The Forgotten Room(19)
A shadow flickered behind his eyes, and I wondered if he was thinking of his Victorine and wondering why she hadn’t written back, or if she was on the first train to New York. I hoped she was. The sooner she got here, the sooner I could refocus my efforts on being the best doctor I could be without the frivolous thoughts and feelings this particular patient seemed to evoke.
There was a small knock on the door before it was pushed open by Nurse Hathaway carrying a tray of syringes and small paper cups of water. “Good morning, Doctor,” she said cheerily as she made her way to the captain’s bed. “I hope you don’t mind that I let you sleep. I took Captain Ravenel’s vitals and his fever was completely gone. And he was complaining of being hungry and he managed to talk me into bringing him breakfast. I brought it from the doctors’ dining room since the food there is typically more appetizing. Dr. Greeley wasn’t there yet, so it’s probably his. I saved yours in the kitchen so nobody would eat it. I hope that’s all right.”
She winked at me, and as much as I wanted to, I didn’t wink back. “Thank you, Nurse. If he throws it all up because his stomach isn’t ready for solid foods yet, I’ll know who to get to come clean it up.”
“Yes, Doctor.” She busied herself with the patient, taking his temperature again and giving him water to drink. “I also thought you should know that Dr. Greeley is on the warpath this morning. Apparently a file was taken from his office and he wants to know by whom. But I think he’ll discover that he simply misplaced it, and if he searches for it again he’ll find it where he thought he left it.”
She picked up the breakfast tray and placed it outside the room before picking up the medicine tray again and heading toward the door. “I’ll be back later to sponge bathe the patient. Unless you’d prefer to do it again?”
Heat flooded my cheeks as I remembered the frequent cold baths I’d given Captain Ravenel to bring down his fever. I hadn’t even paid attention to his muscled torso or long, lean legs. At least, not in a nonmedical way.
“That will be all, Nurse Hathaway. Thank you. For everything.”
I moved to the windows to push aside the blackout curtain, hoping my complexion would return to normal by the time I was done. The city sprang to life beneath the window seven stories above the street. Since nearly the beginning of the war, New York at night became a tomb of dark-clad people moving silently throughout the dimly lit city, headlights of cars half-covered with black paint. But in the daylight people became like hibernating animals after a long winter, emerging from their caves into the sunshine. I wondered how much longer the war could last. With news of German defeats and the success of the Allied invasion of France, I felt sure it would be over soon. But we’d all been saying that for more than a year.
When I turned around again, my gaze fell on the sketch. I picked it up, unable to resist, and studied it as my mother had once taught me to study artwork. The skill of the artist can be determined from the lightness of his paint strokes and the delicate lines of his sketch work. “Are you a professional artist, Captain Ravenel? You really are very good.”
He shook his head, his face marred with something I could only think of as regret. “No. I just dabble in pen-and-ink sketches. Before Uncle Sam asked me to visit Europe and shoot Germans, I was an art dealer with a gallery in Charleston. My grandfather, however, was a well-known painter. You may have even heard of him. Augustus Ravenel.”
I stared at him for a long moment, wondering if I’d heard correctly. I remembered how his last name had seemed familiar to me, and now I knew why. “Augustus Ravenel was your grandfather?” I sat down in the chaise, mindful of the errant spring. “My mother loved his work. Whenever one of his paintings appeared in a gallery here in New York, she would take me so I could study it. I always wondered why we didn’t own any of his work. My father was a lawyer, and I know we could have afforded a small painting at least. But my mother wouldn’t even consider it. I daresay it would be an odd coincidence if I owned a piece of your grandfather’s artwork now, and here you are, my patient.”
He smiled, his odd eyes watching me closely. “You said your mother would take you to galleries so you could study the artwork. Are you an artist, too, Doctor?”
“Sadly, no, despite my mother’s deepest wishes. She had a love for art although no talent for it. She hoped that I might, so I spent years taking art lessons, but I was a severe disappointment. And then my father died of lung cancer when he was only fifty, and that sealed my fate. I decided then that I was going to become a doctor.”
“That couldn’t have been easy, going against your mother’s wishes. And to pursue a career not many women aspire to. You must be a very strong woman.”
When Dr. Greeley said the same thing, it wasn’t meant as a compliment. But coming from Captain Ravenel’s mouth, it sounded as if he were calling me Cleopatra, the Queen of Sheba, and Mata Hari all at once. I felt my cheeks coloring again, and looked down at the sketch to hide my face. “The likeness is remarkable. If I hadn’t known for sure that you’ve been unconscious for most of the time you’ve been here, I’d accuse you of spending a lot of time studying me.”
He was silent for a long moment, and I glanced up, thinking he must have gone back to sleep. Instead, his eyes were focused on me with an intensity I was unfamiliar with but from which I couldn’t look away. Quietly, he said, “That’s because I’ve been drawing your likeness since I was old enough to pick up a pen.”