The Nightingale Girls

CHAPTER Forty-Seven



IT WAS A miracle Henry Rettingham had survived, the doctors said.

Millie had helped comfort many distraught families on the wards. She had ushered them to a side room, plied them with hot sweet tea while the consultant delivered his bad news, and listened to them weeping behind the screens around their loved one’s bed. And yet no matter how desperately sad she felt for them, she had never really understood the depth of their despair until now, when she herself sat with her grandmother in a consultant’s office, listening to him tell her she might lose her precious father.

She already knew the details of the accident. Felix had explained it when he’d picked her up from the station an hour earlier. While out riding early that morning, Samson had taken fright at something and thrown her father off. The horse must have kicked him in the head as he galloped off, knocking him out. When Samson galloped back into the yard alone, the stable lad had raised the alarm.

They’d found her father staggering back down the road. He’d seemed fine, if a little groggy. But a few hours later he had complained of a headache, and by the afternoon he had collapsed.

The consultant explained that her father’s unconsciousness was due to a build up of pressure in his brain. Cerebral oedema. Millie saw the words swimming in front of her eyes as if they were printed in a textbook. They had never meant anything to her as she’d yawned her way through Sister Parker’s lecture. Now they meant life or death.

‘Is there any sign of haemorrhage?’ she asked.

The consultant’s brows lifted. ‘How do you know . . .?’

‘I’m training to be a nurse. I would appreciate your being frank with me, Mr Cossard.’

She saw his frown, and understood his irritation. Consultants did not like to be questioned, especially not by silly young girls who thought they understood medical matters just because they’d washed a few bedpans.

But she was not about to be fobbed off either. This was her father, and she intended to keep asking questions, no matter how much it irked Philip Cossard.

Finally, he said, ‘Thankfully there is no sign as yet. However, we must be prepared for such an eventuality.’

Millie nodded. ‘And in the meantime, all you can do is control the cerebral oedema and intercranial pressure.’

‘Indeed.’ He looked at her consideringly. ‘I do not need to tell you, Lady Amelia, that the next few hours and days are absolutely critical. If we can keep the swelling and pressure controlled and your father regains consciousness, then there is a good chance he will make a full recovery.’

‘And if he doesn’t, we must prepare ourselves for the worst,’ Millie finished for him. She looked at her grandmother, stiff-faced in the chair next to her. She could tell it was taking every ounce of self-control the Dowager Countess had not to weep for her son. ‘May we see him?’

‘Of course.’ The consultant nodded to a nurse, who stood by the door.

Her father was in a small private room off the main ward. Seriously ill patients were often ‘specialed’, as it was called. Only qualified nurses or the most senior students were allowed to tend to them.

Everything looked familiar to Millie – the drip stands, the metal bed, the overpowering smell of disinfectant, the muted sounds of a busy ward close by. But somehow it felt so very different when it was her own father lying in the bed.

Her grandmother crossed the room to his bedside. ‘I don’t understand it. There is hardly a scratch on him.’ She looked over her shoulder at Millie. ‘Do you think they might be mistaken about the severity of his condition? Surely if he was that badly injured there would be a wound . . .?’

Millie came to her side. She desperately wanted to offer her grandmother the hope she craved. But she also knew how cruel that would be.

‘All the damage is inside his skull, Granny,’ she said gently. ‘The fall and the blow to his head have shaken his brain badly and caused it to swell. The doctors are hoping that by giving him lots of time and rest the pressure will subside.’

‘And then he will recover?’

If his brain doesn’t start to leak blood, Millie thought. And even if it doesn’t, they wouldn’t know for a while how the vitality of the medullary centres had been threatened. He might well live, but might not fully recover.

But there was no reason to burden her grandmother with such depressing thoughts. The elderly lady was holding on to the metal bedhead as if she would fall down without its support.

‘Yes, Granny. He will recover,’ Millie said flatly.

She pulled up a chair for her grandmother and found one for herself. They sat in silence for a long time, both lost in their thoughts. The Dowager Countess held her son’s hand in her own thin beringed one.

‘Does he know we’re here, do you think?’ she asked.

‘It’s hard to say. I hope so.’

A nurse came in, looking crisp and professional in her blue uniform. Millie watched as she checked the patient’s temperature, pulse and respiration. She spoke to him while she worked, explaining what she was doing. Millie remembered all the times she’d had to chat away to Mrs Jones’ lifeless body while she was training. At the time it had seemed so silly, but now it all made sense. She was treating him like a person, not just a patient. Millie watched the nurse work, and itched to do something practical herself. She had never felt so useless, just sitting there.

They sat with him until the evening turned to night. Millie heard the soft patter of footsteps along the corridor outside as the night staff came on duty.

Beside her, her grandmother’s eyelids drooped. ‘You should go home, Granny,’ Millie said quietly. ‘You need to get some rest.’

‘I’m afraid you’re right, child. It has been a rather long and worrying day.’ She rose stiffly to her feet. ‘I will ask Felix to bring the car for us.’

‘Oh, no, I’m staying here.’

‘But you need your rest too.’

‘How can I possibly sleep?’ Millie looked at her father. ‘Besides, I want to be here. Just in case he wakes up.’ Or the worst happens, she added silently.

