by Charles Todd
Captain Barkley spoke in English. “Sister Crawford here nursed him when he was found wounded by a stretcher party. She was told he’s now at home, completing his convalescence.” He neglected to add that it was a British stretcher party and a British hospital.
“Indeed,” the priest said, nodding, clearly understanding him. “I am glad to hear he is recovering.” He had not taken a chair, and I thought he must be wishing we would go.
“I should like very much to have news of him. I know the staff would welcome it,” I prompted.
The priest moved to stand by the small fire in the grate, his hands behind him. I noticed that the hem of his soutane was muddy, like his shoes, but his cuffs and collar were a snowy white. I wondered where he had been walking before we had discovered him at the church.
“Lieutenant Moreau hasn’t lived here for a number of years. The house is closed. It was not a happy family—I expect there were too many memories. His father died when he was quite young, and then he lost his brother as well. I expect he would prefer to convalesce in Paris, if possible.”
“Is his mother still alive?” I asked, curious. I’d have settled for an interview with her.
“Sadly, no. She died in the first year of the war. A bitter woman. She hated all things German, and the invasion was more than she could support.”
Not surprising, if she had come from Alsace.
The Captain asked, as if he’d heard that thought, “I understand she was born in Alsace.”
“Madame Moreau? Certainly not. Hers was an old family in Lyon. Her father had been le maire there.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, taken aback by this news.
“But of course I am,” he replied, more than a little affronted.
“Do you by any chance have Lieutenant Moreau’s direction in Paris?”
“Alas, no. He took a flat there when he attended the Sorbonne.”
Then who would let the Lieutenant know if something happened to the house or the estate? But I had already annoyed the priest once, and I didn’t care to do it again. We really had no right to be here asking questions.
“Is Philippe one of Paul Moreau’s given names? He seemed to prefer being called Philippe by the nursing staff.”
He turned away, poking at the fire for a moment. “No, it is not,” he answered with finality when he turned back to me. But his gaze was on the housekeeper.
I could hear something scraping at the windows, rather like fingernails. I turned to look, but there was only a bare lilac outside. The wind had risen, pushing a branch against the old glass. The clouds I’d seen in Paris must have become a storm.
The housekeeper noticed it too and hurried to light a third lamp on the table next to me. The large, high-ceilinged room seemed to absorb what light there was as the sky darkened outside, making the old rectory positively gloomy. As the match flared, I saw her glance at me speculatively, then quickly look away.
Did she think I was looking for a man I’d treated and fallen in love with? There was something in her glance that told me it might be likely.
I said, “I was just one of the Sisters who treated Lieutenant Moreau after he was brought in quite seriously wounded. He made no complaint. But his feet were nearly raw. He couldn’t walk.”
It was true, but under the sharp eyes of the housekeeper, it sounded hollow, as if I were making excuses for searching for Lieutenant Moreau.
Just then it sounded as if a handful of pebbles had been thrown at the window as the first heavy drops of rain were flung at it by the wind.
The Curé went swiftly to the glass, pulling the lace curtain aside to look out.
“The children will be coming out of school. I must go.” He all but ran from the room, and I could hear the rasp of an umbrella as he pulled it out of a stand. The door opened and closed, and he was gone.
Captain Barkley and I stared at the door to the room, then turned to the housekeeper.
“He’ll walk the little ones home,” she informed us. “You won’t wish to wait for him to see to all of them.”
I rose, unable to think of anything more to say. Then it occurred to me to ask, “Is the Moreau house truly empty? There’s no family there? No staff?”
“What staff? There’s the war. If they aren’t in the Army, they’re in the factories. This village has done its duty.”
Captain Barkley said, “You must have been afraid, when the Germans came down the Marne Valley.”
She looked at him. “Most everyone left. The Curé and I stayed. Someone had to take care of our homes. We buried the church silver. They’re Protestants, the Germans. They have no right to our silver.”
“Not all of them are Protestants,” he said.
“No? What they did to Belgium. Unspeakable. Godless men.”
She was encouraging us to leave, edging us toward the door. We had no choice but to go.
In the passage by the main door, I said, “Why did Lieutenant Moreau choose to be called Philippe, rather than Paul? We thought it rather odd at the time.”
She stared at me as if I’d struck her. Then she said, “I know nothing of this. His family called him Paul. Georges Paul Armand Étienne Moreau, after his grandfather. That was his name.”
I remembered the photograph in my apron pocket. Taking it out, I showed it to her. “This is the only photograph I have.”
She barely glanced at it. “I have known Paul Moreau, man and boy, and this is not a likeness of him.”
So much for that. I returned it to my pocket and thanked the woman as I buttoned up my coat. The rain was coming down now in blowing sheets. The priest would be having difficulties with his umbrella. It was useless to ask the Captain to fetch his. It would be inside out as soon as we opened it. With a wry glance at the Captain, I nodded to the housekeeper, then ran down to the motorcar, feeling the raindrops pelt my cap and hair, hitting my shoulders and making me blink as they struck my face and eyes. Pushing my pillows aside, I slid into my seat and shut the door as quickly as I could.
