The Woman at the Front
Praise for
The WOMAN at the FRONT
“An adventurous woman ahead of her time. . . . A fascinating historical novel.”
—New York Times bestselling author Natasha Lester
“A uniquely female perspective of World War I. . . . A beautiful, touching, romantic women’s fiction novel that is sure to delight fans of Outlander and Downton Abbey.”
—New York Times bestselling author Lori Nelson Spielman
“An absorbing and immersive portrait of a woman whose courage, determination, and resolve would be exceptional in any age—but forged in the crucible of the Great War, tested again and again by a society riven by change, Dr. Eleanor Atherton is a heroine I will not soon forget. . . . The Woman at the Front is a beautiful book about a terrible war, and the light it shines on the valor of those at the front lines—the medics, the stretcher-bearers, and the wounded themselves—is both welcome and overdue.”
—USA Today bestselling author Jennifer Robson
“A riveting tale of medicine, courage, and grace under fire during the Great War. . . . Compulsively readable!”
—USA Today bestselling author Stephanie Marie Thornton
BERKLEY
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Copyright © 2021 by Lecia Cotton Cornwall
Readers Guide copyright © 2021 by Lecia Cotton Cornwall
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Cornwall, Lecia, author.
Title: The woman at the front / Lecia Cornwall.
Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley, 2021.
Identifiers: LCCN 2021000504 (print) | LCCN 2021000505 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593197929 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593197936 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Women physicians—Fiction. | World War, 1914–1918—France—Fiction. | Self-actualization (Psychology) in women—Fiction. | GSAFD: Historical fiction. | Love stories.
Classification: LCC PR9199.4.C673 W66 2021 (print) | LCC PR9199.4.C673 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021000504
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021000505
First Edition: September 2021
Cover design by Rita Frangie
Cover images: wartime nurse © Magdalena Russocka/Trevillion Images; warplanes © Peter Greenway/Arcangel Images
Book design by Elke Sigal, adapted for ebook by Maggie Hunt
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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To Matthew Greenwell, who died in war on April 9, 1917, and to my grandfather Robert Greenwell, who told me his brother’s story and made me promise never to forget.
Contents
Cover
Praise for The Woman at the Front
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Readers Guide
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
War Office, London
January 20, 1918
Young woman, my advice to you is to go home, sit down, and take up something more useful, such as knitting. If I’d known E. Atherton was female, I would not have taken this appointment at all.”
That was precisely why Eleanor Atherton had used the initial instead of her full first name. A trick, yes, but she’d already written hundreds of letters, made dozens of attempts to see bureaucrats and official representatives in person, and Miss Atherton had been refused every time.
Not this time. Finally, she was sitting before someone who would be forced to listen. The very fact that she was here proved it was not her credentials as a doctor that were lacking. E. Atherton was highly qualified indeed, and had been eagerly invited to this interview.
She regarded the man’s haughty, irritated, uncomfortable expression. She knew that as a rule female doctors weren’t wanted by the military, the War Office, or even the Red Cross, no matter how competent or willing they might be. But the war had dragged on for almost four years, with hundreds of casualties, including doctors. She was certain that if she could just find a way to present herself in person, have the opportunity to speak to someone in a position of authority, then an exception could most certainly be made.
Sir William Foxleigh was the undersecretary to another undersecretary to an assistant director of the War Office. He peered at her over his spectacles with a sharp frown. Her letter of application for overseas medical service sat between them on the polished surface of the mahogany table like a fallen flag. A thick silence followed Sir William’s outburst, and he waited—expected, no doubt—for her to rise from her chair and scurry away, suitably chastened.
Even the c
lock in the corner tsked brisk disapproval, but Eleanor stayed where she was. The oak-paneled office smelled of lemon polish and Sir William’s hair pomade, of paper and leather and tobacco, a thoroughly male preserve. There was a vase of flowers in the corner, a pallid bouquet of winter hothouse roses, but they did little to perfume the air, or even add color to the airless room. But then, there was a war on, and it had been endless and dreadful, and all the color, save for black and khaki and gray, had long since been sucked out of the world.
