The town clock struck the hour as she exited the shop. With more than an hour before her train’s departure, she should get something to eat.
She followed the smell of freshly baked bread to a bun shop and ordered a boiled egg, two scones, and a cup of tea. A moment later three jovial Tommies bustled in the door, and a bolt of fear shot through her. She ducked behind her hat brim. Had they recognised her? She expelled the air in her lungs and relaxed her shoulders. Just because a soldier had recognised her yesterday didn’t mean every Tommy would. Besides, the newspaper had merely referred to her as Florence and Chérie, so only the staff at The Ritz would associate the names with her—for now, anyway. But she would feel less conspicuous if she could somehow alter her appearance. She could dye her hair, but what good would it do? As a VAD her hair would be covered by the required white kerchief cap anyway.
With a good half an hour remaining until her departure, she turned down a side street. At the next block, two fashionably dressed ladies stood outside a storefront, directing a young man on a ladder positioning a canvas banner over the shop.
As Elizabeth neared, one of the ladies turned to her and held out an arm. “Oh, you’ve come to our jumble sale. Come right in.” She directed Elizabeth inside. “You know it benefits our local hospital.”
“Thank you.” Elizabeth had no intention of buying anything, but the numerous tables piled high with miscellaneous second-hand items were intriguing. She casually wandered among piles of books, stacks of linens, and children’s toys, but stopped in her tracks at a colourful box labelled Spy Kit. The boy pictured on the box top sported an eye patch, fake moustache, and a flat cap. She lifted the lid, and inside, beside the eye patch, moustache, and bulbous nose was a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. They would be perfect!
“Ah, you found something for a brother at home, did you?”
“Y-yes. I did. I think he will like it very much.” Elizabeth smiled and paid for the kit.
Minutes later she stepped out of the door. Rounding a corner, she turned aside, retrieved the spectacles, then slid them on and blinked. They fit! She swivelled her head side to side, eyeing her reflection in a shop window. How different she looked!
She tossed the remains of the kit into a rubbish bin, then strode towards the railway station. Next stop, London. Today was the beginning of a new life.
~SIX~
The same day—A little later
Darcy pressed the tip of the pen to his lips and read over the list of dresses and sundries he’d purchased for Elizabeth in Boulogne. And there were also the few things he could recall that she’d brought from The Ritz. He added the items: garnet necklace and bracelet, hairbrush, two VAD uniforms, stack of letters, carpetbag...
“Good news.” Richard strode into his office and shut the door with a bang. “I just rang off with Canadian headquarters. Canuck sappers have plugged the road, and their medical personnel are moving in to The Ritz as we speak. Our boy reporter Frank Forsyth is supposedly there as well.”
“So we can go by motor car straightaway?”
“My driver’s waiting.”
“You’ve spoken with Robert?”
“He’s up to his elbows in some chap’s belly but has no news on the reporter. Get your coat. Meet me at my car in ten minutes.”

Darcy shifted beside Richard in the back seat of the touring car and turned his gaze out of the window. Water droplets serpentined down the glass as the car trundled towards The Ritz in the relentless rain. Darcy smiled to himself. A week ago, he’d travelled this same rain-soaked road on his motorbike. When he’d arrived at The Ritz that night and Elizabeth wasn’t there, he’d expected the worst. But the next three days turned out to be the best of his life. Perhaps this debacle would have a positive outcome as well, bleak as it looked now.
Minutes later the car passed through the iron gates leading to the chateau he’d managed as a hospital for the past six months. Rounding The Ritz’s fountain revealed a string of lorries and wagons lined up at the front door. An army of Canadian medical personnel in their gumboots and mackintoshes unloaded bedsteads, medical equipment, and endless wooden crates.
“Motor around to the back, Watts,” Richard instructed the driver.
The corporal circled behind the chateau and pulled to a stop. Darcy ducked out of the car behind Richard, shielding himself from the rain as they hurried past two horses and up the veranda steps.
A sergeant greeted them just inside the door. “Sorry, sir, I believe your countrymen have relocated to a convent.”
