Hero's Bride

by Jane Peart

  Coming off her shift one afternoon, Kitty went to her room for a much-needed nap. As she started to remove her headband, it caught on a hairpin and held fast. She tugged at it irritably but, as she did, pulled out more hairpins, and her hair tumbled down onto her shoulders.

  Impulsively she reached into her apron pocket for her surgical scissors, grabbed a handful of hair, and whacked it off. It hung there in a jagged clump.

  Suddenly the realization of what she had done struck Kitty. She stared into the small wavy mirror above the bureau. One side of her hair was cut off below her ear, the rest fell nearly to her waist. What should she do now?

  Just then Dora came in off duty, saw her, and gasped."Good grief, Kitty! Are you out of your mind?"

  "No, I had an uncontrollable urge, that's all." Kitty turned around to face her roommate, then put on a pitiable face. "Help!"

  "Oh, Kitty!" Dora moaned. "Your beautiful hair!"

  "Cut the rest of it off for me, will you, please?"

  "Oh, no, Kitty! Don't ask me to do that!"

  "You'll have to. I can't leave it like this." Kitty held out the scissors.

  Reluctantly Dora took them and began to cut.

  "Shorter," Kitty ordered.

  "Shorter?"

  "Yes." Kitty's voice was firm.

  "Well, you've got naturally curly hair at least, and it's such a lovely color. Besides," Dora continued philosophically, "your cap and veil will cover most of it."

  But Kitty eyed her newly cropped head sadly. It was a far cry from the sleek, dark "bobbed" cap o f hair she had seen on Etienette Boulanger.

  Still, her rash decision had achieved something else. Something important. She wasn't quite sure why, but she felt as different as she looked. It was as if cutting off her hair had freed her in some strange way.

  Part V

  Keep the home fires burning,

  Though the hearts are yearning,

  Turn those dark clouds inside out

  Till the boys come home.

  —a popular song of 1917

  chapter

  18

  Mayfield, Virginia

  Late Summer 1917 at Cameron Hall

  "WHEN WILL THE war be over, Gran?" Lynette asked Blythe.

  "I wish I knew, darling." Blythe glanced up from the letter she was reading and looked fondly at her little granddaughter and beyond to the lovely sweep of lawn. The hydrangeas were in full bloom and a soft breeze gently stirred the leaves o f the trees that shaded the veranda where they were sitting. On this mid-summer afternoon, here in the peaceful Virginia countryside, it was hard to imagine a war raging on the other side o f the world. "We must just keep praying it will end soon."

  The little girl nodded earnestly. "I do. Every night."

  Blythe sighed. All three of her Cameron children were in the thick of it—Scott, stationed in Paris, which was con-standy threatened by German invasion; Cara and Kitty, near the front lines.

  As if reading her grandmother's thoughts, Lynette said plaintively, "I miss Kitty very much. She doesn't even know I've learned to jump and am riding a horse instead of a pony now."

  "Why don't you write her a letter and tell her so? Better still, why don't you draw her a picture of yourself on Princess, going over the stone wall at the end of the driveway? I know she'd love that."

  "What a good idea, Gran. I'll go get my crayons."

  Blythe smiled as the child scrambled up and ran into the house. Her granddaughter was really quite talented artistically. She wished that Jeff noticed her more, encouraged her. Even after six years, he was not yet over Faith's tragic death. Sadly, he seemed to have lost interest in everything—his children, his art, even life itself.

  Blythe sighed again, this time a sigh so deep it was almost painful. All she had ever wanted for her children was happiness, but now all of their lives had been touched by some deep tragedy—Jeffs wife's death, Kitty's broken engagement, and now Cara.

  She dreaded writing Scott the latest news that Cara's husband, Owen Brandt, had been killed in action. He had died while bringing a wounded soldier to safety from the battlefield. Of course, the fact that he had died a hero wouldn't ease the young widow's sorrow or make his death any easier to bear.

