A Nightingale in Winter

by Margaret K Johnson

  Cover

  Title Page

  A Nightingale in Winter

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  Margaret K. Johnson

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  Omnific Publishing

  Los Angeles

  Copyright Information

  A Nightingale in Winter, Copyright © 2015 by Margaret K. Johnson

  All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

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  Omnific Publishing

  1901 Avenue of the Stars, 2nd Floor

  Los Angeles, California 90067

  www.omnificpublishing.com

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  First Omnific eBook edition, August 2015

  First Omnific trade paperback edition, August 2015

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  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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  Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

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  Johnson, Margaret K.

  A Nightingale in Winter / Margaret K. Johnson – 1st ed

  ISBN: 978-1-623422-17-2

  1. Romance—Fiction. 2. World War I—Fiction. 3. Journalism—Fiction. 4. Nursing—Fiction. I. Title

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  Cover Design by Micha Stone and Amy Brokaw

  Interior Book Design by Coreen Montagna

  Dedication

  To Grahm and Alfie, with my love.

  Part One

  Chapter One

  March 1916

  THE MAN WAS DEFINITELY WATCHING HER. Eleanor quickly turned away to look up the line for the London train. Who was he? Had her father sent him?

  “Excuse me, miss.”

  To her horror, the man was now standing by her side, hat in hand. Then she noticed that he wasn’t alone. A girl of about her own age was with him; a girl dressed like herself in a VAD uniform.

  “I’m so sorry to trouble you,” he was saying, “but I’m a little anxious about my daughter traveling to London on her own. I wonder, would you mind if she sat with you during the journey?”

  Relief caused Eleanor to close her eyes momentarily. When she spoke, her voice was unsteady. “Yes, that’s quite…I should be…Yes.” She faltered to a stop, and the man looked at her a little oddly, as if he now regretted making the request. The girl—his daughter—laughed delightedly, showing perfect white teeth.

  “I’m Kit,” she introduced herself, holding out a slender hand. “And don’t mind my father; he’s more of an old lady than a white slaver, honestly.”

  “Katherine,” her father chided her, but Kit just laughed again.

  “Well, really, Daddy. You quite terrified the poor girl, creeping up on her like that.”

  Eleanor had extended her hand automatically when Kit did, and now she found it being enthusiastically pumped up and down.

  “But I can’t refer to you as the ‘girl’ if we’re to be traveling companions.”

  Kit paused expectantly, and Eleanor pulled her scattered wits together with an effort.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Eleanor.”

  Kit’s smile was warm. “What a lovely name! And are you traveling to France?”

  Eleanor nodded. “Yes, to a hospital at Revigny, just outside Verdun.”

  “But I’m going to Revigny as well!” Kit exclaimed, astonished, and further questioning revealed that they were, in fact, to be based at the same hospital, which had been an abbey before the war. “Isn’t that too perfect, Papa?” Kit said excitedly, just as the train approached.

  Escape was so close now. All Eleanor had to do was get onto the train. Surely nothing could stop her?

  The train ground noisily to a halt. Doors were opened, and people started to get off. All was noise, confusion, and smoke. Then, through the throng, Eleanor glimpsed a familiar face. Mr. Charles, one of her father’s churchwardens. Scanning the crowd. Looking for someone.

  “I’ll leave you to say…your goodbyes,” she said, picking up her case. “I’ll find us some seats.”

  Without waiting for a reply, she walked toward the train, mingling with families and ladies with large skirts and hats, her gaze averted from the churchwarden. There were still people disembarking, so she was forced to wait in a fever of impatience, all the time expecting Mr. Charles’ age-spotted hand to close on her shoulder.

  But the expected interruption didn’t come, and at last she was climbing up into the train. Walking along the corridor. Taking a seat. Only then did she dare to dart a glance out the grimy window from the cover of the tied-back curtain, just in time to see Mr. Charles’ son, Horace, leaning heavily on a stick as he made his way painfully through the crowd to his father. Of course, she’d heard Mr. Charles tell her father that Horace was in an officer’s convalescent home near Leicester. He must have been discharged. She watched as the old man embraced his son. He hadn’t been looking for her at all; it was going to be all right.

