of her own importance.'
'It’s not about personal importance, Mr. Thorpe,' Hester replied, staring straight at him. 'Or about who gets the praise— at least, it shouldn’t be. It is about whether a patient recovers or dies. That is what we are here for.'
'That is what I am here for, madam,' he said grimly. 'What you are here for, I have no idea. Your friends would no doubt say it is from a devotion to the welfare of your fellow human beings in their suffering. Your detractors might take the view that it is to fill your otherwise empty time and to give yourself a feeling of importance you would not have in the merely domestic setting of running your own household.'
Hester was furious. She knew perfectly well that losing her temper would also lose her the argument, and it was just possible that Thorpe knew that also. Personally, she didn’t think he had the wit. Either way, she had no intention of catering to him.
'There are always people willing to detract with a spiteful remark,' she answered with as good a smile as she could manage. 'It is largely made from ignorance and meanness of spirit. I am sure you have more sense than to pay attention to them. I am here because I have some practical experience in nursing people after severe injury, whether caused by battle or surgery, and as a consequence have learned some methods that work rather better than those currently practiced here at home.'
'You may imagine so.' Thorpe looked at her icily. His light brown eyes were large but a trifle deep-set. His lashes would have been the envy of many a woman.
Hester raised her brows very high. 'Is it not better that the patient lives than that he dies?'
Thorpe half rose from his chair, his face pink. 'Do not be flippant with me, madam! I would remind you that you have no medical training whatsoever. You are unlearned and totally ignorant, and as a woman, unsuited to the rigors of medical science. Just because you have been of use abroad to soldiers in the extremity of their injuries while fighting for Queen and country, do not imitate the unfortunate Miss Nightingale in imagining that you have some sort of role to teach the rest of us how we should behave.'
Hester was quite well aware of Florence Nightingale’s nature, far more so than Fermin Thorpe, who knew her only through her voluminous correspondence to everyone even remotely concerned with hospital administration. Hester knew Miss Nightingale’s courage, her capacity for work and her spirit which fired the labor and sacrifice of this; and also her inexhaustible nagging and obsession with detail, her high-handed manner and the overwrought emotions which drained her almost to the point of collapse. She would certainly outlast Fermin Thorpe and his like —by sheer attrition, if nothing else.
Experience of the Crimea, of its hardships and its rare victories, above all of its spirit, calmed the retort that came to her tongue.
'I am sure Miss Nightingale believes she is sharing the reward of experiences you have been unable to have for yourself,' she said with curdling sweetness, 'having remained here in England. She has not realized that her efforts are not welcome.'
Thorpe flushed scarlet. 'I’m sure she means well,' he replied in a tone he presumably intended to be placating, although it came through his teeth. 'She simply does not realize that what was true in Sebastopol is not necessarily true in London.'
Hester took a deep breath. 'Having been in both places, she may imagine that, as far as the healing of injury is concerned, it is exactly the same. I suffer from that illusion myself.'
Thorpe’s lips narrowed to a knife-thin line.
'I have made my decision, madam. The women who work in this establishment are quite adequate to our needs, and they are rewarded in accordance with their skills and their diligence. We will use our very limited financial resources to pay for that which best serves the patients’ needs—namely, skilled surgeons and physicians who are trained, qualified and experienced. Your assistance in keeping good order in the hospital, in offering encouragement and some advice on the moral welfare of the patients, is much appreciated. Indeed,' he added meaningfully, 'it would be greatly missed were you no longer to come. I am sure the other hospital governors will agree with me wholeheartedly. Good day.'
There was nothing to do but reply as civilly as possible and retreat.
'I suppose that man has a redeeming virtue, but so far I have failed to find it,' Callandra said as soon as they were outside in the corridor and beyond overhearing.
'He’s punctual,' Hester said dryly. 'He’s clean,' she went on after a minute’s additional thought.
They walked hastily back towards the surgeons’ rooms, passing an elderly nurse, her shoulders stooping with the weight of the buckets she carried in each hand. Her face was puffy, her eyes red-rimmed. 'And sober,' Hester added.
'Those are not virtues,' Callandra said bitterly. 'They are accidents of breeding and circumstance. He has the opportunity to be clean and no temptation to be inebriated, except with his own importance. And that is of sufficient potency that after it alcohol would be redundant.'
They passed the apothecary’s rooms. Callandra hesitated as if to say something, then apparently changed her mind and hurried on.
Kristian Beck came out of the operating theater, but he had his coat on and his shirt cuffs were clean, so apparently he had not been performing surgery. His face lit when he recognized Callandra, then he saw her expression.
'Nothing?' he said, more an answer than a question. He was of barely average height. His hair was receding a little above his temples, but his mouth had a remarkable passion and sensitivity to it, and his voice had a timbre of great beauty. Hester was aware that his friendship with Callandra was more profound than merely the trust of people who have the same compassion and the same anger, and the will to fight for the same goals. How personal it was she had not asked. Kristian was married, though she had never heard him speak of his wife. Now he was regarding Callandra earnestly, listening to her recount their conversation with Thorpe. He looked tired. Hester knew he had almost certainly been at the hospital all night, seeing some patient through a crisis and snatching a few hours’ sleep as he could. There were shadows around his eyes and his skin had very little color.
'He won’t even listen,' Callandra said. She had been weary the moment before, and angry with Thorpe and with herself. Now suddenly her voice was gentler, and she made the effort to hide her sense of hopelessness. 'I am not at all sure I approached him in the best way....'
Kristian smiled. 'I imagine not,' he said with mild humor, full of ruefulness and affection. 'Mr. Thorpe has not
