In an attempt to change the conversation, I said, “He keeps saying the name ‘Victorine.’ It must be a Southern name because it’s not one I’ve ever heard before. Do you know if his family in Charleston has been notified that he’s here? Families are usually notified as soon as the ship docks, but his situation is different because he was sent here instead of on a train home. I’d hate to think of his family worried about him and not knowing why they haven’t heard from him.” I had been about to say that his Victorine must mean a great deal to him, which was why her name was always on his tongue, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it. I didn’t know this man at all, and there were no logical reasons why I’d be feeling a sense of jealousy toward a woman I would never meet.
“You could always write to them yourself. In your spare time, of course. I came up here to remind you that you’re late for your rounds.”
I dropped the cloth into the basin and stood quickly. “Of course. I lost track of time. I’ll be right there.”
“We’d be delighted for you to join us, of course. And if you need the captain’s home address, I have his personnel file in my office. You can stop by after rounds.”
I knew better than to ask him to bring it to me. The whole point of this exercise was to get me alone in his office again so he could try to pin me against his desk. This had happened twice before, and both times I’d been successful in outmaneuvering him and making it out of the office unscathed. The sheer fact that he was my superior was the only reason I hadn’t used his gold letter opener for a greater purpose.
“I’ll do that,” I said, my mind already trying to figure out a way to obtain the folder without having to actually go into his office. My problem was solved when I passed Nurse Hathaway on the stairwell leading toward the mansion’s ballroom on the second floor, which was now used as a patient ward. I disliked taking advantage of her willingness to help, but I knew I didn’t have the energy needed to fend off the doctor’s advances.
“Nurse Hathaway—may I ask a favor?”
“Yes, Doctor.” She gave me a helpful smile, so different from what I’d grown used to from most of the staff at Stornaway.
“Captain Ravenel’s personnel file is in Dr. Greeley’s office. When you have a moment, would you be so kind as to get it for me? I have rounds now, and so does Dr. Greeley.”
I added this last part so she’d know he’d also be out of his office and she would be safe entering. I wasn’t under any illusion that his attentions were directed only toward me. “Captain Ravenel was admitted last night,” I added. “So his file should be on top of Dr. Greeley’s desk or on the filing cabinet.”
“Yes, Doctor,” she said again, her gaze telling me that she knew exactly what I was saying.
I managed to get through rounds without thinking about Cooper Ravenel. The patients were mostly young, many not much older than I was. Yet their faces had aged prematurely, a permanent reminder of what they’d seen and done. The wounds they’d sustained were bad enough to have them sent home—amputations, mostly, and burns—and several men had lost their eyesight in at least one eye. One man, a first lieutenant from Muncie, Indiana, was twenty-eight and now profoundly deaf from an exploding bomb. When I’d first started treating these patients, I’d expected to see them grateful to be home permanently, and I’d seen a few like that. But there were some eager to return to their comrades, disappointed not that they were missing a leg or an arm, but that they would never again be sent to the front.
When we were through, I managed to escape without Dr. Greeley noticing that I’d left the group, and headed toward the stairwell. As I’d expected, Captain Ravenel’s file was waiting on the top step, and I picked it up before quietly entering the attic room.
I could tell that Nurse Hathaway had been in, had cleaned up the patient and tidied the bedside table. He slept in a sheen of perspiration, his condition apparently unchanged. I checked his chart and noticed the nurse had taken his vitals and all was stable. His temperature hadn’t decreased, but neither had it risen. For now, all was good.
I remembered the look in his eyes as he’d called me Victorine and asked me to let down my hair. I had to remind myself that Victorine was another woman, a woman who was probably waiting to find out where her captain was, and that the sooner she came, the sooner I could regain my focus on what I wanted in life.
I moved the file to my makeshift desk and pulled out a piece of stationery and a pen. With a deep breath, and taking time with my unruly penmanship, I began to write, hoping my letter would reach Charleston as quickly as possible, while a small part of me wished that it would not.
Five
DECEMBER 1892
Olive
The room at the top of the stairs.
Olive expected an attic of some sort, filled with furniture and objects that hadn’t found a home in some other corner, or else boxes and crates that still awaited unpacking. She’d never seen the seventh-floor blueprints. Why bother? Architects saved their best work for the principal floors, the floors that counted. They didn’t waste magic where no one would admire it.
So when she stepped through the doorway, she lost her breath.