The look in his eyes withered her. “My dear girl, if you cannot handle hearing of such things, how do you expect to walk among these poor men? Too weak to reach a toilet, they will need to be cleaned up, sometimes fed, their bedclothes changed. You must begin to think about it scientifically, rather than emotionally, and become accustomed to the sights, sounds, smells of the hospital.”
She felt her cheeks ignite in shame and vowed to hold her tongue from that point on. Eyes open, mouth shut, she told herself.
“Women nurses indeed,” she heard him mutter.
Briggs moaned then, and his eyelids fluttered open. One look into his eyes, and Charlotte’s stomach churned. His eyes closed again, and she looked at Dr. Markoe for an explanation.
“Yes, I was about to tell you about that. I have only seen it in two patients in this hospital. It’s an ulcer. It grows until it penetrates the cornea and evacuates the humors of the eye. From what I understand from other doctors, no patient has ever recovered who displayed this symptom.”
“What can you do for him?” Concern was etched into Mrs. Dowell’s brow.
“There is no point in any further treatment. If he were not so far along, we would have given him fresh fruits and vegetables, and given him opiates for the pain. But not now. It’s just too late.”
Charlotte looked at the boy again, and saw him as a person, not just a medical case. A boy, without even a shadow of stubble on his face. She tried to imagine what he had looked like before he had become emaciated. Before his complexion turned muddy, before his own skin betrayed him in great brown flakes. She was sure he had been handsome, full of life and energy, and only too anxious to defend his country. She wondered if he had a sweetheart, or if his heart still belonged to his mother or sisters. How shocked they would be to learn he had died before a single battle took place.
“Where is his mother?” she asked, frowning.
“We’ve tried to find her.”
“What will you tell her?”
“Her son died bravely for a glorious cause.”
But he wasn’t dying for a cause. He was dying alone of a preventable disease before he even shouldered a rifle.
Charlotte couldn’t fathom the pain his mother would feel when she learned her son had died without her comforting touch. She reached out and touched his scaly arm, dry and brittle beneath her fingertips. She gently moved her fingers into his palm and felt the slightest twitch of his fingers.
“He knows I’m here?” she asked the doctor.
“It’s difficult to say,” Dr. Markoe replied. “He is so weak. I’m sure his bed will be empty before too—”
“Shhhhh, shhhhh, Adam,” Charlotte drowned out the doctor’s words. “It’s going to be all right. You’re doing fine.”
Dr. Markoe shook his head. All three of them knew it was a lie. Perhaps Adam knew it, too, but his body seemed to relax under her hands.
“If you please, we need to move on.” Dr. Markoe pushed the spectacles up his hawk-like nose.
“This boy is some mother’s son, Doctor, and if what you say is true, he is slipping from this world to the next right before our eyes. There is a place for compassion, Dr. Markoe, even in the midst of your scientific observations,” Charlotte told him as they turned to leave Adam’s side.
Dr. Markoe sighed, deeply, slowly. “Sympathy doesn’t save lives. Science does. Efficiency does. If you feel too deeply, it will cloud your judgment, slow you down. I know it’s hard for you women to understand—that’s why medicine has always been a man’s job. But try. So, shall we?”
For the next three hours, Charlotte and Mrs. Dowell followed on Dr. Markoe’s heels, examining dozens of patients with pneumonia, fever, measles, rheumatism, tuberculosis, and several others whose symptoms were inconclusive. By eleven o’clock, Charlotte’s notebook had several pages of scribbled notes and her head was spinning.
It was time for a lunch break before the afternoon lectures would begin. But before Charlotte was dismissed, Dr. Markoe caught her attention.
“Miss Waverly, a moment, please.” She followed him into the hallway outside his ward.
“Yes, Doctor?”
“You’re awfully sure of yourself, young lady.” His small eyes bore into hers.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m tolerating your boldness because it’s your first day of training. But I can guarantee you, if you pass this course, if you actually get placed under an army surgeon, he will be looking for reasons to dismiss you. And you are giving him several.”
“I don’t understand!” Her spine tingled. She hadn’t done anything wrong.
“First and most obvious, you are young and attractive. You’ll be a distraction to the convalescent male nurses, to the medical students, and to the soldier patients themselves. And by distraction, I mean they will be tempted to interact with you in ways that will satisfy their hunger for female … companionship.”
Charlotte looked down, but her voice was firm. “Since I have kept to every regulation of the nursing uniform, I don’t know what else I can do to become even less attractive. What else would you have me do, shave my head?”
“Now that’s the second thing I’m referring to. Right there. Your quick tongue is going to get you in trouble. I understand your asking me questions in front of the patients because you are in training, and you are here to learn. But did it ever cross your mind that this is an exception, not the rule? If you question the surgeon like this after you’re given your assignment, it will appear as if—no, in truth, you will be—trying to undermine his authority, as a man, as a doctor, and as a military authority.”
Charlotte narrowed her eyes into slits as she looked up at him. “You will forgive me, sir, if I do not understand why asking questions is such a threatening thing. Wouldn’t it benefit everyone if I really understood what was going on?”
