Spring Ahead

By C.L. Hadyn

The pain of getting shot is nothing compared to being ripped away from your soulmate.
When Calder Reade, a USN Corpsman, gets shot in the ER of a twenty-first century hospital and wakes up in nineteenth century England, he has no choice but to make the best of it. And the best of it is meeting and falling in love with Angeline Avery.

In a weird twist of fate, Calder loses Angeline to a riding accident, and, heartbroken, joins the Royal Navy where he is, once again, wounded. This time he wakes up right back where he started, and staring into the eyes of an ICU nurse, a woman he never dared hope to see again. And one he hopes will allow him to convince her he’s loved her for over two hundred years before she dials the hospital code for bring a straight-jacket to the ICU, STAT.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Decadent Publishing
• Release date: Oct 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781683615781

Book preview

Chapter One

You are remiss in your duties, husband mine.

Remiss? How so, mon ange?

You promised we could practice making a baby when we retired for the night. So, Husband, here we are in bed, and the night is young.

Calder laughed and gathered Angeline into his arms. You know I think it will probably take the entire night, my dear. Practice does make perfect after all, and I want our children to be perfect, like their mother.

He moved over his wife and nuzzled the sweet spot between her neck and shoulder, but, before he could take her perfect nipple into his mouth, Angeline stopped him.

My love, don’t blame my horse. It wasn’t Violet’s fault she refused the jump. I think something scared her. Dodger will be devastated if you sell her. He took such good care of Violet for me, but if you cannot bear to keep the horse, find someone who will love her as much as I did.

His brain made the connection. He wasn’t cradling his wife preparing to make love. Angeline was dead and gone. It wasn’t her sweet body he was clasping to his own but a linen-covered pillow.

Dr. Calder Reade used the pillow to cover his howls of grief and rage at the loss of his sweet Angeline. His gut clenched with the need to make a huge change in his life before he completely lost his sanity.

Mind made up, he lay awake in his solitary bed until light enough to put in motion his plan to leave his life as a physician-surgeon to London’s upper classes. What he needed was some sort of medical position permitting him to keep busy and tiring enough to forestall dreaming of a wife he would never again hold in his arms.

***

The narrow alley reeked, and the vile smell offended him. He was a lord, and lords shouldn’t be subjected to odors reminding them of how the poorer classes lived. The narrow, refuse-filled alley was almost as black as Satan’s heart, and he picked his way carefully through the Stygian darkness until startled by a quick flash of glowing eyes. Lord Magnus Halleburton kicked the rat away and loosened the sheath on his sword cane. He’d come to hunt but not the four-legged kind of vermin.

Oi, did you bring the gelt you owe me?

He gritted his teeth to be addressed so commonly, but his business in this small level of hell would be concluded sooner if he answered.

Yes, but I’ve got to see you to deliver it. As inducement, Magnus jingled the drawstring bag he removed from his pocket. It’s all here, and I’ve doubled it for a job well done.

When the skinny wraith in cast-off clothes appeared right under his nose, he barely kept his gasp of surprise behind his teeth. He did, deliberately, put distance between them to remove himself from the overwhelming stench of body odor.

Says you, ’twas a good job. You said nuffink about killing a woman. I was only supposed to throw a rock at the horse to scare it a bit. And no thanks to you, I hear she fell from her horse and snuffed it. The coppers will enjoy watching me dance on the end of a rope if they catch me.

Magnus watched as a gleam, very similar to the rat’s he’d passed, came into the young street tough’s eyes.

So, I’m thinking, Your Honor, you owe me ten times our agreed amount, or I might leave a note lying around for the lady’s husband to find explaining how it wasn’t exactly an accident wot killed her. It was you who told me to throw a rock at the horse right as it took the first jump.

Having predicted this scenario, he feigned outrage. You are attempting to blackmail me? I doubt you can even write your name, let alone an entire letter.

He tossed the bag toward the boy. Here, take the money we agreed upon and be gone.

