Chapter Sixty: The Color of Blackness

I resolved to stay in London for a few weeks. I took up residence in a modest but respectable hotel as I gathered my wits and continued to write the stories of the people I had met in Scutari and Balaklava.

The first real order of business was pressing.  I had to purchase new clothing as what I had brought with me from the Crimea was very worn and several seasons out of fashion. I spent money on three lovely new dresses, undergarments, and shoes only to find that as a single woman there was much curiosity. Everyone from hotel staff and shopkeepers wanted to ask me personal questions and I had much difficulty explaining my situation.

In order to make life easier, I decided to enter full mourning again. No one would hassle the grieving widow. I moved about the crowded streets unhindered, an anonymous figure cloaked and veiled in black. When William had died the clothing had seemed a prison. Hot, stifling, uncomfortable. Now, as a shadow, I was unrecognized, untouched. Eyes were averted. No one spoke to me except to quickly give me what I wanted or needed, hoping I would move one quickly before I brought bad luck or my tears or worse. It was freedom itself. The color suited my grieving, stained heart and the veil hid my deep sadness.

Nathaniel’s gift I kept with me at all times but as the paper began to show wear quickly, I realized that it needed to be better preserved. Still, to do so meant giving up my one relic, if only for a time, an act that was painful to consider even if it were temporary.

Eventually I enquired after reputable jewelers from the desk clerk at the hotel and had been directed to an establishment several blocks away that specialized in memorial pieces. I had a very specific item in mind. A gold brooch enameled in black with the word Recuerdo engraved upon the face. A reproduction of the one worn by the young lady in the painting in my rood in Edinburgh oh so long ago. Inside, behind a thick crystal, would lie the bit of his hair and the message…Victo Dolore. Thusly, he would be locked away, my secret, but I could still have him close to my heart.

“Good day, Madame,” the jeweler croaked as I entered the shop. He was a tiny, wizened old gentleman with a loupe stuck into one squinting eye. Much of his posture and appearance reminded me of a troll, but he did not seem unpleasant. He had looked up from his current project when he heard me enter.

“Good day, sir.”

“I will be with you in a moment.”

He continued tinkering away on an exquisite garnet encrusted bauble as I wandered past the display cases with their jewels reclining luxuriously on the folds of red velvet. Pearl necklaces, onyx crosses, emerald earrings, diamonds watch fobs all twinkled and shone in the late afternoon light. Each was constructed with a place to stash some memento of a departed loved one, tucked away behind glads. As I examined the pieces I began to doubt that my design was elaborate enough to serve as a fitting memorial. I began to panic a bit.

At last the jeweler cleared his throat and stood, putting down his tools. His fingers were gnarled and misshapen. How could he do such fine work with hand like this?

“How can I help you?” he asked after what seemed a lengthy period. The loupe was gone, replaced by a pair of wire rimmed spectacles.

Wordlessly, I showed him my crude sketch, smoothing out the folded paper on the countertop. He nodded, peering over the wire frames. A “Hmmmmmmm…,” escaped his lips.

He looked up at me. “I can have it ready in about two weeks time, I believe.” Glancing down at the drawing again, he was apparently lost in thought, tabulating some important variable. “Yes. That should be sufficient time. Is that acceptable?” He again looked up at me, this time quizzically. A wiry gray eyebrow was raised as a question mark.

“That soon?” I was taken aback by the speed of his answer and the promised time to have the order completed.

“Certainly.” He shrugged. “It is a simple yet elegant piece.” My heart lifted a bit at his praise. He would know beauty when he saw it, wouldn’t he?

We discussed price with some good natured haggling. Eventually we agreed on an amount. Truthfully I would have paid any price.

“Well then, that is most agreeable.” I handed over my precious bit of hair and the scrap of paper, aching as I did so, then paid him half of the agreed upon sum. “I will return in two weeks.”

He nodded acceptance of the arrangement, then returned slowly to his workbench, easing along with an arthritic shuffle. I turned to leave.

“This will not make it better, you know.”

“Pardon me?” I paused with my hand on the door handle and turned back, not sure I had heard him correctly. He was staring hard at me.

“This will not make it better,” he repeated.

