by Karen Odden
I pushed gently at the door until the crack was wide enough that I could look in. As I suspected, this was the scullery half of a large split kitchen. Two broad windows near the ceiling would have let in the sunlight had it been day, but now the room was illuminated only by a few lamps whose sallow light caught the metallic shine of cookware on a rack overhead and left the corners in shadow. The tin clock above the twin sinks told that it was nearly one in the morning. The stove was still lit, with a copper pot on the cooking surface, and the air was warm and damp. A young maid was filling a second pot at the sink. Through vents that led to the room next door came the voices of several maids and the clatter of dishes being put on trays.
I pushed the door open a bit farther. Now I could see that more injured people were lying on the stone floor, towels under their heads like makeshift pillows. Some of them were groaning, others were silent. The maid turned toward me, her eyes large and frightened.
In the middle of the room stood a large wooden table much like the one we had at home, where our scullery maids piled the dishes for washing and stacked the clean ones to be put away. Tonight, this table had become a place to lay the patients.
The doctor from the field was bent over the table, stitching an ugly gash in a man’s shoulder by the light of a lantern. He was wholly absorbed in the task, and I remained very still, not wanting to distract him. He’d stripped to his white shirt, undone his collar, and rolled the sleeves above his elbows to work. His hands moved skillfully over the wound, the muscles in his forearm shifting under his skin, his fingers making tiny repetitive movements, the silver needle catching bits of light.
The patient was a large man, with a thick mane of dark hair and a cruel cut across his forehead in addition to the one across his shoulder. He groaned and muttered a few words in French. The doctor murmured, “Ne vous inquiétez pas, vous allez être bien,” groped for the cone that had slipped sideways off the man’s nose, and replaced it. Then he picked up the lantern, held it near the shoulder for a moment, put it down, made a few more stitches, and then picked up the lamp once more to study the gash.
The cone on the patient’s nose began to slip sideways again.
He’d told the man, Allez être bien. But everything didn’t look fine to me.
I pushed the door all the way open and stepped inside, my hand already reaching to replace the cone. “May I help you?”
He glanced up, and it took a moment before he recognized me. He bent over the man’s bloody shoulder again. “Are you prone to fainting?” His voice was pleasant, but dubious.
A fair question, considering that the last time he saw me I’d fallen unconscious at his feet. But I’d helped our groom Martin stitch up our horses many times—and Athena had gashes worse than this when she came to us.
“Not usually, no,” I said evenly.
Without looking up, he said, “Good. Can you hold the light here, and keep the chloroform on?”
I wrapped my fingers around the handle of the lantern and carefully adjusted the cone. I watched his hands; even Martin’s fingers didn’t move so nimbly with a needle.
“Bring the light this way, please.”
I lifted it so it hung above the wounded man’s shoulder.
That’s when I saw the patient’s face. It was the man who’d helped Mama and me off the train.
I let out a gasp before I could stop myself, and the doctor looked up. “You’re all right?”
“I’m fine. It’s just—this man—he helped us off the train. And then ran to another carriage. He must have been going to help them too.”
“Yes, well. That’s probably why he ended up here.”
I bit my lip and prayed that he’d recover.
Ten or twelve more quick stitches, a knot.
“That’s enough chloroform for now. Thank you.”
I removed the cone and watched as he twirled the needle and thread into a small efficient loop like he’d done after stitching my wound. He barely glanced in my direction as he handed me a square of cloth. “Can you hold this to his head while I check his leg?”
I did as he directed.
Together, we worked through the long night.
—
The pale gray light of dawn was filtering through the scullery windows by the time we’d finished. The clock had chimed half past five, and the doctor had stitched nearly two dozen wounds and set three bones, tying them up with bandages ripped from the hotel’s white sheets. The proprietress, Mrs. Mowbray, had called to us through the closed door to offer them, but she had not brought them in herself. Instead, she sent a maid, who entered with her eyes screwed tight. She thrust the linens at me and left again before I could thank her. Despite the wretchedness of the situation, I’d almost smiled. The maid from upstairs wasn’t the only one who couldn’t bear the sight of blood.
The doctor sighed and arched his back, rolling his head from side to side. My back and shoulders ached too, but there was also a feeling of satisfaction; every patient had been cared for and removed to a bed upstairs. The room was empty except for the two of us. Even the maid who had been boiling water for us all night had left.
The doctor and I washed our hands with a bit of lye soap from the wooden dish between the two sinks. As he bent over, a chain, with something round and gold—a pendant?—fell out from his shirt collar. He tucked it back inside absently before drying his hands on a towel. Then he stoked the fire in the stove and put some water into a small, clean pot.
“I wonder if there is any coffee,” he said, breaking the silence. But a quick search revealed none, so he made tea instead, while I found two cups and saucers in a cupboard.
He tucked a spoon in his pocket and carried the pot and a pitcher of milk to the threshold. “Let’s find a place to sit,” he suggested, shouldering the door open so I could go through with the dishes and a sugar bowl.
