Aether Spirit (19 page)

Soon after she arrived at her room, Calla knocked.

“I was wondering if you need help getting ready for bed. I can tie your hair up so you don’t mess it up sleeping.” She patted the braids and more intricate parts of the style. “It held up well.”

“Yes it did, thank you.” She sat on the stool at the low table, and Calla took a cloth and wound it around her head. Claire watched her reflection in the window as the turban took shape on her head. It reminded her of the head wrap worn by the ghost and she tried not to shiver. She hoped she wouldn’t have any supernatural visitors that evening.

“There you are, Miss. I can help you get it off in the morning.”

“Thank you, Calla. I would feel like I was deceiving you if I didn’t tell you I don’t have the money to pay you. I lost my coin purse when the general’s house was shelled, and I don’t know when I’ll be getting paid, but it won’t be enough for a ladies’ maid.”

“That’s all right, Miss. While my daddy did say that honest work is best, and working for free is for slaves, I don’t mind for now. You can pay me when you can, and if you can’t, will you help me find a position? With this war about to be over one way or another I know I can’t stay on this base forever.”

“I’ll do my best. I’m sure you could find a position in Boston.”
At the very least I can do that for her.
“Where are you from originally?”

“I’m from down in Mississippi. My sister and I escaped, or tried to, when we heard this part of Tennessee got taken. It didn’t seem like that far, but she didn’t make it.” She rubbed the tears from her cheeks.

“I’m sorry to bring up sad memories,” Claire said, her own eyes watering from the stab of grief and an echo in her own chest.

“No, it’s good for me to remember the price I paid. We were going across a field, and the landowner heard something and set his dogs on us. They got her. I went up a tree and watched her get torn apart.” The last sentence came out with a sob, and Claire stood and held the girl as she cried.

“That’s horrible!” Claire stroked Calla’s hair, which was up in its own complicated style. Claire sensed that Calla tried to put her broken world in order one hair at a time. She understood the need to use order to keep darkness and grief and confusion at bay.

“Thank you, Miss,” Calla said and stood back. She wiped her eyes, which still spilled tears. “I haven’t told many, but all of us here have stories like that—family who didn’t make it.”

“You can come talk to me any time. And please call me Claire.”

Calla nodded and slipped out of the room.

Claire closed her eyes and tried to clear the nervous energy from having absorbed Calla’s grief and hurt as well as Beth’s frustration. Both young women were kindred spirits with whom she’d discovered unexpected commonality.

“Perhaps I’m not so alone after all,” she said.

“Of course you’re not!” The reflection of the general’s daughter appeared in the window beside Claire’s. “And look! We’re twins now. When do I get to tell you my story? Oh, and someone wants to say hello to you.”

A tall figure with short strawberry blond hair and tired eyes over freckled cheeks appeared. Claire turned to see a familiar figure standing behind her.

“Father?”

Chapter Nineteen

Fort Daniels, 26 February 1871

He held out his arms, but she stayed where she was. Her legs wouldn’t allow her to move. He was a ghost. It meant he was dead, and she would pass right through him. Her mother had lied to her. So had her aunt.

“What happened?” she asked.

“They said I couldn’t handle it,” he said with a sad shake of his head. Now he rubbed his own arms. “The guilt. Over what happened. But I had help coming to this state.”

The memory felt so close, like a leaf fluttering from a tree overhead, and if she just sat where she was, she could catch it. If she moved, grasped too hard for it, the motion of the air would make it elude her.

“What happened to you?” she asked. “To me?”

“If you don’t remember, dear girl, it’s a mercy. You were so…” He shook his head, his eyes squinted shut against the pain of memory. His feelings echoed through her—he didn’t want to remember, didn’t want her to remember.

Claire held up her hands so he could see the scars. “I know it was bad, but I need to remember what happened. I need to remember my life. Who I am!”

“I can’t tell you, dearest daughter. I don’t have the time. I’ve only come to say goodbye and warn you that those closest to you are treading a dangerous path with the aether.”

“What? No!” She stood and reached for him.

