Her story

*Zac*
I know she must have bathed recently because she smells of lavender and carries none of the sickly sweet odor of illness. Her breast rubs innocently against my arm, but I have recovered enough that my body reacts with a twitch. I have memories of her wiping a damp cloth over me. The fever had plunged me into hell, and she had lifted me into heaven.

Eventually, she lays me back down and sets the glass aside. “Your sheets are damp, from the fever breaking. I'm going to change them, but first I’ll give you a quick wash."

“I can manage. Just help me sit up.” Words I have never expected to hear myself utter, to turn down an opportunity to have a woman bathe me? But she isn't just a woman. She is the mother of my child. She has also quite possibly saved my life. After my time at the military hospital, I am certain I would ever want to deal with physicians again. I had heard too many men beg that their arm or leg not be taken. Gritted my teeth against the screams and sobs that followed when their wishes were ignored.

My refusal to seek out a physician to examine my leg had been reckless in retrospect, but in my mind it had been the safer course to remain whole.

Once I am sitting up with the sheet draped over my waist, she brings me a bowl of warm water. She dips in a cloth, wrenches the excess water out, and hands it to me. I could have sworn she blushes before she turns away.

“Do you have a nightshirt?" She asks.

“No. I don't like to be confined in bed." She glances back at me, and I give her what I think might be my first true smile in months. “Unless it's within the arms of a beautiful woman, of course."

Her mouth twitches. “I see you are feeling better."

“Thanks to you. So what was it?" I ask.

“A bit of saber, I think.” She retrieves a handkerchief and unfolds it to reveal glinting steel that is a couple of inches long. “It could have broken off during the battle … or there’s so much flying debris, from what I hear … I've never actually been on a battlefield."

As far as my memory is concerned, neither have I.

“I don’t know how they missed it, but I've seen it happen before," She assures me. “You're very fortunate that Dr. Roberts was able to save your leg."

“I don't remember a good deal about the past … how many days has it been?"

She smiles softly. “Three.”

After I finish washing up, I move to the chair. She manages to change the sheets with a quickness and efficiency that has me back in bed before I can break a sweat from my previous efforts.

“Shall I fetch you some soup now?” She asks.

I shake my head. “No. Not hungry.”

“You need to eat." She points out.

“I will in the morning." I sound impatient and prickly. She merely nods and glances down at her clenched hands, hands that had comforted me. “I’m sorry."

She lifts her gaze. “No, don't apologize. You've been through an ordeal."

“No more so than you. I know I'm not the best of patients. Why didn’t you have a servant tend to me?" I ask.

She tugs on the blanket, bringing it closer to my chin, as though she needs to occupy her hands. “Caring for those who suffer from illness or injury is what I am trained to do.”

“But now you have a son who needs your attention." I point out.

“I see him often. Jeanette is very skilled at caring for him. She’s been with us almost since the beginning.” She touches my knee. “And I kept my promise. You have your leg.”

I smile softly. “So I noticed. Thank you for that."

She shakes her head. “I don't think Dr. Roberts had any plans to amputate it. Not like they had planned with your arm.”

Good God! They had tried to take my arm? How bad had it been? Instinctively, I touch the large thick scar. I have wondered how it came to be.

“I’m sorry, " She says. “I've upset you. You probably don't like to think about that time. I know I don’t."

I take a risk. “You tended to me then, when my arm was wounded."

“Yes. At least this time you didn’t call out the names of at least a dozen other ladies.” She says.

I give her an ironic grin. “Is that what I did before?”

She nods, a light twinkle in her eyes. “When your fever was at its worst. You had quite the harem.”

“I suppose a lot of secrets are spilled in delirium.” Perhaps memories as well.

“They are all safe with me." She says.

I do not doubt her words. “War is harsh. A lady shouldn’t be exposed to it. Why were you there?”

She sinks onto the chair, as though her legs can no longer support her, and folds her hands in her lap. “My life seemed without … purpose. There were dances and visiting. But it all seemed so trivial. I wanted to do something to help those who were in need. I had a younger sister. She became very ill. Mother had passed, and it was left to me to take care of Maryanne. She died. I often thought if I had only known more that I could have prevented her passing somehow. "

My gut clenches with the knowledge that she carries that burden. “It was not your responsibility to cure her. Your father should have sent for a physician.”

“He did. And I know in my head there was nothing I could do, but my heart wonders. I was quite inconsolable after Maryanne’s passing, so Father indulged my whim to learn nursing. I had only just completed my four months of training when I learned of Mrs Sparrow's pleas for nurses to accompany her to the war. The articles in the newspapers were depicting such madness there. Our soldiers didn’t have supplies. There were no adequate hospitals." She releases a self conscious laugh. “I’m not telling you anything you don't know.”

Only she is. I had been so focused on what had happened to me and what I have lost, that I had not given any thought to discovering what might have happened to others beyond me. Even my family, I had assumed they had gone through nothing
of consequence other than the birth of Morton’s son.

“Since you weren’t here," She continued, “You might not realize there was a public outcry that something be done. It called to me. Not in the way that God called to the saints, of course, but I knew I had to do something more than gather linens for bandages. So I arranged an interview with Mrs Sparrow and I was selected to go with her."

I hear the passion in her words, and it shames me that I had not been the same. My brothers had already bought him a commission by the time he had tea with Djuna, the last afternoon I remember. Before that my mother’s influence had kept me safe at home, away from any of the queen’s little wars. I had picked a hell of a time to let go of my mother’s skirts.

But after listening to Calliope’s story, I can’t confess any of that. It makes me feel petty and small. It makes me feel as though I had truly been lacking in character, as my family had claimed.

“It gave your life purpose, then?" I ask her instead.

“It gave me Zane."