Hero's Bride

by Jane Peart

  Kitty's request was quickly granted by the matron with the promise of authorization papers allowing her to accompany Richard to England, and she remained at his bedside most of the night.

  It had been established that Richard had sustained trauma to his central nervous system, so he was heavily sedated to prevent further injury to his spine. Kitty learned that his legs were paralyzed, at least temporarily. The success of an operation to restore their use was an unknown at this time.

  Reading his chart, Kitty knew his condition was poor, his prognosis negative. There was barely a chance that Richard would live at all, much less survive the trip to England.

  By morning, when Richard's condition was unchanged and it was decided to chance the evacuation, Kitty left him long enough to pack a few things and change into her traveling uniform for the trip to Calais. From there they would board a steamer for England.

  When she returned to the main floor, Dr. Hayford beckoned her into his office directly off the ward and handed her a small leather carrying case. Its lid was open to display several small vials of clear liquid, a syringe, and some hypodermic needles.

  "Use these at your discretion, Nurse. I cannot overemphasize the necessity of keeping the patient as immobile as possible. Any movement might bring on a seizure or muscle spasm that could injure him fatally." The doctor speared her with his eyes. "The object is to keep him still, not to keep him entirely free from pain. He is anesthetized as much as is safe. When he wakes, he may beg for relief. I do not need to tell you that morphine is a very potent drug—" He halted abruptly, breaking off his thought. He closed the case and handed it to Kitty. "Administering this drug in proper amounts is critical, Nurse Cameron. I hope you're up to it."

  His warning was clear. It would be imperative that she maintain professional distance and not give way to natural sympathy. She returned his steady gaze without wavering. "Yes, Doctor."

  When Kitty entered Richard's ward to supervise his move to the ambulance, he was wrapped in bandages like an Egyptian mummy. His head was held rigid by splints on either side, his body tucked tightly into blankets, then buckled by canvas belts to restrict his movements.

  Dora helped them out to the waiting ambulance. Once Richard was on board, she gave Kitty a fierce hug. "We'll all be praying. I know everything will be all right."

  The ambulance jolted its way down the hill, Kitty wincing with each bump. Glancing at Richard, she was relieved to see that he was still too deeply sedated to feel anything.

  Out the back window of the vehicle, Kitty glimpsed the charming little restaurant where Richard had told her he loved her and asked her to marry him. It was hard to believe that was only a few short months ago.

  Huddled beside Richard's stretcher as the ambulance made its way over the shell-pocked road, Kitty prayed desperately. "Please, God, please," she begged from between tightly clenched hps. She had been taught that it was wrong to bargain with God, but she couldn't help it.

  The hours passed in a haze of unreality. From time to time, Richard moaned. His eyelids fluttered, but still he did not awaken. Fearfully Kitty took his pulse, counted his respiration. How much morphine had they given him? It was such a dangerous drug, often lethal—a blessing to those in agony, but also a curse, for it could be addictive.

  It was dark when they reached the dock where Richard was to be carried aboard the ship to begin the treacherous Channel crossing.

  Muscles aching, weary from the constant strain of watching over him so intently, Kitty got stiffly out of the ambulance to supervise Richard's unloading. "Careful now, please!" she cautioned the two orderlies who grabbed the handles of the stretcher and lifted it clear, then shifted to begin their awkward progress up the gangplank.

  The sudden movement brought Richard to consciousness. When he cried out, Kitty leaned over him. "I'm here, Richard, dear. We're on our way to England. It will be just a little longer, then they'll take good care of you, make you well. Just hold on, dear."

  They maneuvered up the narrow gangplank and onto the deck, Kitty walking beside him. On board, while there was a discussion o f the cabin they would occupy during the voyage, Richard began to moan. His eyes, though glazed, roamed wildly. His face was contorted with pain. His breath came in short gasps.

  Kitty got out the small leather case containing the vials of morphine. Her fingers fumbled with the buckles. By the time she got out the hypodermic needle, her hands were steady. Just as she was about to draw sterilized water into the syringe, a voice spoke beside her.

