Chapter Eighty-Eight: Crumbling

I wept bitterly that night and every night after…

The days were spent in a stained jacket of sorts that wrapped my arms around the torso and held them tight. I was placed in a chair and then tied down, only to be wheeled out to the veranda to take in the air twice a day. I was fed by the orderlies as apparently I could not be trusted with utensils. 

They were probably right.

Time passed slowly. 

I thought about all of the ways I could hurt that man with a spoon: evisceration would be difficult but if he held still long enough maybe with some chloroform or ether, I could ram the handle up a nostril and do some damage to his brain, I could scoop out each eyeball or maybe even his testicles, I could shove the handle into each ear and render him deaf, I could use that same handle at his jugular and maybe make him bleed to death….

I asked everyone I came across about my daughter but was only met with blank stares or shrugs. I begged for answers, news, any bit of information. 

None came.

Dr. Jenkins himself was a specter, flitting in and out around my periphery. How lucky he must have felt when I fell into his lap here. Had it been orchestrated, his little charade? Or purely chance? What were the odds anyway? 

I had no uterus. No ovaries. No child. He had robbed me of everything I had left.

Everything but my hate.

It was not a strong enough word, really…

After a week I was pinned down for an exam by him, my legs spread wide and held in place by two male orderlies as he painfully probed with his fingers. All the while he watched my face with a grin, clearly enjoying himself.

I held his gaze until he looked away.

If I could only kick him.

But I could not. I had already tried. 

Hence the male orderlies.

They leaned heavily on my legs, forcing them still. I could no longer feel my feet, the circulation had been disrupted for so long.

I wiped away all outward emotion. I resolved that I would not give him the satisfaction of having control of me in that way any longer. There were places in my mind where he could not touch me. I escaped there until he was done. 

A female attendant stood silently to my right, shifting her weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. She had little to do besides serve as an observer, a witness to my humiliation. I wondered what she must be thinking. Whenever I looked at her she looked away.

He moved up to my abdomen and removed the sutures. They had been terribly itchy. Restrained all day and all night, I could not reach the area to scratch. That fact alone was enough to drive me mad…

He was rough but the removal was a kindness, after all. My quality of life would be vastly improved. I hated him all the more for making me feel even this small amount of gratitude toward him.

Soon enough it was all over. 

I should have killed you when I had the chance, you bastard.

My legs were released as he stepped back, my chemise pulled back down to my ankles. The blood rushed back into my toes, a wave of prickly pain that excruciatingly crescendoed and then died away. He walked up to the basin and pitcher placed on the table next to the head of the bed. He washed. 

As he dried off his hands and rolled his sleeves back down he leaned in close to my ear and spoke softly. “I hear your daughter will be adopted out by a nice family. They needed extra hands to labor around the farm. They have adopted six other children from other unfit mothers already. I hope the girl does not mind cow shit…”

I closed my eyes and let the hate wash through me. I could feel it in every hair of my body, every pore, every fiber.

For now hate was my hope.

Chapter Eighty-Seven: Tethered

  

There were voices: a man and a woman, speaking in hushed tones. I tried to focus, to listen to their conversation through the fog in my head.

“The incision seems to be healing well now, Doctor.” The woman, whispered.

A man’s voice responded, softly, “Excellent. Maybe now she will not endanger herself by moving around.” 

“Shall we remove the restraints?” 

Were they referring to me?

“No. Not yet.”

I could hear the nod of the crisply starched cap, even though I could not see it.

Did I dare open my eyes?

It was then that I realized they were moving away. My opportunity to ask questions…

“Where am I?” I blurted out, looking about.

The man had turned away and was walking toward the bed across the ward, his back to me.

“You are at The Royal Asylum For Women.” The nurse spoke kindly, brushing hair back from my forehead.

“Why?”

“You had an acute attack of abdominal dropsy brought on by a neurosis.”

“Where is my daughter?” 

“Safe.”

“What does that mean?” I demanded.

“She is being cared for elsewhere.”

“By whom?” 

“I do not know.”

“Bring her to me!” Anger crept into my voice.

“I cannot. You are not able to care for her in your condition,” she said sternly.

“My condition.” Fear suddenly replaced anger. “What is my condition?”

“You have had a surgery.”

“What kind of surgery?”

“Dr. Jenkins performed a hysterectomy.” She looked at me pityingly. 

Oh, God.

Surely not. Why? And not the Dr. Jenkins I had known from another life… Stuart Jenkins? Surely there were plenty of other Dr. Jenkins in this world. 

Please… 

At the sound of his name the man turned around and began to walk back to my bedside.

His face.

It WAS him!

He smiled pleasantly as he approached.

My mouth filled with bile.

“Ah, Mrs. Aspern. Awake are we?”

“You had no right!” I screamed at him. Others in the ward shifted in their beds uncomfortably, taking notice. I tried to sit up but my arms were tied down to the bed. I jerked at the leather wrist restraints so hard that the bed frame rattled. 

“Oh, yes, I did. I have every right as your treating physician.”

“You hack!”

