“Yes, Lilly?” Constance was leaning over her now, straining to hear.
“Forgive . . . forgive . . .”
And then, the words dying in her throat, she was swept backward, gently backward, into a tide of ink-dark, tender, blessed unknowing.
Chapter 50
It was a near thing, in the end. He and Matron had been huddled in the ward tent with the few patients who had been left behind; eleven in total, all postoperative. All were stable enough for evacuation, but since there were no more ambulances, they’d nothing to do but wait for the Germans to arrive. At least Lilly was gone, safely away to Saint-Venant, and finally out of danger.
The crunch of tires on the graveled yard outside the ward tent came sooner than he’d expected. He didn’t bother to get up; best to stay where he was and wait for the inevitable. His service pistol was still in his locker; any kind of resistance would be madness, especially with the lives of Matron and the patients at stake.
Robbie had certainly not expected to see Private Gillespie’s face appear at the tent’s entrance. So it was not the Germans, come to bayonet them where they sat, after all.
“What are you doing here?” Matron asked.
“Colonel Lewis let me take one of the Dennis lorries. I thought I might be able to fetch the lot of you. But we haven’t much time. Come on with you, now.”
Robbie needed no further encouragement. While Matron helped the few men who could stand, he and Gillespie ferried stretcher after stretcher to the lorry, which was at least double the size of a typical ambulance. It was a tight squeeze, in the end, but they fit everyone inside, as tightly and uncomfortably as sardines in a tin.
The journey to Saint-Venant took something like forever, for Private Gillespie had to slow the lorry almost to a halt whenever they encountered shell craters, else risk a shattered axle. And the rain hammered down on them so relentlessly that it was impossible to see more than a few feet ahead.
At one point they passed the wreckage of an ambulance, not unlike the reliable little Ford that Lilly drove, but its driver and passengers had vanished. He hoped they’d found shelter from the rain and the bombs.
The 33rd CCS, which had evacuated to Saint-Venant a few weeks before, had set up shop in an old convent. No sooner had Gillespie pulled the lorry to a halt than the wounded men in its rear were being carried inside. Robbie stood in the rain, not sure of what to do next. He really had been so certain that he would be taken prisoner. Perhaps he would see if he could find Lilly, discretion be damned.
“So you made it after all.”
Robbie turned and saw that Colonel Lewis was approaching him.
“Thank you, sir, for sending the lorry. They’d have had us otherwise.”
“Thank Gillespie. He was the one who insisted. Damn near ordered me. Said he could do it, and he was right.”
“Well, I’m grateful all the same. To you and to Private Gillespie.”
“I do have some bad news.”
Robbie was instantly alert. It must be someone he knew; one of his colleagues, perhaps.
“It’s Miss Ashford, I’m afraid. No, don’t say anything. I don’t need to know.”
“What is it? What has happened to her?”
Robbie felt the ground tipping and tilting under his feet. Not now, not now. He had to keep his wits about him. Had to know the truth of it, no matter how unbearable.
“Good God, man, are you all right?”
“Yes, yes. I’m fine. Just tell me what happened.”
“There was a crash. A shell fell directly in her path as she was driving here, not two hours ago. Compound fracture to her left leg, but the artery wasn’t compromised. And a lacerated spleen.”
“So she’s alive?”
“Of course she’s alive. Didn’t I say so already? No?”
“Where is she now? I must see her—”
“She’s still in surgery. Harrison is handling it. He’s set her leg already and is taking out her spleen now. But she’s stable, she’s tolerating the anesthetic well, and she’s been transfused. So you’ve nothing to worry about.”
“I . . .”
“Get some rest, now. I’ll send someone to let you know as soon as she’s awake.”
With that, Colonel Lewis slapped Robbie on the back, shook his hand, and marched away, leaving him alone on the convent’s muddy cobbled courtyard. Get some rest, the OC had said. As if that were possible now.
A hand touched his elbow. “Captain Fraser? It’s me, Constance. You look terrible. Let me get you a cup of tea.”
He allowed her to lead him inside, to a small chapel attached to the main sanctuary, and sat down when she indicated he should.
“I’ll be back in a moment. Don’t even think of getting up,” she warned.
The cup of tea she brought him was hot and black and he wasn’t sure he would be able to drink it. But he forced it down and was relieved when it stayed put.
“Please tell me what happened, Miss Evans,” he said, his voice hardly more than a whisper.
“She’d almost made it. Was less than a mile away. But a shell fell in the road, directly in front of her. When she swerved to avoid it, the ambulance tipped into the ditch at the side of the road. She was pinned beneath it; her leg was pinned. I’m not sure for how long. Perhaps half an hour.”
Constance took a sip of her own tea, and Robbie saw that her hands were trembling. “She regained consciousness for a minute or two. I was at her side. She wanted me to tell you—”
Her voice broke, her shoulders shaking, and Robbie was moved to take her hand in his. “She wanted you to forgive her,” Constance said. “She didn’t say why. Just asked you to forgive her.”
An icy fist of shame and regret tightened itself around Robbie’s heart. She had thought she was dying, and in that moment she had asked him to forgive her for the very things that had made him love her.
