Men were muttering about losing the war, and Field Marshal Haig ordered the British to stand fast where they were, fight to the last man, and not retreat even one more inch.
“No word about Fraser?” David asked her one day. She sat on a broken cart in the sun, taking her first break in uncountable hours. It was spring at last. Well, the air was warmer. More deadly things than spring rain fell from the sky. She shook her head.
“Have you heard from home?” he asked.
“Not a word,” she said, scanning the tops of the trees, newly crowned with a fragile mist of leaves. “How long have we been here?”
He sat beside her. “You mean at this particular location? Three days. Ten days at the place before that—the dairy, I believe. And seven days or so at the school, and—” He paused. “I’ve lost count of the rest. The only reason I know day from night is if I’m operating in daylight or by lantern.”
She did her best to smile at his dry humor, but failed, too tired.
David lit a cigarette, drew on it, and blew smoke into the air. He held it out to her, and she took it from his fingertips, put it between her lips, and inhaled. She coughed, and he slapped her gently on the back and took the cigarette back without comment.
“I heard Bellford made it home to England. He’s going to recover, thanks to you,” he said.
It was good news, but she had become numb to all news, bracing herself, holding herself ready for word of Fraser when—if—it came.
“You need sleep, Eleanor.”
She ran a hand over her face and was surprised to find it wet. How long had she been crying? David reached out and took her hand, and she stared down at his fingers wrapped around her own.
“I never even offered my condolences on your brother,” she said. “I’m sorry, David.”
He frowned at the distant trees on a small ridge to the north. “He took a machine gun round across his chest. He was a strong man—he had a ranch in the west of Canada, worked horses and cows before he joined up with the Canadians. He left England six years ago because he had asthma and needed dry air. He loved the west, used to write to me and ask me to join him, but I had a life in England, our mother to care for, medical school.” He paused and drew on his cigarette, then flicked it, still only half-smoked, into the mud. “He was conscious when I got there. He talked a lot—about the ranch, mostly. He spoke about it like some men talk of women they love, with such passion I could almost picture it.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “At the end he was delirious. I should have left then, gone back to the aid post, when he no longer had any need of me. We’d said our farewells. But I couldn’t leave him.” He squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry. I would have come sooner if I’d known you were still at the aid post. Was it terrible?”
“I managed.”
“You cut your hair. Lice, I assume.”
She didn’t bother reaching up to touch it. She’d grown used to the short curls, and it was lighter and easier to wash. “Yes.”
He scanned her face, his eyes keen.
“Patrick left me his ranch. I’m going to Alberta after the war. It’s in the foothills, and the grass is green and gold, and the land rolls on endlessly toward the mountains. The rivers run clear as glass, and the sky is so blue and so wide—Pat said it’s a different blue than English skies, a color so intense and pure it takes your breath away. You can ride out under that sky and watch the weather roll in and out again, feel the wind in your very bones, scrubbing you clean, and the earth is alive under your feet, breathing.” He made a fist, flexed it. “It’s hard work, but at the end of the day—” He paused and swallowed. There were tears in his eyes, and she knew he saw Patrick, heard his voice. “At the end of the day you have blisters on your hands and your backside. You fall asleep under uncountable stars set in skies as black as ink . . .” He fell silent, his eyes distant, not seeing the shattered landscape of France, but green hills, a place with no war, no guns, no wounded men.
“Captain? You’re wanted,” an orderly said.
David sighed and got to his feet. “Did I mention that there’s not another person for miles?” He scanned her face. “You should get some sleep while you can. You look exhausted.”
She nodded and got to her feet. Then she heard the grind of gears, the squeak of wheels as another ambulance convoy arrived. Hope replaced exhaustion, and she scanned the walking wounded, watched the men pouring out of the backs of the vehicles, peered at the haggard stretcher bearers unloading the worst cases and setting them down on the new spring grass.
He wasn’t among them.
Eleanor swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth and went to tend the first patient.
