A Murderous Malady

by Christine Trent

  “Nichols, fetch my box of Havanas, would you? As well as my Indian silk jacket and slippers. I’m of a mind to smoke.” the General said.

  The look she shot him was pure venom, no doubt because she considered the work beneath her position, but she dutifully replied, “Right away, sir.”

  Once the maid was gone, the General calmed down considerably for some reason and began gathering up the fallen toy soldiers.

  “Here now, Miss Nightingale, there’s no need for all this fuss and bother. We are both reasonable people. I’m sure you can conduct your little investigation without dragging my good name into it.” He lined up all the pieces in a round wood box whose lid was marked “Warwick’s Tin Soldiers, Swords, and Shields.”

  I said nothing, not willing to commit to his request and also not desiring to continue our verbal combat.

  Nichols returned with the requested cigar box in one hand, and in the other a knee-length floral-patterned coat in garish shades of red and yellow, with quilted black cuffs and lapel and frog closures. In that same hand she also carried matching slippers. She placed the cigar box on the table atop the recently concluded Battle of Waterloo, handed the clothing to the General, and escaped with undisguised haste.

  He waited until the maid was gone, then said, “And so, if you will excuse me now, Miss Nightingale, I should like to enjoy a puff. In private.”

  Irritation burbled in my throat and I was on the verge of asking him whether he thought his daughter would approve of his dismissive tone with me, but I swallowed my indignation and took my leave. I still did not want to upset Liz before it was necessary. Having a spat with her father—when surely things were already tense between the General and Sidney—would accomplish nothing.

  Besides, I was already turning over one of the General’s comments in my mind. What foolish thoughts and actions had he considered Sidney to have taken lately?

  * * *

  I had no time to dwell upon the matter, for as I left the General and made my way down the corridor to the staircase, bemused by the fact that I was apparently family enough that no servant was summoned to escort me out of the home, I overheard hushed, angry voices coming from the other end of the corridor. One of those voices unmistakably belonged to Alice Nichols.

  I looked around and saw no servants or family members nearby. I even looked over the balcony at the top of the staircase to ensure there was no one about to come up the stairs.

  I felt both ridiculous and devious for wanting to hear what the Herbert maid was saying. I crept farther down the corridor, careful to stay on the Turkish carpet running down the center of the floor to avoid stepping on a bare floorboard that might creak.

  I gently pushed on a door hanging ajar, from behind which the voices were coming. As I slowly opened it, I realized that the door opened into a small anteroom, and the speakers were in a large bedchamber beyond it. The bedchamber was done in masculine tones of burgundy and forest green. Trunks and leather-handled bags were stacked up on the floor to one side of the bed, indicating the arrival of a visitor to this room.

  Standing in the middle of that room were Alice Nichols and a man I could only presume to be Charles Henry à Court, given his resemblance to the General himself; except this man was more cultivated and finespun in appearance. His clothes were elegantly tailored, and he was so darkly handsome that it was immediately apparent why Nichols had lost her senses over him.

  Right now, though, the two were in a heated argument.

  “I have to go,” Charles Henry hissed. “My sister will wonder what’s taking me so long. I told her I had forgotten to pack my favorite dining jacket and was having her new coachman drive me to Henry Poole’s to purchase a new one. What happened to Pagg?”

  “You mean the dead Joss Pagg? He was murdered. Last week.” Nichols sounded almost spiteful.

  “Is that right? Lizzie didn’t mention it,” Charles Henry replied, seemingly unperturbed by the news. They shifted to speaking in tones so low that I couldn’t hear anything, and then Charles Henry raised his voice as he said, “I’ve told you. I cannot do this. I’ll not be caught out again.”

  “After all I have done for you. To help you. Why would you cast me aside?” Nichols’s tone was now plaintive. She threw her arms around his neck, and he took a step backward from the force of the maid pressing herself seductively against him.

  “You know what my father will do. I cannot afford to disappoint him any more than I have. Besides, the help has not been one-sided.” He took both of her hands in his and removed them from around his neck, gently pushing her away.

  Glittering tears sprang into Nichols’s eyes. “You are evil, Charles Henry Wyndham à Court. I should tell—”

  “Do not even suggest it,” Charles Henry warned, cutting off her threat by putting a finger to her lips.

  She grabbed that finger and kissed it. “You cannot possibly intend to—”

  He pulled his hand away from her, his expression showing regret at having touched her in such an intimate way.

  The tears dried. “Perhaps Mrs. Herbert should know who her brother really is.” Nichols was angry and snide again.

  “Be quiet, you little fool, or I will silence you myself.” Charles Henry tore himself completely away from her, and I realized that Liz’s brother meant to leave the room.

  I fled the house before he could see me and headed back toward the Establishment.

  CHAPTER 18

  By the next morning, I had calmed down from both my encounter with the General and the scene I had witnessed between his son and Alice Nichols. I knew I shouldn’t be concerned with intimate family affairs, but I couldn’t help but think that there was something very problematic in the household, not the least of which were the irregular levels of concern shown for the deceased coachman. Neither the General nor his son seemed to find it troublesome at all, whereas Sidney and Liz were very naturally distressed by it. Servants did become part of the family, after all.

