Aether Spirit

by Cecilia Dominic

  “Was she gone?”

  “You can meet my eyes again, Doctor McPhee. I’m decent.”

  She turned her head slowly to him and swallowed. She kept her gaze on his face, and the rosy tint remained on her skin. “Again, I’m sorry.”

  “You’re forgiven. Do you want to go over those charts now? There should be enough to keep you busy while I catch a few hours’ sleep. I’m hoping tonight the nursing staff can handle things so Perkins and I can go back to being daytime doctors.”

  And why was he telling her these things as though he was going to be coming home to her?

  “That would be good. It’ll be easier to do this if I can consult you on the cases. You know them much better than I do.”

  “Obviously.” He gestured to the pile of charts on the desk. “You take the chair. If I try to sit, I’ll be asleep.”

  She scooted by him, careful not to touch him. He wanted to reach out and brush her sleeve as she passed, but he held himself back. Should he be relieved that seeing him shirtless hadn’t caused a headache?

  Ah, but no, she was rubbing her left temple.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked and stood beside her.

  She scooted the chair away from him an inch. “Fine. I had a headache last night, but I’m better now. Shall we start with this one?”

  He wanted to know what had triggered the headache. Had it been their walk? Was he to be denied even the simple pleasure of accompanying her across the base?

  “Yes, that’s a fine place to start. Did the walk wear you out?”

  “I’m in good physical shape, Doctor Radcliffe.” She sounded exasperated. “I didn’t have the headache until I tried to go to sleep.”

  “Was it something about the Negro quarters?”

  “No.” She looked up at him. “They’re quite comfortable. I even had someone to help me dress and do my hair, which was an unexpected luxury. No, the headache was triggered by thinking of my mother, if you must know.” She rubbed her temple again. “And you’re going to give me another one if you keep asking about it.”

  “Now it’s my turn to apologize. I’m just concerned for you after you fainted in this office last week.”

  She shrugged and turned her attention back to the chart. “I don’t know what caused my attack, and I’m sorry. I can assure you I’m in good health otherwise.”

  “There’s no reason to apologize for what was done to you. I imagine you didn’t have much of a choice.”

  She shut the chart with a snap and stood. In the heeled boots she wore, she was almost eye-to-eye with him. “No, I didn’t. I had nightmares about my time in Paris even after Miss Lacey gave me something for the headache. Now are we here to discuss my problems or the ones I’m supposed to help the soldiers with?”

  He stepped back. There was his fiery Claire. Although she wasn’t his, and she’d basically just told him to back off. He should be unhappy, but he was relieved to see her spirit. The meek air she’d been putting forth simply wasn’t her.

  Maybe it wasn’t really her, but simply a façade that was now crumbling. A candle flame of hope lit in his chest.

  He wondered for the hundredth time what they’d done to her and why. He added trying to get a copy of her medical chart to the growing list of nearly impossible things he needed to do. If he was going to help reverse what had been done, he needed to know what exactly it was.

  “Oh, and here’s your breakfast.” She thrust a squished parcel stained with the contents at him. “They made sticky buns this morning. I was told it’s a Sunday treat, and they’re trying to lift the spirits of the people on the base.” The way she looked at him told him she was thinking of doing something to his spirits, but lifting them was low priority.

  “Thank you. I appreciate you thinking about me.”

  “You’re welcome.” She sighed. “I suppose I should be more understanding. You’ve been up all night, and all that’s wrong with me is a headache and lingering fatigue from whatever Lacey put in the concoction she gave me.”

  “She’s a root magic worker, and she has a talent with herbs. Maybe she’s a bit too good.”

  “Right, dose effect.” Claire tucked the stray bit of hair back into place. Chad knew it was only a matter of time before it escaped again.

  “Now let me eat the breakfast you were so kind to bring me, and you look through those and tell me what questions you have. I’ll give you my comments as we go.”

  She picked up the first chart, but her brow furrowed, and she rubbed both temples after she opened it.

  “Who is it?” Chad asked, the sweetness of his breakfast turning sour. He knew the answer before she said it. The question was, how had the chart gotten in that pile? And then it struck him.

  Son of a—I put my charts from last night on top of the pile she was looking through.

  He reached for it, but he knew it was too late.

  “A young man named Bryce McPhee.” She looked up at him. “I… I should know him. We have the same last name, and it says his home is Boston.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Distillery Hospital, 26 February 1871

  The typed letters on the page shouldn’t have such an effect on her, but hot wires of pain poked through Claire’s temples and went behind her eyes to her brain.

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “I should know this young man, but the blocks in my head say I shouldn’t try to remember him.”

  But then a mocking child’s melody came to mind—“Brycie curls, Brycie curls, he’s got hair just like a girl’s!”

  I knew him. Should know him. Is he family? Why can’t I remember family?

  She put her head in her hands and tried to quell the anxiety that rose on a wave of anger—had they taken her family from her? Why? Why was she not allowed to remember them?

  Strong hands rested on her shoulders. “It’s all right. Just breathe.”

