A Terrible Beauty (Season of the Furies Book 1)

“A Terrible Beauty”

Season of the Furies - Book 1

a novel by

Stephanie Patterson

© May 18, 2012

This book is a work of fiction and although it references and contains certain historical incidents and figures, the names, characters, places constituting the rest of the plot line are products and therefore the intellectual property of the author. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locals or organizations are entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2012 © Stephanie Patterson

All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Dedication

For my Mother who made a habit of placing pivota
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books in my hands knowing that they would lead me somewhere. Her choices that led me here – “The How and Why Book of Florence Nightingale” and “Nurses Who Led The Way.” Nurses were among my first heros – right next to Wonder Woman. Many of us realize that they are actually one in the same. I also dedicate this book to Florence and Mary who didn’t understand the meaning of ‘no,’ nor the term, ‘a woman’s place,’ and to the thirty-eight other brave female souls who walked through the doors of Barrack Hospital and changed the future.

Prologue

Barrack Hospital, Scutari, Constantinople, Turkey

November 5, 1854

The stench struck her before they’d even reached the hospital entrance – the stench and the sound of hundreds of men moaning and crying for help. Belle lifted her handkerchief to cover her nose, fighting the impulse to gag as she leaned heavily against railing of the steps. It was as if the very odors of death, rot and contagion had formed on impenetrable wall, halting their progress. The air was thick with flies, their constant buzz creating an audible hum throughout the area. The insects landed on their caps, their cloaks, crawling on them – too many of them to be driven away. She looked around frantically for anyone, anything the least bit familiar. One of the nurses bumped into her back and Belle heard her gasp.

“I can’t do this,” the young woman said. Belle thought her name was Molly. “I can’t go in there. I won’t.”

Good, I won’t be the only one to run away, Belle thought as she turned to grasp the other woman's hand. Surely no one would blame them for leaving. No one could. A movement in front of her caught her eye. Miss Nightingale, her face, a study of calm, stood at the entrance to the maelstrom. Her very presence commanded obedience from the women who’d come to know her and to trust her as they trusted no one else. Her voice called out clear and strong and Belle clung to it as if it were a rope pulling her out of a roiling, black sea. “Ladies,” she began, “we are trained to ease suffering and the sights and sounds of suffering, even as egregious as these, must never deter us from our duty. Nursing is not a job to be laid down when it becomes too difficult. It is a calling, a vocation. I ask you for the sakes of the men in this desperate place to begin as you mean to go on. It is not only myself who asks this of you, but it is your Queen as well. Just as surely as these men showed so such bravery under fire, you too must now show the courage of your conviction. Care for the sick and wounded. Help them as you can and if nothing else, ease their passage from this world. The next few weeks will be among the most difficult of your lives, but with determination and our faith in God, we will prevail.”

Tears threatened Belle’s eyes – tear’s of humiliation because for all of her noble intentions she’d been so willing to cut and run before they’d even begun. And where would she go anyway? “Begin as you mean to go on,” she whispered to herself. Belle turned to the white-faced Molly and linked arms with her.

“Come on, Molly,” she said, trying for bravado, but only managing a sound above a whisper. “We’ll face perdition together. Besides, we’ve spent all our money on our kits.” They clung arm in arm as they moved up the steps and Belle attempted a slight smile as they passed Miss Nightingale. The other woman inclined her head in acknowledgment.

Belle heard there had been a fire at Barrack Hospital and the evidence remained. Soot still smeared the walls and the floors were completely burned away in some places. She concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. The smell inside was much worse than outside and Belle fought to keep from vomiting. She was certain that the only thing preventing any of them from fainting was their fear of contact with the floor. Filthy straw lay everywhere, trapping blood and worse against the slippery wood. Rats darted brazenly down the corridors, unnoticed by the orderlies who were powerless to stop them given their sheer numbers.

Open buckets of human waste were scattered haphazardly among the rows of wounded soldiers. The men themselves lay abandoned on rotting piles of straw used as makeshift pallets. Those with enough strength, tried to knock away the rats who sought to feast on the men who had no strength left to defend themselves from the rodents' onslaught. Those who’d died, however, suffered the worst indignities of all from the rats’ attack. One by one, the nurses succumbed to the filth and devastation around them. Molly ran to the closest window. Belle kept walking, tears running down her face, her head turning back and forth to look at the dying men who lay in agony in the tattered and blood-soaked remnants of their uniforms. Some called for help, reaching their trembling hands towards her. They had no blankets, no medicine because the supplies were still being unloaded from the ship. Belle felt weak and useless. She had nothing to offer them, nothing to bring them comfort nor peace – not even hope.