“I understand,” I said, bowing my head. But I did not. And he did not. No one could understand because I could not tell them this dark black secret of mine.

He settled back to setting the showy garnets in their new golden home.

The door jingled as I closed it tight behind me, taking a deep breath.  The air inside was less polluted but had been stifling nonetheless.

I walked slowly back to the hotel. His words bothered me. I was not sure that I wanted to feel better. Somehow the pain made it feel more real and suffering seemed necessary to atone for my sin. I had enjoyed my sin, making it all the more sinful. Certainly this fellow was attempting to assuage his own guilt for capitalizing on the grief of others by offering bits of pseudo-sage advice. I would never see him again after I paid for my brooch and I was glad.

I felt lost without my treasure, ungrounded. This was silly I recognized but I was unsure how to change the fact.

I found myself wandering the streets wondering how would I fill up my days and my nights. I played through the moments with Nathaniel again, hidden behind the black veil. I hoped that the more I relived those feelings, the deeper they would be etched into my memory. I did not want to lose even a second of that precious time. The sea of people parted easily for me as I passed, no one wanting the bad luck of touching me, the widow twice over.

Chapter Fifty-Nine: Victo Dolore

The war had changed me. On this journey back to England, I weighed my future prospects.

Most of the young ladies at Scutari and Balaklava would be returning to their family homes and then likely on to other nursing posts if they could get past what they had witnessed in the Crimea.

I had no family to which to return. I was very afraid that my spirit was too marred by what I had seen to have much to return to anywhere. Living is dirty and messy I had learned, almost as much as dying. I was haunted by the faces and bodies of those broken men and by the sound of their unanswered cries for help.

The scent of sickness seemed to permeate every surface and multiplied in poorly ventilated spaces like my stateroom. It haunted me, everywhere as did the faces.

The young man from Cornwall, who had lost both of his hands and both legs, only to survive. He had prayed for death as each day had passed, even when it was clear that he would survive. One dark night, as I brought him water to drink, he grabbed my hand, spilling the water from the ladle it held. He pulled himself up while pulling me down and whispered into my ear, “Please miss, give me some poison or a knife or something….anything…. Help me! I cannot live like this!” Even thinking of it now, I shuddered. He knew that he would always be a burden. Even the joy of seeing his wife and children again could not erase that fear. Was it selfishness, not wanting to be degraded? Or was it love, wanting his wife to have a whole man who could care for her, rather than a half of man that would bring her down and make her old before her time?

I needed to document those details and stories before their edges faded into the dark mist of memories, interpreted and arranged unconsciously by my mind into the least painful construct it could live with. I began writing furiously using the portable writing desk brought by the steward. Soon, there was no paper left. I had even laid open the envelopes and written on them.

Days passed. We sailed closer and closer to England. Since my encounter with Nathaniel that night, I had lost my fear of seeing him, however we both took pains to avoid each other.

I stood alone on deck late in the crisp, cool night, taking in the myriad of stars blanketing the skies when I heard footsteps approaching from behind. Step, shuffle. Clunk. Step, shuffle. Clunk. Step, shuffle. It was unmistakable, even on this ship full of wounded bodies and wounded souls. His gait. His cane. He stood there for a few moments before stepping up to the rail behind me. We were due in port the next day.

“Good evening,” I said without shifting my gaze from the large waxing moon on the horizon.

“Yes, it is,” he replied. I looked over at him. He was dressed in a plain white shirt, uniform pants, boots and a regimental frock coat. He wore a mustache these days.

“What happened?” I asked cautiously, motioning to his hand and leg. I realized I did not know the story.

“Ah.” There was a pause. “It is the result of a death wish that put me on the front lines in the path of a mortar round. An ignorant decision that…that I will pay dearly for.” He stood silent for another moment, a half smile playing upon his lips. “You moved on to Balaklava after Scutari?”

“Yes.” A stiff wind caught my skirts and chilled the bone. I gave an involuntary shiver. “So you return to your family?” I asked cautiously.


I bent at the waist and laid my forehead on the cool rail between my gloved hands. I would not have expected less from him. I would not wish anything to happen to his wife or child, knowing the pain it would cause him if they were gone. I could not be so vain as to think that I could fill that great of a void.

