Page 24 of The Baron Takes a Wife

“Are you relieved?” Elena asked. “You had been concerned about the meeting.”

“Yes and no. I hate that she was denied greater recognition for her work, likely due to the color of her skin. I can’t forgive them for that. But I am glad our funding and her position are not in jeopardy.” Her jaw tightened. For a moment, Elena was struck by the intense hazel of her eyes, almost like amber. They weren’t quite brown but not quite green. Unlike David’s eyes, which were brown along the edge, but the center was green, like a changing leaf. She felt her heart stir as she thought of her husband’s eyes, then wondered why she knew their color so intimately. Because he followed her with his eyes, a voice inside said, eyes that were both warm and searingly hot, that brought her comfort but also profoundly unnerved her when she thought of the hum in her blood when he gazed at her. Could she take a chance on desire again? Or had it been seared out of her by betrayal, by crude men who pawed at her late at night? She did not know. But she was afraid that she might owe it to herself to find out.

As Elena came out of her thoughts, Maggie continued. “I was on my way to set a young woman’s bone. She came in bruised and bloody last night. Do you think you could help?”

Maggie’s husband was an experienced consulting surgeon often called into emergencies. Maggie, like her mother, had grown up around healing, so she was often entrusted with tasks like setting bones. Elena knew she was asking Annie more than her, with her soothing, steady presence, but Elena felt great compassion for the young woman. “Why don’t you go find Irene?” she said to Annie. “I’ll help set the bone.” Fortunately, even though she was now a baroness, she remembered her nursing skills from her time outside Balaclava.

Annie squeezed Elena’s hand as she left, and Elena returned the squeeze. She could do this. Though why she had decided to was still a mystery to her. She was not one to volunteer to talk to new people. She often stuck to those she felt comfortable with. She could often hide her shyness under many layers, but it was there. Had always been there. Even in her village, she loved talking to those she was familiar with, but most of the people she had known her entire life. Anatole was the first person she’d ever taken a chance on, the first stranger she’d opened herself up to. And look how well that turned out.

She and Maggie walked toward the women’s ward, which, like most of the other wards, did not offer patients much privacy to help the staff with sight lines. She had not thought of these things in Balaclava, as most of where she went, even the hospital, had been somewhat makeshift. Only now that she was in London did she see the full extent of what a hospital could be, although Mrs. Raeburn explained theirs was different from a specialist hospital or a hospital only for women. Often, women who came to the women’s ward were escaping jealous husbands or lovers who had hurt them. Elena knew that bad things had happened to her, but she felt truly humbled when she spoke to some of these women, not daring to share or name her own unfortunate history.

“Who is she, Maggie?”

“She wouldn’t say. She wouldn’t say who hurt her either. Maybe you could talk to her while I look at her arm?”

Maggie led Elena to a young woman who couldn’t be much older than Irene lying with her eyes closed. She had warm skin similar to Elena’s, but instead of golden-brown hair, she had dark brown hair that was matted with dried blood. While much of her had been cleaned up, the blood had stayed in her hair. Elena had a sudden flash of the way to Üsküdar, how her wound wouldn’t heal. What the dried blood did to her hair, the smell of it. She had a moment where she almost cast up her accounts, as she had heard the British say. She steeled herself and looked for a chair to pull next to the cot.

“How’d you get that scar?”

The woman, who had just moments before looked to be asleep, spoke in a rasp. Maggie blinked, then quickly recovered and looked at Elena apprehensively. Elena wanted to talk to the woman to distract her from Maggie’s inspection, but she hadn’t been prepared to discuss her scar. But if it could help this woman…

“It was a man. He cut me.”

“Why?”

From any other person, this would have been a great impertinence. Usually composed, Maggie looked offended for Elena’s sake, but Elena felt compelled to answer. She gave Maggie a slight shake of the head. Why indeed.

“He said he loved me. But I disobeyed him. So, he said he would cut my face so that no one would ever want me again.” Elena swallowed. “But I pushed him and ran, so he only got part of my face.”

Elena took some perverse satisfaction in knowing she had beaten Anatole in this small way. And besides, if love meant jealousy, pain, and heartbreak, she did not know if she wanted anyone to love her ever again.

It had all happened so quickly, the glint of the knife, that feeling that time had slowed down and she had precious few seconds to save herself. She had been lucky that he stumbled and fell, off-balance from her pushing back. That gave her enough time. There were multiple ways back to her village, and fortunately, he did not follow her path, or if he did, it was after he had tried a different route. Or he had merely gotten caught up in the chaos that followed. But then again, Elena had never looked back.

The woman looked her over, not moving a muscle but examining her with her flat, gray eyes. Slowly, she uncurled a fist on her uninjured arm, stretching out her fingers. She studied her hand as she spoke. Elena could not place it, but like her, she did not talk like an Englishwoman.

“I know about that. I said no to a man last night, and he damn well broke my arm. He said no one would want a woman who can’t use her hands.”

Elena didn’t know what to say to that, so she kept silent.

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

Elena shook her head.

“Me either. My grandfather came from Naples. And my mother’s father. My other grandfather, I suppose. They all put me out when I ran off with an Irishman.”

Elena opened her mouth and closed it. Once the woman started, the floodgates of speech opened.

“I know, we’re all papists, aren’t we? That’s what I thought, too, but my family disagreed. Then, my Irishman had to get himself transported and…well, I’ve got to provide for the little one, don’t I?”

Elena did understand. With no one in the world, there were few choices left for women who had been abandoned. She felt an odd, unexplainable connection with this woman, even though she did not know her name. She pulled up the chair she had found nearby and sat.

“My name is Elena. What is yours?” She had decided against giving her title since it meant very little in this instance.

“Annamaria O’Donnell.” The woman’s voice cracked slightly on her surname.

“Annamaria, this is my friend, Nurse Green. She wants to look at your arm. Would that be all right?”

Annamaria nodded and shifted gingerly so Maggie had access to her side. “Are you a lady doctor?”