“Right,” Michael replied, and groped for the flashlight lying between them. He found it, flicked it off, and the dazzling snow globe vanished in an instant, replaced by a blackness and a stillness as profound, Michael could not help but reflect, as the grave.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
June 21, 1854, 1:15 a.m.
Eleanor Ames had been employed at the Establishment for Gentlewomen during Illness, located at No. 2 Harley Street, for only less than a year, but it was a sign of Miss Nightingale's confidence in her that she had been appointed the night nurse. Although it meant staying awake until dawn, Eleanor was honored, and pleased, to have that responsibility. And, truth be told, she enjoyed the relative tranquillity of the night hours. Apart from having to administer the occasional medication, or change a soiled poultice, her duties were largely spiritual in nature; some of the patients, restless and distressed at the best of times, became even more so after dark. Their private demons seemed to descend as the night wore on. And it was Eleanor's task to keep these demons at bay.
Already she had looked in on Miss Baillet, a governess who had lost her position in Belgravia after a violent seizure had afflicted her, and Miss Swann, a milliner who was suffering from a high but utterly inexplicable fever. The rest of the night she had simply patrolled the wards, making sure that all was well, and tidying up the dispensary. As superintendent, Miss Nightingale had made it abundantly clear that the hospital was to be spotlessly clean and orderly in every way. She insisted upon fresh air being let into the wards (or as fresh as you could get in London), especially at night; she was equally adamant that all beds be made up daily, fresh linen bandages be applied to every wound, and well-prepared, nutritional food be served at every meal. In many circles, Miss Nightingale's ideas had been greeted with skepticism, or a shrug-even the doctors who cared for the patients seemed to think it all irrelevant, though harmless. Eleanor, however, had come to embrace the Nightingale ideals, and was proud to be among the young women-and at nineteen, she was among the youngest-to have been accepted into the hospital's training program.
Locking up the dispensary (particularly the laudanum, which was much in demand as a sleeping draught by certain patients), she caught a glimpse of herself in the glass of the cabinet. Her dark hair, so tightly pinned under the white bonnet, had begun to come undone, and she had to stop to tuck it under again. If Miss Nightingale came down from her rooms on the top floor and found her night nurse looking disheveled, she would not be pleased. And for all her tender solicitude toward the patients, Miss Nightingale was not someone by whom you wished to be reprimanded.
Eleanor turned down the gas lamp and went out into the hall. She was about to go upstairs and straighten the solarium-Miss Nightingale was a great believer in the restorative power of sunlight- when she happened to glance toward the front door. Through its glass panels, she thought she saw a coach stopping, directly in front of the steps. As she watched, she saw three men stepping down, and, to her surprise, mounting the stairs. Did they not know that visitors were only allowed during the afternoon hours?
Apparently not, because even as she moved to forestall the sound-she did not wish any of the patients to be unnecessarily awakened-she heard the front bell tinkling, and almost at the same moment a fist hammering on the wooden portion of the doors. She saw a muttonchopped face peering in, and heard a voice call out, “Assistance? May we have some assistance?”
Just as the fist was raised again, she unlatched the door and threw it open. A big man with a florid face-the one who had been demanding assistance-looked suddenly abashed, and said, “Please pardon our intrusion, Miss, but we have a companion in need of attention.” That companion, also in a red cavalry uniform, was holding his hand over one arm, while another soldier held him by the elbow, as if to steady him.
“This is a hospital for women,” Eleanor said, “and I'm afraid-”
“We're aware of that,” the florid man said. “But this is in the nature of an emergency, and we did not know where else to turn.”
She could see blood seeping from a wound on the blond soldier, who suddenly looked familiar to her. Why, he was the same man who had stared up at her a few hours earlier, when she had leaned out to close the shutters.
“There is no physician on the premises,” she said. “And there won't be until tomorrow morning.”
The big man looked back at his companions several steps below, as if unsure what they wanted him to do next, and the wounded man said, “My name is Lieutenant Sinclair Copley. I've been injured while helping a woman to ward off an attacker.”
Eleanor vacillated on the front step; what would Miss Nightingale wish her to do? She did not dare to awaken her-after all, wasn't she, Eleanor, the night nurse, in charge? — but she also felt it incumbent upon her to offer a wounded man some help.
“In short,” the lieutenant said, “I've been shot and require someone to attend to the wound.” He had ascended the steps and, in the feeble glow of the streetlamp, he looked imploringly into her eyes. “Could you not at least examine the arm and see if you have some remedy on hand until I can consult a surgeon in the morning? As you see,” he said, removing his hand and revealing the blood-caked sleeve of his uniform, “something must be done to stanch the flow.”
She remained in the doorway, irresolute, until the big fellow, apparently losing heart, said, “Come on, Sinclair, Frenchie. I know an apothecary in the High Street, and he owes me a favor.” He turned his back on Eleanor and clumped down the stairs, but the blond man stayed where he was. Eleanor had the distinct impression, though a blush rose in her cheek for even thinking such things, that he had come here expressly so that she might care for him.
She stood to one side and swung the great door open behind her. “Please be careful to make no noise. The other patients are sleeping.”
She locked the door behind them, then ushered them down the wide and chilly hall-all the windows being left open-and into the receiving suite. It was something of a cross between a parlor and a surgery, with armchairs, tasseled lamps, and a desk in the front room, and in an alcove at the rear a leather-topped examination table, stuffed with horsehair, a white linen screen, and a locked bureau containing medical instruments and a small cache of medicinal supplies.
“I'm Captain Rutherford, by the way,” the big man said, “and this other fine gentleman is Lieutenant Le Maitre, generally known as Frenchie. All of the Seventeenth Lancers.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Eleanor replied-she could tell from their uniforms and their manner of speaking that they were wellborn men of means-”but I must ask you again to keep your voices low.”
Rutherford nodded, put a finger to his lips in confirmation, and retired to one of the armchairs. He turned up the lamp on the table, adjusted the wick, then pulled out a packet of cigars, offering one to Le Maitre. Striking a lucifer off the bottom of his boot, he lighted the two cheroots and the men sat back contentedly.
“Go to it,” Rutherford whispered, whisking his hand toward Eleanor and the alcove. “We don't want him to die here; the Russians want a shot at him first.”
Frenchie guffawed, then slapped a hand over his mouth.
“Don't mind them,” Sinclair said, softly. “They left their manners in the barracks.” He stepped toward the examining table and began to remove the jacket of his uniform. But the blood had stuck the cloth to the skin, and he winced as he tried to free it. Until that moment, Eleanor had not had a chance to give her full consideration to just what she was doing. She could think of at least three rules she had already broken. But the sight of the lieutenant trying to separate the bloody fabric from the wound suddenly seemed to snap her into the moment. She said, “Stop. Let me do that,” and, hastily unlocking the bureau, took out a pair of tailor's scissors and snipped away at the sleeve until a larger opening allowed her to pull the cloth away from the skin and gently remove the torn jacket.
Which she did not know what to do with.
The lieutenant laughed at her temporary confusion, took it from her hand, and tossed it onto a coatrack behind her, which she had completely forgotten was there. Then he took a seat on the edge of the leather table.
The billowy white linen of his shirt was also torn and bloody but she would not think of having him take off