Captain Barkley, having to turn the crank, was very wet by the time he could join me. I used my apron to dry my face and found a handkerchief to pass to him.
It had been chilly when we left Paris, but now with this autumn rain, the temperature had dropped dramatically. Even in my regulation winter coat I was shivering. Captain Barkley reached into the back and found a rug that he handed to me. Grateful, I spread it over my lap and my legs, drawing it snugly around me.
“She never gave us her name,” I said, looking back. The door to the rectory was firmly shut. “Neither did he.”
“Well. We were strangers.”
“Yes, I expect that was it.”
We reversed and drove slowly back through the village. I saw what must be the small schoolhouse. It appeared to be closed, empty. Where was the priest with his umbrella? Or the children’s parents, coming to fetch them? There was no one in sight.
“I expect the schoolmaster kept them in until the worst had passed,” Captain Barkley said, leaning forward to look beyond me. “It would be the sensible thing to do.”
The street was empty, no one out in the rain, not even a dog sheltering under the cart standing outside what appeared to be the ironmonger’s shop, the traces resting on the ground.
“A strange place,” I commented.
“Unwelcoming,” my companion agreed. “Are you all right? Running like that? There’s surely an umbrella in the boot. I could have fetched it for you.”
It was true, running had been a bit much. My side had been angry with me by the time I pulled myself into my seat and swung the door shut. But I shook my head.
“I’m all right.”
His gaze scanned my face. “I think you’re not telling me the truth.”
I was saved from answering when a woman dashed out of the doorway of one of the last cottages in the village. She was waving to us and trying to stay under her tattered umbrella at the same time, her face a picture of concern, as if she expected us to ignore her.
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Captain Barkley saw her at the same time I did and slowed to a stop, veering closer to her without splashing her. I wondered if he’d often handled this motorcar before.
I put down my window, and she said breathlessly in French, “Are you returning to Paris? Please, may I ride there with you?”
She was dressed in black, with a black cloche hat covering her dark hair and framing a plain face that still possessed that something that said a Frenchwoman. The way she wore her ordinary coat and hat, the way she held herself, all spoke of breeding and style.
Captain Barkley leaned across me to answer, “Yes, of course. Get in.”
She quickly furled her umbrella and opened the door behind me, almost leaping in.
“Ah,” she said as she leaned back against the seat. “Merci. Thank you so much. I am saved from borrowing a bicycle to ride to the next village. There is no train here—not that they come very often to the next village.”
“Do you live here in Petite-Beauvais?” I asked, after we’d very briefly introduced ourselves, in the way of strangers.
“No, I don’t. I came to see my governess. She died two days ago, and I have stayed on to arrange the service with Father Robert. Thank God, we didn’t have to bury her in this. Yesterday was lovely. She would have liked such a beautiful day.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
“You are a nursing Sister? The Queen Alexandra’s?”
“Yes. I’m in Paris on a brief leave.”
“Ah. Where have you been posted?”
I told her a few of the places I’d been sent.
“Then you’ve seen much of the worst of it. I too am a nurse. A nun,” she added with a faint echo of hostility in her voice, almost as if she expected me to put her out of the motorcar at once.
Nursing orders of nuns had served in French hospitals for centuries, until some years ago when the French government had decided their hospitals should be staffed by nonreligious personnel.
“Are you indeed?” I asked with interest. “How did you manage to serve?”
“Ah. You know our history then. Bon. When Belgium was invaded, I removed my habit, put on civilian clothing, and went to offer my services as plain Marie-Luc Daucourt. You should have seen the office of the military commander in charge. You would have thought the French Revolution had never occurred.”
I knew what she meant. Even when I went to volunteer, women with no training at all were eager to offer their services as nurses or hospital organizers. Diana, one of my flatmates, told me that a duchess had been standing in the line just ahead of her. Some of the early volunteers were even Suffragettes, seeing this as an opportunity to prove that women could serve their country just as faithfully as the men rushing to enlist. Many of the earlier titled enlistees chose instead to use their resources and contacts to establish hospitals in private homes, and even great hotels closed for the duration. What’s more, these women were very efficient at it. Others set up or joined VAD groups or went to France and Belgium to do what they could on their own. Levels of training varied, too. I’d been very surprised and pleased when another of my flatmates, Lady Elspeth, had completed her course and gone to France to serve in the QAIMNS hospitals and aid stations.
“I saw much the same thing myself. A romantic adventure. Or a misplaced desire to serve without understanding what it entailed. That was often the Army’s view in the beginning,” I said.
“Yes, it’s true.” She took off her hat and found a handkerchief to wipe the worst of the rain off the felt. “And so I volunteered at Panne, where the Belgians had set up an excellent hospital. After that, I stood in railway stations with other nurses and nuns, caring for the wounded in trains sent back from the Front. It was terrible—no bandages to speak of, except field dressings. No cots, men lying in their own filth in bloody straw, no food, no medicines. Not even water. This was true well into 1915. It was the most terrible experience, to see the need and be so helpless to fill it. But then the Army began to realize that they were losing men who shouldn’t have died. And still they resisted using nurses. I have met doctors I could gladly have killed. Me. A nun,” she went on bitterly. And then to Captain Barkley, “I beg your pardon if you’re a doctor.”
