Somewhere in France

by Jennifer Robson

  “You’re such a dear. I’ll get up now. I need to scrape down Henrietta’s spark plugs.”

  “See you at dinner.”

  Lilly wolfed down her porridge and tea, made a feeble attempt to arrange her hair, and dressed for the day, a simple matter of putting on her coat and boots. Then she set off for the garage, which sat just next to the ruins of its predecessor.

  She’d hoped the side door would be open, but it was locked up tight. She’d have to track down Private Gillespie and borrow his key. At this time of day, he’d either be on the road or in the reception marquee. She ran over to it and poked her nose inside its entrance, ready to retreat if Robbie were there. Fortunately, one of the other surgeons was doing triage this morning.

  Private Gillespie was on the far side of the tent, talking earnestly with Nurse Taylor. Lilly began to move toward him, tiptoeing between the rows of stretchers so as not to bother any of the men who were waiting for treatment.

  “Lady Elizabeth! Is that you?”

  One of the wounded men, no more than three yards away, was reaching out to her. She scrambled to his side, her finger at her lips, but it was too late.

  “Lady Elizabeth! Do you remember me? Daniel Jenkins. I was second footman at his lordship’s house in London.”

  She didn’t have to look up to know that every face in the marquee was turned toward them. “Of course I remember you. But would you mind calling me Miss Ashford? I don’t use my . . . that other name anymore.”

  “Begging your pardon, Miss, ah, Miss Ashford. I knew you was in France, but I’d of never thought to see you here.”

  It wasn’t his fault; how could he have known? But her goose was well and truly cooked, from the sound of the whispers that percolated around the perimeter of the tent. She dared to look up: yes, it was bad. Private Gillespie had heard; so, too, had Nurse Taylor. And Nurse Bell, Captain Harrison, Captain Mitchell. And, oh bother, Bridget and Annie, who had just walked in.

  She dragged her attention back to the young man lying on the stretcher. “I’m sorry to see you’ve been wounded, Private Jenkins. How are you feeling?”

  “Got pipped in the leg, but the doctor said it’s not bad. I’ll need an operation to get the bullet out. A few weeks on the mend and I’ll be as good as new.”

  “That’s wonderful news. Shall I come and visit you in the ward tent later?”

  “Only if it’s not too much trouble, La—I mean, Miss Ashford. And God bless you, miss. You was always so kind to me and everyone else belowstairs.”

  Lilly gave him one last smile, patted his hand reassuringly, and stood up. Bridget and Annie were gone; she would have to speak with them later.

  But the doctors and nurses, and of course Private Gillespie, still stared at her. There was nothing for it but to look each and every one of them in the eye and smile confidently.

  Lilly approached Private Gillespie. “May I have the key to your garage? I need to do some maintenance work on my ambulance.”

  “Of course, ah . . .”

  “Miss Ashford, please. I no longer use the other name. A relic of my life before I came to France.”

  Lilly took the key he offered her, wishing she could run, feeling her face flushing red with the shame and chagrin of it all, but there was only the one exit from the marquee. To reach it she had to shuffle back along the rows of wounded men, her heavy boots catching again and again on their stretchers or webbing or out-flung limbs.

  At last she was free. She stumbled to the garage, her arms clutched tight around her middle, and unlocked the door with trembling hands. Then, alone as never before, she hung her head and covered her face with her hands. And she wept.

  Chapter 37

  Lilly was rummaging in her pockets for a handkerchief when the door to the garage opened and a face peeped around the threshold. It was Constance.

  “What shall I call you? Milady? Although you must admit it sounds awfully old-fashioned.”

  At that, Lilly burst into tears again. Constance rushed over and enveloped her in a soothing hug, encouraged her to sit down on the bench against the wall, offered up her own handkerchief, and waited for Lilly to regain some measure of composure.

  Only then did Lilly remember that her friend was supposed to be resting in bed. “What are you doing here?”

