Drying her tears and then pushing her arms into her coat sleeves, her mind whirred, re-examining the case against her. Before she even stepped out of the door onto Grosvenor Square, her mind was ticking off incriminating evidence that could be held against her and the ways Fitzwilliam might also be implicated.
Blankets and boots had gone missing at The Ritz while she had been responsible for inventorying them. They would think she had supplied the enemy.
She had taken long walks every morning. No one really knew where she went—except Fitzwilliam and Sapper. Certainly that could be construed as suspicious.
She’d ridden to the home of Meneer Bongaerts twice a week for months, and he was now a known German sympathiser.
She’d remained at The Ritz after it had been evacuated, and then spent two nights alone with Fitzwilliam. That would not bode well for her reputation.
And then the man at the passport office in Boulogne—he seemed to think she was going to Liverpool. But why? Was there more to his comment than a simple mistake?
Lydia.... If word got out that her sister had married a German officer, that in itself would be enough to seal her fate.
And the Belgian officers who had questioned her about a suspicious gift of hairpins from Lieutenant Wickham. What was that all about? Clearly during her time at The Ritz things had been happening around her of which she was unaware. Were there other incidents as well? If caught, she would be tried and accused of—well, who knows what else could be held against her! And if any newspaper even hinted that Elizabeth Bennet had been colluding with the enemy, both she and Fitzwilliam would be blacklisted.
Her mind wrestled, searching for ways to avert a scandal. Passing Selfridges Department Store, her head snapped back to a familiar face on a poster being hung in the window by a young man.
Cowart was no Coward.
Don’t you be either.
Serve your country now!
Underneath the headline was a sketch of the cad—in a British uniform! She forced her dumbfounded mouth closed.
“It has a ring to it, don’t you think, miss? A brave chap too.” The boy stood back to admire his work, shifting from one foot to the other in the December chill. “When I’m old enough to join, I won’t be no coward either.”
“What did he do?” Elizabeth could hardly keep from chuckling. Dr. Cowart was a native Frenchman and he certainly wasn’t brave!
“You didn’t see the story?” He pulled a folded newsprint from his back pocket and pointed to the article.
Clearing Station Surgeon Touted a Hero
The British War Department has chosen to feature celebrated surgeon Dr. Ernest Cowart in their latest campaign to encourage valour among Britain’s troops. Educated in Edinburgh, Dr. Cowart served at a clearing hospital in Belgium where he was stabbed apprehending a spy and was later shot foiling a plot to steal Allies’ horses. But his final heroic deed came when he refused the evacuation order of a front line dressing station, maintaining that he would not shirk his medical duties even in the face of heavy fire. When he finally fled, a sniper’s bullet ended the life of the fearless hero. “Cowart was no coward.” The War Office is distributing posters hoping the catchy phrase and valiant deeds of the surgeon will encourage the same patriotic pluck among Tommies.
Elizabeth’s heart sank. Any inkling of hope she’d had of reuniting with Fitzwilliam had just been snuffed out. With Dr. Cowart now proclaimed a hero, if he’d breathed a word of his suspicions to the authorities about her, it was as good as tightening the noose around her neck. And judging by the newspaper article she’d read at Pemberley, he wasn’t the only one convinced of her guilt.
It was an impossible situation. She was being accused of a crime for which she could never be absolved. Any hope she’d had of resurfacing as Elizabeth Bennet had just been dashed.

Four days later Dr. Scott returned from holiday all smiles. He’d had a lovely Christmas in spite of an argument between Fitzwilliam’s Aunt Catherine and Great Aunt Eliza that had marred the Christmas dinner.
The first dreary weeks of the new year passed quickly for Elizabeth. Dr. Scott had been transferred to a convalescent hospital in London, but Elizabeth continued her mornings with him and her afternoons at St. Dunstan’s. Many of the doctor’s afternoons were spent consulting at local hospitals, advising on patients with complex head wounds.
Elizabeth tried not to think about Fitzwilliam, in spite of the fact that she was living in his house. In a few months she would hopefully be crossing the Channel as Juliet Thomas and could put her past behind her.
