Florence Nightingale Comedy Mysteries Box Set Page 8

  Florence nodded. “I can sense his little heart beating.”

  Dr. Carbuncle uttered a sound reminiscent of a pig snuffling for truffles. “Well, Miss Nightingale, you have certainly impressed this physician with your heroic deeds. I shall be certain to commend your conduct to the Queen and Lord Cumberland. I believe his lordship fancies owls,” his sarcasm was pointed.

  Lord Melbourne was about to speak when Mrs. Carbuncle broke into a violent coughing fit. She grabbed at her husband’s arm to brace herself for the coughs now racked her body.

  “Harrumph!” muttered her husband. “It is time for another dose of cough suppressant. We can’t have you enter Mr. Averoff’s domain sounding as if you are bringing him a gift of consumption.” If his wife was affected by stress, then he was certainly doing his best to strain her.

  The doctor fiddled in the black leather bag that sat between his feet and extracted a small cup and a brown bottle of Bayer’s Heroin Cough Suppressant. With an unsteady hand he poured the liquid into the cup, and then held it to his wife’s mouth. Mrs. Carbuncle obediently gulped the medicine, coughing as she swallowed.

  I felt an elbow in my side. Florence was calling my attention to the drug. She was vehemently opposed to the use of such narcotics. I thought she might speak out, but at that very moment the coachman leaned over and called out. “We have arrived!”

  My pulse quickened and I felt a lightness in my chest. We were about to meet Florence’s benefactor. I could only imagine what a young man of his accomplishments might look like in person. He would be tall, dark and very handsome. His eyes would flash like black diamonds—not that I had ever seen such a gem, but a girl could dream.

  Adjusting my bonnet, then my skirts, I leaned forward and gave my liquored boots a quick sniff. I was relieved that they no longer smelled of whiskey since that might be another distraction Carbuncle could use to humiliate Florence, for I grew more certain that was what the brute intended to do. He was a misogynist and there was no cure for that—not even hypnotism.

  Feeling eyes upon me, I glanced up to see Lord Melbourne looking kindly at me. Settling back in my seat, I took a deep calming breath and prepared myself for the meeting with our host and benefactor.

  Chapter 19

  “At last we meet!” Mr. Averoff rushed across the courtyard with his hand extended to greet Florence. He looked so much like he had in the miniature portrait the Queen had shown us and he seemed almost as small. A cheery welcoming smile peeked out from under the bushiest mustache I had ever seen.

  We were standing in an arbor of exotic flowers none of which I could identify. Sprays of pink, red, lilac, and yellow blossoms splayed over the whitewashed stone wall. It was the perfect setting in which to meet the saintly man who would sponsor England’s first school for nurses—lady nurses.

  I held my breath hoping Florence would overcome her fear of germs just this once for her future lay in the palm of his hand—germs or not. Happily she did allow her Greek benefactor to bestow a gentle kiss on the back of her gloved right hand, while she kept her left arm across her body protecting the baby owl in her right pocket.

  George Averoff held her fingertips longer than was customary, his eyes glistening with joy. “I have so looked forward to meeting you, Miss Nightingale. This is perhaps the most important day of my life!” He spoke with a slight accent but it was not difficult to understand him. His countenance was shorter and rounder than his little portrait; his actions so bubbly he might have been a bottle of uncorked champagne. His outlandish mustache and leathery face made him look older than his four and twenty years.

  “The most important day thus far,” Florence smiled as she spoke. “You are a young man and will accomplish many more good works in the future. I can see it in your eyes.”

  His grin revealed dimples on both cheeks. “I cannot wait to begin. There is much we can learn from one another, Miss Nightingale. There are so many people we can help whether we act together or alone.” I immediately liked him—as a friend.

  Turning to me, he bowed with a courtly nod, “You must be Miss Poppy Throckmorten. I have been most eager to meet you as you bear the name of my favorite flower. Dare I take the liberty of saying that you are every bit as pretty as your namesake?” He took my hand and kissed it. I would have allowed him more time with my hand as it had nothing better to do, but Florence cleared her throat by way of notifying me to retrieve my fingers.