As the boy foolishly let his eyes follow the bag to the floor of the alley, he unsheathed his sword and delivered an expert thrust to his blackmailer’s chest.

With a grimace of distaste, he used the toe of his boot to lift the body away from his money. After pocketing the drawstring bag, the peer deigned to bestow a last piece of advice. If you’d been born with even a gnat’s intelligence, you would have known not to cross a lord.

As he gingerly picked his way out of the alley, Lord Magnus Halleburton mused the same advice should have been given to the recently departed Angeline Avery Reade. She’d played fast and loose with him, and married another man without thought to the consequences of disappointing him. It pleased him to think she’d have a good long spell lying in her coffin being eaten by worms while she rued the day she denied his suit.

At the alley’s entrance, he stopped long enough to look for anyone who could mark his presence at this place and time. Seeing no one interested in his activities, he marched several blocks before hailing a hackney. His watch told him he should quicken his pace to return to his town house to bathe and dress if he didn’t want to be late for his wedding.

Magnus winced at the dirt, and God only knew what else, clinging to his boots, and reminded himself the present state of his footwear didn’t matter a jot. He had but to say his vows, bed his wife this evening to possess a fortune vast enough to pay his gambling debts, and begin the restoration of his family estate and his rightful place in society. But he still couldn’t stop himself from comparing Angeline Reade with the woman he was about to marry. Imogene Black would always come out the loser in such comparisons, but her money would be more than enough to purchase more attractive women, women who knew what he liked and never complained.

Chapter Two

William Chadworth, aka Billy Mace, stood on the pavement across the street from Maison des Jeux, the gaming establishment he worked for as security, and clutched the bouquet tighter to stop his hand from shaking. He’d been bringing flowers every other day to cheer up a very special person. The sudden death of Dr. Reade’s wife, Angeline, affected everyone who knew her, and none more so than Percy Butcher.

Not for the first time, he wondered if he had been too subtle in his attempt to express his feelings through floriography. Perhaps with one of the previous bouquets he should’ve included a copy of Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, and underlined the passages attributing messages told through his choice of flowers. Today’s arrangement of red roses, Forget-Me-Nots, and Baby’s Breath wasn’t subtle at all. It fairly shouted his love, if Percy would but make the effort to unite the message with the sender.

When the notion he must be daft entered his head, he came to an abrupt halt. Maison des Jeux’s night manager, Percy Butcher, was a very handsome man, and one could say stunningly beautiful when he dressed as a woman when he worked the very private section of the gaming club. So, what possible interest could such a man as Percy have in a scar-faced former boxer like himself? The answer was none at all. Shaking his head at his own folly, he crossed the street and entered the gambling den. He’d take the flowers up to the common room on the third floor and leave them for Percy to find. He could always claim ignorance if asked who they were from.

***

The scent of lilacs almost overwhelmed him, and Percival Butcher stopped wafting his fan. The fragrance was usually one he enjoyed, but this afternoon the cloying aroma made his stomach roil. The fault was not the bloom’s. No, the source of his discontent was the sealed letter and prettily wrapped box he’d placed on the table in the small room he used for his periodic tea breaks or to freshen his maquillage. Upon reporting to work, his employer, Maxim Selkirk, had given him the items, and he’d delayed the inevitable until his curiosity got the better of his apprehension.

Sudden, unexpected anger at things he couldn’t change, no matter how hard he tried, made him yank the lilacs from their vase and toss them into the rubbish bin. He was as instantly contrite as he’d been angry. He knew who’d been bringing flowers to the room, and it wasn’t right for him to toss them before they’d lost their freshness. William was a shy, sweet man, and he didn’t deserve to be disrespected so cavalierly.

You’re a right twit, Percy. You’re also a coward. Read the letter, and open the damned box, and get it over with. It’s not like you haven’t had this happen before, and until you get too old and hag-ridden to care, it’ll happen over, and over again. Maybe Angeline Reade had been lucky to be plucked, like the lilacs he’d vented his anger on, at the peak of her bloom while wonderfully, happily, ecstatically in love with, and loved by, her husband. There were, as he would no doubt discover for himself, worse ways to exit this earthly realm.

