We were interrupted by the arrival of the man himself, Sidney Herbert, leaving me puzzled as to why Sidney’s work as secretary of war had anything to do with my work as superintendent of the Establishment. We stood as he entered, and he smiled upon beholding his wife, as though he hadn’t seen her in years instead of having parted ways with her after breakfast toast and sausages. It was hard to believe that he had once been besotted with society beauty Caroline Norton, who, unable to obtain a divorce from her foul and despicable husband, had ended their torrid affair. He had married Elizabeth Ashe à Court-Repington the same year, and had seemed to easily transfer his affections from Norton to Elizabeth.
Now, Liz returned the adoration in kind, and once more I swallowed bitter-tasting bile.
If I hadn’t been so insistent on nursing as my destiny, I might now be living in a fine home with laughing children and a handsome man delighting daily in my very presence.
Instead, I was on the verge of disaster on all fronts.
Enough, I told myself. My situation at the Establishment had been divinely granted, and I would face any hardships with fortitude and concealed pain.
Herbert greeted me with his hands on my shoulders and a kiss to both cheeks. His cologne was vaguely flowery.
“Ah, Florence, how good to have you here to entertain my lovely Elizabeth. But I am quite certain you two were gossiping about me as I came in, and you must tell me why.” He sat in the middle of a settee, leaning back with his legs crossed and one arm laid casually across the back of the sofa. It was a relaxed position, but I sensed that he was tense.
Liz must have noticed it too, for she said cheerfully, “I don’t know about you, my love, but I am famished. Florence, won’t you stay for luncheon? I insist that we save talk of anything save the weather and the new infant Prince Leopold for the dining table.”
“To the contrary, dearest, I believe the only topic of conversation that can be had pre-luncheon regards our own little Mary, George, Maud, and Sidney.”
Thus did we spend the next hour discussing the Herbert children, particularly George. He was three years old now, and his father already had grandiose plans for the boy to rise higher than his father. Little Sidney, just seven months old, was making extraordinary gains at crawling and eating whatever would fit in his mouth. Several odd glances passed between Sidney and Liz as they gushed over their children, and finally I could stand it no more.
“Is there some secret lurking in this room?” I asked, just as a subtle bell tinkled from somewhere nearby and we rose to go to the dining room. “I’ll not be able to digest any food whatsoever unless you share it with me.”
Sidney nodded at Liz, and she said, beaming with happiness, “Very few people know yet, but we are expecting another child in the spring.”
So soon! “Why, that’s wonderful news,” I said, going to her and embracing her tightly. “I am already imagining the engraved rattle I will purchase for him or her.” How was it possible to be at once so filled with both joy and envy?
Sidney’s grin threatened to split his face in half. “I’m thinking it will be another girl this time, as beautiful as her mother.”
Liz rolled her eyes, but she was obviously pleased by the compliment. “I have the feeling that I will produce nothing but boys for you from this point forward.”
We sat down to a glorious mayonnaise of salmon as well as braised carrots, buttered peas, and potato croquettes, luxurious fare compared to what I consumed at the Establishment despite Mrs. Roper’s considerable talents, and no doubt my own digestion would suffer later. At least now Mrs. Roper could prepare some rice milk for me if I needed it.
Our dining conversation turned serious across the damask tablecloth, with Sidney discussing meetings being held at the War Office. “Lord Aberdeen has ordered the British fleet to the Black Sea to demonstrate to Tsar Nicholas that Great Britain will not tolerate Russian aggression. The Russians simply cannot be permitted to gain territory and power at Ottoman expense.”
Sidney took to his subject with zeal. Soon enough he was arranging salt spoons, glasses, knives, and a variety of nuts, fruit, and sweetmeats from the silver epergne centerpiece to demonstrate exactly how the Russians were wrongfully taking territory. “I find the tsar’s claim that he is attempting to protect the rights of Orthodox Christians in the Holy Land from the Turks to be more than a little outlandish,” he said, waving an almond in the air.
