A Nightingale in Winter

by Margaret K Johnson

  “I think I am, yes.” Eleanor said. “I’m well again, thanks to you. All I want now is to face up to my past and to be able to leave it behind me once and for all.”

  Hilda sighed. “Well, do remember, you can always change your mind. You don’t have to go through with it. Should you decide not to confront your father, after all, I certainly won’t think any the worse of you. Why don’t you see how you feel after the wedding? You’ve been so very ill, my dear.”

  Eleanor reached out to squeeze her friend’s hand. “I’m fine now. Honestly I am.”

  It was true. She was fine, at least compared to how she’d been when she’d arrived at Royaumont. For then, she had been a silent, closed-in creature, her body shaking in reaction to what had nearly happened once again, this time at Leo Cartwright’s hands. She had been unable to return to her duties, and with conditions still so horrendously busy at the Casualty Clearing Station, the decision had been made to send her home to England to recuperate. But instead, Eleanor had traveled to Royaumont, and Hilda McPherson, after taking one look at her, had taken Eleanor into her care, making a bed up in her own room for her. When, at last, Eleanor had felt ready to talk, and the full story had come out, Hilda had listened sympathetically to every halting word. Once Eleanor showed signs of recovery, Hilda applied for her to be transferred to Royaumont for the duration of the war. The work at Royaumont was hard but rewarding, and Eleanor felt as if she were a valued member of a team. Life began to improve considerably.

  There was only one fly in the ointment, and it was a big one. Eleanor had written to Dirk to tell him of her new placement just as soon as she had been well enough to do so, but she’d received no word back from him. As the weeks turned into months, she wrote again. And again. But there was still no word, and Eleanor began to feel very concerned about him. Even more so when her letters were returned to her in a bundle with a scrawled handwritten note stating that Dirk had moved on, his address and whereabouts unknown. Had he been injured while he was reporting in the field? Or worse still, killed?

  Despite the great satisfaction Eleanor gained from her duties, and the sense of peace and security she experienced as a result of living in such a friendly and supportive community of women, Eleanor thought constantly of Dirk, replaying their conversations in her mind and rereading his letters.

  When Kit wrote triumphantly to tell Eleanor she was to marry Julian Montague, the news was a welcome diversion. Eleanor was thrilled for her friend and gladly consented to Kit’s request that she be one of her bridesmaids.

  After a date was fixed for her to travel to England for the wedding, Eleanor decided she would pay a visit to her father to confront him about what had happened to her. For Hilda had helped her to see that she had been in no way responsible for Reginald’s attack, and that it had been quite unjust of her family to ever hold her responsible for it.

  “I may travel to Dirk’s headquarters on my way back here,” she told Hilda now. “If it won’t inconvenience you, my being gone one or two days more? I’d like to see if I can get some news of him.”

  Hilda gave her a grim nod. “Of course, my dear. But make sure you’re back in time for Christmas.”

  Eleanor smiled. “I will.”

  The two women hugged each other, and then Eleanor climbed into the ambulance that was to take her to Creil and the train. She waved and waved until the ambulance rounded a corner and left Royaumont behind.

  After the incident at the field station, Dirk had never returned to his GHQ. Writing to his newspaper to tender his resignation, he returned to the Front as an independent, freelance journalist. He proceeded to put himself into the most dangerous situations possible in order to write stories that captured the very essence of war. Buddy, are you trying to get yourself killed? Jimmy’s voice asked him every now and then, a voice he ignored.

  Yet somehow, all the danger in the world wouldn’t keep that image of Eleanor kissing another man at bay. For short periods of time, when Dirk was out there in the thick of battle, he would forget about it, but never entirely. Time after time, he asked himself how he could have been so wrong about Eleanor’s character. He knew he had to try to forget her if he didn’t want to go out of his mind, but somehow he just couldn’t do it, no matter how hard he worked, and no matter how much danger he threw himself into.

