20.March.1888, in the 51st year of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria. London, Anglia.
"Victoria, Africa" was written on the package. Three months, two days, and six hours -- give or take a half hour -- ago, I thought never to see that address again. I didn't want to see it again. I was supposed to be getting over it, remaking my life. There'd already been a memorial service for my heart, so why did it suddenly beat hard, hurting me again?
It had been a different woman, one with an evening appointment for the fitting of her wedding gown, who had started her shift those three plus months ago. Actually it was my second shift of the day; Dr. Dennis Shumacher had sent word of an illness in his family and I'd gone in early to handle his shift as well. University College Hospital doesn't have an over-abundance of qualified junior doctors to stand "on duty." Senior doctors were always "called"; their private practices took priority. But the medical students were required to work under the supervision of a licensed practitioner. So we "juniors" did a lot of subbing for each other. Dr. Shumacher always remembered to use my title; I didn't mind standing in for him.
I remember (how I wish I couldn't!) that it had been a relatively normal day. Mrs. Winchester's baby had seemed a little blue but was perking up; I'd suspected that the ether used on his mother might have somehow reached the unborn, but I am still not sure how to verify that suspicion. Willy Barnes had lost a finger but I had serious hopes I'd been able to save his hand. (We did!) And Mr. Collins had (amazingly!) passed away quietly. I'd been completing the paperwork in his file when Rodney -- one of our hospital pages -- told me the Hospital Supervisor wanted to see me in The Office. I told Rod to tell the Med Assistant where I'd be and took myself off. There's too much to do in a teaching hospital to keep any one waiting, so we try to be as prompt as emergencies will allow.
I nodded to Jane at the secretary's desk; she smiled encouragingly so I knocked, then let myself in. To my surprise, Mr. Warring, my future father-in-law was sitting next to the Supervisor's desk, nervously pulling at his top hat. They both stood as I walked in and the Supervisor - somewhat to my surprise at the time - moved from behind his desk. "Miss Davis," Mr. Warring spoke but there seemed to be something wrong with his voice. I looked at him. I knew he had hoped his son would do better than a female doctor of no family to speak of, but we'd come to accept each other, I'd thought. His face was working oddly. "There's been word...." Abruptly he thrust a piece of paper at me and I saw it was a telegram. "My boy -- Francis." That was all I remember hearing as the stark spare type stared up at me. Then I didn't remember anything more.
I've never fainted before in my life. It does not do for a physician to be squeamish. I doubt that I will ever faint again. That part of me is gone. Buried in some part of darkest Africa along with my scholarly, tousle-headed and so-dear fiancé. My Francis. So energetic, so vital, so involved in his archaeological research and adventurous expeditions, in which I was to become a participant once the vows had been said. Francis.
My supervisor was as kind as a man in his position can be, but I am a junior doctor in an understaffed teaching hospital. There is no room for weeping and melancholia. No place for mistakes due to inattention. No place for self in that bastion of human misery. But there is a great deal of work for those who need to lose themselves therein and so I have. Then I return every evening to my little walk-up, to take out my bottles of whiskey and soda, and try to prepare to lose myself in darkness until it is time to go back to work again. I still have to pay off those bills already accumulated for a wedding that will never be.
This is not the life that we - that I - had planned.
So... what's a package marked "Victoria, Africa", doing sitting before my door in the hall's dim gaslight this evening? Of course, the post left it. I know that. To be more accurate, it is marked "Hiram Palmerson, Asst. to Under Sec. Domestic Affairs, Victoria, Africa" and addressed to me. Somewhat clumsily I brought it inside, juggling my umbrella, doctor's bag, and the small packet I'd bought for my supper tonight.
Inside it was wrapped in a waterproof. Unwrapping that, there was an explanatory note, atop a folded letter and various flattish bundles wrapped in tissue. The first note was from that same Mr. Palmerson saying that the personal effects of an Anglishman recently buried had found their way to him. As the only identification was the enclosed letter addressed to me, he was sending the effects on, trusting that I would see to their appropriate disposition.
My eyes burned. I felt I knew what I'd see when I turned to the aforementioned letter. It was, of course, in my Francis' handwriting. My Francis had been a romantic and the letter was so, as had been all the earlier ones. I could barely read it. I put it into the drawer of my jewel box (which contains very little in the way of jewels: a cameo pin to remember my mother by and the amethyst set Francis gave me after we became engaged), musing over the one oddity that brought no pain. Francis had, at the last, been excited about a rare find, "possibly a piece of the Stele of Aries". He'd written, "Birch would be excited if it's true, but of course it could just be another forgery. I think I have a lead on another bit, but it will take more travel, keeping me away ..." I do not want to remember beyond that. The ache has not yet grown into the "beautiful memory" that the Hospital Chaplain had promised me.
Francis had worked at The Museum under Professor Birch. I knew that. I had avoided the Museum for these last three months. But I knew that the professor was giving a talk at the Society of Geographic and Foreign Studies this evening. I could go to the lecture and send around my card to ask for a moment of his time. One of the tissue-wrapped bundles had proved to be a rectangle of stone engraved with three lines of odd symbols. Not medical although they reminded me a bit of the old planetary symbols that used to be so prevalent in medical writings. Perhaps the professor could explain this last surviving "find" of my dear departed.
I'll have the whiskey later.
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