Richard scanned the familiar marbled floor hallway. “We’re here to see Frank Forsyth and your commanding officer.”
“Is someone looking for me?” A Canadian colonel emerged from the adjacent library.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam, British intelligence.” Richard acknowledged him with a relaxed salute, then held out his hand. “How d’ya do.”
His contemporary reciprocated the gesture, then shook his palm with a nod. “Colonel Harper, Canadian Medical Corps.”
“This is Captain Darcy.” Richard stepped aside. “He oversaw the conspiracy investigation here.”
The Canadian officer smirked. “So you’ve come to find out how, after only two days here, Forsyth uncovered the traitor who eluded you for six months?”
“I’m not so sure about that.” Richard’s voice bristled with annoyance. “Is he here?”
“I believe I saw him carrying a mattress a moment ago.” The colonel chuckled. “I hope you buried your boys plenty deep up there.” He nodded towards the white crosses on the bluff. “On our way in I saw some chap digging at the cemetery. Wouldn’t want him pilfering from your Tommies, God rest their souls.”
Darcy’s pulse ricocheted to his neck as he exchanged glances with his cousin.
Richard chuckled, his demeanour remaining calm. “We bury our dead plenty deep, Colonel. We just try not to bury innocent suspects along with them. And if you would kindly spare me two of your men and a lorry, there’s a good chance we’ll uncover the real traitors.”
“Far be it from me to stand in your way, Colonel.” He turned to two soggy soldiers emerging from the library, “Baxter. Allen. The colonel here is requesting your attendance on a short excursion. Get a truck and take them wherever they should like to go.”
“Thank you, Colonel.” Richard nodded.
“My pleasure.”
Darcy grunted under his breath. They didn’t have time for pleasantries and bantering! Every minute these two faffed about could be the difference between proving Elizabeth’s innocence or losing the evidence forever.
As soon as Richard stepped out of the door, Darcy secured his cap, then darted down the veranda steps into the showering rain. “I’ll meet you there,” he called over his shoulder.
“Where are you going?”
“To catch the bastards digging up our evidence.” Darcy untethered the horse.
Richard hastened down the steps and grabbed his arm. “Don’t be a fool. It’s pouring rain. If he’s after what we think he is, you’ll be at a distinct disadvantage. He’ll see you coming a mile away.”
“Not if I climb up the side of the bluff, he won’t.” Darcy swung up on the mount.
“Are you out of your mind? It’s been raining for five days! It’ll be a wall of mud.”
“I’ve done it before, and I know this area like the back of my hand.” The horse danced in anticipation under him. “This might be our last chance.”
Richard grunted. “We’ll come ‘round on the road. Are you armed?”
Darcy patted his revolver in reply, then locked eyes with Richard in a silent farewell. With a nod Darcy wheeled the horse and bolted from the yard.
Raindrops pelted his face, and his greatcoat flapped against his legs as he galloped over the meadow. On the bluff ahead, the back of a flat cap rose just above ground, and shovelfuls of damp earth flew behind the stocky digger in a steady rhythm. Nearing the ridge, Darcy hugged the embankment, thankful that the
rain drowned out the sound of his horse’s hooves squelching through the waterlogged field.
He glanced up the incline. The sprawling oak that had often shaded Elizabeth was just ahead. The graves were a short distance beyond. He swung down from the saddle, then threw the reins over a bush and jogged to a path with a gentler slope.
Darcy whipped off his coat while angling his ear, straining for sounds above. Had he heard something? No. Nothing but the whoosh of showering rain.
Planting a hobnail boot on the muddy slope, he took a slippery step, then another. Grabbing onto bushes, rocks, and limbs protruding from the incline, he slowly scaled the embankment. Would the traitor still be there when he reached the top?
