by Charles Todd
That done, I nearly changed my mind again. It would be tempting to go directly to Cornwall, shut myself behind the walls of my stone house overlooking the sea, and put this wretched war out of my mind. I’d seen its reality, the terrible wounds men and their weapons could inflict on one another, men dying by the roadside or in the meager shelter of a ruined town. But there was no running away. Not for me. The question was, what was I going to do with myself?
I touched the ring on my finger, wondering how long it would be before I heard news of Alain.
Why had I told Peter Gilchrist that I wasn’t engaged? I could have explained—I could have told him that the ring was a token of Alain’s promise to speak to my cousin as soon as he could.
Instead I’d denied any commitment, and more to the point, I’d taken pleasure in Peter’s company. I could still feel his arm around me, his body breaking the worst of the ambulance’s jolting ride.
I tried to convince myself that it was the war, it was the frightfulness of being shelled, of working with the wounded and dying, the unsettling experience of being in the company of men without the presence of a chaperone or a male member of my family.
I’d just stepped out into the street after sending my telegram when I nearly collided with a man hurrying toward the post office. He was familiar, I’d seen him before, but I couldn’t remember where.
It wasn’t until I had reached the railway station that I remembered. He’d had the seat next to mine on the journey from Paris.
The train north was crowded and very slow, for we were often held up as troop trains hurtled past. And when I reached London at last, I discovered that my cousin’s house—once my father’s—had been shut up for the duration, only a skeleton staff in residence. I asked the housekeeper to watch for my trunk, went up to my room, and took away some clothing to be going on with.
Before leaving, I asked for news of my cousins, and the housekeeper told me, “My lady, there’s been no word about Mr. Bruce. His lordship did write to say the Captain is all right. We pray for both of them every night.”
As I myself did.
I went to Brown’s Hotel, but Reception and the lounge were jammed with people in search of rooms. It was my first taste of what was to come, if the war lasted beyond Christmas.
On my third try, I managed to find a room, and that afternoon I went to call on one of my father’s oldest friends. Gerald Hamilton was a slim man of medium height, with new lines in his face that told me what the past few weeks had cost him. He had taken his seat in the House of Lords as soon as he’d come into his title, and he had urged my father to do the same. Speed consumed him instead, and yet the two men had remained firm friends.
We talked about my father for a few minutes, and then I told Lord Hamilton what I had seen in France, leaving out my two days along the road to Ypres.
“I want to do something to help,” I said in conclusion. “I need advice, and I don’t know where else to turn.”
He considered me for a moment. “Your cousin would want you to go home. And as your father’s friend, I’d advise that as well.”
“How can I hide in Scotland from this war? My cousins are fighting in France. I’ve been told—I was told that one of them could be dead.” My voice nearly broke as I finished.
“My dear girl, I hadn’t heard—”
Before I quite knew what I was saying, I interrupted him. “I want to join Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service.”
He stared at me. “Are you quite serious? What will your cousin say? What would your father think?”
“My father would tell you that I can speak for myself,” I countered, avoiding answering the question directly.
But Lord Hamilton wouldn’t hear of it. In the end, I thanked him and left soon thereafter, promising to consider his advice to go to Scotland.
Outside I stood there wondering where that sudden decision to join the Nursing Service had come from. I knew nothing about nursing, nothing about the qualifications or the training. More to the point, I had no idea how to go about finding out. But I already understood very well the need for trained care for the wounded.
A stream of people coming and going into the House of Lords were stepping around me, and I realized that I was blocking the doorway.
I walked on, deep in thought, and as I came into Trafalgar Square, I glimpsed a young woman in the distinctive blue uniform of the Service. I ran after her, causing heads to turn, and called, “Sister!”
She stopped, looking around, and as I caught her up, I said with a smile, “I’m so sorry for shouting after you. But you see, I’d like to know how to join the Service. And no one will tell me.” It wasn’t precisely true that no one would tell me—I’d only spoken to Lord Hamilton—but that was neither here nor there.
The woman returned my smile. “I met with the same obstinacy,” she said. “But I was determined, you see.”
“Come and have tea with me,” I suggested, “and tell me what I need to know.”
I gave her my name—Elspeth Douglas—as we walked down The Strand and found a respectable hotel serving tea, saying nothing about my title. I don’t precisely know why I hadn’t given it. For fear she would tell me the Service was not for me, as Lord Hamilton had done? Or for fear of putting her off? Whatever the reason, it was done. And indeed, taking me for someone very like herself, of good family and background, she seemed eager to talk about her own experiences.
She told me her name was Sister Margaret Fielding, and that she came from Norfolk, where her parents were still living. “They’ve decided to speak to me again,” she added wryly. “At first they treated me as if I no longer existed. Which hurt, you know, but I refused to let that stop me. Of course, my sister had been a suffragette, much to their dismay. Both daughters such a disappointment. Luckily my brother chose the church, which has made them very happy.”
Even while I was laughing with her, I could imagine Cousin Kenneth not speaking to me, if he found out. Still, Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service had made nursing the wounded a respectable and respected occupation, with royal approval.
Another thought struck me. Would I need his permission to join? Would he give it? He was my guardian until I was thirty.
