by Carol Rivers
‘Are you in pain?’ she asked softly.
‘I try to tell myself I’m not,’ he muttered, ‘but my leg says otherwise.’ He laughed emptily. ‘You should throw me out! A complaint in the first moment of seeing you.’
She smiled. ‘I’m glad you decided to come.’
‘Are you?’ He lowered his head. ‘I don’t deserve your consideration.’ Raising his eyes, he added, ‘Our chance meeting inspired me. Your words encouraged me. But at the last moment, I lost my nerve.’
‘Dr Tapper is a very special doctor.’
His eyes held hers. ‘I do believe you, Flora.’
She pushed back her tangled hair. What did she look like after the busy day? She felt his eyes on her. Did he really come here because of what she had said about the doctor?
‘After our meeting at the market, I felt more alive than I have done in months. You gave me hope again. Hope that I’d almost lost.’ He adjusted his position on the chair so that he didn’t lean quite so heavily on his cane. ‘I thought a great deal about what you said. About the doctor and your friends, Hilda and Will, and the orphanage. Your life must have presented you with many challenges. And yet you overcame them. I was humbled.’ His voice grew rough and he glanced away. ‘In battle a soldier is faced with his mortality. He sees life extinguished in a second. One day it might be his life that’s taken.’ Slowly, he returned his gaze to Flora. ‘But death is not the worst. To become wounded is almost shaming. To abandon one’s men . . .’
‘But you didn’t abandon them! You were wounded and could have died.’
‘Sometimes, I wish—’ He stopped as a shadow fell across them.
‘Good evening.’ Dr Tapper stood at the door.
‘This is Lieutenant Appleby.’ Flora wondered if the doctor had overheard their conversation. He had a very sympathetic expression on his face.
‘I’m very pleased to meet you, sir.’ The young man struggled to his feet and took the doctor’s hand. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you from Flora.’
‘Have you indeed . . .’
‘I hoped you would see me, but it’s very late.’
Dr Tapper patted his pockets as Flora often saw him do. She knew he was considering Michael carefully. At last, he gave a short nod. ‘You’d better come into my room.’
Flora watched the two men walk together across the floor, one elderly and bent, the other young and disabled. She knew that if anyone could perform miracles, it was Dr Tapper. But as the door closed and she went back to sit in her small room, the time passed very slowly.
Almost an hour had passed and Flora was restless. Was this good news or bad, she wondered? Was there hope for the young soldier or would it be as both Michael and the doctor had feared: another damning verdict to add to the others.
Just then the doctor’s door opened. ‘Flora, would you join us?’ the doctor said, leading the way into his room. ‘Please, stand over here by our patient.’ Dr Tapper indicated the couch on which Michael lay, propped up by a pillow. He was wearing just his undergarments: a white flannel button-up vest and pants. His left leg was stretched out on the couch, his right one bent at the knee, his bare foot on the floor.
Flora had helped many patients undress in readiness for an examination. She had seen arms, legs, chests and even the more private parts of the male anatomy. But now a great heat washed up from her neck and filled her face.
‘As I’ve explained, I don’t wish to raise any hopes,’ the doctor began to say. ‘The treatment I’m about to propose can be uncomfortable in the extreme but has been proven to work in some cases, such as with our former patient Mr Cowper. With Lieutenant Appleby’s wound, we must bear in mind that surgery has already been performed – twice. Post-operative procedures are controversial and yet I think nothing can be lost here. That is, other than the degree of pain it will involve.’ He raised an eyebrow in Michael’s direction.
‘I’m willing to try,’ Michael said at once.
The doctor patted his pockets, then bent over and placed his hand lightly on Michael’s bandaged thigh. ‘Your leg muscle has been weakened here and here. Though the original sites where the bullet entered and exited have partially healed, the nerves are damaged. It’s stimulation of these nerves that we must attend to. I believe that with a regime of massage and exercise, we may be able to address the problem. In the years after the African wars, I had some experience as a young doctor of what was then quite controversial physiotherapeutic techniques.’ He hesitated, raising his shoulders slightly. ‘Time, effort and patience will be needed, I’m afraid.’
