Aether Spirit Page 2

  Like Claire.

  No matter where his thoughts started, they returned to her unexpected arrival.

  “Rough day,” he said.

  Patrick’s face fell into serious planes. “Did you lose a patient? If so, I apologize for my insensitivity. Sometimes I do forget we’re back in this hell.”

  “Thanks, but no apology needed. In fact, quite the opposite. I found someone.”

  Patrick put his fork back on his plate. “Claire?” He said her name in tones that sounded like a prayer or that he spoke of the star of a ghost story of long ago.

  “The same. She just walked into Distillery Hospital, shook out her umbrella, and…”

  “And?”

  “And didn’t recognize me.” Now the food on his plate made his stomach clench—or maybe it had been the loss of hope that she would recognize him—but either way, he was done. He pushed his plate away. “No sign at all, not even the barest flicker.”

  “That’s not surprising considering she didn’t seem to see me in Vienna.”

  “Yes, the damn neuroticists did their job too well burying the accident so far in her memory that she doesn’t remember anything about it. Or me.”

  Patrick scooted Chad’s plate closer to him. “You’re not finishing this?” It was a vaguely hopeful question.

  “No, I’m not.” He sighed. “Tell me about your gun problems.”

  Patrick lowered his voice. “Well, there’s this whore… All right, nothing like that. That weapon is working just fine. I’m having trouble with La Reine. While the professor and I managed to corral the aether into a form we could use to light the stage at the Bohème, concentrating it to the point of aiming it as a weapon is eluding me. I haven’t found the right material for the lens.”

  “That’s unfortunate, especially since it’s kept you from working on our other aim.”

  “Aether as a healing medium? How much more do you need? The preliminary experiments with the girl in Paris went well enough.”

  “Yes, but she was newly shocked and not physically injured. I dare not try it on Claire or the soldiers until I’ve refined the process, but I haven’t had the time with us being so shorthanded.”

  Patrick’s green eyes widened, and his brows crawled up his forehead. “There she is.”

  Chad looked over his shoulder and saw Claire carrying a tray from the kitchen. The rain had plastered her one stray strand to her cheek, and water speckled her glasses. She approached the nurses, who turned their backs on her and spread out so there was no room for her at their table. The medical apprentices ignored her, as did the soldiers who were well enough to eat in the mess hall.

  “Hey, that ain’t right,” Patrick drawled in a pretty good imitation of the Confeds.

  “Where did a boy from Ireland learn a horrid expression like that? You sound like one of the prisoners. Wait, what are you doing?”

  But it was too late. Even if she hadn’t seen them—unlikely considering Patrick’s flame-orange hair and beard—the Irishman made sure she’d notice them. He stood and waved his arms.

  “Hey you, girl with the glasses, come sit with us!”

  Claire’s face lit with relief, and Chad closed his eyes. I’ve missed that smile. When he opened them, he saw she stood by their table, her brows drawn down in hesitation. Chad gestured for her to join them.

  “Thank you,” she said and set her tray beside Patrick’s. “Word gets around fast.”

  “Not fast enough.” Patrick took her hand and kissed it before taking his seat again. “I had no idea our camp had been graced with such beauty.”

  Chad shook his head while studying Claire’s reaction. Patrick was laying it on thick, but as with Chad, she demonstrated no sign of recognizing the Irishman either from life before the accident or from when Patrick had asked her for directions in Vienna.

  “And brains,” Chad added. “This is Doctor Claire McPhee. She’s a neuroticist from the University of Pennsylvania. She’s going to try to help our wounded soldiers get their heads on straight while their bodies heal.”

  “Oh, a neuroticist.” Patrick covered his mouth. “I’ll be careful what I say around you, then.”

  Claire rolled her eyes. “And now I’ve diagnosed you with a bad case of unoriginality. It’s quite rude considering we haven’t been introduced.”

  “You’ve wounded me.” Patrick pretended she had just bayoneted him. “I’m Civilian Engineer Patrick O’Connell, tinkerer and designer of weapons.”

  Claire’s eyes unfocused, and she pressed her right temple. “I’m sorry,” she said, sounding as though she was speaking from inside a dream. “I get these headaches. I knew a tinkerer once. Or an inventor. There are lots of McPhees in Boston.”

  Chad rubbed his jaw to keep it from dropping. She didn’t remember her own father?

  “We tinkerers are a good sort,” Patrick agreed with a glance at Chad. “I take it you know Doctor Radcliffe?”

  “We’ve met.” She gave Chad a wry smile. “I hope your day got better.”

  “Nah, he’s still sulking,” Patrick said. “Where did you train?”

  Chad tried to kick Patrick under the table. He didn’t want to force Claire into more memory than she was ready for.

  “I worked with Doctor Charcot in France, then trained with the neuroticists in Vienna, and then I returned to the States to the neurology department at the University of Pennsylvania. I’m working on a grant.”

  “Charcot, eh?” Patrick steepled his fingers. “That’s the hypnosis guy, right?”

  “Yes, and the Vienna neuroticists are working on a new theory of hysteria and other mental problems, particularly judicious use of electricity, which has been shown effective for melancholia but not nervous hysteria.”

