State of Ruin

By Kelly Edelman

The year is 1862. Desdemona is an unconventional young lady who wants to aid the Union cause. Despite ineligibility due to her age and her familys disapproval, she volunteers as a nurse at Armory Square Hospital. On her first day, she finds her ward bombarded with an onslaught of wounded men. A large battle just took placewhat would come to be known as the Battle of Antietam, the single bloodiest day of the Civil Warand the casualties are pouring in.

Warren Cleary fought in that battle. He wakes up suffocated behind a shroud of bandages. It isnt until he meets the ward nurse, Miss Kensington, that he discovers how severe his injuries truly are and the small detail that hes a now a Rebel prisoner in a Yankee hospital. Stripped of all vanity and independence, Warren must learn to cope with his life-shattering afflictions and the death of the friend hed been trying to save.

Mona tries to endure the trials of discrimination and hospital horrors, in addition to accepting the courtship of her ward surgeon, Dr. Nathan Angle. Warren teeters between wanting to live as a damaged man or die. As the two try to survive a war pitting Americans against each other, they face betrayals and death and budding feelings between them that throw all into discord. Theyve got to choose whether to navigate through their broken worlds together or apart and decide if they can live with the consequences.

State of Ruin brings to light common obstacles faced during the Civil Wars times of turmoil and devastation. It speaks to what true love is worth, even smothered beneath the tension of a country coming apart at the seams. It speaks to hope and shatters the facade of painted faces and American-Victorian propriety. It is proof that an ending worth having is never without its tribulations but always worth them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532038273

Kelly Edelman

Kelly Edelman, ne Varesio, began her writing career at age 16 with the publication of her first novel, Insperatus, back in 2007. She now has her masters degree in nursing education, and currently lives in New Jersey with her husband, three cats, and dog. Visit her online at www.kellyvaresio.com for more information.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Mona took a deep breath and opened her eyes, gazing into the treetops. Her lungs filled with cold air and the savory scent of autumn gardens around that little forest glade. There, tucked away behind her estate, she could relax and listen to the birds sing and the leaves rustle. She loved it there, hidden in an oasis beyond a weeping willow and a few fallen oaks. She loved its darkness in the chilly November weather, and its primitive silence, despite the noise and traffic of town. Skimming her fingertips across the sparkling pond and watching the ripples spread through the water, she found she could even forget about the war. It was hard to find that sort of serenity anywhere else, ever since Virginia had been torn apart by the dichotomous war turmoil. And yet, like the glen where she and her dog retreated, there were still so many parts of the woods naïve to the horrors of battle. She prayed it would stay that way.

Eventually, her silent reflections were stifled by a voice calling from the house. Mona stood and brushed off her dress.

Come, Freya, she sighed to the wolf dog as it wandered around the ferns. Mama is having a fit.

She wrapped her woolen shawl tighter and headed for the little opening that led out of her secret paradise. Freya, as intimidating as her Nordic goddess namesake, ran ahead with a howl. Outside the forest stretched a long field, and in the middle stood her home—the old, Virginian estate where she and her brother Curan grew up, and her father’s family before them.

Her father was a wealthy man; barely too crippled to enlist in the war, but still spry enough to run his banking business. He was not an old man, but the loss of his leg in a farming accident at the age of twenty made him unfit for battle, as well as farming. Despite the lush grounds he lived on, he’d transitioned from a farmer’s son into a successful bank owner.

As she walked through the gardens to approach the back porch, Mona realized her summons was to mediate a debate. As her parents argued on the porch, Mona’s eyes fell to the carriage stationed in the drive. Her heart sank. Her little brother registered to fight with the Union army—and her mother was miserable over it. Though her family was staunchly patriotic, determined to see the uprising Confederacy abolished, her mother was hardly willing to let her eighteen year-old son become a soldier. And though Mona felt the same, she couldn’t deny the war needed men like Curan. He was young and able-bodied, and it was his duty to fight for his country … especially when it was unraveling at its seams.

Desdemona, her mother exclaimed, eyeing her daughter as she stepped briskly up the porch. I wish you wouldn’t wander off alone like that! She fanned herself harder with a folded newspaper. There were tears in her eyes. Curan is leaving, she snapped. "Right now. Your father is taking him into Greenland. God, this civil war is so excessive!"

Mona held her tongue, silent at her mother’s duress. She was heartbroken too that Curan was leaving, but what could she say? She was heartbroken, yet she envied him. As a man, he could help. As a woman, she could only be of use as a nurse … but she only vocalized that desire once. Her mother snuffed it out faster than she could finish the statement.