For a brief moment, pinned under Sir William’s scornful gaze, Eleanor’s starchy determination wilted a little, and a trickle of sweat rolled down her spine beneath her prim navy blue suit. But only for a moment. She was here now, and she’d been trying far too hard for far too long to give in. She’d waited weeks for this appointment, and she simply didn’t have time to be cowed by his rudeness or his annoyance at having to deal with an unexpected and unwelcome female doctor.
“I understand that doctors are badly needed in France. I’ve read of the terrible casualties at Passchendaele and Ypres, and just weeks ago at Cambrai. I’ve seen those men coming home, maimed and bandaged. There has been a general call for qualified doctors.”
Sir William’s chin jerked. “For male doctors, yes, of course, but not women. What would your husband say—”
“I’m not married.”
Sir William scanned her face and figure appraisingly, gauging her age and potential marriageability. “Your father, then—surely he would not want to see you in a war zone, at the front, under fire, dealing with, with . . .” He rolled the air with his hand as he sought the right words. “Well, with unspeakable things.”
Eleanor lifted her chin. “My father is also a doctor. He served in the South African war. He has seen all the unspeakable things war leaves in its wake. I grew up on those stories.”
Sir William looked more closely at the letter before him. “Dr. John Atherton,” he said in surprise. “Why, I know him. We are members of the same gentlemen’s club in York.”
Eleanor allowed herself to smile, hopeful that now a connection had been made, things would improve. Instead, Sir William removed his glasses altogether and frowned harder. “I’ve known Dr. Atherton for many years. He has never mentioned the fact that he has a daughter, or that that daughter is a doctor. He’s spoken of a son, I believe.”
“My twin brother, Edward. He’s currently serving in France, at headquarters.”
“Does your father know you are here, applying for a medical posting in France? Surely he knows that neither the War Office nor the British Red Cross permit women to serve there.”
Eleanor dug her fingernails into her palms. No, her father most definitely had not given her permission to be here. Eleanor felt a twinge of guilt—she’d told her parents she was taking tea with a friend in York today.
“Female nurses are allowed to serve at the front,” she countered. “VADs are encouraged to go to France, and there are female ambulance drivers and clerks, and—”
He held up his hand. “They are not doctors. Doctors have specific duties, duties that no woman could undertake. War is not a society picnic or a holiday jaunt, Miss Atherton. Soldiers are rough and crude, mannerless at times. It is to be expected in war.” He shifted, his lined face pinkening. “Men have . . . needs. Battle brings out certain . . . animal passions. A medical officer is required to monitor the . . . the most unsavory of ailments. No lady would wish to be exposed to such things.” He looked at her pointedly, and she held his gaze boldly, unfazed. “Medical officers must oversee sanitation and hygiene, and they go into the frontline trenches to do so, working under fire, where the danger is highest. A great number of good doctors have been killed that way. We do not allow women of any stripe there. And the medical aid posts and Casualty Clearing Stations take in wounded straight from the battlefield, horribly injured, dirty, in pain. It is not the clean, sanitary, clinical environment you no doubt saw at medical school . . .” He referred to her letter again. “At the University of Edinburgh.” He read further, underlining her details with a manicured forefinger. “I see you graduated seventh in your class. All women, I assume?”
“There were six women at the beginning, and just two at graduation, but—”
Sir William raised his finger from the page to stab it in her direction like a bayonet. “There, you see? It goes to prove that women are unable to endure the stresses and challenges of a medical career.”
“Their withdrawal had more to do with being taunted and bullied mercilessly by their fellow students, and even the professors,” Eleanor said. “But it also means I graduated seventh in a class of more than one hundred and thirty men.”
His triumphant smirk pulled into a tight pinch. He pushed her letter aside, folded his hands together, and leaned forward. “May I ask how old you are, Miss Atherton?”
“I’m twenty-three,” she said. “My date of birth is included in my application.”
He didn’t bother to look. He kept his eyes fixed on her. “Twenty-three. And a virgin, I assume, if you are unmarried?”
