by L Rollins
“I didn’t say you couldn’t go.” She’d only argued that Natalie’s idea of an exciting night was foolish. She hadn’t actually stopped Natalie from doing it. Natalie was free to make her own decisions, and, similarly, Leila was free to voice her opinion as she saw fit.
Natalie let out a guffaw and took Margret’s teacup from her. The second kettle would be ready by now and Leila began pouring out. With any luck Natalie would come around soon and learn that snuggling up close to any and every good-looking face was not wise.
“Nurse!” Grauth called.
There was the high, unmistakable sound of a teacup smashing against the floor. Leila whirled around.
Tommie had fallen from his bed and lay on the floor convulsing. She ran to him, reaching him the same time Natalie did.
“Get him back on the bed,” Natalie ordered. “I’ll get Madame Hamon.”
Ignoring the shards of porcelain which bit through her skirt and cut her knees and hands, Leila scooped up the small boy. He weighed much less than he should have at ten years old; less than the tea tray she’d carried in earlier. She lay him down, head on his pillow.
Blood trickled out of his ears and from the corners of his mouth. His eyes rolled so far back, only the white showed. Leila wrapped her arms around his small frame and pushed him close to her.
Grauth was silently crying and all around the room had stilled as the other patients, too sick to stand or help, watched, helpless.
Tommie stilled. Leila felt his last breath leave his body.
Leila’s chest seized up. She could hardly breath herself. He’d been such a happy child, so full of potential and excitement.
She leaned in close and kissed Tommie’s forehead. It was probably a foolish thing to do—foolish to risk catching the waltzing flu herself—but a boy ought to be loved as he passed on. Tommie’s own mother was not permitted to visit, as she was expecting.
Leila’s heart squeezed. Now she would be burying a child as well as bringing one into the world.
“She’s coming,” Natalie said as she burst back into the room.
Leila shook her head, too shocked to cry. “Too late.” She slowly lowered the boy back to the bed and, running a hand down his face, closed his eyes.
“Why?” Grauth said softly. “Why did it have to be him?”
Leila didn’t know. Tommie had seemed to improve the past couple of days. Although, as of yet, no one had truly healed from the waltzing flu, but in one or two cases, respite from the worst symptoms had continued on for months. Leila had prayed little Tommie would be blessed with as much.
Natalie, who’d seen more death than Leila, moved to the aging grandfather and patted his hand. “It was in God’s hands. We will leave it to Him.”
But it wasn’t. Victor had said this wasn’t a disease, but a poisoning—purposeful and hateful. Leila closed her fist around Tommie’s small hand.
She had already relayed Victor’s message to London. But she wasn’t going to stop there. She was in the perfect position to aid Victor in his endeavor to get to the heart of what, or rather who, was killing Conques.
She would help, and she would see to it that those who were guilty were stopped and would never kill again.
CHAPTER FIVE
SAMUEL COULD NOT remember a time when he’d been so wholly flummoxed.
Wrapping his gloved hands as tightly as he dared around a gangly rose bush which had overgrown its bounds along the edge of the castle garden, Samuel tugged. It wasn’t as though he was afraid of hard work. He actually rather preferred it to sitting at home doing nothing, like the upper echelon were wont to do. He had felt blessed when Madame Hamon agreed to let him work on the castle grounds—it was far better than twiddling his thumbs at home.
The sun made things a bit more exhausting, though. Already he was losing his pale, submarine complexion. Working in the sun drained him of his energy twice as fast as working in the shade. But it also made him feel alive. It brightened everything around him, including his outlook.
A fat thorn cut through his leather gloves and poked his ring finger.
“Sacrés chats.” He dropped the armful of rosebush suckers and shook his hand. Lud, was nothing going to sort out right today?
Scooping up the bunch, more carefully this time, he tossed them into a pile with several others, waiting to be burned. Pulling out an old handkerchief his father once owned, he wiped his brow.
Truth of the matter was, he was more concerned for Amelia than he cared to admit. If only he could make her see how dangerous staying was. Yes, he’d agreed to help and yes, he meant it when he promised not to harass her about leaving.
But, gears above, this sitting and waiting—or working hard and waiting, rather—hoping each morning was not the morning he awoke and found her with the rash, or bleeding from her ears . . .
The painful apprehension was eating him alive.
“But papa said I could!” The shout, all the more strange since it was uttered in a deep masculine tone, reached Samuel.
He stood straight and shielded his eyes with a hand. A nurse stood beside a tall, youthful man along the bank of a small stream.
“No, you may not swim today.” The nurse spoke in a firm tone. That voice sounded familiar. Samuel pulled off his gloves and let them drop beside the pile of rose bushes and strode toward the stream.
He was right. The nurse was the beautiful woman he’d helped nearly two weeks prior. Though he’d not said as much to Amelia, gears above help him if ever he did, Samuel had been keeping an eye out for her since the day he started working at the castle.
“But I can swim now,” the young man protested, stepping yet closer to the water’s edge. “Papa taught me yesterday. He said he’d meet me here.”