  "Why don't you do the poor bloke a favor and put 'im out of 'is misery?"

  Kitty jerked about to see a British infantryman with a corporal's chevron on his uniform sleeve. A second look revealed that he was on crutches, one trouser leg pinned up. An amputee. Having assisted in many such operations, Kitty recognized the sarcasm, understood the bitterness.

  "But he's going to have an operation," she replied quietly. "He's got a good chance of recovery if he can make it to England."

  "Ha!" grunted the man. "Then wot kinda life 'as 'e got, I arsk ya? Look at me, will ya? I drove a lorry in civilian life and after I got in the Army. Then, one day we wuz drivin' down a road and . . . Pow! . . . it's Good-night, Irene, for me! Wot kinda job is there for a one-legged man? Not drivin' no vehicle! I might as well 'ave been blown up in me lorry," he said acidly, stumping off across the deck.

  Richard moaned again, louder. Kitty turned to him, reminding herself of Dr. Hayford's warning. Biting her Hp nervously, she dropped the correct number of tablets into the syringe. She rolled up his sleeve, swabbed his arm with alcohol, positioned the needle, and pushed down the plunger. Gradually his moans lessened as the drug brought merciful oblivion.

  When the problem with the cabin was settled, two corpsmen came to move Richard, stowing him as gently as possible in the lower bunk. Kitty pulled a blanket and pillow from the top bunk and settled herself on the floor beside him to take up her vigil.

  Looking at Richard's face, the lines of pain erased by the drug, Kitty was filled with compassion. This was the man she had promised to marry, the man who had promised to love and care for her for the rest of their lives. I f he lived, it was far more likely that it would be she who would be doing the caretaking.

  But there was no resentment in that thought, nor any self-pity. During that long night a strange and beautiful thing happened as she kept watch by Richard's side. The love she had not been sure of, the commitment she had not quite been ready to make, became a reality. This was the love freely given, the love that would endure "for better or worse, in sickness or in health."

  "Oh, Richard, my darling," she murmured, resting her head on the wooden slat of the bunk, "I do take you now until death do us part."

  They docked in the fog-shrouded early morning and were taken by ambulance to the train station where they boarded the train for London. There, at the private hospital of the recommended surgeon, Richard was to be examined. Then it would be decided whether he could undergo the operation that might enable him to walk again.

  The London streets seemed very different this time. No flag-waving, cheering crowds lined the sidewalks. None of the glitter or glory. Four years o f war had drained the country o f the optimism she had observed in the people then as they embarked on what was to be a short war, "over by Christmas."

  Richard's eyelids stirred, slowly opened. He moistened his parched lips with his tongue. Gradually his dulled eyes focused on her, then a glimmer of recognition came into them. "Kitty, love," he rasped.

  A sharp, wild hope sped through Kitty. He knew her! He was going to be all right! He would get well! Thank God! Oh, thank You, God!

  chapter

  21

  There's a long, long trail awinding unto the land

  of my dreams,

  Where the nightingale is singing, and the white moon beams.

  There's a long, long time of waiting until my dreams

  all come true,

  Till the day when I'll be going dorm
that long, long trail

  with you.

  THE SONG THAT had been so popular early in the war played over and over in Kitty's mind as she left Richard at the London hospital to return to France. He was in good hands. Although the operation had been a surgical success, it was uncertain whether or not he would ever regain the use of his legs. Only time would tell.

  Please, God, please was the only prayer Kitty could manage. Everything felt unreal to her as she retraced the route she had taken nearly two years ago. The Channel crossing, the jolting bus ride back to Chateau Rougeret hospital were endured in a kind of trance-like state.

  She had asked for and received an extended leave to see Richard through the surgery and the critical post-operative days. She had even briefly considered resigning so that she could stay with Richard and nurse him herself. But in the end, her sense of duty, knowing the acute need for nurses at the chateau hospital, would not allow her to do so.

