Somewhere in France

by Jennifer Robson

  He pushed her back, roughly, into the cot. Pulled her nightdress above her waist, exposing the milky-white skin of her thighs. He fell on top of her, covered her totally, reveled in her every quiver and sigh.

  He asked her if she wanted more. She nodded, her eyes shining with perverse delight. So he reached down, wrenched open his flies, pushed her legs apart, and—

  And then he woke up, drenched in sweat, trembling like a fever case, with a rock-solid erection that prevented any easy return to sleep. In a way, it was only fitting. If he couldn’t have her in real life, then why should he be able to have her in his dreams?

  She even haunted him in his waking hours. He’d seen her that morning, just outside the marquee tent, as she’d been helping to unload her ambulance. She’d been laughing with her friends, singing scraps of Gilbert and Sullivan as she worked, showing not the slightest evidence of fatigue or unhappiness. She was a little pale, admittedly, but it had been a long winter and the sun hadn’t shone in what felt like weeks.

  They’d walked past each other that morning, at the entrance to the mess tent, and she hadn’t so much as looked at him. Just brushed past as if he were of no more interest or importance to her than a gout of mud she’d scraped off her boot.

  Her friend Constance had noticed, however, and as usual she’d looked daggers at him. They all did, now, all the WAACs. God only knew what Lilly had told them. The truth, most likely, and that was bad enough.

  He read over Edward’s letter one more time, then slipped it into his jacket pocket. Time to return to the mountain of charts that needed completing.

  The ward tent was nearly empty and, apart from the coughs of one solitary gas case, was blissfully quiet. Robbie found himself making progress, the pile diminishing so steadily that he imagined he might finish all of his paperwork tonight. A rare feat indeed.

  The nurses’ voices, when they entered, were impossible to ignore. The two of them knew well enough to whisper, but in the silence of the tent they might as well have been shouting from the front of a stage.

  “Did you see her face just now? When she asked how you were and you answered, ‘Very well, your highness.’ ” That was Nurse Taylor; a nice enough sort, he thought, but impressionable and easily led.

  “I know. White as a sheet. Serves her right for swanning around like she owns the place.” That from Nurse Greenhalgh, a first-class nurse but a third-rate person. He should have known she’d do her best to make Lilly suffer.

  At first, when news of Lilly’s true background had swept through the camp, he’d been pleased for her. He knew it had pained her, keeping secrets from her friends, so had assumed she would be relieved that it was out in the open. The other WAACs, from what he could tell, had supported her, as had most everyone else in camp, from Private Gillespie to Matron to Colonel Lewis himself.

  A few had not. Several nurses, their ringleader Nurse Greenhalgh, had taken it upon themselves to torment Lilly. At first they’d confined themselves to whispered comments as she passed, but when she had made no protest, they’d become bolder, and soon were taunting her directly.

  He knew her friends had done their best to defend her, even going so far as to complain to Miss Jeffries on her behalf. He’d overheard the WAAC official’s conversation with Matron; it had been impossible to ignore, since it had taken place right in front of his desk.

  “Could I trouble you to say something about it? Miss Ashford is one of my best drivers. And she’s such a lovely girl. So hardworking.”

  Matron had been sympathetic. “Of course, Miss Jeffries. I shall speak to them this evening.”

  He didn’t doubt that Matron had chastised them; he knew she was fond of Lilly. Whatever she’d said, though, hadn’t worked. Presumably they assumed that Lilly had complained, and that only made them resent her more.

  Nurse Williamson, whose shift was just finishing, now approached and joined in. “Speaking of her ladyship, she was in here earlier. Reading to the patients again. Pretending she cared.”

  He could bear it no more.

  “The three of you, come here at once,” he demanded, his voice as icy as he could make it. Lady Cumberland would have approved.

  The nurses obeyed immediately, arranging themselves in a neat row in front of his desk. He didn’t bother to look up.

  “You’ve been warned once already about this, have you not?” He could hear them fidgeting uneasily, wondering how to answer.

