The Christmas Eve Daughter - A Time Travel Novel: The Sequel to The Christmas Eve Letter

by Elyse Douglas

  Irene stepped back, horrified, fear seizing her, her face contorted in anxiety and confusion.

  Eve approached the nurse. “We’re looking for Mr. Duncan Beaumont. Is he here?”

  The nurse pointed to a bed with privacy curtains drawn. “Mr. Beaumont is there. In one of his more lucid moments, he asked us to call his father. We did, and he is on his way from Boston, but unfortunately, there was a train accident. We just received a telegram that the elder Mr. Beaumont’s visit would be delayed.”

  Irene broke into tears.

  The nurse turned to her with slight irritation. “Why don’t you step outside, Miss?”

  Irene retreated through the door into the hallway. Eve was relieved.

  Eve put her full attention on the nurse. “She is very fond of the boy.”

  The nurse nodded, and her eyes filled with compassion. She wore an ankle-length, light gray dress with short sleeves, a long white apron, and a heavily starched nursing cap.

  “May I ask your name, nurse?” Eve asked.

  “I’m Nurse Collins, Miss…?”

  “I am Mrs. Eve Gantly. I’m a friend of the family. Has Mr. Beaumont improved?”

  Nurse Collins shook her head in sorrow. “No, and I’m afraid the pneumonia has progressed. His lack of proper nutrition and the excessive consumption of unfortunate, so-called medicines have left him in a weakened state.”

  As in 1885, Eve thought, if this time only had antibiotics, how many lives could be saved?

  Eve lowered her voice. “I’m a nurse. May I see him?”

  The nurse stared frankly. “If you wish. I would also take the time to pray for his soul. I am sorry to say that I believe the good Lord will be coming for him very soon.”

  Eve nodded.

  Eve approached Duncan’s bed reverently. She quietly slid back the curtain, angling herself so that Nurse Collins couldn’t see her, and lowered her sad eyes on Duncan. He lay under a sheet, asleep. He was pale and drawn, his eyes twitching, face damp with sweat from fever. He looked so very frail. What a waste it would be if this young, talented man died so young, Eve thought. The longer she stared at Duncan, the more a firm decision took hold of her. Once again, she was going to challenge the fates. She was a healer, after all, and she had the means to do just that—to heal Duncan.

  It was the reason she’d stopped at her hotel room at the Biltmore. Throwing one more careful glance toward Nurse Collins, Eve slid the curtain closed behind her. She swiftly unfastened her dress and found the black security belt around her waist.

  The belt had been her idea when she and Patrick were planning their time travel. Instead of storing money from 1885, which of course wasn’t available, Eve had filled the narrow channel with Zithromax Z-Pak tablets and painkillers. In 1885, after Patrick had been shot and developed blood poisoning, he had almost died because there were no antibiotics. She decided that this time she’d have antibiotics at the ready just in case.

  She had enough for two courses, one for her and one for Patrick. She would give Duncan one course. Letting Duncan die was not an option when she had the means to save him.

  The next problem was administering the pills to Duncan. He was delirious and unconscious. Ideally, the antibiotic would be given intravenously, but that was not possible. All she had were the pink tablets. Eve knew that crushing the oral tablet would disrupt the dosage and destroy the extended-release properties. It would also increase the risk of adverse effects or drug toxicity. So, Eve would have to find a way to get Duncan to swallow the pills.

  There was a full glass of water on his side table. Glancing around to make sure she wasn’t being watched, Eve removed six pills from her brown pillbox. Each pill was 250mg. She needed a loading dose of 500mg in Duncan’s system right away. Then one 250mg pill for the next four days. Duncan was young. That should do it.

  She put the pills in a small red velvet bag, replaced the box in her belt, and then refastened the belt and her dress. She reached for the glass of water and one pill. She touched Duncan’s burning cheek and he moaned out unintelligible words. He jerked his head away from her. She placed her hand on the back of the pillow and gently lifted it, raising his head a little. Next, she whispered comforting words. She’d learned from years of practice that even if the patient wasn’t conscious, kind and encouraging words often helped calm them. With two fingers, she gently touched his lips, opening his mouth. With her other hand, she placed a pill on his tongue and dribbled a small amount of water into his mouth.