Liz watched avidly as her husband piled up filbert nuts, cut dried plums, and laid out the curved-edge fish server as part of his explanation. As for me, I saw something else entirely. It was obvious from listening to the man in charge of the War Office that negotiations with the Russians were at an end, no matter what the newspapers might say. That meant that Her Majesty’s soldiers were at the beginning of their ordeal.
“How many doctors will go with the troops?” I asked. “I’ve heard much about troop numbers, tents, and bullets, but nothing about food, clothing, and care.” I was far more focused on the casualties of men’s political dealings than on the strategies and tactics of winning bureaucratic conflicts.
Sidney’s mouth formed an O at my question. I had clearly rattled him. “I, well … I suppose that the War Office is more concerned with ensuring that this is a quick effort. If it comes to pass, that is. We don’t intend for this to last more than a couple of months, as our spies tell us that the Russian commanders are old and incompetent, much like their muskets. Besides”—now Sidney seemed to have regained his mental footing—“Englishmen are made of stern and hardy stuff. A few passing bullets won’t stop them from doing their duty, and most are experienced enough to wrap a few bandages themselves.”
I was appalled by my friend’s cavalier dismissal. I was already considering the amount of morphine, laundering facilities, eggs, tea, and fresh water that would be needed to care for injured men. “Don’t be foolish,” I snapped, suddenly agitated. “There will be more than ‘passing bullets’ and you know it. The men will need not only rescue from the battlefield but decent restoration to health. Particularly after the surgeons get to them.”
But Sidney Herbert shrugged, ready to change the subject by reviving Liz’s and my earlier discussion prior to his arrival home. “Speaking of surgeons, it has reached my ears that you are having an inordinate number of visits from surgeons and doctors, but for your staff, not your inmates.”
“Lady Canning told you,” I said flatly.
Sidney shook his head. “Actually, no. Cyril Matthews has kept me abreast of the goings-on at the Establishment. He seems concerned for your well-being. Lady Canning is, too, but mostly from the perspective of keeping her treasured venture afloat. Matthews has expressed great interest in you personally.”
Now it was my turn to be discomfited. “How do you know him? And why would he do that?” I had met him only the one time in Roderick Alban’s offices at the Royal Exchange. He was surely a busy man. Why would he be concerned with the superintendent of a small hospital?
“Cyril is a liaison between the government and the Royal Exchange so that we can monitor trade dealings, especially those with hostile countries. I’ve asked him about you myself, actually. He says his interest is impersonal, that he would like to see Parliament be more concerned about the health and welfare of its citizens, and he believes that forward-thinkers such as you, Florence, will bring about monumental change in the country.”
I may have believed my life’s work to be God-breathed, but I certainly did not view myself in such lofty terms. “He is very kind, but for the moment, I would be grateful to simply discover who has killed one of my nurses.”
“Yes, that,” Sidney said, now rearranging his culinary troops back into their original places as food and dining ware. “I know you did not wish it, but Liz has been asking me to intercede on your behalf, Flo, to bring influence to bear upon the police to take your nurse’s death more seriously. I hate to disappoint my wife, but I don’t think it will be possible.”
With the tabl
e back in order, he continued. “Liz recommended you to Lady Canning for the position you now hold, so essentially that recommendation comes from me as well. I didn’t mind, of course. We both have great faith in your competence, and Liz made a very impassioned speech to her about your great intellect and passion for nursing. However, the queen herself knows that Liz—we—recommended you for the position, so your success or failure reflects upon me. If I were to ask for a special favor to assist in solving a murder that occurred under your auspices—particularly after only a week in your position—it would seem as though our trust in you was misplaced. Neither your reputation nor mine would be helped for it, and I suspect the queen would happily see you removed.” Sidney shook his head dolefully. “I’m sorry, but you will have to do this on your own, Flo.”
I had been doing so up until this point, anyway, and I certainly did not want my friend placed in an uncomfortable position. I was about to say so and emphasize that I had not requested his help and so felt no loss in not receiving it, but Liz was not yet ready to give up.