“Evelyn…” My name on his lips.

“You do not need to offer excuses or explanations to me. You owe me none.”

He put his hand over mine, warming it against the cold metal. I looked up. He had sadness in the creases about his eyes. We stood there in silence for over a quarter of an hour.

“I should have stayed and fought for you in Cambridge.”

“No.” How do you say to someone that you were not ready for them then?

“Come, I will escort you to your berth,” he said, taking my arm.

“I do not wish to leave yet,” I replied.

“And yet, I cannot leave you out here alone.”

“I have been alone every night for the past two years. How is this night any different?”

He did not seem to hear me, however. He steered me firmly across the deck and down the stairs to my cabin.

“Please, talk to me for a while,” I pleaded. I was not ready for goodbye.

It was late. If any man were caught entering my stateroom, it would have meant serious trouble in any other world. But here, in the middle of the ocean at the tail end of the world’s most brutal, awful war, what could be ruined that meant anything to me at this point? “In war time, miss, certain rules no longer apply.”

He shook his head.

“Please…” I whispered. I opened the door and stepped back. There was another moment’s hesitation. Then he entered.

Once the door closed behind me, I had no time to even light a lamp. His lips closed upon my own. We kissed as if with a thirst that could not be slaked. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath, holding me to him, his breath in my ear.

As we undressed each other in the complete darkness, our hands explored what we had not had time to explore before. We made love slowly, sadly, as if discovering each other for the first and last time all over again. As he entered my body, I felt him flow through my veins, filling me and awakening me. I clung to him as I felt his warmth spill into my very depths.

This night, we actually slept together, skin touching skin. We had never had the opportunity before. My head rested in the crook of his arm, my leg draped over his, an arm resting across his chest. We fit together comfortably in a way that I had not known with William.

I did not want it to end. It was sheer bliss feeling his warmth beside me, feeling the pulse of his heartbeat through my cheek. We slept until mid morning, when the light streamed through the tiny port window and landed in a circle on the dusty floor.

While he was still asleep, I watched him for what must have been an hour. I could not resist the feel of the day old stubble of his chin as it brushed across the palm of my hand.

He was stirring from my touch, so I withdrew my hand. I rolled over onto my belly, propping my torso up on my arms, my chin resting on my hands. I could feel the remains of his seed slipping from me, wetting my thighs.

The bells were sounding land.

“Thank you,” I told him, smiling. He smiled back at me, kissed my forehead.

“I love you,” he replied.

“I know.”

“Where will you go, Evelyn?” Instead of answering, I let my hand run across his chin again, feeling the wiskers. “What will you do now that the war is over?”

With no family, I was truly alone. Or perhaps free was a better term. I hesitated, realizing that I was afraid. I did not wish to admit this, leaving him to feel obligated to assist me in any way.

“You could stay with us?” He sounded almost hopeful.

“No.” That was impossible.

“Do you need anything?”


More bells.

“I cannot leave you like this.”

There was no sense in even answering. It hung in the air like an empty promise. There was no other choice left for him than to return to his family. I knew this. If he did not, I would find him to be half the man I thought he was. I knew he had to go, not simply for his family, and for himself, but also for us.

We lingered there. I was nestled in the crook of his arm, my head resting on his shoulder. I could catch his scent as I shifted to press my ear against his chest. I could hear his heart beating, steady. I must have dozed there for a few moments. At last, he pulled his arm out from behind my shoulders and sat up. His thumb traced my lips and cheek as he stared at me. He took my mangled hand and kissed the palm then placed his hand over my heart for a few moments. Oh, don’t go. Please.

The bells were sounding again.

“I have nothing of you,” I said, beginning to feel the panic rising and catching in my throat. It would take everything I had within me not to beg, even if I understood that I must let him go in order to continue to love him.

He sat silently on the edge of the bed, pulling on his trousers. I watched the muscles shift beneath the skin of his bare shoulders as his arms moved. He stood but did not turn.

“What would you like?”

I was stymied. What did I want? There was so much that I desired. Your child? Instead I merely shrugged, afraid to give further voice, and set about dressing myself.