  Claire straightened from her hunched position without opening her eyes. The hands moved, and she stretched her neck muscles, which helped the pain lessen to a dull ache. But then her stomach decided to join the objection, and she burped. It was a little ladylike belch, but she still covered her mouth, and the warm spots returned to her cheeks.

  “Excuse me,” she said and opened her eyes to find him standing beside her, one hand on the back of the chair and watching her with concern in his gray eyes.

  “Have you eaten yet?” Radcliffe asked her.

  Claire recalled the other sticky bun, which rested on the floor next to the chair. “No.”

  “Have your breakfast. I’ll get you some coffee, which might help your headache.”

  She nodded, and he left. She looked back at the chart, hoping to find some clue as to why this young man struck her as important. She picked up the sticky bun, unwrapped it, and ate with delicate bites while she read.

  Bryce McPhee, birthdate 8/28/1854. Commissioned to the Union Army December 1, 1869.

  She skipped to the medical part, which had sparse notes in two different handwritings, one of which looked familiar: Arm pierced with sniper bullet while soldier on ride with Captain to survey front. Bullet removed, no bone damage, wound clean, arm immobilized. Will watch for infection.

  Then: Soldier complains of stiffness in his fingers and swelling. Wound cleaned again, poultice applied.

  Then: Soldier’s arm healing well, no sign of infection.

  The notes went back and forth with Sergeant McPhee’s arm getting better and worse. The final note, dated that morning and smudged with a drying substance that made Claire put down her breakfast, read: Soldier’s arm amputated at shoulder.

  Obviously the chart wasn’t complete because Radcliffe hadn’t written any details, but Claire didn’t need them. The young man, possibly related to her, had lost his arm.

  Yes, she’d heard of and knew other young men who had lost li
mbs to infection, but this was the first time it was someone of her own flesh and blood. Was that the scream she’d heard? But how? The Negroes’ quarters were well away from the hospital. Still, her heart broke for him.

  “It’s just another reason this stupid war needs to be over,” she told Radcliffe when he returned with two mugs. He handed one to her.

  “Cream and no sugar, right?”

  She drew her eyebrows together, one slightly higher than the other. “How did you know?”

  “It’s how most women I know take it. And what were you saying about the war?”

  “It needs to be over. This young man lost his arm, and he’s just one of many who have been mutilated by this ongoing conflict.”

  “And a decisive victory is how it needs to end.”

  Claire looked at her coffee and thought of Calla and her kindness that morning. Had the girl been a slave? She hadn’t bothered to ask, to have any interest in her beyond what she could do for Claire.

  I’m a selfish person. And my poor cousin lies with an arm missing because he signed up to fight for others’ freedom.

  “But what about all the injury and maiming and death?”

  He tipped her chin up to look at him. “Is it worth millions of people still living in bondage, unable to do what you and I do without thinking about it every day? And remember, they attacked us. Bryce’s arm would still be fine had he not irritated it by helping me.”

  She drew back. “What?”

  “He offered to assist. I didn’t notice he was overextending himself, moving the arm too much and lifting with it until it was too late. He knew what he should have done, but he sacrificed himself to help others.”

  She stood, finally able to have an object for her anger at the unfairness of the situation, even if some of her ire was misplaced. “You’re a doctor. He’s your patient. We took the same oath—do no harm. How could you have been so careless?”

  He didn’t back down. “How could you not see what’s right in front of you? We’re in a war zone, for god’s sake! There are people out there who want to kill us because it would harm our country.”

  She went toe-to-toe with him. “That’s exactly why you should be more careful about the young men here and why they shouldn’t be treated as an expendable resource for some vague end.”

  “Vague end?” He shook his head and backed away. “Do you think that the end of the war and the attainment of entire cities’ worth of peoples’ freedom is a vague end?”

  He had her there. She crossed her arms and bit her lip, thinking of her next response. Finally she said, “You must think me stupid. I still don’t see why we need to sacrifice more lives and limbs. If it was going to happen, wouldn’t it have already?”

  “And that’s why we need Patrick’s weapon. It will give us the advantage in a final battle with the Confederates, to defeat them for good. Then we’ll both have what we want—no more fighting and an end to slavery.”

  “But the cost.” She sank into the chair at the thought of it. How could she tell him that the aether spirit’s innocence would be sullied? Then what would happen? Could it be controlled?

  “I need to sleep.” He rubbed his eyes. “Look through the charts I left you, and we’ll see the patients together tomorrow.”

  “So you can tell me I’m doing it all wrong?” she asked.

  “So you can show me that what you’re planning to do will help. That’s one thing we can agree on—you and I want the best for our soldiers.”

  She nodded. “Have a good rest.”

  She thought she heard him mutter, “I hope I’ll be able to sleep after that,” as he left. She moved the charts from the night before and studied the ones he’d left for her.

  If nothing else, she had to prove to him she was a competent doctor.

  * * * * *

  “Probably a dud,” the ballistics officer told Patrick while they watched his men remove the unexploded shell from the ruins of the workshop. “The Confeds don’t have the same kind of manufacturing quality we have. Less than half their ammunition does what it’s supposed to do, but you were smart to call us. You never know.”

