Coming Home for Christmas (10 page)

“Aye, lassie,” he replied in English, pillowing his head on her breast. “I have six or seven months to teach you English,” he continued in Spanish.

Sleepy and satisfied, she was soon asleep. Thomas yawned and held her close, breathing in her fragrance. He hoped she wouldn't be too seasick once they hit the Pacific rollers. But that was marriage, taking the bitter with the sweet.

He thought about his father's Christmus letter and smiled in the dark. He'd have to make a special trip to Carlisle to thank his brother for marrying Cora.

Dumfries, Scotland—October 10, 1855

Dearest Daughter,

Like you, now that the Russians have surrendered Sebastopol, we wish the British High Command would hurry up and bring the boys home, so you could come home, too. And if you could actually be home in time for Christmas, even better, my dear—I have to chuckle here, remembering how many years my own dear father had to wait for me to come home for Christmas! I trust you will fare better, but I do understand delays. Still, weren't we all assured that this nasty little war would end in six weeks?

You are continually in our prayers. Your dear mother has burned enough candles in St James to ignite Dumfries—or at least they would, if there were more Catholics. I continue with my less-colorful Presbyterian prayers. Between the two of us, I believe we have the Lord Almighty surrounded. Let me assure you that your
sweet Will keeps you in his prayers, too, even when he says grace over his porridge. He's mature for an almost ten-year-old, but he misses you.

If you have a moment, tell us more about Major Wharton, your unusual hospital administrator, since he is an American. I am less surprised than you, perhaps, that the US Army sent observers to the Crimea; such a thing is commonplace in military circles. If he is as effective an administrator as you seem to think, then we must applaud Miss Nightingale's split-second wisdom in sending him to Soulari Barracks Hospital to straighten out the mess caused by others. I imagine she had to tug a few strings for that to happen, but I hear she is resourceful.

We love you, we miss you. Will is my right-hand man. He accompanies me on my visits about Dumfries and likes to ward walk, when I let him. I think you have a budding surgeon in your son. Are you surprised?

Best of Christmases to you, Lillian, even in that awful place. Your
mamacita
wants you to find someone there to kiss under the mistletoe, although I doubt there is mistletoe on the north shore of the Black Sea.

Love,

Papá

P.S. My dearest, this is a broad hint, but I managed to find a husband in the middle of a war. At Christmas, too.
Adiós.

Mama

L
illian Wilkie Nicholls ached everywhere. As she tossed the scrub brush into the bucket and rocked back on her heels, she looked with some satisfaction down the barrack room. It had been dubbed a ward last year by Miss Florence Nightingale on a brief visit to this satellite hospital in Anatolia.
One down, two miles to go,
she thought, with a slight smile.
Too bad I look washed out in gray.

“And that shows how shallow I am,” she said out loud to no one, because the nearest nurse was at the other end, making beds. She looked down at the ugliest gray dress ever conceived by the mind of woman, then at her chipped nails. “Papa always told me never to volunteer for anything.”

Lily knew he hadn't meant any such thing. Still, even he had been taken aback when she'd arrived home in Dumfries more than two years ago, her hand tight in Will's, and declared her intention of traveling to Constantinople with others ladies determined to Do Good.

“I have it on good advice—Lord Aberdeen himself—that the war will not last above another six weeks,” she had told her parents. “If you can watch Will for me, I can do some good in that limited time.” That was two years ago—so much for politicians.

By the end of the week, she'd been on her way back to London to plead her case with Miss Nightingale's London liaison. There had been some objection to her general good looks. It had faded as soon as Lillian had said she could pay her own way, plus the way for four other nurses. Although she had known no more than most cultured ladies about nursing, her chief reference had come from Lord Aberdeen, prime minister and her late husband's cousin—end of argument. How kind of her dead husband to continue to be useful.

Will hadn't minded being left with his grandparents; since his papa had died two years before, he had worn mourning clothes at the request of his London grandparents and walked slowly when he would have preferred to run. Even before the illness that had led to his death, Randolph Nicholls had been a distant figure: the perfect London gentleman, with time for clubs and horses, but not one scholarly little boy.

True, Will had clung to Lily a long time at the Dumfries train station, until Grandpapa Wilkie, after whom he'd been named, had knelt beside him and gently pried him away. Grandpapa had promised to let him come along on doctor visits to the neighbors, Will's idea of fun—end of another argument. Lillian had been at liberty to leave England and Do Some Good in the Crimea. After all, it would only be for six weeks.