Dr. Markoe sighed and rubbed the back of his neck beneath the stethoscope cord. “Your father died a while ago, didn’t he?”
She blinked. “Yes, twelve years ago, but I fail to see how that has anything to do with this.”
“It has everything to do with it, Miss Waverly. You’ve been without the leadership of a father for quite some time, and you’ve never been subject to a husband. I understand how this is new to you. But if you want to be accepted as a nurse, you will do as the doctor says and not ask questions. Asking questions implies that you do not trust the doctor’s decisions, his diagnosis, or his treatment. It implies that you could do it better. That he is incompetent. That’s grounds for dismissal.”
“But how can they do that if I’m given an assignment through Miss Dix?”
“Dorothea Dix is not taken seriously by most men in the army. She has power only to recommend, not to enforce. In other words, she might send you to a hospital for placement, but if the surgeon finds a reason to fire you—or fabricates one—out you’ll go. He’s still in charge.”
Charlotte felt her anger beginning to boil to the surface and fought to retain control of her voice. “What, then, Dr. Markoe, do you suggest Ido?”
His mouth tipped up in a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “No need to be upset with me, Miss Waverly. I’m just giving you a bit of free advice. You seem to believe that being in this program means you’re ready to take charge and do things better. If you don’t drop that strong-minded, woman-of-reform attitude, no doctor, and I mean not one, will want to work with you. You haven’t proven anything yet, and what’s more, every step of the way you’ll be on the edge of losing what you’ve gained. If you don’t like the sound of that, you might as well go home now.”
She remembered the words Caleb spoke to her at the dance. What if your stepping out of formation was actually a step in the right direction?
Even if Caleb had been right, she suspected there was truth to what Dr. Markoe said, as well. All nursing candidates had, indeed, stepped out of formation the moment they had applied for the training. But if they were to get much further in this male domain, they woul
d have to tread lightly and watch their step.
And Charlotte would have to watch her tongue.
Chapter Nine
Sunday, June 2, 1861
Phineas Hastings couldn’t help humming to himself as his carriage rumbled along Fifth Avenue toward the Waverlys’ four-story brownstone on Sixteenth Street. A dozen crimson roses lay on the red leather bench next to him, releasing their sweet fragrance with every jolt and bump over the cobblestones. He had had his doubts about courting Charlotte before, but today his mind was made up. She was beautiful, refined, wealthy, real “upper crust.” She was everything he needed.
Phineas pulled his gold watch from his vest pocket and checked the time. Three forty-five. Perfect. Just enough time to pick up Charlotte and get to Central Park for the most popular carriage-riding hour.
He rubbed his thumb over the inscription on the watch’s back. P.J.H. His father’s initials, as well as his own. It was his only link to his father since he’d gone to California during the gold rush of 1849. It was supposed to be pawned if Phineas and his mother ever needed money while his father was gone, but neither Phineas nor his mother could part with it, even when they were getting by on flour and water. Even though his father had never come back, they survived without him. Phineas went from boy to man overnight when he realized it was up to him to take care of himself and his mother. He had done it, too.
His mother had been ready to move into the poorhouse, but Phineas had refused.
“I can take care you,” he’d told her.
And she laughed. “Go on, now! You’re just a boy, you couldn’t possibly!”
But he had. Though it meant working, selling, borrowing, and begging, he had proven her wrong. They had survived, and now they thrived. Thank God that old life was behind them.
Phineas slipped the watch back into his pocket and patted it. His own mother may not have believed in him, but Charlotte did, and that was all that mattered now. A wife on his arm was the only hole he had to fill before achieving the full respect of his peers. It was time. It was past time.
The brass knocker sounded on the front door, jolting Charlotte awake. She was two weeks into her training course at New York Hospital, and though she would never admit it to her mother, she was exhausted. Leaving every morning at six o’clock, arriving home at five in the afternoon, and still keeping up with her music and French lessons was wearing her down. She hurried to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face while Jane answered the door.
When she emerged, there was Phineas at the end of the hallway, his tall figure silhouetted by the sunlight behind him. In one hand, he held his hat by the brim, in the other elbow lay a bouquet of roses.
“Phineas, thank you!” She bent over the roses and inhaled their fragrance before handing them to Jane. “I only wish I were half as fresh as those roses.”
He smiled and took her hand in his. “Nonsense! ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate …’”
She nodded in appreciation. “Speaking of a summer’s day, I can’t wait to get out in it.”
“Your wish is my command. How about a ride through Central Park?”
“Perfect.” Whether he wanted to go to show off his horses or to enjoy nature in the heart of the city, she didn’t care. All that mattered to her was that she could sit down in the carriage, feel the warmth of the sun, and try for a fleeting moment to let the sights and sounds of the hospital recede to the back of her mind.
They stepped outside to a sky of robin’s egg blue. Charlotte tipped her white-fringed parasol to the side and lifted her face to the sun, closed her eyes and let the golden warmth wash over her.
“I bet your mother would be appalled if she peeked out her window right now,” teased Phineas.
“But of course!” Charlotte chuckled. “Anything that might bring some color to my skin, she’s against.”