Curan doesn’t have a choice, her father said, leaning on his cane as he stood from his rocking chair. His gloomy eyes rested on Mona. Des, you’re passionate for the cause, console your mother and explain it from a female’s perspective. His words redirected to his wife. This is a good thing, my dear. Being a soldier is honorable; it’ll strengthen him, get him out of apprenticing at the firm. Curan hates studying. Lord knows he’ll not make a good banker.

You shouldn’t say such things, her mother said. "He’s going to have to study when this war is over. This will all dissolve before 1862, mark my words. This horrid Disagreement will end and then what will Curan do, with the image of battle scarring his mind?"

Mama, the new year isn’t two months off, Mona countered. "The state is in the middle of secession. There’s no feasible way this carnage will end before the year is out. And besides, Curan may not even be engaged. Lots of regimens are only mustered to patrol or—you know."

Her mother locked eyes with her again; Mona felt her soul being deciphered like words on paper. "I’m glad you can’t go. Her thumb rubbed Mona’s cheek. Though as dusty as you are, you almost look like a soldier. You’re going to catch cold out here wearing nothing but a dress and shawl."

Mona gave a half smile, unpinning her messy, dusty bun. Her long, chestnut hair fell over her shoulders. She combed her fingers through it. Is it my brother I am to be presentable for? Because he’s seen me look much worse, I assure you.

That’s true.

Curan was smiling in the doorway. He threw a small satchel over his shoulder and joined them on the back porch. Despite his tall, eighteen year-old frame, he still looked like her baby brother. His neat blonde hair, doughy cheeks, and blue eyes that could light up a room—they attributed to his naivety. Her mother was right. He wasn’t prepared for the horrors of war. But then again, how could any man rightly be?

Mama, he said, your bickering won’t change anything. You both know Mona would be right behind me could she qualify for a medical position.

Mona wrinkled her nose at him.

Well that is not possible thank the Lord, her mother said, shooting her daggers. Besides, it’s not elegant or healthy. Dealing with sickness and blood—it would crush me.

Oh stop, Mona said, swallowing her frustration. This is Curan’s last few moments on our porch and this nonsense is giving everyone a headache. She fixed her brother’s collar and smiled, staring into the eyes of a young boy. You’ll look good in Union blue, she whispered. And at least your Shakespearean name means ‘hero’ and not ‘ill-fated,’ like mine.

Curan smirked, casting a sideways glance at their parents.

Be safe, she said with a heavy hug.

After a moment of exchanged words and tears, her father and brother entered the carriage. When the horses started trotting forward, Mona held her mother, and they watched as the carriage faded off down the country road.

Mona wiped her eyes, let go of her mother, and sat against the railing. He will make a fine soldier. There has been nothing peaceful about this year, and I doubt it will change over December. Curan is doing the right thing—when such a great, independent nation is dividing, how could he sit idle and do nothing? Her voice fell. God, I wish—

"Don’t speak of it, her mother snapped, tearing her eyes away from their longing gaze toward the road. I will not allow you to run off haphazardly and subject yourself to nursing, and neither will this country. You are only twenty-five for God’s sake, five years too young to be eligible. You are a lady of status, and a hospital is no place for a lady. You can’t give everything up for such dirty, dangerous work. You’re the last thing I have." With that, her mother threw up her hands and retreated into the house.

Suddenly, with of all three of her family members gone, the air grew still. Only the autumn wind, bugs, and distant birds played their music. Mona stepped down from the railing and scooped her large dog in her arms, staring over the fields, trying to clear her watery vision. She couldn’t blame her mother for feeling so hopeless. The war had been raging for months, but relations weren’t getting better and it was so terribly painful to try resuming normal life in a state surrounded by chaos. Their little town of Moorefield was soon to become part of the newest state of ‘West’ Virginia. And worse yet, they were a border state between Union and Confederate armies—which meant places all around them were burning, men were dying, and politicians were busy working out secessions.

Despite her parents’ heed, despite her mother’s words that clung fresh in her mind, Mona felt like sitting in that town, stagnating, was one of the worst fates of all. She couldn’t bear the thought of watching helplessly as the devastation came to a head. She couldn’t watch as her town was infiltrated or burned to the ground by Rebels. Her parents could live in indolence together and wait for the war to come to their doorstep. She wanted to make a difference, like her brother. If she did nothing … all she would ever be able to do was watch the sun set over her estate, like she did every night, certain in the knowledge that the war was closer and closer on Moorefield’s horizon. There would be many more sunsets before the bloodshed would end.

