Emeralds & Ashes

by Leila Rasheed

  As she left the ruined farmhouse where the wards were and walked toward the old barn where the mess room had been set up, she heard the medical officer’s footsteps behind her, and turned to face him. She had always liked him; he reminded her of the earl in some ways—a reassuring presence. The earl himself had reminded her of her own father.

  Now, however, he looked concerned. “Nurse Templeton,” he began in a low voice, “you must be sure to take your breaks when you are able. I have noticed you are reluctant.”

  “I just want to be useful.”

  “But you cannot be useful if you are exhausted.”

  Charlotte was silent. She knew he was right.

  “I want you to take your home leave as soon as possible,” he told her. “I can see how tired you are. VADs were never meant to work in such danger and under such pressure, and though you have done well, you need to recuperate. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.” She could hear the distant drone of an aircraft ahead. One of ours or one of theirs? she wondered. Somewhere, someone would be getting hell as that aircraft dropped its bombs. The thought was exhausting.

  “Good.” He nodded to her; she noticed how deep the lines on his face were and how his gray hairs had multiplied. “Now go and take your break.”

  Charlotte went to the mess room, full of mixed feelings. She knew the more experienced man was right, but she also did not want to follow his advice. She was unable to imagine her life without work now, she realized. She did not want to go back to a life of tennis parties and balls and boring young men. She was afraid that if she took home leave, her mother would see to it that she never escaped again.

  “Post for you, Nurse Templeton,” said the orderly, coming into the mess room with a handful of letters. Charlotte took them, seeing the Palesbury postmark. Coming on top of her last thoughts, it did not fill her with joy.

  “You never seem very eager to get your letters, Charlotte,” said Portia teasingly. “Not like us.”

  “She’s bluffing,” said another of the VADs. “I’m sure Charlotte has a special young man somewhere, don’t you, dear?”

  “Perhaps closer than you think,” said Portia.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Charlotte said. The last thing she wanted was for her and Flint to become a subject of common gossip. It was so impossible, after all—he was not to be relied on; there was nothing serious about him at all.

  She opened the letter. It was from her mother, on Somerton-headed paper, and her heart sank at once. The confident handwriting swaggered across the page, as if to remind her that its loops and curls still enchained her, lassoed her like one of Flint’s horses.

  My dear Charlotte,

  I am deeply disappointed that you have not yet come home. I really do not think that leave can be a problem, not for someone as well connected as you are—if only they know that you are being summoned home for the filial duty of looking after me, they will let you go instantly. But I must insist, now, that you return to Somerton.

  My dear girl, I know how you must feel. And I blame myself. Your seasons were a complete disaster, it is true. It is so hard to understand why, though I don’t believe you should have shown yourself interested in Fintan so early. Men enjoy a chase. But still, you should not feel obliged to bury yourself out there in France. I really don’t dare to imagine how indelicate the work must be. No Templeton woman has ever worked, and I don’t think we should let standards fall simply because there is a war on. No, I am not so ready to give up, believe me. I know that I will never see my darling Sebastian again, and it makes me more determined than ever to do my duty to you, my only daughter. Fortunately, Fate has put it in my power to do exactly that.

  The new earl, Francis Wyndham, visited the other day. Until now he has been a little out of our set, though perfectly respectable of course—but it appears not only has he the title, but a claim to the house and land as well. So the obvious course is for you to marry him. He is a very presentable young man, a perfect gentleman, quite unexceptionable. He has a staff post which keeps him in England, and I would like you to come back to Somerton at once and get to know him better.

  You need simply confirm the date of your arrival and I will have Thomas meet you at the station.

  Warmly,

  Your mother, Countess of Westlake

  The countess’s magnificent signature covered most of the page.

  Charlotte was barely conscious of reading to the end of it. With shaking hands, she tore the letter across and across again. Portia looked up, startled. “Is everything all right at home?” she said, her face full of concern.

