Dr. Merriweather’s Perspective
Richmond, Virginia
January 16, 1862
Late Afternoon
James Merriweather stood at the window of his makeshift office, watching Eleanor cross the factory floor below with that particular grace she'd developed over months of navigating between canvas partitions and sleeping wounded. The afternoon light caught the auburn highlights in her hair—hair that had grown lustrous and vital despite months of exposure that had weakened or killed lesser constitutions, though she remained blissfully unaware of her own significance.
The timing was fortuitous. The old gentleman's death had arrived precisely when James required it most—Eleanor's grief rendering her vulnerable while her liberation from nursing duties created hunger for meaningful purpose. These past months he had observed her subtle alterations with growing fascination, recognizing symptoms he had studied in countless subjects over the centuries. Yet Eleanor's progression differed markedly from typical cases—slower, more controlled, as though her extended exposure to the Everett patriarch had somehow prepared her constitution for what was to come.
He'd seen her face when she learned about the fever wing funding. That flush of excitement, the way her eyes lit up when he spoke of "advanced responsibilities" and "systematic documentation." She interpreted professional manipulation as recognition of her intellectual worth. Delicious.
The girl had no idea she'd been his most promising research subject for months now.
James opened his leather journal to the page he'd prepared specifically for her discovery. The entries were genuine enough—he did document everything meticulously—but he'd chosen these particular observations for their perfect blend of clinical language and ego-stroking validation. "Subject E.C." sounded sufficiently scientific, while "remarkable adaptation" and "exceptional capabilities" would feed her starving need for recognition.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. "Dr. Merriweather? Might I speak with you privately? I know you're terribly busy, but I..."
Eleanor's voice wavered, that small tremble that always preceded a break.
She stood in the doorway, her usual confident bearing replaced by something fragile and uncertain. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her hands spasmed slightly as she closed the door behind her.
The horror of last evening's attack had clearly taken its toll, exactly as he'd anticipated.
"I apologize for disturbing you," she began, then stopped, pressing her lips together as though struggling with tears.
"Eleanor." He rose immediately, moving around the desk with practiced concern. "You've suffered a terrible shock my dear, I was surprised to see you here today. Please, sit down."
She sank into the chair across from his desk, finally meeting his eyes. "I keep seeing it—that poor Henderson, and the way Private Jameson..." She shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself. "I've never witnessed such violence. Even Father's medical texts never described anything so... bestial."
James settled into the chair beside her rather than retreating behind his desk, close enough that his presence felt protective rather than professional. "The mind struggles to process such experiences, particularly for someone of your gentle nature."
"But that's just it—I don't feel gentle anymore." The words tumbled out with desperate honesty. "Since Thomas's father died, since I witnessed that attack, I feel as though something fundamental has shifted inside me. I'm frightened by my own reactions, Dr. Merriweather."
She paused, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "I know I can tell you anything—you've become like a father to me these past months, especially with Papa away and now with Thomas's father gone. You're the only person I feel I can trust completely with such... improper thoughts. I only hope you will not judge me too harshly."
Her hands twisted in her lap. "I know I should feel like the others do, and this is unbecoming of me, that I should be horrified, unable to return to the work. Instead, I find myself... curious.” her hands clenching so hard her knuckles whitened. “Curious! What does that say about my character? What manner of young lady feels fascination where she should feel revulsion?"
He watched her carefully, noting the flush that crept up her neck as she made this confession. "And what is this curiosity about, my dear?"
She lowered her gaze, unable to hold his stare. "About what caused Private Jameson to behave that way. About how quickly Henderson's condition deteriorated. About… about the patterns you've been documenting in your research." She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I know I'm just a volunteer, that my education is limited compared to yours, but I cannot stop thinking about what I witnessed. I want to understand it."
Merriwether affected an understanding smile. She was perfect.
"Eleanor," he said in a gentle tone, "what you're experiencing isn't that unusual, especially for someone with genuine scientific aptitude. Lesser minds turn away from disturbing phenomena, but true researchers are drawn to understand them. Your curiosity honors your father's training."
He could see her eyes brighten at the comparison to her beloved father. "Do you really think so?"
"I've observed your development closely these past months. You possess instincts that cannot be taught—the ability to see patterns others miss, to remain calm during crises that would overwhelm most people." He paused, studying her face, seemingly weighting his next words. "Your reaction to last evening's incident proves my assessment. You're ready for greater responsibilities."
She straightened in her chair, some of her usual confidence returning. "What sort of responsibilities?"
"The fever wing we will be opening soon, it will require someone with both scientific training and proven courage. Someone I can trust with my most sensitive research." He leaned back slightly, watching her move forward, hungry for his approval. "I'm offering you that position, Eleanor. Not as a volunteer nurse, but as my research assistant. My mentee."
The word "mentee" hit her like a physical blow of pleasure. Her lips parted slightly, color flooding her cheeks. "You would consider me qualified for such work?"
"More than qualified. Essential."
A commotion from the factory floor interrupted them—raised voices and hurried footsteps. A hurried knock. James frowned, moving toward the door. "Excuse me one moment. It seems there's some urgent matter requiring my attention."
He stepped into the hallway, pulling the door behind him but leaving it ajar. Through the gap, Eleanor could hear him speaking with the orderly in low, authoritative tones.
Alone in his office, Eleanor found herself staring at the open journal on his desk. The lamplight cutting across the page, notes written in his precise handwriting. Despite knowing she shouldn't, curiosity overcame propriety.
"Subject E.C. demonstrates remarkable adaptation following sustained exposure during civilian care period. Progressive enhancement of observational capabilities evident in clinical assessments."
Her heart raced as she read her own initials. He'd been studying her, documenting her progress with the same scientific rigor he applied to his medical research.
"Constitutional changes stabilizing rather than deteriorating—unprecedented in documented cases. Recommend increased direct contact with fever patients to monitor development patterns."
Eleanor quickly looked away from the journal, her cheeks burning with the thrill of discovery.
He returned to the office, closing the door firmly behind him. "My apologies. Administrative matters that couldn't wait." His eyes moved briefly to the open journal, then to Eleanor's flushed face.
"Dr. Merriweather," she said quietly, unable to contain her honesty, "I saw your notes about me. I know I shouldn't have looked, but..." Her breath caught slightly. "I... I had hoped you found my work satisfactory, but to think you consider it worthy of scientific documentation..."
"More than satisfactory. I am forever grateful to your father for leaving you in my care." He placed a gentle hand upon her shoulder, noting how she unconsciously inclined toward the contact. "When the fever wing opens, you shall serve as my primary research assistant. The systematic observations we shall conduct together may well revolutionize medical understanding of contagious maladies."
Color rose in her cheeks, her pupils dilating slightly with excitement. "I am most deeply honored by your confidence in me," she whispered.
"You've earned it through dedication that sets you apart from every other volunteer." He smiled, the expression reaching his eyes just enough to seem genuine.
She stood straighter, chin lifting with newfound purpose, her step lighter as she moved toward the door. At the threshold she turned back, eyes bright with anticipation.
"Thank you, Dr. Merriweather. For everything."
The door closed softly behind her, leaving James alone with the satisfaction of work well done.
Eleanor had no conception she was about to become his finest creation.
Later that evening James opened his private research journal to a fresh page, writing in the abbreviated cipher he used for his most sensitive observations:
January 16, 1862 : Subject ready.
He caressed the drying ink, smudging it slightly, reveling in the imperfection. She’d become his finest creation.
© 2025 E.M. di V. - writing as Morgan A. Drake & Joe Gillis. All rights reserved.