True to Her Heart

By Martha Schroeder

Lucinda Harrowby was a vicar s daughter with few resources beside her beauty and intelligence. She fell in love with wealthy businessman Jeffrey Bancroft, but couldn t determine if his proposal was from duty or love. So she became a nurse in Scutari with Florence Nightingale. Ironically, she was the one chosen to show Jeffrey what the troops needed and perhaps what both of them desired. Second of the Angels of Mercy trilogy. Historical Romance by Martha Schroeder; originally published by Zebra

• Language: English
• Publisher: Belgrave House
• Release date: Jul 1, 2001
• ISBN: 9781610848343

Book preview

TRUE TO HER HEART

Martha Schroeder

Chapter One

Lucinda Harrowby straightened the white apron she wore over her dark gray nurse’s uniform and took a deep breath. She had been summoned to Miss Nightingale’s office and wondered what the director of nursing at Scutari Army Hospital wanted. She knocked gently and was directed to enter.

As always, she was surprised at the contrast between the force of Miss Nightingale’s personality and the slightness of her physical presence. Slender and gray eyed, Florence Nightingale did not look like the strong and decisive leader she was. She had a lovely smile and a musical voice. Lucinda had admired her from the moment they’d met, and time and familiarity had only added to her esteem.

Ma’am? she said as she entered. You sent for me. What can I do?

Miss Harrowby. Miss Nightingale never addressed her nurses by their first names. She wanted them to be regarded as professional workers, and she treated them as such. I have a task I think you are uniquely fitted for.

Lucinda could feel herself swell with pride. "Yes, ma’am."

We have a traveling gentleman who is coming to Turkey with a large subscription he has raised. He wishes to know what our needs are. She raised her eyebrows and gave a slight smile. I suppose we could say ‘everything’ and let it go at that, but I think he will require guidance. He is also going to ask Sir Stratford de Redclyffe.

Ah, said Lucinda, understanding what Miss Nightingale did not say. Sir Stratford de Redclyffe was the British ambassador to the Ottoman Empire at Constantinople. He had spent years in the post and wielded immense influence—and he adamantly refused to admit the British Army needed anything. Its system of procurement and distribution was perfect, as was every aspect of British life, as far as Sir Stratford was concerned.

Yes, said Miss Nightingale, a wealth of meaning in the single word. So I would like you to show this gentleman around the hospital and give him the sense that Sir Stratford may not see the whole picture.

I understand. Lucinda smiled.

I was sure you would. Miss Nightingale smiled back. If there was anything that made her job easier, it was a quick-witted and willing assistant like Lucinda Harrowby. Dedicated nurses like Catherine Stanhope and Rose Cranmer constituted the other pillar on which she built, but at this moment she needed Lucinda’s skills.

When will the gentleman arrive? Lucinda asked, mentally rearranging her nursing schedule.

He is staying at the embassy, and Sir Stratford is sending his carriage here. Miss Nightingale looked up at Lucinda. You know how Lady de Redclyffe is when traveling gentlemen arrive at the embassy. It may be some time before he can break free and come here to begin his work. I understand he wishes to go over our work very carefully.

Very well. Lucinda turned to go. Then she turned back. What is the gentleman’s name, ma’am? In case I run into him before he finds your office. It would be easy to wander about the enormous hospital for some time before finding Miss Nightingale’s tiny office—-the hub of all purposeful activity.

He is a Mr. Bancroft, Miss Nightingale said without looking up from the letter she had recommenced writing.

Lucinda could feel the color drain from her face and then come rushing back. Jeffrey Bancroft? she whispered.

Miss Nightingale did not look up. She never wasted a moment. "Yes, now that you mention it, I believe his first name is Jeffrey. Do you know him, Miss Harrowby?"

"Yes, ma’am, Lucinda said. She had herself under control now and her voice was carefully colorless. We have met."

Good, said Miss Nightingale. That should make it easier.

Lucinda doubted that most sincerely. She slipped out the door and closed it softly behind her.

They had met. Actually, Lucinda thought, collided would describe their encounters better. She had tried to entice him. She had made a dead set at him, and he had seen through her. Just thinking about it made her cringe.

She made her way out of the hospital and into the fitful sunshine and piercing cold of a Turkish December. In a way, Jeffrey Bancroft was the reason Lucinda had asked to join Miss Nightingale’s band of thirty-eight. Her only nursing experience had been with the ordinary illnesses of a household. Indeed, most of her nursing had been at the bedside of her aunt, a confirmed hypochondriac. Hardly the necessary preparation for serving wounded soldiers.

