Chapter Seventy-Three: Afterlife

Instead, I took her home.

If given the choice of living as a young woman without an arm, I would choose dying.

What would my daughter wish? Would she choose life at all costs if she could speak?

I had the dubious benefit of knowledge of the world as it was. She would long to be loved but it would always remain unrequited. She would be unable to work or to support herself and how long would my fortune last? There were no relatives upon whom she could rely if something were to happen to me.

To amputate her arm would mean consigning her to utter, lifelong isolation. I could not do that.

Yet, I was not willing to give her up. If she died, I died.

We would fight, she and I.

I needed to gather the coneflowers I had seen growing in Mrs. Fenuiel’s garden. I was surprised when I recognized them, tall and pink, as I thought they only grew in America.

“Oh, those?” She shrugged when I asked about them. “The seed was a gift, sent from an old American friend years ago. I keep meaning to rip them out.” She shook her wrinkled, old head. “I hate that woman now.”

Get all of them!” I ordered, calling after the young maid as she left out the door. Mrs. Fenuiel would not mind, I was certain.

They did not grow as tall as those back home had, the more rainy climate likely did not agree with them. Still, they would serve their purpose I hoped. The pale pink flowers, stems, and roots were for an antiseptic paste I had seen used by the midwives back home as a child. Typically it was made from dried plants but we did not have that kind of time.

I set about readying what I would need.

A knife from the kitchen.

Linen torn into strips for bandages.

Hot water.

I laid Anne on blankets on the kitchen work table, exposing her red and bloated little arm. The older housekeeper held it still in case she moved. Quickly, I cut into the flesh over the site of the inoculation.

Nothing.

I wanted to finish this before the young girl returned with the flowers. She had a gentle spirit and was not cut out for such things. The housekeeper herself was looking pale.

I cut deeper, my hands shaking. Anne stirred slightly as a cloud of foul smelling purulence mixed with blood poured forth. Thankfully she did not scream.

I could not bear it if she had screamed.

I expressed as much of the pus as I could out of the small incision using my fingertips, then rinsed the area with warm water.

Once the maid returned with a large basket of the coneflowers, I rinsed several of them and ground them into a runny paste with the mortar and pestle. Scooping several spoonfuls out, I wrapped it into a wide strip of linen and laid it across her arm, binding it firmly into place, careful to not cut off the circulation.

Warm compresses were laid over that and changed out every 30 minutes as I held Anne in the rocking chair in the drawing room.

Fight like with like… heat for heat.

Every six hours I would change out the coneflower paste. Why six hours? I did not know. It felt right somehow.

In the heat of the moment I had not thought ahead. “Just pull them all!” I had said. Now as I sat waiting, hoping for my miracle, I considered how to store the flowers between paste preparations. Put them in water? Hang them from the kitchen rafters to dry? Leave them to wilt on the counter?

Hang them. Hang them all.

Even though she was not interested, I expressed milk from my aching, engorged breasts a few drops at a time into her mouth.

Two days of this.

Finally the maid could take no more and sent again for the Reverend Drummond, intending that he should give comfort in my daughter’s passing. He had been here once before two days ago, shortly after I cut open the abscess in her arm.

He had not offered peace.

He now entered the room and passed his hat and coat to the weary looking housekeeper, his boots clumping on the wooden floor loudly enough that I woke from a fitful dozing slumber.

Anne also stirred. Her eyes fluttered open and she looked up at me as if she knew that I was her mother.

Ignoring the fact that a man of God was also in the room, I bared a breast and smiled as she latched on.

My heart sang.

I looked up at the Reverend, full of joy.

He was scowling down at me, hate in his eyes.

“I.. I am sorry for exposing myself.” I stammered. But I did not mean it. My daughter came first. She needed fluids and sustenance.

“Either you brought the favor of the Lord down upon her and saved her life through a miracle or you called upon power from another, more sinister being.” The Reverend’s eyes narrowed. “I doubt your faith is such that it brought about a divine miracle.”

Truth be told, if the devil had shown up on my doorstep and asked for my soul in return for her life I would have given it for her gladly.

But he had not.

Nor had God.

I had saved her.

“Get out of my house,” I said.

Chapter Seventy-Two: Severed

At first everything seemed fine. I peeked under the dressing on Anne’s arm periodically while she was sleeping and it appeared to be healing well. She smiled and played and ate, giggling at my silly faces.

After a few days, redness developed.

I tried not to worry too much. After all, I had been told that she would develop a sore. This must be it.

The following day it did not go away.

The next day the redness and swelling was worse.

The day after that she started with fever and would wail if anyone touched her.

Should I be worried? I did not want to seem like a fool.