  “How did you get involved with them?” Chad asked to keep her talking. He had known vaguely what she’d done in Europe, but if she was going to work with his patients—and if he was going to help her—he needed to find out more. Having Patrick there was the perfect buffer. Her animated expressions and gestures dragged him into the past, when he was the focus of her attention, but seeing her gloved hands reminded him of the scars underneath.

  “Well, they don’t have a high opinion of us supposedly ‘weaker sex,’” Claire admitted. “I was first a patient of theirs, and luckily I managed to impress them enough that they kept me on.”

  Patrick nodded. “And they think getting experienced soldiers back on the field by soothing their mental anguish is going to break the war’s years-long stalemate and preserve the union. We’ll see who makes a breakthrough first, you with your neuroticist theories or me with my weapon project.”

  “Deal,” she said and shook his hand. “You’ll have to tell me about it.”

  “It’s top secret,” Chad told her.

  “But then how will I know if he won?”

  “The war will be over, of course,” Patrick said. “After one final battle.”

  “And what is the prize?”

  Now Patrick looked at Chad. “We’ll let the good Doctor Radcliffe decide.”

  Chad stood, exhausted by the day and the mental challenge of trying to dig for information without revealing too much. “If you two will excuse me, I have to round one more time before bed.” He willed it not to, but his hand found the small ruby ring in his pocket.

  * * * * *

  After the nice tinkerer had walked her back to the women’s quarters, which Claire now noticed was a converted hotel, Claire ran into Nanette. Claire had felt strangely comfortable with the two men, possibly due to their warm welcome.

  Or at least the tinkerer’s welcome. The doctor had seemed annoyed by her presence, but she found herself strangely glad he stayed as long as he did in spite of his evident discomfort. His emotions had again been too multilayered to make sense of, but she wanted to know more about him. She couldn’t help but not
ice how handsome he was with his dark skin and striking gray eyes. But then she imagined them turning steel-cold in anger and shuddered. Where had that come from?

  And speaking—thinking?—of coldness, Nanette practically pounced on her when she entered their room and told her, “Your bed is there.” She pointed to the cot, which Claire had made with the sheets provided after unpacking.

  “I guessed that.” Claire didn’t give her the satisfaction of looking wistfully at the featherbed.

  “The bathing room is down the corridor. If you snore, I will throw my dirty stockings at you. Or worse.”

  “I’m a quiet sleeper as far as I know,” Claire told Nanette’s back. Her reluctant roommate slammed the door on the way out. “Well, how’s that for a welcome?” she murmured into the vibrating air. “Note to self—apply for room change once I’m settled.” It didn’t surprise her that no one had wanted to room with the irritable nurse. Or maybe Nanette had been enough of a queen bee she’d succeeded in having women assigned elsewhere until the fort was full.

  Claire blinked back tears. Here I am, odd woman out again. Maybe I should have pretended to be a man.

  She managed to find the bathing chamber and avoid saying anything else that could possibly irritate Nanette, who huffed when she opened the door and saw Claire waiting in the hallway. Claire brushed her hair and teeth and blinked in disorientation when she exited at the rows of identical closed doors on either side of the hall. Her room—Nanette’s room—was first on the right from the stairs, or so she thought.

  “Are you lost, Miss?”

  Claire turned to see a girl of middle teenage years. She wore simple nightclothes and her hair in a wrap.

  “I think so.” Claire rubbed her right ear, which rang with a high-pitched whine. “I’m sharing a room with the head nurse Nanette.”

  “Oh, her.” The girl’s lip curled. “Poor you. It’s last on the left.”

  “Thanks, that’s what I thought.” Claire checked the position of the door and turned to the girl to thank her, but she had disappeared. The silence in the hall almost deafened Claire, and she noticed her ear no longer chimed. A draft made her shiver.

  Hmmm, she must have gone the other way. Claire crept back to her room and opened the door to the sound of a low nasal rumble—Nanette snoring. Claire closed the door, curled up on her cot, and held the pillow around her head to muffle the sound. She’d throw a dirty stocking at Nanette at some point, but not tonight, not until she could get established as an expert in her own right.

  Was there a physician’s lodging? There must be another option.

  Scenes from the day played through her mind, but at some point she fell asleep into the last thing she wanted to dream about. Her neuroticist had told her that when she had nightmares of the accident, she had likely inadvertently exposed herself to something that reminded her of it. That was why she had spent as little time in Boston as possible—being around her mother and aunt had caused nightly dreams of what she didn’t want to remember, both because the images distressed her and because they never included the details she wanted. This time she was aware of herself as an observer in the dream, although still powerless to stop it.

  Chapter Two

  Fort Daniels, 22 February, 1871

  Chad finished his rounds and was relieved to find the barracks room he shared with Patrick empty. He slumped on the cot and moved his head back and forth, trying to loosen the tension in his neck. The hospital was intense enough without this particular wrinkle.

  He reached under his bed and found the storage locker where he kept his personal belongings. It was time to remember what he needed to do for Claire, not for himself. He pulled out the letter that had been unfolded, read, and re-folded so many times it had almost disintegrated into a deck of heartbreaking cards.