  All the way on the train from London, Kitty thought back over their last conversation before she left. She had gone into Richard's hospital room to say good-bye, and he'd taken her hand:

  "Kitty, I want you to know I don't hold you to any promise you made. . . before this happened. You aren't under any obligation to me."

  "Hush, Richard, don't say things like that. Don't even think them," Kitty had admonished, placing her fingertips on his mouth.

  "Kitty, I mean it. There's no way of knowing how I'm going to come out of this. And I don't want you . . . wouldn't want anyone . . . tied to a man . . . who's no longer a real man."

  "Richard, you're the man I love, the most real man I know, the bravest, the most—"

  "Kitty, promise me . . . when the doctors give me the final outcome on all this . . . if it's negative—" He had halted. "You know I may never walk again—"

  Glimpsing her reflection in the train window, Kitty hoped with all her heart that her expression had not betrayed her like this at Richard's bedside. As a nurse she had seen enough, learned enough in her experience to know that Richard's prognosis was not optimistic.

  But it didn't matter. It wouldn't change her love, her loyalty to him. She thought of the day they had slipped into the little chateau chapel. In retrospect, their prayer, their pledge seemed as meaningful, as binding as the betrothal ceremonies of olden times. Whatever happened, she would never desert Richard, never renege on the promise she had freely given him.

  November 1918

  Kitty was in the small annex off her ward, writing one of the letters that had become her bittersweet duty in her assignment on the Salle de Mort, when news came of the armistice.

  "Cameron, it's over! The war's over!" announced one of the VADs over the wild clanging of the chapel bell. "The Germans have surrendered. Come on out to the staff room and celebrate with us! Hurry up!"

  Kitty let her go. As if from a long distance, she heard the sound of excited voices, the shouts, the rush of running feet along the stone corridors. Oddly, she felt nothing.

  Of course, she was glad it was over—relieved that there would be no more killing, no mutilated bodies, no crippling wounds. But it would never be over for some. Not for Mrs. Benson to whom Kitty was finishing a letter about her son Bill. Kitty blinked back tears.

  And it wasn't over for Richard. Or for her. They still had a long way to go. "There's a long, long trail awinding—" The refrain spun into her mind once more. Kitty straightened her shoulders and, with a sigh, continued writing.

  After that, things happened quickly. By the end of the week all the VADs had been dismissed, for the hospital would soon be evacuated and closed. French nurses would take over the patient care, and all others would be sent home, to England and America.

  The last day, Dora and Kitty packed up their belongings in the crowded little room they had shared for almost two years. Together, they went down the winding stone steps and gathered with the other members of the staff. The head French doctor and Matron each said a few words, commending the VADs for their excellent work. There was much shaking of hands, kissing, and hugging before the English VADs, Kitty with them, boarded the bus and departed for the two-hour trip to Calais for the Channel crossing.

  Dora's family was waiting on the dock to greet her, and Kitty was introduced all around. She and Dora exchanged addresses, said a tearful good-bye, and Dora went off with her proud Mum and Dad. Kitty took the train up to London . . . and Richard.

  chapter

  22

  Mayfield, Virginia

  Fall 1919

  There's a silver lining

  Through the dark clouds shining . . .

  When our boys come home.

  —a popular song of World War I

  CARA CAMERON BRANDT stood on the terrace of Cameron Hall and breathed deeply of the crisp autumn air. Lines o f a poem she had memorized as a child came to mind, something about purple gentians, sunshine, and "October's bright blue weather." She was suddenly happy in a way that she had not been happy in a long time.

  Once in a sermon Owen had tried to explain the difference between joy and contentment. Then she had not really understood. She did know, however, that what she was feeling now was pure, lighthearted joy. It had nothing to do with loving Owen or their life together that was so earnest and so worthwhile and, yes, sanctifying.

  She walked down to the stables and greeted the groom who had brought out her horse, Valor. Cara mounted, and the old spark of excitement stirred. It had been ages since she had been off for an afternoon's canter on a fine horse.

