'That would be lovely, Simon. Gosh, it's cold.'
Simon looked at her and without thinking put his arms around her.
'Please,' Maisie protested weakly.
'Don't worry. No nasty sisters around to report you for dawdling with an unscrupulous RAMC captain.'
Maisie laughed and shivered at the same time, moving her body closer to Simon. He held her to him and kissed her first on her forehead, then, as she looked up at him, Simon leaned down and kissed Maisie again on her cheek, then her lips.
'Simon, I--'
'Oh dear, will I get you into terrible trouble?'
She looked up at him, then around at the other travelers, none of whom seemed to notice the pair, and giggled nervously.
'Well, you might if someone sees us, Simon.'
The guard signaled a loud whistle to alert passengers that the train would soon be leaving. Steam from the heavy engine was pushed up and out onto the platform. It was time for Simon and Maisie to part.
'Maisie. Look, I have a leave coming up again in a few months. Back to England. When's your leave? Perhaps it will be at the same time.'
'I'll let you know, Simon. I'll let you know. I must run. I'll miss the train.'
Simon held Maisie to him, and as the train signaled the 'all aboard,' she pulled herself away and ran along the platform. Iris was leaning out of the window of their carriage waving to her. She clambered aboard and sat down heavily on the seat just as the train began to move.
'I thought I'd be leaving without you, Dobbs.'
'Not to worry, Iris. I'm here.'
'Yes. You're here, Dobbsie. But I think you've left your heart behind with a certain young man.'
Catching her breath as the train pulled out of the station, Maisie closed her eyes and thought of Simon. And as she saw his face in her mind's eye, the pressure returned to her chest. Rain slanted down across the windows as the fields of France seemed to rumble past with the movement of the train. Maisie looked out at this country she had willingly come to, so close to home, yet so far away from all that she loved. Almost. Simon was near.
CHAPTER TWENTY
On a cold, wintry morning in February 1917, with the sun barely visible through the morning fog, Maisie pulled the wool cape around her shoulders and walked back to the tent she shared with Iris. Burning a hole in her pocket were two letters. One was from Simon. The other contained her leave papers. Her fingers were crossed.
'So, did you get it?' asked Iris, as Maisie tore at the small buff-colored envelope.
'Wait a minute, wait a minute. Yes! Yes! Yes!'
Maisie jumped up and down. She was going on leave. Areal leave. Allowing two days for travel, she would have three days at home. Three days! One whole day more than her last leave, which was-- she couldn't even remember. She immediately opened Simon's letter, scanned the lines of fine, right-slanted handwriting and jumped up and down again.
'Yes, Yes! He's got it, he's got leave!'
And the dates, April 15 to 20, were almost the same as hers. They would have two days together. Two whole days.
Iris smiled and shook her head. Oh, how that girl had changed. Not in her work. No, the skill and compassion she brought to her work were as unquestionable as ever. But this joy, this excitement, was something new.
'Dobbsie, I do believe you are becoming a normal young woman!'
'Nonsense. I've always been normal,' said Maisie, continuing to read Simon's letter.
'No, you haven't. I can tell. Taken life far too seriously, you have.'
Iris reached for her cape and shivered. 'And you can't do that in these times, Maisie. Take your work seriously, yes. But the rest of it, it'll drive you mad.'
Iris carefully positioned her cap so that the red cross was in the center of her crown, and the point of the linen square was centered at the back of her head, just grazing the area between her shoulder blades.
'Ready, then?'
'Yes, I'm ready.'
'Good. Let's get to work.'
The weeks seemed to drag on, yet when Maisie looked back at the time between the arrival of her leave papers and the moment when which she walked onto the boat for the crossing back to Folkestone, it seemed that time had flown. As she stowed her bags, sought out hot cocoa and cake, Maisie almost dreaded the start of her leave, for by this time next week, she would be back in France. It would be over.
The crossing was calmer than last time, and though the sea was not quite like a millpond, the boat did not seem to pitch and toss as violently as before, and the tops of waves did not suddenly rear up and cover the deck. The nausea of her previous journey was not repeated to the same extent, yet a band of pressure around her forehead caused her to lean against the rail, counting off the quarter hours until land came in sight. She breathed in, waiting for sea saltiness to give way to the clear air of the county of Kent.
Oh, how she ached to see her father, to be drawn into the warm, steamy atmosphere of Mrs. Crawford's kitchen. In France she had dreamed of Kent, of apple orchards in full blossom, primroses and bluebells carpeting