CHAPTER 2

It was a crystal clear night. Gazing through the treetops, Warren watched the stars flicker in the sky above him. Those millions of little flames spattered across the heavens struck a cord within him. He felt a sort of soothing serenity, finally seeing the stars for the first time in over a week. The sky had been nothing but storm clouds and endless rain. But that night, the ground was finally dry, and Warren was pensively settled by the campfire with the boys he would die to fight beside.

It was September of 1862; the warm, clement weather and hearty, crackling fire put everyone in good spirits. However, nature’s peacefulness couldn’t help but give Warren the feeling that cannon-fire and gunshots would soon begin again. It was the symphony of his life for the past year. This time, the regimen had been on the move since their engagement at second Manassas, nearly three weeks since. They’d been camped in Maryland for going on three days because word had it the Yanks were moving in to stop any further advance. Regardless of the gossip, the general had given no word on their next move. So there they were, by firelight, trying to soak up the downtime and pleasant moment, however brief it might be.

Starting a new game. Want to join us, Cleary?

Warren sat up and blinked away his thoughts, leaning over toward the fire. No thanks. He rubbed his damaged, right hand, trying to ignore the empty spot where his fourth finger was supposed to be. I’m gonna turn in for the night.

The boys shrugged and chatted again as the cards were dealt. Private George MacDonald—a hefty, bearded man who went by Mac—smiled and withdrew from the game, then took a seat over beside Warren. Mac was the best friend he had in the regimen. Really, the best friend he had in the world. He was an older man—probably forty-five, fifty. He was like a big brother, a humorous sort who loved a good slouch hat and poetry more than his gun. That was a stark contrast from Warren, who knew nothing of poetry and couldn’t think of a better feeling than fingering a trigger …

Ain’t you feeling good? Mac asked.

I don’t know, Warren said with a shrug, running his fingers through his hair. My ear’s still ringing like hell from the damn shell shot, and it’s been weeks since we left Manassas.

Hasn’t lessened a bit?

No, Warren sighed. Don’t see how it should last weeks, I can hardly hear anything with it. And my hand’s on fire … He tightened the bandage around his palm. It ain’t infected though, I don’t think. Just trying to keep it dry.

Ah, don’t worry, Mac said, patting his shoulder. I reckon you’ll be fine. Nine fingers are better than eight, right? And at least it wasn’t your wedding finger that got shot off. Mac grinned. That fiancée of yours would’ve been awfully angry if you couldn’t wear a wedding band. I know she’ll make you wear one, fiery as she is! Still no more mail from her?

Warren shot him a cold look. No. He stood and pretended a yawn. I’m calling it a night.

Sorry, Mac murmured, lounging back. And as for your ear, that blast just shocked your eardrum. I’m sure it’ll go back to normal soon. Everything will work out, Cleary!

Warren said nothing more; he left his group of soldiers and entered their tent. After tossing off his worn boots and hat, he disarmed and stretched out on his rolled up coat. Restlessness was eating away at him like the plague—especially because of the ringing in his ear. It was so piercing—like a whistle, nonstop, blowing into his brain. Fumbling around as quietly as he could, Warren took up a match from his pocket and struck it against the wooden stake lying in the tent. He lit the little candle that was at the head of his bedding area. With the flame’s light, his hands lit up. He cringed angrily, and gripped his right hand with his left, frustrated at the absence of his finger. All because he reloaded his rifle too late, and that damned Yank had a damned good shot …

He took a deep breath, rolled over, and from his old, leather haversack pulled out two folded pieces of paper, stained and crumpled from a year’s worth of water and dirt. His war-torn mind was brought back to a place of Virginian comfort and simplicity—to the woman he loved and missed desperately.

My Sweetheart,

I fear I shall miss you all too much these next few months. I still wish you had not joined, but I understand your commitment to Jefferson Davis’ cause. All is well here; my mother is being looked after by my two brothers, and my father still has a job waiting for you at the firm. You will make a fine lawyer. Don’t fret over your father; the vile Mr. Cleary has not shown his face in town for some weeks now. It is clear that no one of importance holds his inebriation against you; you are to be a man of class once we are married, not just a farmer that looks after your father’s drunken follies, and then all will be wonderful. I still have my wedding dress prepared on my door, and have so many beautiful pieces of jewelry and pleasantries to show you! I just cannot decide what to wear with my gown on our wedding day. There is a party tonight at the Wilsons’ home I shall be attending with my brother and a friend of his. I do hope you will be able to attend those with me soon, as I hate these silly escorts. Stay safe, I shall write again soon.

