A Nurse for James Read online

  A Nurse for James

  Nursing the Heart Series

  Book Three

  Margaret Tanner

  Contents:

  Contents:

  A NURSE FOR JAMES

  Copyright

  BLURB: A NURSE FOR JAMES - 1868

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  Author Links

  About the Author:

  Other Books by Margaret

  A NURSE FOR JAMES

  Copyright © 2020 Margaret Tanner

  Thank you for downloading this e-book. It remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed for any commercial or non-commercial use without permission from the author and publisher. Quotes used in reviews are the exception. No alteration of content is allowed.

  If you enjoy this book, then please encourage your friends to purchase their own copy.

  This story is a work of fiction, and to enhance the story, some literary license has been taken regarding setting. All characters are a figment of the author’s imagination.

  Acknowledgements: Many thanks to my author friends, Susan Horsnell and Cheryl Wright, for all their help and support.

  A special thank you to my wonderful readers.

  Formatted by Susan Horsnell

  Cover: V. McKevitt

  BLURB: A NURSE FOR JAMES - 1868

  Can a broken soldier with a secret, and a grieving nurse find happiness together?

  After the death of her beloved brother, Ashley Myers takes up nursing. She graduates from The Harrow School of Nursing.

  One of her first patients is a coal miner, cast aside by a greedy colliery owner. The terrible treatment this man and his fellow miners endured appals Ashley, particularly since her own father died of the miner’s disease – black lung.

  The War Between the States, has left James Whybrow broken in health and spirit. He is guilt ridden because he survived while his men perished.

  Will the torment of these two people be resolved by love? Can their fledgling love survive once James divulges his secret?

  Chapter One

  Baltimore, Maryland, May 1868

  Ashley Myers nervously sat in Miss Constance Harrow’s office at the Harrow School of Nursing.

  “I’ve called you here, Miss Myers now your training is over. May I call you Ashley?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good, my dear. You know I worked with your brother Captain Myers at one of the field hospitals during the war? He used to speak so highly of his little sister. Said you had the compassion and stamina to make an excellent nurse.”

  “Thank you, Miss Harrow. I did do some tending of the wounded in one of the field hospitals Richard worked at. It was truly dreadful seeing the pain and suffering.” She shuddered. “Yet amidst the horror I felt as if I was doing some good, little as it was.”

  The other woman nodded and picked up an envelope. “I have a position you may be interested in.”

  “Oh?” An offer of employment so soon after graduating. It was the answer to her prayers. She was not like many of the other nurses who came from affluent backgrounds or had family support. The only nurse she could think of who was in similar circumstances was Isabella Styles.

  All Ashley had was herself.

  She and Richard had held such high hopes for their future, now cut short by his death. She didn’t even have a grave to visit or pay her respects, to grieve and mourn over him.

  “What? Oh, I’m so sorry, Miss Harrow.”

  “You were thinking of your brother?

  “Yes. I don’t even have anywhere to visit.” She scrubbed at the tears forming in her eyes.

  “I spoke to a Dr. Coleman at a fundraising function recently and he’s looking for a young lady who could help in his surgery and take care of his wife.” She folded her hands on the desk. “He’s English and was a surgeon in the Crimean War. He was too old for active service, but the army needed his skills. It broke his health and he came out here to live.”

  “Did he know the Lady with the Lamp, Florence Nightingale? Apart from Richard being a doctor, it was reading her exploits that got me interested in nursing.”

  “I believe she did work in some of the same places as he did. An amazing and compassionate woman.”

  “I think you and Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell are too, Miss Harrow and I’ll always be grateful to Clara Barton and her work at the Missing Soldiers Office. I never would have known what had befallen my brother if not for her.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Ashley, but at least you know he won’t be coming back. Clara says some families are still holding out hope their loved ones will turn up.”

  “I know the feeling. Your brain tells you they’ve gone yet you pray for a miracle that they will walk through the door.”

  “Well, it does happen. I’ve heard of a few cases of similar things occurring. Only a couple of months ago a soldier presumed dead at Vicksburg, walked through the door of his home. He’d had a head injury and lost his memory. As time passes that sort of thing becomes less likely.” She sighed.

  Anyway, the doctor who needs assistance runs a small clinic from his house. His wife is in poor health, so he’s looking for a nurse who can tend his wife and help with his patients. I thought under the circumstances, I would give you first offer. There is a small wage, but you will receive food and lodging, not to mention invaluable nursing experience. Dr. Coleman has more medical knowledge than any man I know, and he lives in Baltimore.

  I can give you a letter of introduction so you can start immediately.”

  “How did you know I’d take the position?”

  “I knew.” She smiled. “There are a couple of other nurses who would be suitable, but I think your needs are greater than theirs. I know it was a financial strain for you to stay at Mrs. Honeycutt’s boarding house.”

  “I want the position; it would be perfect for me. Mrs. Honeycutt was such a dear lady and good to me, but I did have to use my savings to pay my way.”