Slipping and sliding in his mud-covered boots, he hiked upward as fast as he dared until he reached the top. Muddy and wet, he peered over the bluff’s lip. A small chest sat on the side of a gravesite, and the broad shoulders of a middle-aged man heaved a shovel up and down from another hole twenty yards ahead. Darcy closed his eyes. He wasn’t too late. Suddenly the shovel stopped, and the man bent forward. Had he found something else? Now was Darcy’s chance. Just as he planted his second boot on level ground and straightened, the man tucked a box under his arm, then turned around, riveting his gaze on Darcy.
“Stop!” Darcy whipped out his revolver, but it slipped from his muddy hand and went careening over the edge of the bluff.
The thief scrambled for the chest and took off running towards his horse tethered in the churchyard fifty yards ahead. Darcy sprinted after him in the soggy muck. If the man mounted the horse with those boxes, Darcy would never catch him.
The man had a twenty-yard start on him, but Darcy’s long legs quickly closed the distance. Just as the man swung up onto his horse juggling the bulky boxes, Darcy dived at him and ripped him from the saddle. The coffers clattered to the ground, and the brute caught him with a right hook. Darcy reeled but charged again. The fate of the woman he loved was likely in those boxes. He wasn’t going to be bested by an old man even if his forearms were thick as hams.
They rolled in the mud, exchanging blows. A solid punch stunned Darcy, giving the lout the advantage. He pinned Darcy and braced a hand at his throat, choking him. The veins in the brute’s forearms bulged, and pinpricks of light flickered before Darcy’s eyes. Splaying his fingers, Darcy aimed for the thief’s eyes. His longer arm met its target giving Darcy a moment to fill his lungs and roll the man under him. Straddling him, Darcy pummelled: right, right, left, right, his fury fuelled with every blow. This bastard was the main obstacle standing between him and Elizabeth. She’d been wrongly accused and accosted, and this rat was going to pay.
“Darcy! Enough!” A hand on his shoulder ripped him off the traitor. “It’s over.”
Darcy snapped out of his rampage to find Richard standing over him. Sucking a lungful of air, Darcy rose to his feet and wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his muddy hand. His opponent groaned on the ground, his face covered with blood.
“It’s over.” Richard leaned in, patting him. “It’s over.”
~SEVEN~
That afternoon
Absently fingering her garnet necklace, Elizabeth thought over the name she’d chosen for herself, Juliet Thomas. Just like Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, her romance had become a tragedy. For a surname, she’d chosen Thomas after her beloved father. As the train propelled her down the tracks towards London, she rehearsed the rest of her new family history.
She startled when the train’s shrill whistle broke the monotonous thrum of wheels over rails. Pushing the spectacles up on her nose, she sat up and focused out of the window. They were already pulling into Oxford. It wouldn’t be long to London now.
A young woman carrying an armload of books exited the train and strode down the platform. How would things be different for Elizabeth if she had continued her medical studies at University rather than returning home to care for her ailing father? She sighed. It didn’t matter now. It was all in the past. Besides, if she hadn’t gone to France as a VAD, she would never have encountered Fitzwilliam again.
Fitzwilliam. Her heart cinched. Surely by now he’d been alerted to her absence. He would be beside himself with worry. After reading her letter to Jane, would he understand? If only she could have written to him and told him one more time how much she loved him and why she’d had to leave him.
Elizabeth’s abstraction was broken when two medical officers proceeded down the aisle. Never pausing their conversation on the advancements in facial reconstruction, they slid into the seat opposite her. Moments later the train chugged out of the station, and their discussion turned to brain injuries, blindness, and then deafness resulting from war wounds. It was all quite interesting. And although Elizabeth directed her gaze out of the window, she couldn’t help overhearing the conversation between the captain and major:
“Dr. Scott is now revered as one of the army’s top experts on cranial and ocular wounds.” The major lit a cigarette. “It’s a shame he couldn’t continue his research at the Front. I suppose you heard about his motor car accident.”
“I heard it dealt him a smarting injury. How’s he getting on? It’s been nearly a month now, hasn’t it?” A cloud of smoke rose over their heads.
