A Nightingale in Winter

by Margaret K Johnson

  Dirk nodded. “Yes, yes I am. Eleanor Martin. VAD Eleanor Martin. I…I’m a friend of hers. Do you know where she is?”

  The VAD nodded. “Yes, actually, I do. Sister told her to take some time off to rest, but just a little while ago, I saw her going off for a walk with her sweetheart. All right for some, I must say!”

  Dirk’s heart began to race. What was the woman talking about? “Her sweetheart?” he repeated, and the VAD nodded.

  “Yes, that artist chappie. What was his name? Leo, that was it. Leo Cartwright. Always drawing her, he was, at Revigny. Couldn’t get enough of her. I offered to pose for him once, but he wouldn’t have it. It was Eleanor or nothing. From the way they were holding hands just now, I’d say the feeling’s definitely mutual. But look, I must get on. If you really want to play gooseberry, I saw them heading toward those trees over there. Bye for now.”

  The VAD went on her way, leaving Dirk staring after her, utterly stunned. It had to be a mistake. Eleanor wouldn’t have responded to him the way she had at Royaumont if she were already involved with this Cartwright guy. But then he remembered the little sketch that had fallen from her notebook when they’d first arrived at Royaumont, the skillful attention to detail in every line of the drawing, and the artist’s signature. Leo Cartwright. Eleanor had been embarrassed that he’d seen it. Vividly, Dirk remembered the way her face had flamed, how she’d quickly taken the drawing from him to conceal it in her notebook. Was the drawing precious to her? Was that why she’d taken it with her to Royaumont? As a reminder of the man she’d left behind?

  No, that was a stupid way to think. There was no way Eleanor could have been pretending when he’d bent to kiss her in the moonlight. Her body had trembled with reaction. He’d seen the shy emotion in her gaze. He knew their time at Royaumont together had meant something to her, he knew it had. He meant something to her. But did this Leo Cartwright mean something to her too?

  He had to find out.

  For a moment, after Eleanor had rejected Leo’s proposal, there was complete silence, except for the distant rumble of gunfire on the breeze.

  “I’m so very sorry if I did anything to give you the impression I might accept your proposal, Private Cartwright,” Eleanor said, watching as Leo stood up to brush down his trouser legs with his hands. Since his uniform was already covered in mud, grime, and blood, she knew this action could only be to hide his embarrassment, and once again she felt for him.

  “I…I have led quite a sheltered life,” she blundered on, “so it’s possible that…Well, perhaps I’m not so well versed as I might be about the way one should behave toward a member of the opposite sex.”

  Something crossed Leo’s face, a look of anger he quickly disguised with a smile. “No, Eleanor,” he said smoothly. “That can’t be right, can it? You can’t claim to be an innocent and pronounce that you seduced your stepbrother in the same breath. It’s simply not possible.”

  Eleanor flushed. “I don’t pronounce any such thing,” she said. “My father is mistaken.”

  Leo frowned. “Are you saying he imagined the whole story? Or worse still, that he made the whole thing up?” he asked, then shook his head. “I don’t think that can be the case, can it? Not a gentleman of the Cloth. He wouldn’t tell lies.”

  “He wishes to hide from the truth, that is all,” she said, realizing the truth of her own words. “Reginald may not have been his son, but he adored him. He couldn’t bear to think—”

  But it was clear that Leo wasn’t listening. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I think what’s happening here, Eleanor, is a little game playing, is it not?” To Eleanor’s deep dismay, he reached for her hands, pulling her closer to him. “That’s what you ladies enjoy, is it not? I understand. You’re different than the class of female I’ve been accustomed to, the type that offers everything to a man on a plate without a hint of pretense. Your class of woman likes to play hard to get, doesn’t she? You enjoy the thrill of the chase. But beneath the surface, I know you feel things just as keenly as the most common of harlots.”

  “No,” she whispered, as he pulled her closer still to his chest. “That’s not true. You’re wrong. I…I’m not playing any games.”

