Mr. Schuyler had a standing game of golf on Monday, followed by a trip down to Philadelphia to squire his fiancée to some dinner or other, a dinner that would undoubtedly be chronicled in loving detail in the society pages by Wednesday.
“Well . . .” Mr. Ravenel drew the word out, several syllables long. “I wasn’t thinking so much of Monday as tomorrow. There’s a whole long day ahead of me—and I’ve already been to the Metropolitan Museum more than once. Is there any chance I might persuade you to sacrifice some of your time to the entertainment of a lonely traveler?”
Thirteen
JULY 1944
Kate
“Dr. Schuyler? Dr. Schuyler?”
Two gentle shoves on my shoulder brought me awake, although it took a long moment for me to recognize where I was—inside the nurses’ sleeping quarters at Stornaway Hospital. But just a few minutes before I’d been standing on the sidewalk below, holding hands with my mother and looking up at the tall, Gilded Age mansion, while my mother told me to pay attention. She was telling me the old story about the mural of Saint George in her childhood bedroom, and that it was important that I understood.
I had been about to ask her what she’d meant when the shoves on my shoulder had begun.
“Dr. Schuyler?”
“I’m awake,” I said in a matching loud whisper, blinking several times to clear the sleep from my eyes, and recognized Nurse Hathaway. “What is it?”
“It’s Captain Ravenel, Doctor. He’s having one of his nightmares and Nurse Houlihan and I can’t calm him down. I could give him a sedative, but you told me not to—that I should come to you first.”
I was already standing and sliding my arms through my bathrobe’s sleeves. “Is he feverish?” I asked, furtively searching with one foot for my slippers, then finally giving up and dropping to my knees. I retrieved both from the farthest reaches under my bed and put them on.
“No,” she said.
“Good. Wait for me outside. I’ll be right with you.”
She gave me a brief nod, then waited outside the door while I carefully slid my hand into my pillowcase and pulled out the linen-wrapped miniature portrait I’d taken from Captain Ravenel’s duffel. I had no intention of keeping it, but I couldn’t leave it in Dr. Greeley’s office. I couldn’t imagine his blunt fingers pawing around the captain’s possessions and discovering it. And seeing the resemblance to me. At least that’s what I told myself.
Pushing back my inner voice, which kept reminding me about curiosity and the cat, I slid the miniature into the pocket of my robe, then quietly exited the sleeping quarters. I began to walk as quickly as I could in slippers toward the staircase, Nurse Hathaway keeping pace beside me.
“It’s the old nightmare. The one where he thinks he’s landing on the beach again.” She paused as our feet clattered up the stone steps. “And he’s calling that woman’s name again.”
I stopped for a moment to look back at her. “Victorine?”
“Yes. That one. That’s how I knew to come get you. He always seems to think it’s you and calms down once you speak to him.”
I gave her a brief nod. “Thank you. You did the right thing.”
We reached the top of the stairs, then moved quickly toward the smaller staircase that led to the attic of the old mansion.
A bare bulb burned in the hallway to light our way. With all of the windows painted black or covered with dark shades, the bulb burned night and day, so it was nearly impossible to determine the time of day. I had no way of knowing how long I’d been asleep, or how close to dawn it was.
I heard him even before we reached the door, shouting out men’s names as if he were still commanding his soldiers on a beach somewhere in France. I entered the room and saw in the dim light of the bedside lamp the other nurse on duty, a fresh Irish immigrant whose name was Mary or Margaret Houlihan. It’s not that I didn’t bother to learn the nurses’ names, but with the rapid turnover it was impossible to keep them straight.
Her accent thickened vowels and tripped on consonants, but I was familiar enough with an Irish lilt from living in New York City my entire life that I could still understand. She pressed a compress against the captain’s forehead, the water dripping down his temples. I quickly approached the bed. “I thought there wasn’t any fever,” I said.
The Irish nurse shook her head. “No, Doctor. But I thought he’d find a cool compress a wee bit soothing.”
I snatched it from her. “He nearly drowned at Normandy. I don’t think splashing cool water on his face is going to help him.”
His troubled face moved from side to side on his pillow, seemingly searching for a way out from a hell nobody could see but him. He clutched at his sheets, his knuckles white. He lay still for a moment, his eyes moving rapidly beneath the lids. “Victorine,” he said softly.
Gently, I pried his hand from where it gripped the edge of the sheet and wrapped it in mine. He was a large man, but his hands were long and elegant. Artist’s hands. “I’m here,” I said softly. “It’s Victorine.”