Percy gave an indelicate snort, considering the fashionable gown he wore, and cursed himself for his overly dramatic response to the letter. As he gathered the folds of his gown and resumed his seat, Percy cobbled together two of his favorite lines from Shakespeare’s Comedy, As You Like It, to sum up his mood this afternoon.

All the world’s a stage…And one man in his time plays many parts.

Chin up, Percival Artemis Butcher, he chided himself, time to open your present so you can make a dignified exit, stage left.

***

William bounded up the steps to the third floor and hurried around the corner to the break room, and stopped dead. Percy was already there, and he stood rooted to the spot while he pondered what to do.

Percy didn’t appear to have heard him, and if he was quiet enough, he might not hear him depart. He should be able to disappear unnoticed; he was light on his feet after all.

His hasty plan went straight to hell when a single tear slid down Percy’s cheek, and he forgot about his own worries to advance into the room and ask, What’s amiss, Mr. Butcher? Is it anything I can help you with?

Percy’s attention fell directly on the flowers he carried, and he silently cursed his stupidity for not remembering he still clutched them in his hand. Ignoring the warmth of the blush on his face, he placed them in the conveniently empty vase on the table.

Percy turned in his chair to face William. Help me? Thanks ever so much for the offer, but I’ve been given my notice. I doubt you can help me change that.

His mouth gaped with shock. Given your notice? I don’t believe it. You are much thought of by the private club members, Mr. Butcher, and I don’t mind going directly to Mr. Selkirk to tell him so. Perhaps it was due to Percy’s shocking announcement, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away as Percy withdrew a lace handkerchief from its hiding place in his bosom, and dried his eyes.

"Ah, Billy, you’re a wonder, you are. Your offer of assistance is most kind, but you misunderstand me. I haven’t been given my notice from Maison des Jeux. I’ve been given notice by my lover."

His face tightened with unaccustomed jealousy at the knowledge someone had beaten him to Percy’s affection. Percy invited him to take a seat, and he covered his failure to seat himself with his usual grace by asking, I didn’t realize you were romantically engaged, Mr. Butcher.

You’ve managed to hit the nail precisely on the head, Billy. I’ve been sitting here pondering the exact same thing. Ah, you’re looking confused.

Percy removed the gold pocket watch from the pretty gift box and checked the time before saying, Neither one of us has to be anywhere for a half hour. Would you care to hear the trials and tribulations of Johnny Barrow, Mr. Mace?

Johnny Barrow? I’m afraid I am unacquainted with anyone by that name.

"Yer looking at him, Billy. I was born Johnny Barrow on Bermondsey Street, Parish of St. Mary Magdalen. Me Da owns a tannery on the River Neckinger and had high hopes of me following in his footsteps, only I hadn’t the stomach for scraping the hair off putrid animal hides, or dipping my hands in piss to tan the leather. About the only thing I took with me when I ran off at seventeen was the notion Mary Magdalen herself was looking out for me, because I snuck into a theater to get out of the cold and managed to worm my way into a private box to watch a dress rehearsal for Shakespeare’s Othello. It was supposed to be a dress rehearsal, but the woman who was to play Desdemona had scarpered with her lover to Gretna Green and they’d just found the note. I distinctly remember hearing the stage manager swear, ‘Who in the hell can we find to stand in for her at this late hour’ before I up and yelled down from the box, ‘I will.’"

I figured I could do it, because I could read as good as those actor blokes, who were using pages to read their lines. It was more walking around in costume and reading a line or two when it was my turn. And it was the first time I ever wore women’s clothing, but it felt amazing, and it worked. The stage manager hired me on the spot.