The nurse wrapped a hand around the young man’s arm and tugged on him. “Your father did not teach you to swim yesterday. Sir, you are a grown man and far too old for such childish—”
The young man placed both hands on the nurse’s shoulders and shoved her backwards quite forcibly. She fell backward, but caught herself before hitting her head.
Samuel picked up his pace. The young man didn’t seem violent, just not in his right mind. Not seeing Samuel approaching, the nurse hurried to her feet and stood directly between the young man and the stream.
“You may not swim today.” Each word dared the young man to object.
This nurse, whatever her name may be, had pluck in spades.
Samuel finally reached the two. He threw an arm around the young man’s shoulder, just as though they were life-long mates. He took a deep breath—
Just what was he going to say? He had to somehow dissuade the man from taking a dive.
Samuel said the first thing that came to mind. It was a habit that had mostly served him well. “I’m so glad I caught you in time.”
Both the young man and the nurse stared at him in stunned silence.
Samuel continued as though nothing out of the ordinary was taking place. “Your father sent me.”
“Papa?” The young man brightened, seeming to take Samuel completely at his word.
Samuel nodded. “That’s right. He wanted me to tell you that he can’t meet you today after all and to not go swimming.” Samuel pointed toward the cloudless sky. “It looks like rain and he doesn’t want you catching pneumonia.”
The young man watched Samuel for a moment, then squinted as he stared up at the sky. “But papa promised he’d come teach me more.”
“He’ll come tomorrow.” Samuel patted the man’s back. He was young, probably not more than sixteen or seventeen. But even so, his arms and chest were well built. Had he been a farmer’s hand or even a blacksmith apprentice before losing his sanity?
The young man shrugged. “I guess that will be all right.” Without saying anything to the nurse, the young man turned and trudged back up the small bank toward the castle.
The nurse sighed and momentarily held her forehead in her hand before looking back at Samuel. “It seems I ha
ve yet another reason to thank you.”
Samuel smiled in a way that he hoped looked the opposite of cocky. Still, he couldn’t help but enjoy the feeling of having the beautiful woman offer her thanks. “Just trying to be helpful.”
He glanced over his shoulder. The young man was sitting, quite calmly, beneath the shade of a tree, twirling a fallen leaf between two fingers. Was such behavior typical for those sick with the waltzing flu? He may need to keep a closer eye on Amelia if ever they happened near a body of water.
“Any other way I can be of assistance?” he asked the nurse.
“I’d hate to bother you,” she said, her tone light. “But if you aren’t too busy, would you please convince one of my other patients that the sky is not purple, and teach another one how to walk and comb her hair once more? You know”—she shrugged casually—“if you don’t have much else going on.”
He turned back to her. She smiled a bit teasingly. It was nothing short of entrancing.
“Shouldn’t be too much of a problem,” he said. “Then, after supper, I suppose I could whip up a cure for the whole blasted disease if you’d like.”
She placed a hand to her collar bone and batted her eyes. “My hero,” she fake swooned. Then her hand dropped back down and she laughed. “I know I shouldn’t be taking this so light, but I’m too tired not to.”
She looked tired. Exhaustion had drawn dark circles around her eyes and her shoulders sagged like they held a hundred pounds of bagged plums.
“A difficult couple of weeks?” he asked.
She nodded. “There are always those who need to be washed and fed. Those who need to be convinced to stay in bed and those who need to be convinced to get out of bed. Oh, and there’s this one child who will not stop screaming.”
She placed a hand atop her head, fingering a few loose strands of hair back into her tight bun. “I can’t find a single thing wrong with him, yet he screams day and night.”
“Sounds quite overwhelming.”
“Disturbing is more like it.” For once her voice held no levity.
He stepped closer and extended his hand. “I’m Samuel Rowley, and you can consider me a friend.” He copied her earlier light tone. “No one should have to face insane patients alone.”
She laughed softly as she shook his hand. “Leila Bartel.”
Leila. It was a lovely, soft name. Sophisticated, but not presumptuous. Hearing it didn’t bring to mind the image of a nurse, however. Then again, most of the nurses here had not been raised to be such. But those from the lower class, such as himself, often had to go where their hands were needed.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Nurse Bartel. If ever you need anything—a strong arm or a reason to smile—just ask.”
She thanked him politely and excused herself, saying she had much awaiting her. Samuel watched her walk back toward her patients. He liked that Nurse Bartel, when exhausted and overwhelmed, chose to laugh instead of cry.
It made his own concerns seem less severe. Perhaps today wasn’t so lousy after all.
CHAPTER SIX
LEILA SLIPPED THROUGH the doors of the large room and back out into the hallway. A month and a half she’d been in Conques now, and never had she felt more tired. Placing her back against the wall, she fought the urge to collapse into a heap atop the floor.
Gracious, but she was exhausted.
No, exhausted didn’t even come close to what she felt. She was pulled thin. All stretched out with caring and worrying and working and failing. She was used up. Nothing but a spent shilling, traded in for all her labor.
She had carried trays and washed the ailing. She’d argued with patients and helped them hobble across the room. She’d tucked them in and fed them breakfast.