Midday I could take it no longer. I sent a message to the doctor, telling him what was occurring. I sealed the note on stationary and sent it by way of the maid.

The message back was brief and barely legible. I squinted at it, turning in the light to make it out:

Dear Madame,
Please understand that these reactions are normal and merely a part of the process.

I could not read the signature scrawled across the bottom.

I tried to calm myself down. We were expected at his office the day after next to have the pox measured and a certificate of immunity completed. Surely we could wait.

I made and applied warm compresses, afraid to do much more than that.

Still, the next day it worsened further. Anne refused to take the breast. She was a hot coal in my arms, listless and disengaged.

I called for a carriage and carried her, whimpering, to the man’s clinic insisting that he examine the arm.

I was made to wait as several other people came and went: A laborer with a hand wound, bleeding. An old, stooped woman who walked with a cane and a limp who led a small, disheveled girl of about four. I could not tell which of the two was the patient.

Finally, he beckoned. I followed.

He was exasperated but could see that I would not be turned away. I unwrapped the blankets and pulled back the sleeve of the gown. Anne stirred slightly, eyes fluttering but not opening.

The redness was streaking, extending now almost to her shoulder.

His face blanched as he rushed to cover the swollen, bloated arm again.

“What?” I asked. Admittedly, I was somewhat relieved that I was not simply histrionic, that I was correct to believe something was not right.

“That is bad. Very bad.” He took a step back.

“Well?” I waited. “Bad, how?”

He ran a hand through his hair and shifted uncomfortably. My heart began pounding.

Had I waited too long, then?

“She is very ill. I am sorry.” He sighed. “This happened to the young boy vaccinated before her.”

“What do you mean? Which boy? He is fine now, isn’t he?” I could feel my voice rising.

He shook his head and took another step back.

“She might be saved but I doubt you want to do what it would require.” He paused. “There are some things worse than death.”

“She is going to die? You did this to her, you bastard!” I stepped toward him, speaking through my clenched teeth. “You did this to her, now fix her…” My voice caught and turned into a sob.

He winced and took a deep breath.

“We need to amputate her arm.”

At that moment I was suddenly back in the Crimea, holding down soldiers’ arms and legs feeling the vibrations from the saw as it chewed through bone, the weight of the severed limb.

I looked down at Anne’s feverish face and saw her almost grown up, lovely in a ball gown. I could hear the music start as she turned gracefully, exposing the fact that she had only one arm.

And I knew.

Chapter Sixty-Nine: A Need

“…the love of the Father. In that line, grace is sufficient. It by definition must cover all manner of….”

My mind was elsewhere, bathed in joy of an irreverent kind. My heart sang. It had worked!

I had taken the risk to keep from becoming a prisoner to my own body and it had worked.

Baby Anne was at home with the maid and the cook. It felt good to be out and about, even if it was only to church.

A cough from Mrs. Fenuiel beside me brought the elaborately carved pulpit back into focus. The Reverend Drummond smiled benevolently upon his congregation from his lofty perch. He paused as he turned another page of his sermon notes.

When only his head is visible above his robes, he makes quite the pleasant visage.

I shifted in my seat, testing. I could not feel it inside, even when sitting for long periods of time on a hard wooden pew.

Each day that passed the pessary was less noticeable until I lost track of its presence entirely.

Well, maybe not entirely.

I had inserted a finger to feel its shape while lying on the bed in my shift that night and every night thereafter. It was a solid metal pillow with a central hole. I was not certain what exactly it was constructed of, as I was too afraid to pull it out. There was no telling if I would be able to get it back in properly and having to explain to the good doctor how it had “fallen” out would be too mortifying.

Furthermore, I had no intention of keeping my appointment to follow up with the doctor on Tuesday next. Looking him in the face after he had examined and felt of me down there was too much. The device was working. That should be sufficient.

“Let us pray.” The Reverend’s eyes fixed on mine for a moment. Did I look distracted? Surely he was used to distraction. I bowed my head dutifully.

What would it be like to be naked, body entwined with his in a passionate embrace?

My cheeks reddened. Why did that pop into my head? Here? In God’s house? Was what the doctor warned true? Was I becoming a whore? And then a new reality dawned on me. With a pessary occupying space, I could not make love to any man even if I wanted to.

I must not allow myself to want it.

I focused on the rise and fall of his voice, eloquent words masking their own intent.

Reality. I could never be a vicar’s wife. That was not me. I lacked the faith and fortitude. I lacked the innocence and capacity for love of humankind. I could not be his lover.