Nathaniel assisted with my corset. There is something bittersweet about being bound into a shaped piece of silk and bone that is pulled tight by one’s lover, never to be undone by him again. The rest of my toilet, I attended to myself.

He leaned over to kiss me one last time, his lips lingering on mine, then was gone.

I busied myself packing what little belongings I had lying about. I had resolved to remain in my cabin until he was safely ashore. I did not want to happen upon a joyous homecoming. I had not asked if she would be meeting him here but I did not wish to take any chances.

Distracted, I almost missed the little piece of paper he had left on the dresser addressed to me. My hands shook as I unfolded it. Written in his simple hand were the words “Victo Dolore” along with a lock of his hair.

Chapter Fifty-Eight: Dinner

There was another knock. Dinner? This must be food at last!

I hurried to the door, opening it eagerly. There, on a cart, were many covered dishes, domed in silver. I could not see anything aside from my distorted reflections, but the smell made my stomach begin to gnaw on itself. Divine.

A dark bearded steward nodded silently rolling in the wooden cart. He began laying it out on the heavily carved, if not somewhat worn, table in the corner of the sitting room. He shook out a table cloth, covering the surface in white linen, then began laying out and uncovering the dishes. I could see it was too much food. I could never eat all of this. Roasted chicken with rosemary. Potatoes. Creamed spinach. A lovely cake.

Candles? He lit them.

Two plates?

“Sir, excuse me.” I put my hand on the steward’s arm to make him stop. He paused, confused. “There is only me tonight. Only me eating this. Not two.” A stab of guilt hit me, remembering what the hospital staff and patients were subsisting on. “I am sorry if I was not clear. Please take most of this away. Don’t waste it.”

He shook his head and went back to hurriedly laying out the dinner service for two. Silverware. Napkins. Crystal. Wine, poured from a sparkling decanter.

Another knock at the door.

Then I realized what was happening.

The steward was looking at me, expectantly but I was rooted to the spot. I could not open the door. I put a hand up to my hair. I must look dreadful. I smoothed my skirt down unconsciously, grateful that I had taught myself how to wriggle into a corset despite my crippled hand.  Damn it!

“May I?” the steward asked. I glared at him, unmoving and silent. He shrugged and moved to the door, taking his cart with him. His work here was done.

And then there was Nathaniel, handing a wad of bills to the steward who bowed slightly and murmured his thanks as he closed the door behind him.

Silence as we stared at each other from across the room, taking measure. He leaning on his cane, me holding a chair with my good hand for support.

I spoke first. “I told you no,” my voice was shaking.

“I understand if you do not want to be seen publicly with me. I thought this might be an acceptable alternative. You must allow me to show my gratitude, to say thanks in some small way for saving my life.” His eyes pleaded with me.

“A note would have sufficed,” I said stiffly.

“Evelyn.” He sighed. “I do not wish to cause you pain. I will leave if you wish.”

I considered this for a moment.

No. The food must be eaten. Dinner does not constitute a betrayal. I did not speak or give him permission. I merely sat myself down in a chair, placing my napkin into my lap. He followed suit.

I served myself from the food and ate in silence that was punctuated only by the sound of silverware on the china and the ringing of crystal when it hit something else on the table. Sadness wrapped itself around my tongue, deadening the flavors. The only thing that tasted good was the wine. Eventually I gave up on the food, pouring myself a second glass.

He avoided my gaze, examining the room. I stared at my wine, the deep red seemed to glow from within. I could feel the alcohol recreating that tremulous feeling in my arms and legs…not the rubbery, off balanced kind of feeling one gets when seriously inebriated. It was the delicious alive feeling, almost bordering on joy, that comes more early on.

I searched my brain for something clever and biting to say, but there was nothing that came to me now. There would be later, surely. There were always plenty of words when there was no longer any opportunity to use them.

Instead, I settled on staring at him, looking him in the face. It gave me courage.

He was still so handsome. Was it the wine? The candlelight?

He looked up at me and smiled. I smiled back, wistfully.

“Would you care for some cake, Evelyn?”

“No. No, thank you.” We regarded each other for several minutes. A battle of wills to see who would blink first. Finally, he decided to allow me this one victory. He cleared his throat, dabbing at his whiskers with the linen napkin, placing it neatly beside his plate as a gentleman should. The war had not changed him in that way.

