The Woman at the Front

by Lecia Cornwall

  “Dr. MacLeod?” A young woman in a neat linen suit held out her hand to Eleanor, confident and crisp despite the heat. “I’m Elizabeth Bellford—Dr. Elizabeth Bellford. My father asked me to meet you, take you to the hotel.”

  Elizabeth Bellford looked much like her father, with the same pale English blue eyes, snub nose, and pugnacious chin. The way she led them through the crowds with near-military precision, her spine stiff and her head high, suggested she’d make as good an officer as her father had. “How is the colonel?” Eleanor asked.

  Elizabeth smiled. “Eager to see you. In fact, everyone is.”

  Eleanor’s breath caught, and she stopped in her tracks. “Everyone?” Eleanor asked.

  Elizabeth nodded, and she smiled at Fraser and Alec. “It was Father’s idea. You’ll see. Now, let’s get you to the hotel.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Eleanor scanned the town as Elizabeth eased the car through streets filled with uniformed men, just the way it had been when she was last here in the waning months of 1918, watching the war stagger toward its end.

  The soldiers were older now, unarmed, their uniforms faded and showing the creases of long and careful storage. Their wives and children tumbled along beside them, gay and colorful, excited, but the soldiers themselves were solemn, ensnared by memories long pushed aside, held back. She saw canes and crutches, limps and scars. She reached out and took Fraser’s hand, felt him squeeze her hand in return.

  “Where’s the monument?” Alec asked. “Where’s the king?”

  “He’ll be at the unveiling tomorrow,” Elizabeth Bellford said. “And the monument is a few miles outside of town, on the highest point of Vimy Ridge.” She parked in front of a small hotel. “I’m sure you’d like a chance to unpack and get freshened up. My father is hoping you’ll agree to have dinner with us tonight.”

  “Yes, of course,” Eleanor said. Fraser was watching the crowds pass, keen-eyed as always, a characteristic of a Highland Scot that had been honed doubly sharp as a stretcher bearer.

  Upstairs, she took off her hat and gloves and set them on the table next to the bed. Fraser went to the window and looked out at the square below. The light reflected off the scar on the side of his jaw, a thin silver line after so many years. He had other scars as well, almost too numerous to count, most known only to her, his wife. He’d won a commendation medal for saving the lives of so many at the risk of his own, but he’d refused to wear it on this trip. She’d tucked it away in her suitcase, hoping she could convince him to put it on for the ceremony.

  His beloved face was drawn, and she knew he wasn’t seeing gay summer crowds, but the past. “Are you all right, mo cridh?” She used the Scottish endearment easily after so many years in Scotland.

  He turned and gave her a brief smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Was she wrong to bring him back here? The Canadians had invited her in thanks for her medical care of their wounded men while she’d been part of the Canadian CCS in the last months of the war, but if it hadn’t been for Colonel Bellford’s express invitation, she wouldn’t have come at all.

  There were hard memories for her as well.

  Her brother was here with Maud, as part of the British delegation. Edward was a member of parliament and a cabinet minister in Stanley Baldwin’s government. Alec hoped his uncle would arrange for him to meet the king. Her father had died in 1920 of a heart attack, a few months after her wedding. He’d answered the letter she’d written to him, asking if she might come for a visit with her new husband, with a crisp suggestion that they leave it until the spring, when the weather had improved. She’d been planning the trip, wondering what they’d say to each other, hoping he was proud of her at last, but news had arrived of his death, and she never saw him again or knew what he thought. He’d left no last words for her, and she had to live with that.

