‘I have found that if I am calm and cheerful and willing to stay with them, this strengthens their fortitude during the amputation,’ Alice told her. Katie looked at her friend with admiration, but wondered – how could Alice ever go back to Palace life after this?
When they reached Florence Nightingale’s storeroom-cum-office-cum-bedroom, she was not alone. She sat on one side of her little wooden desk, leaning forward and talking earnestly with a man on the other side. Though his back was to the door, Katie recognized him immediately. The broad shoulders, the large leather boots, the battered cap with the gold trim, which he’d removed in the presence of a lady. She felt a rush of relief. Billy Russell always made her feel better. He could fix anything.
‘So she will live – that is a relief,’ he was saying to Florence Nightingale. ‘My heart was in my mouth when she rushed down that hill, straight into the battle – and then Miss Katie following in her wake! I’ve never been given such a jolt.’
As the three entered, Russell stood and, clicking his heels together, kissed Katie’s hand. As he looked down into Katie’s drawn tired face, his own cheery one became tender and gentle. ‘Child,’ he said, ‘you’ve spent so much time tending the sick and minding the dying, that you’re doing yourself some harm.’
Miss Nightingale was usually rather stern with Katie. But she too looked into her face with growing alarm. ‘You are right, Mr Russell,’ she said. ‘I hadn’t notice before. Miss Katherine Tappan, you are dismissed from your duties, indeed, you all are.’
‘Please, Miss Nightingale, would you mind telling us, how does the Little Angel?’ Alice asked. Miss Nightingale had forbidden her any companion other than herself. Katie found that she missed her, and wanted to talk more of their common secret.
‘Much better,’ she replied, ‘as I was just telling Mr Russell. By the by, she is asking for Katie.’
There was a pause, and then James spoke up, politely, but firmly. ‘I’d like to know why this girl called Angel is so important.’ The pause grew longer, while everyone stared at Florence Nightingale.
William Howard Russell was practically exploding with curiosity. ‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘I could do with the plain facts.’
Finally, Miss Nightingale spoke. ‘You’ve all played a part in her life,’ she said, ‘and several of you have saved her from death. And I did say I would explain.’ She shot Russell a killer look. ‘You must understand, though, this is not some lurid tale to sell newspapers. If I ever hear one word of this, or see one printed, I shall deny everything, and have you declared insane.’
Russell whistled low. ‘She could do it too,’ he said to the others. He pulled out the battered chair and offered it to Princess Alice. James stood behind her, while Katie simply dumped herself onto the floor.
Florence Nightingale paced the room and then turned abruptly to Katie. ‘You know, of course.’
‘Not really, not enough.’
‘But you know.’ And then she began to pace again.
James spoke up. ‘We all know something. But we imagine, Miss Nightingale, that you know the most. If you’ll excuse me, we’re not quite certain that you are, well really, what you are, and . . .’
Russell cut across them all. ‘Let’s make this easy,’ he said. ‘I know nothing, except that something happened at Balaclava beyond the Charge of the Light Brigade. There was that storm for one thing; all blackness and white-hot heat. Then two young ladies behaving like lunatics – and still escaping certain death. Something strange and frightening, beyond comprehension or even imagination happened. So shall we start from the beginning? As I’ve said before, the plain facts, please.’
Miss Nightingale collected her thoughts. ‘There are things in this world that are not of our world,’ she began. ‘I doubt you will believe me, but this is true. There is an entire civilization that uses us, takes from us. They use our ways of communicating; they harvest our words. In a strange way, they are an imperial power, just as we are. They wish to control our actions – a calm environment makes it much easier for them . . .’
It was a fairly staggering note to start on. Russell first looked shocked, and then his face became impassive. Katie could tell what he was thinking: that the strain of the work had unhinged Florence Nightingale – that she was the one who was insane. But he was too good a newspaper man to stop her. He would fight his doubts, and try to keep quiet until he had the story.
Miss Nightingale could read his thoughts too. She smiled slightly to herself, knowing how ridiculous it all sounded, but continued on gamely. ‘This civilization works within our own to a certain extent. They look like us, hold offices and positions, but they are not of us.’ The three friends glanced at Florence Nightingale, with questioning looks. Her face gave away nothing. ‘There is a war,’ she went on. ‘Not this war, not the Crimean War, but one within this other civilization that takes from us.’