  I wondered what Charles Henry’s reaction would have been to hear of Fenton’s death, another casualty for which the General had no compassion.

  After breakfast, I asked Mary to join me in the library. I decided I wanted to completely clear my mind by working on pulling together some of my thoughts on nursing. My idea was to one day publish a volume of these thoughts and use any proceeds to fund the work I was doing to improve the profession. I didn’t want to be indebted to committees, investors, or charities for my work. I wished to do it all my way, unfettered by a patron. If I could secure money in a way that was entirely my own doing, I could avoid that obligation.

  Promising Mary that we would discuss what I had encountered at the Herberts’ once we were done, we sat down to develop topic areas for my advice on good nursing practices, which I thought was a good way to begin organizing my thoughts.

  “I don’t think this should be aimed just at nurses, Goose,” I mused. “Ordinary women should understand how to properly care for the sick, much as I have done my entire life. They should know that their homes must be as well ventilated and well lit, as clean and comfortable, as stocked with nourishing food as any hospital.”

  Mary nodded as she opened her notebook, and we began to work. I soon became immersed in addressing how someone nursing the sick should make inspections of her patient: asking questions that were neither leading nor misleading, asking about the proper symptoms, and cultivating proper observations about what the patient not only said but did not say. Soon I was downright pontificating on the subject and Mary was having a difficult time keeping her pen moving at the same pace as my speech.

  This exercise was distracting enough that I soon felt as if I had put a sufficient distance between myself and earlier events, providing a fresh opportunity to look at the facts in a new light. After an hour or so of note-making, we were both tired, so I shifted to telling her about my visit to Herbert House. My recounting included Sidney’s consultation with me about hospital design in the Crimea, Liz’s inability to remember
much about the carriage routing, the General’s combative exchange with me, and the conversation I had overheard between Charles Henry à Court and Alice Nichols.

  I saved the worst of it all for last, steeling myself for Mary’s reaction to the news that Caroline Norton had been roosting outside Herbert House. My friend did not disappoint.

  “I told you that woman was not to be trusted. I didn’t even need to meet her to know that. Human nature is what it is, Miss Florence,” Mary said primly, folding her ink-stained hands on the open notebook in her lap. “She intends to destroy that home in any way she can, and her status will enable her to get away with it.”

  “Perhaps,” I replied noncommittally. It was an unthinkable idea, but I had seen something similar happen before, so I couldn’t completely discredit it.

  “Of course it is what happened,” Mary insisted, her head bobbing up and down. “Women cannot tolerate rivals for their affections.”

  She wouldn’t be budged from the idea.

  John Wesley came limping into the room with Arthur Maddox on his heels. “Now watch me,” John Wesley said to Arthur, who clearly already worshiped his new friend.

  “I will,” Arthur said.

  John Wesley bowed his head and held out his palms to me. Spread across his hands was an envelope with a Penny Red stamp on it. It was addressed in a tidy, feminine script.

  “Why the formality, John Wesley?” I asked.

  He inclined his head over to Arthur. “He needs to know the ways of the world, maum. Money has to be earned properly now, don’t it?”

  “You little scamp,” I said fondly, still pulling two pennies out of my pocket and giving one to each of the boys. As was his custom, John Wesley kissed the coin and tucked it into his shoe, and Arthur imitated him perfectly. I really shouldn’t have paid him for walking less than a hundred feet to bring me a message, but John Wesley was difficult to resist. I wondered what slate of terrible lessons he had in store for the other boy.

  He and Arthur departed the library, and I opened the missive.

  If only I could have had my pennies back; better yet, if only the boys had just accidentally dropped the letter into a fire grate. It was a note from Caroline Norton, asking me to meet her at her home as soon as I could do so, as she had something of vital importance to discuss.

  I showed it to Mary. “I guess I can dash off a note to Sidney that I’ve already found her.”

  “I told you,” she said in triumph, but then in a motherly tone advised, “I’d put on my best day dress if I were you.”

  * * *

  An hour later I sat across from Caroline Norton in her spacious lodgings. Dominating her place was her study, which was packed floor-to-ceiling on every wall with bookcases, stuffed full of books on every topic imaginable. Thomas Carlyle’s lending library in St. James’s Square would be envious of her collection, although I believed one would have found that library more neatly arranged. Caroline’s study was that of someone who was in perpetual motion and could not be bothered to organize and neaten her belongings, so important were her tasks.

  It was in direct contradiction to the beautifully groomed and arranged woman who sat at her desk before me. It made me glad I had followed Mary’s advice to put on my favorite burgundy dress edged in black piping, even if the weather was a little warm for it.

  Caroline was in the middle of writing a letter. Actually, it seemed to be several letters simultaneously, based on the pages that lay across her desk.

  “Miss Nightingale, thank you for coming,” Caroline said, rising from her work. She bumped against her desk, and a jar of ink sloshed but did not spill over the rim. We both exhaled held breath at the same moment. “No doubt you hesitated to see me,” she resumed. “I assure you that my intentions are noble.”