  At the funeral, her mother had regarded Eleanor with dull grief and confusion, as if she were a stranger. Grace had aged since Eleanor had seen her last, and there were new lines around her eyes and mouth, a vagueness that hadn’t been there before. She’d become a papery husk without her husband, lost. She allowed Eleanor to embrace her briefly but did not hug her in return. She’d asked no questions about her daughter’s life, or the war, and made no comment when Eleanor introduced Fraser. She’d simply nodded before turning away to lean heavily on Edward’s arm, letting her son lead her back to the house to lie down. Soon afterward, Edward had taken Grace to live with him and his wife on his father-in-law’s estate in Devon. The Countess of Kirkswell had been on the committee to appoint a new doctor for Thorndale—Eleanor’s name had not been on the list of candidates. Eleanor’s relationship with her mother had remained strained over the years, and Edward’s in-laws weren’t about to accept the wife of a Highland estate manager into the family fold. She wondered if they even knew Edward’s sister was a doctor. She sent letters to her family at Christmas and received a card or note from Edward in return, but they did not visit.

  Fraser’s family hadn’t exactly welcomed her with open arms, either, when she first stepped off the wagon at Glen Carraig on a crisp winter’s morning, newly married and clinging to Fraser’s arm, helping him walk since he was still weak after eight months as a prisoner of war. She didn’t care. She loved him, and he loved her. The glen’s doctor had been the first to come forward, a white-haired man who broke through the crowd of frowning clansmen with a fierce sweep of his walking stick. He’d welcomed Fraser home with a broad grin and a flask of whisky. He’d scanned Eleanor with keen interest, his faded blue eyes touching on the doctor’s bag. “So you’re a doctor,” he said. “I’m glad ye’ve come, for I could use the help.” He cast a sharp eye around at the clan. “Maybe now I can finally retire.”

  And so—in time—she’d become the doctor at Glen Carraig, accepted at last when she cured the laird’s gout and eased the cough that old Angus MacLeod had suffered with for twenty years. When they got used to the idea, they were glad to see Fraser home again, even with a Sassenach doctor for a bride.

  The glen had lost many sons and fathers and brothers in the war, and the ones who returned shared a bond, understood one another and the things they’d seen and done as soldiers. It took a long time for Fraser to heal, to sleep without nightmares, to stop scanning the hills and crags for wounded men and listening for signs of danger. It wasn’t until Alec was born that he’d finally eased, cradling their baby son in his scarred hands, his expression soft, wondrous. He’d smiled at her, and the tension had gone out of his shoulders at long last.

  It had been a good life, and a full one.

  Sarah Connolly died of influenza in 1919 after nursing so many others through it. Eleanor went to her funeral in Shropshire and found Colonel Bellford there. He still walked with a cane, was frail and stooped, but he was alive. He’d been glad to see her and had promised to write. His wife had sent Christmas cards every year since, but it wasn’t until the man himself wrote to ask her to attend the unveiling of the Canadian Monument at Vimy, a few miles from where 46/CCS had been, that she’d heard from the colonel directly.

  So she had returned, forty-one years old now, hardly the young woman she’d been in 1918. She had gray in her hair, which she’d grown long again. She took it down now, then she crossed to slide her arms around Fraser’s waist, laying her head on his shoulder. His arm circled her in return, but he kept his eyes on the crowds outside. “Another war is coming,” he said.

  “I know.” There was no point in denying it. She knew he feared, like she did, that Alec would be part of it, be in the kind of danger they remembered all too well.

  “Did you know there are over a thousand names carved on that monument, all the names of the missing, the ones who disappeared without a trace in just one battle?” he murmured. “And there are more cemeteries all around it.”

  She felt a shadow touch her. How easily it might have been Fraser, missi
ng in action, dead, never found. But he’d been lucky. They’d been lucky. The war had given them each other. Love had kept him alive, determined to come back to her. That love had deepened, grown richer and stronger over the years. He was the other half of her soul. They could withstand anything as long as they were together.

  She put her hands on his cheeks, cupped his face, reminded him of that with a kiss. “This is a celebration of peace, of hope that there won’t be any more wars, and of remembering sacrifice and honor.”

  “It’s hard, being here. I remember too much. How can it be forgotten?”

  “Forgiven, perhaps? Honored?” she said. “Only that.”

