The Woman at the Front

by Lecia Cornwall

  He climbed into the farmyard again. The sky had turned moody and gray, promising wet spring snow or icy needles of rain. He stood still, breathing in the gunmetal air, and longed for the fresh, heady fragrance of a brisk Highland breeze. His arms and shoulders ached, and the weight of exhaustion pressed on him. He felt it most when there was a lull in the fighting and he wasn’t busy—weary to his very bones. He rubbed his palms over his face, felt the sandpaper roughness of his own hands, full of splits and splinters and scars. The mud was ground so deep into his flesh that he couldn’t get his hands clean anymore. He thought of Eleanor Atherton’s hands, white and neat and pure as snow, the clean, capable hands of a doctor, the supple, delicate hands of a lady. All of her was supple and delicate—strong, too, like a fine ash bow that bent without breaking. He felt another wave of yearning wash over him, to be clean, safe, and warm for a change.

  Instead, a bitingly cold gust of wind chilled him, finding gaps in his clothing, tearing at his hair, reminding him that he was daydreaming again.

  “Cac,” he swore aloud in Gaelic, and he took shelter behind the wall of the kitchen and lit a cigarette in cupped hands.

  He stared up at the calendar, swaying in the wind like a come-hither beckon, and saw Eleanor again in the girl’s printed smile. On a whim, he climbed over the rubble and tore the picture off the wall.

  He heard the crack of a rifle and felt a sharp sting on the underside of his arm. He jerked back, instinctively ducking, but the rubble under his feet gave way and tipped him sideways, sliding him into a jagged crater. There was more pain as he landed hard, and something sliced into the soft flesh above his wrist. He put his hands over his head against falling debris and more bullets, not daring to move, unable to look, until he was sure the shooting had stopped and the rest of the building wasn’t going to fall on him. He felt the hot rush of blood running down his arm and watched it drip from his cuff. He felt surprise, but no pain yet.

  How bad? Is it a Blighty?

  He shook off the thought and stared at the sky and the debris above him, waiting, wondering if his luck had run out at last, but the ancient bones of the house stood firm, even sheltering him from the worst of the debris.

  “Faigh muin,” he cursed, daring to draw a breath. He looked at the scrap of paper still clasped in his hand, at the lass’s smiling face and the rainbow bubbles. His arm was burning now. The sleeve of his coat was torn, and he could see a jagged splinter of wood embedded in his flesh, black against the white of his skin and the red of blood. A lot of blood, but not so much he feared the shard had pierced an artery, which was good. But the wood was old, and dirty, which was bad.

  “ ’Tis what ye get for daydreaming,” he muttered to the lass in the illustration. He should toss the foolish thing away. Instead, he shoved it awkwardly into his breast pocket and began to climb out of the rubble, ignoring the pain, the blood, the shock of being wounded.

  He heard a stifled, shaking gasp from somewhere close by and paused, his ears alive to the sound of fear and pain.

  “Hello? Are ye in the rubble? Are ye hurt?” he called out.

  His stayed still and listened, scanning the debris for signs of a wounded man—a hand, a foot, or a face in the debris.

  “I’m here,” a voice sobbed at last. “For the love of God, help me, get me out!”

  Fraser saw him. He was half buried by the fallen debris, his eyes rolling white with terror in a dirty face.

  He ignored the pain in his own arm and the blood trickling down his sleeve and went to help the soldier. He saw the rifle clutched in a shaking fist.

  Now he knew where the bullet had come from.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Good afternoon, chaps,” David Blair said as he entered the cellar of the bakery with a pack of supplies on his back. Private Gibbons followed behind with more crates.

  Blair looked around the cellar. “Why, this is nicer than the CCS,” he said. “Very snug.”

  Chilcott grinned. “All plush and pleasant aside from the bullets and bombs. Pull up a chair by the fire. We’ve got an hour before sick parade. There was a lad from the forward trench who came with a cough yesterday, but we couldn’t do more than give him a cup of hot tea and promise there’d be a doc to see to him soon. He’ll be back today.”

  “My condolences on Captain Duncan,” David said.