It was her courage, her tenacity, her conviction that she must do her duty, no matter the consequences to herself. That was why he loved her.
He fished in his tunic pocket, searching for the little box he had carried with him, day and night, since his return from Paris. Without opening it, he pressed the box into Constance’s hand.
“What do you think of this? Do you think she’ll like it?”
Constance opened it, gasping as she saw the ring inside. He didn’t have to look at it again to know its every detail. Instead of a diamond, the ring’s central stone was a sapphire, a quarter-inch square, the same ink-dark, fathomless blue of the lochs in which he had swum and fished as a boy. A delicate row of seed pearls, set in gold, framed the gem. The gold was an unusual color, rich and coppery, and he’d thought it would look lovely against Lilly’s ivory skin.
“When I was in Paris with Lilly, I had almost a day to myself after she left. I saw this in a jeweler’s window. It seemed perfect for her. Although it’s not very grand, as engagement rings go . . .”
Constance shook her head. “It is perfect for her. She’ll adore it.”
“I’d meant to give it to her straightaway, but the shelling had already begun when I returned. For a month now I’ve been trying to find a time to be alone with her, but we never had a chance.”
“You’ll have a chance very soon. Do you want another cup of tea?”
“I’m fine. Thank you for your help.”
“Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
“Once I’ve seen Lilly. Only then.”
Chapter 51
It seemed a shame to wake up. That was the first thought that crossed Lilly’s mind as she emerged from the most delicious fog of oblivion. Everything was so wonderfully vague, as if the edges of the world had been smudged by a giant eraser, or a veil had been drawn over her eyes.
She let herself float in the agreeable fog for a while, slowly becoming more and more aware of her rather confusing surroundings.
To begin with, she seemed to be in a church. More specifically, she was lying in bed in a church. That was certainly q
uite odd.
She was lying on white linen sheets, she realized. It had been months since she had felt sheets against her skin, apart from that single night at the Ritz, of course.
Perhaps she and Robbie could return there one day. It really had been so lovely. And the bed in her room had been awfully comfortable. But first she probably ought to sort out where she was now.
Could it be that she’d died, and was in heaven? That would explain the ecclesiastical architecture. And possibly also the white sheets. But if this were heaven, why did her side hurt so much? And her leg?
She looked to her right, and saw that another cot had been arranged parallel to hers. The man in it appeared to be sleeping, and there was a large bandage wrapped around his head. If only he were awake; she could ask him where they were.
She turned her head to her left, and saw another man, his back against the wall, his head lolling against his shoulder. He, too, seemed to be asleep.
There was something familiar about this man. He had such pretty golden hair, though it was mussed and needed a good brushing. And his clothes were covered with blood; were simply soaked in the stuff. She decided that, just as soon as he woke up, she would tell him he needed a bath.
She stared at him, comprehension beginning to clear the fog from her mind. It was . . . Robbie. That was his name. He loved her; yes, that was it. He loved her, and she loved him. And she’d been so worried about him, so fearful he would be captured by the Germans, and sent to a prisoner-of-war camp, and she might never see him again—
But what was he doing sitting here? He knew they couldn’t risk being seen together, otherwise she’d be sent home by Miss Jeffries. She had to wake him, now, or they’d surely be seen.
Before she could say anything, or even move, he was at her side, was stroking her hair, and she saw there were tears in his eyes.
“My throat,” she wheezed. “So dry.”
“I know, darling. Let me lift you a little so you can have a sip of water. But just a sip.”
He braced her up, held a mug to her lips, and let her take one small sip, then another. “That’s all for now,” he ordered. “You can have more in a minute or two. How do you feel?”
“Sore,” she mumbled. “Where am I?”
“You’re in the post-op ward in Saint-Venant. Set up, for the moment, in the convent’s sanctuary.”
“There was a crash,” she said, suddenly remembering.
“Yes. All the men in your ambulance are safe, so don’t fret about them. They’re alive because of you. Private Gillespie says that most any other driver would have driven right into the exploding shell. He’s very proud of you, Lilly. As am I.”
“Why is my leg so sore? And my side?”
“Your leg was pinned in the wreck. But it’s still there, so don’t worry about that. It’s in a splint now. Your side hurts because your spleen was lacerated. It had to come out.”
She thought about this a moment. “What’s a spleen?”
He smiled and squeezed her hand. “It’s nothing you can’t live without, I promise.”
“I suppose I shall have to take your word for it.” It occurred to her that he wasn’t meant to be here at all.
“How did you escape? We were all so certain that you’d be captured.”
“Your Private Gillespie came to our rescue. He badgered Colonel Lewis into letting him have one of the lorries. We all got out, every last one of us.”
“I hope you thanked him,” she said.
“I will when I see him next. Now, Lilly, how are you feeling? How is the pain?”
“It’s getting worse, but don’t give me anything for it. Not yet. Not before you tell me what is going to happen.”
“If I could do anything to prevent—”
“They’re sending me home, aren’t they?”
Robbie nodded, his expression filled with regret. “In a day or two, as soon as you can be moved, you’ll be evacuated to one of the base hospitals. Abbéville has been shelled, so it will probably be Boulogne.”
