by L Rollins
How would one even begin to drug so many people? And were the patients random, or chosen on purpose?
She should compile a list of the sick and see if there were any connecting ties. But such a list would be huge. There were near on a hundred patients at the castle.
Leila shook her head at the thought of such a daunting task. With a sigh, she turned her attention back to Natalie.
The other nurse studied her silently.
“I know that look,” Natalie said slyly, her gaze jumping to the foreman and back again.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Leila chose to look at the picked-at plate before her.
Natalie leaned over the table, dropping her voice to a whisper. “I didn’t know you had a thing for him.”
Blast. Natalie had noticed she was watching Fowler. An expert spy would never have allowed such a slip up. Victor would be so disappointed. So would Inez; who, as it happened, had not yet sent a message back to her. Would she come as Leila had requested?
“I don’t have a thing for him.” She couldn’t have a thing for any man. She would be betrothed someday. Married off to gain a strategical advantage for her country. Even if that wasn’t the case, she most certainly would never make designs on a man who was willing to drug and hurt dozens of innocent individuals all for the love of a nameless woman who may or may not love him back.
Fowler had said the woman only had eyes for Monsieur Martin now. Perhaps she ought to start contriving ways to spend more time with him. That might provide better leads.
“Oh, I think you do.” Natalie smiled. Not bothering to hide what she was doing, Natalie turned toward the foreman and sized him up. “Or at least you should. He’s terribly handsome.”
Natalie’s eyes shone.
Leila pursed her lips. “I don’t find him handsome in the least.” His hair was too short and curled in an unkempt manner, and he was prone to sticking unsuspecting people with needles. Not at all Leila’s type.
“How can you say that? He brought us a patient who had collapsed a couple of weeks ago, did you hear? He lifted him right up off the ground, like he was light as a feather.” Natalie openly ogled Fowler. “I’ve never seen such a physique.”
Leila forced her shoulders to relax. It wasn’t as though Natalie was aware of Leila’s earlier experience with Fowler, and she certainly wasn’t going to enlighten her. She had to treat this like any other conversation. “Say what you will,” Leila said. “But I can assure you, I don’t have a thing for him.”
Natalie lifted her shoulders in a dismissive shrug. “Well, if a woman isn’t willing to act then it’s her own fault, I always say.” With that, Natalie stood and approached the foreman, hips swaying unapologetically.
Leila blushed for Natalie. Granted, Natalie had not been raised in a family of wealth like she had. Leila had always been aware that what was socially acceptable for a woman of the lower classes didn’t always align with what was acceptable for someone like herself, from the upper class.
Nonetheless, this was far and above what Leila ever considered common and acceptable behavior. Then again, is was just . . . common for Natalie. In the few months they’d roomed together, it had become abundantly clear that Natalie cared little for social rules.
Leila felt like rolling her eyes at herself. If anyone could hear her think, they’d assume she was the worst kind of stodgy rule-follower. Yet, here she was spying for London. That certainly didn’t fall under the common and acceptable behaviors she’d been raised with.
Leila shifted so she might have a better view of Natalie as she approached the foreman, curious to see how he might react to Natalie’s flirtation. He claimed to be fully committed to one woman, but Leila had known more than one man who claimed commitment but acted quite differently around women like her roommate.
Natalie stood close to Fowler. From across the room, Leila could see Natalie bat her eyes as she trailed a finger down his arm. She was not one to hide her intentions.
Fowler said something in response, but Leila couldn’t hear. Perhaps, when they had first entered the pub, Leila should have guided Natalie to a table closer to the foreman, instead of by the window. But she was hoping to stay unnoticed.
So much for that, and now she couldn’t even hear what was being said. Natalie laughed—a light, fake laugh. The spy in her was disappointed to not know what they were saying. The woman in her was more than glad to be missing out.
“Good evening, Nurse Bartel.”
Leila turned to see the tall man who’d helped her with Edgerton a few months prior standing to the side of her table, hat between his hands.
“Good evening. Monsieur Rowley, isn’t it?”
He nodded and then motioned toward the seat just recently vacated. “May I?”
“Please do.” If Natalie was curious why Leila did not find Fowler particularly handsome, she’d only have to look at Rowley to understand why.
Samuel Rowley was tall and well built. His hair was a rather dashing shade of brown, even more so now that work in the sun was lightening the tips.
He sat and smiled, making him all the more handsome. “How are you liking Conques?”
“The area is lovely.” She cast a sideways glance at Natalie and Fowler. This time around, she would be far more cautious. Samuel would have no reason to suspect she was here for more than supper away from work.
He nodded, leaning back in his seat. “I’m afraid you’re not seeing her at her best. For decades, summer has been a time of dances and midnight picnics.” Though his lips continued to smile, his eyes turned sad. “There’s a lot the waltzing flu has taken from Conques.”
Leila felt the weight of that morning’s inelegant and truncated funeral. Three more souls had been laid to rest. It was the second funeral in the past ten days. Though no one had said so much aloud, the death toll was growing larger each month.
