The Woman at the Front Read online

  A jolt of surprise coursed through Eleanor. “Are you ill, my lady?”

  “No, no. Not at all. It’s Louis—”

  “Oh, no!” The outburst was not mannerly, but it was out before Eleanor could stop it. She braced herself. Was Louis dead, killed in action? Did Edward know? Perhaps the countess wanted medication to help her sleep, to soothe her fears, to keep the ghosts of her dead sons at bay, two of them now, so close together—

  “Oh, he’s not dead! I didn’t mean to alarm you. He’s only wounded, or so I’m told.” The countess put a hand to her brow. “I’m not explaining this well. Perhaps I should start at the beginning. I received a letter from a friend in France—Colonel Sir Hugo Ferris—nearly ten days ago. He wrote to tell me that Louis had been wounded. He said Louis’s plane was shot at, and those terrible contraptions are so fragile. It caught fire, but he managed to land it, narrowly missing a platoon of French soldiers. Louis broke his leg rather badly, and Sir Hugo said it was a miracle he survived at all, that Louis might easily have burned to death, and only his extraordinary skill as a pilot had saved him. Perhaps it was luck, too. Louis has always been lucky.” She blinked rapidly, as if staving off tears, and her hands tightened to fists, the knuckles white against her dark skirt. She glanced up at the portrait again before she continued. “But luck runs out,” she murmured. She tilted her chin up. “Sir Hugo says I must be proud of Louis, that my son is a hero, but I’m not. I suppose Sir Hugo meant me to be comforted by his letter. In truth he only wrote because he thought it was good news—the French have awarded Louis a medal for gallantry. Louis, of course, would never think to tell me himself.” She shook her head. “But it’s not good news. I can only think of what might have happened to my son—my only surviving son.” The countess drooped a little, as if the steel in her spine was buckling under the terrible strain.

  Eleanor didn’t know what to say. Fear for Louis dried her throat. Over the ragged edges of dismay, she went over the medical responses in her mind. “Was his leg—” She hesitated over the word amputated. “Did they . . . Are his injuries very serious?”

  The countess made a helpless gesture. “I don’t know. Louis hasn’t written to me, nor has he replied to the letter I wrote to him. My husband is in London, very busy at the War Office. He doesn’t worry as I do. He believes that if there were truly serious news, then he’d be the first to know. The fact that he has not received official word means all is well. He says I shouldn’t interfere or coddle Louis.” She raised her chin. “I wished to know everything, so I made further enquiries. Apparently, Louis was fortunate enough to land quite near a medical aid post. The medical officer saw to him at once and sent him on to a Casualty Clearing Station within the hour. It was sheer chance that Sir Hugo was visiting a wounded adjutant there. If he hadn’t seen Louis arrive, I fear I’d know nothing at all about any of this. Louis is—distant. Even now. Especially now. I asked him to come home when his brother died last fall, but he merely sent his condolences and said that he simply could not take leave, even to come home for the funeral. They weren’t close. Cyril was raised to be the next Earl of Kirkswell, while Louis was perhaps allowed too much freedom to do as he pleased. I believe he chose to become a pilot because it was the most shocking thing he could do, the most dangerous. If he dies . . .” The countess looked up, her eyes dark with determination, not grief. “I cannot let that happen. I have only one son left, and I won’t give him up. I want him home, alive. I know he will refuse if I ask him to come, and his father would never order him back, even now. Yet his return is imperative. He has responsibilities to his family, to his title, and that must outweigh other concerns.” She met Eleanor’s eyes. “I suppose you think that’s selfish.”

  Eleanor thought of all the local men who’d fought and died, leaving their mothers mourning and their fathers without sons to carry on farms or smithies or shops after them.

  “What treatment has Lord Louis had?” Eleanor asked.

  “A surgeon at the Casualty Clearing Station set Louis’s leg. In other circumstances, he would have been sent back to a base hospital at once, or home, but he cannot be moved until the bone sets, and there’s still some danger that he might . . .” She looked down at her ruined handkerchief and set it aside. “Louis must remain right where he is for some time yet. And the burns—” She paused. “There’s a pilot here at Chesscroft recovering from burns. He is terribly disfigured, will never be the same. When I look at him, I imagine Louis like that and fear the worst.”