He offered a comment, but Percy held up his hand. If you are going to ask why I didn’t pursue acting, I’ll tell you it was because I was dreadful at it. I could read the lines and wear the clothes, but I had no stage presence, and my voice didn’t carry, as everyone discovered when the play went public. Fortunately for the livelihood of the rest of the cast, the real Desdemona came down with a case of cold feet and returned after my sole performance, but her dresser, who’d found other employment, didn’t return, and I asked for the job.

William smiled and nodded. No one would ever call you timid.

Timid is never a word that applies to me, William. Mary Haney was the actress who took me under her wing and taught me what I needed to know to be a theater dresser, and she also taught me what I needed to know to pass for a woman. I met Germaine at a cast party. He was a renowned Shakespearean actor until he retired two years ago and, as he was fond of saying, my beauty put him under a spell worthy of one of Macbeth’s witches.

It does indeed, Percival, William blurted and immediately looked away, his face bathed in color.

Percy tilted his head at the compliment but chose to continue his story rather than embarrass him further.

It was Germaine who changed my name from Johnny Barrow to Percival Artemis Butcher, but he pronounced it like a Frenchy, ‘Boucher’. The only fly in the ointment was Germaine’s wife. She was the mother of his children and he refused to leave her, but he was as faithful to his ‘special mistress,’ as he called me, as he was to his wife. It didn’t matter a whit to me if Germaine was twenty years older, but I knew this day was coming. His children are married and gone, and his wife inherited her parents’ estate in Italy.

He gave a noncommittal hum as Percy picked up the letter and waved it at him.

Germaine has so informed me he intends to spend his remaining years enjoying the sun and the wine in Italy, and being a doting husband to his wife whose health is declining. He included the watch as a token of affection. See, it has a fob charm of the two theater masks, Comedy and Tragedy.

Percy’s sigh as he fondled the charm, broke his heart, but he remained silent. Percy hadn’t finished his tale.

Truth be told, Billy, I saw the signs of our demise long before this letter arrived. The twenty years Germaine had on me were beginning to make a difference, but I loved him enough not to mind the fact we only cuddled when he arranged an assignation. And, with Germaine’s fame as an actor, and my dismal little bed-sitter apartment, a place for us to be together was very hard to find. Alas, the script wasn’t written for Johnny Barrow to be a husband, or even a wife.

Percy’s dejected posture and weepy eyes made him blurt, My name is William Chadworth. Billy Mace was my boxing name.

His declaration made Percy sit up straighter and take one of his hands. He closed his eyes and held still as Percy studied the scars on his knuckles and gently kissed the largest one on his index finger.

So, tell me about Billy Mace. It’s only fair. You know my antecedents, what are yours, William Chadworth?

He gave a slow nod of acquiescence. My father is an Anglican Minister, an important one. He’s on the Archbishop of Canterbury’s staff. I was sent to university to study Divinity. Like you, I was expected to follow in my father’s footsteps, and like you, I hadn’t the stomach for it. Unlike you, I didn’t have the courage to leave and seek my own way. He looked down at the table as he toyed with Percy’s fan. "But sometimes life has a way of making the decision for you. My father came up to the university for a surprise visit, but he was the one who received the surprise. He caught me en flagrante with my roommate. To say he caused a scene would be an understatement. I was immediately disinherited, pulled from university, and told all of my possessions still at home would be given to an alms house or burned, so there’d be no need to return for them."

Better to have all your clothes burned than be drowned in a barrel of piss, as my da would have done to me if he’d caught me in the act.

Ah, yes, quite, he agreed. I left the university immediately, and my roommate, who was more worried about my father telling his parents than about how I would survive, didn’t waste his breath saying goodbye. I had nowhere to go, nothing to live on, and only the clothes on my back. But there were two of my university friends who had enough intestinal fortitude to come up to the mark. Lord Pinkney gave me his pocket change, which was enough to set me up in a bare room and groceries for a week, and Maxim Selkirk, who sat me down and helped me figure out how to make my way.

