The Woman at the Front

by Lecia Cornwall

  There was a gentle scratch at the door, and the concierge entered. “A bath and a shave,” Louis ordered. The concierge—a man well past the age of retirement, since there was a war on—bowed with arthritic stiffness and left.

  Louis lay down on the bed to wait and shut his eyes. Feathers cradled his spine, his head, his leg. He pitied the poor blighters back at the CCS, wrapped in scratchy sheets on lumpy palliasses.

  Ah, but perhaps they were the lucky ones after all—they had Eleanor to tend them, to stick needles into them when they couldn’t breathe, and to show them what bravery really looked like.

  That evening, Louis sat on the chaise and watched Edward and Sunny performing a graceful tango. Edward had doffed his khaki tunic in favor of a garish brocade smoking jacket. He was so very different from his twin.

  Louis was willing to bet Eleanor couldn’t dance more than the most basic box steps, or a polite waltz—nothing new or modern for Eleanor. Except medicine, of course—she’d be right up to date on that. Have you heard the latest? he imagined her saying, and then describing a surgical procedure that would horrify and baffle him. David bloody Blair would understand her perfectly, of course, with his sharp surgeon’s eyes and his long white hands. Eleanor had looked at Blair quite differently from the way she looked at him—with interest in his mind, his conversation. Louis had known for years that Eleanor had a crush on him, but he suspected she’d been disappointed when she saw the real Louis Chastaine. He’d been peevish, cruel, toplofty, and asinine. It was lowering in the extreme, and yet, seeing himself in her eyes made him want to be better, be more, just to see Eleanor look at him even once the way she looked at the damned surgeon.

  “Penny for them,” Fanny purred, and she blew in his ear as she arranged herself artfully beside him on the chaise and tickled his chin with her long, lacquered nails. “You’re a million miles away, darling. You must be exhausted. You’ll be better when we get you home to—” He drew a sharp breath at the thought, and she paused. “What is it?”

  He met her pretty blue eyes. She was playing the coquette tonight, charming him, wooing him expertly, tightening her snare. Her cap was set, his fate sealed. Still, he made a last bid for freedom.

  “I’m not going home.”

  Her smile faded. “What?”

  “I’m going back to my squadron.”

  Out came her stiletto glare, bright and sharp as a blade, to pin him to the chaise. “And when did you decide that?”

  “Only just now,” he said, realizing it was true. “But it’s what I want.” His chest felt lighter, his mind clearer for the decision.

  She frowned at him, her eyes hardening. “You’ve done your bit, Louis. You have the wounds and the medal to prove it. You’re a hero. Let someone else take a turn.”

  He forced himself to smile at her, though his teeth were gritted. He wasn’t a hero. Not for tumbling out of the bloody sky, being lucky enough not to kill himself or anyone else. “But I’m good at it, darling,” he said, more sharply than he meant to. “And I like it.”

  She pouted, and he picked up her hand and kissed her fingertips. Her fingers remained limp in his, and her body stiffened with disapproval. Fanny didn’t like to be thwarted or disappointed. She thought of herself as a modern Athena, manipulating the warriors in this Trojan War, making them dance to her will. If she wished, she could have higher gods, like dear Uncle Douglas, ground him, or ask her esteemed father to have a quiet word with the Air Council, or the RFC, or her mother’s dear friend General David Henderson, who would arrange a cozy and safe backwater posting for him somewhere in England for the duration.

  “I know a dozen young men who’ve died in this bloody war. I don’t want to lose you, too,” she said, her eyes clear, sober, with no pretense or flirtation. She truly cared.

  He forced a laugh. “Me, darling? I’m not going to die. Not if I haven’t already.”

  Something dangerous sparked in her expression, turned her up brittle and stubborn, Athena at her worst.

  He had to head her off, win free, and he could see only one way to do that. He took a deep breath. “Darling, what do you say when I come back, we get married? Will you do me the honor of marrying me?” Again, he felt the rush of the plane diving out of control. This time he didn’t think about Beowulf. He thought about the title, the expectations of family, and the full weight of aristocratic tradition that chained him, held him fast, left him with no choices of his own.