  She came around the desk, practically gliding in a well-practiced movement. She offered me her hand to shake, and then we both sat down together on a long settee in front of one set of bookcases. The settee was done in alternating ultramarine, crimson, and mustard stripes.

  “I wished to apologize to you in person,” she began. “But I didn’t think I should disturb you at the hospital.”

  “How did you know that is where I reside?”

  She shrugged. “Such things are not difficult to discover. However, I was quite rude to you, and for that I am sorry. I wished for you not to think poorly of me and wanted to explain my situation to you.”

  I held up a hand. I didn’t want to be drawn into a web of sympathy for her. “It’s hardly necessary to—”

  “But I must,” she interrupted me. “First, where are my manners? Would you like some tea?”

  I declined, knowing that this would draw out the visit and serve to make us too familiar with one another.

  “You have an impressive library here, Mrs. Norton,” I remarked, not just to be polite but because it was the absolute truth.

  She smiled, genuinely proud of her collection. “This is actually my uncle’s home, although this room is my domain. He has graciously allowed me to live here under his protection. He travels a great deal, so it is almost as if I am mistress of my own home, except without the vicious threats, the burning of my papers, and the punching of holes into walls and doors.”

  I had no idea how to respond to this, so I only sat silently with my hands folded in my lap.

  She sighed. “Very well, I don’t know what Sidney may have told you about me, but please allow me to clear the air. I suppose I should start by telling you how I have reached the wretched state I am currently in.

  “My grandpapa died in poverty when I was but seven years old, and my father died the following year, putting my family in dire financial straits. The Duke of Albany was an old family friend, and he managed to secure my mother and I a grace-and-favor apartment at Hampton Court.

  “When I was sixteen, George Norton—at the time a Tory member for Guildford—spotted me during some sort of Christmas festivities at the palace and asked for my hand in marriage. I had no dowry, but he didn’t care, so besotted was he with me.”

  I remembered that Sidney had used that exact term, besotted, to describe the mutual feelings between him and Caroline.

  “I didn’t want to marry George, for I sensed something dark in him, but my mother was in full support of the match, since it would rescue us from poverty.”

  I was already feeling far more empathy for Caroline than I wished. It was causing me to lose my objective grip on the situation.

  “The early years of our marriage were surprisingly successful. We managed to have three children. I used my beauty and wit to develop political connections, and I became a society hostess. My connections could have helped to advance George’s legal career, but he wasn’t particularly good at the law. He also wasn’t particularly good at managing our finances, so we began to fight bitterly.

  “George eventually proved himself to be as stupid a brute as I had anticipated. He was not only unfaithful, but he banged about from one raging torment to the next. It was as though the devil himself rode around in his coat pocket, and the minute George reached in, he would be bitten by both conceit and despair. That would lead to several bottles of whiskey, which fueled outbursts against me. Sometimes he used his fists against the furniture and occasionally against me.”

  “Good Lord,” I said in dismay, allowing myself to feel even more compassion for her. “Had you nowhere to run?”

  Caroline shook her head sadly. “It is not so simple for prominent people to hide, as I had made us quite conspicuous in London society.”

  She resumed her narrative in a matter-of-fact way. “I discovered I had an affinity for writing and used that as a solace from my miserable life. I wrote poems and novels, mostly, which found publication. Then I was appointed the editor of a small magazine. With this I tasted a bit of financial freedom, and eighteen years ago I left my husband. Oh, the scandal.”

  Nearly two decades ago, but Caroline spoke of it as if it had been but yesterday. “I can only imagine soc
iety’s reaction,” I said.

  “I could have taken society’s reaction to my departure. After all, George’s passions were common knowledge. But he twisted that frenzied fervor against me in unbelievable ways. He falsely accused me of adultery with a high-ranking member of Parliament. He laid claim to the earnings from my writings. Then, worst of all, he refused me access to our children.”

  I frowned. “But you were their mother.”

  “Perhaps, but he held all the power, given that the law stated that children were the legal property of their father. My reputation was ripped to tatters over his accusations of unfaithfulness—despite his own straying like a mangy, flea-bitten tomcat—especially when he hauled into court the man he falsely claimed was cuckolding him. George lost the court case, but I lost everything else. All the while, George claimed that he loved me ‘to madness.’ It was madness, but it was hardly affection. I did achieve one small victory though.” She smiled at the recollection from her past.

  Her smile piqued my own curiosity. “In what way?”

  “I used our laws to my advantage. I went to various shops and ran up extravagant bills. Then when the shopkeepers came to collect, I told them to sue my husband for collection, since all the purse strings belonged to him. George was so furious he merely sputtered in impotent rage. It was worth the broken vases that day.”

  Despite her bout of spite, I didn’t view Caroline Norton as anything but careful and calculating in her actions. “Surely you did not continue with that?” I said.

  “No, I took to writing with fury, campaigning Parliament to have a care to ensure that women were supported properly after divorce, even though I had not yet secured my own. I had not completely lost my connections and influence, for the Infant Custody Act was passed in ’39, which granted legally separated or divorced women the right to custody of their children up to the age of seven and guaranteed periodic access thereafter.” Caroline snorted in an unladylike fashion, and I knew she was unimpressed by her own accomplishment.