  “I appreciate your boys getting it out of here.” On the other hand, he’d rather deal with this situation than an irate woman. Machines and devices were predictable in what they could do. Women, hardly so.

  Patrick didn’t envy Chad. It seemed Claire’s mind was a ticking bomb that would explode when they least expected it. And then Patrick would have to put Chad back together all over again. He only wished he’d insisted further on looking at the engine chamber on Chad’s new steamcart all those many years ago. The American designs were known to have flaws. Not that he could do anything about it now.

  “And that’s it.” They packed it in a crate full of straw not unlike the ones that had toppled on Claire when she had wandered into their workshop. Patrick still wanted to know what had drawn her into the space, but he’d have to wait to ask her. First he needed to clean up and see what could be salvaged.

  He was sorting the bits that could be saved and used again from the ones that had been ruined when Major Longchamp approached. He had a serious air, and Patrick braced himself. The major sometimes spoke with him in a sort of flirty manner, and Patrick was never sure how to respond. He didn’t care who the man put his dick in as long as he did his job, and he didn’t want to offend him. Patrick sometimes considered taking up with one of the nurses to show he wasn’t interested in men, but none of them tickled his fancy. He’d developed a taste for the unattainable, and not in the “best friend’s gal” sense.

  “What can I do for you, Major?” he asked.

  Longchamp hooked his fingers in his suspenders and looked at the mess. “The better question is what I can do for you. It looks like the shelling and attack have delayed your project for the general.”

  “You could say that.” Patrick wiped his brow. “It’s hard to work in a place with no roof or walls and keep things secret. Plus some of my equipment was destroyed.”

  Major Longchamp pulled a little pad of paper from his pocket. “Tell me what you need. The general is on his way, and he telegraphed me to tell you to let him know what he needs to bring with him to get you back to work as soon as possible.”

  “Most of it is glass,” Patrick said. “Namely, a box of lenses as well as raw materials to grind more if I need them—mine were all shattered—and a glass globe about so big with a connection for a vacuum hose.”

  “Anything else?” The major scribbled furiously.

  Patrick caught sight of Chad’s aether therapy device, or what was left of it. He listed off the parts he knew Chad would need for another one, finishing with, “And a bottle of Irish whiskey would be nice.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Now,” Longchamp said and scooted so close Patrick could smell his pomade. “Tell me, has anyone been here that oughtn’t have? The general is concerned that the attack was specifically to slow the development of this weapon, and we need to find out who knew about it and who might have said something they shouldn’t have.”

  “There was a lad who thought he cornered an intruder, but I don’t remember his name. You’ll have to ask Radcliffe.”

  “And the intruder?”

  “False alarm. But someone tampered with the padlock so it would just pull open.”

  “That is bad news, indeed.”

  “Aye. I can assure you it was neither me nor Doctor Radcliffe. We both want this war over as soon as possible.”

  “Thank you. I’ll take everything into consideration and telegraph your needs to the general.”

  “I appreciate it.” Patrick watched the major walk away with a frown. It hadn’t occurred to him that the attack might have been to delay him. If the Confederates knew what he was working on, that put him in more danger than he’d ever been.

  It was a good thing he liked danger
.

  * * * * *

  After Radcliffe left, Claire reviewed the charts and made notes on what she would ask the different soldiers. Many of them were from the area, but there were a few from places she was more familiar with around the Northeast. Apparently Bryce’s regiment had been stationed there earlier that year, which was odd considering how quiet it had been. Some general must have thought this sleepy little fort a hotbed ready to explode.

  Judging from the attack two nights previously, that general might have been correct.

  Claire picked up Bryce’s chart again. She wanted to go see him, offer him some comfort, but it felt odd considering she didn’t know exactly who he was. And would he know her?

  At the very least, she could check on him. He was a piece of the puzzle that was her past life, and she found it disconcerting that memories of her family had been taken from her. She knew there had been an accident, but she thought only she and her mystery hero had been involved. Had someone just been overly zealous with blocking her memory of that time? Or had they done it to punish her?

  She placed the charts back where she’d found them—no reason to give anyone a cause for complaint—and closed her eyes. It would be difficult to walk along the wards and come in contact with the post-battle suffering and misery but she would have to handle it. She imagined donning rain gear, specifically a large oilskin cloak that would repel any water or stray emotions. She hoped that would be sufficient to protect her. It seemed effective when she left the office and wandered through the hospital, making note of where the patients Radcliffe had chosen for her to work with lay.

  The murmurs, moans, and cries made her flinch, but she didn’t feel overwhelmed by the negative emotions. Still, she felt relief when she found the area for post-surgical cases, where most of the patients slept. A petite blonde nurse moved among the men and seemed to know just what each one needed without them having to ask. Claire guessed the girl was “one of them,” as Major Longchamp had said.

  Claire didn’t want to think about the man’s odd behavior of the previous evening and instead turned her attention to the beds, where wooden chart holders hung at the footboards. The nurses’ charts hung in each holder, but Claire didn’t need to look at the names to find Bryce. He lay farthest away under a window, his golden curls shining in a sunbeam.