Somewhere in France Read online

  “She is. But her shift at the hospital didn’t finish until eleven, and then she had to change and travel here from Kensington.”

  A discreet cough alerted them that their waiter had arrived. “Happy Christmas, Lord Ashford, Lady Elizabeth. May I offer you an aperitif?”

  “Yes, please. How are your champagne reserves holding up?”

  “Very well, your lordship. May I suggest the Moët et Chandon Brut Impérial 1907?”

  “Splendid.”

  “And to follow, Lord Ashford?”

  “Nothing just yet. I’ll let you know when we’re ready to order.” As soon as the waiter had departed, Edward turned back to Lilly.

  “Let’s drink all the champagne straightaway. That way when Miss Brown arrives we’ll be three sheets to the wind and she’ll lecture us on proper deportment and behavior in public.”

  “She’s not like that at all, Edward.”

  “Yes, yes. But I do love getting under her skin. She takes everything so seriously.”

  “And you make a game of everything.”

  “Used to,” he muttered, not meeting her gaze. “Hard to play the fool when you’re standing knee-deep in mud and blood.”

  “Robbie told me how bad it is. That is, he told me how horrible things are at his hospital, and then said it was much, much worse for you.” She reached out and took his near hand in hers, clasping it warmly. But he didn’t seem to notice.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. I wouldn’t last long if I had to do some of the things he does. Lopping off people’s legs and arms, for a start.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do. But I only have today and part of tomorrow before I go back, and the last thing on earth I want to do is talk about it. Think about it, even.”

  “So what shall we talk about?” she asked, deciding to be cheerful for his sake.

  “Help me make the most of these few hours. Laugh at my jokes, complain about Mama, that sort of thing.” He grinned at her, and for a moment she saw the carefree, privileged, aimless boy he had once been.

  A boy who had returned to her from school, not from a distant, nightmarish battlefield; a boy whose departure, when it came, would be to the safe, if boring, confines of Winchester or Oxford, where the worst thing awaiting him was a stern tutor and the prospect of punishing examinations. She blinked, and the boy was gone.

  “Would you like to hear how difficult I was at dinner last night?”

  “On Christmas Eve?”

  “I enjoyed myself enormously, of course. I began by asking after the Pringles. That put rather a damper on the conversation. Then, when Mama began to complain about how difficult it is to find decent help, I rhymed off the names of the men from Cumbermere Hall who were killed at the Somme. We’re all in the same battalion, you know.”

  “Edward. You’re too old to be playing the scamp.”

  “But you love me for it. I even managed to work Robbie into the conversation,” he added.

  “You didn’t.”

  “I sang his praises for all to hear. And I may have happened to mention that the two of you had tea when he was last in London. No; don’t protest. Mama needs to know she hasn’t managed to keep you apart.”

  “It’s cruel of you to taunt her that way.”

  “Compared to what she did to you? To the Pringles? I think not.”

  The champagne having arrived, he filled both their coupes to the brim and drank deeply, draining his glass. “Let’s talk no more of Mama, else you’ll put me off my food. What about Robbie? How was he when you saw him?”

  “Well enough, I think,” she answered. “But tired and frustrated. I persuaded him to tell me about his work at the clearing hospital.”

  “You said so earlier. Not a pleasant subject for teatime.”

  “I was glad to listen, though it was awful in the details. Far worse than anything in the papers.”

  “So was that all you talked about? His work?”

  “No. I know you don’t want to talk about Mama, but . . .”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, when we were at the tea shop Robbie mentioned Quentin Brooke-Stapleton.”

  “How would he know that layabout? He wasn’t at Oxford with us.”

  “He doesn’t. For some reason Robbie was under the impression that Quentin and I had an understanding. Possibly even that we were engaged. I meant to ask him why, but we got on to another subject. And then, when we were at the station, I realized who must have told him.”

  “Mama.”