  “Swallow the pill, Duncan,” Eve said sweetly. “Go ahead. It’s all right. Swallow the pill.”

  She prayed he wouldn’t choke on the thing and draw attention to what she was doing.

  To Eve’s delight, Duncan obeyed and swallowed the pill, mumbling irritably. Eve tipped more water into his mouth. He swallowed, then his head swam from side to side.

  “Did you swallow the pill, Duncan?” she asked at a whisper, her voice close to his ear.

  He grumbled, “Who? I can’t find her… Where?”

  Eve whispered. “It’s all right, Duncan. Just rest now. Everything is going to be fine. Just sleep.”

  Thankfully, Eve managed to get Duncan to swallow the second pill. He was a good patient. He had actually responded to her soft, cajoling voice.

  Eve slowly drew back the curtains and saw Nurse Collins with a clipboard looking her way. Eve silently recited a prayer of thanks.

  Eve was preparing for the next part of her plan when Duncan began coughing violently. Nurse Collins hurried over and Eve faded back, out of the way, as Nurse Collins took a clean, white cloth and blotted Duncan’s forehead, also wiping saliva from his mouth. Then she fussed with the sheet, adjusting it and then rearranging it again around Duncan’s chin. Eve was touched by the act. All the fussing was unnecessary, but it was an act of compassion, as if Nurse Collins wanted to say, I just want to do something to help this poor, dying boy.

  After Duncan had relaxed and fallen to sleep, Nurse Collins slid the curtain closed and lifted her eyes with a slow shake of her sorrowful head.

  Eve approached her in a tranquil, whispering voice.

  “Nurse Collins…”

  Eve opened her hand, displaying the small bag containing the pills. “In this bag are four pink tablets.”

  Nurse Collins’ eyes lowered on the bag, then lifted to Eve as she waited for an explanation. Eve was about to lie.

  “These tablets were developed by a doctor who used to work at the old Gouverneur Hospital, Dr. Ann Long.”

  Nurse Collins’ eyes awakened. “Dr. Long? I know Dr. Long.”

  Eve was surprised. “You know Dr. Long?”

  “Yes, I worked with Dr. Long at the old hospital many years ago, when I first became a nurse.”

  “What year was that?” Eve asked, wondering if they might have crossed paths back in 1885.

  “Well, let me see… it was 1888. Did you know that Dr. Long was the first female ambulance surgeon in New York?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  Nurse Collins continued. “In those days, when the hospital first opened, it was exclusively for treating accident cases. When I arrived, it had expanded to include a ward for patients with tuberculosis. How do you know Dr. Long?”

  Eve couldn’t tell Nurse Collins she had worked with Dr. Long in 1885. Eve had not aged. Twenty-eight years later, she would have been 58 years old. Once again, Eve would have to lie.

  “My mother knew her. I’m not quite sure how they met, but for a time they were good friends. Do you happened to know where Dr. Long is now?” Eve asked. “We haven’t communicated in a while.”

  Nurse Collins’ attention was diverted as she glanced around the room to see if she was needed. When she saw all was in order, she focused again on Eve.

  “Yes, she moved to Chicago in 1909 and is working at Augustana Hospital there. I received a Christmas card from her last year.”

  Eve made a mental note of that, while Nurse Collins’ attention returned to the velvet bag that held four Z-
Pak tablets.

  “What were you saying about the tablets?”

  Eve told her the pills were a natural remedy Dr. Long had developed and used on patients with infections. “Although they’re not always successful, many times they are,” Eve said.

  Eve handed Nurse Collins the bag.

  “I have to leave town. Could you please administer Mr. Beaumont one tablet per day for four days?” Eve whispered. “You know how doctors are. You probably shouldn’t let Mr. Beaumont’s doctor know.”

  Nurse Collin’s eyes became bold. “Mrs. Gantly… the doctor has not been to see Mr. Beaumont for two days. I would only say this to another nurse, but I believe they have already given up on him. If these tablets were created by Dr. Long, then I will see that Mr. Beaumont receives them.”

  Eve thanked her, passed one last look toward Duncan’s bed and left.

  Back in reception, Eve found Irene hunched in a chair, weeping. Eve went to her, laying a tender hand on her shoulder. Irene lifted her head, pain in her eyes.

