Saints and Sinners

by Karen V. Wasylowski

  “Well, that took the starch from me, I am exhausted. Thank you, Sister Clarke, for your customary excellent assistance.”

  “Yes, Matron.” Martha gently touched the injured man’s hand. It was always sad to see lost souls brought into the hospital, but for some reason the very strong looking fellows like this one seemed particularly vulnerable. Both men in her life – her late father and her late husband – had been proud but slight of build, short, forever attempting to prove their manhood. This one would never have that need.

  “Amazing how difficult it is to kill someone,” Matron glanced up briefly from making notations on his chart.

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am?”

  “Well, look at this fellow. Beaten and left for dead as he was, half frozen – yet the life spark remained. He could have bled out or died of the cold; many others would have. His size helped, of course, he’s young and healthy. Interesting. Pity he was naked as a gibbon though. If he had presented with clothing, we could have determined into which rank of society he belonged.”

  Matron was always so blunt in her assessments that it might have surprised another; however, Martha understood her. Both had been nurses in Crimea, both were soldier’s widows, both had seen worse in war. Caring for slaughtered bodies tended to immune one after a while; little could shock delicate sensibilities after two months ankle deep in mud and blood and sawed-off body parts. To remain strong enough to be of some use was difficult if one became involved or cared too much. Martha had kept her sanity by regarding patients more as puzzles to be solved, not people.

  So why did she want to weep now? Why fret about this one man in particular? As Martha continued to stare, his torso shamefully exposed, his face cut and swollen, his body broken… it all threatened to overwhelm her. She felt an unfamiliar pull, an uncharacteristic longing to care for the man, not the patient. That realization alone stopped her cold.

  Good heavens. Was she physically attracted? Impossible. A patient? Never. Yet with each look, each touch, the sense of familiarity intensified, the attachment deepened. It was inappropriate to say the least. She was a nurse, for goodness sake, and a God-fearing Christian woman. She knew better than to allow personal feelings interfere, overpower. And still she found she was growing more and more anxious for him. “Will he be all right, Matron?” Her heart beat quickly, waiting for a response.

  “Pardon? Oh, well, he shall survive his wounds if he’s allowed to regain his strength, rest. However, there lies the problem. Bridges is scheduled for rounds today, and he is forever lamenting on the fact that we inadvertently admit the indigent when we take in fellows such as this. In fact, he would have us adhere to our weekly Tuesday admissions of the poor alone and refuse accident or assault victims entirely, leave them to die in the streets. He’s a beast – and, a pathetic excuse for a physician. No, dealing with that man is invariably unpleasant. I should very much like to avoid all the fuss this once. Very sad. I have an uneasy feeling for this one.”

  “Yes, I do as well.” Fear quickened Martha’s heart. “We don’t actually know this fellow is indigent though, do we? I can’t believe Mr. Bridges would toss him out. Would he?”

  “I have no idea. I’ve given up second guessing the man. One thing in our patient’s favor is his body – it could never be viewed as one of a destitute. This fellow was well cared for, someone took pride in his wellbeing. In fact, he is a truly beautiful specimen – large shoulders, well-formed chest, calves and arms, clean and trimmed nails, excellent teeth... do you not agree?”

  Martha blushed. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Sister, either you are blind, lying, or being uncharacteristically coy.”

  Of course, she had noticed the masculine beauty beneath all the bruising, which made her blush all the more.

  “You are red as a radish, dear.” Matron checked her pinned watch and noted the time. “My meaning was purely clinical. Drunkards and street men are not known to care for their health, their nails, or their teeth. Our friend here keeps himself very fit.” She patted Martha’s hand. “You must learn to be more observant, Sister Clarke – or, at least, less transparent. Now, if you have everything in hand I shall go to my room and put up my feet for a while before I leave. You know when I was your age long hospital hours never bothered – but now, my knees ache something fierce after a mere half day, my back, my shoulder. It’s dreadful to get old.”

  “You are not old, Matron. Merely well-seasoned.”

  “Like mutton.”

  “Off with you now. I’ll finish up here then have him situated within my ward.”

  “Very good. I may not see you before I leave for my holiday, so Happy Christmas to you, dear. Try and not kill anyone before I return.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Happy Christmas to you as well.”

  Her immediate supervisor gone now, Martha was finally alone with her odd patient. What is it about this man that moves me so? Nonsense; put it from your mind, Martha. Thank heaven for the cold! It had been the cold that saved him, slowing his heart rate, preventing him from completely bleeding out while he lay in that basement well. Martha had seen this happen before, during the war in Crimea. Soldiers brought in half frozen from the field would sometimes live to tell the tale because of it, while men with lesser wounds would die of infection.

  “Sister?” Old Charlie, the orderly, stood in the doorway with his gurney, waiting for her instructions. “Are you ready, Sister?”

  She motioned him forward. “Thank you, Mr. Gregson. Yes, we’re quite ready.”

  Chapter 13

  After waking from her nap at Bob Cratchit’s bedside Martha quietly began her usual rounds through the ward, always keeping her gaze on him, reassuring herself that he was breathing easier, appeared comfortable. When at last she was finished she came to him again. All was quiet.