  “Matron gave me permission, so don’t fuss. When I woke up this morning, the fever was gone. She said I might get back to work, as long as I stay in camp. No driving. And my hands are ever so much better.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “I was just getting out of bed when Bridget and Annie came looking for me. They told me what happened.”

  “I’m so sorry, Constance. I meant to tell you; I almost did, so many times. But I was worried you would think differently of me. It’s just a courtesy title, you know. It has nothing to do with me.”

  Constance reached out and enfolded Lilly in a brief, fierce hug. “It must have been so hard for you. Not being able to talk to any of us about your family, and all of that.”

  “After the first week or so, I mostly forgot about it. But now . . . now it’s spoiled everything.”

  Constance adopted her sternest expression, the one she used with soldiers who dared to use off-color language in front of her or who were insufficiently courteous to any of the WAACs. “Nonsense. What has it spoiled? You’re my friend, Lilly, and nothing can change that. Do you hear me?”

  Lilly nodded, not daring to interrupt.

  Constance frowned. “Is Lilly Ashford your real name?”

  “It is, after a fashion. My real name is Elizabeth Adelaide Sophia Georgiana Neville-Ashford.”

  “Goodness me. I can see why you prefer the simpler version.”

  “My parents are very grand. Hence the endless string of names.”

  “Just who are they, Lilly?”

  “The Earl and Countess of Cumberland.”

  “Your father is an earl?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “I’d thought a baronet, or something of the sort. An earl, you say. Heavens. What about your brother?”

  “Edward? He’s Viscount Ashford. Captain Ashford for the duration.”

  “Do his friends know?”

  “Yes. He would never have been able to hide it. Most of the men who worked on my parents’ estate in Cumbria belong to his battalion. But I . . .”

  “Yes?” Constance prompted.

  “I worried you would think I was just another one of those irritating Lady Bountiful types. Playing at doing her bit and secretly looking down her nose at everyone. So that’s why I didn’t tell.”

  “Well, the cat is well and truly out of the bag now. Everyone in camp will know by dinnertime.”

  “Do you think people will treat me differently?”

  “Perhaps at first,” her friend admitted. “But when they see you haven’t changed, I’m certain they’ll come around.” She patted Lilly’s hand, wincing a little, and stood up decisively. “Now tell me: how shall we spend the rest of this glorious morning?”

  “I was going to scrape down Henrietta’s spark plugs. But you mustn’t help; you’ll dirty your bandages.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Shall I keep you company instead? I can fetch the tea and stoke the stove.” And then, with a grin, “But only if your ladyship is agreeable.”

  LILLY MADE A full confession to Bridget and Annie at dinner, and they accepted the news with good humor.

  “It does explain a lot, when you think on it,” Annie commented. “You being so prim and proper, like.”

  “And that hamper you got from your brother. The things in it were right dear, they were. Must’ve cost him a pretty penny,” said Bridget.

  “I never meant to—”

  “I know it. Annie too. I’m sorry we were so hard on you when we was all of us in Kent. You’re just trying to do your bit, same as the rest of us.”

  Further discussion had to wait for that evening, when they were all tucked in bed, hot bricks at their fee
t, the tent buffeted by wave after wave of lashing sleet.

  “What’s it like, then, being a lady?”

  Where to begin? “Oh, Bridget, it’s wonderful. Simply wonderful. I know that now. Although I’m not sure you’ll believe me when I tell you what it was like.”

  “Go on, then.”

  “I lived in a palace. I’m not exaggerating; I’ve been to most of the king and queen’s homes and my parents’ houses are every bit as grand.”

  Wondering sighs echoed around the tent.

  “I was surrounded by beautiful things, ate delicious food, wore the most divine clothes. Was waited on hand and foot by people whose only thought was the comfort of my family. And I’m ashamed to admit that didn’t I do a single day’s work until I was past twenty years old.”

  Annie was the first to respond. “Where did you live?”

  “In Belgravia. My family has a house on Belgrave Square. And of course there’s our country estate in Cumbria. I much prefer it to London.”

