Read Chapter 6: The English Nurse

The chill of early morning crept through the ward’s cracked windows when the new nurse arrived. Élise heard her before she saw her—a sharp, clipped voice cutting through the groans of the wounded, demanding to know why the linens weren’t boiled, why the floor hadn’t been scrubbed, why the patients looked like they’d been dragged through hell and left there.

She was tall, broad-shouldered, with iron-gray hair pulled so tight beneath her cap that it seemed to stretch the skin of her forehead. Her eyes swept the room with the cold efficiency of a quartermaster counting rations.

“You there,” she said, pointing at Élise. “What’s your name?”

“Hélène,” Élise said, keeping her voice soft, her accent deliberately clumsy. “Hélène Dubois.”

The woman’s nostrils flared. “I am Nurse Margaret Hartley, sent from Brussels to bring order to this chaos. You will address me as Sister Hartley.”

“Yes, Sister.”

Margaret’s gaze traveled down Élise’s apron, noting the flecks of dried blood, the frayed hem, the way Élise’s hands were raw and red from scrubbing. “You’ve been tending the English officer?”

“Yes, Sister. His leg—”

“I’ve read Dr. Thorne’s notes. The leg should have been amputated.” Margaret’s voice was flat, final. “Instead, you’ve been permitted to play surgeon. That ends now.”

Élise’s stomach tightened, but she kept her face placid. “Yes, Sister.”

Margaret turned and walked toward the corner where Ashworth lay, his face still pale beneath the bandages wrapped around his head and leg. Élise followed, heart hammering. She’d spent three days coaxing that leg back from the brink—draining the wound, packing it with herbs, praying over the flesh beneath her hands. She would not let this stranger undo it.

Margaret leaned over Ashworth, pressing two fingers to his wrist. “Pulse is thready. When did he last eat?”

“Broth, two hours ago,” Élise said. “He took most of it.”

“And his wound? When was the dressing last changed?”

“Dawn.”

Margaret lifted the bandage without asking permission. Beneath it, the wound was pink, angry, but not black—not gangrenous. Élise had watched for that worst sign with every dressing change. Margaret stared at it a long moment, then replaced the bandage.

“You’ve been treating this with what?”

“A poultice of—of herbs,” Élise said, pretending to fumble for words. “From the local women. They know what grows here.”

“Local women,” Margaret repeated, disdain dripping from the words. “And what do Belgian peasant women know of surgery?”

Élise bit the inside of her cheek. More than you, she wanted to say. But she only lowered her eyes and murmured, “They taught me, Sister. I’m sorry if it’s not enough.”

Margaret said nothing, but her jaw tightened. She turned and began rearranging the bedclothes, her movements rough, efficient.

“Begging your pardon, Sister,” Élise said carefully, “but the leg—it’s best not to move it too much. The bone is still knitting.”

“I know how to treat a fractured femur, girl. I’ve nursed men through the Peninsula campaign while you were still learning to sew.”

Élise stepped back, swallowing her pride. She had to stay near Ashworth. She couldn’t afford to be banished from this corner of the ward—not with Dr. Thorne’s wagon still waiting to roll him to Brussels, not with so much left unfinished.

For hours, Margaret moved through the ward like a storm. She re-boiled bandages, threw out Élise’s herbal poultices and replaced them with clean water compresses, rationed the patients’ broth with miserly precision. More than once, Élise intercepted a tin cup that had been poured half-empty, topping it up when Margaret’s back was turned.

By mid-afternoon, the ward was humming with tension. The men—wounded French and British alike—had grown used to Élise’s gentle hands, her careful questions, her willingness to sit beside them through the long hours of fever. Margaret barked orders and expected instant obedience. She had no time for a soldier’s tears, no patience for a boy’s terror.

Ashworth had been quiet all day. That worried Élise more than any complaint. In the mornings, he usually managed a few words—questions about the battle, about his men, about the letter he kept asking for. But today, when she brought him water, his eyes were glassy, his skin hot beneath her palm.

By evening, his fever had spiked. His cheeks burned scarlet, his breath came in ragged gasps, and his hands plucked at the sheets as though fighting a battle only he could see. Sweat beaded his brow, darkening the bandage around his head.

Margaret came when Élise called her, bending over the bed with a frown. She pressed her hand to his forehead and drew back sharply.

“How long has he been like this?”

“Only the last hour,” Élise said. “He was fine at midday—I swear it.”

Margaret’s eyes narrowed. “He was under your care. And now he’s burning up.” She looked at the pitcher on the bedside table, then back at Élise. “What did you give him?”

“Only water. And a little broth.”

“The broth—who prepared it?”

“I did. From the kitchen.”

Margaret’s face hardened. “You French girls and your remedies. Did you add something to it? Some herb to make him sleep? Or worse?”

Élise’s blood went cold. “I would never harm him. I saved his leg. I’m trying to save his life.”