Two of the orderlies pushed past her, cursing her for getting in their way. They dragged the body of a soldier off a straw pallet, and carted him off. A wave of stench hit Belle as they passed her and she was unable to hold down the gore rising from her stomach. She barely made it to the window in time. Once she began retching she feared she would never stop. With every gag she remembered how she’d come to be here in this place that God, himself had turned His back upon. She hated her stepfather. She hated Michael Lassiter. God, she even hated her mother at this moment for being so weak and foolish as to marry that monster. Most of all, she hated herself, because if Andrew Lassiter ended up in this hell hole, she was the person who'd put him here.

The days passed in a blur. Endless, mind-numbing hours of scrubbing the wards – floors, walls and windows with Eau de Javelle and carbolic solution. Miss Nightingale had brought supplies from England, purchased with donations, as well as with her own funds. It gave Belle a sense of pride to know that her mother’s jewelry suite had gone for such a noble purpose. She’d never have been able to stand the sight of the amethysts again, much less bear to wear them. The orderlies put the bedsteads together, grumbling the entire time at having to follow the directions of a woman. Even the most resistant of them was no match for Miss Nightingale, however. Under her orders sewer drains were repaired and the waist buckets cleared away. The decomposing rats beneath the floor boards were removed and any holes repaired to deny access to the vermin. Wounded soldiers received baths and clean nightshirts before being transferred into actual beds where they received regular food, water and what medications were available.

Belle stored the last bottle of carbolic solution and then began counting and storing the bottles of zinc sulphate. She frowned as she checked the inventory list. Two bottles of ferric chloride and three of camphorated vinegar were missing. She’d have to check the supply closet they’d set up in the sixth ward. Perhaps they’d been placed there by mistake.

“My hands are so cracked they keep snagging on the bandages and linens,” Molly complained, stretching her back, “and my Ned used to love my hands. ‘Mol,’ he’d say, ‘I never knew hands could be pretty ‘til I seen yours.’ Now look at them.” She held up her hands for Belle to examine. They were cracked and raw. So were Belle’s, but she still sympathized with the other woman. A year ago she’d had long fingernails and a maid who’d rubbed rose water and glycerine into her skin daily. She smiled wistfully. “There’s lanolin salve. We’ll smell a bit like mutton I expect, but we’ve smelled worse.”

Molly chortled. “Better than goose grease.” The other young woman put a hand on her hips and studied her friend for a moment. Belle knew what was coming – the inevitable questions about why was she here and not tucked away somewhere in England, happily married with several children. She’d kept her distance from the other nurses, friendly in a quiet, reserved way, but nonetheless remote. Of all the women only Molly continued to ignore her polite, but firm boundaries, claiming a particular kinship with Belle since they’d faced the horrors of Barrack Hospital together on the day of their arrival. Molly believed that kinship granted her special license to press Belle for answers and Belle couldn’t refute her logic. The two young women may have came from vastly different backgrounds, but they still had much in common. They’d both known sorrow and loss. Molly, only a few months older than Belle, had already buried her husband and their child.

“You never talk about your people,” Molly began.

“I’m not much of a talker,” Belle said as Molly came to stand beside her.

“No, you’re not and I can’t help feeling it would be better for you if you were. You keep too much inside yourself, Belle. Everyone says so.”

“Everyone is entirely too curious about me. There’s nothing to tell.”

“No, I suppose not,” Molly returned shrewdly. “Except where you learned to hold your knife and fork the way you do, or why you drink your tea like you was sitting in a parlor with some duchess or other. You speak like quality and I’m thinking that before you took your training you’d never done a real lick of work in your life.” Belle turned back to the crate she was unpacking, but Molly, as usual, would not be put off. “So I’m thinking there’s a real story here, Belle. Why else aren’t you married to some handsome, young gentleman. A face like yours can make a man overlook a lot.”

“Somethings are best left alone, Molly.” Belle said, quietly.

“Maybe. Just so you know you’re not alone should you ever need to talk.” Belle met her eyes and saw the kindness there. “We all came here to help for our own reasons,” Molly continued. “Some reasons better than others, I suppose. Just know that I’ll stand as your friend no matter what.”