“I have removed hundreds of uteri in my career. In fact, every woman in this ward right now, has had this same procedure by me. I think I am able to judge well enough when one is causing problems.” He stared down at me haughtily. “And yours most certainly was causing all manner of infirmary.”

He reached a hand into his pocket and pulled out the old pessary, dropping it onto my abdomen. It hurt greatly as the heavy, metallic weight hit the incision. The padding from the bandages was not enough to break the fall.

I winced.

“It was probably simply pinching the vaginal mucosa, causing your pain, but it was easy to see that your uterus and ovaries were sitting too low in your pelvis, causing you fits of hysteria. You should feel much better from now on.” Another smile spread across his face.

“You did not ask my opinion!” I hissed through clenched teeth. 

It was rape. It was worse than rape. This man had had his hands inside of me, stolen from me without my consent.

A glint appeared in his eye as he leaned in close to my ear. He whispered slowly, threateningly, “The feeble minded are never able to make their own decisions.” 

Chapter Eighty-Six: Out

 

My eyelids felt weighted with lead, heavy. I willed them to open but they would not. I decided to focus on my other senses. 

There was an odor. That smell. I knew it from somewhere…

From where?

The Crimea! I was back in the Crimea.

Footsteps faded away to the left, echoing off of hard, antiseptic surfaces. 

I tried again on the eyelids, this time they opened a bit, revealing a long crack in the stained plaster overhead. It was a rusty red, like blood. My heart shot out of my chest, racing into my throat. This was not the Crimea.

Panic dragged me awake and I bolted upright.

Where was I?

Pain slammed through me, suddenly, and I cried out, falling back onto the bed.

Pain? From where?

I moved a hand down to my abdomen and pelvis. There was a large bandage there.

Oh, God! What did they do?

The walls of the long room were an odd greenish gray. I could not tell if that was because of the fading light filtering through the dirty windows or from some terrifying paint job. I looked around. There were other beds, other women.

A hospital ward.

“Psst!”

The woman to my right stared unseeingly at the ceiling, unresponsive. She was almost translucent. Her gray hair was thin and carefully arranged about her head, combed out over the pillow.

Was she dead?

I wanted to touch her waxen skin but that was impossible from where I lay.

“Hello?” I ventured, a bit louder. No movement. Not even a blink. I gave up on her and turned to my other side.

“Pssst!”

The woman to my right had bright orange hair. She stirred, looking over at me, but her eyes were glassy and vacant. 

This was not going well. 

A moan escaped from somewhere. It echoed off of the bare walls and floor. I went back to examining the crack in the plaster overhead. Surely someone would be through soon?

Anne! Where was she?!?!!?

I swung one leg and then the other over the side of the bed, doing my best to ignore the pain that seared through my pelvis. Standing, my legs felt unsteady. I took a tentative step forward only to have the knees buckle and I tumbled to the floor. 

Think!

Try as I might, I could not pull myself back up. I felt warmth gushing from between my legs as redness soaked through my white shift and pooled around me on the cold floor. Short shallow breaths were all that I could manage. Colorful bursts of light flashed into my line of sight then closed off into a lengthening tunnel of dark gray.

Get up, damn it!

Thoughts grew fuzzy then faded away. 

Blackness overtook me again.

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-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-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.

“Evelyn.”

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?”

“No.”

“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-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?

Chapter Forty-Six: Parasites

My hair fell into a great reddish-brown cloud at my feet, illuminated by the cold early morning sunlight that crept through the window in the washroom. Tears caught in my throat, making it difficult to swallow. I was parting with the one thing that defined who I was, what made me Evelyn.

I had no choice. Lice!

They were everywhere. A personal infestation was inevitable. I had tried all of the remedies I could find, short of mercury. Kerosene, sulfur mixed in lard, nit combs daily for weeks at a time, vinegar. Nothing worked for long.

In the end, it was too much. The itch in my scalp along with the raised, itchy sores on my body from the bed bugs were driving me to the brink of insanity. I rid myself of the mattress, choosing instead to sleep on the wooden slats. I washed the sheets and blankets and clothing myself in boiling water once a week.

Then I had cut off my hair. I used the scissors myself and cropped it as short as I could without assistance. My white uniform cap would hide it well for the most part but I was still losing a part of myself. I worked as fast as I could. I had a full day of work ahead of me.

My hand ran across the short stubble that now lay across my scalp. That should do it. It felt better once the deed was done. It would grow back.

I spent the rest of the day sorting through new arrivals from the ships, dressing wounds and telling the orderlies who to bathe. Nurses were not allowed to touch the men in certain areas and bathing them was strictly forbidden. In fact, there was so much fear over the men’s lusts, they were given bromide to curb it. Never mind the fact that the majority here could not begin to act on any desires they may have felt. It was the orderlies that needed something, the whole lying, stealing, cheating lot of them.

By the time the wounded finally reached Scutari, the layers of accumulated filth had to be addressed. Much of the clothing had to be burned. Patients were triaged. The actively dying over there, those requiring surgery over here, those with fevers including those with typhus and cholera were sent to other side of the hospital in the hopes that they would not infect others from their relative isolation. Not that it helped any at all.

I moved through the dozens of new arrivals, careful to not breathe through my nose so as to avoid the stench. Camphor could only do so much.