He held up a clenched fist. You see, in a strange reversal, I was going to go from a man of peace, a Divinity student, to a man of violence. I’d already established a reputation at university as a decent boxer, and Max suggested I make it a career. He made the introduction to a man who knew something about bare knuckle boxing, and Billy Mace, the boxer, was launched into the rougher side of gentlemen sports. Pinky and Max never abandoned me and, from time to time, if I needed ready cash, Pinky would spot me. I always repaid him. Max, in the flush times, would invest my purses for me, and he has an excellent head for investments.

He fingered a puckered scar under his eye and smiled. As you can see, I wear my victories and losses on my face. It took years to look this good. Percy reached out and cupped his cheek. You wear it well, you do, Billy.

Please don’t call me Billy. Billy is a name I left behind when I stopped boxing. I prefer William or Wills. My mother called me Wills.

As you like, Wills. Tell me, why did you stop boxing, and why are you working here?

To gather his thoughts, he rearranged the flowers in the vase. "I stopped boxing because I didn’t need to anymore. My investments, thanks to Max, made me comfortable. Comfortable enough to invest in Pinky’s plan for Maison des Jeux."

Cor, Wills, you’re an owner here? Why ever are you masquerading as security?

He could feel the flush start to rise and couldn’t quite meet Percy’s eyes. I enjoy working for a living. I still invest the wages I’m paid for being on staff here. I’ve gotten so used to living modestly, to flaunt my wealth doesn’t appeal to me. Max and Pinky know my feelings on this and respect them. I’ve always been a private person, Percy.

Percy reached out and tapped him on the arm with his fan.

You are a veritable enigma, you are. Only the Oracle at Delphi surpasses you.

While Percy spoke, his brain screamed, Do it, ask him, ask him this very minute. You might be rejected or you might win what you desire. He’d never failed to come up to scratch in the ring, and he wouldn’t fail today. He removed one of the roses from the vase and handed it to Percy.

Have you been trying to tell me something, Wills? Percy accepted the rose and ran the velvety petals over his cheek. Red chrysanthemums, lilacs last week, and roses and Forget-Me-Nots this morning. I’m not blind, I can read the flowers, as Mary Haney taught me, but I have no idea why you’ve singled me out, or what you expect of me. Are you asking me to be your special mistress like I was for Germaine?

No, he thundered as he stood so abruptly, he knocked his chair over. He got himself under control and righted it. When he looked at Percy’s startled face, he regretted his outburst and softened his voice.

No, Percy, I don’t want you to be my mistress. I want you as my lover, my partner, my mate. I have a town house one street off Hanover Square, and I want you to move in with me.

Percy didn’t immediately vacate the room, and he dared to hope.

Why, Wills? Why me? What’s so special about Percy Butcher you would pursue me?

I find you beautiful inside and out, Percy. Whether you’re in breeches or skirts, I still find you beautiful. You have compassion, and you see all the way through me. You see the person behind this scarred face, and I see the tender heart you keep hidden behind your outrageousness.

He watched as Percy clasped his hands together and put them on the table. The fact his knuckles shone white made him nervous.

I don’t think I can change for you, William. I am what you see. I like being outrageous and flaunting rules. I like coming to work and interacting with the people here. As much as I’d like your protection, I don’t think I can become a true mistress and sit at home in your house awaiting your pleasure. And believe you me, the boy who was born in a Bermondsey slum is yelling at me for being a daft idiot to say so. I guess you can chalk up another fault of mine, Wills, I don’t have the common sense of a goose. What person in their right mind would reject such an offer, I ask you?

He went down on one knee and took Percy’s hands in his. An honest person would. I don’t want to change anything about you, Percy. I’m not asking you to give up a job you love. The only thing I ask is for you restrict yourself to one lover, me. We can’t marry, but I willingly pledge my faithfulness to you, and I’d like you to do the same. Will you have me, Percival Artemis Butcher?

He came to his feet when Percy stood. "Before I answer your question, I want you to know while I am the manager of the private section of Maison des Jeux, I am not for purchase. I earn a wage here for helping to run this private club within a club for like-minded gentlemen as smoothly and efficiently as any hotel.