Lucinda rubbed her arms to keep warm as she walked about the brick courtyard, enjoying the few moments of outdoor activity she allowed herself each day. But the thought of Jeffrey Bancroft intruded on what she tried to keep a tranquil time.

Why him? Of all the hundreds of rich, self-made men in England, why was he the one who chose to raise money for the troops in the Crimea? The dispatches of John Russell, the correspondent from the Times, had transfixed the British public, giving them for the first time in history daily reports of the suffering and privation endured by Her Majesty’s troops. The new telegraph had made it possible. In the aftermath of the descriptions of the suffering of the troops, the Times had raised a large subscription to aid the men. Miss Nightingale had been asked to help administer the money, and she had chosen Lucinda to help.

Now they would have even more money, raised by Jeffrey Bancroft from among his fellow industrialists. If anyone else had come bearing such a gift, Lucinda would have greeted him with the combination of hard-headed good sense, glinting humor, and judicious flattery that had melted any opposition she encountered at Scutari. She would have gotten just what she wanted— soap, writing paper, blankets, tin trays, forks—the list was endless and not very romantic. Most people wanted to give something lasting, something they could put then: names on. She would have convinced any other man, twisted him round her finger with a smile and a guileless look.

But not Jeffrey Bancroft.

* * * *

She could still remember his deliberate coolness at Mrs. Raleigh’s dance. Her cousin Priscilla had noticed and, as always, giggled,

He must have found out you’re nothing but a poor relation, Priscilla had said, but Lucinda had scarcely heard her. For the first time, her beauty and charm had failed to win her what she wanted. She had chosen Jeffrey Bancroft, deliberately chosen him out of the many young men who had fallen under the spell of her glossy black curls and the blue eyes everyone compared to pansies.

Then she had fallen a little under his spell—the spell of a rich and handsome man who came from mysterious beginnings and had the smile of a pirate. His interest, intent and flattering, had led her to think he would respond to her if she let him see she had a mind and a heart to go with her looks. So she had made a tactical error and allowed him to see she was more than sachet and sugar.

And she had lost him.

No, it is not that, she had absently told Priscilla. If he wanted an heiress, he could have his choice. He doesn’t want money. He doesn’t need it. Nobody knows where he came from, but they know he has more money than Midas.

Like many men, she had thought, he might prefer a wife who would be totally dependent on him. Besides, she was sure he did not know her circumstances. She had hoped to keep him ignorant until she had firmly attached him, but she had misplayed her hand. The thought infuriated her.

Who is Midas? Priscilla wanted to know. I’ll bet you talked about him to Mr. Bancroft and that’s why he’s ignoring you. Priscilla smirked.

Priscilla hated it that Lucinda, a penniless nobody of a cousin, was considered pretty, that she could talk to Priscilla’s father without stammering, and that she received more compliments wearing Priscilla’s old dresses than Priscilla herself had garnered when they were new.

But Priscilla gloated when Lucinda sometimes let the learning her own scholarly father had taught her before he died shine through. It invariably brought a scold from Priscilla’s mother. And now Priscilla would be delighted if it had cost her a beau—the most desirable one of all.

Lucinda knew Priscilla was right, but she would not give Priscilla the satisfaction of learning the secret.

She had voiced an opinion to Mr. Bancroft that not only should a woman not entertain but that was contrary to Mr. Bancroft’s own. Why had she done it?

Sometimes, usually at the worst possible time, her father seemed to be speaking to her. She had admired and loved him, and in many ways she still did. But she had realized upon meeting her uncle that she was not like her unworldly father but rather his brother. She was the practical one, the down-to-earth daughter who took care of her saintly father.

It is that dratted war, that’s what it is, she had fumed. The Reverend Augustus Harrowby had detested war. He was the only man in the village who did not admire the Duke of Wellington. The good reverend considered the Iron Duke a reactionary leader who countenanced the mistreatment of men under his command. For that alone, the Reverend Harrowby had found the duke wanting in heroism and even humanity.

If Jeffrey Bancroft had not started talking about how the generals knew better than the Times what was needed in the Army and that the generals were conducting the war just as Wellington would have, she would not have voiced an opinion, certainly not one contrary to his. But her father’s daughter had responded to that fatuous remark, and she had not guarded her tongue.

Wellington is dead and the men who are commanding the Army have not fought a war for forty years, she said, conscious she was angrier at Mr. Bancroft than at General Raglan, the commander in chief in the Crimea.