But protection. I longed to feel loved, safe, protected. God alone could not provide me with these very carnal, human things. Bernini had been wrong. I was fairly sure that even Saint Teresa in her ecstasy probably still felt unfulfilled. I felt the rocking of a ship in the dark. My face on his chest. His heartbeat. I could remember the intense pleasure of the very moment Anne had been wrought, but his features, the details, were lost to me already. Sadness stuck in my throat.

A hand touched the cold, hard oval pinned to my bodice.

There you are.

“Amen.”

No. I did not want to leave this darkness…

Swells of organ music.

I must remain faithful to his memory.

Dutifully, I filed out of the pew, into the aisle, and out the door with Mrs. Finueil on my arm to exchange brief pleasantries with the Reverend Drummond. As we set foot on the steps the sun caught in my nostril and I sneezed.

I smiled.

Chapter Sixty-Four: Victorious

Pain wracked my body. It filled me to overflowing, consumed. I was certain I could not take more and continue living.

But I could.

I would.

I looked around the darkened room. Where was the air? I needed to breathe but I could not find the air.

“Have some laudanum, love.” Rough hands smoothed the sweat matted hair back from my forehead. A spoon hovered at my lips.

No!

“I am not dying yet,” I said through clinched teeth.

Pity in the eyes around me.

Was I dying?

I felt the urge to push. Screams flowed from my mouth involuntarily as I bared down. Again. Again. Again. No end.

And if I never see you again in this life….this, this moment will be enough. Do you even hear me? Do you hear my heart crying out for you in all of this pain and loneliness?

One last sob ripped from my throat.

Silence.

I could not see. My eyes were burning from the salty sweat that had run into them. I blinked. Once. Twice.

The midwife was smiling.

Smiling!

New cries filled the void left by my own. High pitched and plaintive and never before heard on this earth. Then there, in my arms, was my baby. So light and yet so heavy. Two brown eyes and a perfect little nose peeked out from the swaddling. Suddenly the face scrunched up like a wizened old man. A perfect little pout!

I pulled back the blankets and stared. At first there was relief. Everything was as it should be.

Then it was not.

A girl.

A girl?

Her hair was dark. Brown. She smiled up at me, but I felt nothing for her anymore.

This was not my baby. God owed me a boy. Not a girl. What would I do with a girl?

Levi had had blond hair, bright like the light from angels’ wings. It had been perfect even if the rest of him had not been. This baby I had carried was supposed to be a boy. With blonde hair.

Instead, I have this? Disappointment flooded my heart.

Why couldn’t you give me my angel?

I wrapped her up again and pushed her away. The midwife looked on and shook her head. More pity.

“Take her away!”

The maid scooped her up and stepped back, fear and uncertainty played on her young face.

“Go!” I waved my hand in dismissal.

Then something in my heart snapped. I felt it. Pain of another sort welled up and tears flowed, wracking my body with sobs. My breasts ached.

“My baby girl, give her to me!” The maid nodded, relieved, and passed the little bundle back.

I held her close. Her eyes fluttered closed as a triumphant half smile played on her tiny rosebud lips. A peaceful repose. Her first victory.

I would love her. She was all that I had left of love. She was mine.

Chapter Sixty-Three: A Name

Sleep would not come. Not on the bed. Nor in the chair. Or on the couch. Each night, I lay awake.

Days passed slowly.

I would sit for hours at my writing table, blank sheets of paper laid out before me, pen in hand. No words came.

My body ached after only a few minutes in any position. Comfort could not be found anywhere and the fatigue was overwhelming at times.

Simply breathing was a chore, even when sitting quietly.

I cannot go on another day in this way!

Twinges of pain would pass through my abdomen, the surface becoming rock hard for a few seconds.

Teasing.

Hello, mamma! I am here, still, waiting…

Anxiously I paced. Up and down the dirt road, around the kitchen.

I read the Biblical story of Samuel’s mother over and over, searching for clues in her dedication and making my own bargains with God.

Each passing day made me more frantic. I could not feel contrite. I could not wish away my time with Nathaniel. I cherished every single moment. No shame.

I was all the more damned.

I will attend church with him every Sunday, rain or shine. I give my word. I will encourage him to join the priesthood. Just let me keep him. Please.

At the same time that I made my bargains there was an unspoken sense of the inconvenience that a deity presented.

This God was the reason I had to bargain in the first place. God had made laws. I had broken them. Hence Levi’s death and my own suffering. Now here I stood, swollen and uncomfortable, pleading for mercy. Mercy I would not have to ask for if this God did not exist.

This God who killed my first baby.

My heart wished silently for God to be dead, but I would not allow my mind to complete the thought lest it be heard by eternal ears and ruin my chances at happiness.

At the edge of town I had rented this small cottage. Nondescript, soft gray stone. A modest garden that would be alive with color come spring. It was already furnished with musty linens and worn upholstery. It would make a reasonable home.

