The bell over the door jingled, and Claire squeezed her eyes shut like it would help.
“Farouq, my good man, have you seen—? Ah, there she is. In here, boys!”
“What are you doing with that young lady?” the spice shop proprietor asked. “Is she a criminal?”
“No, just one of our hysterics. This one’s an American, so she decided to take the idea of liberty into her own hands.”
The others laughed at his joke, but Claire stiffened. Just one of their hysterics? Like the patients at the Salpêtrière had no names or identities, just their illnesses? No wonder so many of them didn’t improve. It was difficult to heal when one was treated as a disease, not a person. She would be a better healer than this useless lot. That gave her an idea…
She lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders. She’d known someone who could project confidence in the face of prejudice, she just didn’t remember exactly who. Regardless, she drew on the vague memory of that person’s example.
“And you can see how they treat not just their patients, but one of their colleagues. I am not hysterical, I am Doctor Claire McPhee, and this is all a very sorry joke.”
Her ruse didn’t work, of course. Perhaps if she’d had money to pay the spice shop owner when she came in, he would have brought her to the back, and they would have had tea, and she would have been able to convince him she wasn’t a hysterical woman, but rather a woman of means who had gotten in some trouble and needed help.
The top hats bundled her out and back to the hospital, but rather than returning her to the ward, they put her in an office. Claire frantically tried to escape in her dream, while her sleeping self put almost as much effort into waking. But it was to no avail—the moment she’d dreaded arrived with the person of Doctor Pierre Maurice, Charcot’s right-hand man, and the dream turned into a true nightmare. Where Charcot had a grandfatherly air about him, Maurice was known to be cold and to only see what he felt was important, not what was actually in front of him. The patients feared him only slightly more than they hated him.
“So you tried to run, my little American,” he said.
“I am not your little anything. I want to go home. You’re not doing anything for me here!”
“That is the self-destructive part of your mind speaking. If you were to go home now without further treatment, you would only be prompted to hysteria by even the littlest thing that reminds you of your experience.”
“You’ve taken enough of my memory,” she said. “I am not an object or animal to experiment on.”
“Au contraire, it is the animal part of your mind that is speaking now. We must try further to bury it lest it lead you into further damage.” He backed her into a corner and grabbed her wrists. “You can make this easy, or I shall call in my assistants to restrain you.”
Claire knew she’d lost. His assistants were never careful about how they touched the women. She could at least avoid the indignity of being groped. She allowed herself to be led to the reclining couch with the leather straps and to be restrained.
“Now, my dear, focus on this object and allow yourself to drift away into sleep…”
* * * * *
Instead of sleeping in her dream, Claire woke in a cold sweat in the present, in her comfortable but narrow bed in the Negroes’ quarters. She hadn’t remembered her escape attempt before now—only that she woke very upset from dreams about Paris. Had it really happened like that? Had she really been the victim of a monster hypnotist who was convinced that the only way to save her was to take away a large swath of memory?
At least she now remembered her father had taught her how to approach shop owners. She relaxed into the recollection of his lilting voice and wondered where he was, if he was in a fort nearby or across the country. Or if what she suspected was true and that her mother and aunt were keeping his death from her in an attempt not to upset her. She wouldn’t think of that now. She imagined what it would be like to be at home, back in her childhood, with her father smoothing her hair back from her face and telling her stories.
“Once upon a time, there was a princess, and she had a golden ball…”
* * * * *
Chad blinked at the light on the horizon. At least he thought it was light. The morning fog obscured the sky, but it seemed brighter than when he’d walked out for a break and to wake himself up fifteen minutes before. He’d been awake most of the night in his office, only catching a little sleep here and there between rounding. He’d given Perkins the night to go and recover. They really needed another physician to help, but resources were stretched thin. Rumors of negotiations with the Confederate States had caused a lot of doctors to retire from their military obligations, leaving those who remained covering crazy shifts. It wasn’t so bad when the front was quiet, but on days like today…
It’s a good thing Perkins and I don’t like each other. Otherwise one might be tempted to miss the other.
“Go catch some sleep,” Patrick said. He materialized out of the mist like a giant from the past.
Chad shook his head both at Patrick’s appearance and his suggestion. “I can’t. I found Claire looking through charts last night, and I need to meet with her before she starts with patients.”
“Why is she starting today? It’s Sunday.”
“And we don’t know when the next attack will come. We need our men to be prepared, and even if that means they’ll have some comfort, it will mean a lot if they’re asked to put their lives on the line.” He was rambling. He knew he was, but he had to make his point.
Patrick put a hand on Chad’s shoulder and tried to steer him toward the barracks, but Chad resisted.
“Go grab me some coffee, will you? I’ll meet with her, and then you can shepherd me back to bed.”
“Don’t say that too loud, or they’ll accuse us of buggery.” Patrick kept muttering as he walked off. Chad appreciated his friend’s efforts at keeping him healthy, but he only had to keep going a little longer. With one last look toward where he thought the horizon was, he walked back into the hospital.
“Doctor, there’s a patient who needs you,” a nurse told him. “Urgently.”