Flora couldn’t help herself and looked into Michael’s eyes. She felt as if she was drowning in their green depths. Had hope come back into them?
‘For this to work I shall need your cooperation, Flora. Over a period of weeks and months, I hope to train you to use these methods. And between us we shall try our very best to effect a satisfactory result.’
Flora was surprised when the doctor urged her closer to their patient.
‘There is no time like the present.’ Dr Tapper took off his jacket and hung it on the peg. ‘Watch carefully, Flora, as I position our patient comfortably and support his thigh with one hand – like so.’ The doctor demonstrated. Flora heard Michael try to hide a groan.
‘I’m very sorry,’ the doctor said, pausing in his actions. ‘If the degree of pain becomes too much, you must tell me.’
Michael nodded, waving aside his suggestion.
The doctor continued. ‘Lifting the leg with my other hand, I raise it as far as possible towards the head, then once we have some natural movement, rotate the leg in hold, fix the knee, and lastly support the ankle. All this to be performed with the minimum of discomfort to Lieutenant Appleby. After a few weeks we shall introduce stretch exercises, followed by massage.’ The doctor demonstrated several more times. Then turning to Flora, he said, ‘Now I should like you to try.’
Flora felt very anxious as the doctor took her hands and showed her how to grasp and support the young officer’s leg. She was keenly aware of Michael’s gaze as her fingers played on his skin and moved a little tremblingly over his limb. Telling herself he was just another patient, she soon found she was performing the movements with ease and was able to follow the doctor’s guidance.
It was only when Michael bravely stifled his gasps of pain that she fumbled. She didn’t want to hurt him. But she knew she had to distance herself and act professionally. Just as she would with any other patient who came under the care of her employer.
Chapter Seventeen
It was the last night of the long weekend of Adelphi Hall’s grand Christmas house-party. Hilda had never been more exhausted. But nor had she ever been more excited.
Each night, forming a line with the other maids, she had carried the many dishes from the kitchen to the dining-room sideboards. This had been done in the manner of ‘service à la russe’. Mr Leighton, John the footman and Maxwell, Lord Guy’s valet, had then taken each dish and served accordingly. Hilda had overheard cross words between Mr Leighton and Mrs Harris. The cook preferred the traditional French style of carving the meats on the table and allowing the dinner guests to help themselves. But Mr Leighton’s word was law. Hilda had also learned from Gracie that it was Violet who had persuaded her mistress to go Russian. Not that it seemed to matter to the fashionable young women who sat at the dining table, Hilda noted with amusement. They discreetly pecked at the courses served to them, and hardly ate a bean! Dressed in their beautiful silk-satin crêpe gowns and bird-of-paradise plumage, the very epitome of fashion, they had no desire to fight with their tightly laced corsets. Instead, they ate sparingly, trying to fool everyone by exposing a few inches of tantalising white breast above their V-shaped necklines. Hilda loved the new fashions. They were so exotic!
Despite the war and all its troubles, Hilda thought how everyone was out to enjoy themselves. The guests talked, laughed, even proposed toasts that had nothing to do with Kitchener’s men or the kaiser’s onslaught a
cross Europe. The raised glasses were offered to those closer to home: the titled and wealthy, the grand names of society, whom Hilda knew rolled off the tongue of every individual present as easily as cream over strawberries. By the time the last course was served, Hilda had lost count of the indiscretions below-table. Black-stockinged legs had touched gentlemen’s calves or thighs, embroidered shoes had quite clearly nudged or entwined with highly polished leather.
Lady Bertha herself hadn’t indulged in such behaviour, Hilda reflected. Her jet-black hair was fashioned glossily around her head; her dark, quickly moving eyes were swift to see whose glass needed replenishing. She held a fan of dyed ostrich feathers that, Hilda decided, befitted a much older woman. Gracie had told her that the mistress was in her fiftieth year. Hilda thought that if she were Lady Bertha’s personal maid, she would have recommended a plain cream or fawn silk gown rather than the unflattering dull-blue chiffon that she wore. To Hilda’s surprise, the sight of Lady Bertha’s husband, James Forsythe, proved extremely disappointing. Although he looked much younger than his wife, the monocle balanced on his large nose and his weak chin were most unattractive! The small amount of hair he possessed was combed thinly over his head, like a pie top on a pudding.