One morning Elizabeth arrived for her session with the doctor and found him brimming with excitement. “I have news,” he announced. “Now that my leg has healed and I’m able to walk without a cane, the medical corps is transferring me to a convalescent hospital some twenty miles from here.”
“If your leg is healed, why are they sending you to another convalescent hospital?”
He chuckled. “I’m being sent as a doctor, not as a patient. The corps wants to convert it from a convalescent hospital to a military one specialising in complex head cases. They want me to oversee the conversion.”
“What of publishing your research?”
“They still want me to publish my work, but that doesn’t require tying up a hospital bed. I’ll have a proper office there, and I can become acquainted with the facility while finishing the manuscript. But you know how I’ve come to rely on you, Miss Thomas. Could I persuade you to join me there? Your accommodations would again be provided, and we should be finished about the time you’re eligible for foreign service.”
Elizabeth bit her lip. “I hate to leave the patients at St. Dunstan’s, although I did promise to see you through in publishing your research.”
“Excellent! It’s an outstanding facility in the fresh air of the countryside.”
Elizabeth chuckled. “I suppose it’s settled then. What’s the name of the hospital?”
“Hartfield. In Highbury. It was founded by Captain Darcy’s cousins, the Knightleys. They live not half a mile away at Donwell Abbey.”
Elizabeth swallowed hard and pasted on a smile. She’d just jumped from one fire into another.
~FOURTEEN~
Mid-February 1918
Elizabeth craned her neck as the motorcar rounded a copse of barren trees revealing Hartfield Hospital in the distance. Acres of sprawling lawn stretched before the converted country home. The rectangular structure flanked by wings on each end wasn’t the handsomest manor Elizabeth had seen, but its symmetrical architecture seemed fitting for a hospital.
“How did the Knightleys come to own two country homes within half a mile of each other?”
Dr. Scott reached for his cap. “In the early 1800s, George Knightley of Donwell married his neighbour, a Miss Emma Woodhouse of Hartfield. When old Mr. Woodhouse died, the couple inherited the property. Several years ago the couple’s great-grandson George Knightley converted it to a hospital.”
“And the family lives at Donwell?”
“Only Mr. Knightley and his youngest daughter, Sarah. His wife died, but his mother lives nearby, and his eldest daughter, Cornelia, lives in London. That’s Miss Sarah Knightley at the door now. I think you’ll like her. She reminds me of you.”
An attractive young woman in a blue VAD uniform waved as the car curved around to the front of the house.
A moment later, a chilly wind tugged at Elizabeth’s coat as she stepped onto the gravel drive behind the doctor.
“Welcome, Dr. Scott, it’s good to see you again.” The woman approached them with a warm smile. “And you must be Miss Thomas. I’m Sarah Knightley.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Knightley.”
“Please, call me Sarah. Shall we go in out of the cold?” She crossed the threshold and spoke over her shoulder. “The Matron in charge had business in the village and asked me to give you a tour. She’ll meet us upstairs later, and then Granny has invited us to tea at As
hworth House.”
Sarah’s enthusiasm and pluck suggested a kindred spirit—she even had a dark curl peeking from her kerchief cap. Elizabeth was sure they would get on well.
The vivacious young woman led them past the receptionist’s desk in the marbled entry, then stopped and turned around. “The south wing here is primarily for our convalescing officers. The enlisted men’s quarters are in the north wing.” She pointed down the galleried hallway. “As we pass the officers’ recreation and dining rooms, I think you’ll find the men quite content.”
Elizabeth followed behind Dr. Scott, glancing into rooms as they passed. In one room, two majors stood over a billiards table. In another, jovial banter rose above a table where a cluster of bandaged officers played cards under a cloud of cigarette smoke. They then passed an immaculately set dining room and a generous library where several officers lounged in wing chairs. Convalescing in a handsome home was certainly preferable to the antiseptic environment of a London hospital.