  “Yes. He admitted it. She told him, and I just know how she would have said it. In that dreadful voice that leaves one feeling about an inch tall.”

  “I’ve heard it often. Robbie too.”

  “But they only spoke the one time, so how—”

  “People have always spoken to him like that. I can’t say what it was like when he was a boy at school, but it was pretty bad when we were at Oxford. Practical jokes, mainly. There was a hamper of laundry delivered to our rooms, with a note asking him to send it on to his mother. She was a laundress, you see. Or the time his books were taken from his table in the library while he was at lunch, and left at a pawnbroker down in Jericho.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Nothing. He never reacted. Never so much as blinked.”

  “Did it ever stop?”

  “It petered out, mostly. Not much fun when the object of your scorn doesn’t appear to notice anything you do.”

  “And now? I mean, was it bad when he was working in London?”

  “His colleagues respected him, so I don’t think he was chaffed much while at work. But I know he couldn’t abide the do-gooders. You know the sort—philanthropists, politicians, bored society matrons. His hospital was perpetually short of money, so was always having dinners and teas and so forth. He hating attending, but if it meant more money for the hospital . . .”

  Edward paused to drink down the rest of his champagne. “So he’d go and they’d trot him out as living proof that the great unwashed could, on occasion, drag themselves out of the gutter. ‘Dear Mr. Fraser, do be so kind as to tell us about your life in the slums. It must have been perfectly frightful.’ ”

  “Slums? I thought he was from a village outside Glasgow. Auchinloch.”

  “They moved when he was seven or so, after his sister died. I think he and his mother went to her parents’. But before that, they lived in the nastiest, dirtiest, most dangerous slum in Glasgow, and that’s saying a lot. Take the worst description of squalor you’ve ever read in Dickens, multiply it by a hundred, and you have the Gorbals. That’s where he was from.”

  “He never said—”

  “He doesn’t hide it. Never has. You had only to ask.”

  “He must know that I don’t care. That it means nothing to me.”

  “But it means something to him. How can it not? No matter how far he rises in the world, no matter how accomplished a surgeon he becomes, there will always be someone like Mama who feels the need to put him in his place. Or treat him like a sideshow at a traveling carnival.”

  “Even now?”

  “Even now. Have you ever wondered why he works so hard? Because it’s his escape. You might even call it his salvation. Any sense of worth he has comes from his work.”

  “He is worthy. You’ve only to meet him to know the sort of man he is.”

  “That’s just it, Lilly. He’s a man. Not a saint and not a hero. Just an ordinary man who is awfully talented at the work he does, and awfully insecure about his origins. Never forget that.”

  “I must tell him, when I write to him next. I’ll tell him how proud I am, what a talented doctor he is—”

  “Christ, no. That’ll only make it worse. Better to pretend none of that happened. It will only be salt in the wound if you do mention it again.”

  “I suppose you’re right . . .”

  “I am. Tell him about your work as a clippie instead. I know I find your stories vastly entertaining.”


  “I’m glad you do.”

  “I wish you would let me help you. You don’t have to work, you know, nor live in lodgings. You could stay at my house in Chelsea. Miss Brown, too, if you think you’d miss her. And it would be no trouble to set up an account for you at my bank.”

  “Thank you, but no. I’m very happy in my lodgings and I’m very happy with my work.”

  “How can you like it? Punching tickets in the rain, day after day?”

  “Because I know I’m doing something to help. What was the poster I saw the other day? ‘Do a man’s job here so he may fight.’ That was it.”

  “More like ‘do a man’s job here so he can be turned into cannon fodder.’ ”

  “Oh, Edward. I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “I know, darling girl. And I’m sorry for being such a bore. Have some more champagne.”

  She waited for him to refill her glass and took a large and fortifying sip. “You haven’t said a word about Helena. When are you going to visit her?”

  “I’ve scarcely been home twenty-four hours, my dear.”

  “Is everything all right between the two of you? She hasn’t been put off by my break with Mama and Papa, has she? I’d assumed they kept it quiet, so as to avoid any scandal.”

