“Can you drive a motorcar, Sister? I shouldn’t like to lose mine at the hands of a well-meaning novice.”
“I understand, sir. I’ve driven motorcars, ambulances, and even lorries.”
“Yes, that’s in France, I think, where roads are rather poorly defined, and there’s room for error. This is Somerset, where brick walls and hedgerows tend to hem one in.”
I smiled. “I have driven in England, where the roads are often nearly as narrow, twisting, and ill made as in France.”
“So they are. Well. I shall allow you to borrow it this time. On the condition that you take someone with you.”
I didn’t want anyone with me while I spoke to Julia.
“Humor me, Sister,” he said, reading my expression all too clearly. “It will give me peace of mind to know you are well protected should any problems arise. Matron would not enjoy informing your father that we have misplaced you or injured you on our watch.”
Reviewing the patients I had come to know, I cast about for a suitable escort. But Dr. Gaines had already made up his mind.
“Take the Yank with you. He’s impatient, trying to push his recovery. An outing of this sort will do him good. And he’s presentable enough. You needn’t worry about upsetting the family.”
The last person I wished to have with me.
But it was clear that I shouldn’t be allowed to take the motorcar at all, if I insisted on going alone. And there weren’t many patients, for that matter, well enough to accompany me. I tried to put as good a face on it as possible and thanked him for the use of his vehicle.
And so it was that Thomas Barclay and I set out for Nether Thornton in early afternoon. Captain Barclay was in good spirits, glad to be free of Longleigh House for even a few hours.
“My father’s great-grandfather was English,” he said happily, as if this forged a bond between us.
“A great many Americans have English forebears,” I replied repressively, turning out of the drive onto the main road. “After all, it was once a British colony, was it not?”
“There are Germans living in Michigan,” he informed me. “Lutherans, most of them. I find it hard sometimes to think that the Germans I’m ordered to shoot aren’t their cousins or former neighbors. When we take prisoners, I can’t tell the difference.”
I too had met Germans who were not the ogres of the popular press. “Yes, I understand. My father told me once that nations are often at war, but people are not.”
“A wise man, your father. Army, is he?”
“Yes. His regiment was sent to India shortly after I was born, and my parents took me with them. I was educated there, rather than being sent home to school. I’m very grateful to them for that decision.”
“I’d been to Canada, of course, but otherwise I was never out of the States until I sailed for France. Still, I’ve traveled widely in my own country. My father saw to that. He had many interests in railroads and shipping, and my mother and I went with him as often as not. I know Charleston and New Orleans, San Francisco and New York, Denver and Boston. Ever been to America?”
“I haven’t.”
“Well, when the war is over, you’re invited to visit. My mother and sisters would like you. They’d take you to Mackinac Island. You’d explore on horseback, sit on the famous veranda to watch the sunset over Lake Michigan, and have a real English tea in the lobby. I think you’d enjoy that.”
“Thank you.”
He was relaxing in his seat now, and I realized that he’d been quite tense after we’d reached the main road, waiting for me to overturn the motorcar on a curve or run us into one of the high walls in the surrounding villages. Smiling, I said, “I do drive well. I was taught by Simon Brandon, who never does anything by halves.”
“You must have been,” he replied, grinning sheepishly. “Neither of my sisters drives.” There was a pause, and then he asked, “Who is Simon Brandon?”
“A family friend,” I said, not wishing to go into the whole of my relationship with Simon. He had been my father’s batman when he first joined the regiment, and later rose to the post of Regimental Sergeant-Major. He and my father had always been close, despite the difference in their ages, for Simon was nearer to mine than to his. I had known him all my life. He lived in a cottage near our house in Somerset, and like my father, retired from active duty, he was often employed by the War Office in matters that were never discussed. They disappeared for hours or even days at a time, came home weary, sometimes bloody, and often grim.
“From the way you said that, he must be more than simply a family friend,” he pointed out.
I turned to him. “Are you jealous, Captain?”
I expected him to deny it, but he said slowly, “I think I am.”
We drove in silence the rest of the way to Nether Thornton, and on the outskirts I said, “I’m here to call on Mrs. Carson. Her husband was killed recently.” I explained the connection and was casting about, trying to think of a kind way to ask him not to come in with me, when he solved the problem himself.
“Then you don’t want a stranger underfoot. Just ahead-the pub, The Pelican. Drop me there. Just don’t forget to retrieve me when you’re ready to go back to Longleigh House.”
I smiled, grateful. “I shan’t forget. Dr. Gaines would be furious if I lost my minder. And I should like to borrow the motorcar again.”
“Anytime, Sister. Just ask me.” He paused. “Can you use the crank? Or would you prefer that I come to fetch you? Either way, I shan’t say a word to the good doctor.”
“Thank you, but I can manage,” I assured him. The Colonel Sahib had taught me the safe way to use a crank.
I drew up halfway along the High Street, setting the Captain down in front of the handsome half-timbered pub. He had more difficulty descending from the motorcar than he’d had getting into it. I looked away as he struggled, knowing he wouldn’t take kindly to an offer of help. Finally, standing straight, his cane in his hand, he said, “I’ll be as sober as a judge whenever you come for me. You needn’t worry.” And with that he walked in front of the motorcar and entered the pub. I was beginning to learn how much effort such bravado required on his part. And the cost in pain.
I drove on through the center of the village and to the house close by the church where the Major had lived after his marriage.
Leaving the motorcar by the front gate, I walked up to the door. Black silk draped the knocker, and I let it fall gently against the brass plate.
After a moment the door was opened by Tessie, who had been with the family from the time of their marriage. Tall and rawboned and kind, she said, “Miss Crawford! It’s so good to see you. Mrs. Carson will be delighted that you’ve come. Are you feeling stronger? You look quite yourself, you know.”
“And I am.” I explained about the clinic as she ushered me inside and down the passage to the sitting room.
Julia rose from her desk as I came in, exclaiming as Tessie had done and coming to embrace me. “I’m so happy to see you. How are you? Your father told me you’d had quite a severe bout with this terrible illness.”
“I was one of the lucky ones,” I responded. “It quite ravaged France.”
“Come, sit down. Tessie will bring us tea. I was glad that Vincent died quickly. We also lost our cook to the influenza, and it was a terrible death. Nineteen people died here in Nether Thornton, and we were told we had only a mild outbreak. But we were warned that it could return because of that. The possibility doesn’t bear thinking about.”
We sat and reminisced for a bit, and then when the tea was brought in, she said, “I thought my world had ended when the news came about Vincent. His commanding officer wrote to me. A Colonel Prescott. A lovely letter, assuring me that Vincent hadn’t suffered, and how much my letters had meant to him to the very end. He must have known my husband well. Little things are such a comfort at a time like that, and he told me that Vincent was liked by his men and that they had been brokenhearted by his death. That they had asked to see his body and pay their respects before it was taken away. Vincent cared for his men. It would have meant so much to him.”