Somewhere in France

by Jennifer Robson

  They found a window seat at the far end of the room, wide enough for them to sit at an acceptably remote distance from each other.

  “I gather there is no fresh news from Vienna,” she began.

  “No, not tonight. What do you think will happen next?”

  She looked surprised, as if no one had yet thought to ask her opinion. “I’m not sure. Edward thinks war is inevitable.”

  “It’s only inevitable if enough people believe it to be so.”

  “Yes, of course. I only wish . . . it’s just that everyone seems so set on it. As if it will somehow be the solution to our differences with Germany. As if it’s something that will make us better.”

  “Only men who’ve never been to war can think it noble. And as it’s been more than a decade since South Africa—”

  “I know. But it’s not only the young men who think so.”

  “You mean Kipling and the like.”

  “They speak of it as something beautiful, but how can it be beautiful? Has any war ever been fought where no one was killed?”

  “You don’t think it noble to die on the battlefield?”

  “Nobler to die in one’s bed after a long and happy life.”

  “I agree with you. Likely I’m the only person here who does.”

  “What will you do, if it comes to war?”

  “I’ll join the medical corps. What else could I do? I’d make a terrible soldier. What will you do?”

  Once again, his question appeared to take her by surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Will you do any sort of war work? Join a voluntary aid detachment, that sort of thing?”

  “I hadn’t . . . I mean, I’ve never considered it. I doubt I could do anything to help.”

  “Because you’re a woman? Rubbish. This is the twentieth century. Women can achieve anything they set their minds to do. Once we’re at war and the men are off fighting, women will be needed here at home to do all sorts of important things.”

  “I should love to help, really I would, but—”

  “Elizabeth! There you are!”

  Lilly’s mother was advancing upon them, her voice glacial with irritation. “I have spent an entire quarter of an hour searching for you, Elizabeth.”

  Robbie stood, offering his hand to Lilly as she rose, then turned to Lady Cumberland. “Good evening, ma’am.” Seven years had not served to improve the countess’s temperament or character, he thought dispiritedly. If anything, she was even worse than he’d remembered.

  “Mr. Fraser,” she greeted him. “How good of you to join us this evening. Pray forgive me for the interruption,” she continued, “but I cannot allow Elizabeth to waste her evening in idle chitchat.” Lady Cumberland turned to the young man at her side. “Mr. Fitzallen-Carr, I believe you’ve been searching for a partner for the next dance. Be so kind as to escort my daughter into the ballroom.”

  There was nothing to be done. The odious Bertram took Lilly’s hand and propelled her across the room, though it was clear she didn’t want to go; was, in fact, resisting with every step. And all Robbie could do was stand there, impotently, and watch as she was led away.

  AS SHE AND Bertram began to waltz, Lilly strained to catch a glimpse of Robbie and her mother. It was difficult to see them at this distance, but they seemed to be speaking. Or were they? Mama was not even looking at Robbie, and actually seemed to have turned away from him. He was looking straight ahead, his eyes unseeing, his expression set and grim. Lilly craned her neck, straining to see more, but only succeeded in stumbling badly.

  It took several minutes for her to extricate the heel of her shoe from the train of her gown, then further precious seconds to successfully plead exhaustion and make her escape. She tried not to run as she entered the blue drawing room, only to find that her mother and Robbie were nowhere in sight.

  Telling herself not to panic, she moved from one reception room to the next, scanning the crowd for a glimpse of his golden hair, hoping against hope to find him in the green drawing room, or perhaps the hall, or the far side of the ballroom, or the balcony. But he was gone.

  Disappointment, acute and bitter, rose in her throat. Was it something she had said, or done? Why on earth had he left without saying good-bye? Longing, now, for the evening to be at an end, she returned to the ballroom, intent on making her way upstairs. She’d only taken a few steps when she heard her name being called. She turned, her heart pounding, and saw that it was Edward.

  “There you are, Lilly. Champagne?”

  “Yes, please.” She took the glass he offered and downed its contents in a few gulps.

  “Steady on. I don’t want to end my evening by carrying you upstairs. Is anything the matter?”

  “I’m fine,” she reassured him. “Just thirsty. I was wondering . . . have you seen Robbie?”

  “Oh, right. I was supposed to tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “He was very sorry, but he had to leave.”

  “Did he say what it was?”

  “No, just that he had to go, wished me and Helena all the best, would see me soon, et cetera. Why do you ask?”

  Lilly inspected her champagne coupe, wishing intensely that it weren’t empty. “No reason, really. It’s only that . . . did he seem at all upset?”

  “No, not at all. Seemed perfectly fine.” Edward looked at her closely, his interest piqued. “Is anything the matter?”

  “I can’t help worrying . . .”

  “About what?”

  “Mama saw us sitting together, and of course she interrupted. She had that awful Bertram Fitzallan-Carr with her—”

  “Louis’s cousin? The one with practically no chin?”

  “Yes, him. She sent me off to dance with him. And I’m almost certain I saw her speaking to Robbie after we left.”

  “They could hardly stand next to one another and not exchange a word.”

  “Yes, I know. But he had the oddest expression on his face. It was almost as if she’d struck him a blow.”

