Aether Spirit (5 page)

“What happened?” Longchamp looked at each in turn, and he fixed his blue gaze on Claire. “Ah, you look like an honest woman. What have these boys been up to?”

A warm feeling started at the base of her spine and spread upward to relax her shoulders and neck. The sensation loosened her tongue. “Doctor Perkins said something about me to upset Doctor Radcliffe, and Doctor Radcliffe defended my honor.”

She pressed her lips together to stem the flow of words. What had just come over her?

Both doctors looked at their shoes.

“Now that’s not how we handle things here, is it?” Longchamp said. “Doctor Perkins, you mustn’t forget your manners. Although we are on a military base, we are gentlemen. That goes for you too, Doctor Radcliffe. Now, is there anything else you need from me?”

With the sensitive part of her mind, Claire felt Longchamp orchestrating the situation. It was apparent he had his own talent, a powerful projective one. It was also apparent to her from his feelings toward O’Connell—and she tried not to sense them, but they were so blatant she couldn’t help it—that he would never be interested in taking a wife.

“I am finding myself turned out of my boarding situation,” Claire fought through the fog to say. “Is there room for me anywhere else?”

He tapped one finger on his lip. “There is ample room in the general’s house. Why don’t you move your things there?”

“That is very generous of you.”

“Come, I’ll take care of the paperwork in my office. You boys go ahead. Not you, O’Connell. You’re dismissed.”

“Aye, sir,” O’Connell said with a mock salute and darted into the crowd.

Longchamp waved for Radcliffe and Perkins to precede him and Claire into the house, then took her elbow, ostensibly to show he escorted her properly. Once off the street, he lowered his voice so only she could hear him. “I’m a big believer in honey rather than vinegar, my dear. I can tell you’re different from the other women in the camp.”

Now his gaze turned from blue warmth to piercing curiosity. Claire smiled but tried to block him sensing what she could do. It only confirmed what he was—the only men she’d encountered with empathic power similar to hers were of a romantic nature, often attracted to other men. She was rare among women for the strength of her own talent, but not necessarily its presence.

“Yes, I do like more privacy,” she told him. “It’s less intense that way.”

He nodded and backed off. “Sometimes these things need to be negotiated for survival.” That was his warning—he needed to know if others had special sensitivities in order to keep his secrets safe.

“I have a strict code of ethics,” she told him. “Others’ privacy is safe with me, I’m mostly fearful for my own.”

He held the front door of the little cottage open for her. “I’m sure we can find you a secure situation. After we get the boys settled, I’ll introduce you to Mrs. Soper, who will show you where to sleep. I’m sure Mister O’Connell can help you move your things.”

“Thank you.”

“Now about these two…” He walked behind the desk in a small but meticulously organized office and turned to Radcliffe and Perkins, who eyed each other with unconcealed hatred. “What were you two fighting over, truly?”

Radcliffe answered first. “A young man was brought from the border. It looked like he fell out of a spy balloon, but I suspect he was dumped for being consumptive.”

“It’s a temperamental illness,” Perkins said. “There’s no need to isolate him.”

Radcliffe glowered. “According to the results of the Villiers experiment, consumption is contagious, and we need to quarantine him for the safety of the other patients. We can’t afford to take the chance.”

“Both our private rooms are occupied.” Perkins tried to wipe the mud from his elbows.

Longchamp turned to Radcliffe. “Since he’s a prisoner, shouldn’t he be in the prison?”

“Not as ill as he is, and although you’ve been generous with provisions for the men, many of them are still recovering from malnourishment and would be more likely to get sick. We can’t afford an epidemic, and it would be cruel to expose them deliberately.”

“Well, then, and who are in the private cells who are too important to move?”

“The general’s nephews, sir,” Perkins said with a triumphant air. “And I have his express orders that the boys are not to be turned out until they’ve made a full recovery.”

“What was wrong with them?”

Perkins eyed Claire. “Something that’s not appropriate to discuss in front of a lady.”

“Meaning syphilis,” Longchamp said with a shake of his head. “I warned them… I’ll take care of the general. His nephews can move to the general ward or to the barracks if they’ve recovered sufficiently. No reason to coddle them because of their uncle. Now you two get back to work, and I’ll settle the young lady.” He scrawled something on a piece of paper. “Doctor Perkins, here is your requisition form for a new suit.”

