Chapter Fourteen
DuQuelle’s Nurse
‘He bled words? I still cannot believe it.’ Alice held on to Katie’s arm, as they walked through Green Park on an early autumn day. Princess Alice was not usually allowed out without an adult chaperone, but fate had led her back to London with a tiny grain of independence. The Queen was in a ‘delicate condition’ – there was going to be yet another little prince or princess. When Alice developed a skin inflammation, Dr O’Reilly feared measles. The Queen’s unborn child had to be protected, so Alice was rushed back to London, while the rest of the Royal Family continued on to Balmoral, their home in the Highlands of Scotland. It turned out Alice only had a rash – the result of too much vigorous sea-bathing. It subsided in a few weeks, but she got to stay at Buckingham Palace, albeit under the guardianship of the sour old Baroness Lehzen.
‘It was really creepy,’ Katie said. ‘All this glittery silver stuff came out of DuQuelle. And then it became, like, famous words, stuff they teach you at school. I could have learned a lot, if I hadn’t been so afraid that he was dying.’ Katie didn’t share just how relieved she was that he hadn’t died, or that she had been writing to him at Half Moon Street since the accident.
James walked on the other side of Alice, stiff as a sentry. They were out in a public park in London. He must make certain no harm came to the Princess. ‘I believe you were right in the first place,’ he said to Katie. ‘I don’t think DuQuelle can die – but he can stop being human.’ The conversation came to an abrupt end, as they all contemplated gloomily – just what would Bernardo DuQuelle become if he stopped being human . . . It wasn’t a pleasant line of thought.
But such a bright, Indian summer day was not the time for gloom. James was safe, and Bernardo DuQuelle was recovering. Lord Twisted had fled London and was now in the Crimea with the British army, his young ward Felix in tow. Grace’s health had improved dramatically with the return of her brother, unscathed, and the departure of Lord Twisted. It even looked as if they might win this war.
‘It is wonderful news, the victory at Alma. And I believe Grace had a letter from Jack today,’ Alice said. ‘Have you seen it?’
Katie hadn’t. She was avoiding any type of reading at the moment. She couldn’t even read a copy of Tatler without seeing hundreds of women swirling around a ballroom. Her reaction to words was worsening.
James had read Jack’s letter. ‘The troops are marching on Sebastopol,’ he told them both. ‘It is a major Russian naval base. If Sebastopol falls, the Russians will be powerless in the Black Sea. The war will end. The battle at Alma was the first step.’
‘And Jack is OK?’ Katie asked, with a tightening in her chest.
‘He’s fine,’ James replied. ‘Furious but fine. It seems the Light Brigade did not see action. Once Raglan had gained the intended position, he let the Russians retreat. Jack says there were over a thousand British cavalry looking on at a beaten enemy retreating – guns, standards, colours and all – a wretched horde of Cossacks and cowards who they knew would never strike back. He was certain they would turn tail and flee at the first trumpet. Jack said the Light Brigade were but a ten-minute gallop from the enemy. And yet, Raglan let the Russians go.’
‘All Jack wants is to see action, to be in danger – why?’ Katie asked.
Princess Alice tried to explain. ‘It is serious and dangerous,’ she told her friend. ‘But it is also noble. My mother says the losses were heavy, that many have fallen and many are wounded. But she also says the troops behaved with a courage and desperation which was beautiful to behold.’ Katie still didn’t get it.
‘Jack also says that Lord Twisted and young Felix have arrived,’ James added. ‘They’ve set up camp, with the troops, but in the most luxurious tent possible.’
‘Well, that will brighten things up for everyone,’ Katie commented drily.
James nodded. ‘Yes, they are already making trouble. Because of Felix’s position within the Royal Family, he has access to the high command. Everyone knows there is bad blood between Lord Cardigan and Lord Lucan, and Felix seems to have attached himself to both of them and stirred things up.’
‘Bad blood? What’s the problem?’ Katie asked. She noticed Alice was blushing and James chose his words carefully.
‘Lord Cardigan is married to Lord Lucan’s youngest sister,’ he told Katie. ‘But they are no longer domiciled together.’
‘Well, yeah, divorce,’ Katie said, ‘it just happens.’
Alice looked at her firmly. ‘No, it does not,’ she replied.
