The Woman at the Front

by Lecia Cornwall

  And once she’d done that, the future would be bright indeed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Her mother was in the sitting room when Eleanor got home. Grace Atherton’s knitting needles clicked as she worked on yet another sock or mitten for the troops. Eleanor looked around the warm and homely room. It was the same as always, a familiar tableau that never changed. Nothing was out of place or missing, yet everything had altered since she was here this morning—and even more would change before the shadows of the winter evening crept in for the night and spread themselves across the worn rug.

  “You’ve been out for quite a while, Eleanor,” Grace Atherton said, glancing up with a hopeful smile. “Did you drop off the knitting? Were they pleased to get it?”

  Eleanor hesitated before replying. She’d forgotten the bundle in the back of the car until she returned to the vehicle. She’d had to make a second trip, to slip back to the east door and deliver it. It was the errand she’d set out on, an important one to her mother and to the rest of the knitting circle, representing their contribution to the war effort. Eleanor marveled again that the events of the day, starting with that simple delivery, had led her to a chance to make an important contribution of her own. “I—” she began, but her mother barreled on without waiting for an answer.

  “Dare I hope you’re late because you met Peter while you were at Chesscroft? What did you talk about?” She looked back at her knitting. “No, don’t tell me yet—I must finish this row before I lose count. If I get this mitten done today, that will make nine this week. The tea is still hot if you want a cup.”

  “Four and a half pairs. That will put you near the top of the board, won’t it?” Eleanor said, warming her hands at the fire. The St. Everilda’s Ladies’ Knitting Circle kept track of each member’s weekly contribution of completed items.

  Her mother sniffed. “Lydia Pickersgill has already finished six pairs of socks and two mufflers this week, but what else has she to do with her time?”

  “How is Lydia’s gout?” The widow rarely left her cottage, citing her ailment as making it impossible for her to walk. In truth, she had four sons away at war, and without her boys to cook and clean for, and with fear for their safety gnawing at her day and night, what else had she to do but knit and suffer?

  “She says the wet weather has her feeling particularly poorly.” She peered at Eleanor. “You might pick up your own knitting needles, Eleanor. Even the queen and the Princess Royal are knitting for the soldiers. It’s been a hard winter already, and they’re predicting more cold days ahead. The need for warm socks is crucial, and the feet you save might well be your own brother’s.”

  She sounded like a propaganda poster.

  Eleanor studied her mother’s face, noted the lines of middle age made deeper by the firelight. She was squinting at her knitting, and it was on the tip of Eleanor’s tongue to remind her she’d only make her eyes worse or give herself a headache, but Grace Atherton was too proud to admit she needed glasses.

  “I was invited to tea by the countess today,” she said instead.

  The click of the needles stopped, and for a moment there was stunned silence. “Tea? For delivering a load of knitting?” She sniffed. “If her ladyship wishes to offer her thanks to the knitting circle, there are others she could invite to tea. I do hope she’s not trying to involve you in those dreadful suffrage activities she espouses. I cannot approve of such foolishness. A woman’s place is in the home. She serves best as helpmeet and guide that way, not by involving herself in politics. Instead of serving tea, the countess would do better to join the knitting circle and lend a hand.”

  “She donates the wool, Mama, and she arranges for shipment of the finished goods to France at her own expense. She’s given her home as a convalescent hospital, and chairs the local Volunteer Reserve, and the earl works at the War Office.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s just fine for grand folk like them, but there’s always more work to do. There’s nothing unimportant about knitting and rolling bandages, Eleanor. Why did she invite you in to tea?” She looked up, a new idea making her eyes sparkle. “Was it Peter’s doing, by chance?”

  Not at all, she thought. But then, if he hadn’t refused to treat Arthur, causing the countess to be summoned, she wouldn’t have been invited to tea, so perhaps Peter Ellersby had everything to do with it after all.