“Perhaps, if you’re still here when this all blows over, you’ll be able to see Conques at its best. Harvest time festivals here are nothing short of exorbitant.”
“Have you always lived here then?” Perhaps he could shed some light on the issue at hand. Leila was coming at this without any knowledge of Conques, other than the basics. Most locals made a living farming—orchards in particular were successful in the green valley. However, the factory opened not more than twenty months prior and many a hand found work there as well.
“I was born here but left some years ago for the sea.” Samuel nodded politely to a bartender as she slipped him a bowl of stew. “I returned not long ago. The day we met, actually.”
The bartender gave a short curtsy, walked a few steps away, and then glanced back at him over her shoulder.
See, Leila was right. Samuel was far better looking than the foreman. Or any other man for that matter. Even Monsieur Martin, who was undeniably good looking, fell short in comparison to Rowley.
“You said that the waltzing flu had taken much from Conques.” She hated to drag the conversation back down to something as heavy as the waltzing flu, but if he had information that could help, she needed to know it. “What else has changed?”
He blew out a long breath. “What hasn’t changed? People don’t stroll down the riverbank at night anymore. Even this pub is far more empty now than ever it had been during my childhood.”
That wasn’t particularly helpful. “Was there ever a town rival?” She still could not piece together why anyone would want to make an entire town sick.
Rowley quirked an eyebrow. “Like a feud?” He chuckled. “I suppose Conques is like most small French towns, but we are sadly lacking in feuds. Not a single one since the feudal kingdoms of the area became France.”
It had been centuries since feudal kingdoms ruled France. She supposed there was a chance the waltzing flu was a retaliation for what Monsieur Martin’s ancestors did to someone else. But, gracious, talk about holding onto a grudge.
She shrugged, playing off her strange question. “One can only hope. I’ve been to France but
rarely before this, and never to this lovely part of your country.”
“What brought you to France before now?”
Oh blast. Leila had, of course, come for the dresses and fashions. But a woman who worked as a nurse to support herself would never have come from a wealthy enough family to travel to Paris for the haberdasheries and boutiques. Not unless she’d fallen on incredibly hard times. If she’d pretended so much was true, Rowley might want to hear the whole story.
Of which, there was none.
Best steer him away from the topic altogether. “It was many years ago. How long has your family resided in Conques?”
“Oh, for centuries. My sister and myself have an orchard.” He pointed over his shoulder. “Have you visited the town abbey?”
Oh, gears above, had she. Though the funerals for the patients who’d passed on were always short, they were still granted the reverence of being held in the abbey. Leila nodded. Speaking of the time she’d spent sitting on the hard pews, with family members mourning the loss of a loved one—one whom she herself had only known briefly—was not something she wished to talk about.
“Take the road to the south of the abbey,” Rowley continued. “Follow it over the bridge and hang left when you get to the fork. Our petite maison is tucked back behind a few trees.”
“Sounds like an ideal place to grow up.”
“It was. I just wish I’d appreciated it as a lad.”
Wasn’t ‘lad’ a distinctly English thing to say? She’d heard it plenty of times growing up, but never in a French accent. It was a sweet reminder of her own home, and somehow eased the frustration in her chest.
“Because it’s not the same anymore, is it?” Leila asked. She, too, had been quite excited to leave home on this, her first assignment as a spy for London. But now, she couldn’t help but wonder, what would be different when she got home? What had she taken for granted all this time, that wouldn’t be available to her when she got back?
Rowley leaned in, resting an elbow atop the table. “I can’t figure it out. What kind of disease affects not only people, but birds and rodents?”
Now this was what she wanted to discuss. “The black plague was spread by rodents, or so some speculate.”
“Either that or by insects. Before returning, I’d all but forgotten how many bugs there are on dry land. But with the black plague, the rodents didn’t die from it, no? Not like they are here.”
“This must be some strange, new disease.” These were exactly the same things she’d mulled over dozens of times. Finally speaking s them aloud felt like pulling out the pins that held her stiff bun in place at the day’s end.
“But where did it start? Individuals who have never had any contact with the sick are suddenly ill. Birds are collapsing all over the countryside.” He tapped a finger against his chin as he thought. “I’ve sailed the world over and never have I heard or seen anything like this.”
If only she could tell him they were all being drugged. Someone was doing this, deliberately. But she couldn’t. “I’ve been trying to determine what all the sick individuals have in common.”
Rowley raised an eyebrow.
Leila only shrugged. “They must have something in common.”
His eyes darkened as he thought. Rowley had such a handsome face; she could watch him think all day.
“Food, water, air, land.” He shook his head, but then paused, head still tipped to the side. “How long ago did the disease first show up?”
“I’ve only just come to Conques, but I understand that it started about a year ago.”
He reached forward, his hand cupping over hers. The touch was heated with a sharp awareness.
“That would have been just under a year after the factory opened.”
“You don’t imagine the factory could be doing this?” She pushed the words out, enjoying the tingling his touch caused far more than she ought.
“The timeline works, doesn’t it? I don’t know anything about factories or chemistry. But I know someone who does.” He stood abruptly. “You’ll have to excuse me. I have a friend I need to write to.” He scooped up his hat.