  “I wonder who you truly are,” she whispered while adjusting his covers when, with a start, she realized his swollen eyes were open and he was watching her. (Yes, his eyes were definitely, beautifully, blue.)

  Moments passed before he spoke, his voice still rough and gravelly. “Hello, again. How long have I been asleep?”

  “Around two hours.”

  “You look done in,” He coughed weakly.

  “Always something a girl loves to hear. Would you like a sip of water?” She cupped the back of his head gently to raise it, then let him drink slowly.

  “Thank you, madam.” His voice was clearer now.

  “How are you feeling?”

  He took a fortifying breath to speak. “Like I was spit out of a donkey’s mouth.”

  Martha brushed the hair from his brow realizing another fever was beginning. Well, it was evening, fevers tended to rise in the evening; besides, that could be a good thing if controlled, a detriment to possible infection. She checked his pulse, listened to his heart – both steady, but still too weak for her liking.

  “Have you told me your name?”

  “My name is Sister Clarke.”

  “Your first name?”

  “That would be inappropriate.”

  “Inappropriate Clarke? What were your parents thinking? Ah, good, you’re smiling. You stayed near me while I slept. Thank you.”

  A warm feeling simmered in her heart at his words. “It is no more than my duty. I have assigned myself as your nurse tonight and possibly through tomorrow if we are still short of staff. Now, more importantly, how is your memory? Have we recollected our name?” She was certain with the fever controlled and with more sleep, the previous day’s events would start to return to him.

  “Our name? Do we share the same one – how bizarre.”

  “Honestly, I do believe you’re being willfully contrary.”

  “Yes, I am. Sorry.”

  “You should be. We need to find out who you are. Do you remember anything?”

  “No.” He shook his head, mildly frustrated. “I just can’t seem to recall. Bloody nuisance.”

  Martha didn’t like the sound of that. Perhaps his
head wounds had been worse than they initially thought. His color remained too pale, even if his spirit was strong. She’d stay close during the night, let the watcher supervise the rest of the ward. “I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised; after all, you’ve had quite an experience.” As quietly as possible she pulled her chair closer to the bed.

  “Actually, I do remember flashes of things. Snow… the sky… birds… someone kicking me.”

  “Well, that’s a good start – except for the kicking bit. All right, enough of this. Time for you to have the bone broth I’ve had cook prepare. This will build up your blood.” She turned and called out for Old Charlie to fetch the broth.

  “Sounds disgusting.”

  “Yes it is, I’m afraid.” She could not resist running her hand through his hair again. “But it will help you to gain strength, and that’s all that matters.”

  “Bring me my soup then; and, keep doing that with my hair as well, please.”

  “I’ll think about it.” As if anyone could stop me.

  “I believe that is the worst thing I’ve ever eaten in my entire life. Of course, I don’t remember eating anything else.” In the end, she’d had to feed him the last few spoonful’s. He was looking absolutely drained.

  “You’ve never had my bread pudding.”

  “Bad as that, is it?”

  “Yes. I’m an awful cook. My late husband remarked that when I prepared a meal it was like the miracle of the loaves and fishes.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “My dishes could be passed around a crowd and return intact, with other samples of my culinary attempts thrown in on top.”

  “You poor darling.”

  “Enough about me. It appears the laudanum is finally taking hold. Try and sleep now.”

  “I’d rather speak with you. I’ve never enjoyed myself so much.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Harpy. Stay with me again, Inappropriate?”

  “I’d like nothing better.” She took his hand in hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’ll remain until you’re snoring louder than your neighbor, Mr. Hobbs.” She turned to Mr. Hobbs. “That all right with you, Clive?”

  “Makes me no nevermind, lord love ye. Long as you don’t try and cook for us…”

  “That’s quite enough from you.” It warmed her to see Bob smiling up at her, his gaze frankly admiring. “Is something wrong? Is my face smudged?”

  He shook his head, his eyelids growing heavy. “You’re pretty. Have you been an angel very long?” He yawned but fought off sleep. “I mean a nurse… you been a nurse very long?”

  “Nearly ten years.”

  “… born in London?”

  “No. My father was serving in the Army when I was born.”

  “Really? Where? Who is he?”

  “Was. He was General Sir Charles James Napier.”

  “Napier? Command… in India.”

  “Yes, see you’re beginning to remember things. I spent my childhood there.”

  “A gentleman’s daughter. Why aren’t you at dancing at court balls… with some duke or other?”

  It took a moment to answer. She rarely spoke about her family. “Well, you see I left that life behind when I married a soldier against my father’s wishes. My father never approved of women following the drum, so naturally being very young and full of myself I did just that. My husband and he never got on.”

  “Where is he…your husband?”

  “He was killed in the Crimea.”

  “Forgive… didn’t know.”

  “No reason you should, and nothing to forgive. That was over eight years ago now.”

  “Hope… family softened.” Mark tightened his hold on her hand and struggled to remain speaking with her as long as possible.

  “No. Unfortunately, my father passed before we could reconcile; then my mother remarried and moved to Germany and her new husband forbade her to speak with me. You see, I had compounded my horrendous behavior by training to become a nurse – to be useful to my husband, support him.”