Belle felt a lump form in her throat and she longed for the emotional release of a good cry. She’d lost her capacity for tears, though, at least the ones for herself, shortly after arriving in Scutari where the world was one enormous wound that never healed. She wanted to tell Molly that if any of the nurses had known Belle before her fall they would have despised her. She wanted to confess her list of crimes and explain why she’d committed them – to tell Molly the whole sorry mess her life had become before being brought to the hospital on Harley Street. However, now was neither the time, nor the place. Instead she whispered, “Perhaps one day, Moll, when I’ve sorted it out myself.” Molly nodded and squeezed her arm.

Sudden commotion in the corridors caused both woman to abandon their tasks and follow the sounds. Within moments their matron had them scurrying into position at the admittance tents. The ships from the Crimea, carrying the wounded from the battle of Inkerman had landed. Now all their training as nurses, all their preparations would be put to the test.

Belle took her place in the reception tent ready to clean and tend the wounded before they were taken into the hospital. Before the day ended she would help tend more than fifteen hundred men and boys and among them she would find her salvation.

Araby

Chapter One

London, February 1853

“The Bloomquists hold such haphazard affairs,” Lady Arabella Winston remarked to her friend behind the confines of her fan.

Lady Katherine Saunders gave her own fan a dismissive flick. “They invite all manner of people with no real regard for their suitability,” she agreed. “There's definitely mutton loose amongst the lamb tonight.”

Both young ladies surveyed the ballroom from the relative seclusion of the potted palms used to decorate the northern end of the room. Their faces held similar looks of haughty disdain, a warning to others not to trespass on their privacy. The ballroom was their kingdom and other debutantes, as well as young gentlemen, knew better than to garner their displeasure. Lady Katherine and her friend were members of an exclusive and notorious trio of young beauties known as, The Furies. Earning their wrath led to crushing set downs, missed social opportunities, even outright ostracism and Lady Arabella Winston, known to fashionable society as ‘The Incomparable Araby,’ was their leader.

The Furies glided through the ballrooms and salons of London rending hearts and hopes at whim, three nineteen-year-old goddesses united by their power to captivate those around them. Their gowns were not merely fashionable, they set the fashion. Their wit was pointed and as far-reaching as a javelin. The Furies' power was absolute, their judgments, inescapable and without mercy. For marriage in fashionable society was an earnest business and never something to be left to chance. Fierce rivalries were commonplace when competing for the season's crop of available peers and no one was better at outdistancing the competition than The Furies.

Lady Katherine brushed at an errant crease in her gown, her lips forming a displeased pout. It was all artifice. Katherine Saunders didn’t pout. She held a keen intelligence coupled with a rapier wit and used both freely. However, she’d recently decided that a slight, pouting expression, used sparingly, made her more alluring to a certain young viscount. “One can hardly navigate the ballroom without treading on some member of the merchant class or another. Don’t they have curfews for commoners, or something?” she asked. She tugged at the wrist of her glove in annoyance. “Where’s Sarah, by the way? She should be here by now. I want to know what happened. Nobody's so much as mentioned Damaris Kingsford all night.”

Araby drew a steadying breath at the mention of her rival’s name. She’d longed to remain at home this evening. It was only her wish to avoid another confrontation with her stepfather that forced her to attend this evening’s event. “You just mentioned her yourself,” she replied coolly, though she was far from feeling the boredom she affected. So many things remained at stake for her, for them all. Damaris hadn’t come to any real harm she reminded herself, and the entire incident may have been successfully covered up. Still, if connection were made between the Furies and Damaris Kingsford's abduction, then society’s patronesses would exact swift and terrible retribution against all three of them.

The abduction scheme was a desperate attempt by Araby’s stepfather, to ruin Damaris Kingsford, thereby eliminating her as Araby’s rival for Jules Wentworth, the Earl of Arland and heir to the Strathmore dukedom. Araby only hoped the Furies would emerge unscathed from last week's series of catastrophic events. She could worry about securing Arland later. Perhaps Damaris had been returned home with none the wiser – an unlikely outcome if Lord Elkton, her stepfather’s fellow conspirator had his way. Araby shuddered delicately.

Lord Elkton, a man of questionable grooming habits, was a lecherous hanger-on who'd gambled away his own fortune long ago and needed a well-dowered bride to refill his coffers. Damaris Kingsford, in spite of her ordinary ancestry, suited his needs perfectly. Her guardian had settled a sizable fortune on the girl making her near irresistible to a man of Elkhorn's stamp.

