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  Chapter 3

  As the years progressed and I inched toward womanhood, there were many times when I found myself at the short end of a parental threat. “You are imitating Miss Nightingale and I shall not have it. You have grown much too independent!” My mother had not seen the full effect yet, but it was coming. I felt like a teakettle set to boil and about to pop my lid.

  I soon learned it was best to dwell in little white lies about my time spent with Florence, for Mama saw service to others as something beneath the dignity of her family. No daughter of hers was bred to wait on others and heaven forbid should she touch the injuries of a poor farmer or even breathe the air of a cropper’s cottage. I often thought that my mother believed poverty was something one caught like the measles, certain to be fatal.

  When I turned sixteen, Mama began to sharpen her claws the better to hunt for a suitable son-in-law should things not work out with Roger Broadribbs. I grew concerned as she buzzed about preparing me for my first husband-hunting season in London and vowed to be as socially disagreeable as possible.

  Feeling like a rabbit corseted, perfumed, and made ready for the kill, I became troubled with nightmares. A giant hawk with ginger-colored feathers, who might or might not be Roger Broadribbs, circled in my dreams. He flew high above ready to swoop down from the sky and carry me away to some lonely nest where I would begin laying endless eggs each one hatching little Rogers.

  It was with the greatest relief that I received Florence’s news of the Queen’s invitation. It had arrived just in time to save me from being thrown into the social whirl that was the ton.

  Remembering back to my twelfth birthday, Florence had given me a special book. One I was not to show my parents, since they had refused to answer my questions about things. The gift book was not a novel, but rather an illustrated instruction volume on how babies are made. I was thankful to have this knowledge thrust upon me for my mother would not answer my questions. Her only response was, “Not to worry! You will learn on your wedding night.”

  I must say the only tolerable illustration in the entire book came at the very end, where a poised and pleased mother held an adorable swaddled infant. The rest of the book was too frightening to recall. The manual cemented my vow never to marry, most particularly not Roger. I could not possibly imagine doing those things with him. We would laugh ourselves silly.

  After studying the illustrations in the book, I was certain Roger had discovered a similar tome from whence came the idea of the worm game. As young girls will do, I made a pinky promise with myself that I would never allow a man to plant a baby within me—the entire idea was as revolting as the worm game.

  My friendship with Florence Nightingale grew stronger as the years progressed. I took care in emulating her in all she did. Should anyone fall ill in the village, I made certain to accompany Florence as she rushed to their aid. It is a tribute to my hardy constitution or perhaps the power of thinking myself well, that I never did catch a cold or even influenza when the dreaded disease made its way through Derbyshire, cutting down both young and old.

  Standing at my heroine’s side I learned to offer comfort to patients, apply cool compresses, roll bandages, and support Florence as she began to blaze a trail towards her destiny, for it seemed nothing could stop her now that she had determined the course of her life. Nursing was her calling; she considered it to be her divine purpose.

  I did not take to caring for the sick with the same passion as my friend, but rather enjoyed keeping a journal of Florence’s adventures as writing appealed to me greatly. Often I would embellish her accomplishments and most recently one of my longer tales had quite by an odd chance been published in The Times under the pseudonym of Mr. Peter Morton. It was that tale, recounting her courage in caring for the sick and her desire to establish a school of nursing for ladies that had brought her to the attention of Queen Victoria.

  I gazed out the carriage window wondering if highwaymen were observing us; they were known to be an increasing problem on the outskirts of London. Reaching in my pocket I felt the reassuring texture of my little India rubber ball. I had become an expert at sending the rock-hard marble ricocheting at targets and thought it a dandy weapon for a lady.

  The Nightingale coach was equipped with an armed driver and a footman who held a rifle braced at his side. Certain I had read one too many novels, I allowed my thoughts to drift, fashioning a highwayman as an exotic masked figure who would spare our coachmen. The desperado would fall madly in love with me as I stepped from the carriage, denounce his evil ways, and carry me away to his hideout where we would not make babies.