He faded, still shaking his head. His last words before he vanished were, “All in good time, my dear. The good doctor knows…”

And then he was gone. Claire sank back into her chair.

The general’s daughter crossed her arms and tapped her foot. “And…?”

Claire looked up at her and tried not to roll her eyes. “And what? Could you give me a moment here?”

The ghost girl pouted. “You say you’re interested in people’s stories, but you haven’t wanted to hear mine.”

Claire started to say, “I know yours,” but she stopped herself. Did she? She prided herself on her ability to listen with an open mind.

“And what will happen if I listen to your story?” Claire asked.

“I might find some peace. If you could help me, that is.”

The pressured whine that accompanied the young woman disappeared, and wave of exhaustion overtook Claire. “Could it wait until tomorrow? I’ve just found out my father is dead, my mother lied to me, and I suspect it’s all the doing of my aunt.”

“Is she the mother of that handsome boy in the hospital, the one who only has one arm?”

“Yes, Bryce’s mother.”

The girl nodded once. “But tomorrow—you promise?”

“I promise. I will come back and listen to your story.”

“Good. And be careful. I’ve been watching the people on this base, and they’re not all as they seem.” She faded, leaving Claire alone with her reflection and her tears.

* * * * *

Chad knew something was wrong the moment he saw Claire on Monday morning. Her red-rimmed eyes and pink nose gave her away immediately, but there was something more, a dejectedness of spirit.

What had happened to his feisty redhead? Not his, he reminded himself. But whatever bothered her, he needed to know, for his own peace of mind about her and about the patients she was to see that day.

Instead of going to see the first patient as they’d planned, he invited her to join him in the office.

“What’s wrong?” he asked once he’d closed the door.

She sank into the chair behind the desk and rested her hand on the top file in the pile. “Is it that obvious?”

“Yes.” He wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her, but he wouldn’t take the liberty. Plus, he was the medical chief, and if she wasn’t fit for duty, he would have to send her back to her room. He didn’t relish the idea of that discussion.

“My father,” she said with a sigh.

Oh god.
Chad didn’t say anything, again covering the pounding of his heart with what he hoped was a neutral but duly concerned expression. “What about him?”
What did you find out?

“You mentioned once you’d lived in Boston. Did you ever hear of a tinkerer named Allen McPhee?” She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, so she must have discovered her father’s death somehow.

Chad didn’t want to be the one to confirm it for her. What if she connected him with the bad news? He could claim ignorance, but no, he wouldn’t lie to her. He also didn’t want to chase her into another six-hour nap.

“Yes. Wait, sit back. Let me listen to your heart.” It beat with a reassuringly strong sound.
Her problem isn’t there, idiot. Yours is
. “What about him?”

“Is he still alive?” She looked up at him with such hope he hated to dash it.

“No. He died a few years ago. The entire city mourned the loss of his talent.”

“Oh.” She slumped back in a way that told him she didn’t wear a corset. Of course she didn’t—her own underthings had been lost in the shelling. But she’d worn one the day before. Not that he needed to notice or think about what was under her clothing. He brought his attention back to what she was saying.

“That’s what I thought, but I needed to make sure.”

“How did you find out? It seems that you didn’t know the news before this morning.”

Had she somehow been in contact with someone off base? He thought about his strange conversation with Iris Bailey, but he still couldn’t convince himself it was real. Or that it wasn’t. None of it made sense.

“I can’t say, only that I had an intuition that it might be the case, and the feeling wouldn’t go away.” She shrugged. “Women sense these things. Not that it matters. Do you know how he died?”

“It was an accident.” Chad wouldn’t tell her the authorities had ruled her father’s death a suicide. He’d never believed it was. Allen McPhee had developed a severe case of melancholia after his daughter was sent to Europe, but he was also a staunch Catholic and would never have risked Hell, no matter how bad he got. In fact, he had contacted Chad just before he died, but Chad hadn’t responded. He’d been too hurt and angry himself about what had happened, and he’d added the guilt over not responding to Allen to his growing pile.

“As upset as I am, I do appreciate you being honest with me about this matter.”