  Eleanor knew the platitudes doctors used, the kind words meant to ease the suffering of a loved one, to prepare them when there was a possibility of a bad outcome. Louis was a hero, and England was grateful for every mother’s sacrifice, honored every fallen warrior, medical care at the front was excellent, he hadn’t suffered—or wouldn’t. She struggled for something to say, something real and comforting, but she sat mute, unable to speak, as if the countess’s fear were contagious.

  The door opened, and the butler glided in with the tea tray. The countess composed herself. “Ah, thank you, Heseltine. Any word on our—Miss Atherton’s—patient?”

  “He’s being cared for now, your ladyship,” Heseltine said blandly. “The wound is quite serious. Another hour and it might have proven more serious still.” He glanced at Eleanor, acknowledging her with a brief and sympathetic smile, though his starchy demeanor offered no entry for her questions. He was on duty and would not be distracted.

  “Thank you, Heseltine. I’ll pour the tea. Keep me apprised of his condition.” Heseltine bowed crisply and departed.

  The countess turned her attention to the tea, continuing their conversation as if the interruption had never happened. “I want Louis here at home, where he can receive the best possible medical care. I think he would recover better in familiar surroundings. And if the worst should happen . . . Sugar? Milk?”

  “Um, plain, please,” Eleanor said, and took the cup.

  “I’d like you to go to France and bring him home.”

  “Me?” Eleanor was so surprised she nearly dropped her teacup. She set it carefully down on the table. Was Louis as far gone as that? She imagined the carved stones in the family crypt that bore the names of eight generations of Chastaines. The inscription on the most recently carved slab was still fresh, the grief still raw. “Is he— Does he wish to come home?”

  The countess’s gaze hardened. “It isn’t about what he wants anymore. Louis is the last of his line. And even if they are the best in the world, with all the right intentions and the finest training, I can only imagine how busy the doctors are at the front, how easily little things might be overlooked, how standards of care might be neglected because there are simply too many, too much. No, Louis has done his bit, proven his courage, been wounded, and earned a medal. It’s time for him to come home. I know other people cannot do this for their sons, but I can. If that’s arrogant, then it’s the privilege of my wealth and class.” She scanned Eleanor’s face for censure, but Eleanor kept her countenance flat.

  “You’re wondering why I’ve asked you to go.”

  “Yes,” Eleanor admitted.

  The countess’s gaze turned thoughtful, and Eleanor had the sense that once again she was being examined, assessed. She held the countess’s eyes and waited for both verdict and explanation. The countess looked away and sipped her tea. Eleanor could hear the clock ticking in the silence. “I was impressed with what I saw today. You handled the situation with confidence. You were ready to wage war on that man’s behalf, so to speak. You didn’t mind about blood on your skirt, or the mud, or the rain, or even the major’s refusal. The patient was your primary concern.”

  “I’ve known the Nevinses all my life. They are my father’s patients,” Eleanor murmured.

  “But they are not your patients, are they?”

  Eleanor looked at her tea and didn’t reply.

  “I assume it’s because of your youth
and your sex that your skills are not being used to their full potential here in Thorndale.” The countess sipped her tea. “I did speak to your father some months ago when one of my doctors was sent to France—there’s a dreadful shortage of doctors over there. I asked him if he might spare you to assist here at the convalescent hospital. He refused on your behalf and asked me not to approach you directly.”

  Eleanor gaped at her. “You wanted me to . . .” She stopped. Her belly curled, and bitterness filled her mouth. She picked up her cup and forced a sip of tea past her tight lips. “I—I didn’t know. My father didn’t tell me. I would have—”

  “He declined on your behalf and asked me not to take the matter any further. Major Ellersby also felt it would be inappropriate.”