  “What has Miss Ashford ever done to any of you? Has she injured you in any way? Been rude to you? Has she ever been known to shirk her duty?”

  No answer.

  “So we’re agreed, then, that she’s done nothing to provoke you. Can you provide me with any possible justification for your behavior?”

  No answer.

  At last he looked up. Slowly, deliberately, he looked from one nurse to the next, not troubling to disguise his disgust.

  “I’ll tell you something now, and I ask you to pass it on to the rest of your wretched cabal. If I hear any of you speak another ill word of Miss Ashford, or if I learn that she has been badly treated again, you will live to regret it. Understood?”

  “Yes, Captain Fraser,” they whispered, one after the other.

  “Then get out of my sight.”

  He waited until they’d scurried away, then let his head fall into his hands. When would this ever end? Would he ever know peace again?

  He thought of the letter in his pocket. It was lunacy to even think of accepting Edward’s invitation. Yet he longed to do so, not least of all because he missed his friend.

  It would undoubtedly be a glorious three days. Edward would take a suite of rooms at some exclusive hotel and insist on paying the bill. They would go to expensive restaurants, drink gallons of champagne and cognac, be surrounded by beautiful, flirtatious, available women.

  It would be three days of heaven, at least for most men. But not for him.

  Once, not long ago, he’d had hopes of taking Lilly to Paris. Had daydreamed of the modest hotel where they would stay, on a quiet side street on the Left Bank, and the unpretentious meals they would eat in the neighborhood cafés and brasseries. He’d imagined the lazy walks they would take along the banks of the Seine, or through the Marais.

  As for their nights . . . he refused to think of the nights, not now. Would rather be hauled in front of a firing squad at dawn.

  It was hard not to give in to regret, though he’d never been a man inclined to question or doubt his decisions. Yet could he have acted differently? Could he have come to some kind of accommodation with her, some way of allowing them both to remain at the 51st?

  No. There had been no other way. The insanity of this great and terrible war had dictated it.

  Remember how you felt that night, he told himself. The terror that had gripped him when the dud shell had gone off, the god-awful feeling of helplessness and despair when she’d disappeared from sight, had driven him to the edge of madness.

  If he were to do his duty, if he were to retain any measure of honor, it had to be this way.

  Admit she is lost to you, accept it, and forget.

  Chapter 39

  Once, in another life, Lilly wouldn’t have thought twice about a cup of tea. What was there to think about? Living with her parents, she’d only had to ring a bell for it to appear, minutes later, perfectly steeped, in a little Limoges pot with matching cup and saucer. She’d had it every day, but not once could she recall ever having looked forward to a cup of tea, really anticipated its arrival, the way a child might wait breathlessly for Christmas or summer holidays.

  Here, tea was a lifeline. Sometimes the prospect of a cup of tea was the only thing she had to look forward to in the long hours that separated dawn from dusk. The tea they made on the Primus stove in the garage was never very hot, there was never any milk or sugar, the water they used always tasted faintly of motor oil, and the leaves were used and dried and then used again until they hardly colored the water, but it was tea. And tea meant f
ive minutes of peace.

  The tea for their morning break was still steeping when Bridget appeared with the post. “Letters from home for all of us,” she announced, passing around the envelopes as quickly as her mittened hands allowed.

  The handwriting on the letter she handed Lilly was unfamiliar, but the address was not. Time froze in place as she stared at it, her heart shriveling with dread.

  “What’s wrong, Lilly?” Bridget asked.

  “It’s from home. From my father’s house in London.”

  “That’s lovely. Perhaps your parents have come round,” Constance said.

  “I don’t recognize the handwriting. There must be some mistake.”

  “Go ahead and open it, then,” urged Bridget.

  Lilly tore open the envelope and unfolded the single sheet of paper within.