  “No, no. She hasn’t said anything about you. I doubt she even knows. It’s not as if the two of you were bosom friends, after all.”

  “I know. Though I did enjoy her company on the few times we did meet.”

  “And when you see one another again, you will see that she and I are still very much in accord. I was planning on paying her a visit this afternoon, after I take my leave of you and Miss Brown. And look now—here she is. Miss Brown, that is.”

  They both stood as Charlotte approached, escorted by the maître d’hôte. After kissing Lilly on the cheek, she and Edward shook hands somewhat tentatively. If Lilly hadn’t known better, she’d have sworn they were meeting for the first time.

  “Do have some champagne, Miss Brown,” Edward offered once they were seated.

  “Thank you, Lord Ashford. Happy Christmas.”

  “And to you, Miss Brown. You look very well today.”

  Charlotte had evidently put some thought into her ensemble, for she was wearing her best dress, made of a fine dark blue wool, and a close-fitting black velvet hat that framed her face quite winningly.

  “Have you ordered?”

  “Of course not,” Lilly answered. “We were waiting for you.”

  It had been ages since Lilly had gone out for a meal, only excepting the pot of tea she had shared with Robbie at the Lyons tea shop. Not having access to a proper kitchen, she and Charlotte subsisted on meals of toast, whatever tinned foods went well with toast, and cups and cups of tea. So this was a rare treat indeed.

  Her tastes must have changed in the past year, however, for she found little on the menu that appealed. Lobster soufflé, Dover sole in oyster sauce, roast pheasant with truffles, filet mignon stuffed with foie gras and cèpes; all of it was much too much. She looked up and saw that Charlotte and Edward both appeared to share her lack of enthusiasm for the food on offer.

  Edward summoned their waiter to the table with an almost imperceptible nod.

  “I have a favor to ask.”

  “Yes, Lord Ashford?”

  “What I would really love is something rather more pedestrian. Some roast chicken if you have it, no sauce, with perhaps some potatoes alongside? And something green, too?”

  “It would be our pleasure, Lord Ashford. Do you require a first course of any sort?”

  “No, thank you. Just the main.”

  “Very good. Shall I call up a bottle from our cellars for you?”

  “Do you have any of the 1910 Chevalier-Montrachet la Cabotte left?”

  “Of course, your lordship.”

  “That will do. But not too cold.”

  Now that they’d decided on their meal, another topic of conversation had to be found. Lilly was the first to wade into the fray.

  “How was work today?” she asked Charlotte.

  “Uneventful, which is the best sort of day. I expect you would say the same, wouldn’t you, Lord Ashford?”

  “I do wish you would call me Edward.”

  “And I prefer to address you in a formal manner. So please do stop asking.”

  “But Lilly calls you Charlotte. Why mayn’t I?”

  “You know very well why not.”

  Charlotte was acting in a most unusual fashion. Normally she was the very soul of polite and agreeable behavior, but for some reason she appeared to be at odds with Edward. And on Christmas Day, too. Lilly determined to return the conversation to a more harmonious subject.

  “Just before you arrived, Charlotte, we were talking about my work at the LGOC,” she began. “Isn’t that correct, Edward?”

  “Quite correct,” he agreed. “In fact, I was about to share some interesting news with Lilly. At least it has the potential to be of interest.”

  “Out with it, then,” Charlotte said, swallowing the last of her champagne.

  Edward raised an eyebrow at her abrupt tone but continued on without comment. “On the train home from Dover I ran into an old friend from Oxford. David Chamberlain. He’s with the War Office now, though I can’t recall in what capacity. At any rate, he’d been over in France and was on his way home for Christmas.”

  “And?” Charlotte prompted.

  “And he told me that plans are afoot to create a new women’s corps.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Lilly said. She must have misheard him. Or perhaps those two glasses of champagne on an empty stomach were to blame.

