The Woman at the Front

by Lecia Cornwall

  The Germans had come within fifty miles of Paris, she heard, but the Americans had driven them back. Everyone around her was saying that the tide was turning at last, and it would be just a matter of months until the Germans were beaten. Still, casualties mounted daily, tens of thousands, then hundreds of thousands. How many dead? Could anyone even count that high?

  She’d written to her parents, telling them simply that she was recovering. She’d also written to the countess, informing her that Louis had taken himself out of her care and had gone to Paris in March, where he had access to the best doctors. What more was there to say? If the powerful Countess of Kirkswell couldn’t make Louis do anything he didn’t wish to, then how could she? There’d been no reply to either letter.

  “Magazine, miss?” a VAD asked, coming around with an issue of Country Life. Eleanor took it. How long had it been since she’d read anything? For weeks she’d been too busy, but now she was unable to do anything else but read. “It’s two months old now, but it’s all new to us, isn’t it?” the young woman said cheerfully.

  Eleanor longed for something transporting and ordinary, advertisements for garden seeds or spring frocks and new hats, for coming-out portraits of this year’s titled debs and society wedding announcements.

  She drew a breath when she saw that Louis’s picture graced the cover. He was grinning, waving from the seat of an airplane, wearing his flier’s cap and leather coat.

  “Handsome devils, those fliers, aren’t they?” the VAD said with a sigh. “Especially him—he’s a true hero.”

  Handsome indeed. Eleanor flipped to the article inside the magazine, where there were more photographs. “Viscount Wins Distinguished Flying Cross for Saving Aid Post,” the headline read. The next photo showed Field Marshall Haig presenting the medal. Lady Frances stood next to him, smiling proudly. “Field Marshall Haig presents the DFC to Squadron Leader Lord Louis Somerton as fiancée Lady Frances Parfitt, daughter of the Duke of Winslowe and Sir Douglas’s niece, looks on.”

  His fiancée? Eleanor stared at the photo and noted the smug pride on Fanny’s pretty face. She turned the page to see more photographs of Louis and his beaming copilot.

  She read the article. Louis hadn’t gone home after all. Nor had he stayed in Paris drinking and romancing Lady Frances. He’d returned to duty. In the next photo, Louis stood beside his plane, pointing out bullet holes in the fuselage. She noted the walking stick propped behind him, half-hidden, saw the way he leaned to one side to favor his injured leg. She looked at the familiar devil-may-care grin that had once made her heart thump. It merely made her smile rather ruefully now.

  According to the article, the recently wounded Squadron Leader Lord Somerton had returned to duty despite still-healing injuries. On his first mission back, he’d spotted a German gun firing on a British aid post near the front. Though he was only on an observing mission, he’d managed to destroy the gun and save the lives of countless British wounded. Eleanor smiled. “Louis,” she whispered, remembering that day, the plane flying above them, and the cheers that went up when the pilot managed to blow up the gun firing on the aid post, a true hero.

  The story went on to quote the Earl of Kirkswell, who declared himself intensely proud that his son and heir was doing his duty. The countess added that Somerton’s dedication was a shining example of the kind of British fighting spirit that would win the war. The countess confirmed that her son was indeed betrothed to Lady Frances Parfitt. It was glowingly described as a love match—a war hero and his lovely bride, the premier belle of English society, the toast of Mayfair. Her debut portrait was reproduced in the magazine, showing Lady Fanny in a ruffled gown with roses in her hair and a sweet simper on her face. “For this we fight—heroes, true love, and dear old Blighty,” the caption gushed. The next picture showed Fanny wearing a VAD uniform, standing with the countess in the hospital at Chesscroft among the convalescent officers.

  The article said that Louis was still flying missions over the Western Front—at least he was in April when the magazine was printed—and was still the terror of the skies to the Huns and the hope and glory of grateful England.

  Was he still afraid, or in pain? It was no longer her concern, of course.