Love and regards,

Laura

Written almost a year ago. Damn.

It was almost enough to entertain the thought of deserting. What good was it to fight for a cause that could cost him everything he loved in the process?

Hear me, Cleary?

Warren cleared his throat, shoved the lingering letter in the haversack, and sat up to see Mac entering the tent. Sorry, he stuttered. I was … I didn’t. So you know, it’s my right ear that ain’t working.

Ah, Mac said, taking a seat beside him on the bedding. I’m sorry if I offended you before, I was only funning. We haven’t been able to get much mail anyways. If your gal sent more letters to you I’m sure they were lost. Carriers don’t know where the hell we ended up. We’ve fought how many times together now?

I lost count.

Hell, Mac chuckled, rubbing his ruddy beard and looking up in a daze. Most men are probably wondering what became of us Emerald Guard after first Manassas. The way our company got drunk and caused that nasty ruckus … I mean, so we all got drunk, no reason for the whole of 33rd to hate us.

They only hate us because the colonel announced it.

After Fitzgerald abandoned us, Cummings didn’t want to march with unmanageable Irishmen—hah! What a horrid reputation we got for ourselves, they’re all full of shit. We’re gonna fight our next tomorrow here in Sharpsburg I’ll bet, since the Yankees already started poking and are all fired up about Harpers Ferry. But, at least we’re finally on Union soil. I say good thing for us rowdy Irishmen, we’ve survived this far!

Sure. Though I didn’t plan on being forced to reenlist.

You’re alive, so look on the bright side. At any rate—besides the injuries you earned yourself last time around—you haven’t had any ailments since you came into service with me. That’s saying something! That damned Tennessee quick step has been curdling my stomach for the last four months, and I’ll sure as hell vouch that beef broth hasn’t helped any.

I don’t mean to complain, Warren said with a sigh, tossing his arms behind his head. I’m just tired. For being a year out with all the death we’ve seen, I consider myself lucky to have only lost a finger. Didn’t you want to join the boys in another card game?

Nah, they’ve been playing the same game for weeks. Someone’s gotta teach them a new one. They can’t read or write so they ain’t got much variety I guess. And I ain’t telling the newbies that me and you are literate or we’ll be jotting notes all night long. Mac propped up his shirt in trying to get more comfortable. I’ll say one thing for sure, I wish we hadn’t lost our blankets. Mac yawned and turned on his side, settling in for sleep. Cold weather’s still a few months off, hopefully we’ll forage some before then. Or maybe find some in the backpacks of any Yanks we can plow down tomorrow.

Warren smiled as his confederate curled on his side and drifted off. He quietly took the letter out from where he’d shoved it away and folded it neatly into a small pocket in his coat. He liked to have it on his body whenever conflict was imminent. He missed her; she was all he thought about since last June, the only good thing in his life, and he grew heartsick to think of what she might have been doing for all those months without him …

He turned over and closed his eyes, trying not to dwell on thoughts that kept him awake. It had to be close to midnight, as noisy as the bugs had become, and if the rumors had any truth to them he knew that soon enough they would be at arms with McClellan’s army. They were camped in line formation for a reason.

CHAPTER 3

Sometimes he swore he would kill him.

It was the second time in the past two months he’d thrown his back out working with his father’s horses—who would die of neglect if he didn’t—and all because the old man was too drunk to do it himself.

You’re a fifteen year-old disgrace, the old Irishman coughed as whiskey spilled down his wiry, grey beard. Your mother would turn in her grave to see the way this farm is run, you pathetic piece of shit. She’d hate you.

It’s only been two months, Pa, he winced.

Well she’s gone you little bastard, so get used to it!

His father took another swig of poison and flung the bottle at him. The glass shattered behind him against the barn wall and everything grew dark.