  It was a day for bombshells and surprises, it seemed. First Arthur’s injury, then hearing of Louis’s. But it was her father’s high-handed decision on her behalf that truly infuriated her, a decision made without even telling her. The teacup shook in her hand, rattling against the saucer.

  She looked up to find the countess regarding her with interest. “You are the sister of one of Louis’s dearest friends. Surely it would be a comfort to him to see someone he knows, don’t you think? The fact that you are a doctor, and a very determined one, would be of comfort to me. Your father has been the practicing physician here for many years. He knows this village, this district. He knows the patients, and their illnesses, and even the potential types of sickness or injury they’re likely to suffer. I daresay he could manage without you for a short while, could he not? A few weeks at most.”

  Of course he could manage. He already did and had always done so. She was an unwelcome distraction, an embarrassment, even. But to accept the countess’s commission and go to France? He’d never allow it.

  But this time she could answer for herself. Still, that answer stuck on her tongue like treacle.

  “I have many powerful friends who could assist your career, Dr. Atherton,” the countess continued. “The countess of Dillby is seeking a new physician, since hers was called overseas. She’d gladly accept a woman. So would Lady Bradford, and— Well, there are many important women of my acquaintance who would be pleased to have your services, and I could certainly recommend you to others if you wish it. Do you?”

  Suddenly everything rushed toward her like a strong wind—all the desire, and longing, the years of hard work. This was the chance she’d hoped for at last, and this time it was for her to decide whether to accept or to decline the countess’s request. Was she brave enough, bold enough to stand against her parents for this? Did she want it enough?

  Yes, she wanted this. Very much.

  She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud until the countess gave her a genuine smile. “Excellent. I am sure Louis could not be in better hands. I’ll have my secretary make arrangements at once. Can you be ready to leave tomorrow?”

  Tomorrow. Eleanor felt the sharp edge of panic. She thought again of her father’s stern and certain disapproval. Her mother would faint, and cry, not because of any danger her daughter might face, but because of the scandal this might cause, the gossip, the terrible pity of having a bold daughter, a thankless, ungrateful girl who refused to accept her proper place. “I must speak to my parents.” The familiar dutiful words tripped off her tongue.

  The countess frowned. “I was hoping for an answer now. You are my best hope, perhaps my only hope, of bringing him home.” The words were clipped, impatient now. “He would never come home if I went, or even his father, but you are . . .” She looked at Eleanor’s hair, her face, the lace collar of her blouse, her trim figure. “He’d not say no to you.”

  Ah. Something clicked in her chest, deflated. No doubt the countess knew her son couldn’t resist a pretty face, a coquettish smile, a well-turned ankle. She was meant as bait, something feminine and soft to dangle before Louis, a siren to lure him home. Surely she was the least siren-like woman in all England, and didn’t her ladyship know that Louis preferred bouncy, bubbly, blond beauties? Edward had told her that once, just to be cruel, when he realized his twin sister had a crush on his friend. He made it clear that Louis didn’t care for skinny redheads, or freckles, or women who were too clever for their own good. “You’ll be a spinster, as ugly and speckled as a spaniel,” Edward predicted.

  “We all find ourselves doing things in war that we would otherwise never have to—making sacrifices, taking on roles and challenges we never imagined ourselves capable of before,” the countess said. “We must be courageous now more than ever before.” She rose to her feet. “Thank you for coming, Dr. Atherton. I will look for a note from you tomorrow.”

  Dr. Atherton. Not “Miss Atherton” or “Eleanor”—Doctor. Eleanor got up, took the countess’s proffered hand, and shook it, her mind reeling.

  She glanced up again at Louis’s portrait, at that wicked, infectious grin. A dare, he promised. An adventure. This was her chance to prove herself, to truly be a doctor. Would she refuse now, backing down from all she desired? Louis’s blue gaze demanded an answer.

  She kept her eyes on the portrait as she spoke. “No. I don’t need time to think. I’ll go.”

  She looked at the countess and saw triumph bloom in her eyes before she schooled her features into a gracious aristocratic smile.

  “Thank you, Dr. Atherton. I shall make the arrangements at once.”

