Robert Masello - Blood and Ice

But instead of coming to him, Eleanor remained where she was, studying his face. “I fear I haven't thanked you for the dress yet,” she finally said. “It's a very beautiful present.”

“On you, it is,” Sinclair said.

“Would you like to sit down,” she said, indicating the two hard-backed wooden chairs that filled the entire space allotted for the parlor, “or shall we go out?”

“I'm afraid I haven't much time for either,” he said, fidgeting in place. “Truth be told, I'm in breach of orders just being here.”

At that confession, Eleanor's curiosity immediately turned to concern. She had already noted that he was full to bursting, with what she did not know, and she also observed that he was dressed in uniform, with dirt caked on his boots and his complexion ruddy with exertion.

Had he broken a military regulation of some kind? She had guessed, over the past few weeks, that the young lieutenant was no stickler for protocol (hadn't he shown her, a woman, the inner sanctums of the Longchamps Club?), but she did not imagine him committing some serious wrong. Her fears were allayed only by the broad smile that flitted around his lips.

“Why? What orders are you defying?”

Sinclair clearly couldn't hold it in any longer, and he suddenly told her the news-the joyous news-that his regiment had been called into action.

And Eleanor found herself smiling, too, and feeling his excitement, as if it were contagious. For some time, the streets of the city had been filled with demonstrations, some protesting the march to war, but others loudly beating the drum for it. The papers had been filled with terrible stories of the atrocities visited upon the helpless Turks, and the dangers of the Russian fleet sweeping into the Mediterranean and posing a threat to the long-standing British supremacy on the seas. Conscription gangs had been tromping through the backstreets and alleyways, rounding up any reasonably able-bodied men-and some who were not-for Her Majesty's infantry. Even the boy who tended the coal bin and stoked the furnace at the hospital had been enlisted.

“When will you be going?” Eleanor asked, and when he told her, the full impact of the news suddenly struck her. If he was leaving the day after next, and he was already in contravention of the orders to remain at the barracks and camp, then this would be their last encounter, their last few minutes together before he sailed for the Crimea. The thought occurred to her, despite everything that she felt had passed between them in the previous weeks, despite any bond that might have been formed, that she truly might never see him again. And it wasn't only the dreaded prospect of war, and the inevitable chance of death, that terrified her; it was also the knowledge that had haunted her from the night she'd attended to his wounded arm. The knowledge that they did indeed inhabit utterly different worlds, and that if it weren't for that unlikely encounter, their paths would never have crossed. Sinclair, after his time overseas, might not return to London at all-he might go back to his family's estate in Nottinghamshire. (Although he was still quite circumspect about his background, she had gathered enough about it, from comments dropped by Le Maitre or Captain Rutherford, to know that it was rather impressive.) And even if he did return to London, would he choose to pick up again with a penniless nurse rather than the grand ladies who moved in his own social circles? Would this little adventure of his-and that was how she sometimes thought of it, in the darkest part of the night, when Moira's constant turning in the bed kept her awake-would it still hold sufficient appeal for him to overrule all questions of practicality and decorum?

As if reading her mind, Sinclair said, “I'll write to you as soon as I can.”

And Eleanor suddenly had a vision of herself, sitting in the chair by the sooty window, holding a letter, creased and worn by its long journey from the east.

“And I will write to you,” she replied. “Every day.”

Sinclair took a half step forward, as did she, and suddenly they were in each other's arms, her cheek laid flat against the rough gold braid that adorned the front of his uniform. He smelled of dirt and sweat and his beloved horse, Ajax; he'd escorted her once to the regimental stables and let her feed the horse a handful of sugar. She clung to Sinclair for several minutes, neither of them saying a word. They didn't need to. And when they kissed, it held a bittersweet and valedictory note.

“I must go,” he said, gently disengaging.

She opened the door for him and watched as he hurried down the steps without looking back, the thunder of his boots echoing up the stairwell. If only opportunity had allowed, she thought, if only he'd had just a little more time, she would have liked him to see her outside, in the afternoon light, wearing the new yellow dress.

December 9, 5 p.m.

As might have been expected, news of the amazing underwater discovery had threatened to sweep through the camp like wildfire, so Murphy-notified by walkie-talkie from the dive hut- had immediately imposed an executive order. Michael heard him barking instructions at Calloway to admit no one else onto the ice, or anywhere near the hut. He also ordered everyone in earshot to zip their lips until further notice.

“Wait for Danzig and the dogs to get there,” he said before signing off.

By the time the ice block was safely stowed on the back of a sledge, Danzig and his dog team had pulled to a stop fifty yards off. The huskies lay down on the snow and ice and watched the proceedings warily.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Danzig said, striding up to the sledge and marveling openly at the thing-the frozen woman-contained in the ice. He paced slowly around the ponderous block, and Michael could tell he was already making some quick calculations about how best to transport it.

“That there, mates,” Calloway said, “is the weirdest thing I've ever seen come up, and let me tell you, I've seen plenty of weird stuff.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” said Franklin, who'd been assisting on the dive.

Michael could barely believe they'd done it. He had hastily taken off his diving gear, wrapped himself in more layers of dry clothing than ever before, and was sipping from a thermos of hot tea; still, he had the occasional shiver, and he knew he was suffering from a touch of the predictable hypothermia.

Lawson asked Danzig if they should call for a Spryte, or if he thought his dogs could pull the block back to camp.

Danzig, who always wore a good-luck charm of walrus teeth around his neck, laid one huge hand on the ice and with the other rubbed his chin. “Once we get it started, we can do it,” he declared. There was little that Danzig thought his dogs couldn't do, and he was always looking for ways to prove that modern technology had nothing on the reliable, old-fashioned methods that had been good enough for Roald Amundsen and Robert Falcon Scott.

While Danzig took care of unhooking his dogs from the one sledge and attaching them to the other, Michael rubbed his wrist, where the dry-suit seal had leaked. It ached the way a bad sprain would. Franklin and Calloway were still gawking at the woman in the ice-and when one of them laughed, and made some coarse joke about waking Sleeping Beauty with a kiss she'd never forget- Michael took a tarp from the dogsled and threw it over the ice. Franklin looked at him oddly for stopping the show, but as Michael secured the tarp with a couple of pitons, Danzig glanced at him knowingly, and asked, “Did the chief tell you anything about where he wanted to put her?” He sounded vaguely like a funeral director asking a family member about the recently deceased.

“Not a word.” For Michael, it was strange even to be asked. He wasn't a scientist, and he wasn't even one of the grunts. He occupied some middle ground, some ill-defined territory, and yet he had already come to be regarded as the rightful advocate for the woman retrieved from the deep.