The Nurse's Secret

by Amanda Skenandore

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Be one of the first to read this sneak preview sample edition of acclaimed author Amanda Skenandore’s new historical novel, a fascinating story of one woman’s search for identity and independence, set in 1880s New York and based on the little-known story of America’s first nursing school.
 
In the slums of 1880s New York, Una Kelly has grown up to be a rough-and-tumble grifter, able to filch a pocketbook in five seconds flat. But when another con-woman pins her for a murder she didn’t commit, Una is forced to flee. Running from the police, Una lies her way into an unlikely refuge: the nursing school at Bellevue Hospital.
 
Based on Florence Nightingale’s nursing principles, Bellevue is the first school of its kind in the country. Where once nurses were assumed to be ignorant and unskilled, Bellevue prizes discipline, intellect, and moral character, and only young women of good breeding need apply. At first, Una balks at her prim classmates and the doctors’ endless commands. Yet life on the streets has prepared her for the horrors of injury and disease found on the wards, and she slowly gains friendship and self-respect. 
 
Just as she finds her footing, Una’s suspicions about a patient’s death put her at risk of exposure, and will force her to choose between her instinct for self-preservation, and exposing her identity in order to save others.
 
Amanda Skenandore brings her medical expertise to a page-turning story that explores the evolution of modern nursing—including the grisly realities of nineteenth-century medicine—as seen through the eyes of an intriguing and dynamic heroine.
 
PRAISE FOR AMANDA SKENANDORE’S THE SECOND LIFE OF MIRIELLE WEST

“In this superior historical, the author’s diligent research, as well as her empathetic depiction of those subjected to forced medical isolation, make this a winner.”
—Publishers Weekly

Release date: February 9, 2022

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 47

Sample

New York City, 1883

Travelers sluiced from the newly arrived trains onto the platforms like privy muck into the sewer, halting and sluggish. Their voices echoed through the car house, blending with the wheeze of steam and whine of metal. Daylight fought with streaks of soot and drifts of snow to penetrate the glass ceiling above. Una, however, preferred the shadows. She watched the travelers from behind one of the great ornamental trusses that supported the roof. Watched and waited.

The first to emerge were always the businessmen—bankers, speculators, oilmen, factory owners. They strode across the platform like it was their own private foyer, perturbed but undaunted by the noisome crowds. Time was money to these men, and their hurry and hubris made them easy marks should one be willing to suffer their over-perfumed clothes and superior airs. Today, Una was not.

Close on their heels came the coach class. Weary-looking women with wide-eyed children clinging to their skirts. Highfalutin debutantes and their weighed-down porters. Traveling merchants with leather-bound cases of their wares. Countryfolk carting chickens and leading braying goats. Many carried little more than they could squeeze into their traveling sack. A change of underclothes. A half-eaten loaf of bread. A worn bible with the name and address of some distant relative tucked inside. Nothing worth Una’s time.

Then he appeared—the very man Una was awaiting. Well dressed, but not foppishly so. A ruddy, youthful complexion. He was a Middle West man, to be sure. Indiana, perhaps. Ohio. Illinois. Precisely where didn’t matter, only that he was not a New Yorker. Judging from the way his wide eyes scanned for a signpost or placard to direct him through the throngs, he was entirely new to the city.

Una checked that her hat was securely pinned and bit her lips to bring out their color. She unfastened the latch on her travel case, holding the handles tight so it remained closed.

The man shuffled and bobbed along the platform until his eyes lit on the overhanging sign directing travelers to the Forty-second Street exits. Then his shoulders squared and step quickened. Una threaded her way through the crowd toward him. When his eyes flickered up again, this time to a large clock perched high in the central tower at the far end of the platform, Una stepped in front of him. The man barreled into her. She gave a soft cry and dropped her traveling case, its contents scattering at their feet.

“Oh, I do beg your pardon, miss,” the man said.

“It was my fault, sir. I was uncertain of my way.”

“You and me both. I’ve never been in such a large station.”

She knelt to collect her scattered belongings, flashing him a timid smile when he bent down beside her. The faint scent of tobacco clung to his fine Chesterfield coat. “Largest station in the world,” she said. “At least that’s what I’ve heard.”

He handed her a ribbon-trimmed bonnet and worsted wool shawl, which she carefully folded and tucked inside her bag. “You really needn’t trouble yourself.”

“It’s the least I can do.” He reached for another piece of clothing, then froze, his neck and ears reddening to match his cheeks. Una snatched the silk chemise, its smooth fabric and lace hem brushing the tips of his gloved fingers as she whisked it into her bag. In a show of embarrassment, she dropped her chin, hiding her face beneath the wide brim and dropping plumage of her hat.

“I . . . er . . .” He wobbled on his haunches, his Chesterfield brushing the dirty floor.

Una gathered up the last of her clothing and stuffed it in her bag. “Thank you,” she said, latching the bag and standing.

The man stood too. “Aga. . .