To Charm a Bluestocking

by Renée Dahlia

  Lord Walstone,

  As you will come to realise on reading this letter, I have been reduced to a state where this style of correspondence is all that is available to me. You may have read in the newssheets of the day that is now dubbed the Orange Riots. Sadly, the events encompassing that day do include your suspicions regarding the New Union Movement.

  As previously reported, to uncover this movement in Amsterdam took little to no effort. They didn’t bother to cover their tracks, at least as far as holding rallies in popular public venues. I was rather dismayed to discover a connection, initially, to the professor who so lacked in tact as to pursue your daughter, Lady Josephine. But that is old news.

  Chief Superintendent Koekje has arrested the professor’s brother, a Pierre Van Percy, in relation to the riots. I have not had any word from Lady Josephine as to the status of the professor, but one presumes he is rather tied up in dealing with the antics of his brother.

  The other piece of pertinent news is that I suffered a difficult injury during the riot. I was endeavouring to assist my friend, Daan, from the wreckage of his fine establishment—did I mention him in previous letters? He owns the public facility that the New Unions often used for rallies. At first, I thought he may have had some involvement, but on further investigation, the choice of his place appeared to be, well, rather unlucky for him. During the riot, like I said above, I was attempting to help Daan leave, when we were caught in a fire started by the rioters. Sadly, Daan did not survive, and I have sustained a nasty injury to my temple.

  Thanks to Lady Josephine and her colleagues, it is healing rapidly. However, I do wonder at the extent of scarring that may eventuate. And, naturally, how this will impact on my ability to do my job going forward. We may need to have a conversation about this matter once I return to English shores.

  Your humble servant,

  Lord St. George.

  ***

  Over the next week, the house fell into a solid routine as they balanced their examinations with nursing Nicholas. Josephine ambled along the street towards the house, her head hung low as she stared at her feet. She scuffed them on the pavers as she dragged herself home. Each exam she’d taken this week had gone well. She’d studied and had confidence that she could tackle each task, comforted by the logical process. To sit an exam was the opposite of being sociable. People were difficult to predict and they always seemed to want a comment from her that she wasn’t quite able to give. An exam could be approached rationally. It was simply a challenge between herself and the examiner.

  Today, however, had not been logical. She blew out a tremulous breath and forced her feet to keep on. The final examination series concluded with a full day’s surgery where they had to run the surgical room to prove that they had the skills, both medical and management, before graduation. During practice sessions, Josephine had been surprised at her ability to order people about the surgical room to keep the process happening smoothly. She didn’t enjoy the command position, per se, but neither did she dread it in the same way as she dreaded going out to a society dinner. Perhaps because the interactions in surgery were all prescribed and logical. Social chit chat tended towards the unpredictable and that made her nervous.

  Today, on the day that it mattered. On the day when she was being assessed. It had all gone wrong.

  Josephine stared at the front door, her head bowed in defeat. It had been so long since she’d read that fateful notice that Professor Van Percy would be her assessor today, it had been a shock to see him there. She had nodded to him, a professional acknowledgement, then proceeded to ready herself under his watchful eye.

  A lottery assigned the patients for the exam. The university’s hospital took all manner of patients. It was a key part of the test—to be able to adjust to the type of surgery required for the day.

  Josephine had muttered a curse when the victims of a carriage accident arrived. Three patients all requiring assistance from her and the team assigned to her for the day. The driver had been thrown off the carriage and suffered a terrible head injury. There was not much the team could do for him, except make him comfortable as he died on arrival. The next was a young woman who had a broken arm and facial injuries. Josephine determined that she could wait and gave her some painkillers, while the team attended the other patient. A man in his thirties, he had a very badly broken leg with fractures above and below the knee. He had screamed in pain as he arrived, and Josephine ensured that he was given some pain relief in the form of chloroform, the most popular form of anaesthetic available. A lot of strength would be required to fix those breaks and Josephine organised her team promptly to the task. The break proved impossible to pull back into place. Josephine made the call to amputate the leg. As she compiled her equipment, the patient had a fit and thrashed about on the surgical table. The fractured bone shifted and ruptured an artery in his leg. The patient bled out in the few minutes it took to try and restrain him. Josephine knew logically that it wasn’t her fault, yet it was her fault. It was her room today and she was in charge. Once they confirmed the death, they had to scrub the room clean before stitching the woman’s face and setting her arm. That seemed to be going well, until she started vomiting as the chloroform wore off. To lose all three patients on exam day would be a disaster and Josephine had spent far more time than was typically necessary to ensure that didn’t occur. She stood with her head against the front door, unable to move.

  With one last big effort, she stood straight. The key scraped as she struggled to fit it into the lock. Eventually it slid in, and she pushed open the front door. She walked dazedly along the hallway towards her bedroom where she planned to collapse.

  ‘Hello there,’ said a remarkably sunny voice. Josephine looked up to see Marie leaving the drawing room. Josephine guiltily thought that she didn’t have anything left for Nicholas, or anyone, today. She blinked. The slow exhausted blink of someone so tired they can’t speak.