She did not stop to think she was attacking Mr. Bancroft with a sharpness she had never shown anyone else. She only knew that somehow she was sparked by his careless assumption that men in authority, men like him, knew best. She saw his black, winged eyebrows go up and the corners of his mouth turn down, but she only grew more excited.

Heedless of the consequences, she continued. "Not one of them has ever had an independent thought. If Wellington had told them to march backward out of Badajoz, they would have done it then, and now they would order troops to march backward out of Balaklava! I would trust Mr. Russell’s reports in the Times far more than I would trust them. He has no vested interest in the status quo."

He had smiled a patronizing little smile down into her eyes. Who is Russell? These men have been running the Army, commanding men for years. Do you have any idea what it takes to run an enterprise the size of the British Army?

And you are going to take the generals’ word for it that they are running that enterprise in a modern, efficient way?

She raised her chin and gave him the same sort of chilly smile he had given her. Let him see he didn’t have her trembling in fear, that she dared to disagree with the great Jeffrey Bancroft.

That seems like a very trusting attitude for a hard-headed businessman such as you are reputed to be, Mr. Bancroft. Would you make an investment in a railroad or a textile mill on the word of the man who ran it? A man you had never met? A man like Raglan, whose last previous experience in battle was as an aide de camp forty years ago?

Jeffrey flushed, and Lucinda knew she had flicked him on the raw, attacking his acumen as a judge of business. She didn’t care. I would want to see for myself how they were running their enterprise. Wouldn’t you? She smiled again and plied her fan, for her cheeks had heated and she was breathing quickly,

Jeffrey leaned down and spoke with quiet calm. So you follow the war and are concerned for the treatment of the enlisted men. How very daring of you, Miss Harrowby. Are you prepared to take any action as a result of Mr. Russell’s articles? Or are you just going to continue to wring your pretty little hands and perhaps shed a very becoming tear or two? This war is becoming nothing but an excuse for women to show their tender sensibilities.

Lucinda knew that a quick temper and a quicker tongue were her worst failings. Her uncle had pointed it out innumerable times. But she never could keep from feeling a quick stab of anger when she was unjustly accused of something and the sting of annoyance when she was taken for less than she was. Thus, even though up to then she had tried to convince Jeffrey Bancroft she was the perfect little society miss, brainless and compliant, she was furious he should make light of her opinion.

They will not accept me as an aide de camp, she had replied with a sardonic smile, but if I were a man, I would— she continued and sealed her fate.

The words, contradicting his opinion, had been bad enough. But it was her tone, tart and incisive, she thought, that had caused Jeffrey Bancroft to give her a sharp, disapproving look. He looked like a pirate anyway, Lucinda had decided—dark wavy hair worn a little longer than was fashionable, piercing blue eyes, and a cynical expression on his saturnine countenance.

Ah, so you are one of those strong-minded females who wish they were men. The sneer was unmistakable this time. Women who think they can do a man’s work, if only the world would allow them. And all this time I thought you were a real woman.

Lucinda had known she had sunk herself beyond redemption in his eyes, yet at the same time she had felt a sharp pang of disappointment at his last words. She had not expected him to have such a conventional, upper-class view of women as toys and ornaments, visible signs of a man’s prosperity.

Real women care for men, nurse the sick, and bear children, she said, her voice as cold as his. Sometimes they even work for money to feed them.

His face paled and his features sharpened as he gazed down at her with molten blue eyes. Have you done any of those things, Miss Harrowby? he said, his eyes raking over her low-cut satin gown and intricate black curls. Or are you as decorative and expensive as you seem?

For Papa, she thought. I did useful work then. A pang she could not explain struck at her heart. What would Papa think of the life she led now? Once, she said, her voice low and almost broken with emotion. When I was a young girl, I was a real woman for a time.

Only then did she notice other young men were within earshot. They would inevitably spread the story, and she would be ruined. A strong-minded woman was bad, but a strong-minded woman without a dowry was an outcast. And Lucinda had only a tiny pittance to bring her husband. It was all her aunt would allow to be diverted from her cousin’s rich portion.

* * * *

That had all been bad enough. Lucinda shivered in the Turkish wind as she remembered the equally sharp stab of disappointment she had felt at the time. Somehow she had thought Mr. Bancroft, of all the men she had met, would appreciate her mind. The fact he didn’t should not have surprised her; it was what all men felt. But it had.

Something about Jeffrey Bancroft had spoken to her. More than just his looks and money and the mystery of his origins, she had felt from time to time, when someone voiced a particularly foolish thought in their presence and he had smiled at her, that their minds marched in tune, and she had responded to that feeling. It had been stupid and she had paid, though not as thoroughly as she should have.