“But Sidney,” she said, protesting with the great charm she possessed. “Don’t you think that it would further your own career to put Florence’s case before the queen? Flo has so many ideas for nursing that could be of great benefit to hospitals across the country. You would be the éminence grise who secretly initiated a modern reformation, only not of faith, but of healing. We just need to see this delicate situation resolved.”
He laughed gently. “My dear, I am no power broker remaining hidden behind the draperies. Besides, you know the queen’s position on women in elevated positions. Herself excepted, of course. Remember her apoplexy over that Elizabeth Blackwell woman going to America, then Paris, for medical training, then coming back and attempting to enter St. Bart’s? It was probably for the best that Blackwell returned to New York City.”
Thus I preferred not to have royal notice. At least not while I was in such a precarious position. I could only imagine the queen’s reaction to my situation.
But Liz was not to be deterred. “What about the prince? He is very interested in helping society improve. He also has great influence over Her Majesty. Might he not be able to help?”
“Perhaps,” Sidney said doubtfully. “But Albert is far more interested in scientific invention as a way to advance society. Besides, he is adamantly against British involvement in the Crimea, so I wouldn’t exactly consider him an ally at the moment.”
With that, he rose from the table, an indication that luncheon was over. He was soon on his way back to his offices.
“Don’t worry, dear,” Liz whispered to me as I embraced her once more before leaving. “I will talk to my husband, and you will receive the help you need. I promise.”
She was so firm in her opinion that I needed his help that I didn’t argue. Besides, Sidney Herbert struck me as being quite firm in his decision, and I didn’t believe that even his wife’s impending delivery and all of his indulgence in her that that entailed would result in his changing his mind.
Perhaps, though, Cyril Matthews could be an objective source of assistance. He had mentioned wanting to meet with me in a few weeks. Maybe I should visit him sooner.
* * *
I returned to a hodgepodge of bustling activity at the Establishment, my penance for leaving the building for just a couple of hours.
First, there was the wretched Alice Drayton, who was carrying on like a banshee so that anyone in the building could hear her. Nurse Wilmot was with Alice, wild-eyed herself from dealing with the inmate’s hysteria. “I don’t know what to do, Miss. Do we need restraints? She says Nurse Bellamy has stolen a cameo pin from her.”
“No, no, no!” Miss Drayton shouted from her bed, lunging out as if to slap Wilmot, who deftly stepped out of reach. “Not Bellamy, you insipid little tramp. It was that boy!”
I did not know if the woman had come into the hospital with any sort of fine jewelry. With Mary at my elbow once more, I asked her to make a notation that inmate belongings required cataloging. I then calmed Miss Drayton down as best I could, although she was quite irrational. I clasped my hands in front of me and said softly, forcing her to be quiet herself in order to hear me, “I am sorry your brooch is missing. Did you witness it being stolen?”
If I had hoped my slow actions would help the situation, I was mistaken. Alice Drayton proceeded to rail on about the perfidy of Nurse Bellamy, John Wesley, Nurse Wilmot, and Polly Roper, then threw in Dr. Killigrew and me for good measure. Everyone appeared to have either stolen from her or tried to murder her. I no longer put any credence in her tale of Nurse Bellamy having once tried to murder her.
The woman was dotty.
I decided in that moment to try something else. “Miss Drayton, it has been a couple of days since I checked on your progress. Open your mouth now, will you?”
My request startled her into obedience. I was even more startled, for her ulcers were completely gone. Dr. Killigrew’s urine cure had really, truly worked. It didn’t make sense to me, given that disease spreads and multiplies through miasmas. Perhaps it was that the amount of urine she quickly drank, mixed as it was with sugar and water, did not produce enough noxious air to harm in conjunction with whatever restorative properties her urine might have.
I could not understand how urine could cure one of anything, but I couldn’t argue with the result.
“Miss Drayton, I do believe you are ready to go home now,” I pronounced.
“What?” she said, confused. “No, I need a cup of tea. Tea. I told that girl hours ago that I need a pot, but she just ignores me.”
