Chapter 8 #2
It all sounded so innocent. Just an allergy?
I was a junior nurse. I knew what an allergic reaction looked like.
It was so bloody frustrating. I couldn’t speak my mind, couldn’t be honest. I was terrible at biting my tongue, and in the hospital, I didn’t have to.
Not much. Honest communication was the backbone of my training.
Doctors were blunt to the point of unkindness, but at least I knew where I stood.
I needed to learn to keep my mouth shut and just observe. That was the only way. Mammy had taught me the value of staying calm in stressful situations, and that was what I was going to do now.
If they were going to act like nothing was amiss, then so was I.
“Right you are, Mr. Voss,” I said, pasting on a friendly smile. “Don’t worry about me. I came here to provide care, and that’s what I’ll do. Speaking of, how are you feeling today? Would it be okay if I took your vitals?”
“Absolutely. Peppi, Kokki, move, you beasts.” He whistled, and they both stood and trotted off to the far corner of the room. A small relief. Voss then relaxed into his wingback. “Do whatever you need to do, Miss O’Rinn. I will try to be the best patient I can be. I’m so happy you’re here.”
Boy, he was cheerful. And remarkably handsome—Bethany wasn’t wrong about that. Perhaps he wasn’t quite as swoon-worthy as she made him out to be, but he was pretty enough that I had trouble meeting his eyes.
On a nearby table, I set down the repaired nursing lantern along with my medical bag as I asked, “How has your cough been recently, sir? Have you needed to see a physician since I saw you at Bellevue?”
“My cough… hasn’t improved. Hasn’t worsened, either,” he replied. Discerning eyes studied my dress. My face. “The local physician is incompetent, frankly.”
Mr. Hoffman added, “Dr. Browncroft hasn’t been out here in a couple months.”
“Dr. Purge is what I call him,” the master murmured. “Any stomach lining I have remaining is a miracle. If your health plan for me is the same as that quack’s, you can return to the city today. I’m not guzzling foul concoctions that force me to vomit, not again.”
I shook my head. “Purging has no effect on consumption.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know,” he said with a hint of humor in his eyes. “I think we’re off to a good start, Miss O’Rinn.”
If this was a good start, I wouldn’t want to know what a bad one was.
“Let’s get a baseline established for your vitals,” I said, briefly returning his smile. “We’ll start with recording your body temperature and respiratory rates.”
“My body is yours, Miss O’Rinn.”
“ ‘Nurse Molly’ is fine,” I corrected gently.
“Nurse Molly,” he repeated quietly, like he was trying it out.
I retrieved a clinical glass thermometer from a slender case tucked inside my medical bag.
It was a pricey tool imported from Europe; no expenses had been spared to care for a man who would donate so much to the hospital.
“Please try to keep this under your tongue. It will take about five minutes to collect a reading. Don’t open your mouth or talk, please. ”
He accepted the thermometer without complaint, and while he held it between dry lips, I picked up his wrist to take his pulse.
His arm felt hollow, his skin cool. And much like my mother’s had been before she died, this man’s veins were such a vivid blue that under transparent skin, they looked painted on.
But when I placed two fingers onto his wrist, I felt the same slithering sensation that had overtaken me in the crypt when I’d found the boy.
Shocked, I snatched my fingers away from Master Voss.
Suspicious eyes flicked to my face. Was he amused? That made no sense. Whatever he was thinking, he managed to keep the thermometer between his lips.
“Sorry, cold fingers.” I tried again. The slithering sensation returned. It was hard to listen to his pulse when my own was pounding so fiercely. But I managed it, finally, and recorded it in the miniature notebook attached to my chatelaine. When five minutes had passed, I removed the thermometer.
“Ugh,” he said, licking his lips. “Glass and mercury don’t belong in a person’s mouth.”
“It does feel unnatural,” I confirmed as I held up the instrument and squinted at tiny numbers to decipher his temperature.
“Looks like you’re running a low-grade fever, which is common for your condition.
No need to be concerned. However, I’d like to listen to your heart a little more closely, as well as your breathing. ”
“By all means,” he murmured.
The stethoscope was packed away in another small case inside my bag. As I retrieved it, the master said, “I’m sorry we missed the house tour yesterday. Hoffmann said you saw quite a bit of the manor on your own last night. Said you even found your way down to the crypt.”