  Lord Melbourne introduced himself and then presented the Carbuncles followed by Mr. Olsen, whose aggressiveness was off-putting. It was evident to me that Mr. Averoff was uncomfortable in the presence of the newspaper reporter. Having observed the same reaction in Florence I understood that he did not wish to be the center of attention, and probably shunned notoriety.

  “Allow me to introduce Mr. Roger Broadribbs who has accompanied our party from Dover,” said Lord Melbourne.

  My possessive friend stepped in front of me, and quickly attempted to assert his claim. “Mr. Averoff, this is indeed a pleasure. I am Miss Throckmorten’s fian—” With a quick flick of the toe of my boot against the back of Roger’s knee, I was able to distract him, unfortunately he stumbled forward.

  Our host braced to catch my friend, but dear Roger managed to regain his footing preventing him from coming down on the startled man. Blushing the same ginger color as his hair, he apologized profusely. Training Roger was like training a puppy; if you startled him often enough it would break his bad habit—in this case claiming to be my intended.

  “You must be very tired from your journey,” Mr. Averoff said, in deference to Roger’s near collapse. “My houseman will show you to your rooms. Once you have refreshed yourselves, please join me in the main saloon. It will allow us to get better acquainted before we break bread.”

  I was tickled that our host had taken Roger’s fumble for exhaustion; and proud of having short-circuited the rumor he insisted on perpetuating. Not that I was interested in George Averoff in a romantic way, but Roger was making every attempt to tie my bootlaces together—if you catch my meaning.

  Florence, Granny and I were given an entire suite on the second floor of Mr. Averoff’s home, while our maids were located within bell-ringing distance. Lord Melbourne was positioned across from our room, with a small adjoining chamber for his valet. The Carbuncles were given chambers next to ours where we would most likely provide a dandy audience for their bickering.

  The houseman showed Roger and Olsen to rooms on the first floor. That was both good and bad. Good because my unintended intended would be unable to shadow me from my bedroom, but bad because he was located near the exit doors and might catch me sneaking out for an adventure, possibly without a chaperone. My only hope was that Florence would act as a tour guide. There was so much to see and so little time in which to venture out. I wished to assume the guise of a young Greek girl, in order to have an idea of what it would feel like to live in Athens—I might write a novel featuring such a character, someday.

  Our suite was laid out in the shape of a shamrock with each of the three beds located in separate alcoves off the main sitting room. The maids set about unpacking our trunks. Since they were Queen Victoria’s servants and unfamiliar with our wardrobes, it would have taken ages to sort things out had we not packed lightly. It was humbling to know they were setting out our meager selection of dresses and simple jewelry.

  Florence sat on her bed, while I kneeled beside her, placing my elbows on the quilt. I did not wish to frighten the baby owl by the sight of two giants hovering over it. Reaching in her pocket, my friend gently placed the owlet in her lap. It was a frazzled little thing that looked up at Florence with adoring eyes. It nuzzled against her skirt and attempted to hop but fell over. By stroking the top of the little creature’s head Florence was able to calm it.

  She palmed the bird, turning it gently and examining it for injuries. “I do believe this is a little girl bird.” She sighed as she gently lifted one wing. “It appears to be broken. The poor baby must have fall
en from a nest high up in the tree. Who knows how much damage those ruffians did to this sweet baby.”

  The bird nuzzled Florence’s hand with the top of its head. “I doubt she will ever fly again hence I will keep her in my pocket. She touched the tip of the owlet’s beak. “I shall call you Athena. You shall be with me forever more.”

  “What will you feed her?”

  “She can draw comfort from my presence, but her meals will depend on what we can scrounge, for owls will eat most anything.” Florence glanced about the room, looking along the floorboards. “I don’t suppose you have seen a mouse?”

  Chapter 20

  Having brought only one blue as well as one deep purple dress, plus the emerald-colored ball gown, it was fairly simple to choose my clothes for the evening. The blue was the perfect shade, matching the crystal color of the seas surrounding Greece. I would wear white pearl clips in my upswept hair, and tiny pearl drop earrings.