Absorbing every small detail, Hilda had raised her eyes every now and then to study Lady Bertha and her guests. But it was not Lady Bertha or her guests who had occupied her thoughts since Friday night. It was the most outstanding man in the room, Lord Guy Calvey, who had set her pulse racing. She had felt very jealous as he laughed and teased his pretty companions. Hilda had deliberately paused closely to him, setting down the dish she was carrying with extreme care on the sideboard. Then just as carefully on her return across the floor, she had linked her gaze with his. Even now, she still couldn’t believe their eyes had met—
‘’Ilda, where’ve you been?’ Gracie yelled, bringing Hilda sharply back to the moment. Gracie was at the kitchen door, waiting for her. Hilda felt a little sorry for the scullery maid who had never been offered the opportunity to serve at table.
‘You know where.’ Hilda shrugged, a little out of breath. ‘Mrs Harris asked me to run across to the green-house for more parsley.’ She held out the jug that contained the herb. ‘Peter’s so slow, he took ages cutting me fresh sprigs.’ Hilda knew this sounded a poor excuse, but Gracie seemed satisfied. The true reason for the delay was that Hilda had found a broken mirror just inside the greenhouse. Whilst she’d waited for the gardener to appear, she’d plucked a few strands of hair from under her cap and twirled them around her finger and across her forehead. Then she’d arranged her braided bun of thick brown hair to lie more loosely at the nape of her neck. The tea-time inspection that Mrs Burns had given the maids had required white caps to be positioned fully over the head. There was not to be one hair escaping. This was a very plain look and Hilda didn’t hesitate to change it.
‘Are all the guests sitting in the same seats?’ Hilda enquired before Gracie could note the improvement of her appearance.
‘The place names ain’t been changed,’ Gracie said suspiciously. ‘Why are you askin’?’
Hilda shrugged. ‘I wondered if Lord William would be present. It is the last night, after all.’
‘Lord William?’ Gracie repeated, scraping her hand across her nose. ‘You’ll never catch sight of ’im at one of these parties.’
‘But it’s Christmas.’
‘That don’t matter to ’im. He’s just like a bloomin’ ghost, haunting the house. Fact is, ’e might as well be one. If it wasn’t for old Turner, his valet, looking after ’im, you’d never know there was a fourth earl moulderin’ out his days at Adelphi.’
Hilda wasn’t particularly interested in Lord William. An old man like him was welcome to his privacy as far as she was concerned. She’d only asked about the seating arrangements in order to divert Gracie’s suspicions. The truth was she was eager to discover whether Lord Guy would be seated at the head of the table. From this vantage point, he had full view of her, and she had of him, when she brought in the trays.
‘Mrs ’Arris says you’re to follow Maxwell and John who’ll be in charge of the soup and pâtés.’ Gracie gave Hilda a little shove. ‘They’re in the kitchen now, waiting for you.’
Hilda felt excited and fearful all at once. She couldn’t wait to be in the heady atmosphere of the dining room. It was like a theatre in which she also played a part. She was certain Lord Guy would be looking out for her. Hadn’t he given her a secretive smile again last night? Teased her with his mysterious dark eyes and followed her movements across the floor? She knew she had caught his attention.
And she would make sure tonight would be no exception.
‘Thank yer, ducks, and good health to yer,’ said the old man, smacking his lips and downing the thimbleful in one.
It was Friday and Christmas Eve. Dr Tapper had provided Flora with a bottle of port to distribute amongst the patients; there had been many smiling faces at the surgery today, thought Flora happily. The last to leave was an elderly man and he chuckled wheezily as he accepted the tumbler that Flora offered him. ‘Good luck to you, love, and the doctor. Here’s to all our soldiers abroad.’
Flora smiled. She was thinking of one very special soldier.
‘Got a sweetheart in the trenches, ’ave yer?’
‘Someone very close,’ she replied.