  She wondered if the countess had simply discarded her letter when it arrived at Chesscroft and considered the matter closed.

  “Live, Louis,” she whispered to his photograph. “Live and go home and be happy.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  The neat figure of Matron Connolly came up the pathway, her scarlet cape buttoned over her gray dress, her collar, cap, and cuffs impeccably white. The heels of her shoes clicked on the convent’s ancient cobbles in a precise cadence, neither too fast nor too slow. She regarded Eleanor directly as she approached, her expression set in professional lines that gave no hint of her thoughts or emotions.

  She paused before Eleanor’s seat on the bench and took her in with a medical eye before she sat down. “You look better than when last I saw you. I trust you’re recovering well?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Eleanor saw the new medal pinned to the matron’s cape, a Royal Red Cross, awarded for exceptional nursing, devotion to duty, and professional competence. Florence Nightingale had been one of the first nurses to receive the medal. “I see congratulations are in order.”

  The nurse’s hand went to the medal for a moment, then returned to her lap. “I’ve ordered tea and biscuits. Nothing too heavy. You are still on a light diet.”

  “You’re keeping tabs on me?” Eleanor asked in surprise.

  “I simply wished to make certain you were doing well.” The matron looked away for a moment. “Sister Ames died the other day. Do you remember her? She was engaged to a lieutenant in the 2nd Durhams.”

  The young woman who’d spoken to her with such hope the night Louis had left, the one who wanted to be a doctor, who hoped the world would change after the war. Eleanor swallowed the bitterness of yet another soul to mourn, another young person who’d gone before they could make their mark on the world. “Yes, I remember her. How sad.”

  “There are dozens—hundreds—of others who’ve died of this terrible flu,” the matron said. She sat on the chair across from Eleanor’s, her back stiff and straight. “We feared you would—” Her lips rippled. “You’re still quite pale. I shall ask the nursing sisters here to give you a glass of stout to build you up.”

  “Captain Blair told me you took care of me during the worst of it.”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  “Somewhat. I hadn’t thought we were friends.”

  Matron Connolly’s chin rose. “I’m a professional nurse, Dr. Atherton. I know my duty.” The flare ended as quickly as it had come. The nurse studied her hands. “Actually, I wanted to nurse you. I could easily have ordered someone else to care for you, but—” She paused as a young woman arrived with the tea tray. “Thank you. I’ll pour out,” the matron said, dismissing her.

  “But?” Eleanor prompted once the girl was gone.

  “But you deserved the best care. For Colonel Bellford, for Lieutenant Findlay, for Captain Blair, and so many others. You were—are—uniquely brave.” She touched the medal again. “You’re the one who deserves this, or something like it.” She picked up the teapot and poured, adding two spoonfuls of sugar and a fortifying dollop of cream to Eleanor’s cup without asking. She placed two biscuits on a plate for her.

  “I owe you my thanks,” Eleanor said.

  The matron poured her own tea. “David Blair said you wished to see me. In truth, I wanted to come and see how you were doing. I’ll admit that I’m curious about what you’ll do now. Do you intend to continue practicing medicine when you return home to England?”

  “Home,” Eleanor said. “I haven’t even decided when I’m going home. Or even if I can be a doctor . . .”

  “Because of what you told me? I haven’t told anyone. It’s not
my tale to tell.” She set her cup down. “I did wonder what to do about what you told me, and I considered reporting it. Then I watched you in the days after the offensive, saw how you handled the worst cases without flinching or resting. You kept your head under fire. I saw how good you were.” She paused, and the breeze blew the scent of roses through the garden.