  Then one day, when the weather was getting colder and winter was fast approaching, Dirk got talking to a young captain in the military police during a lull in the fighting. The man had the responsibility of catching up with deserters, and Dirk’s interest was aroused.

  “Pathetic chaps they are, most of them,” the captain said, not without sympathy, and it was this sympathy that got Dirk’s journalistic instincts twitching.

  “Are they?”

  “Yes, mostly. Just scared out of their wits. We all are, of course, but some of us can take it better than others. These chaps, well, not many of them are slackers really; they just aren’t cut from terribly strong stuff. Ill in their heads, some of them. Would never have contemplated soldiering in the normal run of things. Chap I’ve got to deal with today was a bank clerk before conscription. His CO says he’s always very neat and tidy, the orderly sort. Doesn’t tally terribly well with trench warfare, does it?”

  “Not really,” Dirk agreed, thinking about it. “But I haven’t read a good deal in the press about deserters.”

  The military police officer snorted derisively. “Naturally you haven’t. Not too good for morale to hear stories like that, is it? Don’t want anybody to get the impression we’ve got a full-scale mutiny on our hands. Or to give the other chaps ideas. Wouldn’t do any harm to write about how we deal with such cases, though.”

  Dirk had the feeling he knew the answer to his question before he asked it. “And how do you deal with them?”

  “They’re court-martialed. After that, some of them are sent back to Blighty for treatment for shell shock. But on the whole, they’re shot.”

  Dirk shivered. “And the chap you’re dealing with today?”

  “I’m not sure which way the court martial will go, actually. I could let you speak to him, if you’re interested. You could tell me what you think.”

  Dirk nodded. “I’d like to, thank you.”

  And so an interview was arranged, an interview which Dirk, as hardened as he’d become now with all he’d witnessed at the front, still found deeply upsetting. The prisoner, a portly man in his mid-thirties called Thompson, seemed to think Dirk might hold some sway over the court martial, and whimpered and pleaded in a way that turned Dirk’s stomach.

  He didn’t stay with Thompson very long and was noncommittal in his report back to the military police officer. In truth, although Dirk felt deeply sorry for Thompson, he didn’t think the man was suffering from any mental illness. He was, quite simply, just terrified. But later, when Dirk learned that Thompson had been sentenced to death, he was horrified. Could he have made a difference to the outcome of the court martial if he’d pleaded the man’s case? But even if he had, would that have been right, when so many thousands of troops were out there, facing the same perilous situations as Thompson had, day after day?

  Dirk now sat miserably, drinking a cup of what passed for tea, to read a letter that had recently come from his father. Over the past few months, the two of them had formed an uneasy truce, writing to each other of factual things, such as their work and whether America would soon enter the war. In this latest letter, his father had spoken of the difficulty of maintaining the farm if America were to enter the war and the farmhands joined up. He hadn’t come right out and said it, but to Dirk it was clear that his father hoped Dirk would give up journalism and return to the farm.

  Dirk folded the letter up and stowed it away in his jacket pocket, taking another sip of his tasteless tea. Should he go back? After all, was he really doing any use here? He was confounded by the moral decisions a man as pathetic and pitiable as Thompson inspired. Perhaps he would be better off feeling out of place tending t
he soil on the farm than feeling out of place in war-torn France.

  The only time he’d truly felt able to be himself since leaving New York had been with Eleanor, and even that had proved to be a lie. Sometimes he felt as if he were slowly going crazy, and if that were true, then what right did he have to form an opinion about whether a deserter deserved to be shot or not?

  Dirk decided he wouldn’t write his story about the deserter after all. He was just beginning to turn his mind to what he should do next when the young captain passed the café window. He was escorting another prisoner who had obviously just been arrested. Later, when Dirk sat with the captain at the bar, he learned the new prisoner’s name.

  Cartwright. Private Leo Cartwright.

  “I do hope Kit and her friends didn’t keep you awake last night,” Julian said.