“Which one?”
“Bryce McPhee.”
Chad’s exhaustion fled with a burst of anxious alertness. “Why didn’t you come get me sooner?”
“He only just woke and complained about his arm.”
He found Bryce on the ward for those who had just minor injuries. His fingers were swollen again, and angry red lines stretched from his wound down his puffy arm and halfway up to his shoulder. He looked up at Chad with glazed eyes, and when Chad felt his forehead, he found the boy was beastly hot.
“Doctor… Save me,” he said. A nurse held a wet cloth to his lips, but he pushed it away with his other hand. “I can’t move my arm, and it burns.”
Perkins joined them. “That arm needs to come off—now—before the infection reaches his brain or heart. We should have done it to begin with.”
Chad closed his eyes. He’d tried so hard to save Bryce’s arm, and now he recognized it was because he wanted to give Claire her cousin back, whole and sound.
I can’t let my feelings for this young man get in the way of what needs to be done for him.
He nodded. “Can you do it?”
Perkins flexed his fingers. “I can’t. My hands are aching from all of yesterday’s amputations, and I dare not try another or I’ll mutilate him more than is needed. You’re going to have to do it.”
“Fine.” He turned to the nurse, the little blonde one who had been hovering around Bryce since the previous day. Why hadn’t she noticed something sooner?
“I just got here,” she said. “What’s happening?”
“He needs the arm taken off. Please have him taken to the operating theatre and prepare him.”
Her eyes widened, and she blinked, but her
efforts were in vain—a tear slid down her cheek. “I did the poultice like you said, Doctor.”
“I know you did,” he told her. “And he’ll be the same handsome boy without his left arm, don’t worry. Now do as I say. Time is running out.”
She nodded and, with the help of two orderlies, put Bryce on a stretcher and took him out.
“You know how to do this, right?” Perkins said.
“Yes, I was trained in it, as you were. The difference is that I do it as a last resort.”
“And that’s because you haven’t been on the front as long as I have. Trust me, you’ll come to realize it’s best to do it right away before infection has the chance to weaken the patient. Hang on a second.”
Chad nodded, his lips tight against his teeth so he wouldn’t express his horror. Dear god, he was going to have to do this, mutilate a McPhee. Was it not enough that he had failed Claire, but now he’d done the same with her cousin?
Perkins returned with a wooden case. “Here’s my amputation kit. I just cleaned the instruments, and I expect you to do the same after you use them, but I can guarantee they’re sharp and will make quick work of things.”
“Thank you.”
All too soon, Chad stood at the table looking down at Bryce’s pale, dry torso. The little blonde nurse stood across from him, her face grim but determined. Bryce was delirious with the fever.
“Give the patient some chloroform to quiet him,” he said. “I’m going to do this as quickly as possible.” And under his breath he said a quick prayer that he wouldn’t screw this up too.
Once Bryce had quieted, Chad held out his hand for the scalpel. “Let’s get started.”
Chapter Sixteen
Fort Daniels, 26 February 1871
A scream woke Claire from the deep sleep she’d fallen into after her nightmare.
“What the hell…?” She held her breath and listened, but she didn’t hear another one. The clock on the dresser said it was seven-thirty. She cursed. She was going to be late to meet Radcliffe. Again. What had happened? She never overslept. She blinked to dispel the fog in her head, but it stubbornly stuck around.
A knock on the door set her heart beating in staccato.
“Do you need help getting dressed, Miss?” a young girl’s voice called out. “I have coffee for you even if you don’t.”
“Coffee would be perfect.” Claire threw on the robe but couldn’t find her shoes right away, so she tiptoed across the cold floor and opened the door.
A young dark-skinned girl entered with a tray, which she set on the low table by the window. “We don’t normally give guests coffee, but Miss Lacey said you’d probably need some after your sleeping draught last night.”
“Thank you. She’s right.” Claire slipped her feet into her shoes. “I can pour it. You don’t have to stay, just tell me where to bring the tray on my way out.”
“And I can help you dress. I can lace a corset tighter than anyone here.” She grinned and flexed her hands.
Claire rubbed her arms. She needed to dress, and it would be faster with help, but… “I appreciate your offer, but I can do for myself. I’ve gotten used to it.”
“You’re different from other white women,” the girl said. “If you need me, I’m Calla. Just holler down the hall—I’ll hear you and come.”
“Oh, hollering, that reminds me. Did you hear someone scream just before you came in?”
“No, Miss. All is quiet here. Most of the people who live here have already left to go to their jobs on the base. We all support ourselves and each other. Are you sure you don’t need a ladies’ maid? I can brush your hair and get the tangles out so gently you won’t feel anything.”
“Not today, but I’ll keep you in mind if I do decide I need one.” Claire thanked her again and showed her out of the room. She fixed a cup of coffee with cream, no sugar, and wrapped her hands around the mug. She blew across the top to speed its cooling.
Right, the medicine Lacey had given her had contained rum and god only knew what else. She hated keeping Radcliffe waiting, but she also needed to be presentable and alert. With a sigh, she opened the door and saw Calla waiting at the end of the hall.
