by Eric Flint
She pouted. “Because I utter such nonsense?”
He shook his head. “Because you utter such insights as will shock others. Or they may fail to fully understand them. Which is worse.
“The most influential among those ‘others’ whom you might shock or baffle are learned professors, experienced physicians, and men of power and title. With rare exception, they will not welcome being routinely shown to be no more perspicacious than a girl who is barely on the cusp of womanhood. Indeed, if you are not careful, you will unintentionally yet clearly show them to be your intellectual inferiors. This you must avoid at all costs. Your own noble birth and relations will shield you from some of the consequences that might result, but it will also inspire jealousy and resentment.”
“And you would send me back to . . . to all that?”
He nodded. “I would. Because you must now go there to learn the foundations of this art, that you may grow to your full potential in it. And, unless I miss my guess, leave a profound mark upon its development.” He smiled sadly. “But my dear, as a woman, there are many who will be determined to impede you, to make your path difficult, even humiliating. You must be prepared for that.”
“And yet you suggest that it is worth my while to try.”
He leaned forward. “Leonora Christiansdatter, I do indeed say it is important for you to try. But moreso, it is imperative for us that you try. For all of us. In most of the world, medicine has excluded half of humanity—your half—from its ranks. It has done so to the detriment of all. I grew up in that tradition, and only learned the human cost of it when I came to the New World, where women were giving birth without the aid of midwives. I could not stand by; I helped where I could and where I was allowed.
“But you could change all that. Your skill, your birth, and your access to up-timers through your already close relations with them could change the face of medicine. In every regard.”
Leonora felt her earlier big frown threatening to return. “But I haven’t the acquaintance of any up-time physicians.”
Brandão waved away the objection. “That will be yours for the asking. And if you can be accepted as an assistant to an up-timer, I would commend you seek out one above all others: Sharon Nichols.”
Leonora felt her heart rise up. “Yes! She who performed surgeries before the most esteemed doctors in Venice. Do you think she would have me as an assistant?”
Brandão raised an upended palm of uncertainty. “I cannot say. Who but she may? But I suspect she would advise you as I would: attain the foundations of this art before you work alongside her.”
Leonora could not see an oblique way to approach the topic, so she headed at it directly. “Do you know her? Could you write to her on my behalf?”
The wizened physician smiled. “That letter is half composed already.” Seeing her surprise, he tapped his temple and added, “Right in here.” He rose. “I see our friend with the early onset of gout is coming back. No doubt he overindulged at the dance and the sequelae have yet to relent. Let us be ready to receive him.”
Chapter 33
Oranjestad, St. Eustatia
From the window overlooking the street, Anne Cathrine watched as Leonora rushed up the stairs of what was coming to be known as Danish House, and then, after charging around the corner from the foyer, burst into the chamber that had evolved into the ladies’ sitting room. Clutching a handful of papers, she checked to see that Sophie and Anne Cathrine were both there. Evidently satisfied in her expectations, she nodded and sat herself down at the table in the middle of the room.
Sophie leaned toward her. “Are you well, Leonora? You look quite flushed.”
Leonora nodded, still panting, and shook the papers under her friend’s graceful nose. “I’ve got it all. Right here. Took me hours. Tracked down a dozen people. Some didn’t want to answer. Had to try others. But I’ve got enough. It’s complete.”
“What’s complete? What is it?” Anne Cathrine asked.
“A dossier. On him.”
“Who?”
She stared at Anne Cathrine like she feared her older sister had gone irremediably insane.
“Who?” she shot back. “Why—him!” She spun toward Sophie. “HAO!”
Sophie frowned, repeated the letters carefully. “H. A. O. And that is—?”
“Hugh Albert O’Donnell! How can you be so wise and so . . . well, slow. It takes too long to say the name. Or write it.”
Anne Cathrine noticed she had put that opinion to use: the dossier was labeled HAO.
“So here’s what I learned about him.”
