maneuver and flirt. Angelica’s manner was girlish and playful and focused very much on James. She tossed an occasional remark to George to prevent him from wandering away, but her preference was obvious. Mary couldn’t be certain whether this was to spite her mother or because she genuinely preferred James.
Mary kept her mouth shut and pretended to knit. Her hand throbbed. For someone who played the pianoforte, Angelica had very sharp fingernails. After a little while, though, the conversation took an interesting turn.
“What I object to,” said James, “is the way Florence Nightingale has become a sort of modern-day saint. Nursing soldiers was one thing, but she’s now the center of a ridiculous cult. When you think of those foolish young ladies leaping onto the first train bound for the Crimea . . . it was dangerous and utterly irresponsible.”
Angelica tinkled with appreciative laughter. “Oh, how true!”
“Every bored old maid in England now thinks herself fit to play battlefield surgeon,” he continued with lazy disdain.
“Without those ‘bored old maids’ in the Crimea, English losses would have been much greater.” Mary managed to surprise herself: that clear, caustic voice was hers. Was she mad, intruding into their private conversation?
All three pivoted toward her.
James merely elevated his eyebrows. “True. But I am speaking of the tendency to romanticize the nursing profession. . . . It is a messy, ugly business, and so very few young ladies seem to understand that.”
Mary raised her eyebrows back at him. “Certainly, the newspapers made Miss Nightingale and her nurses into heroines. They also romanticized the soldiers, and plenty of foolish young gentlemen still manage to buy commissions.”
He sighed patronizingly. “When men enlist, they know they are risking their lives. When gently bred young women flock to a military encampment, they not only endanger themselves; they also distract those who must look after them and who ought to be thinking of other things.”
“And males are only too eager to blame all their shortcomings on the distraction represented by females,” Mary retorted. “As though nurses are the only women in an encampment!”
George’s jaw dropped at her rather obvious reference to prostitutes.
James grinned.
“I had no idea you two were so well acquainted,” snapped Angelica, her eyes small and hard.
James seemed not to notice her tone. “Indeed,” he said blandly, “I have not had the pleasure of a proper introduction.”
George’s face was rigid with disapproval.
Angelica could hardly refuse, although her voice was icy. “May I present to you Miss Mary Quinn. Miss Quinn, George and James Easton.”
George shook her hand as briefly as possible. “A pleasure,” he mumbled, his face suggesting anything but.
James bowed deeply over her hand, his lips not quite touching her fingertips. “
Enchanté,
Miss Quinn. I delight in meeting dangerous radicals.”
She muttered something and snatched back her hand.
“Speaking of nursing . . . I hope your hand is beginning to heal nicely.”
Her right hand was on fire. “Yes, thank you.”
“Did the special salve help at all?” His tone was vaguely . . . insolent, she’d have said, except that he was her social superior.
Mary’s chin lifted a fraction. “Indeed it did.” If anything, the greasy ointment seemed to make everything worse.
“Such a relief to hear that,” he murmured. “And how very kind of that gentleman to assist you so promptly. . . . One of the family, is he?”
What was he driving at? “Mr. Gray is secretary to Mr. Thorold,” she explained in her starchiest voice.
“Ah. I thought I’d seen him before. Have you known him long?”
“Only for a few days, since I was engaged by Mrs. Thorold.”
He raised one eyebrow. “I’d no idea you were so recently engaged. You seem so very familiar with the house.”
Mary gritted her teeth. “You, too, seem to know the house —
Mary kept her mouth shut and pretended to knit. Her hand throbbed. For someone who played the pianoforte, Angelica had very sharp fingernails. After a little while, though, the conversation took an interesting turn.
“What I object to,” said James, “is the way Florence Nightingale has become a sort of modern-day saint. Nursing soldiers was one thing, but she’s now the center of a ridiculous cult. When you think of those foolish young ladies leaping onto the first train bound for the Crimea . . . it was dangerous and utterly irresponsible.”
Angelica tinkled with appreciative laughter. “Oh, how true!”
“Every bored old maid in England now thinks herself fit to play battlefield surgeon,” he continued with lazy disdain.
“Without those ‘bored old maids’ in the Crimea, English losses would have been much greater.” Mary managed to surprise herself: that clear, caustic voice was hers. Was she mad, intruding into their private conversation?
All three pivoted toward her.
James merely elevated his eyebrows. “True. But I am speaking of the tendency to romanticize the nursing profession. . . . It is a messy, ugly business, and so very few young ladies seem to understand that.”
Mary raised her eyebrows back at him. “Certainly, the newspapers made Miss Nightingale and her nurses into heroines. They also romanticized the soldiers, and plenty of foolish young gentlemen still manage to buy commissions.”
He sighed patronizingly. “When men enlist, they know they are risking their lives. When gently bred young women flock to a military encampment, they not only endanger themselves; they also distract those who must look after them and who ought to be thinking of other things.”
“And males are only too eager to blame all their shortcomings on the distraction represented by females,” Mary retorted. “As though nurses are the only women in an encampment!”
George’s jaw dropped at her rather obvious reference to prostitutes.
James grinned.
“I had no idea you two were so well acquainted,” snapped Angelica, her eyes small and hard.
James seemed not to notice her tone. “Indeed,” he said blandly, “I have not had the pleasure of a proper introduction.”
George’s face was rigid with disapproval.
Angelica could hardly refuse, although her voice was icy. “May I present to you Miss Mary Quinn. Miss Quinn, George and James Easton.”
George shook her hand as briefly as possible. “A pleasure,” he mumbled, his face suggesting anything but.
James bowed deeply over her hand, his lips not quite touching her fingertips. “
Enchanté,
Miss Quinn. I delight in meeting dangerous radicals.”
She muttered something and snatched back her hand.
“Speaking of nursing . . . I hope your hand is beginning to heal nicely.”
Her right hand was on fire. “Yes, thank you.”
“Did the special salve help at all?” His tone was vaguely . . . insolent, she’d have said, except that he was her social superior.
Mary’s chin lifted a fraction. “Indeed it did.” If anything, the greasy ointment seemed to make everything worse.
“Such a relief to hear that,” he murmured. “And how very kind of that gentleman to assist you so promptly. . . . One of the family, is he?”
What was he driving at? “Mr. Gray is secretary to Mr. Thorold,” she explained in her starchiest voice.
“Ah. I thought I’d seen him before. Have you known him long?”
“Only for a few days, since I was engaged by Mrs. Thorold.”
He raised one eyebrow. “I’d no idea you were so recently engaged. You seem so very familiar with the house.”
Mary gritted her teeth. “You, too, seem to know the house —
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