  “Perfectly.” Charlotte stood, crossed to the fireplace, and pushed the letter into the fire with the tongs. Her hands were still trembling. How dare her mother order her about like this? How dare she assume she would be willing to jump to attention, to marry whoever was put in front of her? She was so dismissive of everything Charlotte had achieved, it was as if none of it meant anything to her. Charlotte felt tears in her eyes, hard as stones. She realized only now that she had been hoping her mother would see her differently after her nursing—would respect her. But no.

  She was in no mood, crossing back to her hut, to speak to Flint. But there he was—and the way he threw down his cigarette and crossed to walk beside her, she guessed he had been waiting for her.

  “Please, I’m not in the mood for jokes, or card games, or whatever else it is,” she said, trying to move past him.

  “Me neither.” His voice was serious, and she looked up in surprise. The evening twilight shadowed his face, but she could tell that something had occurred.

  “I wanted to tell you that my news has finally come through. I’m to be sent back to England, to a rehabilitation center. There are surgeons there who are hoping to straighten out my arm some more.” He gestured with his broken arm, which was still bandaged.

  Charlotte’s heart sank. She realized how much she would miss him, how much he brightened her life here. But her mother’s words rankled: You should not have shown yourself so interested in Fintan so early. She was certainly not going to make the same mistake twice.

  “I see,” she said with a bland smile. “Well, I’m very glad.”

  “Are you?” He sounded hurt and Charlotte was fiercely pleased, even knowing that she shouldn’t be.

  “Of course. It means you are better, doesn’t it?”

  “I guess so. Though I don’t understand why they don’t simply send me back to my unit. I just want to get up in the sky again.”

  Charlotte did not know what to say. She couldn’t lie to him. He deserved the truth. She had been putting it off because she could not bear to tell him that he would never fly again. Time and again she’d begun the conversation, but she had never been able to bring herself to come out with the truth. And now she felt that if she spoke to him again, her real feelings—how much she would miss him—would come pouring out. She tried to walk past him. He stopped her with a movement of his body.

  “Damn it, Charlotte, don’t you have anything else to say?”

  “What else is there to say? I wish you the very best of luck, of course.”

  “Oh, of course. Well, I guess that’s it, then.” He stepped back. Charlotte had expected—had wanted—more resistance. She hesitated, feeling like a fool and knowing it was her own fault. “Good-bye, Nurse.” He turned and walked away. Charlotte watched him go, caught between fear of losing him and fear of what would happen if she called him back. The light was sinking; the candles in the mess room windows glowed from the dark. Sister would come out of the ward at any moment and all privacy would be over.

  “I’ll miss you,” she said, her voice sounding like a stranger’s in her own ears.

  He didn’t skip a step, didn’t hesitate, simply wheeled as if he were on a parade ground and came back to her at the same sure, swift pace with which he had walked away from her. Charlotte stood watching him, not understanding what he was going to do—until he was close enough for her to
hear his breathing, sense his smile, smell his warm body. He swept her into his arms—she had no chance to do anything but utter a small gasp—and kissed her. Charlotte, lifted off her feet, breathless with shock, felt him take possession of her completely, his strong arms, the bristle on his chin, the rasp of his uniform shirt, and his brass buttons pressing into her skin. She allowed him to kiss her passionately, until she was able to get her breath back—and then she responded, more passionately than she had ever kissed anyone before. Her hands slipped under his shirt, careful against his bandaged arm, finding scars old and new, the tempting, mysterious lines of his muscles—like a hidden treasure that she was exploring for the first time. She barely had time to realize how long she had been longing to do this, how exquisitely pleasurable it was to press herself against his body, barely time to begin to feel delightfully frightened by the force of his kisses, to wonder how they would ever bring themselves to stop, when the mess room door opened and Sister’s familiar voice called: “Nurse Templeton? Are you out there?”