Sophie held up a hand. “Leonora, I am grateful, but—”
“See here,” said Leonora with a hint of frustration in her voice, “I was at the dance and saw you. With him. Everyone did. There is no secret what was happening, just as there is no secret about what is likely—very likely—to happen next. So, although you have learned a great deal about HA—um, ‘Hugh,’ I took it upon myself to put details to the . . . the broad facts we have of him.” But her concluding tone added, Which is to say, the details any sensible woman should have in hand before she considers a proposal of marriage.
Sophie and Anne Cathrine looked over the top of Leonora’s almost steaming chestnut hair and exchanged shrugs. Sophie sat back. “I am most grateful, Leonora. Please do share with us.”
Anne Cathrine leaned in sharply. “Share the short version,” she said, sending her trust me on this look to her tall friend. Who answered with a small smile.
Leonora shot a cross glance at her sister’s qualification and, in a disappointed tone, began. “So I will omit all my arduous research into the time he spent at Archduchess Isabella’s court in Brussels and his interactions while there. I shall also omit the details of the attainting of his lands. I shall also omit the unsolicited comments of the Wild Geese here in Oranjestad. They seem very fond of, but also very familiar, with him.”
Anne Cathrine asked the question before she could stop herself. “But do they respect him?”
Leonora stared at her. “They consider him their prince-in-exile and king-to-be. And when any one of them made too broad a jest at his expense, dark looks from the rest stilled that. Immediately. Why do you ask?”
“Just a reflex,” Anne Cathrine answered, but she was using her casual tone to conceal the instinct that caused her inquiry: because capable leaders who lack respect are done before they begin, whereas capable leaders with complete respect can only be stopped by fate or a bullet. “I’m sorry for interrupting.”
“No matter,” Leonora answered irritably. “It seems that once all the details are removed, this is indeed a very, very short version.
“Lord O’Donnell is the godson of the Archduchess Isabella and her late husband, the Archduke Albert. From whence comes Lord O’Donnell’s middle name. His mother was in some vague combination of house arrest and lady-in-waiting at the English court. I cannot discover much that suggests she made any great effort to have him restored to her, or for her to be reunited with him in Brussels. I am equally unable to discern if this was pragmatism or from a want of maternal affection.”
Anne saw Sophie’s eyes become slightly more reflective, but she remained silent.
“However, his godmother remained childless and it seems that all those instincts, ambitions, and hopes were vested in the young Lord O’Donnell, whose progress to the New World seems to have been motivated by two of her clear objectives: to protect him from English assassins and to provide him with a solid financial basis.
“He was a page at Isabella’s court until he began his education at the University of Louvain where he completed his degree, even as he trained in the martial skills he used in the service of the Spanish Lowlands. By the time he was twenty, he had led infantry, artillery, and cavalry units and had been made a Knight of the Order of Alcántara for his service. It was also intended, no doubt, to keep the Irish securely attached to their Spanish patrons.
“Who, in his case, was none other than Ki
ng Philip himself, and through whose intercession, he had occasion to correspond directly with the pontiff of the Roman Church. He speaks English, Dutch, French, Latin, and Gaelic fluently. He is less accomplished in Greek. He is known to have some skill in Italian and German.”
Leonora glanced up at the ceiling so she didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. “I suspect he may now be acquiring a facility in Danish, as well.”
She returned to her reading. “In conclusion, the legal contortions and casuistries whereby the English king attainted his title—done only after Hugh’s accused father died—was widely denounced. Quite vociferously, in several cases. The ranking nobility of the continent, regardless of their relationship to England, expressed profound questions as to its ultimate legality.” Without stopping to breathe, she looked up and asked, “Is that helpful?”
Sophie’s eyelids fluttered as she sought a suitable response. “It is overwhelming,” she murmured.
“In what way?”
Sophie had recovered enough to smile. “My dear Leonora, you . . . you might have left me some mystery.”
Leonora frowned. “Why would you want that?”
Anne Cathrine approached from the side. “Many people feel that mystery quickens feelings of . . . romance.”