  ‘Nicholas is healing well. I’ve just changed the poultice and the burn looks good. I mean, it doesn’t look good. He’s going to have a terrible scar there, such a shame. I meant that it looks clean and is healing well.’ Marie prattled on as Josephine stood in the hallway overcome with the emotional burden of the day. The deaths on her table. The disappointment of having lost two of her three patients while Van Percy looked on detached and indifferent, making little notes in his book. There was a very real possibility that she might fail the assessment. All that work undone by the lottery of a carriage accident and the uncertainty of chloroform. She blinked again and realised that she hadn’t answered Marie. Her shoulders slumped and her legs were jelly.

  ‘Thank you,’ she managed and willed her body to move to her bedroom.

  ‘Hold on,’ she heard Marie call after her. ‘It’s your turn to look after Nicholas. You are late home and now I’m late for dinner.’ Josephine couldn’t process this accusation, even though it was probably true, and just shook her head.

  ‘Oh my, you are dead tired. I’m so sorry. Dinner can wait. Let me help you to bed. Was the surgical exam so difficult?’ said Marie.

  ‘Put it this way. I won’t be crowned dux,’ she whispered. She wobbled on her feet and Marie grabbed her around the waist to help her to her bedroom. Once there, Josephine collapsed on the bed, fully clothed and fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.

  Josephine woke in the middle of the night in the throes of a nightmare. She’d dreamed that it was Nicholas on her surgical table, bleeding and dying in front of her eyes. She sat up in bed, covered in a film of sweat. Her breath was rapid and heavy. Slowly the panic subsided as it became clear that it was just a dream. She dragged herself from bed and threw on a wrap. It wasn’t sensible to want to see him. She knew it was just a dream. Logically she should just wait until she was calm and try and sleep some more. As she stood in her room she knew that she was compelled by love to visit him now. The dream had made her realise that the pain of losing someone is also the moment that you know you love the
m. This raw emotion had hit when Nicholas was first injured. Yesterday’s events and tonight’s nightmare gave her the dreaded knowledge that her love for him might be over before it was fully realised. She didn’t need to wait until he was fully healed before focusing on loving him. She could tell him now. She would tell him that she knew now that the potential for heartbreak is the risk that makes love worthwhile. Just dreaming of losing him, so soon after actually nearly losing him, had clarified her thoughts. Her feelings for him had magnified into something more than just friendship or lust. Love is made sincere by the risk of loss.

  Josephine sucked in a big breath and walked unsteadily down the dark hallway towards the drawing room where Nicholas lay recovering. She entered the room softly with her heart beating so loudly with anticipation and the remnants of her nightmare that she wondered if the whole world could hear it banging around in her chest. With a shaking hand, she lit a candle and stood in the flickering glow to cast her eyes about the room. Nicholas was asleep on his bed and Betsy asleep in the big armchair by the fire. Josephine stood quietly, just breathing. She didn’t want to wake them. Her heart started to calm down as she stood and watched Nicholas peacefully rest. After a time that felt long, Josephine’s fraught and frantic emotions had gained the peace that she needed. She gently kissed Nicholas on the lips and blew out the candle. Quietly, she walked back to bed. She climbed in under the covers and fell asleep. Nicholas was safe. Her decision on love could wait until morning.

  Chapter 18

  The weak winter sun attempted to light the drawing room as Nicholas opened his eyes to face another day as an invalid. Yes, sure, his lungs had made a massive improvement over the past week, and he could breathe and speak. Yesterday he had spent some time hobbling about the room to test his foot. The door creaked open and Josephine entered.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said in a cheery voice.

  ‘I have a question,’ he said.

  ‘Oh. Don’t you mean “good morning, Josephine”?’ she said with a smile.

  ‘Good morning. I have a question,’ he said, his voice slightly snarky. She frowned and stepped towards him.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You and your friends have been very careful not to speak about this burn in front of me. You’ve taken all the mirrors out of the house. I must look horrific,’ Nicholas said. His hands shook and he wrangled them in his lap. His heart pounded in anticipation of her answer.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Josephine replied. She sounded so calm. The blood rushing in his ears grew louder.

  ‘It’s just that, well—’ she started.

  ‘Well, what! How bad is it?’ He couldn’t wait and jumped in over the top of her words.

  ‘Burns are very confrontational injuries. At the hospital, it is standard practice to not allow patients to see themselves until the burn is healed. As a burn heals, it looks worse than the end result. The …’ She paused and took a breath. He held his as he waited to hear those fateful words. Braced himself for dreadful news. ‘The current school of thought is that it is better to wait before letting a patient see their altered state. Your burn has responded excellently to the new treatment we have used on it.’

  His breath rushed out, then became shallow as her words started to sink in. His burn had responded excellently. That had to be good, right? He shook out his hands. He swallowed. A joke might help ease his own tension.

  ‘I love it when you get all doctor on me,’ he said. She smiled and her whole face lit up with joy at his compliment. He wanted to smile back at her, but when he tried, the burn tugged at his skin and reminded him of his key concern.