There was a midwife. She was a middle aged woman who dressed plainly. Her dark hair was streaked with large swaths of silver and she was missing a fair number of teeth when she grinned. The syncopation of her smile served to undermine confidence on some level but she was well respected by the local villagers and I resolved to trust her.

“This baby is my one tie to my late husband. If I lose the baby, I lose him.” I explained over a cup of tea that I had been recently widowed and had come here searching for a fresh start.

“Bless you, child!” She patted my arm, tears showing on her careworn cheeks. She shook her head. “God will bless you, I know it.”

“Thank you.” I patted her arm back solemnly, nodding, hoping that she was right. The baby shifted. The movement was reassuring.

A maid and a cook were found. Both young. Sisters, in fact. They were silly girls who had not yet been jaded by the realities of their existence. Slim and lithe and full of joy, their mousy brown hair was generally unkempt and their aprons frayed, but they were hard workers and their laughter brought light to an otherwise dismal existence.

The dark wooden crib sat in the floor by the fire. Each night I held the christening gown in my lap that I had bought for Levi those years ago. A blanket I had purchased in London lay folded in the crib, waiting. The silver rattle glowed in the light of the fire in the grate.

A name. I needed a name for him.

Ernest.

The time was coming. Soon.

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.

“Yes.”

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?”

“No.”

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-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.

Scutari.

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.

Chapter Fifty-Three: Shrouded

“Alright! Let’s have a look, shall we?”

The nun’s chipper tone seemed forced even when coupled with her wretched smile. I searched her face for clues. What did it look like under there? The fake happiness was disconcerting. Solemnity would have seemed more apropos.

“Yes, fine,” I replied, hoping that I sounded braver than I felt.

I had not yet seen what was beneath the bandages. It had been two weeks since the infection had started and I had not been aware of my surroundings most of that time.

Candlelight flickered golden from the table, creating more shadows than it eliminated.

Slowly, the sheeting was wound around my hand, peeled off in bloody layers. The closer we came, the more it hurt. Nothing severe, but each tiny movement sent shock waves up my arm. The final layers stuck at some points, glued to the flesh with dried blood. I realized I was holding my breath as I braced myself for the searing pain that never came. This burning was nothing compared to what I had felt before in childbirth or from that arm in the haze of my unconsciousness.

The sister whispered, “So sorry…” and “Excuse me…” with each gentle tug.

And then, the last layers were off.

I felt dizzy.

It is one thing seeing gruesome wounds on others but another thing entirely when it is your own body that you are staring at. You can no longer disconnect yourself from the horror.

There was exposed flesh, pink and red, stretching across my palm. Necrotic tissue had been filleted, exposing muscles beneath. Some of it had been closed with sutures, two smaller areas had been left open to drain. Apparently, tendons or nerves had also been severed as I was unable to flex my thumb or index and middle fingers or my hand itself. The last two fingers had some movement but they were stiff and weak. There was wasting and atrophy of what muscles remained in the palm. Contractures had already started to contort my hand into an unnatural shape. A claw.

I was crippled.

In the open areas, granulation tissue had begun to form. No signs of infection remained.

“That should heal up nicely, Evelyn.”

I glared at her in disbelief, willing her tongue to rot. Look me in the eye when you say that!

Her attention was on my hand, readying the new bandages. I stared again at the unnatural thing that was now attached to my body.

Heal nicely?

“There was a man that came a few nights ago.” She was still not making eye contact. “He said he was a doctor.”

I sat up straight, the icy grip of panic clutching at my chest.

“Who?” I demanded.

But I knew. I had seen his shadow limp through the darkened doorway in the flash of lightening. I had thought it to be a dream. It had not been.

My Nathaniel.

“I forget his name. He was a patient, wounded at Sebastopol.”

“Wounded in the leg?” I asked.

“Yes.” The sister paused as she tied off the bandage. Shrouded in white, it was now my ghost hand. “He was leaving for Scutari.”

A sob caught in my throat. He was alive. But lost to me, again.

The sister patted me reassuringly on the shoulder then gathered her things into the basket in order to leave.

She leaned in close to me. “He said you were his guardian angel,” she whispered softly, as if to keep the Virgin ears on the wall from hearing. “Truth be told, he begged to be allowed to stay, to sit with you, but that would have been improper. In the end, he was stable enough for transfer, so away he was sent.”

“Thank you,” I whispered back, forgiving her for everything that had gone before.

She nodded an acknowledgment. Then was gone.

He knew.

He knew about my hand, what state it was in now. No wonder he had not fought the transfer to Scutari. I was a shadow, an imperfect, distorted reflection of the original.

Why had I not just died?