James hated this conversation. ‘It was abandonment,’ he said, ‘and Lord Lucan will never forgive his brother-in-law. This complicates the military campaign, since Lord Cardigan reports directly to Lord Lucan. Young Felix has observed the friction and seems bent on making a bad situation worse. And that’s not all. Jack says Felix has made great friends with a certain Captain Nolan – a brilliant horseman, but a man who bitterly hates both Cardigan and Lucan. Felix seems to be using Nolan to spread discontent among the soldiers.’
‘And this is how you run your army?’ Katie questioned. ‘Where’s the ghastly Lord Twisted in all this? Isn’t he supposed to be chaperoning Felix?’
James’s lip curled at the thought of his enemy. ‘Twisted is living up to his reputation,’ he replied. ‘Jack says he is often observed in the drinking dens of the soldiers, plying them with liquor and asking many questions. Lord Twisted also spends much time writing long letters and sending them off, goodness knows where. One hears that he has got to know some of the officers in the Russian camp.’
Alice looked horrified. Katie guessed they all had the same word at the tip of their tongues – spy.
Despite this, the day was still beautiful – one last golden fling before the onslaught of winter. And when they turned into Piccadilly, Alice’s mood brightened up considerably. It wasn’t the imposing homes lining the street that interested her. Further down Piccadilly were some new shops, with glass fronts and pretty things inside. Princesses did not go into shops, but Alice thought, just this once wouldn’t hurt.
Katie could read her mind. A lifetime with Mimi, the mega-shopper, had taught her to recognize that glint in the eye. ‘No way,’ she said, taking Alice’s arm more firmly. ‘Do you really think James is going to let you go shopping? He’s annoyed enough that you’re walking down a street.’
Alice blushed. How shameful to be thinking of trinkets when Bernardo DuQuelle was still so ill. ‘I wouldn’t dream of stopping,’ she said primly. ‘It was difficult enough to get away from the Baroness Lehzen. And it is a privilege to call upon Bernado DuQuelle at Half Moon Street to thank him for the protection he has given my friends.’
‘We didn’t think highly of him when he agreed to be Lord Twisted’s second, but he showed great courage,’ James agreed, his voice rising over the clatter of horses and carriages on the cobblestones. ‘Why he did so, I’ll never know. You can be certain it wasn’t to save me.’ Taking Alice briefly by the arm, he guided her around the pavement – someone’s horse had been particularly productive that morning.
They passed Devonshire House and turned into Half Moon Street. A terrible smell hit them as they rounded the corner. The old cesspools underneath Mayfair were no match for the new water closets. They were taxed beyond their capacities. Somewhere underground, something had burst. Sewage bubbled up on to the street. Katie reeled back, gagging, while Alice blinked hard, but carried on steadily. James did not bat an eye. He was training to be a doctor; and if you work with cadavers, you have to get used to some seriously bad smells.
Among the stucco-fronted houses lining the street lay Bernardo DuQuelle’s home. It was as individual as the man himself: a half-timbered structure with leaded glass windows. The upper floors loomed over the pavement, as if they might keel over and fall into the gutter. ‘Not grand,’ James muttered, ‘but intimidating in its own way.’ Katie tugged Alice onwards, to the front door. She had no desire to linger in the street with
its awful stench.
They rang the bell, and then rang it again. After some time, a sleepy-eyed footman opened the door. When Princess Alice handed him her card, he managed to wake up. Hopping on one foot, he pulled up a white stocking and slicked back his hair. ‘Your Royal Highness,’ he gasped. ‘One moment, please, inside, Ma’am.’
DuQuelle’s front hall was dark and crammed with furniture, portraits, mirrors and hundreds of years of knickknacks. But it was cool, after the warm day, and dark after the glare of the daylight. Katie noticed that the smell of sewage did not enter the house. Instead it smelled of DuQuelle – slightly acidic, a bit electric, with hints of powder and musk. The footman bumbled about them, offering chairs, trying to take James’s hat, his gloves. He was looking for a silver tray on which to place Alice’s card, when a voice from below stairs cut through his apologetic murmurings.