“Well, that’s ridiculous,” pronounced Leonora, who also did not note that “romance” had, in this case, been intended euphemistically. “A man and woman should know all they can about each other so that they may proceed forward in a productive and harmonious fashion.”
Anne Cathrine suppressed a smile of her own. Oh, sister, when you fall in love, you will not know the top of your head from the soles of your feet. Aloud: “That is a wise and noble sentiment. And this was very useful information. Now, let us—”
“Hold,” interrupted Leonora with surprising firmness. “Have I somehow been in error? Is what everyone is saying will happen not actually going to happen? By which I mean: Sophie, are you not soon to be betrothed to Hugh?”
Sophie’s smile was sad and maybe a little weary. “In truth, I do not know.”
“Well, what is he about, then, writing a poem for you and conspiring with Dr. Brandão to speak to you alone in the infirmary? No, do not interrupt me, Anne Cathrine, and it does not matter how I found out. Suffice it to accept the obvious: that I did. Now, Sophie, what does Hugh mean with all these attentions, then?” Leonora pressed, almost crossly. “Has he spoken of marriage, or not?”
Sophie laughed, at which Leonora’s frown deepened. Sophie stretched out a hand toward her friend. “I do not laugh at you. I laugh at the idea of knowing the mind of another. And I also laugh at the mere notions of proposals, of etiquette, of marriage.”
Leonora flinched as if struck. “You . . . laugh at marriage?” Anne Cathrine had the impression that her younger sister was about to transition from Sophie’s friend to physician, concerned with a sudden onset of hysteria, delirium, or both.
Sophie shrugged. “I only speak for myself, for my own life. I know quite well how blessed that union can be”—she glanced at Anne Cathrine—“and with what joy it may rightly be anticipated,” she finished, taking Leonora’s hand. She shook her head. “But for me—I do not think so. Not any longer.”
Leonora snatched her hand away; Anne Cathrine could read in her face that it wasn’t malice or disapproval which drove that reaction. It was fear. “Then what—how do you proceed?” she asked in a tone at once worried, baffled, and reluctant. “How do you—how does any woman, regarding of rank—deepen their, their, well, friendship with a man without such a union as the intended, honorable outcome?”
Sophie stretched, arms high above her head; the long limbs made her look like a lance aimed at a limitless sky. “I do not know, and I do not care.”
“You don’t care? How could—?”
“Leonora,” Sophie said, lowering her arms and her tone, “do remember: I have been betrothed, wedded, bedded, and a mother. This is not some sudden philosophical discovery, my dear young friend. This is clarity. This is a view of the world unobstructed by the demands and the conventions of others, of society.”
“And what does this view, this clarity, show you?”
Sophie settled her hands calmly on the table. “It has revealed the sobering fact that as I think upon my existence back home—well, back in Europe—I can no longer abide the notion of returning to that life. To the stultifying constraints of lineage, and inheritance, and propriety, and legality, and honor. I do not know how my relations with Hugh shall progress, but I know this: it will not be on those—on their—terms. It shall be on ours.”
“And this is his suggestion?”
Anne Cathrine put a hand on her sister’s shoulder. “Just listen.”
Sophie nodded her thanks, took Leonora’s hands in hers. “I do not know, nor could I anticipate, what Hugh might think of all this. Hugh would not even think to ask such questions of me. And he would not ask me to compromise myself. But I no longer feel that, by breaking with the rules of society, I would be doing so. I would simply be jettisoning all the encumbrances of a society besotted with status, prestige, and power.
“What that means for me, for him, for us, I do not know. How can I? In the old world, we could not even dream of joining, of existing, outside those limits, those shackles. But here?” She stretched her arms again. “This is in all regards a New World. And it would destroy the possibilities of true discovery for us to hastily impose the shapes and impediments of the old world upon it.”
Leonora did not lean, so much as fall, against her chair’s backrest. “Well,” she said, and then was quiet.