  Panting for breath, they let go of each other. Charlotte almost giggled, as she heard Flint’s breath rasping against her cheek, heard him murmur, “Damned woman—!”

  “Yes, Sister,” she replied, her voice only trembling slightly.

  “Who are you with?”

  “Officer MacAllister came out for a breath of fresh air and turned a little faint.” She went forward into the light.

  “I see, well, I hope he is quite recovered now. I expect you back in the ward at once, Officer.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Flint, doing his best to look faint, started back toward the light. Charlotte caught his arm and held him back.

  “I have to tell you,” she whispered. It was not the moment she would have chosen, but Sister was still there, silhouetted in the door. “I overheard the MOs talking. I wanted to say before, but…you won’t be able to fly again. Your arm is too damaged. I’m sorry.”

  He was silent.

  “Nurse! Must I come out there and find you?”

  She couldn’t see his face in the darkness, so she pressed on. “I wanted to tell you before.”

  “I understand.” She heard the catch in his voice. “Thank you. I’m glad you were honest with me.”

  “It’s just too unfair.” Charlotte’s voice shook at the understatement.

  “I’m alive, aren’t I?”

  Charlotte hesitated. She wanted to give comfort but knew there was nothing else she could say. Then he spoke again. There was only a small tremble in his voice. “Damn it, Charlotte, I wouldn’t have my old arm back for anything. If I hadn’t lost it, I wouldn’t have found you.”

  Tears rose to Charlotte’s eyes. No one had ever said anything so loving to her before.

  His lips touched hers, gently as two flowers brushing.

  “I’ll write,” he said softly. Then he walked back to the ward. Charlotte hesitated before following him. She was sure of a tongue-lashing from Sister, teasing from the VADs. But she didn’t care a bit. She was as full of happiness as the sky was full of stars.

  London

  Summer seemed to have finally come; the sun was warm and the Thames sparkled. On the other side of the river, the Houses of Parliament were mirrored in the shimmering Thames, the intricate Gothic spires and turrets making the building look like something between the pipes of a great organ and an iceberg—it was both beautiful and dangerous, like a spiky shell cast upon the edge of the river. That was where Ada longed to be, one day. One day, she thought, she would stand for a seat in Parliament. One day—once they had the vote.

  She glanced at her pocket watch. The jeweled face told her the same time that Big Ben did. Connor was late. That wasn’t surprising; they’d had to travel separately from Oxford so as not to excite suspicion. Their affair was delightful: she enjoyed every moment of it, and there was not the intense pain that she had suffered with Ravi. They understood each other perfectly.

  She strolled on, her lace parasol shadowing her face. When she reached Cleopatra’s Needle she would turn and walk back again, and he would be there, she was sure.

  She was nervous and excited about the afternoon ahead. He had told her he would take her to see some friends of his who lived in Bloomsbury—intellectuals and artists. Ada wondered if she would pass muster with them. She was aware of being very naive still. She had done so little, achieved nothing. But she was sure she could…if the brutality of the war did not rip everything to shreds. The posters caught her eye, one after another: Enlist Now. Men of England, will you stand this? For King and Country. So stark, so certain.

  Cleopatra’s Needle was in sight. Connor was not there. Ada paused, at a loss. He had never been so late before.

  Could he have grown tired of her? The question sat in front of her; she could not avoid it. Was everything he had said about equality a hypocritical lie? She couldn’t believe it, but the color came to her cheeks nevertheless.

  I will wait another ten minutes, she told herself.

  And then what? she found herself replying.

  I will think about that when the question arises, she replied firmly.

