by Kate Hewitt
“Perhaps you may, sir,” Letitia answered as she drew herself up with dignity. “Do you know this man?”
The officer’s gaze flicked to the man in the bed and he smiled. “I do. He is in my regiment. Private Henri Sahnoun.” He spoke to the man in French, rapidly and in a low voice so neither Letitia nor Ellen could make out what he had said.
Amazingly, the man in the bed grunted his acceptance and rolled onto his stomach so Letitia could inspect his wound; as she had feared, the dressing was soaked with blood, and looked to be infected.
Ellen stepped back to give the man some much-needed privacy. She glanced at the officer, who was leaning on a cane, his face now pale and haggard.
“Monsieur, your help is greatly appreciated,” she said quietly, “but I think perhaps you should return to your bed.”
He nodded wryly and Ellen took his arm as she helped him out of the ward to one of the other wards reserved for officers.
Ellen was just settling the man into his bed when Letitia came into the ward. She looked more composed, her face its normal color, her coat of grey-blue with its caducées of surgeon-major in silver now straightened. “I must thank you sir, for your kind intervention. What did you say to the man?”
The officer leaned back against his pillows and smiled. “I simply told him he was fortunate indeed to have a lovely young woman such as yourself inspecting his backside.”
Letitia’s flush returned and her eyes sparkled with anger. “I’d thank you, sir, to remember I am a doctor.”
The man inclined his head in acknowledgement, his blue eyes flashing in amusement. “And a woman, mademoiselle,” he returned. “A beautiful one, at that. But let me introduce myself.” He extended one hand which Letitia did not take. “Lieutenant Lucien Allard.”
Letitia stared at him a moment and then nodded stiffly. “Thank you again for your assistance, Lieutenant Allard,” she said and turning on her heel, she left the room.
Lucien Allard met Ellen’s gaze with a humorous one of his own. “I fear I have insulted the good doctor.”
“She is merely tired,” Ellen demurred. Letitia was the youngest and most newly qualified doctor at Royaumont, and had thus been given the status of medical dresser rather than fully-fledged doctor. As a result she was, Ellen suspected, always trying to prove herself, to the staff as well as to the patients.
News of the dashing Lieutenant Allard and his rescue travelled around the abbey quickly enough, for any interesting news was always greeted with both humor and excitement. By dinnertime as they gathered in the kitchen to eat the meat and fruit that comprised their evening meal, a few orderlies dared to tease Letitia.
“It seems you have an admirer, Dr. Portman!”
“He is in the French Foreign Legion,” another sighed. “So romantic.”
Letitia did not answer, choosing instead to saw the single piece of stringy pork that their new chef Michelet had dressed up with stewed apples. He had served at one of the country’s great houses before the war; after convalescing as a patient, Miss Ivens had worked her considerable charm to have the chef seconded to the hospital for the duration of the war.
“He has a way with meat and potatoes,” she told the staff frankly, “that is quite unparalleled. And good food increases morale, I am sure.”
“Don’t you think he is handsome?” Charlotte, another orderly with a penchant for story papers, pressed. “Such dark hair…”
“I did not notice his hair,” Letitia returned shortly. “I notice men’s wounds, not their looks.”
“Still, wouldn’t it be wonderful to have a romance at Royaumont? All these women doctors and nurses…” Charlotte’s eyes sparkled. “And all these male patients!”
“That is quite enough, Miss Evans,” Miss Ivens intervened, although her tone was friendly. “We have enough to do as it is, without filling our heads with such nonsense.”
Lucien Allard, however, did not seem to agree, for as June waned into July, he became determined to win Letitia’s favor, if not her heart.
Despite a wound to his knee, he was well enough to walk, with the help of his cane, and one sunny afternoon he went outside to the abbey’s gardens to pick a posy of flowers that he offered to Letitia as she was doing her rounds.
Her face red, Letitia took them with a suffocated whisper of thanks and stuffed them in the pocket of her uniform coat. Ellen watched on in bemusement; Lucien Allard, with his dark hair and tanned skin and sparkling blue eyes, cut a dashing figure indeed. There had been, over the course of her time at Royaumont, a few flirtations between the staff and soldiers; one of the orderlies wrote letters regularly to a French private who had returned to the Front. Letitia, however, hardly seemed susceptible to the lieutenant’s charms.