  “I loved him, Eve. Duncan was such a kind boy. So good. So much better than me. He’s going to die, isn’t he?”

  “The nurse said he’s improving.”

  She sniffed back tears. “Is he? Truly? Has he improved?”

  “Did you hear that his father is coming?”

  “Yes, his father… He will no doubt take him away and I will never see him again.”

  “Perhaps, but I firmly believe that Duncan will make a full recovery.”

  Irene stood, hopeful. “Do you think so?”

  “As a nurse, I’ve seen many surprising things happen. Sometimes people make miraculous recoveries. You just never know. Now, why don’t you go and see him? If you love him, why don’t you tell him you love him? I’m sure he’d want to see you.”

  Irene blinked, her thoughts scrambling. “But he is a carrier of disease, is he not, Eve? He’s been sick for a long time. I do not want to sound like a frightened child, but perhaps I should not be in the same room with him.”

  Eve looked at Irene pointedly. “Go see him, Irene. You’ll be fine. Go see him now and tell him how you feel, even if you’re not certain he can hear you. It will do you both a world of good.”

  Irene hesitated, considering Eve’s words. Finally, she gathered herself, adjusted her shoulders and started off down the hallway.

  Darkness had descended when Eve and Irene shouldered into their coats, arranged their hats, and left the hospital.

  They’d come in a taxi because Irene wanted to avoid using the limousine, knowing William would undoubtedly tell Addison where he’d taken them. He told Addison everything.

  And now, outside, the ladies were alone on the deserted street. There was a wet chill in the air, as if more rain were on the way, and Eve turned up the collar of her coat, glancing warily about.

  A misty glow shrouded the streetlights, casting eerie shadows on the cobbles and on the tenements, mostly obscured by a smoky fog. There was a disquieting melancholy hovering, as if all the despair and hopelessness of this unfortunate neighborhood had coalesced in that noxious, foul-smelling haze.

  Suddenly, a big man loomed out of the fog like a ghost from the underworld. Eve’s breath stopped. Irene made a little sound of fear.

  “Oh, my, Eve,” Irene said, fear tightening her voice. “We should have never come.”

  CHAPTER 22

  The man crept toward them from the dark street and stepped into the dim, cruel light. He wore a stubby, flat-topped plug hat, low over his brow. He was on the fat side, with a heavy sagging face, his throat spilling out over his collar. His aggressive big stomach strained the buttons on his vest, and with his greatcoat swept back, it allowed that prodigious stomach to bulge like a weapon.

  Eve and Irene were about to pivot and run back to the safety of the hospital when a tall, lean man jutted out behind them, blocking their escape. His lanky, loose-jointed build suggested quick reflexes and fast feet. His dark expression was sardonic and mean, his crooked gash of a grin calculated to intimidate. His bowler was cocked smartly left, and his greatcoat was open, flapping mischievously in the stirring wind.

  “Good evening, ladies,” the fat man said, in an arid, heavy voice. “Are you out strolling for gentlemen?” He gave a fierce grin as he spread his hands, and in a mocking tone, he said, “Well, my good ladies of the night, here we are. You have found your gentlemen and we like what we see.”

  Eve detected a slight Irish accent, similar to Patrick’s. But unlike Patrick’s soothing, warm sound, this one was disturbing and frightening. Panic surged up in her. A deep, naked fear crawled up her spine and froze her, as if she’d just plunged into an icy river. She threw darting glances about, frantically searching the area for an escape route. There was no escape, and the street was utterly deserted. They were trapped.

  “Will you please let us pass?” Eve asked, her voice trembling.

  Irene followed Eve’s lead, striving for calm. She managed to squeeze out, “Could you two gentlemen please find us a cab? We would be ever so grateful.”

  Both men laughed, but there was no mirth in it. It was a coarse, animal sound, as if coming from the depths of hell.

  The tall one spoke up, pointing left into a foggy darkness. “Walk left, ladies, and do not scream out. If you make as much as a bird sound, I will cut your pretty little faces, and they will not be so pretty tomorrow.”

  He reached into his inside coat pocket and brandished a knife. He angled it toward the light, so the ladies could see the bright, five-inch steel blade glint and glitter.

