Chapter One
December 24, 1872, Devon County, England
Ah, won't you buy my ivy? It's the loveliest I've seen.
Ah, won't you buy my holly? Oh you who love the green.
Do take a little branch of each, and on my knees I'll pray
That God will bless your Christmas and a happy New Year's Day.
~John Keegan, 1809-1849
Mary Cavendish rolled the last bandage. On the other side of the fogged window, raindrops began to float. “I hate snow.” Her new side-laced velvet boots wouldn’t survive the added layer of slush, for starters.
As though on cue, a mud-spattered sleigh rounded the corner too fast, nearly clipping the lamppost. The back of the hood hit the wreath looped on the post, and it landed in the gutter. The curled tulle ribbon flattened and seeped black with mud. Mary pressed her lips in a line and squeezed the bandage roll to keep from saying something uncharitable on Christmas Eve. She and the ladies on the Cockington Beautification Committee had spent hours wiring evergreen boughs into loops, and hours more installing the wreaths around the town.
“Beg p ardon, miss?” Lieutenant Baxter’s voice sounded nearly as creaky as his half-rusted bed. The apparatus hoisting his plaster-cast leg groaned in protest as he tried to turn and look out the window. He scowled then huffed, sending the ends of his waxed moustache flying.
“I said, ‘W hat a show.’ It seems the passengers from the last Torquay train have arrived from the station, and all of the cab drivers have forgotten how to steer.”
Old Tom Hart, lying two beds down from the lieutenant , gave a snort then a theatrical groan. He appeared at the parish hospital every time a storm blew in, and sometimes in between, hoping his complaint of “heart murmurs” would earn him a dose of laudanum.
Mary turned Mr. Gage onto his left side, fluffed the stuffing in Harold St. Just’s pillow, and spooned a dose of benzoin tincture onto Mr. Duffy’s blister. He gasped, and she let him squeeze her hand as long as the benzoin burned. She collected the cups from all the bedstands, trying not to wrinkle her nose at the smell of cold stale wassail mingled with the odor of cod liver oil and bedpans. So much for the wassail bringing Christmas cheer to the patients.
At the least it curtailed her appetite. Since her carrot juice and boiled oats with cinnamon luncheon, she’d eaten nothing a nd was in danger of surrendering to the nearest pastry with hardly a fight. Inhaling was enough to remind Mary her corset simply could not grow any tighter.
“I expect ye’ll want to be off to midnight services, miss?” Lieutenant Baxter called. He paused to cough into a handkerchief then twisted the corners of his mustache back into shape. “Perhaps with the fine Mister Warren?” The fatherly Lieutenant Baxter had been matchmaking on her behalf since he’d arrived from Africa two weeks ago.
Mr. Warren, the surgical resident volunteering from a Torquay specialist hospital, peered over the rims of his spectacles as his pen paused on the clipboard. He raised a brow at Mary, as though she’d made the suggestion. Pomade-slicked waves of hair reflected like molasses taffy in the lamplight. Precisely-trimmed whiskers gave him an air of distinction, although Mary couldn’t help but wonder if they would tickle when he kissed her — the very thought struck her with crippling anxiety.
She didn’t dare meet his gaze, dark as onyx and sharp as a razor. Looking at his shoulders was worse; square and proud, and so dashing in his white physician’s coat. Very fine indeed. An angel on an angel’s mission.
“Yes, and no, Lieutenant.” Mary turned and arranged the medicine bottles in the cabinet to disguise what had to be cranberry-colored cheeks. Knowing she was an uncontrollable blusher only made it flash hotter. Her trembling hand tipped over a bottle — one of Mr. Warren’s vaccine samples. It toppled the entire row with a tinkling clatter. His quick intake of breath
December 24, 1872, Devon County, England
Ah, won't you buy my ivy? It's the loveliest I've seen.
Ah, won't you buy my holly? Oh you who love the green.
Do take a little branch of each, and on my knees I'll pray
That God will bless your Christmas and a happy New Year's Day.
~John Keegan, 1809-1849
Mary Cavendish rolled the last bandage. On the other side of the fogged window, raindrops began to float. “I hate snow.” Her new side-laced velvet boots wouldn’t survive the added layer of slush, for starters.
As though on cue, a mud-spattered sleigh rounded the corner too fast, nearly clipping the lamppost. The back of the hood hit the wreath looped on the post, and it landed in the gutter. The curled tulle ribbon flattened and seeped black with mud. Mary pressed her lips in a line and squeezed the bandage roll to keep from saying something uncharitable on Christmas Eve. She and the ladies on the Cockington Beautification Committee had spent hours wiring evergreen boughs into loops, and hours more installing the wreaths around the town.
“Beg p ardon, miss?” Lieutenant Baxter’s voice sounded nearly as creaky as his half-rusted bed. The apparatus hoisting his plaster-cast leg groaned in protest as he tried to turn and look out the window. He scowled then huffed, sending the ends of his waxed moustache flying.
“I said, ‘W hat a show.’ It seems the passengers from the last Torquay train have arrived from the station, and all of the cab drivers have forgotten how to steer.”
Old Tom Hart, lying two beds down from the lieutenant , gave a snort then a theatrical groan. He appeared at the parish hospital every time a storm blew in, and sometimes in between, hoping his complaint of “heart murmurs” would earn him a dose of laudanum.
Mary turned Mr. Gage onto his left side, fluffed the stuffing in Harold St. Just’s pillow, and spooned a dose of benzoin tincture onto Mr. Duffy’s blister. He gasped, and she let him squeeze her hand as long as the benzoin burned. She collected the cups from all the bedstands, trying not to wrinkle her nose at the smell of cold stale wassail mingled with the odor of cod liver oil and bedpans. So much for the wassail bringing Christmas cheer to the patients.
At the least it curtailed her appetite. Since her carrot juice and boiled oats with cinnamon luncheon, she’d eaten nothing a nd was in danger of surrendering to the nearest pastry with hardly a fight. Inhaling was enough to remind Mary her corset simply could not grow any tighter.
“I expect ye’ll want to be off to midnight services, miss?” Lieutenant Baxter called. He paused to cough into a handkerchief then twisted the corners of his mustache back into shape. “Perhaps with the fine Mister Warren?” The fatherly Lieutenant Baxter had been matchmaking on her behalf since he’d arrived from Africa two weeks ago.
Mr. Warren, the surgical resident volunteering from a Torquay specialist hospital, peered over the rims of his spectacles as his pen paused on the clipboard. He raised a brow at Mary, as though she’d made the suggestion. Pomade-slicked waves of hair reflected like molasses taffy in the lamplight. Precisely-trimmed whiskers gave him an air of distinction, although Mary couldn’t help but wonder if they would tickle when he kissed her — the very thought struck her with crippling anxiety.
She didn’t dare meet his gaze, dark as onyx and sharp as a razor. Looking at his shoulders was worse; square and proud, and so dashing in his white physician’s coat. Very fine indeed. An angel on an angel’s mission.
“Yes, and no, Lieutenant.” Mary turned and arranged the medicine bottles in the cabinet to disguise what had to be cranberry-colored cheeks. Knowing she was an uncontrollable blusher only made it flash hotter. Her trembling hand tipped over a bottle — one of Mr. Warren’s vaccine samples. It toppled the entire row with a tinkling clatter. His quick intake of breath
Similar Books