Anne Cathrine patted her shoulder, met her friend’s eyes. “And Hugh . . . Hugh has not heard your thoughts on these matters? At all?”
Sophie shook her head. “Not yet. I would hardly know where to begin, for I am yet new in finding my way through these revelations. I feel like a toddler walking into a mostly unlit room. I am not afraid of what might be there, or falling or bumping into unexpected objects, but I do not yet know its shape, cannot responsibly call to another to come see what I have discovered.” She smiled sadly. “But we have both been so ill used by the old world—so utterly neglected or abused by those whose responsibilities to us should have been inviolably rooted in blood, in law, or both—that our bonds to the lands of our birth are frayed unto breaking.”
Anne Cathrine nodded understanding, but said, “He is the last heir to the throne of Ireland. People look to him. They may call upon him to restore their country.”
She nodded. “Yes, I know this. But as he has said, he can help them best from here by securing the oil from Trinidad and through it, amassing funds that may be used to advance their interests, and one day, perhaps, their cause. And if he must eventually go to his land, then that will be addressed when the time comes. I cannot know what I shall do so far in the future when I do not even know what tomorrow will hold.”
Anne Cathrine nodded. “Such an array of possibilities must be exciting. And terrifying.”
Sophie nodded. “It is both. And more.”
“Do you mean to stay here, then? Permanently?”
One half of Sophie’s mouth hinted at rueful irony. “Do you not?”
Anne Cathrine felt a flush as she realized she had no answer, no certainty that her growing sense of purpose here in the New World was not also diminishing the ties that bound her to the old.
Suddenly, both her home in Copenhagen and Eddie’s in Grantville seemed impossibly far away.
Chapter 34
Nezpique Bayou, Louisiana
The sound of a distant rifle shot, and then another, echoed unsteadily through the bayou’s trees and Spanish moss. The sound seemed to shimmer through the air the way light passes through a waterfall. Very different from the sound that the same Winchester .40-72 made in the grassy, rock-sided valleys of Germany, Larry reflected.
Katkoshyok looked up at the twin reports, cocked his head to clarify the direction, and nodded. “Our men find the bison near
the lick. I will send others to help with the kill.”
Larry nodded his thanks. “As ever, we are grateful to the Ishak.”
Katkoshyok smiled. “You are a most polite visitor to Ishak lands. Maybe too polite.” Although his smile did not diminish, he looked up and met Larry’s eyes directly. “When tribes live together for a month, it is tiring to always be thanking. Be at ease, Larry. Be with us and of us.”
Larry nodded, barely stopped himself from saying “thank you” yet again. And discovered why he kept saying it: because the alternative was to offer a tangible reciprocal favor or courtesy of some kind. And that was dangerous and uncertain ground.
Yes, there’d been exchanges of gifts. The Ishak highly prized the simplest of iron implements, and steel was almost literally the stuff of magic, to them. And yes, they’d traded visits to each other’s homes. The two-day trip to Courser, now anchored just beyond the mouth of the Mermentau, filled the Ishak with wonder and cemented their friendship in some quiet but profound fashion that it took several more days to figure out. Namely, that no white visitors to their lands had yet brought them to see their ships, much less board them, and certainly had not patiently answered their questions about how the various systems operated. The secrecy that their prior visitors had always maintained about their far more rudimentary technology had purchased an aura of wizardry but at the price of aloofness and distrust, and therefore, anything like true friendship. So far, Mike Stearns’ history-altering strategy for how to initiate contact with Native Americans, at least in this part of the country, was working extremely well.
So well that, when Larry almost embarrassedly confessed why they had come searching for the Ishak, Katkoshyok and Tulak simply shrugged and offered to help seek the source of the strange oil that he sought. Larry explained that in his time, it had been found by gases that burned, rising up from uneven ground, or possibly by a strange smell that could be detected near open ground or greasy sands almost from the limit of bowshot. The Ishak leaders shrugged again. They knew of no such things or places, but would happily help their new friends find them. But what did they want them for?