‘They’ll be wanting some arrowroot and beef tea upstairs, and you know she don’t like to be kept waiting!’ Katie had been a guest, albeit an uninvited one, in this house before. She recognized the strident tones of DuQuelle’s fat cook, a demanding woman with a tight hold on the rest of the staff. Taking a final bow, the footman dashed down the stairs to the cellar kitchen, knocking over a side table as he fled.
‘Do you think we’d best stand on courtesy and wait?’ Alice asked.
‘I’m not sure he’ll ever return,’ Katie replied. ‘That cook’s pretty tough. Come on, I think I know where we can find DuQuelle.’ The house was dark, the curtains drawn and the candles were not lit. Katie started up the aged oak staircase, resting her hand briefly on a finial shaped like a dragon. This was not what you might call a friendly house. It certainly wasn’t a clean one. The stairs were thick with dust, the worn steps blackened with age and dirt. As the three climbed, a series of sour-faced portraits peered down at them. ‘Can you imagine anyone ever really looking like that?’ Katie said, staring at a painting of a young girl with a stiff white ruff encircling her neck. ‘But then you two seemed as strange to me when I first came.’ The girl in the portrait stared back. She didn’t seem to like what she saw.
Up, up, up they went, to the very top of the house. There was a crack of light from under one door, but all else was darkness. As they hesitated outside the door, a quiet but firm voice came from within.
‘Don’t fidget in the hallway, please. If you have come to visit, I suggest you enter.’ It was the voice of a woman, distinct, crisp and decidedly upper class. It was not what they had expected.
James hesitated and shuffled a bit, but Princess Alice squared her shoulders and pushed the door open. Katie followed, tripping slightly over the threshold. She remembered this room with its soot-stained wooden panels, the furniture carved with leering gargoyles, and the endless clutter of books. But the room they entered was quite a different story. It was clean. Every inch of it had been scrubbed. The tapestries on the walls had been beaten until they were free of dust; the sofas and chairs polished and comfortable cushions placed on them. The mountains of books were carefully arranged in the bookshelves. A fire glowed brightly in the hearth.
Bernardo DuQuelle lay on a sofa by the fire, his long legs tucked into a warm wool blanket. His chest had been bound, and a book lay, face down, upon it. He looked much better, at least for DuQuelle. His green eyes still glittered, but with a less fitful, burning gaze. And there were no big smoke rings of words rising from his chest – that was a relief.
Sitting very straight, on a chair by his side, was the woman who had spoken. She rose to meet them. Katie noticed her graceful walk, and her perfect posture. It was difficult to judge her age, but easy to guess her position in society.
She moved forward with confidence and curtsied to Princess Alice. ‘It is good of you to come, Your Highness. M. DuQuelle is dedicated to the service of the Royal Family; how kind of you to recognize this and to call.’ Despite her very good manners, and quiet gentlewoman’s voice, there was something of the rebuke in her tone.
Alice looked flustered. ‘I should have come before,’ she murmured, her voice trailing away.
Bernardo DuQuelle sighed from the sofa. Women – they would complicate things. ‘I hope you will excuse me from rising,’ he said. ‘But let me take this opportunity to introduce my friend of long standing, Miss Florence Nightingale.’
She was a tall, slender woman, with rich brown hair pulled back from a perfectly shaped oval face. Her colouring was delicately white, unlike DuQuelle’s chalk-like pallor. Katie knew a lot about celebrity. After all, she’d lived with Mimi all her life. And this seemingly modest woman was loaded with star power.
Princess Alice’s eyes lit up as she recognized the name. ‘But of course!’ she exclaimed. ‘I have heard Lady Canning speak of you. You are the Superintendent of the Institution for the Care of Sick Gentlewomen. Mrs Sidney Herbert also sings your praises. You have made that institution a model of organization and practice. They say your methods should be adopted by all medical establishments throughout Britain.’
James had also lost his reserve. Katie had never seen him look at a woman with such admiration. ‘I have read your pamphlet on the training of nurses in Kaiserswerth,’ he said. ‘I would like to discuss it with you further.’
Miss Nightingale smiled with great sweetness. Katie noticed she had excellent teeth for a Victorian. ‘So now we are all old friends,’ she said, ‘with the exception of this tall and distinguished young lady; I believe you are Bernardo DuQuelle’s colonial acquaintance, Miss Katherine Tappan? And I think you must know of me as well?’