  Between the lines of Scott's letter, Blythe sensed his heart's loneliness, for Scott had not yet found a love o f his own. She read the poignant last paragraph of her son's letter:

  To keep myself sane, I try to remember what it was like as short a time ago as summer before last. In my mind, I see the smooth, green lawn where we used to play croquet, the men in their blue blazers and white flannels, the girls in fluffy white dresses . . . flowers everywhere . . . eating strawberries and drinking iced lemonade by the gallon . . . I'm thirsty for it all!

  And I think about the twins a great deal. How alike they were and yet how different. . . their glossy curls bobbing, the sound of their giggles. And somewhere there is music . . . there always seems to be music in my dreams . . . and Kitty's sweet face, her eyes—and Cara dancing . . .

  Well, Cara isn't dancing now. Would she ever want to dance again? Blythe remembered her own young widowhood and prayed Cara would not grieve too long or too irreconcilably. She was still young enough to find another love, begin a new life. And Kitty, what about dear Kitty?

  Somewhere in France

  Chateau Rougeret Hosptial

  December 1917

  The strains of "Minuit Chritiens" echoed from the small chapel where midnight services were being held for the Catholic members o f the hospital staff. Listening to the clear voices ringing out onto the crisp night air, Kitty hummed along with the melody, mentally substituting for the French words the familiar English ones: "O holy night, the stars are brighdy shining./It is the night of the dear Savior's birth—"

  Earlier she had left the scene o f New Year's Eve merrymaking in the staff room. It had seemed so artificial, so forced that, overcome with emotion, she had felt the need to escape. Throwing her cape around her shoulders, Kitty went out into the starry night to walk along the stone terrace of the chateau.

  Out here it was as still as it might have been that long-ago night in Bethlehem. For once the guns were silent. It seemed so peaceful that one could almost forget—but that was an illusion. There was no peace, although it was rumored that the Germans were as desperate for it as the Allies. There was even a report that on Christmas Eve, both the German and French soldiers had joined in singing "Silent Night55 in their own language from their trenches.

  How much longer could this dreadful war go on?

  Kitty thought of the poem Richard Traherne had enclosed in a recent letter:

  The snow is falling softly on the earth

  Grown hushed beneath its covering of white;

  O Father, let another peace descend

  On all of troubled hearts this winter night.

  Look down upon them in their anxious dark,

  On those who sleep not for their fear and care,

  On those with tremulous prayers on their lips,

  The prayers that stand between them and despair.

  Let fall Thy comfort as this soundless snow:

  Make troubled hearts aware in Thine own way

  Of love beside them in this quiet hour,

  Of strength with which to meet the coming day.

  The enclosure had seemed so timely. Just that morning she had been reading in her small devotional book, trying to snatch a scrap of serenity before going on duty. The Scripture for meditation had been John 14:27: "Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid."

  What a coincidence! Kitty thought when she received Richard's letter with the poem that same afternoon. It was almost as if he had sensed her discouragement and fear.

  But then Richard was very perceptive. Ever since Birchfields last year, he had written to her occasionally, friendly letters, often enclosing poetry or some quotation from a newspaper or magazine. Then a few weeks ago, she had a letter from him saying he had met Scott in Paris and had
been so pleased to hear news of her. Kitty could not help wondering if her brother had told him about her broken engagement.

  She checked her watch. It was nearly midnight. Maybe she should go back inside and try to blend in with the others, find a little joy in whatever time was left.

  The party was still going strong when Kitty entered the staff room. Twisted lengths of faded red and green crepe paper festooned the walls where a big sign had been hung proclaiming in tarnished gilt letters: "HAPPY NEW YEAR! WELCOME 1918 !"

  The small group remaining had formed a circle, and someone was trying to find the right pitch for "Auld Lang Syne." Seeing Kitty, a VAD broke the circle and made room for her. She moved forward, clasping her hand on one side, the hand of an orderly on the other.

  "Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind—" sang a mixed chorus of voices. Kitty found it difficult to sing with the hard lump in her throat. Memories of other New Year's Eves back home at Cameron Hall flooded her mind. She had welcomed most of them with Kip. How many New Year's Eves would she have to greet without him?