  “A true rebel, independent… I like that.” He laughed, a deep rumbling she found very appealing, the sound doing something to her emotions, sending her bloodstream thrumming as if a thousand bees were buzzing through it; or, on second thought a thoracotomy was being performed by sawing through the midshaft of both clavicles and cutting through the ribs of both hemi thoraces.

  On third thought, perhaps she should refrain from reading quite so many anatomy books.

  “Sister Clarke? Why did you cease speaking?” He brought her hand to his lips to kiss, just as his own eyes were closing.

  “Yes, well. Afraid my ramblings are keeping you awake. I should be quiet.”

  “No… love your voice… just need rest. Can’t seem to fix a thought to my head… You know, your hands are soft as doves… so pretty… could watch you for hours, and hours, and…”

  “Evidently not.” Martha smiled as he drifted off.

  It was past nine in the evening and Martha was just returning from using the facilities when she saw the night watch scurrying toward her in a panic. “I think you’d better come.”

  When she spied Old Charlie wringing his hands beside the screen surrounding her patient’s bed, she began to run. “What’s happened?”

  “Sister, how dare you abandon your duties!”

  Mr. Bridges’ angry question, and the unexpected sight of him with her patient, stopped Martha dead in her tracks. He was quickly scanning through the notes she’d written about Bob’s progress, shaking his head all the while. With a grunt he then tossed the chart aside.

  “I wasn’t expecting you at this time of night, sir.”

  “Evidently. And how does that answer my question?”

  “I stepped away for a moment to use the facilities.”

  “Don’t be vulgar. I see our drunkard is still with us. Why has he not been shown the door?”

  “He is still very weak. This gentleman was the victim of an attack, sir.”

  “Gentleman? Really, Sister.”

  “I do believe so. As you can see his nails are clean, and physically –”

  “What I see is a disgusting lurker who received just what he deserved – a good thrashing. Probably was caught stealing from his betters. Why, look at him! The brute is still passed out from drink.”

  “Not in the least, sir, I administered laudanum to him, so that he could sleep. And there is no reason to believe the man a drunkard, or a lurker. Or a thief! If you’d look at his teeth –”

  “Check his nails? Look at his teeth?” Bridges laughed derisively. “I am examining a patient not purchasing cattle, madam; or, do you even know the difference? You Nightingale nurses believe yourselves so superior. Do you even realize he is feverish?”

  “Of course I do, sir. I was about to prepare a cup of basil leaves and ginger for him.”

  “Nonsense. I will not have our supplies, or your services, wasted on a ruffian.”

  “But there are no other duties for me to perform at this time, and the night nurse will tell me if any of my other patients are in distress. It would be no hardship for me.”

  “I wonder about that as well. Is it not rather unseemly for you to be hovering around a male patient at all hours?”

  “I was not hovering. First you claim I am abandoning my duties and then you accuse me of hovering!”

  “Keep a civil tongue in your mouth. Are you challenging me, madam? May I remind you I am on the board of this teaching hospital, I shall decide what is to be done. Well, since he remains here, perhaps he can be of some use. It’s an interesting case, if I must say so – surviving out in the cold as he did. Yes, quite. In the interests of science we need to discover how and why he survived at all. How much blood loss is too much for a fellow this size, that’s what we need to learn from this one. The bleeding yesterday seems to have done him no harm. I believe I will remove an equal amount now, and every twelve hours. That shall test his endurance.”

  “B
leed him again?”

  “My heavens, do you have a hearing problem?”

  Stupefied by what he was planning, she shook her head no. “Excellent, glad to know that. All right, let’s hurry on with this, I haven’t time to dawdle. My wife is expecting me at a family gathering in one hour.”

  The man she thought of as Bob had lost so much blood already, surely another bleeding, and another after that, would kill him. But, what could she do, the doctor was already in an ugly mood for any number of previous disagreements between them – personal and professional – that it wouldn’t do to antagonize. Still, she needed to stall him somehow, invent one obstacle after another if need be, until it was too late for him to remain any longer…

  An hour later Martha slumped into a chair and breathed a sigh of relief, her hands shaking. She had managed to delay and frustrate Bridges long enough to avoid the bleeding – although at what future price? The doctor was furious with her when he stormed out; she’d made a true foe this night. Mr. Bridges might be an incompetent fool, but he was also a very influential one.

  Chapter 14

  “Were you always beautiful?”

  Mark’s voice startled her from her early morning work of folding towels by his bedside. She had brought a table and a basket of freshly laundered items to the side of his bed, unwilling to leave him alone for long. “Was I always beautiful?” She grinned, happy to have him awake again. “Now, how could one answer such a question without sounding conceited?”

  “You’ve every right to be. I’ll tell you how I picture you as a child – I see you as a wisp of a thing, a little hoyden, laughing and playing and free, a bundle of happy sunshine.”

  “In fact, I was quite chubby and, yes, a hoyden. My father always said I was a born she-devil, an ek jangalee bachchesent in Hindi, sent by Shasti, the goddess of children, to drive him insane. Good morning, Bob. How long have you been awake?”