Corporal Max Chilcott looked up at her from the stretcher, his arm wrapped tight against his chest, the dressing bloodstained and dirty. He smiled faintly. “Hello, miss. Keepin’ cheery?”
She checked the wound. His arm was shattered. It would need amputation at the shoulder. “Is it a Blighty one?” he asked.
She nodded. “We’ll take care of you. Is Fraser with you?” she asked, feeling hope at last.
But Chilcott shut his eyes and shook his head. “They’ve listed him missing in action,” he said, his tone hollow. His face told her it was worse than that.
Eleanor stared at him in numb horror as the orderlies picked up the stretcher and carried the corporal away for surgery.
She felt hands on her shoulders, lifting her. “I heard. Come on. There are others who need you now. We’ll make enquiries about Sergeant MacLeod later.” Matron Connolly held her up for a moment, looking into her eyes, lending her strength. “Can you manage?”
Slowly Eleanor nodded. Her body was quivering liquid, and her head buzzed as if it were filled with bees. For a moment she couldn’t move. “Dr. Atherton?” the matron said, her tone as stern as a slap.
Eleanor pulled away and looked at the wounded surrounding her. Ten stretchers and a long stream of walking cases, limping, battered, and hurting, their eyes hollow, dark, and empty. She knelt by the next stretcher, ignoring the ache in her belly as she lifted the grimy field dressing. “Surgery,” she said, and moved on. “Clean and re-dress this wound . . . Resuscitate this man . . . Treat for shock . . . Fever . . . Gunshot . . . Broken femur, tibia, ankle . . .” The words dropped from her lips like stones, and each patient was carried away and replaced with another. “Trench fever . . . Amputation, left arm . . . Head wound . . . Influenza . . . Moribund . . .” Somehow her brain and her hands still moved, even though her heart lay dead in her breast.
A headache started behind her eyes and spread until her whole body hurt. She needed sleep and food, she thought, passing her hand over her tired eyes. They’d operated for nearly twelve hours, and word had come that there were more wounded on the way.
She found her way to Max Chilcott’s bed. His eyes were heavy lidded after surgery, his ready smile absent now. “They took my arm off. Now I’ll never play the violin,” he tried to joke, but it fell flat. He plucked at the cover with his remaining hand. “I suppose I’m lucky it’s not my right hand. That’s what Fraser would have said.”
She sat down on a stool next to the bed. “Tell me about Fraser.”
He lowered his eyes. “His luck ran out, I guess. We were out in No Man’s Land, under fire. The Germans were advancing, and our lads were retreating. He wanted to save them all. ‘One more,’ he kept saying, and then there’d be one more after that. We’d been ordered to retreat, but we heard there was a lad who’d been lying out there all day, wounded, and Fraser insisted he could get him in. He did, too—he brought that lad in right enough. But that one told Fraser there were two others in a shell hole a few yards farther out.” Chilcott stared at the ceiling of the tent. “There were bullets flying everywhere, and the Huns were so close you could hear ’em talking. We were pulling back, and I tried to convince Fraser to stay put and help me get the ones we’d already saved back
to our own lines, but he gave me that look—you know the one, miss, the steely one, sharp as a bayonet, that tells you he’s made up his mind and nothing you say will change it. Well, off he went. I saw him coming back. He was right there. He had two men on his shoulders, carrying them. He was almost safe, and then a shell landed. There was mud everywhere, and Fraser—” He looked at Eleanor. “I didn’t see him after that. He was gone, and so were the men he was carrying.” Max’s face crumpled. “They listed him as missing in action, since there wasn’t a body.”
“Then there’s hope?” Eleanor asked.
Chilcott shook his head. “He’s dead, miss. I’m sure of it. I’ve seen men vaporized by shells, blown to bits. There one minute, then gone. It was that way with Fraser. At least it was quick. He didn’t suffer, wouldn’t have had time to think—” He let out a sob. “I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you. I got the idea he was rather sweet on you.”