  “Well, it’s quite right that you shouldn’t be, Eleanor,” he said, his eyes burning down into hers. “Because the time for playing games is over.”

  And with that, his lips descended on hers for a crushing kiss.

  The battle sounded closer than ever as Dirk strode from the makeshift hospital toward the trees. The VAD’s words were banging around his brain every bit as loudly as the shellfire from the Front. Her sweetheart. Her sweetheart. That artist chappie, Leo Cartwright. Always drawing her, he was. Couldn’t get enough of her. From the way they were holding hands just now, I’d say the feeling is definitely mutual. Mutual. Mutual.

  It wasn’t possible. Couldn’t be possible. And yet, three years ago, he would have said it was impossible that he was adopted. His parents had been his parents, and that was that. Until he’d gone into the attic to find a suitcase and found out they were not. And Jimmy. How could he have predicted that Jimmy—larger than life Jimmy—would die on his way to France? Hadn’t Dirk learned by now to expect the unexpected? Life just did not go the way you hoped and expected it to go.

  He was at the trees now, moving into their shady depths, his eyes searching. How very different this sultry heat was to the crisp night air of his moonlit walk with Eleanor at Royaumont. Flies buzzed around his face, and he paused to swat them away. As he did so, something caught his attention through the trees. A flash of color.

  Moving as silently as he could, Dirk went closer. It was a couple in a passionate embrace, the woman pressed against the man’s chest. He didn’t recognize the man, but the woman was Eleanor.

  Putting a hand to his mouth, Dirk watched for a moment, horrified. Eleanor was still and acquiescent in the man’s arms. Clearly she wanted him to kiss her that way, for if she did not, then she would be struggling. And she wasn’t.

  It was too much for Dirk to bear. Turning, he moved away, covering the ground between the trees and the makeshift hospital at record speed. The ambulance driver was just about to set off again. He was more than willing to give Dirk another lift, though he was clearly bemused as to why Dirk was leaving so soon. But when Dirk refused to offer any explanation, and merely sat slumped against the vehicle door with his eyes closed, the ambulance driver finally took the hint and drove silently along the bumpy road back toward the war zone.

  In her mind, Eleanor was no longer in the wood with Leo’s mouth grinding against her own. She was in England, at the vicarage, eight years previously, tearing down the stairs and out into the garden, a panicked scream rising in her throat. Reginald was coming out of her bedroom; he was coming after her. It would do her no good to scream, for there was no one else in the house—it was the housekeeper’s day off, and her stepmother had accompanied her father on a visit to a sick parishioner.

  Eleanor had been sewing quietly by the window when Reginald had come in. She was surprised to see him; the two of them had never been at all close, and since Reginald had been away at school, he’d become even more of a stranger to her. He was a good six inches taller than when she’d seen him last, and his shoulders had broadened too. In the mornings, there was a suspicion of shadow about his jaw. Worst of all, though, was his air of sardonic superiority, a lording over all of them, of which his mother and her father actually seemed to approve. Her father asked for Reginald’s opinions on every subject, while Reginald’s mother mostly just sat and smiled at him in admiration.

  “Well, I think the Church should be suspicious of the tradition of the Harvest Festival, stepfather. It’s a clear reference to the times when man worshiped the elements as if they were gods. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that it’s pagan, not holy.”

  “How clever, Reginald, dear. I would never have thought of it quite like that.” His mother.

  “It’s an interesting point, Regin
ald, and possibly not without a measure of truth. But the fact remains that as the Church of England embraces the festival, it is purely for the purposes of thanks—thanks to God for his generosity. It doesn’t do any of us any harm to remember where our food comes from and to be grateful for it.” Her father.

  Never expected or encouraged to take part in such discussions, Eleanor was accustomed to remaining quiet, listening to each side in turn while getting on with her sewing or some other useful task. But on this occasion, Reginald had seemed to want her input.

  “What about you, sister dear?” he asked, standing in front of her, a parody of their father with his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels.

  Eleanor flushed. She was as unaccustomed to being called “sister dear” as she was to having her opinion consulted. She wasn’t his sister, after all, and had never felt like it.