“And anything she is against, you are for. Am I right?”
Her eyes widened as Phineas helped her into the carriage. “It’s not my intention to constantly be at odds with her, you know. But you’re right, there are many things upon which we disagree. Little things, like the importance of a pale complexion, and big things, too.”
“Such as your hospital training.” He clucked to his horses and the carriage lurched forward in obedience.
“Such as my hospital training. Yes, exactly.”
“Don’t be too hard on her for not wanting you to subject yourself to all the rumors. I don’t like to think of your name being slandered, either.”
“Fiddlesticks. I don’t care what people say. I know the truth, and so does she, and so do you. My motives are pure. I just want to help.”
He patted her hand the way a father would console a child. “Of course, dear. We all do.”
She closed her eyes for a moment and listened to the clip-clopping of the horses’ hooves, steady, predictable, comforting.
“Phineas.” Charlotte turned to face him. “Why haven’t you enlisted?”
He cleared his throat. “New York doesn’t need any more fighting men. We’ve already sent more than any other state in the Union.”
She nodded, but the answer didn’t resonate with her. The W.C.A.R. had been inundated with applicants for the nursing slots, and that hadn’t stopped her from pursuing it anyway.
“Well then, how are you helping?” She hoped the question sounded merely curious, not accusatory.
Phineas stared at her. “Excuse me?”
“You said we all want to help, and I think you’re right—I’m going to be a nurse, Alice and Mother are organizing supplies, and I was just wondering if you want to help, what are you doing? For the cause?”
A moment passed, and a shadow darkened his face.
“Too many questions?” Charlotte said quietly. When he still said nothing, she plunged ahead. “Dr. Markoe told me that asking men questions shows that I don’t trust them. I’m sorry if that’s how I came across. I just wanted to know.”
“Wise man.” Phineas turned his gaze to the road. “You already know how I feel about the cause. Everyone does—I’m one of the most outspoken abolitionists in the city. If I stir people’s hearts for the cause of freedom, if I move them to action to defend liberty and preserve the Union, isn’t that enough? I daresay it is. Passion fuels the fight, Charlotte, and I ignite that passion.”
“Of course you are right, Phineas. You are an inspiration to all of us.” She settled back into the seat and stared straight ahead.
They fell silent as they entered the park at the southeast corner and followed the drive around the pond and through lush green grounds. It was a small slice of Eden tucked within an ever-expanding city.
Phineas slowed his horses down to rest under a canopy of maple leaves and turned to face Charlotte.
“We’re stopping?” She looked around.
“Charlotte.” Phineas doffed his hat and began turning it in slow circles in his hands. “I want to talk to you about—where we are going.”
Ah, so this would be the day. He had her full attention now, but she could imagine what he would say. She had gotten this far with other men before, but never beyond it.
“Charlotte,” he began again. “You are the most exquisite woman I’ve ever met. You’re beautiful without trying to be. You’re graceful in every movement you make—every tilt of the chin, every turn of your head, every lift of your hand. Every word that falls from your lips is like music. Every step you take is like a choreographed dance. I am completely bewitched. You have cast a spell over me—one that I never want to be broken.”
In spite of herself, Charlotte found that her heart was beating faster as he gripped her hands in his.
“Would you do me the honor—that is, would you consider allowing me to provide for you, protect you, and care for you as my wife? I would be the happiest man alive.” He opened a small blue box labeled TIFFANY & Co. to reveal a gold ring with a sapphire circled with diamonds.
Charlotte clo
sed her eyes and looked for a vision of the future he was offering to her. For a moment, she considered saying yes. But her conscience would not allow her to accept without telling him her secret.
She sighed. “Phineas. You have been very good to me. I know that if I were your wife, I would want for nothing, for you would provide for my every need, even my every want.”
He nodded, but she could tell he was concerned. This wasn’t the one-word answer he had been hoping for.
“But I’m afraid I would not be able to give you everything you want—what a man deserves to have from his wife.”
“What?” Phineas dropped her hands and picked up his hat again, spinning it around and around in his hands. “Whatever do you mean? I would require nothing of you, nothing at all. The responsibility to provide would be all mine! When my father died, I performed my duty to provide for my mother until her passing, God rest her soul, and I long to provide for my wife. Please, let it be you.”
“I don’t know how to put this delicately.” Charlotte bit her lip and willed her voice to be steady. She should be able to do this, she had done it before. “I can’t give you—children.”
He sat back, staring at her as if she had just spoken a foreign language.
“Children?” he finally said.
“I can’t have them.”
“You don’t want them?”
“No! I want them Phineas, I can’t have them. My body never—” She searched the sky. How could she tell a man she had never had a menstrual cycle? “My body is not—equipped—it seems, to bear children.”
Phineas shook his head. As she watched his face, she could almost see him conjuring up a picture of home and hearth without any babies to rock to sleep or toddlers to bounce on his knee. No child to adore. No daughter to give away in marriage, no son to carry on the family name. No one wanted that.
He would dismiss her now, as every other suitor had.
“Is that all?” He half-laughed the question.
Wedded to War Page 7