  The song ended with a round of cheers and applause. Then with an exchange of greetings, hugs, and kisses, some departed to go back on duty. In a few minutes another group just finishing their shift, straggled into the staff room. This bunch did not linger, their slumped shoulders and heavy-lidded eyes proclaiming their need for sleep more than holiday cheer. One by one, they left. Everyone, that is, except Dora, who insisted on helping with the cleanup.

  The two began gathering up tattered streamers and discarded poppers, then collected glasses and cups, carrying them out to the adjoining kitchen.

  "Dora, I can manage here. You go on up to bed," Kitty suggested. "You've already worked a full shift and must be tired. I don't go on until seven A.M."

  I am "I beat," admitted Dora, stifling a yawn. "Are you sure you don't mind?"

  "Positive. I'm not sleepy at all. And this won't take long."

  "Well, if you're sure—" She eyed the clutter, the dirty dishes still to be washed.

  "Dora!" Kitty shooed her off. "Do go on."

  When her roommate left, Kitty stacked the dishes and cups, waiting while the water heated. She was pouring liquid soap into the sink, stirring it with her hands into sud when she heard a movement behind her. Thinking that Dora had returned, feeling guilty for leaving her with the work.

  Without looking, Kitty called over her shoulder. "Dora, I meant it! Go along to bed! What's it going to take to convince you I can handle—"

  She half-turned her head to confront her. But instead of Dora, there was Richard Traherne standing in the doorway.

  She whirled around. "Richard! What in the world are you doing here?"

  "Is that any way to greet a fellow who's driven three hours straight across the worst roads imaginable to wish you a Happy New Year?" he demanded, smiling.

  "But—but—" she stammered. "Of course, i f s wonderful to see you, but how did you manage it?"

  'The colonel decided to see the new year in with some friends in the country not far from here, so I drove him over." He grinned. "Then he gave me leave to spend the rest of the holiday as I like." He came toward her, holding out both hands.

  "Oh, I'm all soapy," she apologized, starting to wipe her hands on her skirt.

  "Never mind. I won't shake hands. I'll just kiss you instead. Happy New Year, Kitty." His lips brushed hers lightly, then he looked down at her, regarding her. "It's so good to see you again."

  "And you, Richard," Kitty murmured, knowing it was true. "I've appreciated your letters so much. Especially the poetry." She looked into his eyes and felt a kind of joy welling up inside.

  His eyes moved over her as if taking inventory. "You've cut your hair . . . your beautiful hair! But I think I like it. It suits you."

  She ran her hand through the crop of curls. "It's ever so comfortable and convenient." Feeling a little self-conscious under his admiring gaze, she asked rather breathlessly, "Are you starved? We've been having a party and there's plenty of cake left . . . and I can make some cocoa—"

  "Sounds just right, Kitty. Reminds me of the homey feeling of coming into a warm kitchen and sitting down at the kitchen table after a day of ice-skating or sledding."

  She laughed gaily. "It will only take a minute!"

  Richard watched her reflectively. Although she was thinner than he remembered, there was a new sort of grace about her as she moved about, pouring milk into a saucepan, spooning in the powdered chocolate. As she turned to look at him, he was struck by the fact that in spite of what she must have endured, Kitty had a kind of innocence, a purity that remained untouched. A hope he had tried to banish came alive in him again. After all, her brother had told him she was no longer engaged to the childhood sweetheart back home. Dare he risk another rejection?

  Kitty arranged a tray with two mugs, a beverage server, a plate with slices of the dark, rich fruitcake that Dora's mother had sent them. "Come along, we'll go into the staff room. We even have a little decorated tree in there, and we might as well enjoy it."

  "Let me carry that." Richard took the tray from her, then followed as she led the way, setting it down on one of the tables.

  Kitty proceeded to pour the cocoa. "Here you are." She placed the mug before him, its chocolaty steam rising tantalizingly, then poured herself a mug and sat down opposite him.