He stood, grabbing his cane. He opened his mouth as if to say something, and then closed it. I stood, taking his cue. He wanted to say goodbye, surely.

I crossed to the door, thinking that I would have a third glass of wine once he had gone. There would be no sleep without it.

He followed me across the small room, over the worn carpets. Those carpets had been something in their day, majestic even.  One could tell in spite the shadows they had become.

At the door, he took my damaged hand, bringing it to his lips. My fingers were tickled by his facial hair, the parts that still had feeling. The old me would have giggled. Instead, I frowned, sadness welling up from within. No matter what happened from now on there would be pain, always pain.

How it happened next, I could never be sure no matter how many times I reviewed it in my head. In the end I knew Nathaniel was mine and mine alone, if only for this brief moment.

Chapter Fifty-Seven: Underwater

“I would like to take meals in my stateroom.” I was pacing the dark wood paneled sitting room in my cabin, agitated. “Is that possible?”

The steward nodded solemnly.

“And I would like a glass of claret.” He raised a single eyebrow as if to say, surely not at this hour. “Now,” I added in case there was some degree of doubt in his mind.

“As you wish.” He smiled wryly. “Is there anything else with which I may be of assistance?” There was an edge to his voice now.

I realized I must have barked the order. I cringed inwardly. Giving orders came so easily when there was someone now to receive them.

I whispered an apology with my eyes.

“Yes. Please. I…I would like something to read. A book. Is there….?” I trailed off.

It seemed a ridiculous question. Of course there would not be a book store or lending library in the middle of the ocean, on a ship full of returning wounded, the bits and pieces left over from the Crimean War. This was the closest I had come to a luxury liner in over year but it was still a far cry from ships I had been on before. I cursed myself daily for not bringing one or two of the books from my trunk. The hours of idleness were affecting my mind and now threatened my very soul.

“Madame, there are some books available from the captain’s personal library. Is there a particular genre you are interested in? Generally, he does not lend out, but we have had precious few women on this ship of late. I am certain he would make an exception for you.”

I sighed in relief. “No, no particular interests. Surprise me.”

In short order he returned with a tea tray, a bottle of deep red claret, and several books. As he left I turned the musty books over in my hands. They appeared to have never been read, stiff bindings and crisp pages in leather bindings with gilded edges. I settled on one, The Lottery of Marriage by Frances Trollope and lost myself for several hours.

I became vaguely aware of an urgent pounding somewhere far away. It occurred again, drawing me further from the words on my page and as the sound came further into focus, I realized it was a pounding at (my) door.

I looked up from my book, irritated that something was pulling me back to reality.

Go away. Silence. I returned to the book.

More pounding. I sighed.

Fine. Perhaps it was dinner. I was hungry after all, having skipped lunch in the dining room earlier, too afraid of running into him, of having to continue the exhausting pretense of happiness, pretending not to care. I placed my book open and face down on the floor. The stiff binding groaned softly in protest.

Rising from the soft, upholstered chair in the sitting room of my cabin, I stretched my joints, stiffened from the lack of use, and made my way to the door. I cracked it open.

A steward was standing there, not the same one from earlier. This one was crumpled though not dirty, his left hand raised, poised to rap at the door again. When he saw the sliver of face peering out from the cracked door he lowered the arm slowly.

He had a pinched, apologetic look. “I am so sorry to interrupt, Madame. A man gave this to me, said it was a matter of some urgency and asked that I wait for a reply.”

I blinked. I opened the door wider.

There was only one man who knew I was here.

I was not sure I wanted to take the sealed envelope on the somewhat tarnished tray held out before me. His handwriting was on the envelope, addressed to Mrs. William Aspern. The bastard. Using my dead husband’s name as if it would keep us a safe distance apart. No. I would take the note. I would stab it through the heart and hand it back as my answer.

But wait. I did not even know what he was asking. I stepped back.

The steward stared at me, puzzled. “Missus?” He took the envelope off the tray himself, handing it to me.

I came back to my senses. I grabbed the note, tearing it open unceremoniously as I lacked a letter opener, and quickly read the contents. My face flushed. I put a hand to my chest. My heart. Where was my heart?