The bees in her head were louder now, the pain behind her eyes a shell burst. She forced herself to her feet, and the room spun. “Miss?” Max called. “Miss?” She swallowed, but her throat was sandpaper. She gasped for breath, put her hand against her chest, trying to still the pain. Black spots swam in front of her eyes.
“Eleanor?” She heard David Blair’s voice from far away.
But before she could answer him, the world turned black.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Write to her parents . . . too weak . . . no hope . . .” She heard voices from a distance. She was hot and thirsty, and her limbs ached. She couldn’t breathe. She dreamed that her arms and legs had been amputated, that she was limbless. The sun burned her skin, and she walked through flames, or through mud that hindered her every step, making it impossible to move forward. Then it was cold and dark, and she shivered uncontrollably. She was deep underwater, fighting for breath. She tried to swim, to push for the surface, but something held her limbs. She felt the swipe of a cloth on her forehead, cool and soft, and heard a voice in her ear, crooning nonsense, singing. “Mama?” she croaked, but her mother had never sung to her.
“The fever is higher . . . she’s not responding.”
She felt a hand grip her own. “Fight,” she heard a voice order, close to her ear. “D’you hear me? Fight, Eleanor. Don’t give up. I’ve never known you to give up.”
“Fraser?” she tried, but her voice was a broken thread. Was he here beside her, alive after all? The hand squeezed her own, tight, and she tried to squeeze back, but couldn’t. She twitched her fingers. He wasn’t dead; he couldn’t be. She’d know, wouldn’t she? His ghost would haunt her, wait for her. But he wasn’t here in the dark with her. She was all alone.
She felt a soft hand on her brow, sweetness amid the terrible struggle to breathe, the burning agony, and she turned her face toward it and forced her eyes to open.
David Blair stared down at her. “At last,” he said. “When Matron Connolly sent for me, I thought—well, never mind. How do you feel?”
She opened her mouth to speak and managed only a rusty croak.
“You’ve had influenza. It was touch and go for a while. We didn’t think you’d—well, it doesn’t matter. The fever’s broken. You’ll be fine.”
“How long?” she managed.
“Five days.”
She felt her eyes drifting shut. “F-Fraser?” she asked. “Is there any news?”
David looked away. “Sleep now. We’ll get you some broth when you wake up.”
* * *
• • •
When she woke again she was in a strange room with walls and ceilings of whitewashed stone. The window was flung wide to let in sun and fresh air, and she lay in a white bed, cocooned in blankets and shawls. There was a VAD sitting in a chair beside the bed.
“Where am I?” Eleanor croaked, and the young woman jumped up.
“You’re awake!” She put a hand to Eleanor’s forehead, then opened the door. “Tell Matron she’s awake.”
She returned. “You’re in hospital.” She spoke slowly, as if Eleanor were daft.
“I had influenza, nearly died.”
“Yes!” the girl said, smiling. “I mean, yes, you did, but you’re going to be all right.”
“Is anyone else sick?”
The smile faded. “A great many people, I’m afraid. You’re lucky.”
Someone else came to the door, a matron Eleanor didn’t know. She smelled broth and saw steam rising from a bowl on a tray she was carrying.
“Good morning, Dr. Atherton. How are we feeling?” the head nurse asked with a thin smile.
She felt like a rag doll. Even turning her head or blinking seemed an effort. “I’m . . . How did I get here?”
“You were transferred to our care to convalesce. Now you’re awake, we can send you home to England very soon. Captain Blair’s orders.”
“Where is he?” Eleanor asked, taking the spoonful of broth the nurse held to her lips.
“He visits when he’s not busy at the base hospital. It’s a few miles away.”
Eleanor felt her eyelids grow heavy. “I need to speak to him,” she said as she drifted off again. “Tell him.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
May 20, 1918
David was beside her when she woke again. The sunlight had slipped itself deeper into the room and rested now in long late-afternoon lines across the bed. David was dozing in a chair, his head back, his legs stretched long before him.
