The Woman at the Front

by Lecia Cornwall

  He grinned. “As a matter of fact, he told me that I’d made a fine job of it. I’d disinfected it with whisky, cleaned the needle and thread—I used a strand of my own hair, which was longer before I joined up. If the stitches weren’t pretty, at least they were secure. He asked me if I’d ever considered becoming a doctor myself one day . . .” his voice trailed off.

  For an instant the shears stilled. “Have you?”

  “Nay. My da’s a gamekeeper. I’m expected to be a gamekeeper after him. With a dozen of us in the house, there’s no money for fancy schooling, and no patience among the local folk for lads who think to jump above their station.” He knew that well enough, had learned that lesson the hard way. He had another scar, this one under his jaw, where a fist with a fancy ring on it had cut him open.

  “So when you joined up—”

  “I joined the infantry, just like every other lad in the glen. Our doctor wrote to the RAMC officer at the training camp, told him I’d be better suited to a posting as an orderly instead of a foot soldier. They took one look at the size of me and decided I’d make a good stretcher bearer.”

  “And what will you do after the war?” she asked. He was staring at her again, noticing the freckles across her nose, the length of her neck, her ears, even.

  He focused on what she was saying. “After the war? I’ll go home and be a gamekeeper’s son again.”

  “Everyone says there’ll be new opportunities after the war,” she said. “There might be scholarships, or—”

  He hadn’t noticed she’d cut through the neckband until that side of his shirt fell forward, exposing his arm and his shoulder and half his chest. With a shout he leaped to his feet, tried to cover himself.

  Too late.

  He saw the horror in her eyes at the sight of his body. He knew it was bad. He had seen other bearers with the same deep scrapes, scars, and bruises on their chests and backs and shoulders caused by the straps of the stretcher. It was ugly, and painful, and not something any woman, even a doctor, should see.

  Corporal O’Neill, one of the bearers who’d been on the line when Fraser had first arrived, had won a pot of money in a card game. He’d written to his wife, asking her to come and spend a furlough with him in Dunkirk, and the lads had seen him off on his holiday with much teasing. O’Neill was back long before his leave was up. His wife had recoiled at the sight of his naked body, had refused to let him touch her with his scarred hands and damaged flesh, as if the marks were contagious, as if he weren’t her husband and the man she loved. O’Neill shot himself, and unlike Cooper, he’d made sure it was fatal.

  “Were you beaten by someone, or kicked by a horse?” Eleanor Atherton asked, staring at his body. He clutched at the ruins of his shirt, trying to hide himself from her eyes. He was lumpy, misshapen, abhorrent. Anger rose, and he opened his mouth to tell her to go, to leave him alone and not pity him. He’d decided long ago that he’d keep his clothes on, and not show anyone what lay beneath them. But it wasn’t horror he read in her eyes, or disgust. It wasn’t even a doctor’s clinical interest in a medically interesting case.

  It was something else, something protective. Concern. For him.

  “It’s the straps of the stretchers. They cut into the skin, slide against our necks, bite deep, rub the flesh raw. We use feedbags to pad them but it doesn’t do much good. Our carries are heavy men—heavier still when they’re unconscious, or wet, or muddy. We have to concentrate on finding the way through the mud, not tipping them off the bloody stretcher. We haven’t got time to think of ourselves, or our pains.” He looked up, pleading with his eyes. “I’d have spared ye the sight of me if ye’d let me. I did try to. Go and fetch an orderly, or I can wait for Bellford if ye’d rather that.”

  Instead she came closer. Carefully, she ran her fingers over the worst of the welts. “I’m not offended.”

  He shut his eyes, enjoying her touch, though he had no right to, and it wasn’t appropriate to take pleasure in it. He pulled away. “I’m dirty and scarred and I stink. I’m not like—” He didn’t want to bring up her flier, rich and titled and clean, an old friend, a hero, a man she admired.

  She ignored the comment and drew the curtains around the table, closing him in, giving him privacy. “Wait, please,” she said, and she left him alone.