  “She wished to tell me that Lord Louis has been wounded—”

  Her mother dropped her knitting and clapped her hand to her chest “What? Is he dead, maimed? Was it that dreadful gas? Lydia’s middle son was gassed, and blinded for nearly a week. Was Edward with him?”

  “No. I’m sure we’d hear directly if Edward were wounded. Louis is alive, but he broke his leg while landing his plane under enemy fire and suffered burns. He’s in hospital in France.”

  Her mother exhaled in relief. “I would not wish her ladyship the terrible grief of losing a son, of course—not so soon after Lord Cyril’s death—but I don’t see why she’d bother you about a broken leg.”

  Eleanor clasped her hands together tightly. “She—the countess—wants me to go to France and bring him home.”

  Her mother barked a laugh. “Who? Louis? Very funny. Why on earth would she want you to go to France? Has he forgotten the way home? Is it the chauffeur’s day off?”

  Eleanor felt her shoulders tense. “She asked because I’m a doctor. Louis will need medical care on the journey.”

  Grace Atherton’s smile fell and her brows rose in surprise, as if she’d forgotten her daughter was a doctor. “And she asked me because I’m a family friend, of course,” Eleanor added quickly to soften the news.

  “You? Lord Louis is Edward’s friend, never yours. We owe the countess nothing. The Kirkswells are not even your father’s patients. They bring in their fancy London doctor when they’ve a need, as if your father’s not good enough for them, and you—” Her face was red, and Eleanor could see the pulse pounding in her throat.

  “Mama?” Eleanor rose to fetch the smelling salts from the box on the shelf.

  “You can’t go to France!” her mother managed.

  Eleanor gritted her teeth and forced a smile, clutched the tiny vial tight in her fist. “Of course I can.”

  “What about Peter? He’s coming to supper!” She looked mournfully at her daughter. “He wished it to be a surprise, but I might as well tell you that Peter has spoken to your father. He intends to propose on Friday evening, and then you’ll have your wedding to plan, and Peter will not allow you to go haring off to France. Her ladyship will have to find someone else.”

  Eleanor gaped at her mother. “Propose? Peter Ellersby? To me?”

  “Of course you. Surely it isn’t a complete shock. He’s been attentive and charming for months. For heaven’s sake, Eleanor, can you not recognize a courtship when it’s right in front of you?”

  A courtship. Was that what it was? Her parents had offered much more encouragement than she had. It was Mama who invited him to supper and sang his praises, and her father was the one he conversed with, played chess with. Of course, Peter did sometimes walk her to church on Sundays if he wasn’t on duty, or amused her with silly, meaningless compliments on her dress or her hair. She’d once hoped he’d be a kindred spirit, someone to discuss interesting medical cases with, or the latest advances brought about by the war for managing pain, or infection, or shell shock, but he changed the subject whenever she brought up medicine. He said it wasn’t a suitable topic for a summer day, or an autumn evening, or a pretty woman. Even if that woman was a doctor. Instead they spoke of the weather, or of how terribly difficult it was to get properly tailored uniforms in York these days.

  Well.

  She supposed she should feel something other than utter astonishment—flattered by his attention at least, his courtship, but all she could think of was his stiff indignation this morning, his haughty refusal to
treat Arthur Nevins.

  She could only imagine what he thought of her behavior today. “I don’t think—that is, if that, um, occurs, I may not say yes,” she said to be diplomatic, to soften the blow.

  He mother flinched in horror anyway. “Not say yes? Don’t be silly. Of course you’ll say yes. Peter Ellersby is a fine man, a doctor like your father, and a major in the RAMC. There’s a baron in his family tree. You’ll not get a better offer at your age, and you’ll be an old maid if you refuse him, or you’ll have to settle for a far less advantageous match. After the war there will be even fewer men to choose from. It’s a terrible thing to say, but it’s true enough. Your father approves of Peter, and that alone should be good enough for you, Eleanor. I only wish to see you happy and fulfilled as a woman. Why can’t you settle down? This is why I was reluctant to see you go to university. I feared then that you’d become the kind of woman no man would ever want, overeducated and stubborn, and I can see I was right.” She shook her head fervently and closed her eyes. “Nothing good comes of being too clever.”