  He stroked her hair. “Aye.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The restaurant was in a quaint French house, charming and old. According to Elizabeth, it had served as an aid post during several of the battles that raged here. Eleanor looked around, imagining the treatment areas, picturing the spot where the operating table might have stood and the place where the wounded would have sat, waiting for their turn. She looked at the cobbled floor, seeking signs of blood and mud, but there weren’t any, of course. It was a perfectly ordinary room, full of tables and chairs and diners. “We’ve reserved a private room,” Elizabeth said, and she led the way.

  A young waiter swept the door open with a bow, his dark eyes scanning Eleanor and Fraser with bland curiosity. He’d probably not even been born until after the war, Eleanor thought. He’d probably grown up hearing his father and grandfather telling stories of those terrible days.

  Colonel Bellford struggled to get to his feet as she entered, and Elizabeth immediately went to support her father. He patted her hand, but pulled away. “I’m not one of your patients, Lizzy,” he said gently. He turned to look at Eleanor. He’d aged, was white haired and thin, his face lined, his body wracked with a slight tremor. He held out his hand. “Dr. Atherton—Dr. MacLeod, Eleanor. I’m so glad you could come. And Sergeant MacLeod.” Max Chilcott crossed the room when he saw Fraser arrive, and he embraced his comrade with tears in his eyes and showed him the intricacies of his prosthetic left hand. “I can even hold a glass with it,” he said, grinning. “Come and see—with your missus’s permission, of course.” Eleanor smiled back, and Max dragged Fraser away to the bar.

  Eleanor turned back to Bellford. “It’s very good to see you, sir. Shall we sit down?”

  The colonel nodded, and he let his daughter settle him in his chair. He began to cough, and Elizabeth held a glass of water to his lips. He looked at Eleanor. “The years have been kinder to you than to me,” he said. “But if it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t be here at all.”

  He nodded to Elizabeth, who picked up a folder on the table and handed it to her father. “You changed everything when you arrived at 46/CCS—like a hurricane, or an artillery bombardment. No, that came out wrong. You made things better. I’ve not known anyone—male or female—with the kind of determination you showed, the willingness to help, to take charge simply because it had to be done and it was the right thing to do, rules or not.”

  He fidgeted with the string that held the file closed. “I had several letters from Sarah Connolly before she died. She wanted my support for some sort of official recognition for you. She wrote to the War Office and to the Royal Army Medical Corps. She asked me to write as well. It has taken some years. You were not military personnel, or a nurse, or part of the VAD, and female doctors were not supposed to be practicing medicine in a war zone. Some said that made you ineligible for any kind of commendation. Others wanted more proof. I was required to find witnesses to your gallantry. I needed three such witnesses. Matron Connolly was one, of course, and myself.” He drew out a sheaf of papers. “These are from all the others who insisted on speaking on your behalf. Some of them you might remember—Reverend Strong wrote to me before he died, and Arthur Swiftwood, and a Captain Dalrymple, and the new Earl of Kirkswell, of course. There are many others as well, patients, and doctors, and nurses—British, Canadian, and French.” He held the thick stack of pages out to her. “With so much evidence, the War Office couldn’t deny you your due.” He paused to catch his breath. “Tomorrow, after the unveiling ceremony, his majesty will present you with the Empire Gallantry Medal, Dr. MacLeod.”

  She gaped at him. “But—”

  “We can’t let the Canadians steal all the glory tomorrow, now, can we? They are as grateful to you as we are, of course. Many of the letters are from Canadians, both doctors and patients. Their prime minister is here and he wishes to meet you.”

  “I never thought, never expected . . .” Stunned, she looked for Fraser, saw him still standing at the bar with Max. She watched as they raised a solemn toast, and she suspected they were remembering Nathaniel Duncan.

  “I became a doctor because of the stories my father told me about you,” Elizabeth Bellford said. “And a young woman who served as a VAD at 46/CCS during the war, Miss Rose Graham, became a surgeon because she was inspired by you. Her letter is here, and she will be at the ceremony tomorrow.”