  “And now you’re concerned that Mama might have said something unfortunate?”

  “Yes, and that ruins everything, because we were only having a friendly chat with one another.”

  “I shouldn’t worry about it. Most likely he looked upset because of something entirely unrelated. Perhaps he remembered something he was supposed to do, or some patient that needed his care?” He squeezed Lilly’s hand reassuringly. “You’ll soon see him again. There’s the wedding, to begin with, and after that I’m sure we can contrive a meeting or two.”

  “But once we’re at war, and you’re all gone to Europe—”

  “For a matter of months, no more. We’ll all be home and wreathed in glory by Christmas at the latest.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Of course I am. So stop fretting and go dance with someone.”

  “I don’t know, Edward. I’m feeling very tired. Would you mind if I said good night?”

  “Not at all. I’ll cover for you with Mama if she comes looking.”

  “You are a dear.”

  “I try, Lilly. I do try.”

  HE’D FOUND EDWARD and made his excuses; had retrieved his coat and hat and made his way into the street. Had walked the half mile to Victoria Station, produced tuppence for an Underground ticket, and boarded the first District line train heading east. He would have preferred to take a taxi home, but finding a cabbie who could be persuaded to make the trip into the East End, he knew from experience, was next to impossible.

  The stations blurred by, a tangle of fizzing electric lights, garish advertisements, and the impassive faces of strangers.

  St. James’ Park. Westminster. Charing Cross.

  Lady Cumberland had been polite enough, but he’d seen the spark of triumph in her eyes. Her daughter’s engagement would be announced soon, once the festivities for Edward and Helena were concluded. The young man, Quentin Something-Something, was the son of dear friends. Practically family already. So v
ery suitable for Elizabeth.

  Temple. Blackfriars.

  He ought to have expected it. Lilly was beautiful, charming, and sociable, the sort of woman any man in possession of his senses would wish to have at his side. Perhaps she had simply forgotten to mention her fiancé. Perhaps he’d only imagined the glimmer of discontent hiding behind her smile.

  Mansion House. Cannon Street.

  He’d stammered his congratulations. Known he couldn’t bear to stay for another minute.

  Monument. Mark Lane.

  Almost home now.

  Aldgate East. St. Mary’s.

  He’d look in on his patients. Write up that stack of charts on his desk. Try to forget. Put from his mind the memory of Lilly’s beauty, the sound of her voice, the warmth of her lovely eyes.

  Whitechapel.

  At last. He was back where he belonged.

  Chapter 3

  5 October 1914

  My dear Lilly,

  Yes, this letter still finds me in the delightful surroundings of Barrow-in-Furness. What could be more charming than a wet, cold, and very smelly encampment full of men who are bored senseless of drills, drills, and yet more drills? Every last one of us is champing at the bit to be done with this. We know it won’t be long—it can’t be long, given the state of affairs in France and Belgium. But still we wait for our orders to pack up and take ship for France, and an endless wait it is.

  I’ve been promoted up to captain—no idea why, really. Likely they thought the lieutenants were a bit thick on the ground and needed thinning out. I only hope it doesn’t mean they’re fitting me up for a desk job behind the lines. Of course I wouldn’t put it past Mama to try to ensure something of the sort, but I’ll fight it to my dying breath. My place belongs alongside my men and she ought to know it.

  Thank you, my darling girl, for the parcel of books and magazines and the seedcake from Cook. I have the scarf you made tucked around my neck as I write. I know you said you aren’t a champion knitter, but I think it’s perfect, dropped stitches and all.

  If you are speaking to Helena, please apologize that I haven’t yet responded to her letters. Though bored, I am nonetheless very busy and haven’t as much time for correspondence as I would like.

  Almost forgot—you asked after Robbie. Lucky man is in France already, working at a hospital in Versailles. (Not the palace proper!) No doubt he’d be glad to hear from you. Capt. Robert Fraser, RAMC, No. 4 General Hospital, 1 boulevard de la Reine, Versailles, France.

  I’ll sign off now—will let you know straightaway when we get our marching orders.

  Love to all at home,

  Edward

  It was difficult to believe that little more than two months had passed since the declaration of war. When Lilly’s father had announced the news to the family, at breakfast that August morning, her instinctive reaction had been one of horror. She didn’t know much about war; had no memory of it, for she’d been a little girl at the time of the hostilities in South Africa. But she was certain its outbreak should not be an occasion for rejoicing, despite her parents’ delighted reaction to the news.

  It was a relief, to be sure, after all the months of waiting and wondering. And it was hard not to be pulled along by the joy that greeted the war’s arrival. Cheering crowds and marching bands, and even poets proclaimed it glorious, so who was she to doubt?

  Before the week was out, Edward had joined up. Deaf to their parents’ protests that he might safely wait out the war, he became a lieutenant in the Cumberland battalion of the Border Regiment and was posted forthwith to Barrow for his training. Mama had taken to her bed for an entire two days after his farewell.