  Kit got into the train at the very last minute and collapsed theatrically into the seat opposite Eleanor. “Dear Daddy,” she said, “he will pretend to be cold-hearted, but it’s all an utter sham.” She looked at Eleanor, who was still sitting there with her hat and coat on, her case on her lap. “My dear, aren’t you going to get your valise stowed somewhere for you? Your knees will be positively black and blue by the time we get to London!”

  Five minutes into the journey, Eleanor had heard how the death of Kit’s friend’s brother had meant that her friend could not accompany Kit to Revigny as planned. Now Kit was talking about how she and her friend Jane had come to join the Red Cross at the beginning of the war, and Eleanor allowed herself to relax a little. Kit’s words washed over her, undemanding and even a little soothing. She was tired, having been too keyed up to sleep much the previous night.

  “The Boy Scouts they gave us to practice on when we first joined were somewhat different to the real thing,” Kit was saying. “They were little tykes, they really were. I could happily have bandaged them permanently to a post! And the grown-up version isn’t always very much better, are they? Though, on the whole, they’re a thoroughly nice bunch. Awfully sad to see them wounded, isn’t it? Though, better wounded than dead like Jane’s brother.”

  Remembering, Kit’s face grew sad. “Mama wanted me to change my mind about going after we got the news. She was quite tearful, most unlike Mama. She rarely shows one what she feels. I suppose she’d been really worried about my going all the time, but was just doing her best to hide it. She was even nervous about my sailing to France! Jane’s dreadful news just opened the floodgates, I suppose. What’s your mother like?”

  The question took Eleanor by surprise. Kit had seemed happy to rattle on, expecting only the briefest nod as encouragement to continue. It was startling to suddenly have the spotlight of attention turned upon her.

  “My mother’s dead,” she said quietly, but if she’d hoped that Kit would tactfully change the subject at such an answer, she soon realized she couldn’t have been more wrong. Kit was all concern and curiosity, bombarding her with a dozen questions. When did she die? What of? Do you miss her? You poor thing!

  Eleanor hesitated. If this weren’t such sensitive territory, then she might have been touched by her companion’s concern, but she really didn’t want to talk about it. Serving in France was her chance for a new start. She wanted more than anything else to leave old hurts behind.

  “My mother died in childbirth when I was eight,” she said, then continued quickly, over Kit’s exclamations of sympath
y. “My father is also dead. He…passed away last year.” It was not normally in her nature to lie, but it would be simpler this way. And besides, she never intended to return to Mountberry Vicarage. From now on, her father would be as good as dead to her. She swallowed, her mouth dry. “But I prefer…I prefer not to speak of these things,” she ended, and this at least was true. Very true.

  When Eleanor lowered her eyes, Kit took it as a gesture of grief. “Oh my dear! I quite understand. How absolutely terrible for you.” There was such a wealth of compassion in her companion’s voice that Eleanor felt instantly guilty about deceiving her. “I won’t mention the subject again unless you do.”

  Eleanor did her best to smile. “Thank you.”

  “Gosh! Listen to all these people! There must be at least ten different nationalities on board. That sounds like Spanish, though.”

  The journey had taken a long time, but at last they were on board The Sussex, the ship that was to take them to France. She had set sail from Folkestone ten minutes previously, and the white cliffs of the coastline were still visible.

  Standing at the rail, Eleanor watched England receding, only half-listening to Kit’s chatter. She was experiencing a confusing mixture of emotions. Here she was, on board a ship bound for France, free at last. Even if her father found out where she’d been posted to, it was most unlikely he would follow her.