All she wanted now, was to slip into her own bedchamber and sleep until her headache eased. In her previous life, that is exactly what she would have done. But she was not allowed such luxury now.
Leila pushed away from the wall and trudged down the hallway toward her own private spot in the massive castle. Did her servants and maids feel this way every day? She’d always known those who were employed by her family worked hard, but working all day was far and away harder than she’d ever realized. When next her superiors approved a visit home, she would be sure to thank as many servants she could.
Her sisters would no doubt frown at what they would surely deem a quaint notion. But Leila didn’t care. Anyone who worked for her benefit deserved her gratitude.
“Leila.” Martha Hamon’s clipped tone brought Leila’s shoulders back and made her lift her chin. Hearing Martha’s strong voice always brought to mind the singular time Leila had met with the head of her department, Mr. Farley. Despite being a woman and not being required to do so, Leila had very nearly saluted. Some people, by their very presence, simply demanded respect.
Martha held a letter out to Leila. “This came for you today.”
Leila took the letter. It was postmarked as though it came from her family, but she knew better. This was from her superiors. Relief tinged with excitement rushed through her. It was about time.
“Thank you, ma’am.” She gave a small, bounced curtsy.
“I trust no correspondence will ever interfere with your work here.” Martha’s strict tone left no room for Leila to misinterpret her words as anything but a threat of unemployment should Leila fall short on this account.
“Of course not, ma’am.” Leila curtsied again and tried to appear meek. Martha most certainly out-ranked her.
Then again, Leila couldn’t think of the woman as anything other than ‘Martha’. Were Leila an actual nurse that had been raised as a member of the lower class, she would undoubtedly refer to the commandeering woman as ‘Madame Hamon’, even in her own mind.
She would have to watch her tongue so as to never call her ‘Martha’ to her face.
Martha gave Leila a dismissive nod and moved down the hallway.
Leila didn’t run to her bedchamber as she was tempted to do. Blast it all, staying in the role of a demure nurse was almost more than she could tolerate. Finally, she reached her bedchamber and shut the door softly behind her.
From the door to her small bedside table was only a few feet, but the room was empty—no one to judge or censure her—and so Leila sprinted.
Sitting down hard in the chair, she tore the letter open.
Leila,
Received your letter of the fifth. Pleased to hear you arrived safely and are in good health.
The long letter continued on, in no way indicative of anything other than an innocent letter from a concerned loved one. Leila only glanced over it, reading it briefly, as she reached under her mattress for the cypher wheel she’d hidden there.
The device was a cylinder shape, made of two dozen wheels pressed up against one another, the teeth of each exposed outward. Along the teeth, different letters had been scrawled. Leila twisted them until the first letter of each sentence stood out in front of her in a straight line.
She’d used the wheel a number of times in class, but never to receive a true message from her superiors. She pressed her lips tight together with anticipation and flipped the small switch on the side. The wheels twisted, some up and others down, in a slow, clicking spin.
They stopped and Leila silently read the message.
Assessment deemed unlikely.
Leila’s brow creased. What did England mean by declaring Victor an unreliable source? He was brilliant.
She twisted in the next set of letters and let the wheel whirl.
V too sick to trust. Do not pursue.
This was absurd. Being ill was part of Victor’s cover. It was a risky cover, but one he had insisted on as he felt it would best lead him to finding the truest answers.
Observe only. Back up coming.
That was it. Leila held the cypher wheel up on its side and studied it. Perhaps she should run the letters through the wheel again. Maybe the decoding was off.
No. It wasn’t and she knew it
wasn’t. Leila shoved it back under her mattress. Blast England.
Victor wasn’t so sick as to be hallucinating. Moreover, she didn’t need back up. She had, thus far, proven herself perfectly capable of pretending to be a nurse. She’d established comfortable relationships with many of the other nurses, not to mention Monsieur Claude Martin himself and Martha Hamon. Though, when considering the later, one could hardly call it a comfortable relationship.
Leila let out a sigh and sat back in her chair, her gaze dropping to the letter. It seemed so innocent. Yet, hidden within its letters was a very disturbing message: England had lost its faith in Victor and had placed her between two difficult courses.
She could act as her superiors decreed and do naught but sit around waiting for her back-up—in whatever form it happened to appear—silently gathering information to send back to them.
Or, she could do as Victor had urged her to do and continue her search for a perpetrator—her search for an individual whose soul was so full of hate that he or she cared nothing about killing dozens of men, women, and children.
Neither option seemed appealing. But she knew when she signed up as a spy she would be forced into seeing the darkest, most horrible shadows of humanity. If she had to do so now, she’d rather do it with sleeves rolled up and while hard at work instead of waiting around for someone else to show up and take over for her.
Leila held the letter to the candle flame. The chances of someone finding it and decoding it were next to none, but caution was never a misstep.
Victor had taught her that.
She dropped the letter into the empty fireplace, watching the flames lick the paper black, and then quickly exited the room. She’d last seen Victor Winstone only a few days prior. He had seemed a little pale, and his hands had been shaking, but other than that, he seemed fine. When compared to the other cases Leila had been dealing with lately, a little paleness and trembling was akin to perfect health.