“Don’t speak to me of that dreadful man,” she warned Ellen one afternoon when, during a lull, they were sitting out in the cloisters, enjoying the warm weather and the beautiful countryside.
At a moment like this, Royaumont felt as if it were untouched by the war; how could there be muddy trenches, bombed-out villages, and hollow-eyed men just a few miles away?
Of course, one only had to catch the eye of one of the soldiers sitting in the cloisters to be reminded. Miss Ivens had decided that fresh air and sunlight worked wonders on convalescents, and so she insisted that as many men as possible take the air when they could. It was pleasant to see the men playing draughts or cards, tilting their faces to the sun. In these moments they seemed like men, rather than soldiers.
“Surely that’s a bit unfair, Letitia,” Ellen argued with a smile. “He’s far from dreadful.” Lieutenant Allard, in fact, had won over many of the staff’s hearts, save Letitia’s. He was charming and seemed to know it, not that anyone minded. Last night he had serenaded the nurses in his ward in a lovely tenor voice, with the wartime song Noel des Enfants. Even the staff who didn’t know enough French to understand its touching story of the lost children of France had been visibly moved. Letitia, however, would not be moved by any of it.
“He is dreadful,” she insisted, her face reddening as she gazed out at the gardens of the abbey, full of roses and birdsong. “He is making a fool of me.”
“Is that how you feel? He doesn’t mean to, Letitia. He just admires you.”
“Admires?” she scoffed. “Or fancies?”
“Both, I suppose. Is that so bad?” A surprising little flicker of envy rippled through Ellen before she quickly suppressed it. It had been a long time since she’d ever had anyone interested in her… or felt that spark herself. She had no designs on the lieutenant, but for a moment she imagined what it would feel like to love someone again, or even just like them a little.
“He jeopardizes my reputation,” Letitia continued in a low voice, “and makes a mockery of my calling.” She set her jaw. “I am a doctor, not some flighty, fluttery miss to fall in love.”
“Even doctors fall in love,” Ellen reminded her, although in truth none of the staff at Royaumont were married. Some of them certainly wanted to be, however, at least one day.
“Not this doctor,” Letitia said firmly. “Lieutenant Allard can pick as many wilted posies as he likes. I will not be moved. Besides, his wound is healing nicely and he’ll be packed up to the Front again in no time at all. He’s sure to forget about me then.”
Ellen regarded her friend with quiet curiosity, for something in Letitia’s tone made her wonder if she actually wanted to be forgotten.
A week into July, when Lucien Allard had been given his marching orders and the sun baked the earth so even the cool, shadowy rooms of the abbey were stifling, Ellen and Letitia packed a picnic of cold cheese, meat, and fruit and headed off for an afternoon’s much-needed leisure.
As they waded through the waist-high grass, the only sound the babbling of the nearby brook and the occasional twitter of birdsong, it seemed incredible to think they were not all that far from the barbed-wire and barren fields of the trenches, the burned-out villages, houses and barns reduced to rubble, as war
cut its bloody swathe through France and Belgium.
Ellen spread a blanket by the brook while Letitia set out their meager feast.
“I think I have been hungry since this war began,” she said as she portioned the scraps of meat onto two plates. “But not as hungry as the men we treat, I suppose.”
Ellen tucked her feet under her skirt and picked an apple from the basket. “When do you think it will be over?” she asked quietly.
Letitia smiled wryly and plucked a grape from the bunch. “Do you remember how at the beginning they said they’d be home by Christmas?”
“Miss Ivens never thought that,” Ellen countered. “She set up the hospital in December!”
“I think women can see sense more than men can,” Letitia answered with asperity and Ellen smiled.
“I suppose you are thinking of Lucien Allard.”
Letitia pressed her lips together. “I don’t ever think of him.”
“He’s leaving soon, anyway, isn’t he?” Ellen said.