  “I wanted to be a doctor once. My father was a surgeon, and he assisted a female doctor who worked with poor women and children. I wanted to be just like her. My father said it was no life for a woman and refused to allow me to attend medical school. There were even fewer choices in my day, so I became a nurse instead. I gave up everything for my career—the chance of a husband and children, love, a proper home. I had to work hard to earn the position of matron, prove myself over and over again. It took many years, and in the end, my promotion was given at the whim of a man who thought my age made me suitable, not my skills as a professional nurse, or my training. My patients would see me as a mother figure, not a desirable woman, and I would not tempt any soldier to impropriety. I’ve risen as far as I can in my profession, and still I am subservient to male doctors, even inexperienced or incompetent ones. I hold the rank of lieutenant colonel, and yet I can be overruled and berated by any captain with a medical degree. Your father was braver than mine. You are braver than I.”

  “My father thought I’d fail. He wanted me to, I think.”

  “From what I’ve seen, you don’t give up easily. Does anything frighten you? I’ve seen bad doctors and good ones, and ones that would have done the world more of a favor by becoming dustmen instead of physicians. You have a gift for healing. You’re smart and compassionate and courageous. Whatever the results of that exam, you made it through medical school, and you’ve saved many lives here, in the middle of a war. There are reports that you acquitted yourself admirably at the aid post, under fire.” She scanned Eleanor’s face. “I want you to know that I have written to the director general of Army Medical Services, not to sanction you, but to ask him to recognize your service. I’m still awaiting his reply, but I came to tell you that you have my thanks—and Colonel Bellford’s—and that your contributions have not gone unnoticed or unappreciated. I understand the commander of the Canadian CCS we paired with has also written to headquarters to commend you. I have no doubt your brother will see those letters, your initials being the same.”

  Tears stung Eleanor’s eyes. “I don’t know what to say,” she murmured. “Thank you. It is still up to Edward to decide what he’ll do.”

  Connolly nodded. “We’ll have to wait and see, I suppose. You needn’t thank me. It is for me—and many others—to thank you. Now eat those biscuits and regain your strength. The world cannot do without you.”

  The tears slipped down Eleanor’s cheeks unchecked. “I’m not ready to leave France, Matron,” she said. “I want to stay, to—” She wanted to find Fraser, or find out what had happened to him. She could not go home without knowing.

  “You may call me Sarah if you wish. Not many people do. That’s another problem with being a woman in a position of knowledge and authority—few friends stand by you. I’d like you to think of me as a friend, or at least an ally. You should stay, if your health allows. You could do a great deal of good at one of the general hospitals. The French welcome competent doctors of either sex. But first of all you must get better. Come, I’ll walk you back inside.” Eleanor took her arm, and together they strolled along the path together toward the yellow stone building and spoke of the glory of roses.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  September 1918

  It’s been hours since you took a break. And when was the last time you ate?” David Blair asked Eleanor. He looked around the ward at the convalescent patients, mostly Canadians at the moment, strapping colonial men missing arms or legs or faces, men shattered by their experiences, or by illness, or by too much bloody war.

  “There’s a lot to do,” she said with a smile. David had gotten her a posting here, and they worked together. He was good company, spoke of his cases, and listened to her speak of hers. He’d helped her make inquiries about Fraser. She looked at him hopefully now. “Is there any news?”

  He gave her a half smile and shook his head. “Come on, we’ll go down to the local estaminet for a bit of bread and cheese and a glass of wine. The fresh air will do us both good, even if the wine will rot our bellies.”

  He waited while she fetched her hat, then held out his arm. “What’s the war news?” she asked.

  “It seems we’ve turned a corner. The German frontline troops are deserting. They’re starving, sick, and tired. Our side is retaking all the ground the Germans gained in the spring and driving them back. The officers on the ward are speaking of victory. Still far too many wounded, and even more sick with flu, of course, but there’s some hope that it will all come to an end soon.”

  “Not soon enough.” Eleanor sighed.

  It was the perfect late summer day, warm and sunny. A plane droned overhead, and Eleanor looked up.

  “Is that your viscount?” David asked.

  “I don’t know,” she replied, wondering herself if it was. It didn’t matter. David paused, leaned over a stone fence, and plucked a daisy.

