Florence Nightingale Comedy Mysteries Box Set Page 4

  Dragoons! I loved the word although I had not seen any illustrations of them, I was certain they were very fierce and handsome—not that I was interested in handsome men—just curious.

  Queen Victoria interrupted my reverie as she spoke directly to Florence. “My personal physician has recommended a Dr. Carbuncle to guarantee the health of your party and to help with the stress of travel. He is a skilled practitioner of metaphysical healing and wishes to broaden his education by visiting Greece. I hope he is willing to share some of his skills with you, Miss Nightingale.”

  Florence formed a steeple with her hands and pressed them to her lips. “I have an interest the metaphysics and how it can aid patients during times of great pain. This should be an educational journey. Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “The doctor and his wife will accompany you. And I should caution you that a reporter from The Times is to join your party in Calais. Take care what you say in his presence for the press can be our friend or a powerful foe. Our citizens are most interested in the exploits of Miss Nightingale, and the newspaper is sending this writer to chronicle your adventure.”

  I ground my jaw so loudly all heads turned towards me. Without so much as a how-do-you-do, I was being replaced in my capacity as the official chronicler. I made up my mind to outdo the reporter fellow.

  “We sense you are tired after your journey. I have assigned lady’s maids to each of you,” the Queen smiled a most gracious smile as she spoke. “Rest for a few hours and then dress for dinner. Dr. Carbuncle and Mrs. Edith Carbuncle will be joining us. We shall then go over protocol as you will not be meeting Mr. Averoff in any formal setting but rather at his private home.”

  The donor’s private home seemed like an informal place to meet with our benefactor, but who was I to question the proceedings? I was merely the official chronicler of a moment in history—a moment that might change the world. I do have a tendency toward the dramatic.

  “You may leave us now,” the Queen instructed, whisking her hand at Florence, Granny and me.

  Remembering to walk backwards while bowing, we left the Queen’s presence. I did not know whether to be insulted or thankful for when I glanced over my shoulder I noticed Lord Melbourne had positioned himself behind me, his hands cupped as if to catch me.

  Chapter 8

  Three ladies, slightly older than Florence, met us outside the throne room. Each was outfitted so elegantly, I fretted that the dresses I had brought from Derbyshire would show poorly. But what was done was done. I was the assistant to the Florence Nightingale, and as such could not be expected to bother with fineries. Lord Melbourne excused himself and disappeared into one of the rooms off the entrance hall.

  Florence acquiesced to their fussing for she is not the type of woman who takes pleasure in such things whereas I am adaptable, and in this case believed the experience would read well in my journal. I set my concerns about the newspaper reporter aside for he would not have access to Miss Nightingale’s thoughts and could not possibly give as thorough an account as I could. I cautioned myself to keep my journal secret for it had just increased in value.

  We were escorted to our rooms on the second floor of the Palace. Florence was guided to her chamber, with Granny close behind. Unable to write of what I saw, I committed as much as I could to memory.

  The bedchamber assigned to Florence took my breath away. The entire room was done in white, both furnishings and fabric. Small touches of gold broke up the effect of newly fallen snow. Billowy white bed curtains containing more fabric than I imagined existed in all of England were draped from the canopy and tied back on each side with golden ropes.

  A chaise lounge reminiscent of one I had seen in an illustrated book about Paris rested on a white fur rug in front of the fireplace. An ornate French-style dressing table in ivory with cream veneer stood along the right wall.

  The top of the table contained bottles in a rainbow of pastel colors, and a gold-framed mirror rested above the table. Next to the dressing table stood a small writing desk with an inkwell, quill pen, and paper at the ready. A white armoire dominated the left side of the room; it was as large as the coach we arrived in. This room was not what I would have chosen for Florence and I braced myself for her reaction. She could be awfully rigid and must learn to bend with circumstances.