There were missing limbs, gangrene, camp fever, dysentery, chill blains. Faces swollen from dental abscesses. Malnutrition. Boils.

One young man had lost his left eye. The ear on that side was hanging off, only attached by a small bridge of flesh. Much of the tissue was rotting, but he would not allow anyone to remove it, even if it meant his death.

Another had a wound on his chest that had not received attention for weeks. When I pulled back his shirt, I was taken aback by the mass of maggots writhing in the cavity. I began scooping them out by hand.

For the most part now, though, I was numb to the horror. I had spent several hours one night crying but not because of the death here. I was crying because I could not feel the sadness anymore that I thought all of that death should warrant. I had become something less than human. Then, I realized how much of a blessing this numbness was. Some women never reached that point and it broke them. Others looked for other ways out.

Like Madge. At dinner, Madge announced to everyone that she would be leaving in a few weeks. She was marrying one of the men she had nursed back to health. This prompted a rare visit to the dormitory by Ms. Nightingale. She was livid. Her face red, she demanded that Madge pack her belongings and leave immediately, telling her that she was a disgrace. Never mind the fact that there was nowhere for her to go.

It was then that I decided finally to leave Scutari.

Chapter Forty-One: Learning

I did not want to kill him. No. I wanted something more sinister, more painful.

The work I did here at Scutari was mind numbing but necessary. It left my brain free to wander. To plan.

“Mrs. Aspern!” The sharp tone brought me round instantly. I looked up from The bandages. An orderly was at the doorway. A look of disdain washed over his face. “Dr. Jenkins requests your assistance.”

I stood.

This was what I had been waiting for. Days had passed and I had been afraid that my bravado might have sent him away from me for good. Apparently not.

I followed the tall, shuffling orderly to the surgery wing. When I entered the room, I found him alone with an unfortunate soldier whose left leg was clearly unsalvageable. The sickly sweet smell of gangrene was evident. The tourniquet was wound tightly at the upper thigh and the chloroform mask was in place. Muffled groans were audible but there was no struggle. The amputation saw was at the ready.

“Shall I stay to assist, Dr. Jenkins?” The orderly sounded hopeful.

“No, George, you may go. I am sure there are many other places you are needed.”

The orderly looked over knowingly at me, then made his retreat. Did he know this was going to be awful or that I was now a target?

Dr. Jenkins stared blankly at me. No trace of emotion. “Hold his leg there,” he said curtly, pointing to what was left of the lower thigh.

I placed my hands on the shredded flesh, warm and yet cold beneath my fingers. He expertly sawed through the muscles and sinews.

“Hold it tighter for Christ’s sake!” he said through clenched teeth. The savage sawing of the femur bone generated quite a bit of force and holding it steady was near impossible.

Sweat broke out across his forehead as he worked.

Finally, it was done.

“Dispose of that leg in the corner. The orderlies will clear it out later.” He pointed to a spot by the door where two other legs lay.

The weight of the single leg was actually quite a bit heavier than I was expecting. The whole thing was unwieldy as the knee and ankle flopped about and the fractures ground against each other. I stood it up in the corner, balancing it upright somehow. It looked more natural that way.

I returned to his side and assisted with cutting sutures as he sewed the skin and muscle flaps neatly over the stump. Soon, the job was done.

As he threw soiled instruments and bone saws into the bloody basin, I applied a close approximation of a dressing. The patient grimaced beneath his five day stubble but remained unconscious.

I looked over and caught Dr. Jenkins watching me. He did not turn away even when he realized I had caught him staring.

“What do you want from me?” I asked finally. “What will it take to get you to leave me alone?”

“You know what I want.”

“Why?”

He approached me, leaning against the length of my body, pressing his groin against my hip. He was aroused. His lips were at my ear. “I want control. Of you.”

He pressed in closer. I looked down at his hands. I was relieved. He had already washed them.

I whispered back, “And if I do this, once, you will leave me alone?” I willed myself to stay put, to not back away. He repulsed me so.

“If you wish.”

But we both knew that was a lie.

“Fine,” I said warily. This was crucial. He wanted control, I had to make him believe that he had it.

“My room tonight. At midnight.”

I nodded assent.

Physicians and surgeons on staff had their own private rooms at the other side of the hospital. I would have to be careful to not be seen, particularly as Ms. Nightingale made her nightly rounds.

I was startled by a muffled slap. I looked over at the corner. My leg had toppled over.

“Ah, well. I look forward to it Madame!” He backed away a few inches, laughing unpleasantly. Then, as if on impulse, he stepped toward me again. He took my face in his hands and kissed me violently. I had to choke back vomit as I pushed him away.

He left the operating room, whistling, leaving me alone with the soldier and the severed limbs, unsure of what to do next for the waking man’s pain.

I hurriedly washed my hands in the now bloody water, stirring it into a cloudy, red vortex with my fingers. I dried my hands on a bit of towel left unsoiled by Dr. Jenkins. I knew that while they may appear spotless, there was no possible way that they were clean.

Then I tried to calm the now agitated patient, and hoped that his screams would soon bring an orderly.

I waited.