‘Two factions, the Verus and the Malum, want to control the way they use our world. They exploit the children to try and achieve their ends. The children are the tools. It is known as the Great Experiment. They send children through time to try and change history. These children are called the Tempus, the Chosen. Some – the Tempus Fugit – fly through time. And the others, the Tempus Occidit, I am afraid they fall through time. There are three we know of: the child who brings peace, the child who brings war and peace, and the child who brings the war to end the world.’
At this point William Howard Russell couldn’t contain himself. ‘Miss Nightingale, an entire nation is grateful to you for your unceasing work. But you are telling me a yarn best kept for a peat fire and a whisky in a Kilkenny pub. No drunkard could speak more foolishness.’
Katie stood up, and faced Russell. ‘It is all true,’ she told him. ‘I know, because I am one of them. I am the Tempus.’
Russell began to get angry. ‘This is all an elaborate hoax,’ he said. ‘Now, just confess it – the joke is over.’
‘You yourself said there was more to Balaclava than the Charge of the Light Brigade,’ Miss Nightingale continued. ‘You saw the skies above you. You saw the battle of light and dark. That was not just a British military fiasco.’
Russell leaned against the wall, as if his sturdy boots couldn’t support him any longer. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘What was that battle then?’
Anxiety and anger crossed Florence Nightingale’s face. ‘Both the Verus and the Malum believe these three children, the Tempus, are to take up arms against each other on the field of battle – that they will fight to the death. Their victory or defeat will change the course of our history. I find it cruel in the extreme.’
Katie breathed a sigh of relief. Now she knew what she had always hoped. Florence Nightingale might not be quite human, but she was not bad. She was with them, of them, for them. That was a great comfort.
‘I still think that . . .’ Russell interrupted. He looked decidedly shaken.
‘You still think this is rubbish,’ James cut in. ‘So did I, for the longest time, though Princess Al— I mean Sister Agnes, always understood.’
Alice smiled, and Miss Nightingale nodded. ‘Perhaps you would like some proof?’ she suggested. ‘Let us go to the Little Angel. She is not yet well enough for visitors, so we will have to be brief.’ She led them into the next room, where the Little Angel was still lying back in bed. She sat up weakly and reached out to Katie. She wanted to say something, but her voice came out in a hoarse croak.
‘Now, now, you mustn’t speak,’ Florence Nightingale admonished. ‘It is too tiring, as is this string of guests. But they were with me, and I wished to deliver this letter as soon as possible.’ She took a folded paper from her pocket, and as the Little Angel opened it, Miss Nightingale whispered to the others, ‘It is from her guardian, her adopted mother, the Countess Fidelia.’ As the Little Angel read, emotion overcame her. She tried to speak, but no words came. As her lips opened, an arc of light and colour rose from them, into the air – a bouquet of roses, of lustrous blue and white,
waved and trembled above her.
Florence Nightingale stroked her forehead. ‘But of course,’ Miss Nightingale murmured, ‘the colours of pure love and faithfulness. I will write back to the Countess and tell her what you feel; though I am certain she already knows, and has always known.’
The Little Angel nodded, and a single tear streaked down her white cheek. She closed her eyes; the effort had exhausted her. Soon she was asleep.
The others said nothing as they followed Miss Nightingale back to her cramped little office. Russell broke the silence. ‘It could have been a conjuror’s trick,’ he said defensively. ‘After all, they are street performers. They are masters of illusion.’
‘At a time like this, in the midst of a war, bedridden, ill, weak and alone – I wouldn’t think she was in a fit state for a vaudeville performance!’ Princess Alice exclaimed.
‘I’ve learned that you must put aside sense,’ James added. ‘Some things are beyond the rational mind.’
‘Then what freak of nature is she?’ Russell asked.
Katie looked at them all. She could tell that James and Alice were curious too. With every question, the distance between them grew. ‘The Little Angel is as I am,’ Katie said. ‘She is one of the chosen. She is part of the Tempus. I am certain she is the child who brings peace.’ For some strange reason, Katie thought she might cry, and she was so tired of crying.