  He wasn’t ready to marry, but he’d make a deal with the devil—or Lady Frances Parfitt—for one more chance to fly, one more hour of freedom, a last adventure, a chance to prove he was a man, not just a title.

  Fanny’s eyes went as wide as china saucers, and there were tears as brilliant as the diamonds pinned to his splint glittering on her lashes as she blinked. Oh, she played the game well. It couldn’t be a surprise. Had she ever failed to get what she wanted? Or perhaps she truly hadn’t expected him to propose, here, now, before he’d even spoken to her father.

  “Yes! Oh, darling, yes!” She threw herself into his arms, and he caught her, felt her breasts pressed to his chest. He tasted champagne and lipstick and perfume when she kissed him.

  Then Fanny was on her feet, shouting the news, and the entire party was offering gleeful congratulations. The gentlemen grinned and shook his hand, but their smiles didn’t quite reach their eyes, and no doubt they were wondering why now, why here.

  For freedom, lads, and a funny kind of honor. And Fanny wasn’t so bad. She was good company, and she’d make a highly suitable wife for a viscount, and an excellent countess when the time came. She’d been raised to it. Even his mother would approve of the match. He laughed and let them refill his glass, drink toasts to their health and happiness. It would be a grand wedding.

  If he lived, of course.

  But for now he was free.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  March 14, 1918

  Eleanor heard the soft tap on her door and woke with a gasp. Morning light was peeping around the edge of the curtains. She was tangled in the sheets and blankets and Fraser’s embrace, entirely naked. Fraser’s bandaged arm rested lightly on her waist. Had she done him any harm? The night had been . . .

  She blushed, smiling quietly. Was there even a word to describe it? Wonderful, marvelous, delightful, and—

  The knock came again. “Miss?”

  Over.

  It was morning, and she had to leave.

  “It’s me, miss, Private Gibbons. There’s a transport of wounded going to the station soon. The colonel asked the chaplain to save room for you.”

  She glanced again at Fraser, but he didn’t wake. At long last he’d relaxed enough to sleep deeply. He needed it, deserved it. She blushed. Not because . . . She looked at the rumpled sheets, the hastily discarded clothing that scattered the floor of the tiny hut, and felt her heart flutter.

  She should wake him, whisper her farewells, promise to write, to see him after the war, to, to . . . She felt tears spring to her eyes. What if he didn’t want that? What if he didn’t want her? She had only to wake him, to shake his shoulder until he opened his eyes and saw her in the light of day, and she’d know. She reached out, but stopped with her hand in midair. What did she want? She didn’t even know where she was going when she left this place. Not home, and not Paris . . . She didn’t regret this. She couldn’t bear to discover that he did, that things were awkward between them. Not now. She drew her hand back again and let it fall on the pillow.

  Wonderful, marvelous, delightful, and over.

  She carefully slipped out of bed so she wouldn’t disturb him, grabbed a blanket, and wrapped it around her shoulders. She opened the door a wee crack and peered at Gibbons.

  “I overslept,” she whispered. “I need a few minutes, Private, and—”

  He gave her his shy smile. “I can wait, miss.” He turned around, his back to the doo
r to give her privacy, and she shut it, gathered her clothes, and slipped into them as quietly as she could. Her body ached a little, but it felt soft, pliant, and womanly, too. Loved.

  She looked at him. If only . . . She willed him to wake up, to look at her, to reach out for her and pull her back into the cocoon of tangled sheets. But Gibbons was waiting, and she could not stay. She hadn’t stopped to think of what the consequences might be for him if he—they—were caught. Fraternizing was strictly against the rules.

  Better to let him sleep while she slipped away, went without tears or awkwardness. She bound up her hair with nervous fingers, her eyes still roaming over him, memorizing him. She could smell him on her skin, still taste him. Another flush of longing made her shiver. She stared down at him, memorizing him, every detail. As if she could ever forget. Fraser MacLeod would stay with her forever, part of her.