Araby would feel better once Sarah, an avid indulger in scandal sheets, penny dreadfuls and lurid gossip, appeared and told them what tales had made the rounds of today’s salons.

As if summoned by her friend's thoughts, Sarah Jane Melbourne hastened through the crowd, clusters of her mahogany-colored ringlets bouncing around her jaw-line. Without a word Araby led them all towards the terrace. Once outside, she held up her fan to insure no one spoke before she'd satisfied herself that none were close enough to overhear them.

“What have you heard?” she asked Sarah without preamble.

“She’s safe, no thanks to us,” the other girl replied, her tone a blend of fear and anger. Sarah had always operated as conscience for The Furies, restraining their actions before any lasting damage occurred. Araby wished that they’d listened to her a week ago before everything with Damaris Kingsford had gotten so far out of hand.

“Good. That’s an end to this dreadful business,” Katherine stated. “When Arland returns....”

“It's hardly the end,” Sarah continued, her eyes still searching Araby’s face. “They’re married.” Araby’s stomach dropped to her knees.

“Damaris and Elkhorn?” Katherine whispered.

Sarah shook her head. “Damaris and Arland.” Araby gripped her folded fan so hard its spines made a cracking sound. The night spun around her. She’d known it was a possibility once Arland learned the truth and set out to rescue Damaris. Still, she’d believed her own hold on Arland great enough to prevent his complete defection. Katherine placed a hand on her shoulder. Araby jumped at the unexpected contact. Oh God, what would become of her now. “What will he do to me?” she whispered, not realizing she’d spoken aloud, however softly.

“Arland will likely tarnish all our names,” Sarah began, “and it’s no more than we deserve. This is by far the worst thing we've ever done.” Her head drooped as if the shame was almost too much to bear.

Katherine glared at her, “Arland is the least of her problems, you dolt.”

“True enough. His father is a duke and then there is Damaris’ guardian to consider as well. Once word reaches him....” Sarah's voice trailed off. There was no need for her to finish her statement.

Araby fought the panic threatening to engulf her. There was someone much more lethal to her than either of those men. She drew in a ragged breath. Where could she go? What could she do? He’d guess that she was the one who'd written Arland about the abduction. He’d learn of the marriage and this time her stepfather might just kill her. Oh God, how would she ever protect her mother?

“There are other peers, Araby,” Katherine said quickly. “Many of high rank. You can still pull off a fabulous match. Arland can’t sully any of our names without doing the same to his precious Damaris. Married or not, she would still be at the center of a scandal and Arland's sister will make her debut next Season. His father will see the sense of remaining silent, even if he does not. So will Damaris’ guardian, come to that. None of them want scandal at their door. You still have your reputation. You are still the Incomparable.”

It was too much to take in. All her plans had gone so hideously wrong. Arland could still destroy them all with just a few well-placed words. She never should have written him that note, even anonymously, yet if she hadn’t.... Ultimately her stepfather would blame the failure of his plot on her. This called for a swift change in strategy.

Araby made a quick calculation. The Grantham’s affair was in two days, another ball in three. If she could get through the evening, perhaps begin a mild flirtation. “Who’s here tonight?” she demanded. “Someone who will suit.”

“Lansing, Coltrane. Marshwell has his eye on Sarah, so no good looking there.” Katherine patted a straying silver-blonde curl back into place. She paused and gave her fellow Furies another of her shrewd looks. “Iredale. He’s recently back from the Continent. He’s presently a viscount and one day he'll become a marquess. His purse would give Croecus a run for his money.”

“Eminently suitable,” Sarah murmured drily.

Katherine laughed, a light, but brittle sound. “You’d do well to look to your own future, Sarah, but that’s a lecture for another time and place. I suggest we return to the ballroom ladies.” She reached out and pinched Araby’s pale cheeks. “Best foot forward. Remember, Arland can’t touch us without inviting scandal into his own house. Certainly your family will be...disappointed at the news of his marriage to that little nobody, but with Iredale in your pocket, you will be all right.” She gripped her friend’s shoulders as if to steady her. “Trust me on this.”