  She’d fetch Swiftwood, or some other male orderly, to tend to him now.

  He was surprised when the curtain shifted a few minutes later and she came in carrying a basin and a pitcher of steaming water. She had a folded shirt with her, along with a sponge and clean towels. She filled the basin and dipped the sponge into it.

  He tensed at the first swipe across his chest, but the water was warm and soothing, and she was gentle. She dipped the sponge again, washing his chest, his arms, his back, going carefully around his wounded side, his injured arm, the worst of his bruises. He shut his eyes and felt his body edge toward ease, and the pain ebbed. She bathed him the way a mother bathes a bairn, or a wife might wash her husband.

  Her husband. He wasn’t that, and could never be.

  “I wish I had some of the lanolin ointment the farmers in Yorkshire use. It helps heal their skin—they get plenty of bites and cuts, bruises and scrapes. The women make it.”

  “We use similar stuff in Scotland. My gran makes ours. She adds heather and a few ingredients she keeps secret. Every woman in the glen has her own secret salve she swears by.” She smiled at him, and his heart did a slow roll in his chest. He looked at her and tried to see her as just a doctor, a civilian, a stranger, but he couldn’t. The steam from the basin had risen and curled the loose tendrils of her hair, made her cheeks rosy.

  She blushed under his scrutiny and lifted his arm to examine the long, narrow groove Cooper’s bullet had torn into his flesh. It had only nicked his skin, narrowly missing his ribs. He peered at it with her. “Doesn’t look too bad. Just a scratch.”

  She gave him a sharp look, and her face was inches from his own. Close enough to kiss. He swallowed.

  “It’s bad enough, and it could have been—” she began, but he put a finger on her lips.

  “Nay. Don’t think that. Ye can’t count the near misses, or wonder what might have happened if ye’d turned at that moment, or stepped to the left instead of the right. It would drive ye mad.”

  For a moment they stared at each other, eyes locked, and she turned rosier still. He lowered his hand from her mouth, dropping it into his lap.

  She stepped back as well, the spell broken. “It needs disinfecting, and I’ll check it daily while you’re here.”

  “Not a Blighty, then,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact.

  “No.” She frowned. “I’m sorry.”

  He watched her clean the wounds. “Don’t be. It’s not that I don’t want to go home, it’s just—”

  “Just what?” she prompted, but he held his silence.

  He didn’t expect to go home again. He’d learned not to hope for it, not to want it, knowing it would drive him mad, dying here in the mud when he longed for the Highlands. “We’re short of bearers. I’m needed here,” he said instead.

  He heard the jaunty tootle of a car horn outside, and she looked up.

  “Is that for you?” he asked.

  “Who cares?” she murmured, her attention all for him. She finished the sutures in silence and bandaged him. “All done. You can get dressed,” she said at last.

  He nodded at the shirt she’d brought him. “I can’t wear that. It’s an officer’s shirt.”

  “It’s lighter than a woolen one, and it won’t chafe the wounds or your bruises,” she said. “The buttons will make it easier to get on and off.”

  “Whose is it?” he asked, hesitating as she held it up to help him into it. Not Duncan’s. Maybe one of Blair’s?

  “Louis’s,” she said. “Lieutenant Chastaine. It’s the very finest, softest cotton, and fre
sh from the laundry, clean and waiting until he’s ready to be discharged.”

  He grabbed the cuff and looked at the monogram embroidered there, the family crest. “And he doesn’t mind?”

  “No, he won’t mind. He has dozens of them.”

  She held it up, and he put his arms into it, frowning. It fit because he was thinner than he should be, though it was still snug across his shoulders and too short in the sleeves. He rolled up the cuffs, tucking the damned monogram out of sight. “I’d like to help where I can while I’m here. I can’t just sit still while—”

  The curtain parted, and Corporal Swiftwood peered in. He looked at Fraser, then at Eleanor, and noted the bloody basin, the bandages, and the shirt. His dark little eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  “What is it, Corporal?” Eleanor asked.