Princess Alice took her friend’s hand. ‘Are you certain?’ she asked. ‘I have always thought that you, Katie, were the child who brings peace.’
‘Look at my own time,’ Katie replied with some bitterness. ‘There’s war everywhere. People fight each other – over money, over politics, over religion. My world, in my time, is a total mess. But we haven’t given up hope. I might think I’m a jerk sometimes, but I’m not the one who ends the world.’
James began to laugh, and they all looked at him with some amazement.
‘I know it’s not a laughing matter,’ he said, ‘but it still makes me laugh to think of our Katie as either a Goddess of Goodness or a Dark Master of Evil.’
Katie didn’t mind that James was laughing at her – at least he was laughing. ‘No, I’m not the good one,’ she said. ‘That’s definitely the Little Angel. And we pretty much know who the evil one is.’
‘But of course, it is Felix!’ breathed Alice. ‘He is the Tempus Occidit – the child who falls through time to bring the war to end the world. Yes, I see now; that means you are all here, as in the prediction.’
Katie shuddered. She’d been wondering about this. ‘The three are here, and we’ve met in the field of battle,’ she said slowly. ‘But we’re still all alive. Does that mean we still have to fight to the death?’
They all looked to Florence Nightingale for answers, even William Howard Russell. ‘I think not,’ she said. ‘I’ve never thought so, and now I am certain. Katie, you have seen Lucia?’ Katie nodded. Florence Nightingale smiled drily. ‘There is much to admire in Lucia, but she has a purity of purpose that at times clouds her reason.’
‘A woman too purposeful for Miss Florence Nightingale,’ Russell muttered. ‘Now that’s a woman I’d like to meet.’
Miss Nightingale ignored him. ‘The Tempus – all three of you have gathered on the field of battle. In this Lucia was correct. But Katie, Lucia could not control you in the end. You chose for yourself. You chose not to kill, but to save.’
Katie was sitting on the floor and felt the tears pouring down her face. She had suffered greatly, seen things girls of her age should not have to witness, and she grieved for Jack, for all the fallen men. Sometimes she thought she was made out of tears. But this was different. It was as if an enormous stone had been lifted from her chest. She was weeping with relief.
Princess Alice clapped her hands. ‘I knew it!’ she cried. ‘I knew that Katie could only do good.’ She caught James’s eye and they smiled at each other.
‘In this case, you are correct,’ Florence Nightingale continued. ‘Katie, have you noticed there is a difference between you and the other two Tempus?’
Katie brushed the tears from her face. ‘Well, they’re both a lot better looking,’ she said rather lamely. James groaned and Katie pulled herself together. ‘When I sailed with the Little Angel, she was suffering from delirium,’ she added. ‘She talked of living through so many times. Yet I only remember my own time – New York City, in the twenty-first century.’
James’s scientific mind kicked in. ‘And Felix isn’t really a child at all. It is Felix’s body, but it’s been taken over by Belzen.’
‘But there is some part of Felix that’s still a child,’ Katie told him. ‘That’s the only way I was able to defeat him.’
‘If it is the Great Experiment, then it’s a flawed experiment,’ James said. ‘If the children are not the same, then any conclusions will not be valid . . .’
‘Really,’ Katie said indignantly. ‘I’m not a guinea pig.’
Billy Russell’s eyebrows shot up. Florence Nightingale looked as if she might break into a laugh. ‘Well, you are actually,’ she said. ‘But James is right. To a certain extent, you have freed yourself. The Great Experiment is a failure. Katie, if you had not saved the Little Angel, we would be heading towards destruction. You have acted as an individual, with your own voice. You made an independent decision. You chose peace.’
William Russell still wasn’t certain he believed this story; to him it sounded too fantastical. He knew he would never commit it to paper, and The Times would never print it. The readers of The Times would swallow many untruths, but this was going too far. He looked down at Katie; they all looked at Katie.
She could feel Alice’s gentle love and total belief, James’s loyalty and friendship – and finally, the approval, the commendation of Florence Nightingale. ‘I chose,’ Katie said to herself. ‘I have a voice. I count. I matter.’