“Yes, he’ll be gone in no more than a few weeks, if his knee continues to heal without infection.” Letitia popped the grape in her mouth. “Good riddance, I say.”
“Do you, really?” Over the last few weeks, Lieutenant Allard had continued his charm offensive, but just as the war was fought in battles of tiny increments, his push to win Letitia’s affections did not seem to gain an inch.
“Yes, I do,” Letitia insisted, perhaps a bit too much.
“He’s very solicitous towards his men. Some of the French officers are horrible. They treat their men like cattle, or even worse, fodder for the cattle. Completely expendable.”
“And some of the Colonial troops are even worse,” Letitia agreed soberly. “Many of the Sengalese have been forced to fight by the chiefs of their village, so others aren’t taken by force.”
“It’s terrible.” Ellen had heard about the tribal politics that had led men to war, men who could have had absolutely no idea what they were signing up for… yet Ellen didn’t think any boy could have had an idea. Surely the boys she knew from the island couldn’t have conceived of the muddy trenches, the booming guns, the clouds of chlorine gas. It was like something out of a nightmare.
“Still,” Ellen couldn’t keep from saying, “that makes Lieutenant Allard’s conduct all the more admirable.”
Letitia sniffed. “Perhaps.”
“He is handsome,” Ellen pressed mischievously, and for a moment she thought Letitia would admit to some small affection.
“He is handsome enough, I suppose,” she answered after a moment. “But honestly, Ellen, you are worse than some of the orderlies! I am not here to have a grand romance.”
“Of course not. But if one happened…”
“With Lieutenant Allard? I grant he is charming enough, but then what Frenchman isn’t? And he lives in Algeria, of all places, after all.” For a second Letitia’s face looked bleak. “What future could we possibly have?”
“You have thought of all that already?” Ellen asked in surprise. “Then you must like him more than you’ve let on, even to think of it like that.”
“I don’t,” Letitia answered quickly, but she blushed and Ellen laughed, daring to tease her friend a little more.
“You do! Oh Letitia, I am glad for you. I think you could use a little levity, and even a little romance, in your life.”
Letitia didn’t answer; her face looked frozen and then, to Ellen’s shock, it crumpled and she held up her hands to hide her expression.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Ellen exclaimed, full of contrition. Her teasing suddenly took on a meaner cast. “I didn’t realize…” she began, for she now could see Letitia’s feeling ran deeper than anyone might have expected, even Lieutenant Allard himself. “I’ve been so thoughtless, teasing you the way I have. Letitia, I am sorry.”
“No.” Letitia shook her head and dabbed at her eyes. “I’m being so foolish. It’s only… hope is such a dangerous thing, isn’t it? I see that now more than ever. We bandage these poor boys up and push them out the door, most likely to their deaths, and they most likely know it. How can they not? They’ve already looked it in the eye more than once.” She took a gulping sort of breath. “And so much of the suffering is needless, so terribly pointless…” She shook her head, her tears drying on her cheeks. “We are perhaps a few feet ahead of we were last summer, after Ypres. A whole year of fighting, and who knows how many thousands dead, and for what? A few paltry feet of ground?” She sank back onto to the blanket, her expression turning grim. “I hate this war,” she said flatly. “I truly hate this bloody, bloody war.”
Ellen remained silent, for what could she say? She hated the war too; they all did by now, though few spoke of it. Miss Ivens was adamant that her staff keep their spirits up, and yet as the months had slid by and so little had changed; as each battle had become bloodier and the casualties had mounted up and the soldiers who had once been cheerful and chipper become more gaunt and hollow-eyed, who could keep from questioning the point of it all?
“I can’t care,” Letitia said quietly. “I can’t care about any of them, Ellen, and certainly not Lieutenant Allard. It’s simply too dangerous. He’ll going back to the Front in a few weeks, once his knee heals. That’s all that matters.”
Ellen continued to reflect on her friend’s words as they packed up their picnic and headed back to the abbey, the mood more somber than it had been when they’d set out.
She understood Letitia’s sentiment all too well; she’d felt it herself. Losing Jed to Louisa and then far worse, losing Henry when the Titanic had sunk, had certainly made her wary of caring about anyone ever again.