  “Matron wants to see you on the officers’ ward.” He handed her a sealed envelope. “And there’s a note for you,” he added, his tone arch, as if it contained something highly suspicious. Fraser watched as Eleanor took the note and glanced at it. He could see the words E. Atherton scrawled across it. He saw Eleanor flinch, go pale, and slip the envelope into her pocket without opening it.

  Swiftwood was still there, taking note of the flier’s fancy shirt. “Go,” Fraser growled, and the corporal snapped to attention for an instant before he turned and walked away as if he had important duties to see to, though Fraser knew he was going off to spread gossip.

  “Your patient?” Fraser said, pointing to the pocket that held the letter.

  She looked stricken, fearful, before she turned away, busying herself by tidying things. “My brother.”

  “Then you’ll need to go at once.”

  She shook her head. “It can wait. Edward has come to visit Louis. They’re old friends.”

  “And can he wait, your Louis?” he asked sarcastically, the sound of the French name thick on his Gaelic tongue.

  “They can all wait until I’m finished here,” she said tartly.

  He lifted one eyebrow. “I’m honored,” he said dryly, though he meant it.

  “Any pain?” she asked, changing the subject. “I can give you something for that.”

  “No. I’m fine. Better.”

  “Captain Blair has ordered you to rest while you’re here,” she said. “And eat.”

  She avoided his eyes and glanced at his body again, probably noting that under the fine shirt he was too thin.

  “Eat?” he said, as if he’d forgotten what it meant. He was clean and warm, and getting sleepy now.

  “Three meals a day,” she ordered. “Thick porridge, steak and eggs, and toast with jam for breakfast, stew for luncheon, and a pie for supper.” He noted the slenderness of her figure, like a reed, delicate.

  “Will you eat with me?” he asked, surprised by the words even as they fell from his lips, like a beggar lad asking a duchess to tea, but she looked up at him and scanned his face before she nodded.

  “I’d like that.”

  He felt ridiculously happy. When was the last time he’d actually been happy? Months. Years. He hadn’t even realized it until he met Eleanor Atherton. Her eyes softened as she gazed at him, as if they were friends and she liked to look at him, found comfort and pleasure in his features.

  “Sleep heals as well, Sergeant. Now, let’s find a bed, somewhere quiet.”

  He wished she hadn’t said that, but it was too late. The thought of bed and Eleanor brought a surge of desire. He’d all but forgotten what lust felt like, too.

  For a moment they stared at each other, and he remembered her brother and the lieutenant were waiting for her. “Thank your flier for the shirt.”

  Her eyes widened for an instant, as if she’d forgotten them entirely. Was she so pleased with his company? It made him smile to imagine that could be true.

  He reached for his stained greatcoat with his good arm, picked it up, and opened the curtain. “I think I’ll go find a needle and thread, see if I can save this.” She reached out and touched the battered wool, running her finger over the rough stitching on the inside pockets he’d added. He felt it as if she were touching his skin. She was so close he could see the gleam of the lamplight on her hair and smell the scent of flowers under the carbolic and canvas and wool. He shook himself and stepped back, clutching the coat tighter. “I’d best go,” he said gruffly. “Thank ye. I’ll see you later.”

  She nodded, and he watched her walk away with that purposeful stride of hers and realized that for the first time in a very long while he had something good to look forward to.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Eleanor paused outside the officers’ ward to pat her hair and straighten the cuffs of her blouse. She hadn’t read Edward’s note because she dreaded what it might contain. She felt the weight of it in her pocket. If he’d told Louis, or anyone else, she’d know soon enough. She took a breath and entered the ward, scanning it with a glance, looking for her brother.

  He wasn’t here.

  Worse, Louis’s bed was empty.

  One of the VADs was changing the sheets. Matron Connolly was removing the books and papers from the table beside the bed and putting them into a box.

  “Where’s Lieutenant Chastaine?” Eleanor asked her.

  The matron’s brows rose as her lips tightened as if a pulley connected them. “Didn’t you know?” she asked Eleanor mockingly. “He’s gone.”

