“I’m so sorry to trouble you,” I said. “It won’t take a minute. Otherwise I’ll be here coaxing him all day. He goes quiet as a kitten when his fits have passed. You’ll see. Mr. Mabry! Be nice to the kind gentleman, or you’ll get a double dose of castor oil after supper.”
“Yes, Nurse.”
“Well, I—”
“Please, sir?” I looked up at him, all sweet hopefulness and worship.
He looked down at me, startled, as if he’d just noticed me there. Then he looked about, as if for another candidate. Then his mother’s likely lessons about helping ladies and the less fortunate finally awoke, and he sighed. “Very well.”
He set down the briefcase and entered the room, poised on the balls of his feet as if hunting a leopard. “Go to the other side,” he nearly shouted, as if madness made the captain hard of hearing, his voice nearly cracking with fear. “Grab the end.”
They grappled with the thing, and I slid the briefcase neatly out of the doorway with my foot. In the corridor I snapped it open and riffled through it as fast as I could.
“What are you doing!” Mr. Deighton gasped. “The other way. No, the other way!”
There were sheaves of papers in there. I nearly despaired until I found a neat envelope, sealed and uncreased, with the date written on the front in Matron’s handwriting. I pulled out the envelope and slid it into the pocket of my apron, next to the handwritten pages from the men.
After Mr. Deighton had emerged, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, and we had started off down the corridor with unseemly haste, I turned back to see the captain emerge from his doorway, book in hand. Behind Mr. Deighton’s back, I gave him a salute. He looked surprised. At first I thought he wouldn’t respond; then, as we turned the corner, he raised his hand to his temple and saluted me back, the gesture strangely dignified in his madman’s pajamas.
? ? ?
I didn’t know things had gone wrong, not truly, until it came time for Mr. Deighton to take his leave—given the option, it seemed no one ever stayed the night at Portis House—and Matron didn’t come to help us see him off.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Boney, contrite. “Matron is feeling unwell and she has gone to lie down for a rest.”
Nina and I stared at her in open shock. It was unthinkable for Matron to rest—in bed!—during the workday. Mr. Deighton took it in very bad grace, but he clutched his briefcase and left after giving us a sullen lecture about duty and respect to our superiors. He took his secrets with him, and though I was glad to see him go, I wished I’d had a little more time with the contents of that briefcase.
“You’re not serious,” I said to Boney when Mr. Deighton had gone.
“You saw her.” Boney shook her head. “She didn’t look well.”
“Well, there’s nothing to be done about it now,” said Nina. “Supper’s to be served in half an hour. We’ll just have to do it all without her.”
I half expected Matron to reappear during supper or as we cleared the dishes, nagging us about one rule or another, but she didn’t. I pulled Paulus aside the first chance I got. “Matron’s ill,” I said.
He looked amazed. “I wondered where she had got to.”
“We’re short-staffed,” I said. “It worries me.”
It wasn’t just the shortage, of course; it was the fact that it was Matron who was missing. The threat of Matron’s wrath was what kept the men in line during the day-to-day routine. If it got out among the men that she was sick in bed, we might have a discipline problem. I vaguely noticed that the idea didn’t terrify me, as it would have on my first day here; it merely seemed like a problem to be solved.
Paulus caught my meaning immediately. “I’ve got one of my men out back, taking a look at the generator. It’s been acting up all day. I’ll bring him back into the house and I’ll tell the others to be on their guard.”
“I think that would be helpful. I hope it’s temporary and she’s well by tomorrow. There can’t be anything worse than Matron getting a serious illness.”
But I was wrong. As I passed the common room, Captain Mabry’s voice called to me. “Nurse Weekes, I believe Somersham is unwell.”
Somersham was sitting at the end of one of the sofas, sagging over the arm like an unwatered plant. As I watched, he put a hand up and cradled his forehead. “It’s just a headache,” he said.
“Nonsense, lad,” Mr. MacInnes chimed in. “You look like death sitting up.”
Somersham’s skin was gray under the pale stubble on his cheeks. I touched his forehead. He was feverish, but there was no need to panic the men in the room. “Nurse Shouldice,” I said calmly as Nina appeared in the doorway behind me, “I believe Mr. Somersham is not feeling well.”
She was equally calm. “Isn’t he? Well, let’s go, then. Off to bed.”
We helped him up the stairs and into bed. He was hot as coals, with alarming red blotches showing high on his cheeks.
Nina, worried, caught my eye as she pulled the cover over him. “Should we take him to the infirmary, do you think?”
“No, no,” he protested from the bed between us. “It’s just a headache. Had it since yesterday. It’ll go away.”
Nina and I looked at each other again. “Martha,” I said. She’d had a headache the previous night before going on night duty, and she’d been in bed all day.
“I’ll take care of him,” Nina replied. “You go check on her.”
I hurried up the stairs. The hot sun was setting behind a bank of cloud, the air as thick as cotton wool. The storm was coming. Please, I thought as my feet hit the steps. Please, please, don’t let Martha get sick. But when I reached the nursery, the beds were empty, and she didn’t answer when I called her name.
She’d gotten almost as far as the bathroom when she collapsed, perhaps in search of a glass of water. She was crumpled on the floor, one arm awkwardly under her head, her cotton nightdress hiked halfway up her thighs. I knelt beside her and pulled the nightdress down. Her legs were thin with sinew, her knees bony.
When I rolled her over, I saw the same feverish spots on her cheeks. Her eyes were glassy. “Kitty,” she said. “You have to warn Matron.”
“Ssh,” I said. “Warn her of what?”
“The men will catch it,” she breathed. “You have to warn Matron. It’s influenza.”