Queen's Nurse

by Jane Arbor

  Naturally, like most professional people, they found they had acquaintances in common, and of course nursing “shop” was their main theme of conversation.

  They converged again over their after-dinner coffee while they awaited Muir’s and Edgar Bretton’s coming to join the ladies. And Edna Windle confided ruefully, “I wish I could convince Jane that I really do prefer city work to working a wide district like yours. She cannot or will not try to understand that my working-class tenements in Birmingham, hugged about by factories, have an interest for me that simply couldn’t be sustained by traipsing from one lonely farm to another. What’s the opposite of claustrophobia? Because I suffer from it—badly!”

  Jess laughed.

  Miss Windle went on. “But do you think I can get Jane to see that I’m perfectly happy and don’t want to change? I did apply for this district just to please her, but ever since you were selected she has peppered me with hints that I could have had it if I had pressed my application harder or had allowed her to pull strings. I haven’t failed to hear, either, how, equally successfully as you, I might be ‘in’ with the local gentry. And that—” the slow smile widened and the frank eyes twinkled “—is sister Jane being just the teeniest bit of a snob! But you mustn’t think me disloyal. I only happen to know her rather well.”

  Before Jess could reply, Muir and Edgar Bretton came in and Muir crossed directly to Jess. His eyes were level and a little watchful as he said, “The telephone—for you. A call put through from the exchange as you directed. It is Dr. Leyden. I took it, but I asked him to hold on.”

  “Dr. Leyden? Oh yes—he said he might phone—” Her voice trailed off as she rose, avoiding the straight gaze that was so studiedly not a question. As she excused herself and went to take Michael’s call she was only too well aware, however, that Muir had been watching her reaction to a call from the man with whom he believed she had recently broken her engagement.

  Michael, as usual, was bubbling with uncomplicated friendliness and said he was eager to see her. “We never made it, did we, after that surprise visit of mine at the end of the summer? First of all you got too busy, and then I took that locum job in Wales for two months. But I’m back at The Charter now with most weekends free. So what about it after Christmas, Jess?”

  “Yes. We’ll fix something. I’ll write to you, may I? Meanwhile, thank you so much for your present.” It had been a nightdress case in the shape of a grotesquely squatting golliwog. Michael’s robust taste ran to such novelties.

  He chuckled. “Cute, wasn’t it? I hoped you’d like it. By the way, tell me about your calls being switched through to another number. Where are you?”

  She told him, and there was a little significant pause at his end of the line. Sounding puzzled, he queried, “This chap Forester crops up rather, doesn’t he? Or is that just an impression I get? Would you resent it if I asked you how—involved you are?”

  “Involved, Michael?” The echo sounded stupid, but she needed to gain time.

  “Yes. Are you in love with him? Or he with you?” She saw escape by way of his second question. “Nothing like that,” she said firmly. “Muir Forester is in love with Liane Hart. You remember, I told you about her.”

  “Yes, I remember.” Michael sounded thoughtful, but she hurried in with a suggestion that he should come for a weekend toward the end of January, and when they had fixed the date and had wished each other a happy New Year they hung up.

  When she returned to the drawing room she found the others gathered around a card table, waiting for her to join a game of canasta. As she sat down Muir looked up from dealing the cards. “All right?” he queried. It was the polite concern of a host for his guest. No more than that.

  In order that she might go straight to her calls after leaving Quintains the next morning, Jess was already in uniform when she went down to breakfast. On the way she was overtaken by Liane, pelting down the wide staircase with her puppy held gingerly before her.

  The puppy had been Petra Tempton-Burney’s birthday present to Liane, who adored him. She allowed him to sleep at the foot of her bed and kept strictly to Petra’s rules about his care and diet. But perhaps Christmas had proved too much for him, for as Liane passed Jess his smooth, round sides were heaving ominously and Liane was panting. “I only hope I’ll—be—in—time. Open the front door for us, Jess—there’s a dear!”

  Jess ran to do so just as the doorbell rang.

  “Oh—the post!” Liane checked momentarily, but as another gulp from the puppy presaged disaster she ran on out through the door, not noticing that it was not the postman but a boy who stood on the step.

  Jess smiled at him and he at her. She knew him well for one of the village lads and did not at once realize the significance of the official belt around his waist. Then she noticed his scarlet-painted bicycle and saw that he had taken a telegram from his pouch.

  “It’s for Mrs. Seacombe, nurse. Shall I wait for an answer? I could come back in a bit if you’d rather?”

  “You’d better wait, Ernie—” Jess took the telegram and turned back into the hall as Mrs. Seacombe herself reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “For me?” She came forward, one hand at her throat, her face suddenly very old. Jess saw that Muir had come out from the dining room where the continuing chink and tinkle of china was the only sound to break the silence that brooded and settled as they all stood watching while Mrs. Seacombe tore open the envelope, read the contents.

  For Liane was there, too. She had come back to stand in the open doorway, the puppy, happy and wriggling again, under one arm, her graceful figure silhouetted against the wintry sky. And time itself stood still until Mrs. Seacombe blindly held out the oblong piece of paper to Muir while her lips moved wordlessly.