  Eleanor felt a touch on her shoulder. She turned to look up at David Blair. He was tanned, his face lined, his hair gray at the temples, but his gaze was still keen as he looked at her. “Will your husband mind if I kiss your cheek?”

  She threw her arms around him, hugging him.

  He brought a young girl forward. “May I introduce my daughter, Eleanor Blair?”

  The girl dipped a curtsy, her eyes shining, her smile shy. “My Eleanor wants to be a doctor, too. She hopes to attend McGill University in Montreal. I despair that it’s so far from Alberta, of course.”

  “It isn’t for another year at least, Papa,” Eleanor Blair said.

  “Still too soon,” David said fondly. “Now, off you go and find young company while I talk with Dr. Ather—um, MacLeod.” She smiled and left them.

  “You did go to Canada.”

  “Yes. I have a ranch close to a place called High River. In fact, the king and I are almost neighbors. He owns a ranch near mine, and breeds cattle and sheep. I raise draft horses. I’m also the local doctor, which means I see patients anywhere in a hundred-mile radius. My wife was a nurse, but she died when Eleanor was born.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “She’s a lovely girl, your daughter.”

  “The love of my life,” he said with a proud smile. “There was once another, but alas . . .”

  “David,” she murmured.

  “I still think about you, you know, imagine how it might have been if you’d come with me, if—” He shrugged the thought away and scanned her face. “You look happy—and beautiful. Fraser MacLeod is indeed a lucky man.”

  “I am happy,” she said. “And I’m just as lucky.”

  He smiled. “I’m glad. If you’ll excuse me, I’d best go and keep Corporal Chilcott’s son from flirting with my daughter,” he said. He looked at her again. “Your medal is well deserved, by the way.” He kissed her cheek again. “Goodbye, Eleanor MacLeod.”

  She watched him walk away.

  “Is everything all right?” Fraser asked, coming back to her side.

  She smiled at him and took his scarred hand in hers, and she looked around at their comrades.

  She stood on her toes to kiss him.

  “Everything is perfect.”

  Author’s Note

  When I was fifteen, I went to visit my grandfather Robert Greenwell. He noticed I was doing my history homework and asked me what I was studying. I told him it was British history, my favorite subject. He told me I should be studying more important history than kings and queens and politics, that I should learn about World War I, his history, and Canada’s. My grandfather was a gruff man, the Victorian-era product of County Durham miners. He came to Canada as a boy and grew up here. When World War I began, like a lot of expats, he was keen to enlist. He was initially too young and too short, and
he watched his beloved older brother go off to war without him. As soon as he was able and the rules on height relaxed, my grandfather joined up as well, and he was trained and posted as a gunner with the artillery. He rarely spoke of the war, though he considered his time in the army as the defining era of his life, but that day, at his kitchen table, he told me his brother Matthew’s story.

  In the spring of 1917, the battle of Vimy Ridge was part of the larger Arras offensive and was an important role for the Canadian Corps, which planned and executed the offensive to take the ridge from the Germans. Robert was with the guns, well behind the lines and firing on the German positions before the troops advanced. The Canadians were waiting in tunnels under the field in front of the ridge, and at dawn the entrance to the tunnels was blown open, and the soldiers emerged to take the ridge. My great-uncle Matthew was in one of those tunnels. Sadly, when the tunnel opened, there was a large shell crater filled with freezing water at the entrance, and Matthew’s battalion was directly under the German guns. Many men, including Matthew, were killed in the earliest hours of the battle. When the fighting was over and the Canadians had taken Vimy Ridge, my grandfather came forward to find his brother so they could celebrate the victory together. He learned that Matthew was missing in action and later declared killed.

  My grandfather wrote a note on the front of my history notebook. C-21, the number of the war cemetery where Matthew was buried. He made me solemnly promise to go to Vimy and visit his brother’s grave someday.