  The air was sharp with the tang of autumn. The horse's ear twitched and he tugged at the reins, eager to take the stone fence at the end of the meadow.

  A rush of remembrance coursed through Cara. She threw back her head and laughed, letting the reins slide forward in her hands, giving the horse his head.

  She had not gone far along the bridle path when she heard the sound of hoofbeats. She reined sharply, listening, then turned in her saddle to see a man on horseback.

  Kip! Kip Montrose. She had not seen him in five years.

  As he came in sight of her, he drew up short, sending his horse rearing and tossing his mane. He circled, then leaning forward to calm his mount, Kip looked at her. An expression of disbelief crossed his face.

  "Cara! Is it really you? I thought I was having some sort of delusion."

  She laughed. "No, Kip, it's me."

  He walked his horse nearer so they were side by side.

  "How are you, Kip?" Cara asked, thinking he looked older, his eyes haunted. "I didn't know you were back."

  "I didn't let anyone know I was coming."

  "Didn't want a hero's welcome, eh?"

  "Didn't want a hero's welcome, "Are there any heroes?"

  She thought of Owen, who had given his life for someone he didn't even know. "A few."

  Kip looked stricken. "I'm sorry, Cara. I didn't mean . . . He was a fine, fine man." He halted, frowning. "You're looking well, Cara. Are you here to stay?"

  "No, just to see my parents. Actually, I'm going back to France. I have a job in an orphanage there." She sighed. "There are so many orphans—" Her voice trailed away as she leaned down and patted her horse's bronze mane. "Somehow, I thought that going back, doing something to help might make it all seem worthwhile, after all."

  Kip did not say anything. What was there to say?

  "The truth is, Kip, this isn't home anymore. I've changed. I don't seem to belong here."

  "I know what you mean. I'm not sure I do, either."

  Cara smiled ruefully. "Perhaps we are casualties o f the war, as well."

  Kip looked straight ahead for a moment then turned and looked at Cara. "Everyone blames everything on the war—with justification in many cases. It did change things, changed the way people look at life. And it changed people. I suppose none of us will ever be the same."

  Cara was surprised. This didn't sound like the old Kip. That Kip had rarely had such introspection. But then, he was right. The war had changed everyone.


  "Well, I must go now. Mama will be wondering where I've been so long. I'm leaving in the morning. First, to Washington, D.C., to get all my papers in order, then to New York. I sail on the eighteenth of this month." She untied the horse's reins and hesitated, not knowing quite what to say. "I'm sorry about Etienette, Kip—"

  There was nothing else to say. No word of sympathy or comfort would help, she knew too well. For both of them, there was a grave "somewhere in France" where all their young hopes and passions were buried.

  Kip watched Cara go as horse and rider disappeared through the thick autumn woods. He had meant to ask her when Kitty was coming home, but being with the new Cara, the woman she had become, had distracted him. The girl he had once thought he loved had vanished, and it had shaken him.

  His world, the one he'd missed and longed for, hoped to bring Etienette back to, was gone. He was left adrift. Maybe when Kitty came, he could get his bearings again—

  chapter

  23

  Washington, D.C.

  October 1919

  THE MORNING she was to leave for Virginia, Kitty went out to see Richard at the hospital. Although the visit on the whole was cheerful, when it came time for her to leave she was aware of his mounting anxiety.

  Checking her watch, she finally had to say, "I'll have to be going, Richard. Scott is treating me to lunch at some fancy Washington restaurant before taking me to the train." She got to her feet, leaned down to kiss him good-bye.

  He looked up at her with those truth-seeking eyes. "Are you sure, Kitty?"

  "Of course, I'm sure. I can't wait for you to see Mayfield, to meet my parents. And to show you our little house. It will be all snug and cozy, ready and waiting for you when they release you."

  She kissed him then, and he drew her face down to his once more. "I love you."

  "And I love you—" She smiled at him—"very much."