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more than sweetened hot water—to the men in three wards. Then she had a half-hour break. She thought fleetingly of how good it would feel to lie on her cot. Or how pleasant it would be to write a letter to her family. They had only heard from her once since Christmas.
    Her mother wrote faithfully every week, amusing letters full of news of the London season and All Souls parish. Arthur wrote less frequently but more vigorously of the great good they should now be able to accomplish with Palmerston in office. The new prime minister was stepfather-in-law to the crusading Earl of Shaftesbury whom Arthur, a minor civil servant, idolized. It was clear from Arthur’s account of his many activities that he had every intention of removing the “minor” from this description. His letters abounded with reports of committees to deal with public health and factory laws.
    We have had a great triumph with the model lodging-houses. Shaftesbury presented the facts to Parliament. In a season when more than 14,000 have died from cholera, there has been not one case in the model lodging-houses in George Street. Yet in Church Lane, which is but a stone’s throw away, the ravages are dreadful…
    Jennifer dropped the letter with a sigh.
    There were soldiers who needed her attention more than her family and friends did. Forcing a spring she did not feel into her step, she jerked open the door of her room. A stocky figure with a high, balding forehead pulled back sharply from the supply cup board in the hall. She started to scold him and then realized who it was. “Oh, Dr. Pannier. Can I help you with something?”
    “My supplies of poppy syrup and catechu tincture are quite exhausted, and we have a new outbreak of cholera. I had hoped Miss Nightingale might have at least some linseed tea in her supplies.” The gravelly voice paused.
    “Yes, of course. Shall I find her for you? She has the only key.”
    “No. Never mind. I’ll deal with it myself.”
    Jennifer nodded at his dismissal and turned her steps toward the upper ward. She had returned to Lieutenant Greyston two days after writing his letter and addressed it to his sister in Newcastle-Under-Lyme. Since then she had had a few hurried visits with him—enough to assure herself he was still alive in spite of the recurring fever. She did not know much about his injury, beyond the fact that it was a burn from cannon fire. And she had learned little about him beyond the fact that his brother George was heir to Greyston Pottery, which made the famous Royal Legend pattern of china, and that Lieutenant Greyston worried much over what had become of his horse named for that pattern. And the fact that all he had ever wanted was a career in the army, and he couldn’t wait to get back to his regiment.
    Jennifer shook her head every time he expressed that desire. “I’ve heard enough about the charge of the Light Brigade that I cannot believe any man who survived would want to go back.” It was a miracle that even 249 of the 673 men survived. “That cannon fire must have put you out of your head.”
    Jennifer plumped his pillow vigorously and straightened his blanket, for she had chosen to write a letter for him rather than to her own family. She would not admit that she was almost glad he had taken the fever, since it kept him off the battlefield. But then she felt guilty as her hand brushed his. He was very hot. His cheeks were flushed, and his skin felt dry. She was glad she had thought to bring him her portion of wine today. The water smelled as bad as the barracks walls. This place couldn’t be healthy for a sick man. She propped him up and held the tin cup to his lips, determining to get her ration to him more regularly.
    “I received a letter yesterday,” he said when she returned his head to the pillow.
    Jenny started to reach for his box, but he pulled the crumpled sheet from the pocket of his tunic and handed it to her. She smoothed the sheet. “Oh, it’s from your sister