The Twisted Root

Nightingale School is just about to open." Callandra made a visible effort to look more hopeful. "But I believe they had great trouble finding suitable applicants. A very high moral standard is required, and total dedication, of course. The rules are almost as strict as a nunnery."
    "They don’t call them ’sisters’ for nothing," Hester answered with a flash of humor.
    But there were other issues pressing on her mind. She had thought again of Sergeant Robb’s grandfather sitting alone, unable to care for himself, dependent upon Robb to take time from his work. It must be a burden of fear and obligation to him.
    And how many other old men were there, ill and poor now, who were victims of wars the young did not remember? And old women, too, perhaps widows of men who had not come home, or those who were unmarried because the men who would have been their husbands were dead?
    She leaned a little over the table. "Would it not be possible to create a body of some sort who could visit those people ... at least see to the more obvious troubles, advise when a doctor was needed ..."
    The look in Callandra’s face stopped her.
    "You are dreaming, my dear," she said gently. "We have not even achieved proper nurses for the poor law infirmaries attached to the workhouses, and you want to have nurses to visit the poor in their homes? You are fifty years before your time. But it’s a good dream."
    "What about some form of infirmary especially for men who have lost their health fighting our wars?" Hester asked. "Isn’t that something at least honor demands, if nothing else?"
    "If honor got all it demanded this would be a very different world." Callandra ate the last of her pie. "Perhaps enlightened self-interest might have a greater chance of success."
    "How?" Hester asked instantly.
    Callandra looked at her. "The best nursing reforms so far have been within army hospitals, due almost entirely to Miss Nightingale’s work." She was thinking as she spoke, her brow furrowed. "N e w buildings have been designed with cleaner water, better ventilation and far less crowded wards ..."
    "I know." Hester disregarded her plate, waiting the suggestion which would link the two.
    "I am sure Mr. Thorpe would like to be thought of as enlightened ..." Callandra continued.
    Hester grimaced but did not interrupt again.
    "... without taking any real risks," Callandra concluded. "A poor law infirmary for old soldiers would seem a good compromise."
    "Of course it would. Except that it would have to be called something else. A good many soldiers would rather die than be seen as accepting parish charity. And they shouldn’t have to. We owe them that much at least." She pushed her chair back and stood up. "But I shall be very tactful when I speak to Mr. Thorpe."
    "Hester!" Callandra called after her urgently, but Hester was already at the door, and if she heard her, she showed no sign of it. A moment later Callandra was staring at the empty room.
    "Impossible," Thorpe said without hesitation. "Quite out of the question. There are workhouses to care for the indigent—"
    "I am not talking about the indigent, Mr. Thorpe." Hester kept her voice level, but it required effort. "I am thinking of men who obtained their injuries or damage to their health fighting in the Peninsula War or at great battles like Quatre Bras or Waterloo ..."
    He frowned. "Quatre Bras? What are you talking about?" he asked impatiently.
    "It was immediately before Waterloo," she explained, knowing she sounded patronizing. "It was not a matter of fighting to extend the Empire then; we were fighting to save ourselves from invasion and becoming a subject people."
    "I do not require a history lesson, Mrs. Monk," he said irritably. "They did their duty, as we all do. I am sure that, for a young woman, there is a certain glamour attached to the uniform, and one makes heroes of them—"
    "No one makes a hero of someone else, Mr. Thorpe," she corrected him. "I am concerned with the injured and ill who need our help and, I believe, have a right to expect it. I am sure that as a patriot and a Christian, you will agree with that."
    A variety of emotions flickered across his face, conflicting with each other, but he would not deny her assessment of him, even if he suspected it contained a powerful element of sarcasm.
    "Of course," he agreed reluctantly. "I shall take it under advisement. I am sure it is something we would all wish to do, if it should prove possible." His face set in a mask