  I gripped the bedpost while my maid tugged on the strings of my corset, my body complying with the pokes of the stiff whalebone. When will I learn to listen to Florence? She gave me one of her severe looks; a reprimand for destroying the only body God gave me, as she so frequently lectured.

  Corsets and Miss Nightingale had been at odds since puberty—her puberty, not the corsets’. She did not believe in them, and as I stepped away from the bedpost trying to catch a full breath, I had to agree with her.

  The maid slipped the fine blue silk dress over my head, adjusting the puff sleeves, and fastening the back. I did envy Florence, as she possessed more than enough self- assurance to wear a loose dark blue gown with a simple white lace collar, and clearly, no corset beneath. In the hidden pocket slept a baby owl named Athena.

  I wore my buttered slippers, which still felt slightly slick. The whiskey-scented boots sat on the windowsill, the last essences of pub floating on the breeze.

  Granny chose her dark burgundy dress with the matching lace collar. Her white hair was done up in a loose bun, with two fake diamond stickpins jutting from the knot at the back of her head.

  We were ready to make our way downstairs, needing only an escort. And with that thought came a light tapping on the door. One of the maids answered and then returned to the sitting area to announce that Lord Melbourne would like to be admitted.

  Florence and I exchanged a nod, while Granny accompanied the servant to welcome our escort. It was evident my grandmother had taken a bit of a fancy to Lord Melbourne and was eager for his company.

  “Well, ladies, we made it safely to Athens. I must congratulate you. You are all good travelers and lovely companions,” he flashed a charming smile at each of us in turn. “Please be aware that Mrs. Carbuncle is feeling ill. It may be the stress of the journey, although I notice the doctor seems to have a negative effect on her.” He looked at the sofa, “May I sit?”

  “Oh please!” I had forgotten my manners and Florence was, as her mother frequently mentioned, socially inept. My friend’s inability to conduct herself with pomp in any circumstance was one of her more endearing qualities—she had all the social skills of a hermit. It was as if she had no time for such nonsense; but if she would enhance her power in the world of medicine, she must surely bend to the laws of etiquette. She did not mention the owl in her pocket and I would certainly not betray her clandestine companion.

  Lord Melbourne settled his somewhat muscular frame on the sofa, stretching his long legs. In his younger years he must have been a man who induced women to feel faint, and men to envy him. Now he was a handsome middle-aged man who still drew attention.

  He cleared his throat and began to speak. “Because this is a state visit, we must remember at all times to walk that fine line between responding to the warm manners of our Greek host, while conducting ourselves as serious ambassadors of the Crown,” Lord Melbourne stated

  “Miss Nightingale, with Miss Throckmorten acting as her assistant, will be expected to carry the conversation with Mr. Averoff as he is interested in furthering his knowledge of medicine. He is an unmarried gentleman, therefor at no time should either of you accept an invitation…” he paused, one eyebrow arched and an embarrassed grin on his enchanting lips, “to see the gardens or tour any galleries without informing me. I must accompany you no matter the circumstances.”

  An amused expression played over Florence’s face. “Lord M, there are times when I find you delightfully off. Do you honestly imagine Poppy or I would agree to smell the flowers with Mr. Averoff when we are here as representatives of the Queen and our country?” She placed her hand over her pocket as it began to chirp, too softly to be heard by anyone who did not suspect a hidden owl.

  Lord Melbourne smacked his palms on his thighs and smiled. “I had to say my little speech, now on to my strategy.” He turned to Granny, “Mrs. Throckmorten, I am concerned for Mrs. Carbuncle’s well-being. Should she become ill while we are in Athens it will present an awkward situation. Her continued attacks of anxiety may lead to a case of hysterics.”

  Granny gathered her skirts and snuggled in close to the Prime Minister. He was forced to back away from her in order to focus on her since she sat so close. “The doctor seems to aggravate his wife and be the source of their embarrassing bouts of bickering. Would you be so kind as to keep her occupied? Wherever possible, please design a way of situating yourself between the two?”

  Granny sat tall in her seat. “I can do that! I am quite practiced in such matters and would gladly protect Mrs. Carbuncle from her oaf of a husband.”