  Eleanor’s mouth dried. “Gone?”

  “An officer presented an order for his release. It seems military authority still supersedes yours, Miss Atherton.”

  Her belly caved against her spine. “Whose authority? What orders?”

  “They were signed by an officer from Field Marshal Haig’s staff, I believe, an adjutant to a lieutenant colonel.”

  “Not Edward—was the order signed by E. Atherton?”

  The matron tilted her head. “Yes, I believe it was.”

  Another prank, a cruel trick. But this time the joke wasn’t on her, it was on Louis. Eleanor shut her eyes.

  The matron tsked at the VAD making the bed. She bent to adjust the sheet herself, pleating the corners so they stood at precise military attention. The VAD blushed at the silent correction.

  “They were off to Paris, I believe, to see the field marshal’s personal physician—or so the orders said. I saw no reason to question them.”

  “Did the colonel know? Did he approve?”

  Matron Connolly folded her hands at her waist like a plaster saint. “I don’t know. It hardly matters. The colonel has no authority to countermand orders from headquarters.” Her gaze was as sharp as a scalpel, and she pierced Eleanor with it, smirking in triumph. “You’ll have to go yourself now. There’s no longer anything or anyone to keep you here.” She turned to walk away, dismissing Eleanor.

  “I overheard one of the young ladies say there was a party in Paris they were eager to get to,” the VAD whispered when she thought the matron was out of earshot. “She was most displeased they’d run out of champagne again.”

  “Miss Miller.” The VAD jumped as the matron called her name. “If you do not have enough work to do, I can find more.”

  The VAD bowed her head in meek contrition and stepped away from Eleanor. “Yes, Matron.”

  “There is a bottle under the bed. Retrieve it at once and dispose of it.”

  “You should have called me, asked me to come before—” Eleanor said to the matron as Miss Miller dove for the champagne bottle.

  “I sent Corporal Swiftwood to find you. He said you were busy with other patients. Lieutenant Chastaine was most insistent on leaving at once.” She cast a scornful look over Eleanor. “You could go off to join the fun, since there is no longer any reason for you to stay here. Or were you not invited?” A hot flush of humiliation rose from Eleanor’s toes to the crown of her head, and Matron Connolly smirked. “Ah, I see. Wel
l, whatever you do, you cannot stay here.”

  “But the colonel—”

  “Colonel Bellford has no authority to allow a civilian doctor—a female civilian doctor—to practice here. If the director general of the Royal Army Medical Corps was to hear of it, or anyone in the War Office, the colonel would be in a great deal of trouble. And civilians who are caught where they shouldn’t be can be shot as spies. Did you know that?”

  “I’m not a spy!”

  The matron shrugged. “You have no right to be here, no rank, no official permission. You are not subject to military control or protection. In fact, you seem to be determined to disobey orders and thwart protocol and rules at every turn. There are rules for a reason, and they must be obeyed.”

  “That’s preposterous! I’ll speak to the colonel myself,” Eleanor said, moving past the matron.

  “And I shall send my report to the director general,” Matron Connolly called after her.

  Eleanor strode along the duckboards toward the colonel’s office. Damn Edward. Did he not know the harm he could do, that Louis’s leg wasn’t fully healed, and that there was still danger of disrupting the knitting bones, of pain and infection? Perhaps she should go after him, follow him to Paris. She stopped walking, breathless. She imagined bursting in on a grand society party to find Louis with Lady Fanny and their smart friends, demanding that he return to hospital—not this one, of course—or allow her to take him home to Chesscroft. Amid the smirks and titters of the other guests, Edward would set down his champagne with a frown to take her firmly by the elbow and hiss in her ear that she was making a spectacle of herself and embarrassing him dreadfully. Then he’d announce that she wasn’t a doctor at all . . .

  Nausea rose, and she dashed away tears of frustration and betrayal, of loss. Oh, not of Louis, but of the future, of the chance to be a doctor at last, to make a difference. And she had. She had.

  It was all a lie.