  At Lyndhurst Grange, the Montague family estate, Eleanor smiled at him across the breakfast table. So far they were the only ones up, apart from Mr. Montague, who, Julian assured her, would have been up for hours already, walking the dog on the estate.

  “No, I slept very well, thank you.”

  “Then it’s a wonder,” Julian said. “The party went on half the night, so I understand. I’m afraid I only lasted until about half past eleven. I’m not sure about Kit.”

  “She was still fast asleep when I looked in on her just now.”

  “Ah. Then very likely she held on until the bitter end. Still, it’s nice for her to have some fun.”

  Eleanor looked at the man whom her friend was due to marry the next day. His head was bent as he attended to his breakfast, but even so, it was possible to discern a certain flatness about his demeanor. She’d noticed the same thing the previous day as well.

  “Her parents will be arriving this afternoon,” Julian said. “I suppose that might clip her wings a little.”

  Since the Ballatines were still in mourning, Kit was to be married from Lyndhurst Grange, a fact that Kit had professed to Eleanor to be delighted with.

  “After all, this is where I shall be living after the wedding, so why not start out here?” she had said.

  “Tell me about your work,” Julian asked Eleanor now, changing the subject. “I understand you’re based at a different hospital these days?”

  So, she told him about Royaumont, and about how hard conditions were now that the weather had grown colder.

  “Water freezes over constantly. You only have to leave a bowl for ten minutes, and it forms a layer of ice.”

  A servant hovered at her shoulder, waiting to refill her teacup. Eleanor paused, feeling slightly uncomfortable. In France, in the hospitals, class differences weren’t nearly so marked as they were here in England. Half the time, the VADs were engaged in work that would normally have been undertaken by servants. Eleanor had seen Kit set a fire on many occasions and scrub floors. It was difficult now for her to suppress the instinct to push her chair back and help the girl clear the table. The previous evening, seated at dinner with Kit and her friends, all decked out in their finery, Eleanor had longed to be able to slip away to sit comfortably in the kitchen.

  “How dreadful,” Julian was saying. “I’ve been reading about the appalling conditions in the trenches.”

  Eleanor nodded, taking a sip from her replenished cup. “Mostly I’m nursing the sick rather than the wounded at the moment. The men are suffering in particular with their feet.”

  “Trench foot.” Julian nodded. “I’ve heard about it. What’s the standard treatment?”

  “Often there isn’t anything we can do, but we try warm olive oil rubbed in as often as possible, then wrapping the feet in cotton wool and oiled silk. And warmth, of course. We’re forever stoking up the boiler.”

  “I’ll bet you’re glad you aren’t living under canvas any longer.”

  “Oh, yes.” Eleanor’s mind was only half on their conversation. She was becoming more and more convinced that all was not well with Julian Montague.

  There was silence for a few minutes, then he smiled at her sadly. “Thank you,” he said.

  She was puzzled. “For what?”

  “Daring to talk to me about feet. I’m afraid kid gloves are still the order of the day here.”

  “It was probably extremely tactless of me.”

  He shook his head. “No, not at all. I have this hunger for normality, you see. My parents speak to me in hushed tones the whole time.”

  She smiled softly. “I suppose it’s natural for people to want to treat you gently after what you’ve been through.”

  He sighed. “Oh, I suppose so. But it’s jolly wearing, I can tell you. And d’you know what worries me most?”

  A pulse was beating in the side of his face. Eleanor guessed they had reached the important part of whatever it was that was troubling him. “What?”

  He took a little time to answer, and then, when he did, his voice was quieter. “I worry that…that Kit might be settling for me.”

  Eleanor frowned. “Settling for you?” she asked, but in fact she knew exactly what he meant.

  Julian nodded, looking distressed now. “Yes, settling for me. I know I should feel I’m in no position to care; after all, I must be the luckiest man alive that someone as vibrant as Kit wants to marry me despite my having no legs, mustn’t I? But you see, I still have this ridiculous pride. I can’t help it. I want Kit to want to marry me because she adores me and can’t imagine living her life with anyone else. Not simply because I happen to be there. Not despite my legs or because of my legs. I don’t want Kit’s marrying me to have anything to do with my infernal legs!” He broke off, and Eleanor heard the crackle of the fire in the sudden silence. “Am I so awful?”