  31, Belgrave Square

  London SW1

  7 March 1918

  Dear Lady Elizabeth,

  His lordship has asked me to write and let you know that he received a telegram from the War Office earlier today informing him that Lord Ashford has been reported missing and is presumed captured or dead. No further details were included in the telegram other than to say Lord Ashford went missing in the early hours of March 3 whilst conducting a raid of the enemy’s forward defenses.

  I am so very sorry to be the bearer of such tragic news. All of the staff here and at Cumbermere Hall join me in extending their deepest sympathies.

  If his lordship receives further details from the War Office and chooses to share such information with me, I will, of course, let you know directly.

  Sincerely,

  George Maxwell

  Missing. Presumed dead.

  She fell to her knees, grazing them badly on the garage’s rough concrete floor. The letter fluttered out of her grasp and was trampled underfoot as her friends rushed forward to assist her.

  They set her on the bench, found a cool cloth for her forehead, brushed away the dust from her skirts. But no one dared to speak.

  “It’s my brother,” Lilly said at last, realizing they were waiting for an explanation. “He’s gone missing.” Her words hung ominously in the still, close air of the garage.

  “So you know only that he’s missing? That’s all?” Constance clarified. At Lilly’s nod, she took her hand and squeezed it hard. “Then you need to hold on to that. He’s not dead and that’s the important part. You mustn’t allow yourself to think otherwise.”

  How could she not? The sheltered, pampered, idealistic Lilly of 1914 might have believed. Might have dared to hope. But the woman she was now? That woman knew what happened to soldiers who didn’t return from no-man’s-land.

  Yes, there was a chance that he might have been taken prisoner, and she knew she ought to cling to that possibility. But it was far, far more likely that he had been felled by a sniper’s bullet, his body lost in the mud or the murky depths of a shell hole.

  Hellish images crowded her mind’s eye. Edward, hanging on the scalpel-sharp barbed wire that garlanded the barren ground between the lines. Edward, grievously wounded, too weakened to fight off greedily waiting rats and crows. Edward, lost forever to the filth and unspeakable horror of this war.

  And then, as quickly as they had come, the images receded. A peculiar kind of clarity descended, and as it washed over her she realized there was something she needed to do. She stood, startling her friends, and dried her eyes.

  “What are you doing?” asked Constance.

  “Captain Fraser is Edward’s dearest friend,” Lilly explained. “I know we’ve been at odds with one another, but he deserves to know. I should hate it if he learned what has happened to Edward from someone else.”

  Her friends exchanged doubtful glances. “Let me do it,” Constance offered. “It will upset you too much.”

  “Thank you, but no. Edward would expect me to tell Robbie myself. Can you manage without me on this next run?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I won’t be long.”

  Lilly retrieved her letter from the garage floor, tucked it in her jacket pocket, and set off across the courtyard to the ward tent.

  How should she tell him? I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but I’ve had some bad news about Edward. Or should she get straight to the point? Edward is missing in action and I thought you should know.

  Inside the ward tent, peace and order prevailed. Matron was at her desk, but the surgeons’ desk was empty. Perhaps Robbie was in surgery.

  Lilly approached, waiting to speak until Matron looked up from her paperwork.

  “Good morning, Miss Ashford.”

  “Good morning, Matron. I hope I’m not interrupting you.”

  “Not at all, my dear. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “I’m looking for Captain Fraser. That is . . . I’ve had some bad news from home, and I wanted to tell him. Captain Fraser is, ah, a family friend.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear you’ve had bad news, Miss Ashford. But I’m afraid it will have to wait a day or two. Captain Fraser is on leave.”

  The veil of clarity that had descended on Lilly began to evaporate. “Ah,” she said.

  “He’s gone to Paris,” Matron added. “I gather he was quite looking forward to it. Apparently he was intending to stay with an old school friend. At the Ritz, if you can believe it.”

  “I see,” Lilly said, her voice cracking a little.

  It was Edward’s Paris trip. The one he had invited her on, and when she couldn’t go, he must have instead asked Robbie. “When did Captain Fraser leave?” she asked.