My dearest Evelyn,
I realize it is out of place for me to ask… completely out of line and disrespectful of me. But I am compelled. May we have dinner together tonight?
Faithfully yours,
Nathaniel Brierly

Faithfully his? What was he trying to say? And it was disrespectful. Of me. Of our past. Of his wife and his child and his future. I loved him and I hated him. I wondered silently which emotion was the strongest, which would win out. Dinner did not have to be a betrayal. It was a long leap from dinner to something unholy, wasn’t it?

There was no pen or ink or paper. I had brought none and I had found none in my rooms. I glanced up at the steward, now standing expectantly waiting for my answer.

“I have nothing with which to write,” I told him.

He nodded silently, disappearing for a few minutes. I found myself pacing back and forth as I had been earlier, trying to clear my thoughts.

A soft rap at the door signaled he was back; this time with a small writing desk, the portable kind that is neatly tucked away in a lovely wooden box. I laid it on a small side table. Inside I found thick cream colored stationary and everything else I needed. I ran my hand over the soft surface of a blank page, admiring the purity before I marred it.

I sat down, hastily penning my answer. Sealing an envelop was too much trouble, particularly given the fact that I had nothing to seal it with. No wax. I handed the folded paper with the single word etched in black ink to the steward.

He gave a slight bow and was gone.

I closed the door behind him and leaned against the cool wood.

What had I done? I knew that I would regret that answer for the rest of my lonely life. But once said, never unsaid. Always unsaid.

Chapter Fifty-Six: A Dream

I dozed off in a shaded chaise on one of the several decks of this vast, stream powered ship. It was two days into the voyage, bound for England.

I dreamed of walking in a vast green field, the tall grass tickling my fingertips as I walked. The smell of the damp dew wafted through the morning air, the drops of which collected on the hem of my skirt, making it heavier and deepening the red color as it soaked in. A cool breeze brushed over my skin.

This must be what peace felt like.

I headed for the cluster of trees on the horizon.

My subconscious became dimly aware of a sensation that I was being watched. I looked around. There was no one. I could hear birds twittering merrily but could not see them or anyone else.

Suddenly I felt that I was falling. Down, down, down into a deep abyss. I clutched around at the clods of dirt as they passed by at lightening speed, but they only dissentigrated in my fingers. I sensed that if I did not wake, if I hit the bottom, I was dead. I struggled to rise out of sleep. It was the only way to save myself.

Blinking, I saw a man come into focus before me. He was standing there, no longer in a worn and filthy uniform, leaning on a cane. Instead he wore a dark suit with an overcoat and matching hat. He had a startled look of disbelief on his face.

Here? On this ship? Now? How?

“Oh, God.” I sat up straight instantly wide awake.


We said nothing more. Neither of us moved. It could not be real. God would not do this to me, surely.

Time passed. It became evident that indeed this was real and not my imagination playing tricks on me as it had before many more times than I cared to admit.

Nathaniel took a seat on the edge of the adjacent chaise, resting his cane beside him.

“How are you?” he asked softly.

“Fine,” I replied warily.

A steward passed by with a tray on his shoulder. Nathaniel followed him with his eyes, silent. When the steward was far away and out of earshot, Nathaniel turned back to me.

I waited.

He looked around again, furtively. Noting that no one was nearby, he leaned across and took my left hand in his. An intimate gesture. I had hidden my right hand beneath my skirt so no one could not see it, and even though he held out his other hand expectantly waiting for me to take it, I could not. I could not bring myself to put it on display even for him. He recognized that I was holding back and seemed hurt.

Finally, he said, “Thank you for what you did to save me. I do not have any idea how you would have known about the carbolic acid. I did not even know what it would do. It was tossed around at school in Edinburgh but it was equally ridiculed.”

“If you knew how I had learned of it, you would not want to hold that hand.” I withdrew from his grasp.

“Let me see your other hand,” he commanded. I made no move to expose it. “Evelyn, please?” He reached across and grabbed the arm, pulling it free of the cloth. He held it and studied it. What I hated most about it was that I could not feel much of his touch with it. Some. But not much. Eventually, he looked up.