“Or perhaps,” Margaret said, lowering her voice so only Élise could hear, “you’re trying to finish what the battlefield started. He’s the enemy, isn’t he? A British officer. And you—what are you? A French-speaking girl from nowhere, with no proper training, who somehow managed to keep Dr. Thorne from cutting off his leg. It stinks.”

“I am not his enemy,” Élise said, her voice trembling with anger she barely suppressed. “If I were, he would be dead already.”

“Maybe that’s the point.” Margaret gestured at Ashworth’s trembling form. “He was stable this morning. Now he’s burning alive. You’re the only one who’s touched him all day. Who else could have done this?”

The accusation hung in the air. Around them, the wounded men had gone quiet, eyes darting between the two women. Élise knew what would happen if Margaret raised this charge before Dr. Thorne. The wagon to Brussels would come sooner—and this time, it would be a hearse, carrying a patient she’d been accused of poisoning.

She had to think. She had to move fast.

“Leeches,” she said.

Margaret blinked. “What?”

“Leeches,” Élise repeated, more firmly now. “The fever is from inflammation in the wound—the bone, the deep tissue. Bloodletting will draw the heat out. I have them. I brought them myself, in a jar of damp moss.”

Margaret stared at her, suspicion warring on her face. “Leeches?”

“French method,” Élise said, dropping slightly into the accent she usually hid. “We use them for fevers. My mother taught me. If you think I poisoned him, then watch me. Stay in the room. But if we hesitate, the fever will consume him—and your name will be on the death report, not mine.”

It was a gamble. Margaret could have ordered her out, could have called for Dr. Thorne. But it was evening, the surgeon had gone to the command house for dinner, and the ward’s other nurses were occupied with fresh arrivals from the clearing station.

Margaret’s eyes flicked to Ashworth’s burning face, then back to Élise. Her jaw worked as she made her decision.

“Get them,” she said. “But I will be watching the entire time. If he worsens, I will have you arrested before the sun rises.”

Élise hurried to her pack and retrieved the small clay jar she’d carried with her from home. Inside, the leeches floated dark and glossy in the moss, still alive after weeks of travel and use. She’d used them on half a dozen soldiers since the battle—always carefully, always sparingly. She didn’t enjoy it. But it worked.

She returned to Ashworth’s bedside where Margaret stood like a sentinel, arms crossed. Élise took his hand, gently turning his wrist upward to expose the pale skin. The leech clung, engorging. Élise watched his face, waiting for the subtle shift that meant relief.

For a long moment, nothing changed. Margaret’s eyes bored into her. The room was silent except for Ashworth’s ragged breathing.

Then—slowly—the tension in his jaw eased. His breath deepened. The frantic plucking of his fingers ceased.

Élise let out a shaky breath. She applied a second leech to his other wrist, at a punctured vein she’d carefully mapped. Within a quarter hour, his skin was cooler, his pulse steadier.

Margaret watched it all, her expression unreadable. At last, she spoke. “You knew what you were doing.”

“I told you,” Élise said softly. “My mother taught me.”

“Your mother,” Margaret repeated. “A French nurse?”

Élise hesitated. “Yes.”

“You handled that leeching like a field surgeon,” Margaret said, not as a compliment but as an observation. “No hesitation. You knew exactly where to place them.” She studied Élise’s face for a long moment. “You’re not just a peasant girl who picked up herbs from villagers.”

Élise’s heart seized. “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you?” Margaret’s eyes were cold, sharp. She turned to leave, then paused. “I’ll tell Dr. Thorne the fever broke. Your treatment worked. But I want you to know—I was watching. And whatever you are, wherever you learned to do this, I will find out.”

She walked away, leaving Élise standing alone beside Ashworth’s bed, her hands trembling, the empty leech jar clutched to her chest.

Ashworth stirred. His eyes opened, glassy but aware. “Hélène?” His voice was a rasp.

“I’m here,” she said, leaning close.

“Did you hear her?” he whispered. “She’s right. You’re no simple nurse.”

Élise said nothing. She couldn’t.

“Your mother,” he pressed, his fevered eyes catching hers. “What was her name?”

The question was a trap she hadn’t prepared for. But before she could speak, Ashworth’s hand moved, darting toward the hidden scrap of paper she’d tucked into her bodice days ago—the one bearing the name Marie Laurent.

His fingers brushed the cotton of her dress. He knew it was there.

“Marie,” he breathed. “You know the name. You know what happened to her.”

Élise stepped back so quickly she nearly stumbled over the chair. “My name is Hélène. I am just a nurse.”

But the lie felt like ash in her mouth. He was already closing his eyes, sinking back into fevered sleep, but the question hung in the air between them like a blade.

And for the first time, Élise realized that the name she’d kept secret was more than a bridge to her past. It was a weapon—one she now held over a man who would stop at nothing to find it.