A brisk knock at the door interrupted her thoughts, and the Reverend Mother entered. ‘I am sorry to disturb you,’ she said, ‘but the entire world seems to be looking for William Howard Russell. I have several messages marked “urgent” and a telegram from London.’
Russell raced through the messages, and then ripped opened the telegram. He read it through three times, stopping each time to look at Florence Nightingale and Princess Alice. Shaking his head, he let out a hearty laugh. ‘Well, here are several stories I could write up,’ he said. ‘The first has to do with treachery. A traitor has been caught. Lord Twisted, young Felix’s guardian in the Crimea, has been picked up leaving the Russian camp. It seems he has been selling military secrets. A spy – now that is a story our readers will attend to! Strange, my source says Twisted looked almost relieved when they arrested him.’
‘And Felix?’ Katie asked.
‘He’s in the field hospital,’ Russell replied. ‘He claims to be suffering from “Crimea fever” – and has agreed to disclose all the information he has on Lord Twisted in exchange for his own removal from the case.’
‘The hospital is a good place for Felix,’ Florence Nightingale commented. ‘If there’s one thing we know about, it’s hospital conditions in the Crimea. Let us hope for an infection. I’d recommend a bout of cholera for that young man!’ Miss Nightingale had a way with black humour. ‘Mr Russell, you said there were several stories. What more do you find in your correspondence?’
Russell read through the telegram one last time. ‘It is with pleasure that I learn of the birth of another royal child.’ He bowed his head, more of an impudent bob, and handed the telegram to Princess Alice. ‘Sister Agnes, I congratulate you. You have a little sister. Her name is Beatrice.’ Alice turned bright red, and James moved protectively to shield her.
Florence Nightingale sized up the situation. ‘What do they know in London?’ she asked. ‘This could be a major scandal.’
Russell smiled with satisfaction. ‘They know little, as did I, until this moment. But my hunch has proved correct.’ He bowed his head again to Princess Alice. ‘I did wonder t
hat such a young novice could project such great dignity. And then Master O’Reilly here would keep getting your name wrong.’
James was furious. ‘You can’t destroy her life like this,’ he shouted. ‘Exposure would mean the end of her prospects. There would be no future as a member of the Royal Family. You might as well lock her up in a real convent!’
‘It was a deception, but the motives were pure,’ Florence Nightingale added. ‘Princess Alice wished to learn about nursing; I was on my way to the Crimea. Why can a woman not pursue worthy goals?’
Katie took William Howard Russell’s arm. ‘You can’t do this to Alice,’ she begged him. ‘Not only is she my best friend, but she’s really got talent as a nurse. She can help the world, but only if you let her get away with this.’
Princess Alice looked up into William Howard Russell’s eyes. His face softened – she had that effect on people.
‘I repeat, little is known in London yet,’ he said gruffly. ‘The Queen gave birth in the Highlands. She is convalescing at Balmoral. My editor telegraphs that she is asking that her entire family join her, and they are having trouble locating certain members.’
‘But where am I supposed to be?’ Alice asked.
William Howard Russell read through the telegram again. ‘Well, let’s see . . . ah, that great panjandrum of the Palace, Bernardo DuQuelle, has played a part in this. It says here . . . DuQuelle insists you are taking the air in the Alps with your governess, the Baroness Lehzen. Yet there are rumours that the Baroness Lehzen is actually in Baden-Baden, the worse for wear from fortified wines and gambling.’
Alice too clutched Russell’s arm. Both she and Katie had him in a stronghold of pleading. ‘Will you tell?’ she asked. ‘Please . . .’ They all held their breath.
He looked, for a very long time, into each face. A good journalist could read character, and he read the same thing in all four faces. With a sigh, Russell folded the telegram and put it in his pocket. ‘The treason story is more immediate,’ he replied. ‘I’m right here, at the scene of the crime. I should return to Sebastopol and try and finagle an interview with Lord Twisted. The man has always been a scoundrel. Indeed, I have some choice bits of information about his past . . . I just might choose to share these with Lord Raglan. This is a story that will run and run. And by the time I’m done with it, I assume Princess Alice will have joined her family in the Highlands . . .’
The Chronicles of the Tempus Page 43
