wounded and dying in front of one’s eyes, and I thought perhaps petty things no longer mattered. He answered that whatever a man was before the war, he usually brought with him to France. Good or bad. But he particularly disliked those who let down the side, who couldn’t be counted on in pinch.” A frown replaced the smile. “It’s odd, now that you’ve brought this up-there was trouble with one of his sergeants. Vincent was very angry with the man. I never knew what it was about, just that later he was angry with himself for having lost his temper. Fortunately soon afterward, this sergeant was shifted to another part of the line. Vincent seldom lost his temper, but when he did, he could be quite furious. It went with his red hair, I think. His mother also had a lively temper.”
I laughed, agreeing with her. And to my surprise, she added, “There was also that brother-in-law of his. Sabrina’s husband. Vincent called him a slacker. A disgrace to the uniform.”
“He wasn’t in our regiment, as I recall.”
“Oh, no. He joined the Royal Engineers. God knows what they saw in him. But he has been serving under Vincent, something to do with mines. He
I had stayed as long as I should in politeness, and so I set my teacup back on the tray and took my leave. Julia begged me to come again, if I could, and I promised I would. “Were Vincent’s sisters at the memorial service? I haven’t seen them since your wedding. I hope they are well.”
She made a face. “Sabrina didn’t come. She’s very likely poor again. You never know with that man she married. I think he must gamble or something of the sort. They always seem to be short of money. But Valerie was here. She and Vincent were only a year apart. She stayed with me, and we comforted each other.”
“I’m glad.”
With another embrace we said good-bye, and I drove Dr. Gaines’s motorcar sedately back to The Pelican, where the Captain must have been watching for me. He came out at once, smiled as he nodded toward the crank, and said, “Well, well.”
“Don’t be silly.”
He got in beside me, and I saw the grimness of his mouth as he settled into his seat. This outing had tried his leg. As impatient as he was to leave the clinic and get back to the fighting, it was clear to both of us that he wasn’t ready yet.
Perhaps, I thought, this explained why Dr. Gaines had sent him with me-to measure his readiness in a way that he could face, rather than listening to a doctor telling him a hard truth.
I found myself with a new respect for Dr. Gaines.
We drove out of Nether Thornton in silence, mainly because Captain Barclay was in no mood for light conversation. But as his leg stopped throbbing quite so viciously, his spirits returned and he said, “Was it a good visit?”
“Yes, indeed.” Julia had unwittingly given me food for thought.
My confidence had been shaken by Colonel Prescott’s letter. And yet there was the evidence of Private Wilson’s death. And what had become of Vincent’s journal? If it was in his tunic pocket when he was killed, someone should have discovered it and put it with his other belongings. A doctor wouldn’t have undressed him if he had died instantly of his wounds. Sadly there was no time for the dead, because there were so many living in need of attention.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Captain Barclay said after several miles of silence.
I smiled ruefully. “Sorry. I was distracted.”
“This wasn’t simply a courtesy call, was it?” the Captain asked after a few minutes. “There’s something on your mind. Why
That was too close to the truth for comfort.
“Actually I was thinking about Major Carson’s journal. He kept one, according to Julia. She’d seen it, he’d read her a few passages from it. But it didn’t come home with his other possessions.”
“Is it important?”
“I-don’t quite know. For Julia it is.”
“It could have been lost when he was wounded and every effort was being made to save his life.”
“He died instantly, according to his commanding officer.”
“It’s what we’re taught to write. No mother or wife wants to hear that a loved one died screaming and writhing in agony. When he was hit, his men would have done what they could, and whatever falls into the unspeakable muck in the bottom of a trench is lost forever. Or it could have been buried with him.”
“True,” I said doubtfully, unable to tell him that it could all have been a lie, how Vincent Carson had died.
“You don’t believe me. Why do women fix on tangible things? He could have given instructions for the journal not to be sent home. It’s possible he wrote what he believed to be the truth at the time, but still words that perhaps it would pain his wife to read after he was dead and unable to explain. Or perhaps his commanding officer read enough to feel it was unwise.”
“Yes, I do believe you,” I said, threading my way through a flock of sheep that was taking up the road. “Thinking about it in that light.” But it once more raised the specter of marital problems. There was nothing about Julia even to hint that she was glad to be free to marry someone else. But if Vincent had fallen out of love with his wife and there was someone else, he could have written about his struggle with himself. A very good reason to order it destroyed if he was killed.
“Good. Anything else worrying you? I’m always happy to make your burdens lighter.”
I had to laugh. For the rest of the journey we talked about him-how he’d come to join the Canadian Army, when and where he was wounded, and what he hoped to do when the war finally ended.
We had come within sight of the gates to Longleigh House when Thomas Barclay said again, without warning, “Tell me again who Simon Brandon is.”
CHAPTER FIVE
I WROTE TO Simon that evening in the quiet of my room. A storm was blowing up, and I listened to the distant thunder, reminded again that I ought to be in France.
By telling Simon what I had learned, I was able to put it in better perspective.
Was there anything really suspicious in what Julia had told me? Or was it my imagination looking to support my own belief about how Major Carson had died?
I sealed the letter and set it out for the post, then went to bed.
I was kept busy over the next few days. One patient was on the brink of developing gangrene, and with my battlefield experience Matron asked me to work in the surgical theater with Dr. Gaines.
When I went to read to the ambulatory, Captain Lawrence had been scanning a newspaper, and as he set it aside, I glimpsed a photograph on the page turned up. It was Mrs. Campbell. I couldn’t see the full caption, but the first part read DIVORCEE ARRESTED FOR-
For what?
When the hour was over, I was summoned to the surgical theater again. An abscess required draining. As the patient was being taken away for recovery, Dr. Gaines said to me, “You really ought to be in France, you know. Your skills are wasted here.”
Surprised by his praise, I said, “My family was frightened by my illness. I think they pulled strings to keep me in England.”
He nodded and said nothing more. I realized I’d been too honest, but I didn’t want him to believe that I had run away from the nightmare of nursing there. Pride, I told myself, sometimes had much to answer for.
But then my ancestress, who had sent her husband off to face Napoleon at Waterloo and danced through the night to conceal the fact that experienced officers had been called to duty, would have appreciated my dilemma. She had helped keep the townspeople of Brussels calm and unsuspecting. It was her duty to the cause, even though she knew she might never see her husband alive again. Perhaps I had inherited a little of her strength. I’d like to think so.
The following day we faced a long and very difficult surgery as we fought to clean a suppurating wound and