Something I must consider carefully.
“What was their objection?” I asked, pouring our tea.
“It’s what you must do that distressed them,” Sister Fielding explained. “Washing the bodies of strange men, attending doctors as they work with bloody or disgusting wounds, carrying bedpans—you can see it’s hardly the best occupation for an innocent young woman. But I contribute something, and that matters more to me than the onerous duties I must perform. My brother is in the Army, a chaplain, you know, and I think of him often, hoping that if he’s ever wounded, he’ll be cared for by someone who is trained to treat him.”
Half an hour later, we parted outside the hotel, and I had the information I needed to start my search.
Rather pleased with my resourcefulness, I walked back to my hotel. But the euphoria soon wore off, and I began to wonder if I was truly interested in nursing, or if Lord Hamilton’s reaction to the very idea had brought out the stubbornness that my father and I were known for.
Would my father have approved of what I was about to do? Did I have the courage to see it through, as Sister Fielding had done? The training alone was formidable.
The only answer I could give myself was France. I had seen those torn bodies, the orderlies rushing here and there to help where they could, doctors harassed and exhausted, working with a calmness of a surgeon in his own surgical theater, shutting out everything else but what their fingers were doing as they raced time to save another life.
What if it were Henri—or Alain—or Rory—or Peter—who lay severely wounded and in need of my care? Could I keep my head and tend them without crying or feeling faint? Could
I hold them down as the doctor removed a limb?
I shuddered at the thought, but my answer was Yes, for their sakes. I could.
I don’t know if I dreamed or not, but in the morning the bedclothes were in disarray. If I had, it was surely of Alain. Not of a British officer who kept me warm against the night’s chill and got me to safety. I had no reason to dream of him.
When I went down to dinner, I encountered three of my friends. They were in uniform and the Honorable Freddie Huntington told me he’d just proposed to Alicia Terrill. We toasted his happiness while he expounded on his good fortune, for she was very popular.
Turning to me, he said, “And you, Lady Elspeth? Does that ring mean you’ve also become engaged?”
They teased me until I told them that it was a family heirloom. Freddie was something of a gossip and a friend of Rory’s as well. I could just imagine the news reaching Cousin Kenneth’s ears before Alain could come to England. It would be the worst possible thing.
But their banter was a reminder to remove it before I interviewed with the Nursing Service.
Chapter Four
The next morning, I set out on my rounds.
The first person I encountered was Timothy Howard, of the War Office. He was on his way to speak to the Prime Minister, and we stopped in the street to talk. Before we parted, I asked, “What’s the news from France?”
If anyone knew what was happening, he did.
“I was hoping you could tell me. I think we’ve stopped the German forward advance on both fronts, but now I’m terrified they’ll dig in and this will become a stalemate,” he said grimly. “And that would be the worst possible thing for everyone. The French can’t push the Germans back across the Frontier, and nor can we. What was the general mood in France?”
I told him everything I’d seen, and he whistled. “You should have stayed in Paris. It was too dangerous to try for a port.”
“I know that now. I didn’t then. Besides, I needed to come home. Timothy, do you know a Captain Gilchrist? Peter Gilchrist?”
“Yes, of course I do. We were in school together. Please don’t tell me he’s dead.”
“He was alive a few days ago,” I said, and explained.
“Well, you were in the best of hands, I can tell you that. You’ve had quite an adventure,” he added, admiration in his voice. “But you could manage, if anyone could.”
I had, but I realized now how lucky I’d been as well.
“Timothy, I want to be a nurse.”
“A nurse? Good Lord, Lady Elspeth. Are you quite serious?”
“Quite serious,” I replied.
“Well.” He thought about it. “Speak to your cousin first. You’re his ward, you’ll need his permission to get into the training program. Besides, if the war ends by Christmas, you’ll have gone through rigorous training for nothing. Have you considered that?”
“It’s a very good point,” I agreed.
“Where are you staying? I understood the London house was closed.”
“In an hotel,” I told him. “Before I was given a room I had to tell Reception that I’d come to London to see my cousins off to France,” I added wryly. Unaccompanied young women were not welcomed in good hotels.
“I’m not surprised. Lodgings are springing up all over. But they aren’t for the likes of you.”
Eager to change the subject now, I said, harking back to his comment about training, “You don’t really believe that this war will be over by Christmas.” I’d met Kaiser Wilhelm at a formal dinner in Berlin while traveling with my cousins. He hadn’t struck me as the sort to back down.
“For God’s sake, keep this to yourself. But I think we’re in for a long struggle. I’ve advised the Army to take every man they can lay hands on. We’re going to need them.”
Shocked, I said, “Truly?”
“Truly. So get yourself to Scotland and stay there out of harm’s way for the duration. London will be a madhouse. You can’t begin to imagine how grim it’s going to be. We’re already looking at short supplies of food. Your father would be out of his grave and haunting all of us, if we encouraged you in this wild idea.”
I smiled. “Don’t worry about me, Timothy. I’ve also been toying with the idea of going down to Cornwall rather than travel to Scotland. Perhaps I should do just that.”