I dress as a woman because it tickles me to do so, and I like seeing the admiration in men’s eyes. I also work hard as the night manager in the gaming rooms to keep business running smoothly. I am not in the business of prostitution. I accepted Germaine as a lover because I’m human and I need to feel loved, but I was faithful to him, so, if you still want me, William Chadworth, I accept your offer and your terms.

He opened his arms and Percy moved into them, and looked up at him with an impish grin.

Kiss me quickly, Wills, it’s past time we should be at work, and if you do a thorough job of it, I’ll need time to repair my face.

Oh, Percy, my life is never going to be dull with you by my side, is it?

Dull? Never, Darling.

Chapter Three

Former Royal Marine, Sergeant Oliver Rowntree, looked between Dr. Calder Reade and the doctor’s apothecary, Archie Briscoe, and scratched his head in frustration. "Dr. Reade, I’ve been avoiding answering your questions because I hoped you would give up on your plan to join His Majesty’s Navy.

"I implore you, please take the time to look before you leap. I know you are distraught over losing your wife to a riding accident, but to leave your practice and join the Royal Navy as a ship’s surgeon is…is…pardon my bluntness, Doctor, ludicrous. You know nothing at all of life at sea.

"The daily struggle with bad food, foul weather, miserable living accommodations of being crammed face-to-foot with nine hundred other men will be hard for a man used to the finer things of life. And then there’s the overwhelming fear, the horror of seeing limbs blown off by cannon shot, or holding a dying man in your arms as he vomits blood.

If, in any way, I romanticized what my life was like as a Royal Marine, Doctor, I apologize. The truth is, I lived with the knowledge I could be killed, either by musket shot, or cannonballs, flying splinters, or from shipboard accidents like falling out of the rigging, every single day I swung my legs out of my hammock.

Calder opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it when Oliver held up his hand in a stop gesture.

"I chose a life at sea because, after my mother died, it offered me wage enough to keep my sisters fed and a roof over their heads, and I eventually got inured to the horrors of it as I worked my way up the ranks. But you, Doctor, you would be jumping in with no prior experience.

Once you’re aboard ship, and in the middle of the ocean, you can’t simply throw your hands up and say, ‘Oh, sorry, this isn’t for me. I’d like to be put ashore immediately, please.’ I don’t know if His Majesty’s Navy can flog a civilian, but as it’s in the middle of a war with Napoleon Bonaparte, I’d imagine it can, and the commander of a man-o’-war has the authority of God aboard his ship, and your professional credentials as a civilian physician-surgeon would carry no water with him.

Calder studied the sergeant who left off speaking and paced about his office, muttering to himself and shaking his head. Oliver’s reaction to his request for information on how to join the Royal Navy hadn’t surprised him. One would have to be crazy, indeed, to leave a cushy civilian job for the horrors of naval life. Or, his stricken heart added, mad with grief.

What did surprise him was Archie’s lack of reaction when he’d revealed his intentions, as did his continued silence throughout Oliver’s vociferous objections. Turning to his apothecary, Calder quirked an eyebrow and whispered, "Shall I tell him about Gweilo Same-Same?"

Archie continued to watch Oliver’s agitated pacing for a moment before speaking. I think you’d better, or you’ll have to tie him up and gag him before he’ll let you out of this room to sign up as a ship’s surgeon.

Calder waited until he caught the sergeant’s eye before ordering, Sit down, Sergeant Rowntree. Please.

When Oliver threw himself into one of the two chairs in front of his desk, Calder gestured to the empty one. You, too, Archie. I need you to offer verification of my tale so Oliver won’t run out of here in search of able-bodied men to carry me to the madhouse.

Calder didn’t immediately launch into speech, despite the expectant look he received from the former Marine Sergeant, but steepled his fingers and rested them lightly on his lips as he cast about for a logical beginning for a tale which, if this had been the twenty-first century, Oliver might find plausible, but this being the nineteenth, Oliver might very likely gather his sisters and leave his house forthwith.

