Colds, catarrh, influenza—the wildly swinging temperatures and damp chill even seemed to increase complaints of lumbago and rheumatism, with beds on all the wards filled to capacity. To top it off, the hospital was shorthanded, as nurses and doctors were felled by the same array of illnesses, so the remaining staff was forced to take on extra shifts.
“Wha’s it say, then, luv?” inquired the tram driver, before being seized by an attack of coughing.
“You have a slight temperature,” Fiona replied, thrusting a handkerchief at him. “Cover your mouth when you cough.”
“Ta very much,” he said, taking it. “Sorry, luv,” he added sheepishly.
“I’ll be back later,” she said, casting a glance around the ward before leaving. No one seemed to be in dire need of her at the moment, so she headed for the linen closet. She breathed a sigh of relief as she sank into the chair in the corner of the small room. It was just a straight-backed wooden chair, but getting off her feet for a few minutes was inexpressibly delicious. There was a small lounge for the nurses, but Head Nurse Meadows didn’t seem to believe in breaks of any kind, and Fiona had been the recipient of her disapproving glare on more than one occasion. It was much safer in the linen closet. She breathed in the quiet darkness, the sweet smell of cedar and freshly washed cotton sheets, borax and laundry soap.
She closed her eyes just for a moment . . .
“Nurse Stuart?”
Her body stiffened to attention as her eyes flew open. The voice brought her back to consciousness with a sickening thud. Harsh, dry, and stern, it could only belong to one person.
“Yes, Nurse Meadows?”
“What on earth are you doing in here?” Meadows stood silhouetted in the doorway, her long sinewy arms crossed, her square-jawed head cocked to one side. Fiona was glad she couldn’t quite make out her facial expression. She had seen it often enough—steely gray eyes narrowed, thin lips pursed, as if she had just consumed a particularly sour lemon.
“I—I had a headache. I was just resting my eyes.”
“I trust you are better now.”
“Yes, thank you,” Fiona lied.
“Then what are you waiting for? Chop, chop! There are patients waiting.”
Fiona fought to keep from yawning as she followed Nurse Meadows out of the closet. She could feel Meadows’ eyes on her as she walked away, down the long corridor toward the wards. Fiona didn’t believe the woman ever slept. Or if she did sleep, it was with one eye open, like the hundred-eyed watchman Argus from Greek mythology. She was like a bat, or a spider, or some as yet undiscovered species of nocturnal lizard.
As she rounded the corner, turning right toward the accident and injury ward, she was surprised to see a familiar face.
“Hello, Miss Stuart,” said Ian Hamilton.
Taken unawares, she was unable to suppress the look of delight that flashed across her features. “Good afternoon, Detective,” she said, carefully composing her face into a neutral expression. “What brings you here today?”
“I’ve come to see Conan Doyle. Have you any idea where I might find him?”
“Of course,” she replied, disappointment digging a little hole in her stomach. There was of course no reason he would be there to see her, considering how she had treated him in the past. “Follow me,” she said, striding briskly down the polished corridors.
Fiona Stuart had determined at an early age that men would not rule her life. She had watched too many women succumb to marriages with men they did not like. While she understood the allure of comfort and security, she chafed against the notion that a woman’s place was in the home, resenting the inequities that made it difficult for a woman to make her own way in the world. She had watched helplessly year after year as her mother struggled beneath her father’s will, shrinking to a diminished version of herself, until finally taken by consumption, the ultimate wasting disease.
Fiona did not hate men, but she did not trust them, and had resolved never to put herself at their mercy if she could help it. Her mother’s memory trailed her like a sad ghost, appearing whenever she felt the temptation of sexual attraction. Though she had felt the pull of Ian’s personality from the first moment she saw him, she had no intention of falling for the handsome detective.
But she imagined his warm breath on her neck and heard his firm, light tread as he followed her down the hall. Warring emotions surged in her breast. She was grateful that so long as he was behind her, her face could not betray her feelings. She did not want to reach their destination, where she would have to leave him. She longed for the corridor to stretch on forever. But they reached Doyle’s tiny office all too soon, and he came to the door in response to her knock.
“Hello,” he said, smiling in his broad, open way.
Fiona liked Conan Doyle—most people did. He was kind and unaffected and had a way of making you feel as if you were important. She sometimes wished she were attracted to him—she sensed Doyle was a man who would never treat a woman badly. But she was much more drawn to Detective Hamilton’s moody restlessness. He was like an opaque lake, and she was intrigued by his unexplored depths.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” Hamilton said. “You mentioned you had something to show me.”
“Ah, yes!” Doyle said. “Indeed I do.”
“If this is an inconvenient time—”
“Not at all—come in, please. Would you care to see as well, Nurse Stuart?”
“Thank you, but I must attend to my duties,” she replied. How she would have loved to stay and observe whatever crime-solving techniques the two men were collaborating on, but she had patients waiting, and Nurse Meadows was not of a forgiving disposition. A second reprimand in one day would almost certainly end in unpleasant consequences.
She walked away from the two men reluctantly. In spite of Conan Doyle’s generous offer, she was keenly aware of the gap between them—she was just a nurse, whereas he was no doubt on his way to an illustrious career as a doctor in one of the finest medical institutions in the world. As a woman, she had limited options, and the thought pierced her like a scalpel cutting into her flesh. While the two men discussed the latest exciting developments in medicine and crime solving, she would be taking temperatures, emptying bedpans, and cleaning up vomit.
After attending to patients in the accident and injury ward, she returned to the linen closet to get sheets for the tubercular ward. Since it had been discovered some years ago that the disease was contagious, some of the nurses were frightened to go near the patients. Fiona Stuart disdained such fear. She took precautions, of course, as she had while nursing her mother through her last illness, and would not be dissuaded from doing her duty now.
As she gathered fresh linens from the supply closet, she thought of the courage of her hero and mentor, Sophia Jex-Blake, who took on the Scottish medical establishment nearly single-handedly—and nearly won. But not quite. After an ugly fight, Jex-Blake was finally able to matriculate into the medical school at the University of Edinburgh, though she was not allowed to graduate. Forced to get her degree in Berlin, she returned to Edinburgh as Scotland’s first female physician. Fiona worshipped her, and volunteered at her clinic for women whenever possible.
Carrying an armload of fresh sheets, Fiona walked to the end of the hall and turned right into the corridor that led to the tubercular ward. Seeing Detective Hamilton emerge from Doyle’s office, she hastened her steps to catch up. As they neared the front door, she called to him.