  He went to take it from her and to put a supporting arm about her. They heard the low murmur of his voice as he began to read, “Lieutenant P. Seacombe, missing on night patrol. Believed—” He broke off and thrust the telegraph form into his jacket pocket before shifting his hold to take Peter’s mother gently by the shoulders. “My dear,” he said with infinite tenderness, “there is nothing certain nor final about this. This is the first news that they are bound to send you in case of doubt. You must have hope!”

  “Yes, I must have hope. I can only hope—” She had repeated his words as if they had been dictated to her. Years of effacing her emotions, of firmly knowing her place lent their own strength to Mary Seacombe at that moment, and her struggle to appear controlled before her employer was an almost visible thing of dignity that held the admiration of those who witnessed it.

  But there was another dignity for Jess to see, the dignity of a sorrow that might not be voiced—Liane’s. For a moment, which seemed endless to Jess, Liane stared at Peter’s mother. Then she set down the puppy and, avoiding his tumbling antics about her feet, crossed swiftly to the older woman’s side.

  Jess held her breath. What would Liane say? How much would she tell of all that Peter Seacombe meant to her? How much of their pity would her own tragedy seek to draw to itself?

  Liane said simply, “We can’t hope to understand, Mrs. Seacombe. But you must believe that we—we had come almost to love him, too. And that’s why you must let us help you wherever, wherever we can—”

  Was it cowardice Jess asked herself. But she preferred to believe that it was Liane’s supreme sacrifice. It was as if with her gentle words she laid no claim to Peter; instead she was silently yielding up her dearest memories of him to his mother, counting no cost to herself.

  “Thank you, my dear,” murmured Mrs. Seacombe, taking the girl’s outstretched hands between her own. They stood so, while Jess wondered how near to a new understanding their common sorrow might bring them. Then Mrs. Seacombe turned away and, recognizing her need to be alone, they let her go.

  Deliberately, Jess challenged Liane’s glance, longing to express a compassion that must not be put into words before Muir. But Liane would not or could not look at her. And Jess kne
w that the new expectancy of hope that had lately lighted her eyes had gone out like a blown flame.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  All day long the tragic news of Peter was in Jess’s thoughts as she went about her work. The ceaseless questions churned—What reasonable hope was there that he had not been killed on patrol as the telegram had suggested? And if he had, what best to hope for Liane now? What good news of him had the girl been awaiting with such hope and eagerness? How much or how little did Muir guess of the truth that Liane was at such pains to keep from him? And if Peter were indeed dead, ought not Liane to tell Muir everything, using his strength to lean upon in a grief that Jess believed he would give his all to save her from if he knew of it?

  Before Jess had left Quintains, Muir had said that he would call Dr. Gilder to Mrs. Seacombe during the day, and Jess had promised to look in again herself. Meanwhile, Muir said he would take steps to get confirmation or further details about Peter by making contact with a high-ranking army officer friend at the war office.

  On her return to Quintains, Muir met her and told her that Dr. Gilder had advised a strong sedative for Mrs. Seacombe, and that she had been sleeping for more than an hour. “But I have another patient for you,” he said quietly. “Liane was coming to luncheon and on her way in to the dining room slid gently down the doorpost in a faint. She couldn’t explain it, though I daresay it was indirectly due to Mrs. Seacombe’s news—a kind of delayed shock. Dr. Gilder had already been, so as she came around almost at once I didn’t call him back. But I sent her to bed, and I’d be grateful if you’d have a look at her.”

  “Of course I will.” Jess searched his face but read no indication there that he realized the tragedy for Liane that the news of Peter had been.

  In her room, Liane lay with her face turned from the door and did not stir when Jess entered. When she had to look up at Jess standing beside her, her blue eyes were remote and stony with grief. But they were dry. Liane had not wept for Peter.

  “Muir sent me to see how you were,” said Jess gently. “He is worried about you, Liane.”

  “He mustn’t be. I know I fainted, but I’m all right now.” She turned and sat upright, clasping her knees. She was as withdrawn as ever from Jess’s sympathy and Jess wondered bleakly how to reach her again. Somewhere along the road of their brief friendship she had lost the key to Liane’s confidence, though she could not think where she had failed the girl.

  “Liane dear—” Jess drew up a chair and sat down beside the bed “—you are trying to bear too much alone. It was too much before but now, now you must let me try to help you.”

  “Thank you, Jess, but there’s nothing you can do— now.”

  “Then let Muir! He loves you, and that gives him the right to help you now, if ever.”

  “That means I would have to tell him everything and now—” Liane’s voice shook for the first time “—there’s no reason why he should ever know.”

  Jess experienced a sudden spurt of anger. “No reason? Do you suppose you can keep it from him indefinitely? Or that you ought to go on accepting his love without being able to give him any in return because of Peter, and never telling him why?”