He opted to begin with, Oliver, do you know the feeling you get when, for no apparent reason, you break out in chill bumps and you give an involuntary shudder?

Yes, Doctor, like a goose has run across your grave.

Calder flashed Archie a grin and responded, Yes, exactly. Well, what I’m about to tell you is going to give you such a feeling, but I swear it’s all true. Please do me the courtesy of hearing me to the end, and I’ll answer as many of your questions as I can. I won’t lie to you and say I will answer all of them, because, truthfully, I don’t have all of the answers, but I can assure you, you, your sisters, or anyone else in my care, are in no danger from me.

Oliver Rowntree settled more comfortably in his chair and cast a decidedly Royal Marine Sergeant skeptical look his way before nodding his agreement.

I am twenty-five years old, soon to be twenty-six, but I was born in 1993, not 1779, as you might assume. I was born in the United States, your former colonies, who by then had reached great power status and eclipsed the mighty Great Britain in power and wealth.

Oliver gave an involuntary, Huh?

Calder made a let me continue gesture. My future self was, erm, is a Naval Corpsman. It’s sort of an emergency medical assistant. It was my job to use my medical skill to keep the combat wounded alive long enough for them to be transported to the rear to be operated on by surgeons, who, in most cases, were able to save the man from death. We called that giving the patient his ‘Golden Hour.’

So, you’ve seen combat?

Calder answered the sergeant’s question. Yes, quite a bit, actually. In my future time, marines fight mostly on land, but they get to the battlefield by ship. However, there hasn’t been a great naval battle since the year 1988, when the United States Navy sank two Iranian warships and as many as six speedboats.

Iranian? Never heard of any country by that name.

Ah, you call it Persia in this time. Not wanting to get sidetracked by a geography lesson, Calder continued. It takes a great deal of training to become a skilled corpsman, and I was serving an… I’ll call it an apprenticeship, at a civilian hospital to study emergency surgical procedures, when I was shot by a fellow out for retribution against the unfortunate man I was attempting to save from bleeding out from a gunshot wound. Next thing I know, I’m waking up in the nineteenth century in the middle of dinner with my ancestral relatives. The easiest way I can explain it is, I believe I was sent here from the future to do something.

To do what, exactly?

Ah, Sergeant, there is the conundrum. I thought it was to be a physician-surgeon, to treat nineteenth-century patients with my twenty-first-century knowledge, but after Angeline’s death I wasn’t so sure. The sorceress said I was brought to this time to treat the sick, but the manner in which I did so was not clear to her.

Archie broke into the conversation for the first time. I believe her exact words were: ‘You are a healer sent to this present time to heal. The manner in which you heal isn’t clear, so be careful the manner you choose.’

Calder’s lips twisted wryly as he thanked his apothecary. Thank you, Archie. Sergeant Rowntree’s strong objection made him return his attention to the Royal Marine.

Sorceress? What nonsense is this, Doctor?

Calder cautioned, Bear with me, Oliver, and I’ll explain. In my time, the twenty-first century, we have many pharmaceutical or medicinal means, as yet unknown in this time, for treating a host of diseases. You’ve seen Archie and me making one of them from moldy bread. It’s called penicillin, and it treats infections, and it can cure sexually transmitted diseases, if administered in time. However, some of these remedies are not herbal in nature. They cannot be homegrown by letting mold form on bread. They must be chemically manufactured, and the process is complicated and expensive, and totally beyond present means of manufacturing. As a way of getting around this stumbling block, I decided to use an alternative source, an Oriental source. Traditional Chinese medicine, based on the meridians or pathways through the body, has been effective in treating disease for centuries, and despite current Western thinking, is much more effective than what surgeons or physicians know of the cause of disease in this time.

Oliver held up his hands. Like spreading disease with dirty hands?

"Precisely. And for this reason,