  “Fancy having two houses,” Bridget said.

  Lilly hesitated before answering. But she was done with telling half-truths to her friends.

  “They, ah . . . they have more than two. There’s a hunting and fishing lodge in Scotland, a town house in Bath, another in Brighton. But my parents’ favorite homes are Ashford House and Cumbermere Hall.”

  “What’re they like inside?” Constance asked.

  “They’re big, to begin with. I can’t remember exactly how many rooms. I’m not sure anyone has ever counted. Let me try and add them up. There are the drawing rooms, three big ones. The dining room, breakfast room, library, ten principal bedrooms. I’m not counting the bathrooms. There’s a ballroom that takes up most of one floor. And of course the kitchens and all the rooms belowstairs. And the servants’ bedrooms in the attics. So I would say . . . thirty or forty rooms? Perhaps more?”

  “And the London house?” Constance asked.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. That is the London house. Cumbermere Hall is much bigger. I’m sure there are well over a hundred rooms, perhaps as many as a hundred and fifty.”

  “All that for one family,” Ethel whispered.

  “I know. It’s rather shameful, isn’t it, in this day and age? Of course my parents would never notice such a thing.”

  “What happened, Lilly? You never speak of them.” How like Constance to move to the heart of things so quickly.

  “It was two and a half, nearly three years ago. I wanted to work, do my bit for the war effort. But my mother opposed it. She even stole my letters. So I left.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “I went to stay with my friend Charlotte, and then I found a job at the LGOC. First as a painter and then as a clippie. It was difficult at first. I’d never worked before, and I’d so little money—”

  A snort came from Bridget’s corner of the tent. “A lady like you? No money?”

  “I’d hardly a shilling to my name. My father paid for everything. Even now, all I have are my wages.”

  “So your parents wouldn’t let you work?” asked Rose.

  “They wouldn’t let me go to school either. My mother said my only duty was to marry a suitable man and devote my life to him and our children.”

  “Were you a debutante, Lilly? All dressed in white, with those feathers in your hair?”

  “I’m afraid I was.”

  “Did you dance with the Prince of Wales?”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint, but no.” Lilly laughed. “One rarely sees him at Court functions. They’re not his sort of thing at all.

  “No,” she went on, “I hardly danced with anyone. Didn’t attract so much as a whiff of interest from any of the young men my mother thought suitable.”

  A diplomatic silence followed, broken by another question from Annie. “Other than balls and such, what did you do?”

  “I can hardly remember. It seems a lifetime ago. Let’s see . . . I helped Mama with the estate, visited our tenants, that sort of thing. I spent a lot of time on my own, just reading. When Mama went to Europe, to the spas in Germany, I would go with her.”

  “Why did you become a WAAC?” Constance asked.

  “I’d wanted to do something like this for ages. I had even learned how to drive in the hope that one of the services would take me on. I applied to the VAD and the FANY, but they turned me down. So when I heard about the WAAC, I applied straightaway. Captain Fraser wrote one of my references.”

  “You mean the Captain Fraser who works here in camp?” gasped Ethel.

  “Yes, him. He’s my brother’s best friend. He convinced me I could do it. But now . . .”

  “What happened with him, Lilly?” Of course Constance and the others must have wondered.

  “Do you remember the day the camp was shelled, in October? He was so upset. So angry,” she said, wiping away the tears that had begun to course down her cheeks. “He told me I had to ask for a transfer. Said that I distracted him, made it impossible for him to do his work.”

  “Oh, Lilly.” Her friends sighed one after the other.

  “I told him I wouldn’t go. I couldn’t bear the idea of going somewhere out of harm’s way, miles and miles behind the lines. What good would I be able to do? I’m needed here. I’m useful here.”

  “So what did he say?” Bridget prompted.

  “He said we were finished; our friendship was finished. And he meant it. He hasn’t said a word to me since.”

  “You’re better off without him, duckie.”