For some reason, Mr. Bancroft had not sought to punish her. He had made a joke to the others about their silly little spat, and they had adopted his attitude, that Miss Harrowby was a bit of a spitfire. Some men stayed away after that, but others gathered. Yet it had been foolish.

As her uncle had pointed out many times, she did not have a secure place in society. She had no money and her father, though well-educated and genteel, had been only a country parson. Her uncle, unlike his brother, had married well and then had increased his wife’s substantial fortune. He had insisted on giving Lucinda a home, but he expected her to marry and marry well. Instead, she had blotted her copybook by attempting to engage in rational conversation.

Lucinda and her uncle discussed her search for a husband as if it were a military campaign, and she had confessed her mistake the next morning at breakfast.

* * * *

They ate alone at an early hour, discussing the news, the household, and whatever social event they had attended the evening before.

Gentlemen do not enjoy intelligent female conversation, her uncle had decreed. Particularly not in their wives. It is not natural for women, who must depend on men for everything, to have opinions they do not get from their husbands. And to exhibit a knowledge of military history and criticize powerful men such as General Raglan–-really, Lucinda, how could you be so foolish?

But Uncle Barnabas, she had protested, it was the very same opinion you and I discussed only yesterday morning, and you agreed with me.

He peered at her from over his spectacles. I am not your husband. You are not seeking to make me your husband. Husbands are what matter, and you more than most girls should understand that. You must marry. Do have a care, Lucy.

It was the lesson she had heard over and over from the moment she had come into Uncle Barnabas’s home. Her aunt and cousin told her she had better marry. She had tried, but somehow, after that evening at the Ranleighs’, she had never been able to recapture the sense of fun she had taken in fooling the men of her acquaintance. The game had lost its savor once Mr. Bancroft had revealed himself to be no different from all the others—seeing only dimples and curls and wanting only downcast eyes and total agreement with every opinion.

Lucinda had found herself impatient with the strictures placed on her by her need to marry money. Her status as a poor relation meant she spent most of her days doing those tasks her aunt and cousin did not choose to do—or simply could not do. Their understanding was not above average, and their indolence insured that they did not understand the housekeeping books. The former housekeeper had robbed them unmercifully until Lucinda arrived and took over running the house. It ran as if on greased wheels, her uncle often said. Never had he been more comfortable. He would be sorry to lose her to some lucky man.

Lucinda had been flattered by her uncle’s praise. She would be a good wife, unlike her aunt. But now she wondered why she had ever thought it desirable to spend her days making some man comfortable, immersed in tasks she could do with one half of her mind.

Only a few days after the Ranleighs’ ball, she had picked up the newspaper and read that Miss Florence Nightingale, who was very well born and traveled in the highest circles, was forming a group of nurses to go to the Crimea. What had possessed her to leave the house that very afternoon and take a hackney to the Harley Street nursing home that Miss Nightingale was in charge of, Lucinda could never explain.

Destiny, her new friend, Rose Cranmer, had said. You needed to do something big and to get away from your aunt and her constant demands. She did not like you, Lucy. That is hard to live with.

Lucinda had thought of Rose’s words and knew they were true. Her life had seemed to be contracting rather than expanding, and her disappointment over Jeffrey Bancroft had pushed her to do something that would stretch her life and her talents. Had she also been motivated by his sneer that she was unwilling to do anything to aid those she pitied? Had her memory of her father’s selfless life rekindled itself because of Jeffrey Bancroft’s contrary attitude?

Nonsense. She refused to admit she owed him a debt of gratitude, even indirectly, for pushing her into the great adventure of her life.

* * * *

So here she was, about to meet the sarcastic and difficult Mr. Bancroft again. But this time she looked and acted the way she had spoken to him at that infamous party. She had nothing to hide, nothing she wanted from him—except perhaps the respect she had forfeited by pretending to be what she was not.

Very well, then. She would greet the industrialist with the crisp, no-nonsense approach she had learned to take here at Scutari. She took a deep breath and turned to re-enter the huge building that housed the Barracks Hospital, so called because it had been a Turkish Army barracks before the sultan had turned it over to the British.

She told Rose and her other dear friend, Catherine  Stanhope, a little about Jeffrey Bancroft.

He really made you angry, Lucy, Rose said with her calm, sweet smile. I think you should thank him. Without him, I don’t think you would have joined Miss Nightingale.