  “What do you think of pagan rituals?”

  There was a moment’s awkward silence, then her stepmother laughed. “Reginald dear, don’t be cruel. I would hope that Eleanor would have no idea what a pagan ritual is, let alone possess any opinions on them. Why, I hardly know myself.”

  “Ah, poor, innocent Mama.” Reginald threw his arms extravagantly around his mother’s neck from behind, causing general laughter in the room.

  Only Eleanor didn’t laugh. She felt ill at ease, discomforted. And it seemed she had reason to be, for this was not to be an isolated incident. Having virtually ignored her ever since his mother had married her father, Reginald had now, for some unexplained reason, decided to take an interest in her, seeking her opinions frequently, and asking her questions about her day. It might have been flattering or heart-warming except that for some reason Eleanor didn’t trust his interest. There was something in his eyes, some agenda there behind his smile she couldn’t interpret.

  She remembered an incident from before Reginald had gone away to boarding school, of coming across Reginald in the garden. He had hold of a bird that he’d rescued from the jaws of their cat. It was still alive, although it didn’t look as if it would ultimately survive its ordeal. While Eleanor watched, Reginald wrung its neck, which was, of course, the humane thing to do. Except that Eleanor had seen the pleasure in his face while he’d done it. He’d enjoyed killing the bird, and it had upset her so much she’d run indoors crying.

  When he came into her bedroom that morning, they were alone in the house. He told her he was bored. “I hate it here,” he said, hands in pockets, kicking at the rug with his foot. “It’s so utterly tedious. So is school for that matter, but at least my friends are there.”

  Eleanor looked up at him from her sewing, and for once she felt a flash of anger. He was so lucky being a boy, being able to go to school, having a prospect of a career in the future. Her own life was likely to remain very much as it was now, occupied in quiet domestic activities, the only possible change being that she might marry one day and exchange one domestic setting for another. She had such a fierce hunger for knowledge—hunger that had remained quite unsatisfied by the skimpy education she’d received. She could read and write well, but that was all. Reginald learned about history, science, and mathematics, even about the other countries of the world.

  “What are you looking at me like that for?” he asked, coming closer. “I call that a positively insolent look. Come on, explain it.”

  She wished he would go away and leave her alone. “I didn’t intend to look at you in any particular way,” she said, lowering her head.

  “Ah, you may not have intended to, but the fact remains that you did,” he persisted. “So, come on, explain yourself.”

  “I…I was merely thinking that you…Well, you’re lucky.”

  “Oh, am I indeed? And why is that?”

  “You…you go to school. You must learn such interesting things there.”

  “You’d like to go to school yourself, is that it? I suppose a life of comfort and luxury and hardly ever having to turn your hand to anything isn’t good enough for you?”

  Eleanor looked up in alarm. “I didn’t say…”

  “You didn’t say, you didn’t say! Well, I beg to differ. You did say. And when we have someone like yourself who says so very little and is in consequence so extremely dull, then believe you me, every tiny little word counts and should not be overlooked.”

  By now he had hold of Eleanor’s upper arms and was pulling her to her feet, causing her sewing hoop to fall to the floor with a clatter.

  “Reginald, please…”

  He ignored her. “Perhaps you need a little excitement in your life, hmm? Something sewing or flower arranging will never be able to give you. All my friends say their sisters have become much more interesting once they’ve had a taste of the opposite sex.” He pulled her to him with a violent tug that snapped her head back.

  “No! Reginald! Please!” There was only time to cry out once before his mouth hit hers, and then there was no more speaking.

  His breath, his tongue, his teeth, his smell. She was smothered by him, consumed by him, and every time she struggled to break free, his fingers dug more painfully into her flesh.

  And then he was tearing at her clothing. As she screamed, Eleanor saw the pleasure in his face. With it came a temporary lapse in his concentration, and she seized her chance and fled from the room and down the stairs, whimpering all the way with terror, holding her blouse together with her hands.