  Lilly shook her head. “No, Annie, I’m not. That’s why it’s so hard. I miss him so much. I’ve such lovely memories of his visiting us in Cumbria, back when I was still a girl. He was so different. I don’t think he could have been more than twenty, but he was brave enough to speak his mind, even to my mother.”

  “Why should he be afraid of your mother?” Constance asked.

  “She’s very grand. More so than the actual queen, you know. Queen Mary is very shy, not regal at all. But Robbie wasn’t the slightest bit intimidated by Mama. And she hated him for it.”

  “Do you hate him now?”

  “I don’t know, Constance. I . . . I don’t know how I feel. I don’t want to know, if that makes any sense. Would you mind if we talked about something else? Otherwise I’ll never be able to sleep.”

  “Yes, let’s talk about Lilly and the Prince of Wales!”

  “Oh, Annie,” Lilly groaned. “I already told you that I never danced with him.”

  “But you have met him, haven’t you?”

  “Oh, yes. We used to play together when we were little. My parents are great friends with the king and queen. Shall I tell you about our visits to Sandringham and Balmoral?”

  It took a long time to sate her friends’ curiosity, but Lilly didn’t mind. She was happy to answer all of their questions, and recounting her childhood memories made for a pleasant evening.

  If only she could share this with Robbie. By now he, too, would have heard that her secret was out. Would he be proud of her? Pleased that she had weathered the ordeal?

  She would never know.

  Chapter 38

  16 Feb. 1918

  Dear Robert,

  I’m beginning to worry that something has happened to you, old friend—not a word, not so much as a wretched postcard, in more than a month. I know my battalion has been keeping your lot busy, but you’ve never been this silent before.

  Do you feel in need of a break from all of this? I’ve got some leave coming up and I’m weary of Boulogne and Saint-Omer. What say you to Paris? For three days, beginning March 10?

  I did ask Lilly to join us, but apparently she used up all her leave when she and I went to Saint-Omer after Christmas and won’t be able to get away again until May at the earliest. So it would just be the two of us.

  As for how I’ve been, assume the same as ever. Mud, bugs, rats, rain. But the men in my platoon are cheery enough. Probably because the German snipers here are shiftless, or duff shots, or perh
aps both, and haven’t killed any of us today, or the day before. That’s what passes for luck hereabouts.

  Edward

  It was a tempting offer. No doubt about that. Yet the subject of Lilly would surely come up if he were to spend more than a few minutes in Edward’s company. His friend would want to know how his sister was getting on, if she were really able to manage the work, how she was being treated. He might even ask Robbie if she was happy.

  What kind of answer could he provide to that question?

  If only he could go back in time, to the night of the bombardment, and change what he had said. Not the substance of his words, for he still wished she were far from here. Yet he could have been, ought to have been, less brutal about it.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about the way she had looked at him, just before he had turned his back on her and walked away. She hadn’t believed him at first. Had thought, probably, that she’d misheard. Misunderstood him in some way. And then, once the truth of his intentions had fallen upon her, she had understood, and the hope in her eyes had faded to nothing.

  Night after night he dreamed of her at that moment. Sitting as proudly as a queen on her narrow army cot, her unbound hair falling about her shoulders, her work-worn fingers plucking anxiously at the rough wool of the blankets that covered her. She had never been more beautiful.

  At first the dream had behaved. He stated his wishes, she acquiesced, and they planned their future together, though that part of the dream was never very clear. Then she kissed him good-bye at the railhead and moved to safety somewhere far behind the lines.

  The dream had grown darker. She agreed to the transfer, but only because she wanted to get away from him. Or because she had fallen in love with someone else and wanted to be with him instead.

  Worst of all was the dream that had been tormenting him for the past fortnight. In it, they quarreled but never came to an agreement. Her nightdress slipped off one shoulder. He reached out, helplessly, and let his fingers trail along her soft, flawless skin. Felt his heart racing out of his chest and his hands begin to shake, his steady surgeon’s hands that never shook, no matter how tired or cold he was.