  Taking out my notebook I jotted down a line or two about being accosted by robbers. Papa had gifted me with an exotic writing instrument he acquired in his travels. It was a piece of graphite embedded in a wooden covering which made writing possible when an inkwell was not practical. It was called a penlet and I used it conservatively for when it was gone, I had no replacement.

  My journal, begun two years earlier, followed the exploits of Florence Nightingale and where I embellished, as with the highwaymen, I would put that thought in brackets. There was no need in mixing fact with fiction.

  Florence smiled at me. There were occasions when I was certain she could read my mind. I blushed as I closed my journal, and asked, “Are you certain you don’t know why the Queen has requested your presence? You must have a hint.” In her invitation, the Queen had referenced the story in The Times, but she offered no further explanation as to why she requested Florence to attend her.

  My friend cut me a teasing smile, for whatever she suspected, she was circumspect other than to say that her presence was required at Court and that I must join her. My parents had been stunned and much too proper to demand to see the Queen’s invitation. It was just as well as the note did not mention my name but merely allowed Florence to bring a companion for she would be away for an undetermined length of time and should bring a friend, and of course, a chaperone.

  The instructions were to place at least two formal dresses, one ball gown, and two dresses suitable for a warm climate in our trunks. A chuckle rumbled in my belly as I recollected the look on Mama’s face as she studied my small frame just barely out of childhood and imagined me attending fetes in Buckingham Palace. I noticed a tinge of green falling over her face.

  When informed of our adventure, Roger Broadribbs stammered his distress. “I do not approve of you going off to London with Miss Nightingale. The lady is headstrong and destined for trouble. Perhaps she has already offended Her Royal Highness. Why else would the Queen demand her presence?” He became flustered and looked about for something that might prevent me from leaving.

  Roger was now all of eighteen and still in many ways a little boy. I wondered if he might be seeking a juicy worm to dangle before me in a childish effort to prevent my leaving. “There is something afoot and it does not bode well for our future!” He looked at me most sternly, flipping a lock of ginger hair out of his light brown eyes. “If the Queen locks you both in the Tower, I shan’t be able to rescue you!”

  For as long as I could remember Roger had treated me as if I required his protection. I tolerated it because I believed him to be my fate. But as time went on I felt I was destined for something more than being Mrs. Broadribbs; I was just not sure what that something was.

  Chapter 4

  Life doesn’t always turn out as we plan and that can be a very good thing.

  Having played together since we were children, I thought it hilarious when my parents had actually informed me that I might become Roger’s bride. The very idea was preposterous for never in a month of Sunday dinners could I imagine doing what was required to produce a Broadribbs heir—not with Roger!

  I could not help but feel I was meant for more, to accomplish more with my life, and was blessed when I stumbled into Florence Nightingale’s galaxy. Her star rose despite her insistence there be no notoriety. It is only because I kept my secret journal that I can now relay some
of her little known adventures, which will only serve to enhance her reputation.

  As we entered the limits of the City of London I drew myself out of my reverie. The cobblestone streets rattled the carriage and the dirty air found its way into the coach. I touched my gloved finger to my lips and flicked at the grit that stuck there.

  The sight of the dark watery muck welling up between the cobblestones sent a shudder through me. I turned to my friend just as she exclaimed, “Human waste flowing in the streets!” She held her handkerchief over her nose and mouth, leaving only her eyes exposed. “London town is a disaster waiting to happen. I must speak to the Queen about this.” That was Florence, never hesitating to speak her mind. I chuckled despite the butterflies that fought in my tummy.

  Raising one eyebrow, I waited. My friend had not welcomed the celebrity caused by my unauthorized story in The Times. But I believed I had done the right thing and Florence could manage well with our beloved queen. My greatest fear was that someone might discover I was the author of the story in The Times—Mr. Peter Morton. My parents would disown me if they thought I had impersonated a man. I considered the possibility of being disowned and liked the concept, the practical side, however, would take some planning for I had no way to support myself.