  Distaste was evident on my friend’s face, and I spoke before thinking—nothing new there. “Florence, bite your tongue. You are a guest in Buckingham Palace. What did you expect, the simple room of a monk?”

  A smirk tweaked the corners of her mouth. “We must obey the Queen,” she whispered. “I am certain she meant well for me. It is tolerable, although I am certain I shall have nightmares of crazed pixies and rabid fairies.”

  With a gentle smile I left Florence in her white wonderland and joined Granny in obediently following behind the maid. I was certain we were given adjoining rooms in consideration for my grandmother’s well-being, rather than an indication that I required a chaperone. Our chambers were not as sumptuous as those provided for Florence, and had she seen them she would have gladly changed places.

  My maid’s name was Betty and she seemed to be a master of many tricks including taking care of my painfully blistered feet. She soothed a balm of butter and sheep tallow over my skin, paying ticklish attention to my toes. “May I suggest something to soften your boots, ma ‘am?”

  Betty seemed to know her way around tender feet, and I would have agreed to anything after the relief from her ministrations.

  “I can place your boots in a bowl of rye whiskey to soak, then I will—pardon my boldness—wear your boots for a few hours. When I return them to you the tenderizing effect of the alcohol and my big feet will have stretched and softened them.”

  Her suggestion was a noble one as she would be pained wearing my little boots, but her scheme made great sense to me and I agreed. She was one of the Queen’s own ladies and I doubted she would run off with my new, but oh-so-stiff, Derbyshire boots.

  I gave my permission for her to pickle my boots in whiskey, and then I crawled under the soft eiderdown, and fell fast asleep.

  A gentle knock at the door roused me. It was Betty announcing it was time for me to dress for dinner. I noticed she wore my boots, which smelled like my father after an evening of billiards and brandy with his friends. Betty limped about the room preparing me for my first and probably only dinner at Buckingham Palace.

  Chapter 9

  Despite the simplicity of my frock, by the time the girl had prepared my hair in a style similar to the Queen’s, with a plait twisting back under each ear and ending in a cluster of curls, I looked fit to dine with royalty.

  Florence had evidently not gotten on as well with her maid. The girl shook her head and muttered, her own hair sprouting in unruly spikes with her cap laid back on her head, the ribbons untied, wet, and dangling. My friend looked triumphant as her hair remained in the simple style she always wore, her dress a serious dark brown muslin affair, tucked in a bit at the waist and with pleats over the bodice. An ivory lace collar graced her shoulders; it was the only frilly adornment she would allow. For once she did not wear her white cap and her dark, almost black hair glistened.

  Dressed in one of my two best dresses, a deep purple gown made of English silk, with red and black beading at the high collar, and wearing my slippery slippers, I joined our little threesome in following a footman down the Minister’s Staircase that descended past Queen Victoria’s private apartments.

  My grandmother looked like a petite dowager with just a touch of rouge upon her pale cheeks and a paisley shawl draped over her shoulders. She seemed to have gained energy from her sleep and almost could not be contained. I only hoped when I was her age I had her agility.

  “May I ask—” I began but stopped when the servant put his fingers to his lips. He pointed to the rooms just off the hall and whispered, “The Queen!” He motioned us on and only spoke when we were out of hearing range. “Yes, the Queen will be joining you,” he
responded to my worried look. “She arrives after all the guests are seated.”

  Feeling the sweat soak through my gloves, I gripped the elegant wood banister, praying that I would not disgrace myself for it was at times like this—not that I had ever had a time exactly like this—that my body would betray itself. Those who are gifted in one skill usually fall short in another. I am able to cobble an enthralling sentence but find it impossible to walk and think at the same time. It was with a sense of foreboding that I felt my slippers slide on my feet, the butter and sheep tallow causing the shoe tips to move independently of my toes.

  As we further descended the elaborately carved staircase, I took in the beauty of the huge stained glass window that occupied the first landing. It depicted a handsome young man in full battledress. I squinted to read the gold plaque that bore the inscription, Prince Albert Victor, Duke of Clarence.