  Lilly had been fearful, too, but had done her best to hide it when Edward had said good-bye. He, and all his friends, seemed to regard the war as a great lark. To them it was a blessed chance to do, to act, to be forged by the crucible of war into better men. An improbable notion, Lilly was sure, though she could understand its appeal. What had any of them actually done with their lives thus far, despite the riches and privileges heaped upon them?

  She wasn’t surprised to learn that Robbie had joined up and was putting his considerable talents to use. If there were one man she knew who had made something of his life, it was Robbie. And she wasn’t alarmed to learn that he was in France, for he wouldn’t be fighting; would, instead, be working behind the lines in a hospital, as safe as any man might be in a country that was at war.

  It would be imprudent to write to Robbie. Her parents would be appalled by her audacity, should they ever find out. Busy as he must surely be with his work at the hospital, he might be none too pleased to receive a letter from a near stranger.

  And there was the sticky question of what she would actually say in a letter. What did she have to impart that would be of interest to him? Descriptions of bandage-rolling parties and the sudden scarcity of petrol hardly made for a fascinating correspondence.

  She hardly knew him. He was Edward’s friend, not hers. He’d thought so little of her, the night of the ball, that he’d left without saying good-bye.

  But he’d been so kind. On that Easter weekend so long ago, he had treated her not only as an intelligent person but also, astonishingly, as an equal. His words, his confidence in her abilities, had inspired her.

  With the help and encouragement of Miss Brown, the governess Edward had found for her, she’d applied herself to her studies. She’d read as widely as her parents’ limited library and her even more limited pocket money had allowed. When her father had objected to her unseemly interest in his daily newspapers, she’d convinced Mr. Maxwell to have them rescued before they were put in the rubbish. Cocooned in her room, she had read The Times and the Daily Mail and daydreamed about journeying to the exotic, far-off places described in their pages.

  None of her dreams had come true. She hadn’t traveled the world. She hadn’t gone to university. She had yet to do an honest day’s work and probably never would. If Robbie thought of her at all, it was probably as a failure. She’d been graced with every imaginable material and social advantage, and what had she done with such good fortune? Nothing. Nothing at all.

  And yet . . . he had seemed delighted to see her again. He’d welcomed her questions and her interest in his life. Surely it couldn’t hurt to send a brief letter, one that asked after his health, his work. It wouldn’t take him long to read and it might, just might, offer him some small comfort at the end of a long day.

  31, Belgrave Square

  London SW1

  7 October 1914

  Dear Captain Fraser,

  Just now I received a letter from Edward with your direction in France, and as he suggested you would be happy to receive a letter or two from home, I thought you might be glad to receive this. Of course I am sure you are terribly busy taking care of the wounded and haven’t much time at all to yourself, but all the same I hope you know how very proud we all are of you and your colleagues.

  Life here goes on much the same as always, though the streets are full of men in uniform and the cost of things such as petrol and sugar and meat have increased out of all expectation. Still I suppose it is the price we must pay if our troops are to have the foodstuffs and equipment they require.

  Edward is keen as mustard to be over in France, as I imagine are most men in uniform right now. The papers still seem quite certain that the war will be over soon, but it seems to me that such a prediction is unlikely to come true, though of course I know little of such things. If the war is to end, one of two things must happen: both sides must come to the mutual conclusion that the fighting must stop (this I think impossible given the level of enmity) or one side must conclusively prevail over the other on the battlefield. One hardly needs to be a major general to know that has not yet happened nor is it likely to occur anytime soon.

  I do hope you are well and not too exhausted by your work. Are you in need of anything to read? I only just sent Edward a parcel of books and magazines and should be delighted to do t
he same for you.

  Yours faithfully,

  Lilly

  Chapter 4

  “Captain Fraser?”

  “Yes, Corporal?”

  “You’ve some letters from home, sir. I popped them on top of the other papers on your desk.”

  Another stack of post, God help him. He’d only been here six weeks and the letters from home had been unceasing. All well meaning, all blissfully ignorant of what was really happening in France and Belgium, and he’d had to force himself to reply.

  After a while he’d begun writing essentially the same letter over and over. Thank you for your good wishes. Yes, I am busy, but the hospital in which I work is a fine one and handsomely equipped. No, there is nothing I require by way of personal items or supplies for the hospital. Thank you again for thinking of me, yours faithfully, and so on and so forth.

  He’d known it would be bad when he signed up, having read enough about the commission of recent wars to expect the worst. The problem lay in his expectations and the way in which they’d been flattened by the reality that faced him in the wards each day.

  As a surgeon, he knew how to right what was wrong, repair what was injured, and find a way to create something whole out of something broken, even if the damage at first appeared irreparable. But how could he fight against an enemy that was invisible?

  Some called it gas gangrene. Some called it enteric fever. No matter the name, it was his enemy, and it was killing his patients, one after another, no matter how long and carefully he labored to repair their wounds.

  A day, a week, a fortnight after surgery, often for the most minor of injuries, the fever set in. Then came the infection, feral and relentless, poisoning its victim inch by agonizing inch.

  They’d tried everything to eradicate it, scrubbing the wards from top to bottom every day, burning the uniforms the men arrived in, washing their skin with carbolic solution before surgery; they’d even set up special isolation wards for men who showed signs of fever. All to no avail.