  “I believe it was first thing this morning. He’ll be back on the twelfth, Miss Ashford.”

  “Yes, ah . . . thank you, ma’am.”

  “Would you like to sit down for a moment? I could have one of the nurses bring you a cup of tea. May I ask if the news from home was very grave?”

  “It was. My brother has gone missing.”

  Matron came round the desk, and for a moment Lilly wondered if the older woman was going to embrace her. But she only took Lilly’s hands in hers and held them tightly. “I am most sincerely sorry to hear it, Miss Ashford. Now, won’t you sit? Just until you have recovered from your shock a little?”

  “Thank you, ma’am, but no. I really must get back to work. But thank you for letting me know that Captain Fraser is away.”

  LILLY STOOD OUTSIDE Miss Jeffries’s tent, debating the merits of even making her request. She checked her watch again: it was a quarter past ten. The train to Saint-Omer would leave from the railhead in less than an hour. If she were to go to Paris, and tell Robbie what had happened, let him know that Edward would not be joining him, then she had to leave in twenty minutes.

  She knocked on the support beam that flanked the entrance to the tent.

  “Come in!” rang out a cheery voice from inside. “Good morning, Miss Ashford. Come in, come in. No need to be shy.”

  “Good morning, Miss Jeffries. I . . .”

  “Is anything the matter? I must say, Miss Ashford, you don’t look yourself at all.”

  “I’ve had some news from home.” And then, although she had not been given permission to sit, Lilly dropped into a nearby chair. It was either that or collapse in a heap on the floor.

  “Let me get you a cup of tea, Miss Ashford. And please tell me everything.”

  “Thank you, Miss Jeffries. It’s my brother. He’s been declared missing in action. I just received a letter from home.”

  “Oh, my dear. I am sorry to hear that.”

  “I was hoping that I might have a few days, ah, to—”

  “Say no more. How long do you need?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Wasn’t Miss Jeffries going to ask her about what she planned to do? How and where she intended to spend her leave?

  “How long do you need? Are forty-eight hours enough? It’s not long enough to go home, I’m afraid, but longer leaves need to be approved by the deputy administrator in Boulogne. It will give you a
chance to clear your head, however.”

  “Two days is fine,” Lilly answered. “Thank you.”

  “It’s the least I can do. You’ve been such an asset to the WAAC these past months.”

  Forty-eight hours. Long enough to make the journey to Paris, tell Robbie the news, and return home. She would have to stay overnight, but it should be easy enough to find a pension near the Gare du Nord.

  She wouldn’t be staying at the Ritz, for its cheapest rooms were far more than she could afford. Robbie wouldn’t want her there, besides.

  It occurred to her that he might relent in his disavowal of her once she had told him what had happened to Edward. Might even deign to speak with her for more than a few minutes.

  What of it? It would change nothing, and the war of attrition between them would continue. She might hope for a truce, but an armistice?

  Not bloody likely.

  Chapter 40

  She was kneeling beside her storage locker, trying to decide what to pack, when they tracked her down.

  Constance sat on Lilly’s cot, her face pale with worry. “Going home won’t help your brother. At least wait until you have more news.”

  “I’m not going home. I’m going to Paris.”

  “Paris? Why Paris?”

  “He’s there on leave. Captain Fraser. He and my brother had plans to stay there for a few days.”

  “You’re daft! Being absent without leave—”

  “I have permission to go. Miss Jeffries was very nice about it.”

  The expression on her friends’ faces was quite comical. Even the unshockable Annie and Bridget were dumbfounded.

  Annie regarded Lilly with admiration. “She’s letting you go to Paris? To stay with an officer? Bloomin’ ’eck!”

  “We didn’t talk about the specifics of where I’m going. She offered me two days’ leave, and I took it.”

  “You’re taking an awful risk,” Constance persisted. “What if you’re found out? Ever since the newspapers at home started printing those stories about WAACs being sent home in the family way, the officials here have been on high alert. If anyone sees you with him—”