  “I’m quite serious. Certainly Chamberlain was. The army badly needs women workers to take the place of men who are working behind the lines so those men can be freed up for frontline service. They’ll be looking for ten thousand women, if not more.”

  “I can’t believe it. When?”

  “As soon as February, I gather. And I think you should consider applying as soon as it’s announced.”

  “Do you think they would take me?”

  “I do. They’re sure to need drivers to ferry about officers, supplies, that sort of thing. You would be helping out but wouldn’t be doing anything dangerous.”

  Lilly looked to Charlotte. “What do you think?”

  “I think you should apply. I’d miss you, of course, but isn’t this what you’ve wanted all along?”

  “It is . . . but it’s been ages since I did any driving.”

  “I’m sure it will come back to you,” Charlotte assured her. “You don’t have to become a driver, for that matter. Most likely they’ll be looking to fill all sorts of positions. There’s certain to be something you can do.”

  Edward reached across the table and took Lilly’s hand in his. “Please forget what I said earlier—my remark about cannon fodder. The truth is that we’re desperate for more men. My battalion hasn’t been at anything like full strength since the summer.”

  “Wouldn’t it worry you? My being so close to the fighting?”

  “Most likely you’d be posted somewhere in England. Although I rather like the idea of your being in France. We could see each other, you know, when I have leave. Experience the heady thrills of Boulogne-sur-Mer together, and all that,” he joked.

  Somewhere in France. Close to Edward; close to Robbie.

  “You are certain?” she asked, still not quite believing.

  “Chamberlain was certain enough. So keep your eyes and ears open, and be ready to apply when the call goes out.”

  Their food arrived just then, prepared exactly as Edward had requested: roast chicken, potatoes Lyonnaise, and tiny new Brussels sprouts. Lilly concentrated on her meal, allowing her brother and Charlotte to carry the conversation with their spirited and, at moments, barbed debate over the relative merits of modern art.

  As she ate, bite after methodical bite, she let her imagination soar, borne high by Edward’s news. If it were true, and
if she were accepted, she’d have a chance to make something of herself, become someone worthwhile to know, even to love.

  February couldn’t come fast enough.

  Chapter 14

  London

  February 1917

  It was no trouble to find a copy of The Times among the discarded newspapers on the bus at the end of the day. Strictly speaking, she wasn’t supposed to keep anything she found, but she couldn’t justify spending tuppence on a daily paper, not when she had to be so careful with her money. And the papers would end up in the rubbish anyway.

  Her shift was over, and after ten long hours it was her turn to sit, feet aching, head pounding, on a series of buses as they traced a meandering route east from Willesden to Camden Town. Opening her scavenged Times, she went straight to the casualty lists on page five; force of habit compelled her to read through them line by line. Relieved to find only unfamiliar names, she turned to the front of the paper and began to read the articles in earnest.

  And then, on page nine, she found it, the article she had been awaiting eagerly since Christmas Day. As Edward had promised, a women’s corps had been established. WOMEN’S WAR WORK IN FRANCE was the headline. Posts to Be Filled Behind the Lines.

  She read on, and was heartened to discover that women were required in a number of categories, one of them a motor transport service. Interested applicants were instructed to obtain the necessary forms from Mrs. Tennant, the director of the women’s branch of the National Service Department.

  As soon as the bus arrived at Camden Town, she jumped out and ran home, not able to wait another minute to share her news with Charlotte. Dashing through the front door of her lodgings, she shouted out a hello to Mrs. Collins and ran upstairs to knock on Charlotte’s door without even taking off her coat.

  “Is that you, Lilly? Do come in.”

  “They’ve announced it, just as Edward said!”

  “Announced what?”

  “The women’s corps. It’s right here in The Times.” She handed the paper to her friend, who was still sitting in her chair by the fire, her darning forgotten on her lap.

  “So it is. This is exciting!”

  “I must apply immediately. There’s no time to waste.”