  He was no longer a threat to her. And yet…somehow she didn’t feel as huge a sense of relief as she’d expected to feel. This was what she’d dreamed of and planned for months and months, but now that she’d achieved it, now that she was actually here, she felt…alone. And since she’d been effectively alone for as long as she could remember, this was something she couldn’t fully comprehend.

  Kit wasn’t facing the receding shoreline; she was standing with her back against the rail, observing their fellow passengers. “This really is splendid! Oh, how Jane would have loved it!”

  Eleanor turned away from the retreating land and made an effort to smile at her new companion. Her future was in France. If she tried, she could make friends with Kit. Sad thoughts were foolish. However, while they were almost the same age, she and this vibrant young woman, Eleanor couldn’t help feeling at least ten years older. Perhaps she would always feel older than her years.

  “I’m no substitute for your friend, I’m afraid,” she said, knowing from what Kit had told her that Jane was fun-loving and vivacious—a lot, indeed, like Kit herself.

  Kit was looking at her, shaking her head. “What rot,” she said simply. “You’re delightful, and I’m eternally grateful for your agreeing to hitch up with me. We’re going to have such fun, the two of us.” Her attention returned to the bustle of the ship. “Oh, I say,” she hissed, clutching at Eleanor’s arm, “look how fat that woman is!”

  Eleanor looked discreetly. The woman was indeed very large, but she was accompanied by a man who looked as if he were her husband, an extremely attractive man who seemed to care a good deal for his wife. Eleanor was about to point this out to Kit, but her friend was looking at a coastal patrol airship that was drifting noisily overhead now, its shadow moving across the deck until it swept over them. Several groups of people were watching its progress, pointing and laughing and chattering together. The Sussex was crowded, and there was an air of adventure and excitement on board, everyone talking with noisy animation, almost as if they were at a party.

  There was one particularly noisy group of women nearby—Americans by the sound of their accents. One of them had what looked like a sampler of small swatches of material that she was showing to the others, and a debate about the quality of the fabric seemed to be taking place.

  “D’you suppose she’s going to have some clothes made up in Paris?” Kit asked enviously, but Eleanor shook her head.

  “I think they may be going to conduct some sort of commercial activity,” she said, observing the way the woman with the swatches seemed so earnest to get her point across.

  “How exciting!” Kit enthused, but Eleanor was not envious of the women. In France, she would be doing what she wanted to do. A hospital ward felt like her own natural habitat. A boardroom or a shop floor never would do.

  “It’s getting choppy now,” Kit observed. “The wind’s getting up.”

  “Do you want to go below?”

  Kit seemed undecided. “I suppose we could. I like it up here, though, don’t you? If we didn’t have to wear these infernal hats, the wind would be whipping through our hair. Lovely! It’s what I love most about riding: the wind. Still, I suppose a cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss. What do you want to do?”

  Eleanor may never have gone riding, but she was enjoying being out in the elements. It was rather chilly, it was true, and the sea was getting a little rough, but thankfully she was not yet feeling seasick. Never having been on a boat, she hadn’t known in advance whether she would do or not.

  “Shall we stay on deck for another ten minutes or so and then go down below?” Eleanor suggested.

  “Very well. But shall we walk a little?”

  They set off at a stroll, and Eleanor smiled as Kit took a path that would ensure their passing very close to the group of American women.

  “I wouldn’t want a dress made up of that,” Kit whispered as soon as they were out of earshot. “Mind you, I suppose it would be an improvement on our uniforms!”

  The air was salty, filled with a fine spray as the waves slapped against the hull. Eleanor took a great breath of it, watching a pair of seagulls swooping down to catch fish. She’d only seen the sea once before, and that had been a very different occasion compared to this one. Her family had been en route to visit relatives, and her father hadn’t even had the driver slow the carriage down, let alone stop.

  Father. He didn’t seem to want to leave her alone.

  “You look a little pale, Eleanor,” Kit observed. “Would you rather go down below now?”