As they climbed the back stairs to the first floor, Elizabeth caught bits and pieces of a conversation between Dr. Scott and Sarah about Sarah’s older sister, Cornelia. “...we don’t see her much.... I can’t imagine why any young woman would want to marry such an ancient old codger...he died last year, but she is happy living in London with her finger in every political pie....”
The first floor wards appeared cheery and comfortable. Neatly made beds were draped in blue chequered counterpanes, and the lockers between each bed held a tiny vase blooming with the first flowers of spring.
“Shall we go up to the second floor?” In the lift, Sarah turned to them. “There’s not much to see up here. Only additional wards for enlisted men, offices, and the old servants’ quarters which have recently been readied for the expected arrival of resident VADs and Sisters when the conversion to a military hospital is complete.”
Elizabeth wondered how the conversion from a convalescent hospital to a military one was being received by the Knightleys and the other VADs working there. It would mean a complete change in personnel. Convalescent hospitals were for men in the last stages of recovery. Besides a local doctor who stopped in once or twice a week, the only other staff included a Matron, cook, and volunteer VADs—generally neighbouring women of high birth who gave a few hours a week to support the war effort.
Military hospitals were for wounded soldiers needing real medical care. Run under strict army rules and regulations, they were staffed by doctors, professional nurses, and full-time VADs who were paid for their commitment. As a genteel part-time volunteer, Sarah would be forced to give up her position.
The lift door opened and the threesome stepped off to the sound of brisk footsteps approaching.
“Matron,” Sarah held out her arm, “allow me to introduce Dr. Scott and his assistant, Miss Thomas.”
The doctor and Matron fell into easy conversation and moved into the offices. Elizabeth turned to Sarah. “Perhaps I should bring in my things. Was there a particular room you had in mind for me?”
“Don’t be silly,” Sarah smiled, “we have the Tudor room at Donwell aired and waiting for you.”
“Your family won’t object to me as a guest? My family’s standing is hardly on par with yours.”
“Well, neither is Dr. Scott’s, nor is Dr. Robert Knightley, Donwell’s heir apparent. Dr. Scott grew up as a stable hand at my Aunt Catherine’s estate. Now the family is strutting like a peacock that such a well-respected doctor is coming to Hartfield. Robert’s father was the black sheep of the family. It’s taken awhile, but my family is finally accepting him—well, maybe not Granny so much, but I adore him. He was just home on leave. I’m sorry you won’t have the chance to meet him.”
“So your grandmother highly regards Dr. Scott but not the family’s heir?”
“It’s unfortunate but true. Dr. Scott is somewhat of a pawn—a victory that Granny can claim over Aunt Catherine. It’s silly that two grown women bicker and carry on like children always trying to outdo one another.”
Elizabeth chuckled. “Most families have at least one difficult member.” With Mama and Lydia, Elizabeth’s family was no exception.
“I suppose you’re right. Just don’t be surprised if you hear Granny chiding me for being the difficult one. She calls me bohemian—a rebel.”
“Why is that?”
“My brother Stephen was some ten years older than I, and we were very close. He had no interest in hunting parties or overseeing an estate. He much preferred tinkering and inventing, but as the heir, he had no choice. Father had no patience for him. The family insists he died in a hunting accident. They refuse to admit that he took his life because he was so unhappy.” She pressed her lips together. “Just thinking of it makes me furious. This antiquated lifestyle holds perfectly good people down, while elevating others without a whit of sense. I refuse to let it ruin me. I’ll live my life as I please and marry whom I choose, regardless of his station.”
Elizabeth chuckled to herself. If only Sarah had met her a year ago. Elizabeth had also been ready to take the world by the horns, sure she was right about everything. But a year at the Front and the gentle hand of Fitzwilliam had shown her how naïve and deceived she’d been. “Is there a suitor you have in mind?”
“Not at present. But if Granny had her way, she’d marry me off to my cousin William Darcy. She seems to think we’re a perfect match just because her sister was William’s grandmother, and William’s sister is one of my dearest friends.”
Elizabeth stiffened but maintained her ease. “Is he amenable to this arrangement?”