  Richard felt his heart lift recklessly. How lovely she was—the warm brown eyes with their direct gaze, the curve o f her cheek, the compassionate mouth. Even in the ugly gunmetal-gray uniform, she had astonishing beauty.

  They talked easily, like old friends unexpectedly reunited. She asked how he and Scott had met and learned that they had been stationed in the same Paris hotel, now the headquarters of the joint Allied communications team. After a few questions, Kitty was brought up to date on her brother, and they moved to other topics. Mostly they spoke of the past, of their lives before they had met at Birchfields.

  Surprisingly, they found much more in common. Richard knew Cape Cod well, had summered at Martha's Vineyard with his grandparents as a little boy. He told her of losing his mother when he was ten, of boarding school, of school holidays. His grandfather had been a history professor at a small New England college, and Richard had been at the university when his father remarried. Although he was fond of his stepmother, the family was not close.

  "I'm a little envious . . . your having such an extended family, I mean," Richard said. "My brother Brad is a lieutenant in the U. S. navy now. But I haven't seen him since I enlisted in the Canadian army."

  Kitty touched the double bars on his uniform jacket. "I see that you made captain."

  "Yes . . . well, I wish the whole awful thing were over."

  They were quiet for a minute, then Kitty held up her empty cup. "More?"

  "No, thanks. But I see a gramophone over there. Would we disturb anyone if we played it?"

  "Not at all. The wards are quite a distance from here, and the walls of the chateau are thick."

  Richard got up and went over to look through the meager stack of records.

  "They're all pretty scratchy, I'm afraid," Kitty told him. 'They've been played so much."

  He studied the labels, then cranked the handle and carefully put a record on the turntable. Then he was holding out his arms to her, and Kitty moved into them as the record began, spinning out the strains of " I f you were the only girl in the world—"

  Suddenly it was last Christmas at Birchfields, the scent of cedar, the soft glow of candles—

  Richard's arm was around her waist, her hand in his. They moved as one, around and around, the music flowing over and through them in harmony.

  Kitty felt Richard's lips on her hair, felt his fingers tighten on her hand, felt his arm drawing her closer. "Kitty, Kitty, if you only knew how often I've dreamed of this," he murmured.

  The music stopped, but they went on dancing. Richard led her back to the gramophone and flipped the record to the other side. "I'm alwa
ys chasing rainbows," the vocalist crooned.

  "Is that what I'm doing, Kitty? Chasing rainbows?" Richard asked.

  She looked up at him, not knowing quite what to say.

  "Scott told me you're no longer engaged."

  Kitty felt her face flame with remembered humiliation.

  "Don't blame Scott for betraying a confidence. I asked him point-blank—" He paused. "Ever since Birchfields . . . well, I've never been able to get you out of my mind, Kitty. Is it too soon? Should I have kept quiet?"

  "No, Richard, it's all right. Really. Of course, it hurt at the time . . . even now, when I know it's over, that he loves someone else. I guess I haven't dealt with the reality yet—" She shook her head. "I just go on from day to day, doing my work. . . . It's just that Kip was so much a part of my life . . . at least my life back home—"

  She hesitated. "I've thought a lot about it and now realize it might have happened anyway after the war, when we were back in Virginia. We may have both changed, and it wouldn'tbe right for either of us anymore. It's better that it happened now before . . . well, before we made a worse mistake—"

  "Come, let's sit down," Richard suggested. 'There's much to talk about."

  They found much to say to each other as the hours slipped by. Time passed, and still there was more. They never even noticed when the eerie gray of winter dawn crept through the narrow windows. It wasn't until a nurse came in for coffee before going on duty and snapped off the light switch, that they realized they had talked through the night.

  Richard was all concern. "You'll be dead on your feet."

  Kitty dismissed that and asked, "How much leave do you have?"

  "I have to pick the colonel up tomorrow morning."

  Kitty hesitated only briefly before suggesting, "What if I ask Matron for the day off ? I can take someone else's shift another day."

  "Would you do that, Kitty? It would mean the world to me if we could spend the next twenty-four hours together."