  “The position is yours, my dear, you’ve earned it. Here.” She handed over a sealed envelope. “I was so sure the position would suit you and you would take it I’ve already written out the introduction.” She also handed over a sheet of paper with the doctor’s address written on it.

  Ashley left the room with a singing heart. She would be sad to leave her friends behind, although it was likely they would end up being scattered all over the country.

  ****

  July 1868

  “You did what?” James Whybrow slammed his fist against the table, making the cutlery dance. “You had no right to do it, Martin.” He glared at the middle-age man sitting opposite him at the breakfast table.

  “I had to do something, James. Have you looked at yourself lately?”

  “No, why should I? Nothing to see except bleary, blood-shot eyes.”

  “You’re not eating properly, you’re not sleeping properly, and you’re drinking far too much.”

  “Nightmares stop me from sleeping, you know that, and the whiskey makes me forget what happened to Peter at Gettysburg, not to mention Fredericksburg when we were routed by the Confederate army.”

  “You rarely see the doctor, and when you do you ignore his instructions, not to mention overusing the laudanum. You’ll end up killing yourself. Is that what you want?”

  “I don’t know what I want. I definitely don’t want a nurse. Anyway, wha
t kind of man would work as a nurse?” His lips curled with derision.

  “He’s come highly recommended from a Doctor Coleman, a decorated Crimean War surgeon.”

  “I don’t care how highly recommended he came. A man with the name of Ashley.” James rummaged trembling fingers through his hair. “You and Florrie can look after my needs like you’ve always done.”

  “We’re not getting any younger, and it’s becoming obvious we can’t give you all the help you need.”

  “Maybe I should have died with my men at Fredericksburg in 62.”

  “The Lord stepped in and saved you,” Martin said.

  “The Lord? It was a Confederate Officer who went to West Point with me.” James didn’t know why he was arguing with Martin, the only friend he had now. Martin and Florrie had been with him since he was a baby. He didn’t trust anyone else. Didn’t want a stranger living in his home.

  I shouldn’t have survived. Wouldn’t have if Lieutenant Davenport of the Confederate army of North Virginia, hadn’t come upon me on the battlefield when his men were out collecting their wounded. He closed his eyes, and the vision was so clear it was like he’d been transported back to the battlefield a day or so after General Robert E. Lee and his Confederate army had emerged triumphant. He had lain unconscious on the ground shot through the leg and with shrapnel in his chest and shoulder. He had obviously been left behind when the army moved forward.

  Unable to move, he thought he would be killed when a Confederate Officer rode up and dismounted, would have been glad to die there on the battlefield rather than take his chances in some filthy southern prisoner of war camp.

  “James Whybrow?” The officer had exclaimed.

  “Yes,” he had croaked.

  “I’m George Davenport. Class of 56.

  “From Atlanta?”

  “Yes. Listen to me. We’re out here on the orders from General Robert E. Lee, looking for our wounded. Any Yankee soldiers we find will be shot or end up in a prison camp. Pretend to be dead if anyone else comes along. Wait until it gets dark then try to get out of here.”

  “I’m not sure I can.”

  “You’re a dead man if you don’t. Here, take a few swigs of this. It’s mostly water now, still a bit of brandy in it, though.” George held a silver flask to James’ lips. The liquid burned all the way down his throat but revived him a little. “I’ll put it in your pocket. You need it more than me.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Lieutenant! Lieutenant, we found Thompson, he’s alive.” The soldier skidded to a halt in front of them. “What you doing with that Yankee? The man raised his rifle.

  “No, he’s not worth a bullet, he’s almost dead. I was just checking to see if he had any valuables. Nothing on the mangy Yankee dog.” Davenport used his foot to roll James into a large shell hole. Not long after the others left, the hole collapsed on him and he frantically clawed his way out of what could have been his tomb. Waiting until it got dark, he struggled out of the hole and slowly and painfully made his way back to where he thought his own lines were.

  The next thing he remembered was lying in some over-crowded Union field hospital. He shuddered at the memories, the pain and fear, the stench of rotting gangrenous limbs and corpses. And worst of all, the guilt of surviving while his men had died.

  “Enough.” Martin grabbed his hands and unclenched them. “You need that nurse. We can’t give you the help you need.”

  These people were closer to him than his own father had ever been, had been faithful and loyal, and were also distantly related. “I’m sorry for the way I’ve been carrying on. My nerves are shot to pieces, but I don’t want a nurse. I’ll ease off the whiskey.”

  It was a hollow promise, as he didn’t think he could. A whiskey bottle and laudanum had become his best friends. They helped deaden the pain and bitter memories of all he had lost, not only on the battlefield. His brother had been killed at Gettysburg, and Kathleen Yates had deserted him.

  “I can’t marry a man who is disfigured,” she had declared before breaking off their betrothal. Beautiful, selfish Kathleen.

  “I thought you loved me,” he had cried out in anguish as he pleaded with her to reconsider.