Chad recalled that she retreated into formality to cover up her feelings, but he didn’t challenge her. As much as he wanted to send her back to recover from the emotional shock of finding out about her father—and he wanted to talk to her more to discover what had prompted her “intuition” about it—they both had work to do. Plus, doing and caring for others had always been a balm to Claire.

“We both have work to do here, so I won’t take any more of your time,” she continued. “Although I am curious—how’s Bryce?”

“You’re his closest family here, so you can ask about him all you want. He’s hanging in there. Not out of the woods yet. I’m hoping we took the arm in time before the infection spread to his brain, lungs, or heart, but even if it didn’t, it had weakened him.”

She nodded, and he could see her jaw was set against any more tears. God, he hoped Bryce didn’t die. He liked the boy, but he also didn’t want to break Claire’s heart further.

“It might help for you to sit with him once you’re done with your patients. Assuming you’re up for any of it.”

“I am.” She stood. “We should get started. That’s quite the pile of charts.” She took a step forward, but he stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I’ve had all night to deal with the news. I mean realization. It explains why I haven’t heard from him in so long, only my mother and aunt. I was suspicious, but I suppose I wasn’t ready to acknowledge it until now.”

“And what made the difference?”

“Seeing Bryce was part of it. It made me want to reconnect with my family before something else happened.”

She was keeping something from him, and he didn’t like it, but he knew Claire—she’d share when she was ready.

“Good, then let’s get started. We have a lot of patients to see.”

* * * * *

He wanted to comfort me, but he held back.

Claire followed Radcliffe to the first ward, wondering at his impulse and the tight control that kept him from expressing any of his deep emotions. How was he simultaneously so fond of her but so frightened of her? It must have something to do with his own background—had he gotten in some sort of trouble for falling in love with a white woman? She blinked the ache from her right eyeball and doubted he’d tell her. He was a private man. A deep man, as Patrick O’Connell had said.

He introduced her to a young man who reacted with suspicion. The soldier had been having headaches and doubled over in pain whenever he picked up a weapon. Claire understood the feeling.

“Tell me about where you’re from,” she said.

“Why?”

“I’m here to help you, as Doctor Radcliffe said, and it will be easier if I have a sense of who you are. Where did you grow up?”

He reluctantly told her, and she sensed an undercurrent of despair, that he’d never see the place again. She continued to ask him questions, gently nudging him until his words flowed, and he was smiling at some sort of childhood memory he recounted, of a cow who kept escaping from the field they kept her in on his father’s farm in Missouri. At some point, Radcliffe left her to the conversation to see his own patients. After an hour, she excused herself.

“Where are you going?” the boy asked. He blinked and frowned as though he woke from a pleasant dream.

Claire put a hand on his arm. “Just keep thinking about the farm and that mischievous cow. I have other patients to see, but I do want to hear the rest of the story.”

“You’ll come back, right?”

“Yes, I’ll return tomorrow.”

“Thank you. I do feel better.” He grinned. “I hadn’t thought about Old Bossy in a long time.”

“I’m glad, and thank you for sharing the memory with me.” She squeezed his hand and stood. Radcliffe had disappeared, but he’d left the next chart for her. She found the soldier, a gaunt teenager named Sam who had stomach problems and couldn’t seem to keep most of what he ate down.

“Tell me about yourself,” she told him, and again, she focused on happy times with him. When the nurses brought his clear broth for lunch, Claire stood and sent a silent prayer to whatever deity might be listening that he would be able to eat.

Her own stomach told her it was lunchtime, and she looked for either Beth or Radcliffe to go to the mess hall with her, or to see if she could bring something back for either of them. She found them standing by Bryce’s bedside. He was awake and greeted her with a wide smile.

“Cousin Claire?” he asked then shot an anxious glance at Radcliffe. “I can talk to her, can’t I?”

“Yes, just remember.”

Bryce nodded, and Claire recalled his words from the day before. What was he not supposed to tell her? She didn’t want to distress him and impede his healing, so she asked, “How are you doing, Cousin?”