“I’m not. But I’ve seen the conditions you are talking about.”
“Where are you posted now?” I asked. I thought she must feel safe talking about such things to someone else in the field. Or perhaps after the emotional upheaval of the past few days, the death of someone close to her and all the memories that must have brought back, she found it hard not to talk to someone, even strangers, and it was unlikely that we would ever cross paths again.
“In Boulogne. There are very fine hospitals there now. I came to Paris intending to move forward again, when my governess wrote that she was ill. The last stages of cancer. And so I did what I could for her, God rest her soul, and was with her at the end. She was a good, caring woman. She gave me more love than my parents—” She broke off as if fearing she’d said too much. After a moment she changed the subject.
“What brings you to such a village as that one? I saw you earlier, driving up and down as if you were looking for someone.” She gestured with one hand, a very French action. “It didn’t occur to me then that you might be returning to Paris. And then the rain came, and I was rather desperate.”
“We went to the rectory, to speak to the priest there. Father Robert, I think you called him?”
“Yes. A very good man, very kind.” She leaned forward, as if it had suddenly occurred to her why a young couple might wish to find a priest. “Are you married? Oh, I’m so sorry! You can let me out at the railway station. I didn’t mean to— This is your wedding journey.”
I saw Captain Barkley smile in the reflected light of the headlamps. It was very uncomfortable for me to turn sideways to speak to our unexpected companion, and so I faced the front again.
“Actually, Captain Barkley here very kindly volunteered to drive me to Petite-Beauvais. I was looking for a Lieutenant Moreau. A patient I was concerned about.”
I couldn’t see her face. But I sensed the sudden movement in the rear seat, a change in her position.
“I know the family. A casual acquaintance. The house is empty, I think.”
“So I was told.”
After a moment she asked, “Is it usual for an English nurse to look out for a patient in this way?”
“I wasn’t sure how he was managing. It was his feet, you see. He could hardly put one foot before the other. He should have stayed in hospital, but there was a need for beds, there always is. And he was French, not British. We couldn’t just send him on to England while he recovered.”
There was surprise in her voice as she said, “I thought perhaps you were with a French hospital. There are many British women who have worked in them.”
Then, as we left the villages behind and turned down the main road—which seemed to be even worse now in the rain, slick and wet and hardly more than a wide muddy track—she changed the subject again.
“We will have much to do, rebuilding our country, when the war is finished,” she said thoughtfully. “I hope there will be the money to do that. And all the farms. What will become of them? There is so much blood in the soil. I have seen such devastation in Belgium as well. Liège and Bruges and Brussels. They are shocking. Worse even than what has happened in the north of France.”
Belgium had managed somehow—miraculously, with hardly any army and no artillery—to hold the German advance for nine bloody days. A small country that, by its courage and suffering, had become a byword in a war where courage and suffering were daily events. I’d heard the Colonel Sahib and Simon speculate over what would have happened in this war if the Belgians had not been able to stop the advance. France would have had no time to mobilize, to protect the Marne Valley, much less the coast. Paris could very well have fallen, the government retreating to Lyons or even farther south. It was unthinkable.
Captain Barkley, who had been con
centrating on his driving, relaxed a little as we came nearer to Paris and the roads marginally improved. He said, glancing over his shoulder at our passenger, “Where does the Moreau family stay when they’re in Paris. Do you know?”
“I have no idea,” she said. “No doubt there is a residence here. Petite-Beauvais is their seat. The family has lived there for many generations. They are not rich, you understand. But they have many interests, and these have made a comfortable life for them.”
I wished now that I’d taken a moment despite the downpour to look at the manor house. But it was empty, and at the time there had seemed to be no point in going there.
“There’s a family connection with Alsace, I’m told?”
“A cadet branch of the family lived in Nancy and Strasbourg. They handled many of the family interests there. Sadly they were not able to leave before the German invasion in the War of 1870. It was thought from the start that we would surely win.”
That war, which we called the Franco-Prussian War, had also unified Germany. And made Germany strong enough to use events in Sarajevo to launch its attack on Belgium and France.
Sister Marie-Luc was saying, “They were reduced to poverty when the Germans came. Their business was confiscated because they’d fought against the Germans. They were forced to live outside the city in a small dowager house. My governess refused to call it poverty. Reduced circumstances, she always said.”
“Tell me about Paul Moreau. Do you know him?”
“Not personally, no. But I have seen him riding through the village, attending services at St. Denis. He joined the French Army in the summer of 1914. My old governess told me that he was at Verdun. He saw the Trench of Bayonets.”
Verdun was for the French comparable to our Battle of the Somme in 1916, the bloodiest of fighting, and afterward the rallying cry of the French Army. The trench was a ravine where a company of French infantry had been cut off and killed, their bodies buried by a shift in the earth, save for the bayonets that marked where they still stood. It had had a profound effect on the Army and the country.
“I’ve met another member of the family, I think. Philippe Moreau. He had some connection with the branch of the family in Alsace?”