Araby nodded, fighting to stop the spinning sensation in her head. She lifted her chin and curved her mouth into a stunning smile by sheer strength of will. Everything would be fine, she told herself as they entered the ballroom. It had to be. After all, she was the Incomparable Araby and any titled man would be thrilled to claim her as his bride.

Katherine sighed. “Oh, Lord, don’t look now but here comes your spaniel.” Araby turned to look over her shoulder. Andrew Lassiter, youngest brother to the Earl of Stowebridge crossed the room and moved steadily towards them. He was all she needed to make a further disaster of the evening – an impoverished third son trying to claim her attention when she had none to spare. Her stepfather would be less than pleased if he noticed Drew at her side again and the man would be volatile enough tonight once word of Arland's marriage circulated throughout the ball. Araby prayed her stepfather remained in the card room. He and his cronies usually played deeply enough that they rarely paid attention to any gossip floating about. She watched the young man wend his way through the crowd towards them. Every so often someone in one of the groups he passed would stop him to make an offhand comment and more often than not the comments drew laughter from the other people. Drew’s face stiffened and colored slightly before he continued on his way.

“For Heaven’s sake, why don’t you set him down hard, Arabella?” Katherine demanded with a flourish of her fan. “The boy is a menace.”

If they only knew how much of a menace he really was, Araby thought. Andrew Lassiter had the power to ruin any chance she had of landing a peer simply by making a careless remark to the wrong person. He was far too observant for his own good, or for hers. He’d once witnessed the results of her stepfather's burst of temper first hand and correctly surmised the source of her bruised forearm a few days later. Araby had tried laughing denials, aloofness, even cajoling him to let matters rest, but the boy was determined to be her champion, completely ignorant of just how dangerous a man her stepfather could be.

“He’s a sweet boy,” Sarah remarked as she gave Katherine a stern look. “He’s just a little young, that’s all.”

“You mean immature. He’s no younger than any of us, but he’s firmly tied up in his mother’s leading strings. Besides, he was always such a sickly child,” Katherine replied, her lip curling ever so slightly in distaste. “The last thing you need tonight is him frolicking at your feet like an over-exuberant pup, Araby. You have no time to waste if you want Iredale secured by the end of the Season.”

“I know,” she murmured. She’d learned from experience that the best way to deal with Andrew Lassiter was to grant him a country dance, flirt enough to render him incapable of cohesive conversation and then embarrass him. Nothing too harsh, but something guaranteed to make him turn red and garner a chuckle or two at his expense. He’d keep away from her for the rest of the evening.

Katherine made an exasperated sound as the young man stopped in front of Araby. He included all three of them in his bow as he greeted them in turn. “Lady Arabella, Miss Melborne.” He delivered a slight pause. “Lady Katherine.” Katherine stared down her regal nose at him. She hadn’t missed his slight. Her father was of higher rank than Araby’s and Sarah, though the grandniece of an earl, was only the daughter of a knight. Katherine should have been acknowledged first. Andrew Lassiter, Drew to those he counted as friends, knew exactly how to deal with Lady Katherine Saunders' derision. His mouth turned up ever so slightly at one corner. Araby dropped her gaze and pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. Really, Katherine could be so high in the instep – a trait learned at her mother’s knee and constantly drilled into the girl since childhood. Not many young men held their own against Katherine and Araby felt a surge of admiration for Drew.

“Lady Arabella, I was hoping you had an unclaimed waltz,” he said clearly and without even a hint of nervous stammering. He looked up at her with sincere adoration and Araby realized that if Drew were allowed to come into himself he would one day be not only handsome, but charming and perhaps even a little commanding. She steeled herself against softening towards him. It would only endanger them both.

“Hope springs eternal, as they say,” she drawled as she arched one of her perfectly shaped eyebrows. She knew the effect suited her. “Don’t you ever get tired of being rebuffed, Drew?”

“Yes,” he replied with candor, “but not enough to stop asking for a waltz.” His blue eyes held a soft, open expression and when Araby looked closer she saw the one thing in them more dangerous to her than anything else – sympathy. She immediately bridled. If he'd heard the whispers of Arland's hasty marriage to Damaris Kingsford, so had others. She looked out over the ballroom trying to discern any twitters, or sneers cast in her direction. There was nothing apparent and she turned her attention back to Drew. How dare he feel sorry for her. He was not even her social equal, not here in her kingdom where cachet counted more than social rank. Very well. In short order he would find his sympathy misplaced. He could have his waltz, but she doubted he would be smiling by the time it ended.