The major shifted. “He’s at London’s First General with three broken fingers, a tibia fracture, and more bruises than spots on a leopard. But now that he’s on the mend, he’s itching to publish his findings, but his broken fingers are hardly conducive to writing.”
“Is there no one he can dictate to?”
The major shook his head. “None that we can find. He needs someone well versed in medicine and familiar with cranial and ophthalmic terminology. A family in Mayfair has offered accommodation, and we’re prepared to offer a small salary, but it’s not enough to tempt a professional nurse. Not to mention there are many who frown on employing a Sister to serve one man when she can look after more than twenty as a ward nurse.”
“What about a retired Sister or doctor?”
“Most are already serving local civilians and volunteering at auxiliary hospitals as well.”
“Hmm.” The captain shook his head. “A problem indeed.”
Elizabeth sat up, riveted to their conversation. They were offering a wage and accommodation to take dictation from a doctor? Would they consider her qualifications? She might even be able to pursue her VAD certification at the same time. Should she interrupt? Eavesdropping was impolite, but this was a golden opportunity. Working for one doctor would certainly keep her more secluded than tending to the revolving masses at a military hospital.
The increasing frequency of terrace houses outside her window told her they were nearing London. If she didn’t speak up, she could lose the opportunity.
“Excuse me,” she turned to the officers, “I couldn’t help but overhear your need for a medical assistant. Might I offer my services? My father was a doctor, and I often accompanied him on his calls. I’ve had a year of formal nurses’ training in Texas, but when my father fell ill, I was forced to abandon my studies. My father’s failing eyesight gave me a particular interest in ocular disease and blindness making me an avid reader of medical journals.”
The men exchanged glances. The major held out his hand. “Major Townsend.”
“Miss E—Juliet Thomas.”
The major introduced her to his colleague, then spoke again. “Your accent betrays you as an Englishwoman. How is it that you trained in Texas?”
Elizabeth swallowed hard, then launched into her new history. “My mother badgered my father to move to a warmer climate. Six years ago, my father learnt of an opportunity in Corpus Christi, Texas, and my family moved. Four years later my mother died, and shortly thereafter my father’s health and eyesight began to fail. I studied braille so that I might teach him, but he died before going completely blind. I’ve come home to England to support the war effort. I’m on my way to London now to obtain my VAD certification.”
“But you�
�d consider working with Dr. Scott for several months?”
“Indeed. I would be honoured to assist a doctor of his reputation. And I would find it immensely more stimulating than making beds and dusting lockers.”
The men laughed. “Well, perhaps you will join us for dinner tonight to discuss this further.”
~EIGHT~
The same day—Convent in Belgium
Freshly showered, Darcy smoothed his damp hair and crossed the threshold into his office, grimacing with every step.
With his usual boyish charm, Robert looked up from where he perched on the altar desk. “Saints above, Darcy, you did take a thrashing.”
Darcy eased his aching limbs into a chair and addressed his blond kinsman. “I assure you it was nothing close to what I delivered in return. Where’s Richard?”
“On the line with General Pommier. He’d been filling me in on the morning’s revelations when the call came in.”
Darcy grunted. “How far did he get?”
“I’m up to speed on your theories about the pin and Miss Bennet’s tent, and he showed me the news story and the telegram from Mrs. Reynolds. Nice sleuthing on your part, Darcy, but I’m genuinely sorry to hear about Miss Bennet.”
“Did Richard apprise you of our excursion to The Ritz earlier this afternoon?”
“You mean your climbing the bluff in the pouring rain?” The young doctor chuckled while brushing lint from his uniform sleeve. “You two have all the fun and leave me sewing up soldiers in the operating theatre.”
“I assure you our adventure was far from pleasant.”
“I’m waiting with bated breath to hear what you learnt from that Canadian—”
The door swung open and Richard strode in. “Wickham’s officially a wanted man. Pommier sent his men to pick him up, and he’s coordinating with the Belgians to round up the rest of the bastards.” He dropped into the chair beside Darcy.
Darcy's Hope at Donwell Abbey, a WW1 Pride & Prejudice Companion Page 5