“Walk with me?” He stood and deftly picked up his cane. I remained seated staring up at him “Please?”

In a matter of seconds, I managed to quickly weigh the pros and cons. Every facet of every scenario was considered. What was honorable? What did my heart want? What did my heart need?

Finally I settled on walking with him being both needed and wanted and if it remained only walking and only in public then it would be honorable to do so.

I stood and took the proffered elbow.

We walked in silence for some time. Being close to him I felt safe. The nearness was reassuring.

“Evelyn?” he said when no one was within audible distance.

“Yes?” I looked up at him.

“I have something that I need to disclose to you.”

I sighed. I had wanted to ignore it, to not speak her into existence. To know and to acknowledge are two very separate things.

“Tell me about her, Dr. Brierly.”

He stopped and we stood together at the rail. He looked out over the vast, unbroken sea as he told me of his wife and daughter in Edinburgh.

He pulled a photograph from his coat. I could see their smiles and hear their laughter and it hurt more than words could say.

Tears began to fall, welling up from my aching soul. He quickly folded the picture, closing the case and tucking it back into his breast pocket. He pulled out a handkerchief and passed it to me.

“Evelyn, I have and always will love you. You occupy that special place in my heart that only a first love can and you will never be displaced.”

I did not want to be his first love. I wanted to be his only love.

Here on the ocean, surrounded by acres and acres of nothing, I wanted to succumb to that very natural, very human emotion. I wanted to hate her. Hate them both, really. I wanted on some level to hear him say that he hated her himself and in another I wished him joy even if it was with her. I wanted him happy as I had never been. Someone needed to have happiness.

“Thank you. Thank you for sharing her with me.” I gave his arm a squeeze with my good hand. I offered back the handkerchief, but he waved me off. “I think I will retire now.”

“May I have the honor of escorting you to dinner?” he asked hopefully.

“No, thank you. I have not much of an appetite.”

“Will you walk with me again tomorrow, then?”


“Very well.” He understood. He touched the brim of his hat and bowed slightly.

He did not attempt to follow me, instead turning back to the sea. I left him there, holding my heart even still. There would be no peace for me. Not in this lifetime.

Chapter Fifty-Five: Valise

“Get out!” I shouted at her, pointing to the door with my left hand.

The sister stared back at me, shocked. She was not moving.

“Evelyn, really.” She spoke in a calm and soothing tone, evenly. I hated her even more for thinking I could be placated.

“You know nothing of me or my life or what it is to love another human being, to bear the pain and the shame of it.” Her chipper mask slowly fell, replaced by hate.

“You are a sinner!” she hissed.

“So are you! You pretend to be filled with God’s love, pretend to care for mankind, but instead you, like the others, sit in judgement, consumed with pride in the belief that you are closer to God than everyone else. You don’t even realize that you are condemned to hell just like the rest of us.”

Sister Martha stared back, wide eyed. Apparently no one had dared to speak to her in this way before. It felt good to have power again, to be able to command someone else to feel smaller.

“You deserve to suffer. God will hear your blasphemy.”

“Get out,” I muttered through my teeth. I lunged at her at which point she stood. I tried to grab at her arm, intending to strangle her, having no doubt that I could and would do it, but also forgetting that my hand was only marginally functional. She slipped through my meager grip.

She paused at the doorway. “You are still a sinner…”

I stepped toward her menacingly before she could say another word. She turned and fled, leaving the door open, her quick steps echoing down the corridor.

My hands shaking, I tore off the lining at the back of the truck where I had hidden money before setting out on my journey to the Crimea.

I pulled out my worn brown leather valise with silver buckles and stared at the contents of my trunk. I would leave the majority behind. I needed a clean break. Arranging for my trunk to be moved given the current circumstances would create too much baggage. I wanted to leave this place and all of its suffering behind.

I selected a change of clothing, a brown travel dress similar to the one I was now wearing, and shoved it inside. I would only bring the corset and other undergarments I had on my person and the shoes on my feet. I dug out my miniature of William and the one of my parents. I had no jewelry with me, save a simple garnet and pearl necklace with matching earrings which were impossible to put on without assistance now and my wedding ring. I slipped these into a pocket. Hairbrush. Hair pins. Bonnet. Gloves. A handkerchief.