“Maybe I could use a little help,” she said.
“Yes, Miss. Sit down, and I’ll get your hair fixed in no time.”
With her hair up in a fashionable style she’d never have been able to do herself and her corset laced not too tightly but more snugly than she could have gotten it, Claire appeared at the hospital with a sticky bun from the mess hall for herself and one for Radcliffe as a peace offering. All of the doctors she’d trained with had skipped breakfast when they got busy in the hospital, and they were always grateful when someone brought them food.
The first person she ran into when she arrived was Nanette, who sneered at the paper-wrapped packages in Claire’s hands.
“He’s in the operating theatre taking off an arm. Is he expecting you?”
Claire tilted her chin to match the haughty angle of the nurse’s. “I’ll just wait in the office, then. He left some charts for me to review.”
“Best let me get them, then. He hates for his things to be disturbed. Do you know what the patient names are?”
“No, but I know where they are. Just let me wait for him. He knows I’ll be there.”
“I didn’t see any note about a meeting. He’s about to get off and get some sleep.”
Claire narrowed her eyes in a look Martine had teased her about. He’d said it made her look as serious as a stern headmistress, which anyone in their right mind should fear. “Are you saying I’m lying?”
“I’m just saying that this is the first time I’ve seen you here attempting to do any work, and you’ve been here, what, four days?”
“My time in the hospital hasn’t overlapped with yours, it seems. Need I remind you I’m a doctor? You’re interfering with patient care. Now step aside, Nurse.”
She stepped around Nanette, who caught her arm. “Don’t think I’ll forget this insult. You’re not needed here. He doesn’t want you here. You’ll figure it out soon enough.”
Claire jerked her arm out of the nurse’s grip. “Perhaps you should get back to work, Nurse.”
“And perhaps you should get your glasses fixed. You look ridiculous.”
Nanette tossed her head and stalked off. Claire took a moment to compose herself and then headed the other way toward the office. The nurse didn’t like her. Really didn’t like her. But she couldn’t figure out why. It was not like she had any interest in Radcliffe beyond a professional one.
Lightning shot through Claire’s brain, and she grabbed a beam that protruded from the wall for support.
Was that what had set her off the night before? An interest in Doctor Chadwick Radcliffe? She conceded she found the man attractive—a throb of pain, but not as bad as previously—but he certainly had no interest in her. He barely tolerated her. But they had shared that walk the previous evening, and she’d felt something from him. He was good at hiding his feelings, probably a protective instinct after a life of facing racism and discrimination.
She shook her head and entered the office without knocking, expecting it to be empty. Instead, she walked in on him changing his shirt. She knew she should turn around, walk out, and knock, but she was held as if spellbound.
She’d seen naked men before, but they had all been dead and on tables. She couldn’t help but stare at the muscles moving in beautiful synchrony across his lean, muscular back, narrow waist, and dear gods—she shocked herself with the thought—his perfect ass. She found herself flexing her fingers and dropped the paper sack with the sticky rolls, which, she had to admit, suffered in comparison to his nicely sculpted round buns.
He turned, and she couldn’t move.
“Oh, Doctor McPhee. What a surprise. Is that breakfast?”
With th
e care of a hunter trying not to spook a skittish animal, Chad pulled his shirt on as though he changed in front of blushing women every day. He balled up the one he’d been wearing, the one stained with McPhee blood from Bryce’s arm amputation. He swallowed the acid that rose to his throat yet again. He’d done amputations before—plenty of them since he was an army doctor, especially early on in the war when the battles had been closer together temporally—but this was the first time he’d had to take a limb off someone he cared for personally. He prayed he’d never have to do so again.
Now he needed to deal with Claire, who stared at him open-mouthed like she’d never seen a man changing his shirt.
A little knot of tension in his chest loosened when he observed her reaction. She’d never seen a living man with his shirt off, which meant no other man had had her, at least not with the lights on. Even in the dark, things could be seen, and she acted like a virgin. He didn’t have any reason to believe otherwise. Had he become so jaded?
He took a deep breath to calm his racing thoughts, and he had to do something to douse the lust and curiosity in her eyes. They’d never gotten as far as taking clothing off when he courted her previously, but they were treading close to what they’d both wanted.
“Didn’t they teach you to knock in Europe?” he growled.
“I’m sorry for interrupting you,” she said and looked away. The clothing she wore was more fashionable than what she’d brought with her, and her hair was up in a different style than her basic bun. There were more braids and loops, but the arrangement looked sturdier except for the one wisp that wouldn’t stay back.
“The nurse—Nanette—told me you were in the operating theatre. I thought the office would be empty.”
“Ah, so she’s returned.” He might be giddy from lack of sleep and the after-effects of the surgery, but he found himself less irked with the nurse than he had been. Or maybe he was enjoying Claire’s reaction too much. He allowed himself a little grin as he tucked in his shirt, pulled up his braces, and didn’t bother replacing his tie. He had been headed to the barracks to sleep, although he didn’t feel tired now.
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