  Liane’s still figure stirred. “Muir won’t guess,” she said. “Before Peter went away that was something I resolved upon—that if anything happened to him I would make it a sort of pact with myself not to ply for pity because of him. Don’t be angry, Jess. It is little enough to cling to—mere pride—but I think Peter would have been glad to know that I could muster enough of it to keep our secret just for us two alone. That’s why it may have looked lately as if I didn’t trust even you, Jess. But it was only that I wanted you to forget all that you had ever known about Peter and me. That would make it just mine to hide, and if, one day, I didn’t have to hide it anymore, I thought that you would forgive me after all.”

  So Liane had regretted her confidence! Jess was hurt, though out of her own pain she understood the girl’s need to forge an armor of a proudly held silence. But did she realize how transparent she still was to loving eyes, that she had not concealed from Jess the hope at which she had hinted with her last words?,

  Jess said carefully, “Then I was right. You have been happier lately, as if you knew there might be a way out for you that didn’t involve giving Peter up.”

  She was not prepared for the startled, defensive look Liane turned upon her. “I didn’t say so,” the girl retorted sharply.

  “You didn’t have to. I’ve known since before Christmas that you have been hoping and waiting on something. Perhaps a sign from Peter himself, though he told me before he went away that you meant to part—that you wanted it so.”

  “Peter told you that? When?”

  “A day or two before he left—before that last day you had together in London.”

  “Before then? Oh—” Liane’s hand went betrayingly to her throat, and for a moment it seemed as if her pitifully vaunted pride would not stand against her need of the consolation she had spumed. But then she added in a harder voice, “I didn’t know you knew about that day.”

  “Well, I did.” Jess’s voice held a weary note. “But it doesn’t matter. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, Liane, and the things I know already I’ll try to forget. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  She rose as she spoke and moved toward the door. And Liane, after a half-smothered exclamation, allowed her to go.

  Muir was waiting for her downstairs in a small room he used as a study. “You are tired, I can see,” he said. “Will you have a drink with me before you leave? What about a dark sherry? It will warm you on this cold night.”

  Jess accepted gratefully and went to hold her hands to the blazing fire while he poured her a drink and came to stand at her side to drink his own.

  “Mrs. Seacombe is still asleep,” she told him, “and I think Liane means to dress and come down for dinner as usual. She says her fainting spell was nothing. I daresay, after the morning’s news, she did not eat enough breakfast.”

  “No, she didn’t. None of us did. I got straight onto the war office to a staff officer I know well in order to clarify that meager message. But all the satisfaction I got was that the front is fluid, and parties sent out on patrol are continually losing touch with their units.”

  “Do they link up again?”

  “Sometimes. Sometimes not. The loss of a whole party often means that it has been taken prisoner en bloc; the loss of an individual member of a party is more serious, so far as he is concerned.”

  “That means—?” Jess whispered.

  “That we may have to read the worst into this morning’s news, though Mrs. Seacombe must be allowed to hope for the best while a remote hope remains. Dr. Gilder believes her mind and system will adjust themselves if and when they must. Meanwhile it would be brutal, on the plea that she should be prepared for the worst, to take from her even the slight hope that can sustain her in these early days.”

  “Of course it would. But how utterly, utterly cruel war is to mothers!” murmured Jess sadly.

  “And for more than mothers,” he agreed gravely. “May I say how much I admire the courage that hid your own feelings this morning?”

  She was silent, remembering his determination to believe that Peter’s brotherly kiss, which he had witnessed, had meant more to either of them than it had. She had not disillusioned him then—for the sake of the closer guarding of Liane’s secret. And however mistaken she believed the girl to be in keeping the truth from Muir, she needed Jess’s help no less now...

  So she must allow silence to act as agreement that she had her own poignant memories of Peter to hide. But with a clarity that shocked her she could see Muir’s probable view of her. He must believe that she had broken with Michael as soon as Peter began to pay court to her. Then, as complication, there had been last night’s telephone call from Michael. And Muir would have read that as indicating that, between herself and Michael, there had been no clean break that left them
both free.

  How, from his half-knowledge, Muir must despise her! And how much less would she love him if she thought his standards accepted easily any girl’s entanglement with two men at once. But then again, she must not exaggerate his interest in her to suppose that her conduct mattered to him at all.

  He changed the subject by asking abruptly, “Apart from her natural distress over the news of Seacombe, what do you really think of Liane? Is she happier, would you say, than when you first knew her?”

  Jess hesitated, wondering a little that he should need her opinion and fearing to reveal all she really knew of Liane’s state of mind. At last she replied slowly, “It’s difficult to say. I’ve known her to be—or appear to be—completely gay and carefree, and then at other times to take refuge in reserves within herself where I don’t seem able to reach her. If I had to judge her in a word I’d say she is—rudderless.”

  “Rudderless?” Muir savored the word thoughtfully. “Meaning that she lacks—what would you say?”

  Jess shook her head. “Nothing tangible of course. Perhaps the feeling of really belonging somewhere, as if she felt herself to be among alien corn and more than a little lost without something to sustain her in happiness. She was very dependent on her father for affection, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes, very. And he upon her. And the manner of her uprooting from all that was a terrible shock. But you know—” Muir swirled his sherry gently and watched the clinging beads form on the sides of the glass “—she doesn’t lack affection here.”