A book. I stared at my books. I had about twenty stashed away but had not had time to read a single one. No. I could use the time to think instead. I closed the trunk and heard the click.

There was nothing else left that I cared anything about.

Picking up my cloak and the valise, I left the room, the hospital, and Balaklava behind.

I booked passage on the Taurus, a military transport. It mattered not how much I was willing to pay, I was given berth below deck with other, more unfortunate women trapped in a dark hell that smelled of vomit and urine. There was a growing sense all around that the war would soon be over and these women who had stayed for so long were finally moving on. Some had small children, born in the camps. All day and all night, I could hear the cries and retching in my tiny cabin.

The stench, the rolling of the sea, the itching from the bites of the bedbugs and lice that infested the rickety cot, the loneliness and anxiety of my situation became a roiling in my own belly and I was left weak and dehydrated at the end of the three day voyage.

“Miss?” A knock came at the door. I startled, now awake. “Miss! We have arrived at port!”

I sat up, my head spinning. I struggled to remember where I was. Then the horror and shame came flooding back.

The deck hand had to assist me to the shore as I could barely stand and I was blinded terribly by the bright sunlight that had not touched my eyes for so long down below.

I clutched the valise close to my side and looked around, squinting. The white hospital loomed imposingly upon the cliff above.


I was almost home, with home being a return to the civilized world, a world not at war. A world with tea parties and millinery shops, a world with less blood. My world was anywhere but here, a wide open place full of hope.

Chapter Fifty-Four: Debt

“Mrs. Aspern, I am sure you understand. Your services are no longer required here.”

I was relieved of my duties, to be sent home.

“I will work for free.” My face reddened immediately, ashamed that I had said it. I was reduced to begging now.

Anxiety grew. I had no home to which to return. I would have to start my life over again. Alone. Where? “I will pay my room and board. Just…please let me stay.” My mind was racing. I could write to Mr. Hedgerly, have the money sent.

She arched a single eyebrow. Then frowned. “Mrs. Aspern. You cannot possibly deny that you are of no use in this state. Your hand is healed insomuch as it will. Our debt to you is paid. You must leave. We need able bodied women to take your place, who can assist with whatever is needed.”

“I see.” I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat. I will show no further emotion, I will not give you the satisfaction of seeing me broken.

I had attempted assisting on the wards for a few hours the past week. You do not realize how much you rely on a hand until it no longer functions properly.

“You may stay in the basement until other arrangements can be made.”

I was horrified. “With the rats and other vermin?”

“It is warm and dry. Other women live there, too. They have not complained.”

She referred to the camp followers, wives left destitute on the battlefield with no support. There were few ways to earn money aside from prostitution. So they camped in the hospital basements, taking odd jobs whenever possible. They complained. But they had no other choice and so bore their lot in so much as it was.

“I will have Sister Martha assist you with packing your things.”

“That will not be necessary. I can manage on my own.” I rose quickly from the chair in which I sat. It had been less than a year ago when I had sat here, interviewed by her upon my arrival. Stained.

With a wave of her hand, I was dismissed. The door closed firmly behind me.

Sister Martha arrived at my room shortly after. I had very little to pack and I refused her help. She shrugged, and sat on the bed as I folded as best I could. Her smile was disturbing and I could not figure out if it came from pity or from some secret well of joy within. Married to Christ. Regardless, I wanted to hate her for it. For anything. I wanted to hate someone and she was the closest at the moment.

I avoided making eye contact. I seethed as I gave up on folding and simply dumped items into my great black traveling trunk.

“He is married, you know.”

I froze. “Who?” I asked carefully.

“You know who.”

How did she know?

“I..I don’t know what you are talking about,” I stuttered.

“He told me about you.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Your Dr. Brierly.” The chipper smile still played on her face, and seemed at this point to be almost a gloat. “You tried to save his life by pilfering the carbolic acid, didn’t you?” Her blue eyes positively twinkled.

And then I understood. My hand. I had touched something that was not mine to touch. It did not matter if it were the carbolic acid or Nathaniel himself. She believed I deserved my fate.