He led me upstairs to the narrow room that had been empty earlier. It was almost too small to be considered a proper sitting room, but there were two armchairs, one on either side of a table that was large enough for the tea things. The air smelled of lamps whose wicks weren’t kept properly trimmed and had smoked badly—but the hearth had been swept, and there were supplies for a fire. Outside the single window, which looked onto a narrow alley, the rain fell, blurring the red bricks of the building opposite.
I set the tea things down, found the matchbox on the mantel, and lit a table lamp. By its light, I could see the room more clearly. The walls were papered in a garish green that showed worn spots. On one wall, a foggy mirror hung above a wooden cabinet with a few books behind glass. On the other wall, above two straight-backed wooden chairs, hung a painting of cows in a field, an imitation of one of the seventeenth-century Dutch masters. I perched on one of the ugly chintz-covered chairs. It smelled of Macassar oil, no doubt accumulated from the hair of dozens of men who had sat there previously. Into my mind leapt the image of Lady Lorry’s elegant ballroom; the contrast with this shabby chamber was so stark that I felt a laugh forming in my throat.
The doctor had rolled some newspaper into spears and settled them on the grate; now he tonged some coal from the hod into the fireplace. I handed him the box of matches, and he sparked and held one to the newspaper, then sat back on his heels. His hair was disheveled and his shirt was so stained that it would probably have to be thrown away. I realized I probably looked equally frightful, with my bedraggled skirts and a bandage strapped across my forehead, and again I had to stifle a laugh. What would Lady Lorry say if she could see me now?
The fire crackled and spit from the rain dripping down the chimney onto the hot coals, but soon it was burning well and taking the chill from the room. I poured the tea into our cups, then spooned sugar into mine. I took a sip and grimaced. It was dreadful, even with the sugar.
He sat down in the other armchair. “Is it horrid, then?”
His r was softer than my English one. It came out like a purr. Scottish, I was almost certain.
“Rather.”
I smiled. “But at least it’s hot.”
He leaned back and took a long breath, his eyes meeting mine. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am. The quicker I can be in those cases, the better. Truly, your help made all the difference.”
I felt my face flush.
“I don’t even know your name,” he continued. Our fingers had touched dozens of times throughout the night, as I handed him materials, or as he shifted the lamp I held. But now he offered his hand forthrightly to me, as though I were an equal, or one of the new suffragists. “I’m Paul Wilcox.”
Ever since we’d finished in the scullery, I’d been dreading this moment, wishing I could somehow avoid telling him who I was. Over the past six hours, we’d developed an easy, even friendly, understanding. Revealing my title would change things. It always did. And very suddenly, I realized I didn’t want that.
“Miss Fraser. Elizabeth Fraser.” I kept my voice steady as I said it; it was the legal truth, after all, even if it was also a lie. I felt his hand close warm and steady over my own, while his eyes met mine, measuring.
“You’re not a nurse, surely.”
I shook my head.
“So how is it that you don’t faint, Miss Fraser? Most men I know couldn’t have borne what you did tonight—and with no disrespect to your sex, ladies are usually even less stalwart.” He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Did you see that maid who brought us the sheets? She wouldn’t even open her eyes.”
So he’d noticed too. I gave a small laugh. “Well, I’ve helped take care of horses, when they were injured.”
He raised his eyebrows slightly. “Surely that’s not your profession.”
“No. I just meant that I’ve helped take care of our horses sometimes.”
“Out of curiosity, how do you sedate a horse?” he asked.
I remembered the day Athena came to us, how she’d fought and kicked. “Laudanum and sugar-water.”
He looked startled. “Laudanum and sugar-water?”
“Horses lap it up. After that”—I shrugged—“it’s just a question of making sure they fall in the right direction.” I paused meaningfully. “They’re rather hard to shift, once they’re down.”
He laughed outright. “I imagine they are.” He took a sip of the tea, winced, and held the cup between his hands for its warmth. “So you and your mother live here in the country, not in London?”
“In Levlinshire. We’d been in London for a few weeks.” I hesitated. “You remember my mother then? There were so many of us in that field.”
He gave me an odd look. “Of course I remember. How is she?”
“She’s sleeping peacefully. Or she was, when I left her.”
“When you’ve finished your tea, we’ll go see her.”
I nodded.
“If she’s well, she can be moved,” he added. “No doubt you’ll want to get home, and she’ll be more comfortable there.”
“Dr. Wilcox—”
“Mr. Wilcox,” he corrected me. “I’m not a physician; I’m a railway surgeon.”
I’d never heard of such a thing. “Do you work for the railway, then?”
He shook his head. “No. I help people who’ve been in railway accidents.”
That truly surprised me. “Are there enough people in railway accidents to keep you busy?”
“Dozens—though not all the accidents are as bad as yours, thank god.”
I sat back in my chair. “So you only help victims of railway accidents? You wouldn’t care for someone who had fallen off a ladder, or been taken ill with a fever?”
“Of course I would, if called upon. But railway injuries are my specialty, and these accidents can result in some peculiar outcomes.”
“What do you mean by ‘peculiar’?” I asked uneasily.
Now he looked sorry that he’d brought up the subject and shook his head reassuringly. “I don’t see any signs that your injury is one of those. But, if you’d like, I can give you an example, to explain what I mean.”