  “I graduated seventh in my class, Mama,” Eleanor said, feeling her belly tense at the old familiar argument. “That means I am a better doctor than more than one hundred and thirty others, all men save one.”

  Two hot spots of mortified color appeared in her mother’s cheeks. “A woman is never better than a man, Eleanor. Peter is a fine doctor, and after the war he’ll rise. Imagine being the wife of a doctor who treats the cream of the aristocracy, an esteemed Harley Street physician.”

  It never occurred to her mother that Eleanor could become an esteemed physician in her own right.

  She raised her chin. “I told the countess I would go. It is a medical matter that cannot wait,” Eleanor said, bringing her mother back to the matter at hand. “She wants me to leave at once—tomorrow, in fact.”

  Her mother shot to her feet, and the ball of wool in her lap tumbled across the carpet, unraveling in an endless gray exclamation point. “Tomorrow! Don’t be impertinent. Your father will never allow it.”

  Eleanor kept her spine stiff. “I’ll only be gone for a week or two, and it is a tremendous honor to be asked by the countess herself. And Louis—Viscount Somerton—is a hero. Think of what the knitting circle will say,” Eleanor suggested brightly, trying to soothe her mother. She crossed to take her arm and ease her back into the chair, but her mother shook her off.

  “I’m thinking of what your father will say—and Peter.” She glanced at the clock. “Oh, where is your father? The train from York must be late.”

  Eleanor glanced at the clock. “His train isn’t due yet. I’ll fetch him from the station later.”

  Her mother sniffed. “Why can’t a servant go and fetch him, or the earl? Lord Louis, I mean.”

  Eleanor folded her hands patiently. “The countess wants this done with the utmost discretion, by a doctor. She fears that the journey might cause complications, might—well, it might make his recovery longer and more difficult without the proper care. There is still a chance that he might . . .” She couldn’t say it out loud.

  “But you’re a woman, a young woman, gently raised.”

  “There are plenty of women serving in France—as nurses, or ambulance drivers, or couriers.”

  “But not as doctors, Eleanor! Female doctors are not allowed by the War Office or the Red Cross. I insisted that your father check into it, just in case you could be called up. I know they don’t need or want female doctors. Women might temporarily act as locums at home, freeing a man to serve. You are assisting your father. That is quite enough. More than enough, I think.”

  Frustration rose. “But I’m not assisting! Father will not let me handle even the most basic cases!”

  Mama’s nose shot skyward. “Of course not. What would people think? You were raised to be respectable, to take your proper place in society as a wife and mother!”

  Eleanor shut her eyes. “But I’m a doctor, Mama.”

  “Then you intend to defy your father?”

  “Apparently she already has.”

  Eleanor turned to find her father standing in the doorway, still wearing his coat. He set his medical bag on the chest beside the door. His eyes remained on Eleanor even though her mother hurried across the room to take his hat and coat.

  “I took an earlier train back. I met Francis Ross at the station when I arrived. He told me that you spoke with her ladyship today. He was at the station making arrangements for your trip tomorrow.” He raised his brows expectantly, his expression bland and haughty. It was the look he used for difficult patients—or his impossible daughter. She hated that look. It tied her tongue for a moment, but he offered no further comment and simply stood stiffly in the doorway and waited for Eleanor to explain herself.

  Eleanor felt eight years old again. “I-I didn’t know myself until an hour or so ago. The countess asked me just this morning.”

  “John, tell her she cannot go to France. Forbid it! She won’t listen to me or see reason,” her mother said.

  The doctor glanced at his wife. “It’s gone beyond that. Saying no at this point would make us look petty and rather foolish. Was that your intention, Eleanor, to leave me no choice in the matter?”

  “No choice? What do you mean?” Mama warbled in horror.

  “This is my choice, Papa,” Eleanor said, but he ignored her.