  At last she turned away. She put on her coat and hat and took her case to the door. Still he didn’t wake. She set her hand on the doorknob, ready to go. She paused to looked back at him, his long limbs relaxed in sleep, his hair splayed against the pillow, his jaw stubbled, his bandages white against the gold of his skin. Her heart climbed into her throat. She crossed the room, bent over him, and softly kissed his brow.

  Then she opened the door just a crack and slid her case through to Gibbons. If he thought it odd, he gave no sign of it. He picked it up. “All ready, miss?”

  No. She wasn’t ready, didn’t want to go. But she must. She forced herself to step out and shut the door firmly and quietly.

  “Ready,” she said to Gibbons, her tone husky, and let him lead the way.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Eleanor didn’t recognize the tall soldier walking along the duckboards ahead of them. He turned at the sound of their footsteps behind him, glanced at Gibbons, and tipped his cap to her.

  “I’m looking for Captain David Blair. Can either of you tell me where I might find him? It’s urgent.” He spoke with a flat drawl that marked him as Canadian, and the maple leaf on his cap badge confirmed it.

  “He’s not here,” Gibbons said.

  The news seemed to hit him like a blow, and he swayed on his feet. “Are you wounded, Sergeant, or ill?” Eleanor asked.

  He squared his shoulders. “Me? No, I’m just fine, thank you. It’s—” He rubbed his hand over the grim lines of his mouth. “Will Captain Blair be back soon?”

  “Not for a few days. He’s at the front, temporarily serving at an aid post.”

  The soldier frowned. “I’ve been to two CCSs where they said I might find him. Now he’s at an aid post.” He looked at Eleanor. “I need to reach him as soon as possible. It might already be too late. It’s his brother, miss, Captain Patrick Blair. He’s with the 31st Canadians. He’s . . .” He swallowed. “He’s wounded, and not expected to live. He asked to see his brother before . . . Can you give me directions to that aid post? Our Captain Blair is a good man, you see, a good officer. He saved the lives of five men, and now he’s going to lose his own for it. We want to give him his last wish and bring his brother to see him, give them a chance to say goodbye.”

  Eleanor sighed. David was close to his brother, and he’d be devastated that Patrick had asked to see him, that he hadn’t been there.

  But David couldn’t leave the aid post, not without a doctor to replace him.

  “We’re close by, miss, near Arras, at the Canadian CCS there. It wouldn’t take long. Our Captain Blair doesn’t have very long.”

  She looked at Gibbons. There was calm sympathy in his vague blue eyes, acceptance that this was the way of the war, that good men died, left behind brothers to mourn them. She remembered Nathaniel Duncan, and Captain Greaves.

  She made the decision in a heartbeat. “Can you wait for just a moment? I’ll take you to him. Go and have a cup of tea, or food—”

  His face brightened. “Thank you, miss, but if it’s all the same I’ll wait right here. I’ve got a truck out front, ready to go.”

  Eleanor turned to Gibbons. “Private, I need a favor.” There were butterflies in her belly, and they seemed to be wearing thick-soled army boots.

  Could she do this? Did she dare?

  She had nowhere else to be, and David did.

  “I need a uniform about the same size as your own,” she said to Gibbons.

  He didn’t ask why. He simply led the way to the supply tent. Inside, folded uniforms were stacked up, most of them used, but laundered and clean, ready to resupply the wounded who needed new clothing.

  He reached for a folded bundle. “Will this do?”

  She unfurled the garments and gauged the size. “Yes.”

  “Who’s it for, miss?” he asked.

  She met his eyes. “For me, Private Gibbons. Captain Blair must go to Arras to see his brother. I’m going to take his place for a day or so.”

  His smile faded to a look of surprise. “Should I tell the colonel?”

  “No, Tom, don’t tell him. I’ll be back before he knows I’m gone.”

  “But it’s bad at the front, miss. Dangerous.”

  She felt fear rush along her limbs, but she ignored it. “I know, but this is urgent. Now turn around and watch the door while I change my clothes.”