  Chilcott’s smile faded. “Yes. Everyone loved him. Good doc, kind to the men. That’s all some of ’em need now and then, just someone to be kind to them, offer a cup of tea instead of a Number 9 laxative pill and an earful.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” David said. “Which bunk is free?”

  “They’re all free at the moment. Take your pick. You’ll have to give it up if things get busy, but here’s hoping they won’t. We’ve heard rumors from the lads on the line. Haven’t heard anything, have you, Captain?”

  David shook off the shiver of dread that coursed down his spine. “Colonel Bellford would have warned me if he’d had news of an attack anywhere in our sector.” He dropped his pack on the nearest cot, shrugged out of his greatcoat, and went to pour coffee from the pot.

  Chilcott grimaced. “Oh, I wouldn’t drink that, or you’ll be on your own sick list,” he said. “I’ll show you how things are set up, then we’ll see if we can scrounge up a pot of what passes for tea instead. We’ve heard a few ugly rumors here, even if they haven’t reached the rear yet. Sergeant MacLeod is out scouting new digs in case things heat up and we have to move house in a hurry.”

  The ragged blanket that covered the doorway opened suddenly, letting in a cold gust of wind.

  “Close that bloody—” Chilcott began, but Fraser MacLeod staggered in, half carrying a wounded man. Chilcott hurried forward to take the soldier.

  “This is Private Cooper. He’s suffering from exposure and a gunshot wound in his hand.”

  David frowned. “Self-inflicted?” There were rules about that sort of thing, protocol, punishment, court-martial. As medical officer, he’d been trained to diagnose such wounds and report them.

  MacLeod looked away. “I didn’t examine him. I brought him in because he needs help.”

  The young soldier let out an agonized sob as Chilcott tried to unwrap the dirty strip of cloth stuck to his shattered hand. He was shivering with both fear and cold, David suspected. He crossed to look at the wound. It stank—it was badly infected.

  Fraser MacLeod slumped into the nearest chair. “The farm will do as an aid post,” he said to everyone present. “The house isn’t safe, but there’s a stone wall around the yard, and a well, and a good, deep cellar.”

  David glanced at the Scot. He was smudged with dust and soot. Then he saw the fresh blood dripping from MacLeod’s sleeve.

  “You’re hurt. What the devil happened to you?”

  “Cooper mistook me for the enemy. With his hand in that state, and as scared as he was, his aim was off, and he missed. Mostly. There’s a splinter in my arm that hurts worse, and that’s my own bloody fault.”

  David lifted the bearer’s arm and looked at the wood embedded in his skin. The shard was dirty and crumbling. It would need to be removed carefully, preferably somewhere cleaner than the aid post. “Where’d the bullet hit you?”

  Fraser grunted. “Right side. Minor. Barely hurts at all.” Which meant it hurt a lot, David suspected. MacLeod was pale, his face drawn and stoic.

  Fraser shifted, trying to take his greatcoat off. “No, stop,” David said. “If that splinter is in the artery and it comes loose with your coat . . .” He paused. The Scot was already pale, his forehead beaded with sweat from the effort of carrying Cooper.

  “We can take it out here,” Chilcott said. “Shall I get the tweezers?”

  “No. I want you to go back to the CCS,” David said, his eyes on Fraser. “The ambulance is still here, and they can see to it in nice, sterile conditions. You won’t be a
ble to lift anything with that arm for a while, so there’s no point in staying here at the front.”

  MacLeod’s eyes were ice, his jaw locked into iron lines of determination.

  “The lads on the line think there’s going to be an attack. I’ll be needed. Do it here.”

  “When was the last time you had a tetanus shot?” David asked.

  “A few months back,” Fraser said. “I cut my knee on some barbed wire. I survived.”

  David looked at the sergeant’s tight jaw and the puddle of blood on the floor. There were hollows of exhaustion under his eyes and deep lines around his mouth. He was too tense, too thin—he looked a dozen years older than he probably was. Still, the man was on alert, ready if anyone should need him.

  “How long have you been here, MacLeod?” David asked.