Lucy grinned. Count on you to think on the bright side, Rosie, she said. I might owe him thanks, but I still don’t like him. Why don’t you show him around, Cat? she asked her other friend. He’d like you much better. He’d probably ask you to marry him.

Catherine Stanhope raised an elegant eyebrow. A tall, aristocratic looking blond, she was the daughter of a baronet, and yet wanted nothing more than to spend her life nursing. It doesn’t sound to me as if Mr. Bancroft is looking for a nurse to marry.

Oh, I don’t know, said Lucy, her ever-present sense of humor once again asserting itself. "If you limited yourself to nursing him, he might not object."

Catherine smiled. "There is also the small matter that Miss Nightingale has commanded you to do the job. I don’t know about you, but I do not choose to disobey her orders. When is the gentleman arriving?"

The ambassador’s carriage is bringing him sometime either today or tomorrow—when Lady de Redclyffe can spare him from the social duties she has dragooned him into, I imagine. Whenever that may be.

As it happened, the carriage deposited Mr. Bancroft the very next morning, as Lucinda was taking a stack of requisition forms to the Army Purveyor’s office. Nothing she requested on those forms ever arrived. Lucinda was convinced the man threw them away the moment her back was turned, but she could never resist a challenge. She gave the clerk her most dazzling smile, and since crisp commands had availed her nothing, she prepared to try to flatter him into taking some action.

She had only begun to work her wiles when a deep voice said from immediately behind her, So, Miss Harrowby, the rumors were true. You have left all the young men in your circle desolate and come here to play the ministering angel.

The anger Lucinda had vowed not to give way to surged through her. He still caused her pulses to race and her cheeks to heat. But this time she would compel his respect She might as well start as she meant to go on. No smiles and flattery for Jeffrey Bancroft.

"Play, Mr. Bancroft? This is an army hospital with thousands of patients and very few resources. Nobody plays at medicine here, I assure you. Come with me and I will show you."

Without waiting for a reply, she slapped the requisition forms in front of the clerk. Take these. I do not suppose they will meet with any better fate than the hundreds I have brought to you up to now. But I ask once again that you give these the highest priority. Dr. Hall has signed some of them and Dr. Soames the rest. They are urgent

The clerk raised bored eyes to hers. I always pass them on, miss. What happens to them after that is not my concern,

Lucinda clenched her hands in the pockets of her apron. She heard the same words every time she came with requisitions, and every time the man’s refusal to take responsibility for the needs of the patients drove her to impotent fury. Now she did not have time to argue with Mm. She turned away and took Jeffrey Bancroft’s arm. She could not help but note his sinewy strength under the smooth broadcloth of his coat.

Come with me, please, sir, she said, her voice as crisp as it had been addressing the clerk. And see how army nurses ‘play’ in this pest hole.

For a moment she thought he might apologize for his cavalier dismissal of the nurses’ efforts. He must know he was wrong, but like most men—certainly all the rich men she had known in London—he was incapable of admitting a mistake.

Miss Nightingale said you would show me what was needed by the doctors and the men.

And the nurses. It was not a question. What we all need is more time and more hands. And more of the most basic supplies. The kind this man’s office— she nodded back toward the requisition clerk—is supposed to acquire for us and never does.

She led him into the largest of the wards. He stopped at the threshold, held in place by the low murmur of suffering and the smell of unwashed bodies and bodily wastes that assailed him.

You need to empty whatever stinks like this, he said.

The orderlies do so whenever we can prevail upon them to take the time. It is that large wooden tub in the center of the room. She spoke without any expression. She could remember the first time she had entered the ward. Her stomach had heaved and she had left at a dead run before she disgraced herself. If she had hoped for the same reaction from Jeffrey Bancroft, she was disappointed.

He shrugged. Hospitals smell. It is inevitable.

Have you been in many? It seemed unlikely. The rich did not go to hospitals. Doctors came to their homes.

Enough. When my workers are injured, I visit.

That fact surprised her. She had never thought of hard-as-nails Jeffrey Bancroft as caring for his workers except as useful tools, to be cast aside when they ceased to be useful.

Miss. It was an agonized whisper, coming from one of the cots nearby. Please. Nurse.

Lucinda recognized the voice. He was a grizzled veteran of a good many battles who had been severely wounded at the battle of the Alma, the first of three costly battles that had been fought just before the nurses arrived. The man had sustained a saber thrust in his belly and was dying by inches, in great pain.

Lucinda forgot Jeffrey in an instant. She hurried over to the cot

"Yes,