  My mind wandered to what we might encounter at the Palace. Queen Victoria was but a year older than Florence. They were two young ladies, one was the ruler of the greatest nation on earth and the other would become a legend—of that I was certain. What could I say for myself at this stage of my life? That I knew how to apply a tourniquet or bandage a head wound? That I had managed not to pass out at the birth of Mrs. Teemore’s baby—not until after Florence had placed the baby in his mother’s arms? Truth to tell, I was a piece of fluff trying to become a quilt.

  Mama had recently turned against my friendship with Florence when it became known she had declined a second offer of marriage from Richard Monckton Milnes; the handsome young man had been pursuing her since he first developed whiskers on his chin. He would stare at her longingly and speak in a lowered tone that tightened the skin on the back of my neck. I thought of my book on ornithology and could not help but compare Mr. Milnes’ conduct to that of a mating crane.

  He had much in common with Miss Nightingale, but more than that, like everyone who encountered her, Mr. Milnes was enthralled by her independence. It was one of many lessons I was to learn from my mentor: the more one seemed not to need someone, the more that person strove to prove you wrong, so be careful how you reject someone for they may adhere to you like hot tar on the bottom of your shoe.

  Inadvertently, Florence had set an example for me, one that would last a lifetime. Unfortunately, my lack of need for him drove Roger to take increasingly stronger measures to show he was needed. The poor dear had a misguided sense of his destiny, since as time passed I grew certain it was not to be with me.

  It was just after the second of Mr. Milnes’s rejected proposals that Mama informed me I was to distance myself from Florence as she deemed her a bad influence on me. Bad influence, indeed! I could not help but smirk as my friend and I bumped along the road to Buckingham Palace. Mama might just have to eat those words, fed to her by the Queen of England.

  Nudging Granny Alice awake, I blotted the drool from her lips and then exchanged glances with Florence. We had arrived at the first step in our adventure—the Queen’s house.

  Buckingham Palace was three stories of a color best described as burnt orange stone enhanced with four white columns at the entrance; the main structure was bookended by two homey wings, each topped by clock towers. A black iron fence encircled the property, including the gardens and park, keeping the people at a safe distance from the monarchy.

  The carriage pulled under the portico and two footmen raced to open the coach door. One of the young men skittered back blinking rapidly in awe as Florence stepped from the coach. It was not so much that she was a tall lady, but that she carried herself in such a way that she seemed to fill the space around her. Her presence created an illusion that suggested she towered over him.

  Suddenly feeling light-headed, I tumbled out so engrossed in looking up at the high floors of the Palace that I missed the last step and fell into the arms of the second footman. Turning the color of a ripe apple, I separated myself from the servant, straightened my cloak and bonnet, and tried not to respond to the laughter I saw in Florence’s eyes. With any luck the Queen was not peering out the window.

  Granny Alice’s exit from the carriage was elegant and dignified. She never failed to surprise me and often made me wonder about the particulars of her earlier years. My grandmother had much more experience than I could imagine or would want to know.

  A strikingly handsome man in a dark coat, white breeches, and black boots greeted us. Although about my father’s age, he had much to recommend him. I straightened my spine and held up my chin, but all to no avail. Being so much shorter than Florence, I was certain I gave the appearance of a Pekingese in a bonnet.

  As the man drew closer I could see he wore serious medals of merit on his coat, while a charming dark curl dangled over his forehead. “I am Lord Melbourne,” he said, exposing dazzling white teeth as he smiled. “We are delighted to meet you, Miss Nightingale.”

  He bowed and reached for Florence’s hand, which she did not present because firstly she ascribed to the germ theory and with or without gloves she would not accept a hand kiss from a stranger. Secondly she half turned away as if gathering her thoughts. It seemed this Lord Melbourne had affected the untouchable Miss Nightingale in some way.