Wilmot held up her hands—the nails of which appeared to have finally come in contact with a scrub brush—and shook her head. I guessed this was the first she was hearing about Alice Drayton’s need for tea.
“Nurse Wilmot will get you a lovely pot of tea, Miss Drayton, while we send word to your sister that you are quite well now.”
But Alice Drayton was off in her own world of complaint and grievance. “How many times must I ask? Even a dying person would be offered tea…”
At least she had stopped her infernal howling.
“What of Dr. Killigrew?” Wilmot asked hesitantly. “Don’t he have to give the say-so for her to leave?”
“In this instance, we might have to take matters into our own hands.” Yes, I was going against my own rules for showing doctors their proper respect, but I preferred to endure Killigrew’s chastisement over another moment of Alice Drayton.
From Alice Drayton’s room, I dragged Mary with me to see John Wesley. Harris had the boy on a crutch, and together they were attempting to exit the room for an amble down the hall. Mary and I stepped back to give them room.
The boy gave me a wave with his free hand, but even that effort seemed difficult for him. His injured leg was straight under the firmly wrapped bandages, but he was clearly in excruciating pain. His lips trembled as he attempted not to cry out. He relied heavily on Nurse Harris to help him limp along on his good foot.
I wanted to ask him about Alice Drayton’s accusation, as bizarre and unreasonable as it had been, simply because I had so few trails to follow. I wasn’t even sure what her stolen brooch—if it even existed—had to do with Nurse Bellamy, other than Alice’s ranting about both her and John Wesley having stolen it.
As I observed the boy struggling gamely to take a few steps down the hall, I realized this was not my moment. “Nurse Harris, I don’t think the boy is ready for this yet. Let’s let him rest a couple more days.”
As Harris returned John Wesley to his room, I took off again with Mary in my wake, intending to take care of several tasks before going to see Mr. Matthews. I reached the bottom of the staircase and put my hand to the carved lion newel, a fancy of the lord who had once lived here, and it was there that Polly Roper stopped me.
“Miss Nightingale,” she said. Polly was perspiring as though she had run a great distance. “I’ve been working on some recipes ever since you left, and I though
t you might like to taste…?”
I was impressed that she had taken it upon herself to heed my advice. My other work could wait. I followed her down into the kitchens, where she presented me with an array of burbling pans over the cooktop fire and ceramic dishes laid out on the worktable. There was also a pitcher full of golden-yellow liquid on the table.
“What is this?” I asked, pointing to the pitcher.
Her eyes just about disappeared into their sockets as she grinned with pride. “I invented a nourishing lemonade, Miss. Would you like to try it?”
She got cups for both Mary and me and poured samples into them. I was pleasantly surprised. The drink was sweet, syrupy, and quite tasty. “Delicious,” I pronounced. “What’s in it?”
Mrs. Roper became more animated than I had ever seen her before. “I took your recipe for egg wine and modified it for lemonade. I boiled water and poured it over lemon rind and sugar in the pitcher. While it cooled, I worked on some of these other dishes here, such as these stewed rabbits in milk, and mutton jelly, and—”
“Mrs. Roper,” I said. “First tell me about the lemonade.”
“Oh, yes. So when the mixture cooled, I strained it, added sherry, some finely beaten eggs, and quite a bit of loaf sugar. For more flavor, I rubbed a few lumps of sugar over the strained rinds until they turned yellow and added the lumps to the drink. I briskly stirred it all, and you are drinking the result.”
“Well done,” I said warmly. “A fine offering for the inmates.”
“And this is my stewed rabbit.” She indicated a large pan resting on the burners, which had been turned down to a low flame. “I made a nice little sauce of flour—not arrowroot—mixed with milk, a blade of mace, a little salt, and a pinch of cayenne. I cut up two rabbits and put them in the stewpan, poured the sauce over the meat, and simmered it about half an hour until the rabbit was quite tender. Using young rabbits is the secret, Miss Nightingale, to having it come out soft and flavorful. I think that is what you would want.” She dished a bit of it out for me.
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