  Lord Melbourne lowered his voice and motioned me to come close. “Is there an understanding between yourself and Mr. Broadribbs? I do not wish to pry into your personal business but I must know how to handle his erratic behavior.”

  I am certain I turned crimson. “There is no understanding between Mr. Broadribbs and myself. I have shared the truth with you; Florence and Granny already know of the burden the fellow presents to me.” I shot a quick look at my two companions.

  “My parents have always encouraged Roger’s attentions with the idea that if I did not capture a suitable gentleman by a certain age, then I would become Mrs. Broadribbs. But that is their assumption, not mine. Like Florence, I wish to follow a career, not a husband.”

  “Fair enough!” His chuckle made me blush even more. I had answered more than he had asked.

  “Miss Nightingale, I do not believe there is anything in your medical knowledge that you cannot share with Mr. Averoff.” He raised his voice to include the lady’s maids, “The Queen has requested that we exclude that reporter from our conversations and so we all shall make an effort to avoid him—but we will do so in a subtle manner.”

  He stood, fixing his eyes on our little gathering. “Let us join our host with the understanding between us that Miss Nightingale and Miss Poppy will devote themselves to cultivating a comfortable diplomatic relationship between England and Greece. And Mrs. Throckmorten will endeavor to protect Mrs. Carbuncle from Dr. Carbuncle.”

  Chapter 21

  I found Mr. Averoff to be a delightful gentleman. Clearly he was a person who loved people and was loved and respected in return. He had a number of endearing little idiosyncrasies, but my favorite affectation was when he clicked his heels together while greeting someone.

  Florence, Lord Melbourne, Granny, Roger, Mr. Olsen and I were gathered in Mr. Averoff’s saloon. It was a large room with simple décor and huge glassless windows that allowed a delicious breeze to tickle our conversation. Our host had begun to describe his life in Cairo, and the work in his brother’s shop that first led him to acquire the capital from which he grew his empire in Egypt. He held us fascinated with modest descriptions of what sounded like incredible feats of daring in the financial world.

  Mr. Averoff’s tales of Egypt thrilled me to the core, for it was my dream to someday visit the pyramids. It was just as he was recounting the climax of one of his adventures, that the Carbuncles joined us. They were terribly late despite Lord Melbourne sending his valet to
knock them up. It was clear the rude behavior originated with the bulldog-faced healer.

  Mrs. Carbuncle walked a few steps behind her husband as he stomped into the room full of piss and vinegar. Although she held her head high, it was evident the lady was distressed. Her eyes were swollen; either her coughing had done further damage to her face or she had been crying. She began to cough most violently. If I were to guess, her cough was a reaction to her husband’s abusive behavior.

  “My wife developed a cough when we were on the ship—from the salt air,” the doctor addressed his half-apology to Mr. Averoff. “I was treating her with hypnosis to relieve her symptoms and it took longer than we planned She can be a difficult patient.”

  Mr. Averoff cast a gentle smile at Mrs. Carbuncle and then spoke to the doctor. “I would be greatly appreciative if you would tell me more about your hypnotic techniques, and if possible instruct me in their use,” our host said. “We are often without medicines to relieve pain in the infirmaries outside of Cairo.” Tilting his head toward the poor woman he asked, “Is there anything we can offer Mrs. Carbuncle to relieve her discomfort?”

  Cutting off any offer of assistance to his wife, the doctor said, “It is very complicated to learn even the basics of hypnosis. I would not mind demonstrating the technique I employ to put Mrs. Carbuncle into a suggestive state. It will take but a few minutes, I will order her to step aside so I may demonstrate.” Carbuncle snuck a peek at Lord Melbourne judging him otherwise occupied and oblivious to their conversation.

  The doctor had misjudged Lord Melbourne’s focus. His lordship turned on Carbuncle frowning severely. I feared he would create a scene—one that would make our soft-spoken host wonder if all Englishmen carried tempers.

  But Lord Melbourne contained himself, although I noticed he clenched and unclenched his fists, which he kept at his sides. “Dr. Carbuncle, it is inconsiderate to make your wife the object of your parlor tricks. I suggest you ask her permission before exposing her in such a manner. I would have a moment of your time, outside, please?”