  “Help!” she cried. “Help me!” But the house remained empty, and nobody came.

  Blundering outside, she stood on the garden path and looked desperately around her. She then squeezed her body into the space between the garden wall and the greenhouse.

  When he didn’t come after a while, she began to think he’d given up. But there was a terrible sense of being watched, and she turned her head…and saw him. He smiled at her for a while through the grimy pane of the greenhouse, and then he disappeared from view, only to reappear moments later outside, looking at her from the end of the gap.

  Now he looked contrite. “I frightened you, Eleanor,” he said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. It was a prank, that’s all, a silly prank that got out of control. I really am truly sorry. Please…let’s just forget it. The parents will be home soon. Come on, come out. Say you forgive me.” On and on he went, cajoling and pleading with her. In the end, she believed him and began to make her way cautiously out toward the garden.

  “That’s it, that’s it. We can still be friends. No one need ever now about this. It’ll be our secret…”

  But the moment she reached the end of the gap, he was on her again, pushing her to the ground, pulling up her skirts, his excitement seeming to increase every time she screamed or struggled…

  As Leo continued to kiss her, tears began to slide down Eleanor’s face as she remembered how all her struggles had been in vain. She’d even tried to bite her stepbrother, but none of it had done her any good. Reginald had just slapped her about the head and face, finally forcing a knee cruelly between her legs. If anything, her attempts to break free had inflamed him still more.

  Suddenly, she knew it would be the same with Leo if she didn’t act soon. He may not possess quite the same streak of ruthless cruelty as her stepbrother, but he was convinced that she desired him—that this…this onslaught was what she wanted. But it was not. It was not!

  “No!” she said, forcing her head back from his and pushing at his chest. “Let me go, Private Cartwright!”

  Leo pulled back slightly to look down at her, and for the first time a flicker of uncertainty crossed his face.

  “Let me go, Leo,” she said, pushing at his chest again. “Please. No matter what you think, I don’t want this. I have never wanted this. Not with you.”

  “You don’t mean it,” he said, but his grip was loosening, and she tore herself away from him at last.

  “I do,” she said, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. “And I’m so sorry if I ever gave you the impression otherwise. I’m flattered tha
t you…that you…”

  The tears were still streaming down her face, and he reached out toward her again.

  “No!” she said. “Don’t touch me. I’m going to leave now. I’m going to walk away, through the trees, and I think it would be best if you stay here until I’m back at the hospital. Then I want you to leave.”

  Leo was still staring at her. He looked as if he were in shock. Taking all her courage into her hands, Eleanor turned and began to move away.

  She had once heard one of her father’s parishioners speaking about big game hunting, of how it was best not to turn and run if you were being pursued, in case the rapid movement inspired the instinct to chase. Even though every pore of her body wanted her to run faster than she had ever run in her life, Eleanor took this advice now. Her hands were clenched into fists at her side, the only outward sign of her tension. With every step, she expected Leo Cartwright to grab her from behind. To throw her down onto the ground and to force himself on her the way Reginald had done.

  But the bell tents were in sight now, and he hadn’t come yet. Maybe, just maybe, it was going to be all right this time. A sudden sound startled her, but she soon realized it was only an ambulance starting up on the other side of camp. Eleanor dared to relax a little. She could hear anxious voices of doctors and nurses in the main treatment tent. The groans of the wounded. And, most wonderful of all, her tent was in sight. She was safe.

  Part Three

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  December 1916

  HILDA MCPHERSON WAS LOOKING at Eleanor with an expression of concern on her face. “Are you sure you’re ready for this, my dear?”

  She smiled at Hilda as reassuringly as she could, a wave of emotional gratitude sweeping through her. In the five months Eleanor had been living and working at Royaumont, Hilda had become a dear friend, nursing her when she was ill, and listening to her when she was finally ready to talk. Hilda was the only person in the world who knew about Eleanor’s returning memories of being raped and about her close escape from Leo Cartwright. She was therefore the only person who could understand what a big step Eleanor was about to take.