  “No,” she told him softly. “Not at all. And for what it’s worth, I know Kit’s terribly fond of you.”

  “Like a brother?” Julian retorted quickly, then sighed. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m in a perfectly dreadful mood. Don’t pay any attention to me.”

  Eleanor wished she could say that Kit was madly, passionately in love with him, because she knew it was what he wanted to hear. However, Kit had told her no such thing, not even the previous day when they had spent the afternoon alone together. Eleanor knew her friend was happy, that she was looking forward to being Mrs. Julian Montague, but she was not swept off her feet. But Eleanor didn’t think Kit wanted to be swept off her feet. Her brother’s death had hit her too hard for that. Kit wanted stability and a purpose in life, and her marriage to Julian would supply her these things.

  “Kit wants to marry you more than anything else in the world,” she assured him, and he nodded.

  “Yes, I know you’re right,” he said, then moved on briskly. “Tell me, how are you going to spend the rest of your leave after the wedding? Are you going to visit your family?”

  “Yes,” she told him, lifting her chin. “Yes, I am.”

  He nodded. “And then you’ll be returning to Royaumont?”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “I am. Royaumont’s a very inspiring place. After the war’s over, I’ve decided to train to be a nurse.”

  A career. If Dirk weren’t to be in her life after all, if she were never to discover what had happened to him, and if she were fated to spend her life alone, then she would have a career. Dr. McPherson had been very plain in her views about it being impossible for a woman to embrace both marriage and a vocation. A doctor’s training was out of her scope, of course, but with her war experience, then surely she could become a qualified nurse.

  Julian nodded. “If America would only make up her mind to throw in her lot with us, then perhaps the war wouldn’t last much longer. Surely they must agree to come to our aid sooner or later.”

  America. Immediately, Eleanor thought about Dirk again, his voice filling her mind. “Back home the sunsets take over the land as well as the sky.” She pictured his face as he’d described his homeland to her on their walk from the hospital. “It’s all so vast in Virginia, you see. A huge sky and a mass of red land with a few pale t
imber houses and barns that take on the redness of it all like ink soaking into paper…”

  Dirk. The longing for him became so intense, Eleanor had to get up and cross to the window to hide her emotion.

  “Oh, look, Julian,” she said, pretending to be moved by the spectacle that met her eyes in order to explain her sudden tears. “It’s snowing. Isn’t it beautiful?”

  Next day, with a romantic covering of snow on the ground outside, Eleanor helped Kit to dress in her wedding finery.

  “You look lovely,” she told her friend, meaning it. The dress had been Kit’s mother’s; Mrs. Ballantine had brought it with her the previous day.

  Eleanor instinctively liked Kit’s mother the moment she met her. Although Mrs. Ballantine was still clearly weighed down by grief over the death of her son, she was doing her very best not to cast a shadow on her daughter’s big day, gamely summoning up a smile to greet her future son-in-law in his bath chair.

  “Are you sure I look all right?” Kit asked, hovering uncertainly in front of the mirror.

  “Oh, Kit, come on, you goose!” said her friend Jane, who’d traveled down for the wedding with Kit’s parents. “You know perfectly well you look ravishing.”

  Kit beamed at them both, her ego successfully massaged. “Thank you. Thank you both. I really don’t know how I’d manage without either of you, you know; my being married won’t change that state of affairs one jot. I shall expect you both to write to me very often.”

  Eleanor and Jane exchanged glances, and Kit laughed.

  “I know, I know! You don’t think I’ll write back, do you? It comes to a fine thing when one’s closest friends have such a very low opinion of one!”

  The wedding went off without a hitch. Julian seemed in better spirits than the previous day, and Kit was a glowing bride.