  Eleanor rallied herself. “No, I’m all right, thank you. But perhaps we could find some shelter?”

  There was a partially enclosed wooden bench a little way ahead, and they sat in it, looking out to sea. On the horizon, another ship was passing them, bound, by the look of it, for England.

  “I wonder if it will be so very different in France to what we’ve been used to?” Kit said. “The hospitals, I mean. After all, a casualty’s a casualty, I suppose. I hope we have plenty of off-duty times.”

  “I don’t suppose we’ll get any for a wh—” Eleanor broke off when it became clear that Kit was no longer listening. She was looking at something through the half-glassed partition at the side of the bench.

  “I say,” she whispered, half-turning back to Eleanor, “there are two men coming this way. Listen, I think they may be American.”

  Eleanor leaned forward slightly to look and immediately wished she hadn’t. For at that moment, the men stopped speaking, and as she watched, they caught sight of Kit and Eleanor looking at them through the glass. Instantly Eleanor looked away, her heart suddenly racing. Something…some chord of memory, had been triggered within her at the sight of the men, viewed through the glass like that, a chord of memory she had no wish to dwell on. Just lately, these wisps of disturbing memories had been returning to her more and more often, gathering in her dreams at night and making an unwelcome appearance by day. It was one of the things she had come to France to escape from.

  The men were almost upon them. Kit was fiddling with her clothes, straightening herself up, and Eleanor knew with a sudden awful certainty that she intended to talk to them.

  “I say, they seem awfully attractive,” she added, confirming it, and then the pair was there in front of them.

  “Hello,” Kit said, smiling.

  The men returned Kit’s smile and took off their hats. “Good day to you, ladies,” one of them—the blond one—said, and Eleanor looked up at him, the chord of memory growing stronger.

  Come on, now, Eleanor, someone like him had said to her once. Come on. Suddenly, sh
e felt faint. The limitless air around them didn’t seem to be able to furnish her with enough to breathe.

  “Good afternoon,” the dark-haired man said, but Eleanor got to her feet, speaking over him.

  “Excuse me,” she said, suddenly so desperate to escape that the feeling overwhelmed all other thoughts. She began to walk away, slowly at first, then faster and faster, the necessity to explain her behavior the very last thing on her mind at that moment.

  “Eleanor!” she faintly heard Kit calling as she mingled with the safety of the crowd. “Eleanor, where are you going?”

  Chapter Two

  “FOOL, FOOL, FOOL!” At her position at the rail, Eleanor was cursing herself. Behaving like that, embarrassing herself like that. So much for a new start.

  But she’d been so afraid. No, more than that. She’d been terrified—so terrified that her bones had turned to water and her hands and feet had tingled and turned numb. It had been difficult to breathe, too, and she knew that it been something about looking up and seeing the men through the glass like that. The blond man in particular had seemed so uncannily, frighteningly familiar. The sudden terror had swamped her, and she’d succumbed to panic.

  Instinct told her that it was connected to the period of her life she’d forgotten during a mental breakdown eight years before, a breakdown that took several years from which to recover. Whenever she remembered that time, she found it difficult to breathe, so she always did her best not to think about it. Only for some reason, just lately, her father seemed to have decided these lost memories were a subject that needed to be broached. Over and over again. But Eleanor did not wish to remember, and nor did she wish to see the psychologist her father intended to engage for the purpose.

  And so, she had run.

  England and the white cliffs of Dover were long gone now, and only the choppy caps of the waves could be seen. A seagull wheeled overhead, shrieking a guttural protest, and Eleanor took a deep breath. Her father couldn’t reach her here, and if she didn’t want to, she need never go back. She could make a new life for herself. She was making a new life for herself. If only she hadn’t acted like a crazy woman, running off like that. She and Kit had been getting along quite well, but now Kit was going to think she was some kind of crazy woman. They still had the rest of the journey to Revigny to make together, and then they would be working at the same hospital. Oh, why had she had to go and make things so complicated?