  “I used to take these for granted. They grow everywhere in England, but I haven’t seen one in years.” He handed it to her. “Pretty, isn’t it? In fact, I’m noticing a lot of things are pretty. Not that I didn’t before, of course.”

  He took her forearms gently and turned her toward him, and she looked up. David’s eyes were brown, intelligent, and usually full of mirth or compassion or the keen-eyed certainty of his diagnoses. That was replaced by something else now, something deeper, less sure. She recognized that yearning. “Eleanor,” he whispered.

  She knew she could find peace and perhaps even happiness with this man, be his partner, an equal, loved for exactly who she was.

  But she pressed her hand to his chest. “I’m not ready.”

  He didn’t ask what she meant, or who. He knew. “I’ll wait, then,” he said simply. He took her arm, started walking again, and changed the subject. “Did you know the Russian revolutionaries shot the tsar and his family? One more tragedy in a world overwhelmed by tragedy.” He was trying to change the subject, striving for a pleasant tone, but she heard the underlying regret.

  “There has to be some hope,” she said. “Or we’d all go mad.”

  “Perhaps we have already gone mad,” he said, scanning the road ahead, the little half-destroyed village. “All I know is that nothing will ever be the same again.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  October 1918

  It was another crisp, short, brutally formal letter. There was no news about Sergeant F. MacLeod, stretcher bearer, 51st Highlanders, last seen near Arras, and declared missing in action on March 29, 1918.

  Eleanor put it with the others.

  There was also a note from her mother. Edward had given them happy news—he was engaged to Lady Maud Sheridan, the youngest daughter of the Earl of Edgemont, and they would wed in the spring, when the war was over.

  Every conversation started with the hope that it would soon be over. The Germans had requested an armistice in early October, and tentative negotiations were underway.

  Eleanor was happy for her brother, and for her mother’s pride in the match. Her father sent no message at all, but her mother had written that the dreadful Spanish influenza had arrived in Thorndale, and as the only doctor, her father was very busy tending the sick and dying. Even some of the officers recovering at Chesscroft were ill.

  Edward came to see her one afternoon. She stood and watched him walk across the ward toward her, tall, stiff-backed, and serious. He didn’t smile as he took off his cap and tucked it under his arm. He scanned her pale face and her thin, sickness-ravaged body. She waited for him to speak first, wary.

  “You look dreadful,” he said.
r />   She ignored that. “There’s a place to sit on the veranda.” She led the way. “Would you like anything? Tea, perhaps?”

  He was frowning at a soldier propped up in bed, his face and chest swathed in bandages. “No. I can’t stay long. I’m expected back at HQ tonight. I just came to see how you are. You—you didn’t go home.” His tone had softened, and he scanned her again.

  She sat down, her back stiff, her mouth dry. He was her twin, her brother, and yet a complete stranger. “No,” she said, and didn’t elaborate.

  He had the grace to blush, and he rubbed a hand over his mustache, new since the last time she’d seen him. It suited him, made him look dashing and elegant, mature. “Look, about the last time we spoke—” He hesitated as a nurse wheeled a patient past him, blanched at the soldier’s burned face. “God,” he muttered. “How do you stand it?”

  “I’m a doctor,” she said quietly.

  He looked at her, and she wondered if he’d dispute that, tell her again that she was a fraud, a cheat, that she had no right to call herself a doctor. She held his eyes, determined, bold, sure of herself. “Even if I have to start all over again, I am and always will be a doctor. Nothing can change that, Edward. Nothing.”

  He frowned. “I wish you’d never come to France. People talk, you know, and you don’t consider how it affects my career, and father’s reputation. Could you not for once have done as you were expected to? And for a woman to be exposed to . . . to . . . that.” His gaze went back to the burned soldier.

  “You sound like Mother—and Father. Why did you do it, Edward? Did you feel sorry for me? Was it kindness?”