“Are you all right?” She scanned his form, pausing at his injury.
He bit back snapping at the cat. “Considering, I’ve felt better. Just thirsty.” He gulped on dry air. “Feels like I swallowed a bag of cotton.”
She bent to collect the broken teacup, shooting a glare at the cat. “Gwendolyn, I do declare…”
The cat sat on the fireplace mantle, licking her paw fastidiously. Precocious animal, Francois swore.
“Please pardon her. She thinks she’s in charge,” the woman stated as she continued to search for another cup. “As to your thirst, that I’ve no doubt you are,” she answered, pressing the cup to his dry lips. “You’ve been asleep for three days since you got here.”
The water was like gold, and its richness filled his parched soul. He wanted to gulp it but she stopped him, pulling it back a bit.
“Slowly. Hate for you to be wearing your innards, even if there isn’t much there.”
Retching sounded appalling to him as well, so he forced himself to sip. “Where is here?”
“You’re in the capital.”
“Washington?” Even though his thinking was muddled, he couldn’t recall anything after that soldier forced him to march and some of the jail, but he knew that wasn’t here. “How did I get here?”
Her cheeks flamed, giving her a splash of color on a truly ivory-colored face. She was adorable, he decided.
“Apparently, your wound turned rancid. You were teetering on death’s door, according to Dr. Leonard, who was visiting a friend on the prison staff. So you were sent here to truly recover.” She gave him a smile. “At Amory Square Hospital.”
Now the frown set hard. Glancing around the room, taking in the curtains at the multi-paned window, the carved posts at the bed, the damask covered armchair and settee off to the right and the fancy six-drawer dresser with looking glass, he somehow doubted her. “Are Union hospitals this luxurious?” He glanced at the feline still perched on the mantle. “Hospital cat included?”
She licked her upper lip nervously. He was enthralled, his own gaze locked on her.
“No, no you are not at the hospital. In all truth, you shouldn’t be here.” And with that, she turned to fill the dressing stand bowl with water and grabbed a linen rag. She gave the impression she was like one of his parent’s slave children, who’d snatch a biscuit before the cook could stop them. As he remembered, cook swore at them to stay out but chuckled every time. But was this a chuckling moment or not?
“Then, where am I?”
She glared at him before she moved the sheet aside, exposing his wrapped foot. “You are a prisoner of war. Confederates up here normally are under lock and key, not lounging in a bed in a boarding house.”
He noticed her tone changed in that last sentence. “Understandable. It is a war. I am injured and, I might add, pardon the words, hurt like hell. An injured man by all accounts, so why are you scolding me so? If I’m so horrible, why did you free me?”
Her mouth tightened but instead of replying, she lifted his leg to release the tuck of the linen strip. He tightened, expecting it to hurt but it was numb and that confused him. Memories of extreme pain echoed through his memories, not numbness.
As she unwound it, she replied, “I did not. Dr. Leonard, apparently, has some sort of obligation to fulfill.” She shrugged. “You can’t be taken to the hospital. It would throw his career down the river, bringing a rebel in when the prison should have you.” She stopped for a second, taking the rest of the strip off. “He brought you to me as, it seems, we have a much in common so to speak.”
Francois took a look at his foot and was amazed. It was bruised but not twisted, for which he thanked the Lord. Then, her words caught him. “You’re a rebel, too, in disguise perhaps?”
She giggled with a smile. It lightened up her face and all the hardness that had defined it softened. His angel was quite lovely, he thought. As all celestial beings would be…
“Yes, I would say so.” She dipped the rag. “Though mine is not as a fighter for your absurd belief in that peculiar institution. No, I am a doctor, as trained as the men here are, but…” her voice trailed to silence.
“But you cannot treat men. Yes, I know women who are as qualified as the physicians are, back home, even some of the slaves, but they aren’t allowed to advocate a practice except on women, children and slaves.” He paused. “So, what are you doing here? And, if I may be so bold, what is your name?”
The last question brought a splash of color to her pale cheeks. “I’m Miss Ada Lorrance, Dr. Lorrance, though to be able to help in the army hospital, I had to sign on as a nurse.” She instantly turned back to his injury, as if mentioning her position was bad.
A memory tugged at his thoughts. “Wait. I remember. There was that surgeon that said to amputate it and I recall objecting. You saved me.” Those images were clear in his head now, as was the next one that pushed itself through. “You did the mending of my ankle?”
“I attempted to fix it,” she corrected. “Dr. Waxler would’ve taken it off, but he felt his first priority was to the men in blue, thus leaving you and your comrades to suffer till much later. I simply could not let that happen. You were the worst, and you might’ve died before they got to you.”
That halted his thinking. Blinking hard, he realized she truly was an angel. “Thank you.”
She stopped when he said those words. Gratitude, softly spoken, but she could see on his face it was genuine. His sapphire blue gaze was mesmerizing and she found herself unable to break free.