Katie looked her up and down, from the white linen ruffled cap on her head to the white lace tipping the hem of her black silk dress. Florence Nightingale: Katie might not know much about the Crimea but she’d read about Florence Nightingale. They had even studied her at the Neuman Hubris School – the proto-feminist, the reformer, the Lady with the Lamp. She would become the most famous woman of her time, but it hadn’t happened yet. Did Florence Nightingale know herself? Katie looked into her grey eyes. Despite the sweet smile and fascinating ways, her eyes were pensive and her mind seemed far, far away. Katie might know a great deal about the Florence Nightingale of history, but the actual woman was still a mystery. Why, for instance, was she a friend of Bernardo DuQuelle?
‘M. DuQuelle has been of great assistance to me in the past,’ Florence Nightingale explained, ‘and when I received a message that he was ill, I came immediately to nurse him.’ She seemed to have the uncanny gift of reading Katie’s mind, a gift Miss Nightingale shared with Bernardo DuQuelle.
‘But DuQuelle’s illness wasn’t a normal illness,’ James blurted out. ‘I sent that message, but how can you treat him? There’s nothing we can do in the medical profession . . .’
Florence Nightingale caught James’s eye. Her far-away look had become very direct, and just a little sharp. ‘Hygiene,’ she rapped out. ‘If Bernardo DuQuelle would take proper care of himself and his environment he wouldn’t have reacted so adversely.’ As if to underline her theory, she picked up the book lying on his chest and, giving it a quick dust with her handkerchief, popped it onto the bookshelf.
DuQuelle groaned. ‘Sometimes the cure is worse than the disease.’
Miss Nightingale laughed and turned back to James. ‘I requested arrowroot and beef tea over an hour ago. James O’Reilly, would you kindly step out for a moment and check on this for me?’
James reluctantly left the room. Her comments did not explain anything. He knew he’d been fobbed off.
Princess Alice had been staring at Florence Nightingale in a state of high excitement. Suddenly she remembered her manners. They were there, after all, to visit Bernardo DuQuelle. She crossed the room and took the chair next to him. ‘We have been so worried about you,’ she said, ‘and we are overjoyed to see you making such good progress.’
He looked at her with something akin to affection. DuQuelle admired Princess Alice; found her a higher calibre of person than her slightly oafish older brother, or domineering ol
der sister. Her quiet, serious nature meant she was often overlooked in such a large family – especially by the Queen. He thought this was a pity. ‘But you are more overjoyed to meet Miss Nightingale,’ he teased, ‘and quite right too. How could I not recover with such a nurse at my beck and call?’
Florence Nightingale smiled her sweet smile, but she didn’t look like the kind of woman at anyone’s beck and call. ‘I have heard of your interest in nursing,’ she said to Princess Alice, ‘and I was surprised. It is considered a low profession – only fit for coarse women or drunkards, or worse.’
‘But you are a nurse,’ Alice replied before she could hold her tongue.
Florence Nightingale looked at the girl seated in front of her and paused, as if weighing up something very important. Then she began to speak, choosing her words carefully. ‘I had a calling, as a young girl; I knew that I was different.’
Bernardo DuQuelle tried to rise, as if to stop her, but she restrained him simply by lifting one hand. ‘I had special work to do – though it took me years to understand. I was called to be a nurse, to alleviate the suffering of mankind.’
Alice’s cheeks had flushed bright pink. Did Miss Nightingale’s family simply let her follow this calling? She thought of her own family, of the Royal Household. The Queen was horrified by the idea of nursing, and nearly had hysterics every time Alice mentioned the word. Her father had some sympathy, though. He was, after all, the one who had instructed Dr O’Reilly to teach Alice the more womanly aspects of nursing. But the doctor scorned the idea of women in medicine. He would insist on talking of ballrooms and society when she longed to hear of diseases and cures. It was only James who really helped, lending her books and his notes from lectures and medical cases. If it hadn’t been for James O’Reilly, she would know nothing about the thing that interested her most.
‘You are considering your own family, and wondering about mine,’ Miss Nightingale said. Katie blinked hard – she found all this mind-reading very sinister.
The Chronicles of the Tempus Page 35