  Eleanor dipped a curtsy, opened the door, and went through it.

  She’d made the right choice, of course. She wouldn’t fail. She’d prove she was a capable doctor. She’d bring a hero home from war, deliver him safely back to a grateful mother and a proud nation.

  She’d make her parents understand that she was meant to do this, make them proud of her at last.

  And Edward, too.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Eleanor stopped to check on Arthur, but a nurse crisply informed her that he was being taken care of and she need not worry herself. She summoned Charlie instead.

  “Da’s doing fine. The doctor says he’ll keep his leg, but he’s to stay here overnight. He needs to be watched, and they don’t want to move him, just in case. There’s still a chance of bleeding and . . . and other things.” He scratched his head. “I’m sure the doc knows what he’s doing. Thank you for all ye did for him today. He can be stubborn about things. Come on, I’ll give you a ride back to your father’s car, make sure it’s running.”

  She followed him out and climbed into the truck. “I’m going to France myself,” she said, trying out the words, the truth and reality of it. She felt her chest tighten, with both apprehension and anticipation. She was going to France!

  Charlie glanced at her, his mouth round with surprise. “You?”

  Her chin rose in imitation of the countess’s haughty gesture. “Yes, me. Lord Louis was wounded. Her ladyship wants me take over his medical care and bring him home.”

  “Bring him home,” Charlie repeated flatly and started the engine. “Lucky lad. No one offered to bring Matthew home when he was wounded. Took him a week to die, or so we heard.”

  “Are you afraid, Charlie?” she asked.

  He kept his eyes on the road, considering for a moment, before he replied. “I’ve read Fred and Will’s letters, talked to the lads in the pub who’ve come home hurt. I know what to expect.” He glanced at her. “I can’t very well tell you I’m afraid, now can I, if you’re going over there, too. But you’ve had letters from your own brother. Surely you already know what it’s like.”

  Headquarters was well behind the front lines, and Edward enjoyed the exalted company of senior commanders and titled visitors. His letters were filled with descriptions of dinners and parties given for dukes and duchesses, even the Prince of Wales. The worst hardship Edward reported was the way the mud stuck to his polished boots and the difficulty in getting the London papers on a timely basis. Perhaps her brother was simply being cheery, sparing their
mother the burden of worrying about him, while understanding that as a doctor and a former soldier himself, their father would read between the lines and know the truth.

  “I’ll be in the same regiment as Fred,” Charlie said proudly. “He’ll show me the ropes quick enough. It’s Da I worry about here at home, managing the farm alone. He’ll have a time of it without me. The young shepherds are all in the army and there’s only the old gaffers to help now, and they can’t get up the high fells like they used to. And Ma will fret, but it can’t be helped.” He squared his shoulders. “Can’t last much longer now, can it? It’s been nearly four years, and everyone’s said all along that it will be done by summer or by fall or by Christmas. They’ve got to be right eventually, don’t they?”

  They reached the place where the doctor’s motor sat askew in the lane with the front bumper pressed against the stone wall. Charlie pulled to a stop and whistled. “Not too bad. Just a bit of a crumple.”

  “My father won’t be happy,” she said. It was an understatement, but the car would be the least of it.

  “You can tell him that you did a good deed today, that you saved my father’s life,” Charlie said with a faint smile. He shook his head. “I’d never have believed it, Eleanor. You were such a quiet lass, always reading books and thinking, and now— You really are a doctor, aren’t you?” He sobered. “If I’m ever sick, and you come instead of your father, I’ll let you treat me.”

  It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. “Thank you, Charlie. I’ll remember that, when you’re home, safe and sound, and the war is over. You will be careful, won’t you?”

  “As careful as a nervous ewe in a lightning storm,” he quipped and grinned. “Don’t you worry about me. Ma will do enough of that for everyone.”

  But she did worry. She worried about Charlie, and Arthur, and even Edward. And Louis, too, since his famous luck had run out, and there was still a possibility that he might . . . No. She wouldn’t let that happen. War was a terrible thing, but she had an opportunity now, a chance to bring one man safely home.