His surroundings changed from dark to light, and Miss Laura Lake appeared—his brilliant blonde doll, dressed in a gown of ribbons and lace. She was just short of being a Southern princess with her appetite for fancy things. She smiled and waved at him, her dimples lighting up her face. She beckoned for him to follow her into town. She pointed to the town hall, where a dance was taking place. He took her white-gloved hand, teeming with pride. Her rosy scent was drowning him in desire. It was like a fantasy; an elegant lady fashioned with blonde curls and a dress of silk, holding the arm of a weather-worn farmer dressed in a second-hand coat—an outfit best fit for town, not a ball. But it didn’t matter; there was laughter and music …

Then, suddenly, he was almost thirty years old. The war had begun. Union men overran Hardy County, took over the west district of Virginia, and it forced him to register elsewhere. His cousins were in the Confederacy, and he wanted to fight for his once Southern state before it further severed over disagreement. Laura took his hand and kissed him before he let go; a beautiful, passionate kiss …

He stepped back and turned to enter through the door to his future, the door to the registration for the 33rd Virginia Company E of the Rebel army. But as the knob turned and the door creaked open, he only saw a bed of black sheets. On it was the pale and lifeless body of his mother, lying in a pool of blood.

Warren flinched from sleep. His shoulder was backhanded with a thud; it was Mac. There was a bugle wailing outside the tent.

Sickness seized his stomach as he tried to orient himself. He buried the feelings of the night terror and prepared his mind for battle. They weren’t camped at a strategic position for nothing; it wasn’t unusual that in such darkness the horn sounded. After a year of service he knew it meant nothing but more combat.

I’ll kill that damn bugle boy yet, Mac muttered as he took to his feet with a big, burly yawn. It’d be too lucky for us to be woken up in the middle of the night for nothing.

That’s his job, Mac, Warren said, blurry-eyed from sleep. "He is the bugler."

I don’t feel like getting shot today, damn it.

Warren grinned as he started up groggily to get dressed in full uniform. Mac’s frivolous attitude was what kept Warren going; as depressed as he felt at times, Mac was the only guy who could lift his spirits. Alongside his comrades, Warren tossed on his hat, slipped his belt through the loops, loaded his cartridge box, grabbed his haversack, and threw on his wrinkled, grey coat that had served as his pillow. The last and most vital piece of his outfit was his trusty Springfield; he’d lost the bayonet months back, but that musket hadn’t left his side since he joined the army. Once dressed, he quickly rewrapped the bandage on his injured, dominant hand—needed to be good and ready to pull a trigger without blood seeping through.

With a sudden, thunderous quake, cannon-fire resonated through the tent. As loud as it was with one bad ear, Warren knew an attack had begun. With that wakeup call, there erupted a clamoring of soldiers throwing on their effects and scampering outside.

It was already warm out in the dark, damp morning; the air was quiet between the sound of more cannon-fire, and the metallic smell of gunpowder was now detectable beneath the dewy scent of the forest. Fog hung low at their feet. Warren joined his coughing, messy rank and stood at attention when his two superiors approached. The young and prestigious Captain Golladay was working his way up the line on horseback, and their stuffy immediate superior, Lieutenant Walton, stood at the end.

Not bad men, Golladay growled with a whiskery smile from atop his steed, making his way toward Warren’s end of the forty-man company. It’s five o’clock in the morning, seventeenth of September. We’ve known McClellan was due to launch an attack and he finally has, not a mile north. Union troops are approaching from the northwest, over Antietam Creek. An artillery duel has erupted in the North Woods, and there’s commotion going on in the cornfield ahead.

Warren took a deep breath and pulled his hat farther over his forehead. He glanced down the line of men forming, watching as his some 250 comrades of the 2nd, 4th, 5th, 27th, and his own 33rd Virginia regimens hustled around preparing for battle; some were years younger than he, some decades older. All of them grinned with bloodlust it seemed; when faced with the reality of another battle, it was the only face that a dignified man could wear. It masked all other sentiment. It was what them Rebels were known for. And at least this time, they were within arm’s reach of the Washington Capitol—once they took that, aid from England and France in favor of the Confederacy would follow.

Golladay spoke with confidence, but his words were quick and shaky. Hooker’s corps will hit us momentarily, he continued. These Yanks are itching to get us out; we gotta shake those sorry generals off our asses to keep our station here on Union soil. They’re in a tizzy about us invading Sharpsburg. He swung his gun over his shoulder and slowed his pace. "I know you Irishmen have been through a cock-load of leaders already, but I’m here now, and I expect that roughhousing reputation you’re infamous for to earn us another victory. Now prepare whatever you need for battle, because we’ve received orders to press forward and attack. We’re about to be rained on by Yankee scum, and we are the front line."