  Eve’s heart thundered in her chest. She glanced at Irene, utter terror swelling her eyes.

  “Walk. Now!” the tall man barked.

  Eve calmly took Irene’s elbow and willed her trembling body forward. Irene walked mechanically beside her while Eve led her out of the light and into the gray darkness of the dirty fog.

  They moved slowly, hearing the scratching sound of the men’s footsteps behind them. Forcing away burning fear, Eve forced her mind to calculate options. Did these men have guns? Didn’t know. Were they only going to scare them, or kill them? Didn’t know. Were these men sent by Big Jim Clancy? No doubt. Could she and Irene outrun them? Again, doubtful. These men were obviously professionals, and they knew these streets like a rat knows its sewer.

  Should she scream? She saw flickering lights in windows above, but in this neighborhood, yelling for help probably wouldn’t produce any results. Who would come to their rescue? This was a poor, depressed, overcrowded part of town, and the last thing anyone in this area needed was more suffering and threats.

  So, what was left?

  “Turn left!” the fat one ordered.

  Eve stopped. She looked left into the narrow dark tunnel of the alley, flanked on both sides by tall, sooty, brick structures. There was but one leaning street lamp near the middle of the alley, illuminating the damp cobblestones, a pile of discarded wood, two wooden barrels and a scattering of trash. Eve saw the skittering shadows of rats darting along the curbs and vanishing under scattered, stacked crates.

  “Move!” the tall one bellowed.

  Eve summoned every bit of courage she had, inhaled a breath and ventured left into the alley, with Irene in tow. Eve was afraid that Irene might faint. She was making little whimpering sounds, nearly hyperventilating.

  “Keep walking!” the fat one said, his voice all rough gravel.

  About midway, they heard “Stop!”

  The ladies were standing near a wooden barrel with the faded black lettering ATLANTIC GARDEN printed on it. Eve had a view down the alley and, looking up in the gray light, she could see rows and rows of hanging laundry stretched across the alley from tenement windows.

  “Turn around,” the tall one demanded.

  The ladies slowly complied.

  They were now in a place of shadows—a foul-smelling hellhole, only fit for rats, feral cats, down-and-out drunks, and the scum of the Earth—these two men.

  The fat one sho
ved his stubby hands into his vest pockets like a proud banker, lifted his double chin and strolled forward within about five feet of Eve. His bulging round eyes viewed her with a blatant, pleasurable lust.

  “Well… aren’t you a nice bit of stuff? Maybe you and me will have a go before Donny and me toss you two strumpets into the East River for a little swim to the bottom.”

  Irene groaned, a glassy shock filling her eyes. She whimpered, weaved and wilted like a rag doll, crumpling to the cobblestones, her lovely plumed hat rolling into a filthy puddle.

  The tall one laughed. “Silly birdie. Lookie there, Alfie. She’s all power puff birdie with no brains or guts.”

  Alfie looked down at her in disgust. “Daft floozie.”

  Eve instinctively turned to help Irene.

  “Leave her!” Alfie, the fat one, bellowed.

  “What do you want?” Eve shot back.

  Alfie stepped up smartly, raised a fat hand and backhanded Eve violently across the face. Her head jerked right, and she stumbled, nearly falling. She fought to stay on her feet as the world swam around her. Her cheek burned, and she tasted blood.

  The fat man jabbed a threatening finger in her face. “You keep your lips shut, you bloody harlot! I do the talkin’ here, you see? Do you see that? Do you hear me?”

  Breathing hard, Eve managed to straighten, glaring back at him.

  He kept jabbing his finger. “You should have left Maggie Gantly alone, you daft harlot. You’ve been sticking your pretty sharp nose into other people’s business, and that just ain’t smart.”

  Eve fought to think, to come up with any options for attack or escape. During their nearly one year of marriage, Patrick had taught Eve some street fighting techniques, and now they flitted across her mind. She could spring on the fat man and claw at his eyes—dig her fingernails into his face. She would surely die for it, but it would be worth it.

  “Now, you are gonna answer some questions for me. First, who are you?” the fat man asked. “And do not lie to me, cherry girl, or you will die slowly, with my hard fists and Donny’s sharp knife cutting little pieces from your hair and face.”