“And back to England after that.”
“I’m afraid so, yes. But I spoke to Miss Jeffries while you were sleeping, and she says they will keep you on, at least until the end of the war. You’ll still have your wages, so you won’t have to go back to your parents.”
“Perhaps I can lodge with Mrs. Collins again, once I’m out of hospital. She might have room.”
“It won’t be for long,” he added. “Only until the war is over and I’m back in London.”
She stared at him, not entirely certain she understood what he was talking about.
“I meant to ask you this weeks ago. Had meant to give you this.”
Robbie held up a small leather box, then, seeing she hadn’t the strength to take it from him, opened it for her. When she saw the ring inside, she began to cry.
“Will you marry me, Lilly?”
She nodded, the tears running unchecked down her face. “Yes,” she whispered.
“I can’t promise you anything grand,” he told her. “I’d like to go back to the London, continue my work there. I haven’t much money, but there’s enough for a house. And I was thinking that you could go to university, if you like. We could hire tutors for you, just to help you get through the entrance exams, and then—”
“But don’t you want children?” she interrupted, her head reeling at the mention of school.
“Of course I do. But you’re only twenty-four. We have plenty of time. Time enough for you to discover what you really want out of life. Just as long as I get to come along with you.”
“Oh, Robbie. I don’t know what to say. Apart from yes.”
“You already said yes.”
“So I did. But we both know it’s not official until you kiss me.”
At that he rose up on his knees, leaned across the cot, and kissed her tenderly. Only when he moved away did she see they were no longer alone.
Constance was standing at the end of the cot, and just behind her Lilly could see Bridget, Annie, Matron, Private Gillespie, Captain Mitchell, and Miss Jeffries; nearly all of the friends she had made over the past months.
They began to applaud and cheer, the sound building and building as people came to see what all the fuss was about, were told about the love story that had taken place at the 51st, and then began to clap as well.
It was mortifying and it was wonderful and it was, suddenly, all too much for her.
“Robbie?” she asked.
“I’ll send them away in a minute. But let them sing your praises for a moment more. You deserve it.”
Then he kissed her again, kissed her until the world and everything in it fell away. And she was alone at last, at long last, with her Robbie.
Epilogue
London
January 1919
Most evenings, Lilly didn’t bother to take the Underground home from work, for it only took an hour to walk from Whitehall, where she was working as a clerk for the Imperial War Graves Commission, to her lodgings in Camden Town. It was safer, too, for influenza still stalked the streets of London, and one of the surest ways to fall ill was to jam oneself into a crowded carriage full of sneezing, coughing strangers.
For six months now, ever since her discharge from hospital, she’d been seconded to the War Graves Commission as a clerk. Her work, in the main, consisted of answering letters from people seeking the graves of their loved ones. Most of the time she was unable to help, for thousands upon thousands of graves in France and Belgium had no marking on their headstone, apart from the devastating explanation KNOWN UNTO GOD.
Just yesterday, however, she’d located the grave of a young captain, lost not far from where Edward had last been seen, and had been able to send directions to his parents. It had been a rare and bittersweet moment of success.
Today had been a long day, occupied by fruitless searches through filing cabinets and the depressing task of advising one family after another that the commission had no news as yet of their loved one�
�s grave, but would certainly advise if and when such information were to be discovered.
She was tired and out of sorts and it was raining, so rather than walk home she had tied a fresh muslin mask over her nose and mouth and had taken the Northern Line home to Camden Town, her thoughts occupied by plans for her and Charlotte’s supper. Sardines on toast? Beans on toast? It was washday, too, so Mrs. Collins might have boiled a pudding in the copper when she was done with the linens. She always shared some with her girls, and something sweet at the end of a long day would be welcome indeed.
Last July, their landlady had been overjoyed to welcome Lilly back, wasting no time in informing all the neighbors that Miss Ashford had gone to France and come home crippled by wounds. Never mind that Lilly’s limp was almost imperceptible; the drama of the story was what counted.
Mrs. Collins may have been an interfering busybody, but she had a good heart and Lilly was fond of her. And she refused to even contemplate the idea of returning to live with her parents, though they had softened toward her of late.
Perhaps it had been the shock of losing Edward. Perhaps it had been the realization that their daughter had almost died in the ambulance crash. Whatever the reason, they had astonished Lilly by appearing at her hospital bedside not long after her return from France. Although visitors had been officially discouraged because of the flu, somehow Mama and Papa, looking rather comical in the butter-muslin masks that everyone was forced to wear, had finagled their way onto the ward where she was recuperating.
It had been an awkward conversation, full of lengthy, fraught silences. And the atmosphere hadn’t improved when Lilly had informed them she and Robbie were to be married upon his return from France.
When she’d been discharged from hospital in July, her parents had invited her to come and live with them. Much to their surprise, she had declined, though she’d attempted to do so as tactfully as possible. She did pay a visit to Ashford House each Wednesday, sharing supper with them in the breakfast room. It was a chore in which she took little pleasure, for the loss of Edward had broken both her parents, leaving them mere shells of the people they had once been.
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