  She turned and walked away again. Her footsteps were not so confident now, however, and she couldn’t repress her anxious thoughts. She had believed she could have it all, could meet a man on a level of equality in all ways. She had thought Connor was the exact man who would be able to live up to her hopes—mature, intelligent, principled, and with a sense of humor. But what if she was wrong? Or what if the difference in their views had really come to seem like an insurmountable obstacle to him? She knew how strong the anti-Irish feeling was at the moment. Everyone was nervous that the Irish nationalists would take advantage of the war to rebel against the English. That would divide the army’s forces and could potentially lose the war. There could be no higher stakes. The situation was a powder keg, and everyone knew Connor was a firebrand, a passionate speaker for Irish nationalism. While she understood the depth of his feelings, she felt that an independent Ireland would be disastrous for the Protestant minority living there. It was England’s duty to protect them.

  Ten minutes was up. She turned and walked back to Cleopatra’s Needle. Connor was not there. The newsboy was watching her curiously. She turned without meeting his gaze and walked quickly away, heading back to Waterloo Station.

  By the time she arrived back at Oriel, she was no calmer and no more sure of what to believe. The door to the principal’s room was ajar, and she came out, with a disapproving expression on her face that Ada had come to recognize. “Lady Ada, I must tell you that it is quite unacceptable for you to go away for a whole day without informing me first,” she began. “The rules of the college clearly state—”

  Ada had listened to a similar lecture many times before. This time, she could not keep her temper. “I am sorry,” she replied, feeling anything but. “But I find these regulations simply ridiculous. Why, when the entire country is caught up in something so serious, must we harp on something so petty?”

  “It is by no means petty. The rules are here to safeguard your reputation.”

  “I call that petty. I don’t intend to live by my reputation, but by my intelligence and ability.”

  She turned before she could hear the principal’s reply, and went upstairs almost at a run. Entering her room, she tore off her gloves and hat. A moment later she saw the letter on the bureau. She crossed and picked it up. Not Connor’s writing. The disappointment struck her hard. Almost without thinking, she tore open the envelope. The note inside, on plain paper, was hastily scribbled, but the words caught her attention instantly. It was dated the previous day.

  Dear Lady Ada,

  I am sorry to tell you that our friend Connor has been arrested. He telephoned me this morning and asked me especially to contact you. As you know, his forthright expression of his political views places him under suspicion at this time of war, and it appears allegations have been made that he is closely linked with gun runners in the south of Ireland. I am
confident that this is lies. However, the matter should not be taken lightly. I hope you will be able to come to London as soon as you receive this. I will have need of your help in preparing a defense.

  Kind regards

  Hannah Darford

  Ada did not hesitate. She turned and ran out of the door, pausing only for her hat. Her coat and her gloves she left behind her, and the last thing she heard was the shocked exclamation of the principal echoing down the path as she ran as fast as she could, back to the station.

  Somerton

  The sun had come out, and Rebecca’s prayers were answered. Sunbeams slanted between the gray clouds, pushing them aside as if refusing—for today, at least—to think of the war, of mud and khaki and everything sad and dutiful. The wind caught the streamers of red, white, and blue bunting and fluttered them so that they seemed to glitter. A huge banner proclaimed the garden party in aid of the Red Cross, the military band was tuning up under the tent, festooned with tendrils of rambling roses. They were all in khaki, but the sun blazed off the brass instruments and gleamed in the polished wood of the cello and bass. The lawn had been perfectly mowed—this part, at least. Rebecca knew that they hadn’t had the manpower to do the other side of the house. But what did it matter? As far as she could see, everything looked just as it must have before the war—just as it should.

  “The bunting looks wonderful,” Georgiana said, pausing by the table where Rebecca was setting out the homemade jams that they were selling to raise funds for the Red Cross. “How did you manage to afford the cloth?”

  Rebecca blushed. “To tell the truth, my lady, it’s the housemaids’ old petticoats. I put them by just in case.”

  “How clever of you!” Georgiana clapped her hands, as the countess glided up to them in deepest black, the brim of her hat shading her complexion. She looked well recovered, Rebecca noted, though there were lines on her face and tiredness in her eyes that no cold cream or hat could hide. “Did you hear that, Lady Westlake? Rebecca manages so well.”