Eleanor was taken aback by the intimate question, and he sat back. “You blush. How do you imagine you’d handle the rigors of battle, the sight of male bodies undressed, the sound of men cursing?”
“It would be in a medical context. A wounded person, not . . .” Her blush deepened, and her tongue knotted itself, but not out of shyness. It was pure molten desire—not for naked men, but for medicine, and the raw need to serve, the frustration of not being allowed to use her education and skills to help those men. She held his eyes. “I would not shirk, Sir William,” she said, and knew that was inadequate.
He shifted in his chair. “You think you would not, but one never knows until one is tried in battle. There is your future to think of, and the feelings of your father and mother in this matter. As of this moment, there is nothing to prevent you from forgetting this nonsense and seeing sense. My advice is to return home, find a suitable husband, and take your proper place as a wife and mother. Britain needs strong families just as badly as we need fighting men and frontline doctors—male doctors.” He glanced up at the gilt-framed portrait of King George V that hung over the fireplace. “You would still be doing something vitally important.”
“What are my other options?” she asked, ignoring the patriotic speech. “For practicing medicine, I mean, helping with the wounded?”
“Confound it, Miss Atherton, can you not knit?”
“I prefer embroidery, actually,” she said. “It has helped me perfect my suturing.”
For an instant his brows rose in surprise, then he shut his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. When he looked up at last, his gaze was both baffled and resigned, the suffering look of a man faced with the vexing problem of a willful child—or a difficult woman.
“If you are so set upon this course, I suggest you consider practicing at one of the hospitals here at home that care for women and children.” He tried smiling at her, a fond uncle soothing an unruly niece, performing an uncomfortable but necessary role, providing a gentle correction. “That would be most suitable, something more genteel, a role that will keep you busy until you marry, eh?”
“Is there anywhere else I might apply?”
The avuncular look faded. “There are hospitals run by women in France—but not under our jurisdiction. They’re under the auspices of the French Red Cross.” He sniffed with disdain. “There’s also a convalescent hospital in London staffed by women, and there are female doctors treating refugees in Serbia, but they do not have official support, and there is rampant disease and contagion there. Those women serve at their own risk and expense, and with the understanding that they cannot expect official aid from the king’s government.”
Eleanor sat forward, hopefully. “Would they—”
He thumped his fist on the table. “Young woman, as your father’s friend I beg you to go home and
stop this nonsense! This is not the kind of life for a well-bred woman.” She refused to wilt under his icy glare. She held his gaze boldly until he was the one to sigh and look away. “Do you truly wish to embarrass your parents?”
“I hope to make them proud of me.”
She remembered how her mother had cried at the graduation ceremony, sure her daughter had ruined her future with an advanced education and a medical degree. In the eight months since that day, she hadn’t stopped looking at Eleanor with a mixture of bafflement and disappointment. It was much like Sir William’s terribly pained expression now. Her father had been an army doctor once, and she’d thought—hoped—he’d understand why she wanted this, why she felt called to serve as he had. She recalled his flat frown and crisp dismissal the single time that she’d broached the subject.
“I daresay your father would like to continue his career and eventually retire without anything marring his reputation in that community—both the medical one and the social one,” Sir William said. “What you do next will reflect upon him, Miss Atherton, and upon your future husband. A good man might think twice before proposing to . . . a woman with such experience.”
He pushed her letter across the desk with the tip of one finger and rose from his chair. He took out his watch and glanced at it pointedly.
The interview was over.
There was nothing to do but pick up the letter, fold it, and put it in her pocketbook. Frustration rose, and Eleanor swallowed, tasting bitterness on her tongue. If Sir William knew how far she’d come, all she’d done to become a doctor, he’d not doubt her determination.
She’d dreamed of being a doctor her whole life. She’d watched her father work, and she’d read every medical book in his study. At medical school she’d worked harder than any other student in her class because she wanted to be taken seriously, though excelling had led to jealousy and scorn from her male classmates, not admiration. She’d been bullied, too, like the rest of the women in her class, but she’d endured it, learned to concentrate with all her might on her studies, on the prize of a medical career, and ignore the taunts.