  “You know I only like to surround myself with things that are perfect. Selfish maybe, but that’s the way I am.”

  “You can still be friends,” Mr. Yates had said.

  “Indeed not.” Mrs. Yates was even more selfish and haughty than her daughter. “We can’t have a cripple hanging around here, ruining Kathleen’s chances of making a suitable match. A clean break is best for all concerned. Come along, my dear. We’ve got a party to plan.”

  They had walked off and left him. Cast him aside like an old shoe.

  Even in the state he was in now, he realized he’d had a lucky escape. A month later he learned Kathleen had married an elderly Earl and moved to England.

  He had to get up from the table, he couldn’t sit here a moment longer. “I’m not feeling well, I need to lie down.” Rising from the chair, he stumbled out the kitchen and down the hallway.

  The aching in his skull reached a crescendo and he felt like ripping his head off to ease the pain. He made his way to his private sitting room where he spent most of his days and slumped on the day bed. Pulling a blanket over himself he closed his eyes. All he wanted was to be left alone. Why couldn’t people understand that? His shoulder throbbed, sending pain shooting down his arm.

  It was a hellish way for a man of his age to live. If Kathleen hadn’t deserted him, and she probably wouldn’t have if it wasn’t for the war, he’d be married with a family of his own. The bitterness of betrayal soured his mouth.

  What if he didn’t have Martin and Florrie? They were virtually the only people he saw now, which is how he liked it. He rarely left the place, and no-one ever came to the house because they were too scared. The locals thought the house was haunted. Even the men Martin employed during the day stayed away from the house and the few acres surrounding it.

  It was haunted all right, just not in the way they thought. Lights moving around the place in the dark wasn’t a ghost, but him, pacing the floor, prowling around because he couldn’t sleep.

  He hated the darkness, it brought back the memories of the filthy hole that had almost become his grave. Sometimes he hated Davenport for saving his life. The irony of it all was the man had been killed a few days later, leaving a wife and two small children. He had found out where they lived and arranged for a sum of money to be sent to them so they could move away from their war-ravaged home.

  The widow had moved out West and opened a small diner. He always received a note from her at Christmas time, letting him know how the family were faring. Thankfully, they were doing well. At least he had made things right for them. Money wasn’t a problem. He still received dividends from the colliery his father and Cecil Beveridge had started. Not that he had been near the place since before the war.

  The dispute between him and his father, because he chose an army career over the coal mining business near Frostburg, had been bitter and prolonged. Thankfully, they had healed the rift before the old man died a few months before the war. It must be close on ten years since he’d set foot at the mine and he wouldn’t be going there again either.

  Old man Beveridge had died, and his son obviously ran the business well since his dividends came in regularly.

  Chapter Two

  Number eleven Dunston Street, Baltimore was a narrow double storied house sandwiched between two large houses. It didn’t look to be very big. On the carved door was a large brass sign with Dr. William Coleman written on it. Narrow windows on either side of the door were covered with lace curtains. The small front garden was neatly laid out, cobblestones with a few square garden beds broke up the monotony.

  With trembling hands Ashley knocked and waited. All was silent except for the chirping of birds in a huge tree next door.

  Her trunk and carpet bag had been deposi
ted on the front porch by Mrs. Honeycutt’s driver. She waited with mounting trepidation. What if she didn’t like the doctor? More importantly, what if he didn’t like her, thought she wouldn’t be suitable? What would happen to her then? She would have to return to the boarding house, but how could she afford to pay for her room once her savings were gone? The doctor had to agree to take her on. He just had to.

  She almost collapsed with relief when the door swung open and a thin, slightly stooped, snowy haired man looked enquiringly at her. “May I help you?” he asked in an English accent.

  “Dr. Coleman?” She pulled Miss Harrow’s letter from her reticule.

  “I am. Ah! You would be Miss Ashley Myers. Do come in, my dear.”

  He stepped back and she entered a long hallway with doors on either side of a central staircase.

  “I’ve had to turn one of the rooms down here into a bedroom as Mrs. Coleman can’t manage the stairs anymore.” He sighed. “She’s quite poorly now. It’s her lungs and heart. She caught rheumatic fever a few years ago and it left her with a weakness. We have a lass come in for a few hours each day to do the heavy housework. She normally prepares the evening meal, which we English call dinner.” He smiled. “We only have to cook it.”

  The place was clean and smelled of lavender and beeswax polish.

  “This is our sitting room.” He opened a door. “Do come in.”

  Ashley stepped into the room. It was full of heavy, dark furniture. The woman in the wheelchair caught her interest straight away. She was small, with thin features and her sallow complexion and the dark circles under her eyes bore testament to her illness.

  Her smile was bright and friendly. “My dear, I am so pleased to meet you, Constance Harrow thought you would be most suitable for us.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Coleman.” Ashley stepped over and gently squeezed the cold, bony hands. “I’m honored to be working here. Miss Harrow spoke highly of your husband. I’m so sorry you haven’t been well.”