  The Queen’s emissary did not linger over Florence’s reticence, but turned his eyes downward to look at me. I felt my face flame. “And who is this delightful young lady?” he asked. His question roused my friend from her silence. I had read of Melbourne’s type in my novels; he was the kind of man who had a powerful effect on women. He manifested just dandy. Goodness I loved using that word!

  My friend shook her head as if waking from a dream. “Pardon me! This is my assistant, Miss Poppy Throckmorten. And this is our chaperone, Mrs. Alice Throckmorten,” she turned to include Granny who stood at my side, batting her eyes evidently experiencing a serious case of the flirts or perhaps it was palsy?

  “Welcome to Buckingham Palace. The Queen is eager to meet you. I trust your journey was comfortable.” He offered his arm to Florence, but when she hesitated, I reached up and took his right arm. Granny clutched his left while Miss Nightingale fell in place behind us. And in that manner we entered the foyer of Buckingham Palace.

  Chapter 5

  I peered up at our escort from under my eyelashes, not certain what I was feeling; it may have been the result of all those romantic tales I devoured. I vowed to stop reading, at least until we returned to Derbyshire—if we returned at all. We were about to begin a quest into the unknown, so it was best not to complicate matters with an overactive imagination. I peered around him to assure myself that Granny was close by. It was a comfort to have an experienced adventuress in our party.

  As I observed the balconies, balustrades, and pillars, I thought how Archie, still given to climbing even as he approached manhood, would enjoy these opportunities. There were times when I was certain my brother was part monkey and would never outgrow his need to scale heights. He could be an embarrassment at times.

  We entered the grand hall where we were met by a well-dressed matron. “This is Lady Jane,” Lord Melbourne said, with a slight nod of his head. “She will see to your needs before you meet with the Queen. Do not tarry as Her Royal Highness awaits.”

  “Thank you, Lord Melbourne,” Florence said.

  It was with reluctance that I released my grip on his arm. He maneuvered his other arm from Granny’s clutches, and we followed the lady-in-waiting to have a quick primp for we were an unsuitably dusty trio.

  The Ladies’ Parlor resembled a beehive with maids buzzing about us, wiping and tucking and grooming us. Within mere minutes we were dusted and done,
refreshed and ready to meet the Queen. The pace of it all was unnerving. We left the beehive with the thought heavy on my mind that we were about to meet the Queen—the Queen of England. Willing my body to behave I bit my lower lip and took short hesitant steps into the hall. I had practiced curtsying since learning of our invitation, but now my brain seized and in turn the muscles of my legs locked. For me, this behavior was not unusual, but oh how I wished it would pick another time, another place.

  We entered the throne room, which was resplendent in rich red velvet, with crystal chandeliers casting patterns that mixed with the sunlight along the polished marble floor. Although the Queen sat a great distance away, her radiance reached out to welcome us. She fixed her eyes on Florence as she smiled a warm smile.

  What could the monarch of our land possibly require from Florence Nightingale? Again, my novel-honed imagination leaped ahead of any facts that might be presented. Perhaps the fate of England rested in our hands, for such was the thing that dreams are made of, particularly mine. Somewhere in this odyssey might be a heroine’s place for me. The image of me standing on the royal balcony waving to the crowds filled my head. Discreetly I moved my hand at my side, in an attempt to mimic the royal wave. It couldn’t hurt to practice.

  Lord Melbourne appeared from out of nowhere. I was reminded of how handsome he was—in a he’s too old for me way. He was a superb figure of a man, with piercing dark eyes that exactly matched his black hair, which was touched with a slight dusting of gray at the temples. “Walk this way ladies,” he spoke with gentle authority.

  I was greatly relieved that Lord Melbourne did not call us girls but treated us as grown women because…well Florence could be called a lady, but I still teetered on the brink. I pushed my shoulders back and set my jaw; I was a lady for I was about to embark on a mission for the Queen. I think.