  “Since June of ’16, just before the Somme.”

  “How much leave have you had?”

  MacLeod’s lips quirked. “None. Stretcher bearers are like MOs—they have a bad habit of getting killed, and there’s never enough trained men to replace them.”

  David fashioned a sling and carefully eased Fraser’s arm into it. “We’ll have to do without you for a while. I’m sending you back to forty-six for treatment and putting you on light duties for a week. I’ll reassess the wound when I’m back there. Or Bellford can.”

  MacLeod started to get up. “A week? But if the rumors are true—”

  “Go, Fraser,” Chilcott said. “You’re of no use to anyone like that. And the lad—Cooper—he’ll need to go back. His hand is infected.” He looked at David. “He’s got the wind up—he’s nervous. He can’t go back on the line like this. He’ll shoot himself or someone else.” He nodded toward Fraser. “And it might not be the enemy he takes a crack at. I’m not sure what kind of officer you are yet, Captain. Captain Duncan would have wished to save this lad’s life. He’d likely have done the amputation right here, since the hand is infected anyway, and sent him on without anything to make anyone suspicious, if you know what I mean.”

  He meant there’d be no proof the wound was self-inflicted. David looked at Fraser. “He shot you. That might have gone very badly.”

  “I survived,” Fraser said again in the same laconic tone.

  “Let it go, Captain,” Chilcott pleaded. “This war has gone on too long, taken enough men. This lad’s just seventeen. Surely a little mercy is called for now and again.”

  The young soldier’s pinched face was stark white under the dirt that covered it. His eyes were huge, and they darted around the cellar in terror. He was trembling hard enough to shake the chair he sat on. David looked at his hand and nearly recoiled at the smell. It was badly infected, the bones and tendons shattered. If he sent him back like this, Cooper would certainly die, and he’d die in disgrace, executed for cowardice. David looked at the simple operating area. “Can you do the anesthetic?”

  Chilcott nodded with a relieved smile. “Yes, sir.”

  He looked at Fraser. “Are you agreeable?”

  “Easy to get separated from your unit when you’re looking for an aid post. Must have cut his hand on some barbed wire in the dark.”

  Blair nodded grimly and began to prepare for surgery.

  “Can I help?” Fraser asked.

  “With one arm?” Chilcott asked. “I’ll do it. You get ready to go.”

  “What am I to do with myself for an entire week?” Fraser asked, looking at the sling.

  “Sleep,” David said. “Even on light duties, I’m sure you’ll still find a dozen ways to make yourself useful. I know you’re not the kind to sit still, but this time, it’s an order.” He wrote out a ticket, but Fraser snatched it from him before he could attach it to his coat.

  “See? I always said you were lucky,” Chilcott said cheerfully. “It’s not a Blighty, but oh, what I’d do for a soft bed, and the softer hands and warm smile of a pretty nurse. Shall I send a Number 9 pill along with him, Captain, just for spite?”

  Fraser glowered at his comrade. “I’ll be back if you need me.”

  Fraser gathered his things, using his left hand instead of his injured right one, his movements awkward. “Is Eleanor Atherton still there?” Fraser asked casually—too casually—and David felt a sharp needle-prick of jealousy.

  But MacLeod was just a sergeant, a poor Highlander, while he was a surgeon, an officer, a man of her own class and profession. If there weren’t a war on, Eleanor would never have met Fraser MacLeod, nor looked twice at him if they chanced to pass on the street. Still, he felt a twinge of uncertainty. She’d come to France. Here, things were different. He recalled the way Fraser had showed Eleanor how to do triage, how she’d looked at the big Scot. It wasn’t how she looked at Louis Chastaine, or himself. He let out a long breath—resignation, perhaps. Fraser would be at forty-six, and he was stuck here. A man could make a lot of headway with a woman in a week.

  “Do you believe in fate, Corporal?” he asked Chilcott.