But to keep your heart safe, wrapped up and tucked away, was a lonely way of living. As they brought their picnic basket back to the kitchen with thanks to Michelet, Ellen hoped Letitia would dare to risk her heart one day. Perhaps she would too, if this war ever ended.
CHAPTER SIX
July 1915
As the wounded continue to flow into Royaumont, Miss Ivens took the decision to open several new wards, and they spent a few days sweeping rooms out full of rubble and rubbish and then setting up beds and arranging for electric light. Workmen tramped through the hospital, and in addition to her nursing duties, Ellen found herself on her knees, scrubbing the stone-flagged floor along with orderlies and doctors alike. Everyone had always chipped in at Royaumont, no matter how menial the work, thanks to Miss Ivens’ example.
“What needs to be done, must be done,” she would announce, taking a broom herself. Thankfully, there had been another lull in the fighting, which gave them time not just to prepare new wards but to spend time enjoying the lovely French summer.
One afternoon in early July, Ellen came downstairs to find a letter waiting for her from Ontario. It was from Aunt Rose, and Ellen prayed it had good news of Jed and Lucas.
She took it outside to read, sitting on a stone bench by a fountain whose water made a merry, tinkling sound as it splashed and sprayed.
Dear Ellen, I’m sorry it has been so long since I’ve written. Life has become very busy on the island, as we man the home front, doing our best to continue with the war effort. Even Captain Jonah has done his bit—he offered his little tug as a hospital ship but I’m afraid he was politely refused, which has put him rather out of sorts. I am the proud mother of an enlisted soldier now, although my heart trembles to write that. Peter has joined the Expeditionary Force, and he sailed for France last week. Caro has been, as I had expected and certainly hoped, posted to the convalescent hospital in Kingston. The rest of us continue on, managing the farm and knitting more socks than we know what to do with… but hopefully they will keep our poor boys’ feet warm. I have read about the terrible cases of trench foot, and I’m sure you’ve seen them where you are. We had news of both the Lyman boys; Jed has been fighting at Ypres and a few months ago Lucas was appointed to do something in London, so at least he is safely out of the fighting, although he cannot say what he is up to, and of cou
rse everyone wonders.
Lucas in London! A wave of relief pulsed through Ellen. But Jed in Ypres… at least he hadn’t been wounded, or Aunt Rose would have said. She tried to imagine Jed crouched in one of the trenches like the soldiers who came through the hospital, tired and dirty and scared, the shells flying over his head, their white flares lighting up the sky. She could not imagine it; in her mind’s eye, she still saw him in the kitchen of the Lyman farmhouse, his gray eyes laughing at her, but that of course had been years ago now, before the war, before Louisa. Ellen turned back to Aunt Rose’s letter.
Louisa and Thomas are doing well, all things considered. He is not a hearty boy, but Louisa dotes on him. He is coming up to three years old now, and he is very sweet little thing, with Jed’s gray eyes and Louisa’s curls.
She would not let that hurt her, Ellen told herself. It was too long ago, and too much had happened since then.
It is so strange to think of how the world has been turned upside down. I’m sure none of us could have imagined it, with most of the island boys in France, and the ones who can’t go wishing they could. It all feels so very far away, and yet so horribly close. Yesterday an island family—the Boyles, I don’t think you knew them—learned their son Henry was missing in action. No one knows if that’s better or worse than knowing he’s been killed. It’s frightful, what you hear the Germans are capable of. I can scarce believe some of the stories they print in the papers. I hope you keep well and safe, dear Ellen. Write soon. With all my love, Aunt Rose.
Ellen put the letter down, closing her eyes briefly as she pictured Amherst Island in the heady throes of summer, with the raspberries dripping like fat, red jewels from the bushes, the blue-green waters glinting in the sun, the smell of haymaking in the air.
“Mademoiselle!”
She opened her eyes to see a patient smiling and pointing to her feet, where a ball had rolled. The men who were well enough were all taking in the summer sunshine, and several soldiers were playing a game of football, which Ellen knew must be good for their spirits. This sunny garden was a universe away from where they were headed all too soon.