Lily sighed and looked into the filthy wash water, wishing herself home with her son. Trouble was, she had
proved too efficient to release and had had no choice but to stay. Even now, almost three months after the Russians had surrendered Sebastopol, it seemed neither side could believe the long siege was over. British and French patients still languished in hospitals throughout northern Anatolia and across the Black Sea in Crimea. Soldiers still made their way to her hospital in Soulari. They should have been going home to England, but nothing about this nasty little war had been well organized, not even victory.

With a groan, Lily stood up. She sniffed the air, happy to smell dinner cooking in the detached kitchen behind the barracks. A year and a half of scrubbing and carbolic had gotten rid of truly noxious odors. She smiled at the nurse at the other end of the corridor, one of the silent, efficient Sisters of Mercy from France who had arrived six months ago and spoke no English.

“It
is
my hospital,” Lily murmured. “You can have it back, oh mighty Ottoman Empire. I am through.”

Somehow, she had managed to avoid typhus and even cholera. Between death and transfers and feminine tantrums, she truly was the last remaining Englishwoman who had come to serve in Soulari; therefore, it must be her hospital.

Any time now, orderlies would trundle in the dinner cart and she would spend the next few hours assisting those patients who needed help. For a few minutes, she could walk the corridor in peace, checking on her men, for so they were. The wounded were silent, something Miss Nightingale herself had once remarked on. Wounds and illness seemed to create their own torpor, as men rested and gathered their strength. Thank goodness at least they could do it in a warm hospital, with
clean linen under them and good food coming. Lily remembered the battles of Inkermann and Balaclava, when the wounded had lain in their own blood and gore for weeks, because nothing had been ready. Those days were over.

She walked through the wards, observing her patients and noting, with a sinking heart, their air of resignation. Victory wasn't supposed to look like this and it bothered her.

Of course, who wouldn't be affected by it? Only this morning, the chief surgeon—Captain Pompous himself—had gone from ward to ward, reading aloud a letter from General Simpson, Lord Raglan's successor, crowing about victory, but advising the men there would not be any transport home until after Christmas. So much for England remembering her heroes on far-off battlefields. Damn Captain Pompous anyway.

She walked silently, smiling at the few patients who made eye contact. A former patient, long furloughed home, had remarked to her in a late-night, candid moment that most of his bunkies agreed that the hospital's most comforting sound, even more than the food wagon, was the swish of women's skirts through the halls, signaling that they had not been forgotten. After that comment, Lily had begged a noisy taffeta petticoat from Mama, who had promptly sent two.

Lily observed as she walked. The wards were airy and comfortable, the beds properly spaced to receive all the good oxygen required to maintain standards, as interpreted by Miss Nightingale in one of her many dispatches to the hospitals within her jurisdiction.

In the third ward, Lillian Nicholls realized what was missing. At first, the notion was absurd; the nursing
staff would laugh her out of the building, if she mentioned such a trivial matter. Of course, none of the Sisters of Mercy spoke much English, so it didn't matter.

The more she thought about it, the more her resolve grew. There was time before dinner rounds to discuss the matter with the one man who might understand. A purposeful walk down a flight of scrubbed stone steps took her to his office. She knocked right away, not giving her doubts time to gather strength. A good idea in a ward was just as good in front of the hospital administrator's door, or so Lillian reasoned.

Major Trey Wharton, USA, opened the door himself, making her wonder—not for the first time—if he knew the very sound of her knock.

“Mrs Nicholls, I wondered if you would stop by today to give me a pithy comment on the nitwittery of Captain Penrose. Who in God's name would read aloud a letter like
that
?”

If Lillian had been holding her breath, she let it out in a little sigh; trust Major Wharton to understand, even if he was an American. Or perhaps
because
he was an American.

A handsome one, too. She admired his posture, and the fine cut of his blue uniform, with its gold buttons, epaulets and collar trim denoting an engineer. His uniforms looked tailor-made and expensive, and he always appeared perfectly proper. That aside, her first encounter with the complexity that was Major Wharton had happened in surgery, his well-tailored coat tossed across the room, and the major watching with great interest the surgeon at work. With no hesitation, he had held a retractor when the surgeon required it, then had grinned at her. “Mrs Nicholls, is it? Are you ever amazed how
some people meet?” And then he had blushed like a schoolgirl.