“Yes, please.”
“You’ve heard of Charles Dickens, the novelist?” he asked.
“Of course.” I’d read all of his novels at least twice over.
“In 1865, he climbed out of the disaster at Staplehurst and dragged two other passengers out with him. Then he went back for his case because it had the manuscript for Our Mutual Friend in it, and afterward he spent several hours helping other victims, bringing them water and such. He even managed to walk partway home. But the next day, he became dizzy and was shaking so badly that he could barely sign his name; two weeks later, his legs started twitching, and he had such nightmares that he couldn’t bring himself to get in bed at night. He’d stay up until he collapsed at his desk.”
“That’s odd. Why did he get worse instead of better?”
“Quite often, people who are in railway disasters suffer a special kind of nervous damage, which happens belatedly. Some medical men call it ‘railway spine’ or ‘railway brain.’ My mentor, John Erichsen, and I believe it has at least something to do with fright and shock, as well as an injury to the spine, but none of us completely understands it yet.” He gave an encouraging smile. “I don’t want you to worry. And it’s perfectly normal for people to have some nervous disorder for the first few days following an accident—such as what you betrayed yourself just now.”
I stared. “What did I do?”
He gestured toward the fire. “A coal sparked and fell. It barely made a sound, but you jumped in your chair and spilt your tea.”
Dismayed, I looked down at my lap. I wouldn’t have believed him, but there was the proof, a cluster of spots the size of shillings, spreading on the silk.
How could I not realize that it had happened?
“Miss Fraser, as I said, your unease is normal.” He paused and, after a moment, added gently, “You’d have to be some sort of monster to witness what you did and not be affected.”
His sympathy was so frank and unexpected that it nearly undid me. Tears pricked at my eyes, and I had to swallow the tightness in my throat. Finally, I said, “Does it go away? The nervousness?”
“Yes, with time. The difficulties usually occur only in those whose nerves are already weakened by what we call a ‘complicating factor’—a previous condition, say, or a tendency to be susceptible to suggestion.” He gave a faint shrug. “You know the sort—people who are always fretting about their illnesses.”
I choked on my tea. Mama’s nerves were always disturbed, and “susceptible” didn’t begin to describe her. She’d only to hear about a new illness before she began to wonder if she had it. “Then I think you should see my mother now.” I set down my cup and rose from my chair.
He looked surprised, but he took me at my word. “I’ll fetch my bag from downstairs.”
Chapter 4
I drew the curtains apart to let in some light, and Mr. Wilcox approached the narrow bed.
Mama appeared to be fast asleep, but as he laid his hand on her arm, her eyelids fluttered open. It took a moment for her eyes to focus; they settled briefly on me, then skidded away, taking in the beds, the walls, the washstand, as if she were trying to find a familiar object, something to tell her where she was.
“Hello,” Mr. Wilcox said, using the same soothing tone that I’d use to calm a skittish horse. “You’re at the Travers Inn, and you’re safe. My name is Mr. Wilcox. I’m a surgeon, and I specialize in railway injuries, so I’ve come to check on you. How are you feeling?”
Mama didn’t reply, but her eyes shifted to his face and remained there.
Why didn’t she answer?
I was used to her silence when she was under the influence of her laudanum—but she hadn’t taken any in nearly a day.
Mr. Wilcox laid his hand gently on her forehead, and his expression remained cheerful. He opened his bag, and although there were many silver instruments and some bottles inside, he brought out only his stethoscope. He listened intently to Mama’s chest, moved the stethoscope to her abd
omen, and then slid the disk underneath her, so it lay behind her back.
He moved so carefully that he barely disturbed my mother at all; indeed, she seemed to calm under his touch. He took her pulse and smiled encouragingly, lifted a candle and brought it toward her face and away several times, examined her hands and arms and her legs, and at last removed the white gauze from her left ankle to check it. My mother tensed, but she didn’t make a sound. As for myself, I had to stifle my gasp.
Her ankle was badly swollen at the joint and showed purplish partway up her leg. He rewrapped it gently and then asked me to help turn her so that she was lying facedown. Mama submitted to everything without a murmur, and I thought I even heard a sigh of relief when she was settled, with the pillows arranged under her ankles to keep them raised. Though the entire examination took no more than a quarter of an hour, he seemed to have gathered what information he needed and put Mama at ease. But as he put his instruments away, his mouth tightened in a way that worried me.
I followed him out into the hallway. “Is her ankle broken?” I asked anxiously.
“I think it’s just a severe sprain. The bones seem fine.” His voice was subdued.
I kept with him toward the stairs. “Then what is the matter? Why isn’t she talking? And why did she need to be turned like that?”
“It’s just for the next few hours. Situating her so her spine is the highest part of the body can prevent venous congestion around the spinal cord. But more important, this position eliminates pressure upon the vertebral column, so it recovers more quickly.” We walked together down the stairs. “It’s best to have her lie this way for at least three out of every five or six hours for the next few days. I’m sure you can ask one of the maids to help you if you can’t turn her yourself.”