  Time seemed to slow down as my right slipper did what slippers do; it slipped from my greasy foot, shot into the air, and preceded us down the stairs, arriving at the bottom of the staircase to the startled amazement of the footman who stood there at attention. Perhaps that was why they called them footmen?

  He caught my shoe and as if it were the most normal of actions he held the slipper before him, waiting for us to finish our promenade. It was with a cringe I realized he was the very same man who had managed to save me when I mis-stepped exiting the carriage. I might be concerned that he should think me spastic, but I was an important person, here on an important mission, ergo I should be allowed some eccentricities. He knelt before me and I presented my buttered foot. He slid the slipper on my foot, while the rest of our group looked everywhere but at me.

  Chapter 10

  The first course was roasted guinea hens garnished with grape stuffing. The Queen, sitting at the head of the table, set an even pace so that I was not rushed to eat, but could enjoy listening to the conversation. Florence sat at her left, while Lord Melbourne sat at her right. The chatter had been about food, wine, and game birds.

  The soft light cast by small candles floating in crystal bowls of water reflected off Queen Victoria’s porcelain cheeks. Her eyes twinkled with excitement as she spoke of what was to come. A communal energy built among us.

  Dr. Carbuncle, a portly gentleman with a bushy gray mustache and florid complexion sat next to Florence. His acrimonious wife was on my left. As a couple they gave off a tension that made me doubt the state of their marriage.

  “Hypnotism is a technique with which I have become proficient,” the doctor boasted when there was a lull in the conversation. His remark came with no preamble and startled everyone but Florence, who was immediately attentive. “I have tested the technique on Mrs. Carbuncle and I am pleased to say it has alleviated her incessant coughing which I am certain she only employs to annoy me.”

  I gasped at the nastiness of his remark. It was a harsh thing to say.

  Mrs. Carbuncle responded so quickly all heads turned sharply in her direction. “If not for my father’s money—my dowry—you would not have had the opportunity to study your exotic games of the mind.” She glared at her husband. “You would be studying country medicine by the light of tallow candles.” She turned her attention to her dish. It was the first time I had heard the woman speak up and I wanted to cheer for her.

  “You have just witnessed an example of what can occur when the patient has withdrawn from the calming effects of being mesmerized.”

  Good marriages are built on respect and understanding for one another; this was something of which the Carbuncles seemed to be ignorant. I imagined it would be a long journey to Athens with these two bickering lovebirds.

  Poor Granny. Sitting next to Dr. Carbuncle she cringed—he being so large and bombastic, and she being so small and mannerly. She caught my attention, rolling her eyes as the doctor expounded on why he doubted that women were fit to practice medicine. Mrs. Carbuncle must have seen my grandmother’s funny face as a bubble of sarcasm erupted from her sizable belly.

  The more the doctor waffled on, the more I thought him an odd choice to accompany us on our mission. He did not come outright and say he was against a school for nursing, but he was certainly not for it. If he had his way, women would be relegated to being midwives and all other forms of medicine would be left in the more competent hands of men. Why did the Queen select this blowhard who would certainly clash with Florence?

  “Miss Nightingale, I estimate the expense of having men assist your lady nurses will double nay triple the cost of staff. A woman does not possess the strength to lift or move a heavy body for care.” Although addressing his statement to my friend, he spoke to the Queen as if pleading a case against the school. It was a good thing he was some distance from Her Majesty as he sprayed spittle when he spoke, some of which landed on Florence.

  A sense of superiority danced in my chest as I watched my friend react to his moist discourse. If we had not been in the company of our monarch, Florence would have cut the pompous prig down with a swipe of a word. Instead she dabbed at her arm with her serviette, and then discreetly struggled to move her chair away from him while remaining seated.