If her grandmother had any inkling of what was in her heart, she didn’t let on. ‘You might be in the way,’ she said anxiously. ‘The nurses are bound to be very busy.’

‘All the more reason I should stay, then. I can keep an eye on him during the night. I’m sure, the night staff will appreciate that.’ She looked up at her grandmother, her mouth firm with determination. ‘Whatever anyone says, I’m staying,’ she insisted.

The Dowager Countess sighed. ‘I can see that as usual your mind is made up on the matter, regardless of what anyone else thinks,’ she said heavily. ‘Very well, have it your own way. But I insist you return home first thing in the morning. We must try to maintain normality for the sake of the servants, if nothing else.’

The night nurse was surprised when she came in to turn down the lights and found Millie curled up in a chair, half asleep by her father’s bed.

‘You really should go home,’ she advised. ‘Sister would have a fit if she knew anyone was here overnight.’

‘Sister won’t be back until tomorrow morning. She doesn’t have to know, does she?’ Millie stretched and yawned.

‘I suppose not.’ The nurse looked down at her sympathetically. ‘You look worn out. Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘No, thank you.’

The nurse shaded the light with a green cloth and straightened the sheets. ‘I’ll be back in an hour,’ she said. ‘But do call me if you’re concerned about anything.’

‘Is there anything I can do for him?’ Millie asked quickly, before she left. ‘I feel so useless.’

The nurse gave her a kindly smile. ‘Talk to him,’ she advised. ‘He may not respond, but a familiar voice might get through to him.’

And so Millie talked. She chatted about nothing, telling him about her life in London, Dora and Helen, the funny things that had happened to her on the wards. It felt strange, making small talk into nothingness. It was as if her father was at the end of a very long tunnel. She couldn’t see him, but she knew he was there. All she could do was shout to him and hope he knew she was there too. And that he would find his way back to her.

And so it continued throughout the following day, and the day after that. Millie talked to him, read to him from The Times and even tried to do the crossword, although she found it a struggle without her father’s help.

She also persuaded Mr Cossard and the ward sister to allow her to take over some of his practical care, such as washing and shaving him and rubbing methylated spirits and powder into his shoulders and back to keep pressure sores at bay. They even found a spare apron and cap for her once they saw how determined she was to help.

By night, she curled up in the chair in his room. After her first uncomfortable night, when it became obvious that nothing would persuade her to go home to her bed, the kindly nurse brought her an armchair from the sister’s office during the night, whisking it away again at the first light of dawn.

Her grandmother disapproved of seeing Millie, her sleeves rolled up to the elbows, starched cap covering her fair curls, tending to her father.

‘It’s hardly fitting behaviour for a young lady,’ she scolded. But even she had to admit she found it a comfort, knowing Millie was there with him.

‘Should I arrange for the rest of your luggage to be brought down from London?’ she asked, as the third day dawned and she watched Millie and another nurse changing the bed.

‘That won’t be necessary. I can manage with what I’ve brought with me.’

Lady Rettingham looked at her sharply. ‘How long are you planning to stay?’

‘I don’t know.’ Millie gazed down at her father, still unconscious in the bed. As every day passed, her hope dimmed. ‘I shan’t leave until – we know how Daddy is. Matron has told me to take as much time off as I need.’

Her grandmother was silent. Millie glanced up at her tense face as she gazed out of the window towards the sunny hospital gardens and sensed that all was not well. She finished tucking in the corner of the sheet and straightened up to look at her. ‘Is there something wrong, Granny?’ she asked.

‘I’m just rather surprised, that’s all. I assumed you would not be returning to London.’

Millie stared at her uncomprehending. ‘But I have to go back. My training . . .’

‘You heard what the consultant said.’ Her grandmother turned to her. ‘We must prepare ourselves for the worst. What if anything happens to your father? Who will run the estate?’

‘The estate manager can look after it, surely?’

‘And who is going to give him his orders? Who is going to make the decisions, make sure everything is done properly?’

‘Are you suggesting that I should come home and run Billinghurst myself?’ The idea was so ridiculous Millie would have laughed if she hadn’t been so worn down by worry and exhaustion.

‘Until the next heir claims the estate, certainly.’ Her grandmother stared at her blankly. ‘We have to face facts, Amelia. I know you believed your father would live for ever and you could chase your dreams to your heart’s content, but that is not the case. We have to accept that he may die . . .’

‘No!’ Millie shouted.

‘. . . and if he does,’ her grandmother continued relentlessly, ‘then Billinghurst will pass to Cousin Robert and that will be the end of it. But if your father survives, there is a very real possibility he may suffer some kind of mental incapacity that will prevent him from resuming his duties of running the estate. And what do you think will happen then? Are we to allow Billinghurst to crumble into the ground while you indulge yourself in London? You have a duty, Amelia. Not to some sick strangers in the East End but to us, your family. And the sooner you realise that, the better.’

The Dowager Countess stared out of the window. ‘Of course, none of this would have happened if you had married and settled down two years ago. Then we might even have had an heir for Billinghurst by now, instead of facing the prospect of being thrown out of our own home by a stranger.’

Millie stared at her, hot tears stinging her eyes. ‘That isn’t going to happen,’ she said firmly. ‘Daddy is going to get better.’

Her grandmother turned weary eyes to meet hers. ‘I sincerely hope so, child,’ she said. ‘For all our sakes.’