  April 4, 1865

  Dear Chadwick,

  Claire’s mother and I are very sorry to have to tell you this, but the doctors have said she needs to go to Europe for treatment. Her reactions to any reminders of the accident have been so severe that we and the medical professionals fear further injury should we continue our current course. The doctors have told us that any reminders of the night of the accident are forbidden at this time. As it occurred on a special night for you, this means she cannot see or communicate with you, as it might upset her already delicate state. We are hopeful Doctor Charcot will be able to treat her, but we will not know until he tries, and he may have to bury the memory of that night permanently for her to move forward. You can only imagine our pain at seeing our daughter like this and having to limit what we can say to her. Words of love are forbidden. If only I had checked the steam chamber before you two took the cart out… Her aunt always predicted something terrible would happen should I continue to “mess with God’s materials.” Luckily her other two aunts left her enough of an inheritance that she will be able to afford the best care in the world, and I have convinced the solicitors to allow her the money early.

  I have enclosed the draft of the engagement announcement and the ring. Please know that whatever loss you’re feeling is echoed within myself, as I am losing both my daughter and my most promising assistant.

  Please find yourself a nice girl without a crazy tinkerer father.

  Sincerely,

  Allen McPhee

  That was the last Chad had heard from Allen McPhee, who had died only a year later. It was said he never recovered from the heartbreak and self-recrimination over what had happened to his daughter. She, meanwhile, had been released to see her family eventually, but her mother had warned Chad off, saying Claire was still too fragile to handle seeing her first love and former fiancé. He’d immersed himself in his medical studies to ease his heartbreak. The military had paid for his education, and he’d gone into battlefield medicine, which included some study of nervous hysteria caused by experiencing life-threatening situations.

  Whatever they had done to her, they’d blocked more than they should.

  “Going through your nightly ritual?” Patrick poked his head around the door.

  “Yes.” Chad re-folded the letter. He needed the reminder to tread carefully. The last thing he wanted to do was cause her more pain. But tonight, instead of its usual effect of pushing him to read more, learn more, and try harder with his own patients, the letter induced a state of melancholy.

  “It’s a good thing we were there,” Patrick said. “I’ve not seen anyone get that kind of cold shoulder since we stopped bringing the prisoners in for mealtimes.”

  “Right, so much for social intervention.”

  “You’re sulking,” Patrick pointed out. “You should stop reading her father’s letter. I wish he was still around—he was famous for his experiments with lens materials. Do you think she might recall any of Allen’s work?”

  Chad shook his head. “If there’s anything in there, it’s probably locked away tight. We should leave it alone for now. Her work with him on that subject occurred at the same time I was courting her.”

  “Hence the sulking.” Patrick patted him on the shoulder. “What did they do to her over there?”

  “I wish I knew.” He stood. “I need something else to focus on. Shall we go to the workshop?”

  “Sure.” Patrick gave him a quizzical look but didn’t say anything else.

  They crossed the yard under a sliver of moon, which sliced through a break in the clouds. He’d formerly imagined it shining on Claire in some far-off land and uniting them in sharing its light, but it failed to cheer him now. Moisture from the rain seeped through Chad’s layers. He thought he could feel the cold in his bones, and his elbow twinged. All of it made him weary and reminded him he wasn’t as young as he used to be.

  Patrick unlocked the padlock that kept their private workshop safe. The only light inside until he lit the lamp was the little aether worm, as Chad thought of it, swirling in the middle of its globe lik
e a snake pulling itself along by biting its tail. While Patrick lit the lamp, Chad moved to his aether intervention device. He wished he knew more about how the substance worked, what it did. All he knew was that it did something to people emotionally, but it was difficult to determine how it would affect each individual.

  “I need a grant to study this at my leisure,” he said.

  “I’m sure some of the boys would volunteer to be subjects for you. They seem to like you, appreciate what you do for them.”

  Chad put the device back on the table. “Too risky. Psyches and their neuroses are all unique. You remember how it had different effects on you and the professor in Paris. It seemed to bring out the worst in you and destructive melancholia in him. I shouldn’t have tried it on Amelie Lafitte—I was probably lucky that it worked as well as it did on her.”

  He turned away, and Patrick caught him by the shoulder. “And do you think it might be getting to you now?”

  “No. I wish it were that easy. This melancholia is all from seeing Claire.”

  “You won her once. You can do it again.”

  “At risk of injuring her, which I will not do.” He placed the hoses with little metal cups back in their case. “You tinker around in here. I’m going to bed.”

  * * * * *

  Driving through the night. We’re laughing and talking, having just come from an important party. Why is it important? I don’t know. He’s driving his new steam cart, but I can’t see his face. It’s too dark, and the lamp on the front only illuminates a few feet into the fog. The coals in the heating chamber in front of me keep my feet warm.

  Claire tries to stop the dream there, to stay in that peaceful, happy moment before all hell breaks loose, but the dream continues. She listens for the sound, the hoofbeats in the dark that draw closer and closer, bringing the moment that divides her life into before and after, the part that makes sense and the part she’s still untangling, trying to sort fragments of memory into logical sequences.