“I’ll just help in the kitchen,” Emma replied, recalling the mess she’d left after preparing the sandwiches.
She filled the teapot with hot water from the kettle, went to the fridge for a can of Carnation milk, and set it on the table, leaving the men to discuss the situation further. She then hurried upstairs to her room to select a few books for the patient—who would no doubt need plenty of rest in bed over the coming days. Some good books might help him pass the time.
Oliver Harris, restless and agitated, confused about where he was, tried to sit up in the strange bed, but his body refused to cooperate, so he collapsed against the pillow.
The nurse in the kitchen hung up the telephone and returned to his bedside. “How are you feeling now?” She laid the back of her hand on his forehead.
“Knackered,” he replied. “But thank you for ...”
What was the word? He couldn’t seem to articulate his thoughts. The nurse—Abigail was her name—had explained that he was in a weary state after a seizure but that he would feel normal again soon.
He’d never had a seizure before. What in God’s name had happened? He remembered the shipwreck, but the details were muddled. A short while ago, Abigail had fed him some warm broth and asked to remove his shirt because he was having some pain on his left side. She’d found some severe bruising and diagnosed him with a fractured rib. He didn’t doubt Abigail, but he had no recollection of how that could have happened. He barely remembered the wreck, much less how he got to shore. Everything over the past twelve hours was broken and splintered in his brain. Only fragments were accessible.
“Just doing my job,” she replied as she sat down in the chair beside the bed. “Although I’m not employed as a nurse here. It’s Philip who works for the government, taking care of the weather station.”
Oliver spoke slowly, grasping clumsily at words. “So, it’s my good luck that you have nursing skills?”
“Good luck indeed,” she cooly replied without smiling, without looking him in the eye. “We don’t get many shipwrecks these days. I suspect this lifesaving establishment is running on borrowed time. It’ll soon be a thing of the past.”
The seizure had drained him. He felt nothing but darkness in the depths of his core. He turned his head on the pillow, away from her. “We all become relics sooner or later.”
He felt Abigail studying his profile. Not wanting to appear weak, he forced himself to meet her gaze.
“Where did you learn to be a nurse?” he asked with fatigue.
She raised her chin. “I served in the Great War,” she told him haughtily. Or perhaps she was just proud. “I spent time in France and saw more head wounds than I care to remember.”
He shifted on the bed and felt a sudden agonizing wrench in his side. “Oh, God ...”
“Is it your rib?” Abigail rose quickly and leaned over him.
He tried to change his position, but the room began to spin. “Whoa.”
She touched his arm. “You might experience some vertigo over the next few days, and nausea. Difficulty concentrating. But it’s all normal with a concussion. You’ll need to get plenty of rest.”
“I’m not accustomed to being at rest,” he told her, feeling sick and wretched.
Three aggressive knocks sounded at the door. Abigail’s gaze swung away from him, irritably. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”
She stood and walked out of the room. Oliver lay sleepily, eyes closed, listening to the storm still raging outside. Despair pressed down on him, along with a terrible sense of defeat.
Faintly, he heard Abigail open the door. “What are you doing here?”
A woman’s voice replied, or perhaps it was the voice of a child. It was difficult to make sense of things after the seizure and through the noise of the storm.
“I brought some books for the patient,” the lady said, “and I wanted to help you tidy the kitchen. I’m sorry I left you with such a mess earlier.”
Abigail spoke in a clipped tone. “I took care of the mess already.”
Oliver opened his eyes in time to see a gust of wind blow violently into the kitchen. A few papers flew off the table.
“But I have these books I’d like to lend to the captain,” the young lady persisted, more firmly this time, standing her ground.
“Fine,” Abigail replied. “Come in, then. But you can’t stay long. He tires easily.”
Oliver closed his eyes again.
Emma removed her boots on the McKennas’ rubber mat and hung her coat on the hook. Abigail had already disappeared into the room off thekitchen where the captain was resting, so Emma tentatively followed in that direction, where she paused in the open doorway.