I froze, hands inside my medical bag. My heartbeat sped as I noticed Mr. Hoffmann cock a brow in my direction. A warning? Or a dare? I licked my lips and rummaged inside the medical bag. “I was looking for the servants. I didn’t know—”
“That my sister was laid to rest down there?” He gave me a tight smile. “I often go down to speak with her when I’m feeling… sad.”
What could I say to that? My breaths came faster as panic spun a web around my thoughts. I worried he’d notice, so I said the first thing that came to mind. “I’m sorry for your loss, sir. I still speak to my mother, years after she passed.”
I felt his eyes on my face, but I couldn’t look at him.
“My, aren’t you a kind one,” he murmured.
“Kind, capable, and so very young… Well, no matter about yesterday. I’m afraid I have business to attend to today with an attorney in town, inheritance paperwork.
So we’ll have to delay our tour until another day. ”
“That’s fine, sir.”
“Kind and flexible?” He smiled gently. “I think we’ve made a good choice in this young lady, don’t you agree, Hoffmann?”
“Yes, sir. She’s very sensible.”
The master’s scrutiny was unbearable. I pushed through the panic and hardened myself, just like I’d do in the hospital. Don’t let him rattle you. Just stick to business. “May I check your lungs, sir?”
He opened his arms. “As I said, my body is your body.”
Ugh, why did he have such a strange way of putting things? For the first time, I noticed a little accent underscoring his words, but I didn’t recognize it. I pulled out my stethoscope and said, “I’m unfamiliar with your surname. Where is your family from, sir?”
“All the way across the big ocean,” he replied, still studying my face.
“Germany?” I guessed. “Like Mr. Hoffmann?”
He didn’t answer for a long moment, and instead peered into my face. Judging me. Weighing how to reply. Then he finally sighed and said, “The Netherlands.”
“Oh? You’re Dutch? A lot of Dutch families in this area of New York, aren’t there?”
He shrugged. “The Old World is dying. The New World is where everything is happening. Are you native, or did your parents bring you over?”
“Native,” I replied. “My mother sailed here from Kilkenny, Ireland.”
“The one who died of consumption?”
That caught me off guard. I couldn’t remember if my mother had been mentioned when I’d first met Voss back in the hospital, but maybe it was just information he’d gotten from Hoffmann.
“Don’t worry,” he said with a little smile. “I certainly don’t hold you accountable for your mother’s death. I’m sure you did your best to help her…”
His words felt like a punch to the chest. All the guilt I’d been holding on to threatened to surface. “I was still a child when my mother died,” I said defensively. “I’ve learned a lot about consumption since then. My training at the hospital has been very thorough and professional.”
“No doubt, no doubt.”
I was flustered now, unable to tell if he was trying to get under my skin. Why would he? You’re being paranoid, I told myself as I popped in the earpieces of the stethoscope. When he gestured again, giving me permission to touch him, I put it all to the back of my mind and focused on my work.
I slipped the stethoscope’s metal bell under the neck of his dressing gown and set it against his breast. His breath swished rhythmically through the stethoscope.
I moved the bell. His heartbeat was a bit too rapid, and his breathing sounded a little weaker than I’d have wished.
Likely his lungs were already damaged by the disease.
However, as I listened carefully to the expansions of his chest, another sound floated into my ears. A distant male voice…
Molly.
I jumped.
Master Voss squinted at me. His mouth had not moved. I swung my gaze toward Mr. Hoffmann, who was straightening a pile of teetering books near the balcony, not looking in my direction.
Sweat blossomed on my brow. God above! I glanced at the resting dogs in the corner, wondering if I’d merely heard a noise they had made, distorted by the stethoscope.
But no, that just wasn’t it. I’d heard my name, as clear as a bell.
And it hadn’t come from Voss. Or Hoffmann.
It had come from inside the stethoscope. How?
I didn’t know, but it rattled me so much that I snatched off the stethoscope and put it away.
“Quit fidgeting,” Voss scolded at Hoffmann, who immediately removed his hands from the stack of books he’d been straightening. Satisfied, the master turned back to me, oblivious to my panicking, and asked, “So, Nurse Molly. What does that instrument tell you about me?”
It took me a moment to answer. I was still spooked by the voice calling my name—Maybe it was Bethany, not a male voice after all?
—and found it hard to focus on his question.
But when he squinted at me, I shook away my fears and gave him a blunt answer.
“It tells me that your lungs are feeling the effects of your disease, which is causing your heart to beat too fast. It’s under strain. ”