CHAPTER 4

Mona ran her hand gently over her hair, brushing back her dark, stray wisps and taking a deep breath. Anxiety was becoming impossible to hide; she sat straighter, pulled her bonnet farther over her forehead, and continued to wipe invisible crinkles out of her simplistic, charcoal dress. She looked nearly in mourning—but that was necessary. Though her family’s wealth left her regretfully partial to luxury, there could be no more hoops, frills, or jewelry. Not if she was going to be hired as a nurse.

The Disagreement of 1861 that everyone thought would be quick and decisive had become a large-scale Civil War, and no end was in sight. Like a good daughter, she listened to her parents for nearly a year and stayed home, regularly awaiting letters from Curan. He’d spent a few months as a simple railroad guard, but by the summer his unit was mustered into active service. Turmoil was becoming wider spread. Nurses were in short supply. More men were dying in hospitals than anywhere else. And the news was killing her. After those long months of waiting, Mona eventually sent a letter to Washington, requesting an interview to volunteer as a nurse. Her mother was horrified and didn’t speak to her for days; her father merely gave a quiet disapproval, said surely she wasn’t need. They said men were too dangerous—a statement which was true for a lady venturing out alone, across states. But war was more dangerous than men; it was comprised of so many of them.

Days before she left for Washington, as her mother began to accept her decision, Mona was fitted for a few new dresses. She needed to fit the plain requirements to volunteer, so everything she bought was cheap and insipid, dark and solemn in color. It was exhilarating but in the same sense, terrifying. In addition, she was five years shy of the minimum age requirement; if she didn’t present herself perfectly, she would be denied without finishing the interview.

So there she was, after three days of travel, seated alone in a parlor in Washington, waiting for a gentleman to question her. It was the office of the prominent Miss Dorothea Dix—the woman in charge of recruiting nurses for the Union army. Hers were the eyes that needed fooling. Wearing the proper hat, a few hairpins, black farm boots, and one trunk full of nothing but dull dresses, Mona prayed she would pass for age thirty. Prayed she would pass the daunting ‘inspection’ of Dorothea Dix.

Time was fleeting. As she sat prisoner to her thoughts, absorbing the wartime posters plastered on the walls, a gentleman entered the parlor. The lofty, formally dressed man removed his top hat and hung it on the rack. Without greeting, he walked forward and sat at the desk across from Mona. He straightened his spectacles, fingered through some paperwork, then eyeballed her with scrutiny. He cleared his throat with a vacant smile.

Miss Desdemona Kensington of western Virginia?

Yes, sir.

Today’s date?

Seventeenth of September, sir.

Can you tell me your address and date of birth?

She clasped her clammy hands tightly together. She swallowed the lump in her throat and spoke with as pure a voice as she could. My residence is on Oak Road in Moorefield. I am thirty years of age, born on the fourth of October, 1831.

The man didn’t hesitate writing her information down; she took another anxious breath as nonchalantly as she could. At such a desperate point in the war, would they bother spending the time to look up the accuracy of her birthdate, if she appeared of age?

Are you Protestant?

I am, sir.

And why should you be chosen to help our wounded over a male applicant?

Mona held her tongue at first. The man had clearly already labeled her as a secondary life form, the way he was grinning and scanning her. But if that was the world she was entering—one full of dangerous men, as her mother said—she needed to learn how to handle the foreign gender with grace. And wit, of course, when possible.

Women are commonly more nurturing than men, sir, she said, growing hot with insecurity. I have a great fondness for tending to the ill. And as my only brother is in active service, I feel it is my duty to be of some service also. The need for volunteers does not discriminate, does it, sir?

The gentleman’s whiskery, salt and pepper eyebrows rose, and she prayed her cheeks would conceal her nerves. He cocked his head, dipped his pen in the inkwell, lowered his stare onto the paperwork, and proceeded to take notes. She didn’t normally speak with such frankness. Her heart was racing wildly.

Have you no suitor at home, at your age?

No, sir.

And given your nature, does the prospect of caring for men unnerve you?

I have been raised around men my entire life. They are not so different.

The man laughed heartily, taking out a handkerchief to wipe some ink from his hands. I think, Miss Kensington, that volunteer service would teach you otherwise. Do you grow ill at the sight of bodily fluids or humors?

She resolved not to expand on further replies. No, sir.

Are you capable of maintaining specialized diets and providing frequent linen changes to injured men?

Yes, sir.

After penning a few more words, jotting a period at the end of his sentence, he stood and nodded. Without another