“Good luck with Mrs. Soper,” Perkins sneered before the door closed behind him and Radcliffe. “And the old general’s ghost.”

* * * * *

Once they descended the quartermaster’s cottage steps, Perkins turned to Chad.

“Well, you’ve won. Are you happy?”

Chad backed away from the other doctor’s angry glare. Shame sprouted in his chest now that he pondered his behavior, but he’d do it again to defend Claire—
Doctor McPhee,
he reminded himself. He could have figured out a better way to handle Perkins’s characteristic misogyny, though, than violence. It only showed Chad how her being there frayed his own nerves.

“Not really,” Chad said. “We have a consumptive on the ward. I only hope that I’m able to have him moved soon enough. Nanette should have told me about his cough the moment he came in.”

“Well, she’s been…busy.” Perkins grinned. “Don’t worry about your precious little neuroticist. I prefer brunettes. Staying on the general’s good side was my ticket out of here, but if you’ve screwed it up, I’m happy to remain and be a thorn in your side for a very very long time.”

It wasn’t Chad’s fault he was a better doctor and administrator than Perkins. He wondered yet again if he would have gotten the other man’s respect had he not been half Negro.

Perkins turned off toward the tailor’s hut, and Chad headed back toward the hospital and his patients. How had Nanette, whom he’d always found to be a capable nurse, missed Private Smith’s characteristic consumptive cough? Perhaps he’d been unconscious when she first saw him? Or maybe the long period of inactivity at the front—aside from the previous medical chief’s murder—had made them all complacent.

Once at the hospital, it didn’t take long for one of the general’s nephews to be ousted from a private room so Private Smith could be isolated, at least as much as they were able. It wasn’t Doctor McPhee’s area, but he suspected she would be abreast of what they did in Europe to prevent consumption from spreading. While war sometimes bred invention, having the country split in two and focused on survival definitely slowed medical innovation.

He sent one of the young nurses to the mess hall to grab him a bite to eat—he told himself it was because he was busy, not because he wanted to avoid the gauntlet that any public gathering place on the base would have become after he’d shoved Perkins. In spite of being from the supposedly more enlightened Union, some of the soldiers would take it upon themselves to avenge Perkins with chairs shoved out at inopportune times or boots stuck out from under tables—accidentally, of course. He went into his office to tackle the mound of charts. He’d just settled into his chair when a knock startled him.

“Doctor Radcliffe?”

He turned to see a young soldier whose arm was in a sling. His unruly blond curls hadn’t seen a comb in several days and made a halo around his head.

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“My arm was doing better yesterday, but now I can’t move my fingers.” Indeed his hand was so swollen his fingers looked like sausages.

“Doctor Perkins will be in clinic this afternoon.”

“Sorry to bother you, but I’d rather you look at it. Sir.” He swallowed, and his face blanched. He could barely get the words out, “He’s quick to amputate. At least that’s what the other boys say.”

“Let me grab your chart so I can see his notes. What is your name?”

“McPhee, sir. Sergeant Bryce McPhee. I think we’ve met.”

Chad turned from the chart shelves and dropped a shaking hand to his side. He remembered a boy with curly blond hair being teased at the party just before the tragedy that had taken Claire from him. “From Boston? And your last name isn’t McPhee. It’s Adams.”

“Yes, sir. I needed to change it to get away from my mother. I think you were courting my cousin Claire. I’ve heard she’s here? It will be good to see a friendly face after so long.”

Chad put his head in his hands. “I’ll look at your arm, but you can’t say anything to Claire. You heard she went to Europe for treatment?”

“Yes, and my mother said Cousin Claire didn’t even know her daddy was dead, and her mind still can’t handle it.”

“Come with me, and I’ll explain.”

Chapter Five

Fort Daniels, 23 February 1871

Mrs. Soper looked Claire up and down. And up and down again.

“Don’t they feed you skinny girls up north?” she asked. “You been ill or something?”