‘Well, if yer let me have that last drop, I’ll do them another honour.’ The old man looked greedily at the remaining finger of port.
Before Flora could reply, she saw a tall figure standing in the doorway. Michael leaned his cane against the wall and shook the flakes of snow from his overcoat.
‘Good evening to you, gov, I was just doing the honours,’ the old man said, grabbing the tumbler in his gnarled hands. ‘Here’s to this young lady’s beau and let’s hope he comes home to claim her, all in one piece with no bits missing.’ The liquid went down his throat in an instant. ‘God bless yer both,’ the departing patient wished them as he pulled up the collar of his threadbare jacket and left.
Michael raised an eyebrow. ‘I hope I’m not too early.’
‘No. Please come in.’ Flora managed to conceal the delight that filled her as she beckoned him into the doctor’s room. Not only had Michael agreed to the doctor’s treatment, but over the last few days he had thrown himself wholeheartedly into the strict regime of exercises.
‘Good evening, Michael,’ Dr Tapper said, getting up from his desk. ‘And how are you today?’
‘Well, doctor, thank you.’
‘Are we making progress do you think?’
Flora took Michael’s coat and hat. He was dressed casually in a shirt and waistcoat and heavy winter trousers. She saw that, after five treatments so far, he still leaned on his cane.
‘Perhaps some,’ he nodded.
‘But the pain is worse?’ the doctor guessed, urging Michael towards the couch.
‘On occasions, I’m afraid to say it is.’
‘Quite to be expected, as we are challenging the body to repair itself,’ the doctor told him. ‘I’ve made up a pain relief preparation for you to use when needed. And today, perhaps we shall try not to test you so much. Just a half an hour, Flora. That should be sufficient.’ The doctor made his way to the door, then stopped. He turned and frowned. ‘I take it you are with your family this Christmas, Michael?’
‘Actually, no, sir. Mama is holidaying in Scotland with friends.’
‘In that case,’ the doctor said pleasantly, ‘I wonder if you’d care to join Flora and I tomorrow for dinner? That is, if you are not busy elsewhere?’
‘Not at all,’ Michael replied in surprise, ‘but I couldn’t impose.’
‘Mrs Carver has stuffed the bird and prepared the vegetables. All that is to be done is to cook and enjoy them.’ The doctor looked at Flora. ‘We shall be delighted to have your company, won’t we, Flora?’
Flora tried to gather herself. She had been very surprised at her employer’s kind off
er. ‘Yes . . . yes, of course,’ she agreed.
‘Very well. Shall we say one o’clock?’ The doctor raised his bushy eyebrows.
‘On the dot.’ Michael gave a wide grin.
Ten minutes later, Flora was trying to keep her attention on Michael’s injured leg, as the doctor had taught her. She had accustomed herself to gripping his leg firmly and guiding it. But as her hand supported his thigh, she felt the muscles in his calf as they reacted to her touch.
‘Flora, is something wrong?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘I feel sure there is.’
‘I’m trying to concentrate.’
‘Would you like to stop? Are you tired? Perhaps these treatments have been too wearing on you.’
‘Of course they haven’t.’ Flora tried to look unruffled. But the thought of spending Christmas Day with Michael had come as quite a shock. ‘I don’t want to hurt you, that’s all,’ she said as she lifted his leg gently into position.
‘Your touch is very light.’ Suddenly, he reached out and took her wrist. ‘Come sit by me and rest a moment.’ He gestured to the chair beside the couch.
Flora took a seat and clutched her hands tightly in her lap.
‘I hope the doctor’s invitation hasn’t upset you.’ He stared at her with his deep gaze for what seemed like endless minutes. ‘Is it perhaps the thought of your beau, Will, that’s causing you to be sad?’
‘Will isn’t my beau.’
‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with the old man. You said he was someone very close.’
‘As I’ve said before, Will is like family to me and Hilda. We are the only family each of us has. Growing up in an orphanage is very different to the life you’ve led. Friends are scarce. Everyone looks out for themselves. The nuns of St Boniface were kind, but children can be very cruel.’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘But we three had each other.’
Michael nodded thoughtfully. ‘Has the doctor any family?’
