather the shards. He should have remained calm. Now everyone in the regiment would have another Doctor Ellard story to share around the campfires.
“What’s this?” Dennis asked.
Charles pivoted on the balls of his feet.
The major uncurled the wadded up letter, then smoothed it out against his thigh.
“That’s mine.”
“Looks like you missed the fireplace.” Dennis backed away, his gaze focused on the page.
“Give me that.” Charles surged to his feet suddenly feeling he was ten years old again and back in boarding school.
“That’s mine.”
“Finders keepers.”
One of the boys tossed Bunzy to a friend.
“Give him back.”
“Charles sleeps with a bun-ny.”
Bunzy sailed across the room to another boy.
“Charles sleeps with a bun-ny.”
The keep-away game continued until Charles was crying and the other boys on his floor were laughing too hard to continue.
Grandfather had always believed his stern reprimands and threats of physical punishment had been the reason Charles had left Bunzy at home after the Christmas holiday.