Major Longchamp didn’t say anything. He emanated amusement and a sort of curiosity. Claire got it—this was a test. Strangely, she didn’t get any kind of emotion from Mrs. Soper, and that disturbed her more than anything. Was the woman so war-weary that she’d given up on feelings? Or was she so used to dealing with Major Longchamp that she’d learned to not make her emotions evident?

“Yes, ma’am,” Claire said, deciding that honesty was always the best policy. “I was, but I’m better now, and it wasn’t anything catching.”

“Good, then. I like a girl who tells the truth.” Mrs. Soper nodded once, the downward stroke of her chin a stamp of approval.

Longchamp’s curiosity turned to relief. “I knew you’d like her. She’s one of us.”

“I can tell that, Dennis, you fool. Now let me show her where she’s sleeping and give her lunch. The poor darlin’s nerves are all strung out from this morning.”

“Thank you,” Claire said.
One of us?
She looked quizzically at Longchamp, who patted her arm.

“We can talk more later. I have to put in some orders before the mail cart goes out. Mrs. Soper will take good care of you. Once she feeds you, find O’Connell to help you move your things.”

“I don’t have much. I can handle them.”

“Best you show the others you’ve got a brawny man looking after you. As much as I respect the boys, I fear the girls here.”

“Thank you,” Claire said. “I appreciate your understanding.”

“You’re very welcome, my dear. Those of us who take care of others need to stick together.”

She recognized there was more to his words, but she didn’t ask further. After the medical world of the neuroticists in Europe and the focus on empiricism to the exclusion of everything else she’d encountered in Philadelphia, the acknowledgment and acceptance of what she could do felt like being dropped into a pot of warm honey—comforting and sweet, but also disorienting.

“We’ll put you in the general’s daughter’s bedroom,” Mrs. Soper said. “Follow me, and I’ll show you and give you the key.”

“Won’t she need it?” Claire asked, thinking of the current general. She thought she’d been briefed that he wasn’t married, but he could have been widowed. She followed Mrs. Soper up the main stairs and to a hallway with two bedrooms on each side.

“Lord, no, child, she’s dead. Killed with the wave of consumption that went through in ’63. But don’t worry—she wasn’t here, so the room is clean. Other people have stayed in there without catching a thing.”

“Oh, how tragic! Where was she?”

“She was with her mama in California.” The housemistress lowered her voice. “The general sent his family as far away from the fighting—and other things—as he could, and they thought the California air would be good for her. But she’s buried here in the family plot out back.”

She opened the door and led Claire into a large room with yellow flower-patterned wallpaper, a four-poster bed with white curtains, and white-painted furniture. It resembled Claire’s bedroom at home—bright, virginal, and innocent. She put a hand to her heart, which gave a dull thud. She felt like she knew the girl, that she could have shared a similar fate, a young death, had it not been for the doctors in Boston and Paris.

“Are there pictures of her?” she asked.

“Somewhere. The general don’t like to be reminded of what he lost.”

“And the mother?”

“Died soon after the daughter, of a broken heart, they said, but I think she got the illness. That was before they proved it was catching. That Doctor Radcliffe is smart, wanting to isolate the boy who was dumped here. He came with a cloud around him, and it don’t bode good for anyone.”

“What do you mean?” Claire asked. It was odd to hear such things stated directly.

Mrs. Soper shook her head. “Ain’t none of my business. I’m just a cook and housekeeper. Now here’s the key, and that other one is to let you into the house. Come get lunch, and then we’ll see about getting you moved in.”

Claire took the keys, which had been threaded on a ribbon. She put them around her neck and tucked them into her bodice, and Mrs. Soper nodded.

“Good, keep ’em safe. And if you need anything, just ask. You’ve got your own bathing room, and the general had running water installed, but remember, we’re on rations. Sometimes the pipes make strange noises. If that happens, just ignore ’em or say, ‘Go away, Emma.’”

“Emma?”

“The general’s daughter.” Mrs. Soper waved the name away. “But there’s nothing to worry about. All the haints here are nice. Now you get freshened up, and I’ll have a plate fixed for you when you come down.”

“Thank you.”

I think.

Once Mrs. Soper had left, Claire no longer felt the room to be as bright and welcoming as previously. She walked to the window and looked outside, where she saw three headstones.

Well, Emma, I hope we don’t get too well acquainted.