  ‘I don’t want to wait. I want to see it. I have to live with this monstrosity.’

  ‘It is not a monstrosity. The burn is the size of my palm,’ Josephine continued on in her calm voice. Presumably the university taught them that tone, and he ground his teeth at the impersonal note.

  ‘Are you certain?’ he replied. ‘Your hand is so much smaller than this injury feels. Surely it is much larger than that.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. Often burn patients report that the burn feels larger than it looks. By all means, if it will ease your burden, let’s take off the bandage and give you a look at yourself. Just be warned. It is still in the early healing stages and doesn’t look as good as it will once the healing is complete.’

  Nicholas watched her carefully as he tried to discern how much truth she told. He thought he had made peace with the idea of being disfigured, but realised that was a lie he’d told himself. His hands continued to tremble so he jammed them under his thighs. Josephine stood and rang for Betsy who arrived quickly.

  ‘I require a mirror, some sharp scissors, a bowl of hot water and some clean towels,’ Josephine said. Her efficient companion nodded and left.

  ‘Are you absolutely sure that you want to see this wound while it is still at an early stage of healing?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Absolutely,’ he replied. The muscles in his jaw relaxed minutely as his voice came out more confident than he felt. At least he still had his ability to convince people.

  ‘I will do this slowly. Before I show you the injury, I’m going to clean it up. The middle section is still oozing a little and seeing that stage of healing tends to upset most patients. The outer sections have started healing nicely but please prepare yourself for them to look quite angry in colour.’ Nicholas found himself nodding in agreement with her. Her disaffected tone made a mockery of the topic. He stared at his feet and tugged his hands from under his thighs. He twisted them together as she continued to talk in that smooth hospital voice.

  ‘The colour will fade in time as the skin continues to heal. In normal circumstances, the hospital wouldn’t show a patient any injury at this stage of healing. I’m only doing this because I want you to know that it isn’t as bad as you are imagining.’

  ‘So I’m not disfigured?’ Nicholas swallowed as a film of sweat broke out on his chest.

  ‘There will always be scarring and there is quite a bit of damage to your ear. It will never be quite the same as before. I can’t lie and say it will be all fine,’ she said. He twisted his view away from his feet and glared at her. Damage? To his ear. He had to grip his clammy hands together to prevent himself from reaching up to touch it.

  ‘I’m sure it feels worse than it looks,’ she said. The tone in her voice changed into a quiet lameness. She swayed, as if to step backwards from his glare, and he ripped his gaze away from her to stare at the back wall. From the corner of his eye, he saw Betsy arrive. His breath caught in his chest. This was the moment of truth.

  ‘First I will take off the bandage and clean the wound, and then we will use the mirror to show St. George how the burn is healing.’ He heard Josephine give Betsy instructions but the words were lost under the roaring in his ears. He couldn’t look at them. Could only sense them moving around the room. He closed his eyes as Josephine’s hands expertly removed the bandage and cleaned the wound. The familiar stabs of pain throbbed in his head as she went through the familiar routine.

  The pain of the wound crept across his face from behind his ear, across his cheek where it spread claws of pain out into his nose. The pain tended to overtake the whole side of his face and he expected to see himself split into two. One side normal, the other side a red, disfigured mess.

  ‘If you are absolutely sure, you can open your eyes now,’ whispered Josephine. He took a deep breath and held it. Just do it. He let out the breath and opened his eyes slowly. Josephine held up a small mirror. His usual reflection stared back at him. He frowned and the familiar pull of skin ached. Yet his reflection simply frowned back.

  Where was this injury? Slowly, carefully, he turned his head to the side and saw it. From the middle of his cheek down to his jaw was a vivid red. An angry red as Josephine had said. He turned further to the side. As his view reached his ear, the burn became whiter until he had turned far enough to see his ear.

  Oh. Much of the top of his ear was missing, and the remainde
r was blistered and red. His hair had been shaved around the wound and he could see that the red patch extended up behind and above the savaged ear. As he stared at himself, he felt a wetness on his cheeks. It wasn’t until Josephine reached over with a clean towel that he realised he was crying. Partly with relief as the wound was much smaller than he’d imagined and partly for his disfigured ear. It was bright red and only half the size it used to be. The skin that remained was all puckered and tight.

  He forced himself to look away from the mirror. Josephine stood above him, her eyes wide as she waited for his reaction. As if she anticipated that he would break down in shock. To protect himself from her suffocating concern, he relied on his faithful charm.

  ‘All I need is a new haircut, long around the ears,’ he said trying valiantly to smile. Josephine cleared her throat.

  ‘Although the ear has taken the brunt of the flame, the worst of the injury is the section just above the ear on your face.’

  ‘The white section? But that part doesn’t even hurt.’ Nicholas peered at himself in the tiny hand-held mirror. That part looked the least upset of all.

  ‘Yes. That’s the deepest part of the burn and the fire burnt through all the nerve endings. The red sections, where it hurts the most, are healing the best. They hurt because the nerves are still intact.’