  The weight of the chair proved a challenge to budge from a seated position thus she stood. Simultaneous to her standing, Lord Melbourne rose and headed around the table but the reseating had been accomplished before he could get there. The footman had anticipated Florence’s desire and quickly moved her to a position closer to the Queen and further from the doctor. The Prime Minister looked befuddled.

  The Queen appeared confused allowing a frown to crease her brow, as she watched the seating adjustments. Granny rolled her eyes at me once again. I swallowed a chuckle wedging it somewhere down with the butterflies I still carried in my tummy.

  The doctor continued, oblivious to what had just occurred and why he was at fault. “In what form will Mr. Averoff’s endowment be given? Will we be burdened with a large trunk of coins?”

  “Why should you care, dearest? No one will expect you to lift the load,” replied Mrs. Carbuncle whose voice was so caustic her hate for him was tangible.

  The doctor’s face knotted, his cheeks sucking inward and his eyes popping out as he directed his response to his wife. “Did I give the impression that I wished to be a bearer of the fortune? Such a large sum being transported with full knowledge of the newspaper reading public will be a problem for it will attract thieves and footpads.”

  Lord Melbourne cut the doctor a fierce look. “Do not worry yourself about such a thing, Carbuncle. I will see that the gift is safely transported to the Tower, no matter how large the trunk.” He looked at Florence. “Once secure in our vaults, this benefice will be established as a separate account specifically for the design, construction, and initial maintenance of Miss Nightingale’s school for lady nurses.”

  It became clear during the course of the meal that the Queen thought highly of Lord Melbourne and that there existed a friendship between them. She referred to the Prime Minister as Lord M and treated his opinions with a high regard. Did I mention he was that sort of man?

  The footman had just plated the individual servings of a pretty cake smothered in chocolate sauce and cream, when a second footman entered the room.

  “Lord Cumberland wishes—”

  Heavyset with the look of a vicious watchdog, Cumberland cut off the footman before he could finish his announcement. The nobleman bore a disfiguring scar across one eye, and a half-hearted, scraggly beard; his face was almost as red as the crimson paper that covered the walls.

  He stood a short distance from the table, clenching and unclenching his hands, which he kept at his sides. Tilting his head his neck made a cracking sound that sent spidery fingers down my spine. As he performed a half-hearted bow for the Queen, his resentment towards her filled their air.

  “Your Majesty,” he addressed Victoria, while planting his feet wide apart. With his one good eye he shot a furious glare at her.

  The spidery fingers now worked their way
up my back, prickling the curls at my neck. How dare Lord Cumberland interrupt the Queen’s dinner in such a rude manner? The man carried himself like a rabid bulldog. I snuck a glimpse at Dr. Carbuncle, only to see that he was squirming in his seat.

  “Uncle Cumberland?” the Queen raised one eyebrow, placed her fork in her plate, but did not invite him to join our gathering. “We are dining. Unless it is an emergency that concerns life and liberty, or if you are telling me we are under attack by the Chartists, then you are excused. Please make an appointment with my secretary.”

  The man looked as if he would burst. The red of his balding scalp was visible through the top of his head. If he were armed I would be worried, but his only weapons appeared to be his temper and the fact that he was the Queen’s uncle.

  “It takes reading the newspaper to inform me of your plans to accept a fortune from a Greek benefactor and pass it on for the construction of a school—for women! Any funds received on behalf of England, go into the English treasury.” He looked about suddenly seeming to realize how improper his intrusion was. He waved his hand addressing the presence of the diners as a nuisance. “Only Parliament can give permission to obligate us to another government!”

  “This is neither the time nor the place, and you are not to question me in any way about funds that do not come from the royal treasury. Now you may be excused. You are looking unwell, Uncle.”

  Before removing himself from the Queen’s presence Lord Cumberland took one final stab at the situation. “I intend to bring this endowment up before Parliament, once your minions have returned with the tribute. Mark my words, you have not heard the last of this, niece!”