“David,” she said.
He was awake at once, jumping to his feet, crossing to look at her. He put his hand on her forehead, looked into her eyes. “How do you feel?” he asked.
“Tired.”
He grinned. His mustache was thicker, bristling with gray hairs she didn’t remember. How long had she been here?
“You’ve been here for nearly three weeks,” he answered her question without her having to ask it. “You’re in a lovely old convent, a perfect place to convalesce.”
“Three weeks?” She looked up at him in alarm. “Surely I can’t have been here as long as that.” She pushed back the covers and tried to get up. Her head swam, and he pressed her back into bed.
“Lie still. You’re not well yet. Give it time. You had influenza and pneumonia. We didn’t think you’d make it. Your brother came briefly, but it’s a trifle busy at HQ just now. He said he’d tell your parents. Your father asked for a full medical update, which I duly sent to him.”
She felt tears sting her eyes. “What’s happening?”
“Do you mean the war? It’s still there. Nothing has changed. We take ground, they take ground, men die. I don’t keep track. I’ve been seconded to a Canadian hospital—three of their surgeons died of influenza, but I haven’t had even a sniffle. Let’s see, what else can I tell you? Colonel Bellford was invalided back to England. Last I heard he was recovering at a hospital in Sussex, all thanks to you. His wife sent a letter, thanking you. Reverend Strong has a new post in Doullens, and Private Gibbons is with him. Swiftwood was also down with influenza, but he recovered.”
“And—and, is there any news of . . .” She paused and bit her lip, wanting to ask about Fraser, but fearing the answer. “Matron Connolly?” she said instead.
“Assigned to a British general hospital a few miles from here.” He grinned at her and took her hand, rubbed his thumb across her knuckles. “You look truly awful. You’ve lost at least twenty pounds. I had my doubts, but Matron Connolly nursed you devotedly. She took care of you night and day until you were out of danger and well enough to move here.”
“She did?”
He smiled again, a warm, sweet smile. She lowered her gaze and drew the topmost shawl around her for courage. “And is there any news of—of Fraser MacLeod?”
His thumb stopped, and he withdrew his hand from hers gently. “He was listed as missing in late March, Eleanor. It’s May now.”
He rose and went to the window, where he stood leaning on the frame, looking out. “I can make some new inquiries if you like, but—”
She forced herself to sit up. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and gasped at the dizzy, fluttery sensation of weakness the effort caused. “I must get up.”
He sprang away from the window. “No, you must not. You need rest. If you get up now, you’ll make yourself ill again.”
She reached for the robe that lay across the bottom of the bed and tried to put it on. “Look, I’ll get a wheelchair if you want to go out.”
“Don’t be silly. I can walk,” she said stubbornly. Fraser. She felt tears sting her eyes, and pain crushed the air out of her weakened chest. She wanted to walk, needed to move or run. Find him.
“Eleanor, you’re not well yet.”
She shook her head, looked up at him. “I have to know for myself.”
He swallowed, his expression shuttered now, his jaw tight. “Look, I’ll do everything I can to get some information for you,” he said in a tone that suggested he held no hope. “He was a good man, and a brave one.”
“He was,” she said. “He is.”
“Eleanor . . .”
She got to her feet, and he put his arm around her waist, held her up on her boneless, useless legs. She clung to his shoulder. “I think I might need that wheelchair after all,” she said breathlessly.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
June 1918
The convalescent hospital had a fine garden, and there were even roses growing, though no gardener remained to school the riot of unruly blooms to strict order. Eleanor liked that, preferred it, watching the flowers find their own way to the sun, a wild, determined profusion of color and scent. Reds and pinks and greens, real color, after so many months of gray and black. It was quiet here, peaceful, though the guns still raged and thumped like toddlers in a tantrum locked in a distant nursery. Would it ever end?
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