  Chilcott watched Fraser climb the steps. “Don’t know, but when I look at Fraser MacLeod, I believe in luck, and that’s good enough for me.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Eleanor stared down at the letter she was writing to her father, trying to explain that she’d been asked to stay a little longer, to practice medicine—well, potentially practice medicine—and that she intended to do so. It was a letter of telling rather than asking permission, and it wasn’t going well. Her parents would not approve of or understand her decision, and she couldn’t seem to find the words to explain.

  The knock on the door of the spartan guest hut took her by surprise, but the distraction, whatever it might be, was welcome.

  She opened it to find her brother leaning against the sill.

  “Edward. Is everything all right? Is it Louis?”

  “In a way,” he said, stepping into the tiny one-room visitor’s hut. He looked around with minimal interest. He looked directly at her. “He wants to leave.”

  She smiled. “I know. It will only be a few more days, a week at—”

  “No, now, today. He wants to go to Paris.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  He held out a form to her. “We just need your signature, releasing him.”

  “I can’t go to Paris!”

  His brows rose. “Not you. Just Louis.”

  Her mouth dried, and she stared at him. “But I’m his doctor.”

  He crossed and set the paper on the desk and picked up her pen. “There are doctors in Paris. He’ll be fine, better than fine. Just sign it. Someone has to, Blair’s away, and I can’t very well ask Bellford.” He held out the pen to her.

  She didn’t take it. “Of course not. The colonel would refuse. It’s just a few more days, Edward. I’ll speak to him, explain—”

  “God damn it, Eleanor, you owe me this! Sign the order!”

  “I owe you this?” she asked slowly, surprised at his anger, his haughty insistence.

  “You know what I mean. You must know.”

  “I don’t!”

  “You wouldn’t be here playing doctor at all if it weren’t for me.”

  “Playing? I’m not playing at anything. I am a doctor.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “A doctor. You couldn’t even pass the damn medical school entrance exam.”

  Her heart froze in her chest. “But I did pass! You were the one who failed, Edward.”

  He smirked. “I didn’t fail. I passed that exam with top marks.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes. “No! That’s—” Impossible. But it wasn’t.

  “Yes, Eleanor. I lied for you, cheated. I saw you at the end of the exam. I knew you’d failed. You, sure you were so clever, the one who read every book, studied night and day. You were so sure you’d do better than me.”

  She’d frozen the day of the exam, had sat numb and nervous, unable
to think, to remember anything, though she knew it all. She’d been sure she’d failed. And so she had. It had been a surprise when the results arrived, a miracle. “No,” she murmured again.

  “All I had to do was make one little change on the cover of the booklet. We all signed in by first and middle initial and last name. We’re twins, adorably and rather predictably called by names that begin with the same letter, both of us E. Atherton. I simply wrote ‘Miss’ before my initial.

  “It was a mistake,” she said breathlessly. “You wrote it on the wrong booklet.”

  “No, I didn’t,” he said coldly. “I made sure of it—I changed the middle initial on my paper as well. The C for Charles became a G for Grace. I did it intentionally. I did you a favor.” He held the pen out like a dagger. “Now do me a favor and sign Louis’s release, or I’ll expose you as a fraud. I’ll tell father, and Louis’s mother, and Bellford. I’ll write to the university. I’ll tell anyone who’ll listen.”

  “Why?” she managed to croak. “Why would you do this?” Tears stung her eyes, but she refused to blink, to let them fall.

  “Louis’s well enough, and he’s bored, and there’s no reason he should be trapped here when he could be in Paris with Fanny. There are better doctors than you there. He’s a bloody viscount, and Fanny will see he gets the best care her fortune can buy, far better than you can give him.”

  “But you’re a doctor’s son, a soldier. Surely you know what could happen to him—” she began, trying to reason with him still, though she was shaking.

  “He doesn’t care. He can’t bear another minute of this bloody place, and I promised I’d get him out. It’ll be good for both of us. I have a week’s leave, and being with Fanny’s set will further my own career. Can’t you see that? That’s what you owe me, the same opportunity I gave you, the chance to do what you want with your life. I can take that away from you now. You have no choice. You’re a fraud and you shouldn’t even be here. If you want to keep what little dignity you have left, then you’ll do as I wish and sign the release.”