  He faced the door, his back stiff, and she unbuttoned her skirt and pulled on the woolen trousers. They were loose at the waist and baggy in the seat, and the wool was scratchy against her skin. She took off her blouse and pulled the woolen undershirt over her shift, added suspenders to hold up the trousers, and shrugged into the tunic. It was too big at the shoulders, too long in the sleeves, and tight over her breasts. She buttoned it with effort and pulled it straight.

  “You can turn around now, Tom,” she said to Gibbons.

  He turned and stared at her.

  “How do I look?”

  “You’ll need a cap and boots,” he said. He found a cap, and she put it on, tucking her hair into it as he searched for boots. He held a pair out and she put them on and laced them. He bent to wind the puttees around her ankles and calves.

  “Now you look more like a soldier, but you haven’t got orders, miss.”

  “I’m a civilian,” she said. “I don’t need orders.”

  “But you’re in uniform,” he pointed out.

  “It will have to do. Would you take my clothes back to my quarters—no, don’t.” Fraser was there, fast asleep and naked. What would he say if he saw her now, knew what she was going to do? She didn’t have time to think about that. “Leave my things here. I’ll just take my medical bag.”

  She picked it up and stepped outside, the uniform feeling odd on her body, itchy, too tight in some places, too loose in others. Without the bulk and drag of her skirts, she felt free. She took long, unhampered strides toward the road where the Canadian sergeant was waiting beside his vehicle, smoking. He flicked the end of it into the mud when he saw her coming, pushed back his cap, and regarded her in surprise.

  “Dangerous up there,” he said. “I thought the private might be coming.”

  “He’s needed here,” she said. “I’m ready to go.”

  For a second longer he hesitated and looked to Gibbons, who stood behind her, but Gibbons’s face was flat and calm, offering no assistance. The Canadian looked at her again from head to toe and shook his head. “I don’t know if you’re the bravest woman I’ve ever seen, or the dumbest.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she was neither, that this was the equivalent of running away—or running to—something, a place where she’d be useful, where she could be a doctor for a little while longer. It was selfish, not heroic. She didn’t deserve his praise. She walked around him and got into the truck. “I’m ready to go.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Fraser woke slowly, surfacing from a deep sleep. He stretched without opening his eyes, trying to remember the last time
he’d slept so well. He felt a grin rise, filling his face, and realized it was the first time he’d smiled, truly smiled, for a long time as well. Eleanor was responsible for all of it. He felt human again, fully male, and right in his own skin. He rubbed at the stubble on his jaw, felt the pull of the stitches in his arm, and stared at the bandage. He should thank Cooper for shooting him, or he wouldn’t have been here at all. Nay, he should thank Eleanor. He rolled over and reached for her, but he found the bed empty, the sheets cold.

  The grin faded to a frown and he sat up and looked around the room, taking in the wee desk and the chair beside it, the empty clothing hooks on the wall. Her case was gone, her clothes, her doctor’s bag, everything.

  “No,” he said softly.

  He shouldn’t have fallen asleep here, should have returned to his assigned cot in the orderlies’ tent. What if Swiftwood or someone else had noticed his absence? There’d be gossip. It wouldn’t matter so much to him, but Eleanor would mind. And he’d mind for her. He was a private man, and she . . . He’d been her first, her only.

  Had he frightened her away? He’d tried to be considerate, gentle, good. He’d wanted her badly, needed her with a passion he wasn’t sure he’d known with other women before. But then, it had been a long time, and she was beautiful, and as eager as he. He remembered the soft sounds she had made, the urgency in them, the insistence on a second time, then a third, until they’d both slept. His last thought as he’d fallen asleep with Eleanor in his arms was a hope that morning wouldn’t come.

  But here it was.

  He stared at the empty pillow beside him. He would have liked to have told her that it was special, that she was special, that he’d always—no. It was over. It was never meant to be more than one night. She was gone, and he’d never see her again. Perhaps that’s how she wanted it. No entanglements, no farewells.