Page 26 of Healing Hazel

She smiled at the memory. Her friends had always known when she needed them, and it seemed their concern did not disperse with distance.

At the bottom of this box was another card.

Hazel,

I hope you enjoy your holiday with your father and that you do not forget to write often. It is not the same as sharing confidences while we secret ourselves away in a library during a ball, but we make do with what we have, do we not? I have grown quite accustomed to talking with you nearly every day and fear I will miss you dreadfully. I do not know what I shall do if I have no word from you for months.

When I considered what to give you, I thought you would wish for something you could also give. It is always in your nature to do for others. I believe your father would be fond of this painting. And I hope it will bring joy to the holiday. I cannot wait to hear about all of your adventures, but more especially, I cannot wait to see you again, my dear friend.

Love,

Sophie

Hazel sat awhile longer on the trunk, letting the warm feeling of her friends’ love enfold her. She could not imagine a person more fortunate in their association than herself, and even if tomorrow held nothing but bedpans, laundry, and Dr. Jim Jackson’s disapproval, knowing that her friends were thinking of her was enough to give her the strength to shove the trunk back and move the cot before she fell asleep wrapped in a gorgeous silk shawl.

Chapter 8

Jim walked through the Westward, making his morning rounds. Two days had passed since the rescue mission to Santa Rosa, and the number of occupied beds had decreased, either by patients recovering sufficiently to leave the hospital or, in unfortunate cases, the reverse. But Jim was certain the hospital team’s quick response had been effective. The majority of critical patients would not have survived if they’d not been treated when they were.

Seeing a nurse from the corner of his eye, he glanced toward her, feeling a small burst of disappointment when he saw it wasn’t Miss Thornton. He’d hoped for an opportunity to speak with the young lady—not about anything in particular, but he wanted her to understand that he bore no resentment toward her. He was not the type of man to hold a grudge, and before the incident in town, he had thought they were developing a comfortable working relationship. He considered her to be a very promising nurse. She was a quick learner, and her instincts were sharp. Teaching her and watching her learn had been... satisfying. And he didn’t want their relationship to be strained.

He glanced in the other direction, wondering if she might be removing linens from some of the empty beds, but he was disappointed again. Over the past days, he’d caught only quick glimpses of Miss Thornton as she carried bedpans or loads of laundry. Lucía had made certain to keep her busy. A few times, Jim had seen the young nurse carrying the baby or speaking with Jakinda or Miss Westbrook, but he’d not been able to think of a reason to interrupt.

About halfway down the ward, something strange caught his attention. A small table had been set up with what appeared to be some sort of motorized fan blowing toward the beds on one side. He watched it for a moment, and when the fan’s motor stopped, Dr. Ruiz hurried over. He twisted a key in its base to restart the motor and turned the fan to face the patients in the other direction.

“What is this?” Jim asked him while staring at the device.

“Un ventilador,” Dr. Ruiz said. “A... fan.”

Jim turned toward Dr. Ruiz, who was near his own age, small in build and stature, and extremely competent. The quiet man was a native to Spain, which was helpful when it came to communicating with patients, but it also made some of them nervous, as they wondered which side he supported in the war.

“I can see that it’s a fan, Doctor,” Jim said. “Where did it come from? And what is it doing here?”

“The English nurse,” Dr. Ruiz said, motioning vaguely in the direction of the laundry. “She brought it to move the stagnant air.”

Of course she did.Jim had read some of Miss Nightingale’s publications. The woman was obsessed with proper ventilation in the sickroom. It made sense that one of her students would be as well.

“I thought there was no harm in it,” Dr. Ruiz continued. “But if you wish for it to be removed...” He reached toward the fan.

“No, it’s all right,” Jim said, stopping him with a wave of his hand. “I don’t believe it will hurt anything either, and it does get warm in here.” Without opening windows in the wards, “warm” was an understatement. In the summer, they had propped open the doors to the cloister, but the mountain air was chilly this time of year, and with the doors closed, the rooms were stuffy. Moving air did seem healthier. “I’ll have a nurse transfer it to the other ward tomorrow.”

Dr. Ruiz nodded.

In the distance, they heard a blast. Both men tensed and looked in the direction of the sound, waiting, but it was not followed by more.

“I hear from some patients that the Spanish troops and the British Legion are moving closer to the Carlist strongholds,” Dr. Ruiz said, crossing his arms and leaning a hip against the little table. “Bilbao and San Sebastián are still occupied by the rebels, but they will not be safe for long. Another attack will happen soon, if rumors are to be believed.”

“We should be out there too,” Jim said. “The little good we are able to do here is nothing compared...” He rubbed his eyes, frustrated. If only he knew where the attacks were going to happen and when.

Jim checked the charts and vitals of the patients, enjoying the breeze from the fan as he did so. After a few moments, the fan’s motor stopped, and he turned the key to wind it. He studied the contraption. The parts were made of a variety of materials that seemed to have been repurposed from other things. Had Miss Thornton made this?

It appeared he had something to talk to her about.

Jim found her a few moments later in the cloister. She sat with her traveling companion Miss Westbrook on one of the benches, their heads bent close together as they studied something the older woman was holding. A chair was pulled close so Miss Westbrook could keep her ankle elevated, and a pair of crutches lay on the ground at their feet.

“A perfect likeness, isn’t it?” Miss Westbrook was saying as Jim came toward them. “What talent.”

“I was very surprised,” Miss Thornton said. “He will be pleased, don’t you think?”

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