He gave me a wary glance. “Lady Elspeth,” he began, having known me for quite some time.
I affected my most innocent look. Since he couldn’t very well call me a liar to my face, he had to believe me.
Finally he said, “Please. Don’t do anything rash.”
I promised, and he had to be satisfied. I watched him walk away, thinking that two people now had tried to discourage me from taking up nursing. It was a measure of what? Their belief that I was too fragile to attempt it? Or that it could reflect poorly on my social standing? Possibly even spoil my chances of making a good marriage? A loss of innocence?
I sighed. But I’d also learned something from Timothy and Lord Hamilton. If I wanted to pursue this idea of training to be a nurse, I had to do it quietly, without fanfare.
The first order of business was to find respectable lodgings where no one would recognize me once I was wearing a uniform. For one thing, I couldn’t remain in an hotel of the sort my father would have chosen to stay in; I was all too likely to run into people I knew. I couldn’t come and go at all hours without attracting gossip. Word would very soon reach my cousin’s ears.
But London seemed to be cheek by jowl with people on the same errand. Every respectable lodging house I approached was already full.
Then, as luck would have it, I saw another young woman in the uniform of Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service, and once more I boldly accosted her as she was about to cross the street.
When I’d finished telling her what I wanted, she smiled. “I’ve just heard from a friend that a woman called Mrs. Hennessey in Kensington has turned her house into lodgings for young women of good character who are training as nurses.”
I got Mrs. Hennessey’s direction and thanked Sister Keyes, before hurrying off.
Mrs. Hennessey lived in a large house in Kensington, and she came to the door herself when I knocked. I liked her at once. A pleasant, middle-aged woman, she invited me into the downstairs flat where she herself lived, and asked if I’d already qualified as a Sister.
I gave her my best smile. “I’ve just come to London to begin my training,” I said.
“Which hospital, my dear?”
“Whichever one will take me on,” I said, unwilling to lie to her any more than I needed to do, under the circumstances.
“Go to St. Helen’s, my dear. I hear they have the best program. Scottish, are you?”
“Yes, from north of Edinburgh.” I, who had always taken pride in my title and my lineage, was suddenly finding it a problem. People seemed delighted to help Elspeth Douglas on her way. But everyone who knew Lady Elspeth had been intent on bundling me off to Scotland and safety.
“My late husband had a dear friend who lived in Stirling. I think he would be happy if I took in a Scottish lass.”
After we’d had tea, she showed me to the flat with a vacancy. “There are three young women already living here, but there’s still room for two more. You should fit in very nicely.” She saw my hesitation and said with regret, “It’s all I have at the moment.”
Used to rooms three times the size of the entire flat, I tried to think what to say. There were five bedrooms not even as large as my mother’s dressing room, and then a sitting room shared by all five of us. I could feel the walls closing in as I stood there in the middle of the floor and tried to tell myself I could manage.
“Yes, I’ll take the fourth bedroom,” I said before I could change my mind. It had two windows, making it seem less claustrophobic than the other choice.
&
nbsp; She led me back downstairs where we worked out the details, and then with a flourish she handed over a key.
“There is one rule,” she told me. “I don’t allow any male over the age of ten up these stairs. If your father or brother or cousin or fiancé comes to see you, you will meet him downstairs in the hall. Is that acceptable to you? I maintain high standards of conduct myself, and I expect my young ladies to do the same.”
As I had no father, no brother nor even a cousin, and certainly no fiancé in London, I had no difficulty in agreeing. I was also glad that in such a tiny flat, I wouldn’t have to deal with the male relatives of the other residents.
I now had a place to live. It was far more difficult to get myself accepted for training.
When my trunk arrived from Cornwall, I had chosen my most sedate walking dresses for interviews, patterning myself on someone like Sister Fielding. Several times I was tempted to use my title and my father’s name, but in the end perseverance paid off. After nearly a week of talking to Matrons, Sisters, a hawk-eyed woman who saw to the financial arrangements, and one doctor who was to assess my steadiness and commitment to this training, I was accepted for the course.
What I hadn’t known was that probationers were given the worse possible duties to perform. It was degrading work, but I could see that a young woman who rebelled at cleaning up vomit and excrement and carrying soiled linens to the laundry, who found the old and the dirty and the demented impossible to deal with, would soon be out of the program. And so I rolled up my sleeves, metaphorically as well as literally, and got on with it. I’d been taught from childhood that my title brought with it certain privileges, and that these included certain responsibilities and duties. Was nursing so very different?
If I wished to become a Sister, I must accept the hardships that accompanied that training with whatever grace I could muster.
Once or twice I wondered what my governess would say—she who had taught me to walk with a book on my head, to sit without fidgeting, and to address my elders and my betters in the proper manner—if she could see me cajoling an old and infirm man to eat his pudding. I was comfortable with the aristocracy, I could address an archbishop without flinching, and I knew half the House of Lords. I had made my curtsey to the King and Queen when I came out, and danced with foreign princes. And here I was, washing a woman with bed sores, holding a child with croup as she coughed and gasped for breath, helping a man with one leg to the toilet, and scrubbing surgical theater floors on my hands and knees.