Leila hid her disappointment. She was rather enjoying their chat. It was refreshing to speak with someone who teased problems apart the way she did.
“Someone who might know about the effects of factories on a landscape?”
“Someone who knows chemistry.” He turned to leave, but then paused. It seemed he was one who frequently stopped himself in the midst of doing one thing when a differing idea crossed his mind.
Turning back toward her, he dropped his voice so that only she could hear. “If you have any other ideas about what might actually be happening here, or if there’s ever something I can do to help, I’d very much appreciate it if you’d let me know.”
A worried hitch edged his tone.
Everyone was scared these days. No one knew who would fall victim next. “The same goes the other way. If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate you informing me of what your friend says.”
Leila watched him stalk quickly from the pub and then let her gaze move back toward Natalie and Fowler.
Natalie continued her unabashed flirting, though Fowler seemed mostly indifferent to her advances. Leila felt again the futility of her continued observance of Fowler. Two solid weeks, and still he’d given her nothing. She needed a new angle.
Her gaze jumped back to the door Rowley had just passed through. It wasn’t as though she believed the factory was to blame. There was a person purposely doing this, not a machine. But that didn’t mean the factory wasn’t somehow connected.
She rapped the table with a finger. What to do next? Her options were limited, but Monsieur Martin rose instantly to mind. She’d spoken with him several times over the past few weeks.
Standing from the table, Leila strolled into the cooling evening air, trusting that Natalie would find her own way back to the castle. She thought of when she might see Monsieur Martin again. It was time to push on that relationship and see what else she could learn.
CHAPTER TEN
THE CASTLE WAS abuzz. Servants whisked by, in a near frenzy, as Leila crossed through the kitchen and toward the staircase. What had happened since she left, only an hour previously, for supper at the local pub?
Natalie likely hadn’t even noticed when Leila had slipped out, but now she wondered if she ought to go back and get her roommate. A young girl bustled by carrying a large stack of linens. Cook called out to someone else from where she stood, stirring a large pot over a roaring fire.
Had a large number of patients taken a sudden turn for the worse?
“Where have you been, lazy girl?”
Leila stood up straighter and turned to face Martha Hamon. Recently, Martha’s words had gone from sharp to insulting. What she wouldn’t give to return to her former self as a woman of the house, just long enough to set Martha straight.
Leila repeatedly reminded herself that Martha was under a lot of strain. Martha considered the success and failures of all servants and nurses in the castle as a reflection of her own abilities. She was only stern so that everyone performed at their best despite such horrible circumstances.
But knowing as much rarely made her skin prick any less at the insults.
“I was only taking time to see more of Conques, as is my right during my supper hour.”
“Don’t be impertinent.” Martha snapped a finger at a young stable boy, momentarily pausing their conversation to warn him about tracking muck through the house.
Did the maids in her father’s house have to deal with this? Their housekeeper had always been sweet toward Leila. But then, Leila hadn’t been one of the maids. Martha used a different tone when she spoke to Monsieur Martin.
Leila had never stopped to wonder if the housekeeper in her family home had been as two-sided as Martha.
“Leila,” Martha snapped. “All the nurses are to remain in their rooms when not working for the duration of Madame Uppertick’s visit.
When your shift starts, report directly to your room of work and return to your bedchamber the moment you are finished. No dallying.”
So the unwelcomed Madame Uppertick had come to visit at last. Monsieur Martin had not made mention of the woman since their first meeting, that night beside the portrait of his sister. Was he still displeased with the idea now that Madame Uppertick was truly here?
Martha stalked off, calling over her shoulder before exiting the kitchen. “And tell that silly roommate of yours to do the same.”
Oh, what Leila wouldn’t give to aid in Martha’s comeuppance. Leila let out a puff of frustration. Now they were being quarantined in their rooms? As if Martha didn’t push all the nurses hard enough already. Leila herself was only able to enjoy supper during a reasonable hour of the evening because she was to be back at work in twenty minutes, and would work through the night.
Hang Martha Hamon. Someday Leila would be done in Conques. She would discover who was behind the waltzing flu and then she would return home and never have to answer to the rigid witch again.
Leila turned away from the small stairs at the back of the house, which the servants used, and instead marched out the kitchen door and into the main part of the house. She was heading toward her room as Martha ordered—she was just doing it in the most roundabout, public way possible.
After all, she needed to run into Monsieur Martin. Yes, they spoke frequently. But she was still a nurse and he the master of the house. No matter how friendly of terms they were on, she would never have the privilege of openly searching him out to speak with him. She was limited to ‘accidental’ run-ins.
Leila checked each room she passed. She glanced down every hallway and around corners. No Monsieur Martin. She caught more than one glance of the elegant Madame Uppertick, in her frilled dress, elaborate tresses, and yards of pearls about her neck.
Turning down the hall which held her own bedchamber, Leila let out a sigh and only just stopped her fingers from running through her hair. More than once her bun had been “inappropriately fluffed”—Martha’s words—by her habit of running fingers through her hair.