  “We cannot refuse to aid the earl’s son, a war hero, a neighbor, when her ladyship has asked personally.”

  Her mother blinked back agitated tears. “Then perhaps we could leave the matter to Peter—he surely won’t allow his wife-to-be to go off on such a dangerous, foolish journey!”

  “It is my understanding that Peter has not even spoken to Eleanor yet. Am I wrong, Eleanor? Has he proposed to you?”

  She shook her head.

  Her mother made a small sound of breathless horror. “But he will!” Her shaking hand crept to her flushed cheek, and her chest heaved. “Oh, this is a disaster.”

  Eleanor caught her mother’s hand. “Come and sit down, Mama. Do you need the smelling salts, a bit of brandy?”

  Grace pulled away, slumped into the chair, and twisted her hands together in anxious knots. “What are we to do? What are we to do?”

  “Eleanor has made her own decision. There is nothing to do,” her father said impatiently.

  She searched his face for a morsel of understanding, or love. No. Not there. There was nothing there but icy resolve. She forced a smile, trying to move past the terrible tension. “I’ll bring Louis back safely.”

  “War is not a game, Eleanor.”

  She stared at him, her mouth dry, needing more, wanting his blessing, even now. She held her father’s gaze, pleaded silently.

  “You’d better go and pack,” he said, turning away.

  “Wait—what about Peter?” Mama asked, her tone hopeful with a new idea. “Perhaps the countess could be convinced to send Peter instead.”

  “No!” The word escaped before Eleanor could stop it.

  Papa frowned. “He’s on duty, Grace, overseeing the medical care of the convalescents. He’s needed here, and his work is important.”

  Mama’s face crumpled. “This is mortifying! How will I hold my head up in the village?”

  “Go upstairs and rest,” Papa said impatiently.

  Her mother stiffened at her husband’s crisp command, but obeyed at once, her knitting forgotten.

  Her father picked up the paper pattern she’d dropped. “ ‘Men’s mittens, size eight, half thumb,’ ” he read aloud. “I trust everything was quiet here today?” he asked without looking at Eleanor.

  “Arthur Nevins cut his leg. I saw him on the way to Chesscroft. He was in a bad way, and—”

  “I’ll check on him tomorrow,” he cut in, not asking for details.

  “I was concerned about the bleeding, and inf
ection. The laceration was deep and dirty, and there was significant blood loss and shock.” Still her father didn’t reply. “Charlie’s been called up. He’s worried Arthur may have trouble seeing to things on the farm, and—”

  Her father set the knitting pattern down on the table. He walked past her and went down the hall to the surgery and closed the door behind him.

  For a moment she stayed where she was, staring after him.

  She knocked on the door of the surgery.

  “Yes?”

  He was seated at his desk, looking at the list he’d left her, the chores that remained undone. “You raised us to love medicine. You showed Edward and me how the body works, how it fails, and how a doctor can restore it again. You told us stories of interesting cases, taught us the science and mystery and magic of all of it. How could I want to be anything else, anything less than a doctor? Why did you allow me to go to medical school if you didn’t want me to practice?”

  He set the list down and clasped his hands before him. He looked at her coldly. “It was never about you, Eleanor. I expected Edward would be the one to go to medical school, not you. My son, not my daughter. You were raised with an appreciation of a doctor’s job because I expected you to marry a doctor, to support his ambitions.”

  She shut her eyes, gripped the back of the chair. “Then why did you let me go to medical school?”

  “I allowed you to write the admission exam for your brother’s sake, to spur him to do better, work harder, and not let himself be outdone by a girl.” He lowered his eyes to the list. “When he fai—did not pass—I thought to teach Edward another lesson by letting you go in his place. I expected his pride would force him to sit the exam again, do better. I doubted you’d last a month at university. I expected you’d fail, come home in tears, and give up the foolish notion of practicing medicine. When you did not, I let you continue, to see just how far you’d go before you failed. It was meant to be a lesson in humility, to teach you your place.”