Shyness was another of Major Wharton's endearing qualities. She had decided early on how much she liked him. Lily was used to men appreciating her company—she had a stillness about her and was ornamental in the way that men of her class seemed to prefer. Once Major Wharton had recovered from a monumental case of tongue-tied-itis, as he had jokingly dubbed it late one weary night, he had become her friend, but nothing more. She chose to be philosophical about the matter. After all, she was here in the Crimea to nurse, not flirt.

With a smile now, she sat in the chair drawn up before his ornate desk, a gift of Sultan Abdul Ahmed Wasiri. The two men regularly played poker, a game that the sultan always claimed had originated in Persia. The desk had formed part of Major Wharton's considerable winnings.

The major sat down in the chair next to her, not bothering to retreat to the other side of the desk to look intimidating, as Captain Penrose would have. He smiled back and Lillian felt her own heart lifting, even as she reminded herself that Major Wharton seemed to want no more than friendship from her.

It was the smile. Until he smiled, he was handsome in that understated way of capable men. His brown hair was turning gray here and there, and his eyes were dark blue. He had a deep dimple in one cheek and carved lines around his mouth that gave his face character. The smile changed everything because he had a gap between his two front teeth, making what should have been an intimidatingly perfect man quite human. When
he smiled, Trey Wharton looked just slightly off-kilter. She knew her mother would find him amusing.

“Major, you'll just have to endure Excelsior Penrose,” she reminded him, not for the first time.

He never failed to laugh when she used the physician's full name. It was a laugh as comfortable as he was, even in dismal surroundings.

She looked at an ornate rug he must have recently hung on the wall. It blocked out a portion of the window, which leaked heat notoriously. “More winnings from your disreputable game?” she asked, indicating the
objet d'art.

He nodded. “Our friend the sultan would be worthy pickings for any riverboat gambler I can think of,” he said. “If the British High Command lengthens out the evacuation of patients, I believe I will own Abdul Wasiri's palace and chattels. Probably the harem, too.” He blushed furiously. “Has he made
you
any more offers recently?”

“Not one!” She laughed, remembering one straitlaced London lady who had reported the major to Miss Nightingale for his vulgarity. That bit of self-righteousness had earned her a prompt transfer to another hospital. Flippant the major might be, but he could run a hospital. What's more, Miss Nightingale knew it.

“No more offers from the sultan,” she said. “If I am honest, perhaps I did not entirely understand what he was proposing. I will give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“Wise,” Major Wharton said. And then he was all business: her great friend, but first and foremost a hospital administrator. “I'll wager you've come here to tell me that our patients are a bit morose.”

Our patients?
Lily asked herself. She nodded, pleased that he had included them both. “They are, indeed.”

“I observed that, too, Mrs Nicholls.” He looked her in the eye, something he was generally too shy to do. “I'll wager you have a solution. I've never known you to complain without a remedy.”

Her doubts returned. It was such a small thing. “Nothing grandiose, mind,” she said, ready to explain it away.

“Say on, Mrs Nicholls. I value your opinion.”

He did, too, and so he had told her on several occasions. Major Wharton was a far remove from the condescension she was accustomed to from British surgeons. Of course, he made no claims to being a surgeon. “I'm just an observer,” he had said, on more than one occasion. “Miss Nightingale must have had a momentary lapse of judgment to request my heretofore-unknown administrative services.”

Lily knew better. For six weeks before her transfer to Soulari, she had watched the genius of Florence Nightingale organize order from chaos and recognize such skills in others, even those among US Army war observers. Miss Nightingale was never deterred by red tape. Lily smiled to herself.

“I want a Christmas tree for the main corridor.” There, it was out in the open and it did sound silly.

He didn't laugh, but continued his observation of her. Never was his gaze anything but thoughtful, which reassured her.

“I've never seen any around here, but I hear there are pine trees in the Taurus Mountains. I think it might do wonders for the men's morale,” she added, then thought
to herself,
And mine, too.
“Would it be so hard to transport a tree here?”

“Probably not in times of less disorder.” He reached for a neat stack of forms on his desk. “I'll fill out a requisition right now. One tree, comma, Christmas?”

She couldn't help laughing. “Major, you seem to labor under the misapprehension that someone in the commissary department—or should it be the quarter-master's?—has a sense of humor.”

He shrugged. “Let's start with proper channels first. What can it hurt?”

What, indeed?
she asked herself, as she left Major Wharton's office after a few pleasantries.
I know I will miss you, Major, when I am given leave to bid Anatolia farewell and return to my darling boy.