Sarah chuckled. “Not hardly. But neither is he enthused about Aunt Catherine’s attempts to snag him for my cousin Anne.” Her gaze drifted into the distance. “William is very kind, and my heart aches for him. These last few years have been difficult for him, and apparently he recently lost a woman he deeply cared for.”
Elizabeth blinked back the moisture in her eyes.
“Margaret!” Sarah brightened and beckoned to a VAD stepping off the lift. “Meet Juliet Thomas, Dr. Scott’s assistant.”
Elizabeth turned to the approaching impeccably groomed VAD who embodied the perfect picture of a lady. With golden brown hair, flawless skin, and graceful carriage, she seemed to float down the hallway.
“Hello.” Margaret dipped her chin in greeting. “Sarah and I have been looking forward to your arrival.”
“Ah, Miss Hale. How nice to see you again.” Dr. Scott emerged from the office.
“Hello, Doctor.” Miss Hale nodded before broadening her focus. “I’m sorry to interrupt you all, but Lawson is here with the car. Mrs. Knightley is expecting us for tea.”
A short ride to Ashworth House found them greeted at the door by a lean, aged butler. Elizabeth followed Sarah and Margaret into a stuffy drawing room that carried a sickly-sweet odour of old. Upon entering, a small, dignified woman clad in royal purple rose to her feet. A patronising smile pushed up the wrinkles on her cheeks as she greeted Dr. Scott. “Welcome to Highbury, doctor. We’re honoured to have such a distinguished physician.” Though her compliments were effusive, her elevated chin and manner left no doubt who had the upper hand.
“Granny,” Sarah gestured to Elizabeth, “may I introduce Miss Juliet Thomas, Dr. Scott’s assistant?”
The peacock feather on the matriarch’s hat wavered as her raised chin pivoted towards Elizabeth. “Miss Thomas. Yes....” The woman’s beady eyes swept her from head to foot.
Elizabeth nodded, then perched demurely on the settee beside Sarah. This woman was as bad as Fitzwilliam’s Aunt Catherine!
“Miss Thomas, tell me about your family.” The matron folded her hands in her lap.
Elizabeth saw immediately where this was going. She squared her shoulders, refusing to be intimidated. “My father was a physician in America.”
“And you’re now working as a clerical assistant?”
Dr. Scott broke in, his voice tinged with annoyance. “She’s lending her much needed m
edical expertise to the war effort, madam.”
“I see.”
He crossed his legs. “I’m grateful Miss Thomas was willing to accompany me here. She was quite an asset at St. Dunstan’s, and I’m sure she will continue to be lauded at whatever hospital she is assigned to overseas. As soon as my work is published, her foreign application will have my highest recommendation.”
The domineering matriarch glanced at Elizabeth with a near-sneer, then turned back to Dr. Scott. “So tell me, doctor, about this planned hospital conversion. Shall there be demolition and remodelling or merely a change in signage?”
“We’ll need to add an operating theatre, a Red Room, and make some adjustments for blind patients, but other than that, I think it will suit our purposes quite well.”
“A Red Room, did you say?”
“Yes. A room for those arriving with red medical cards. The red tags indicate those whose condition is critical and need to be carefully watched.”
“My,” she chuckled, “so even the lowliest of soldiers these days are awarded personal servants.”
“After what those boys face at the Front, madam, they deserve whatever comfort and care we can provide.”
Elizabeth huffed at the woman’s callousness.
Sarah leaned over and whispered, “Don’t mind Granny. She and the rest of my family are still living in the Dark Ages, but Margaret and I are of your mindset. We’re delighted to have you here.”
When they rose to depart, Mrs. Knightley turned to the butler. “Hobson, have Lawson take Miss Thomas to Hartfield.”
Sarah stepped forward. “We’ve arranged the Tudor room for her at Donwell.”
“I think the accommodation at Hartfield will be quite suitable. She’ll be not more than a half-dozen steps from the offices.”
“But Granny—”
Darcy's Hope at Donwell Abbey, a WW1 Pride & Prejudice Companion Page 9