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She turned her thoughts to the ward, the smell of antiseptic and the stifled sighs coming from the iron beds, and rose, slipping the letter into her apron pocket. She winced as pain shot relentlessly from her ankles up her slim, shapely legs, stiff and swollen after forty-eight hours on duty. Not that Matron cared, she reflected bitterly. To her, the Voluntary Aid Detachments were nothing more than glorified slave labor. Never mind that many of them, by this stage of the war, were more knowledgeable than most of the young nurses brought in fresh from training.
Resolutely, Flora switched on her flashlight and straightened the intricate uniform that enveloped her diminutive figure like a suit of starched armor. She glanced sleepily at her watch before making her way past the row of narrow beds, her rubber soles squeaking eerily on the linoleum.
She lingered, staring sadly through the shadows at the bandaged remains of a generation. Months before, boys her own age had left for the front as brave young warriors, ready to conquer the world, only to return wounded forever in heart, body and soul. Each time her eye fell on a flat sheet where a limb should have been, her throat clenched, for try as she might she was unable to shut out the smothered moans and the heartrending aura of resignation. Six months of quivering stumps, the familiar hum of agony, and dressing wounds, some so horrific death would have been preferable, should have made her immune to these sights and sounds. But they hadn’t, and probably never would. The outer control she displayed was a necessary survival tool, one that she upheld bravely, aware that a calm front helped the suffering patients. But her soul wept, unable to accept so much needless pain and mutilation.
Halfway down the ward she stopped to smooth the forehead of a sandy-haired private, relieved to find him calmer. But his limp pajama sleeve told its own tale, and she wondered for the thousandth time what it would be like if Gavin were to return like this. The thought was haunting. Again she chased away the images of his tall, handsome figure lying broken and maimed at the bottom of a trench, his bright blue eyes dulled by pain and his thick, black hair caked with blood and mud.
Shuddering, she headed toward the screens raised ominously around Jimmy McPherson, a young private brought in yesterday for whom little could be done. She slipped behind the divide and gazed unhappily into a pair of delirious eyes that glittered, bright and frantic, above fiery emaciated cheeks.
With nobody to alleviate his soft moans of agony, Flora lay the flashlight on the nightstand and realized that all she could do now was pray. Reaching out, she took the boy’s hot, dry hand in hers, begging not for his recovery, but for a quick release from this horrendous suffering.
“Allow him to go in peace, dear Lord,” she pleaded, holding her other hand close to the young man’s feverish brow.
All at once, her body became weightless, as though she were not a part of it, and a strong sensation of energy ran through her. It had occurred several times, always with those patients on the brink of death who seemed unable to let go of life. As on the other occasions, she suddenly felt an invisible presence. The heat from Jimmy’s brow abated, his eyes cleared and his chapped lips moved. Flora leaned closer, desperate to catch his last, whispered words.
“Tell Mother I planted the daffodils for her. Tell her…” But the rest was lost as his eyes closed and life ebbed gently away, and Flora watched in motionless awe as two hazy shadows appeared above the bed. She saw him rise out of his body and walk away between them.
Slowly, as the dawn crept stealthily through the Victorian windows, the image faded and she became aware that her fingers still clasped the stiffening hand of the figure in the bed. Gently, she folded his hands over his chest and, with a final look at his expressionless countenance, devoid now of suffering, she pulled the sheet up over him. A rush of exhaustion followed and she clutched the railing of the cot as everything went black.
Gradually she recovered her balance. The ward and its gloomy monotony came back into focus, and she stared as though seeing it for the first time. All at once, the endless rain battering the rattling panes of the old windows, the groans, the sickening scent of death and despondency, swooped down on her like a terrifying specter, and to her horror she feared she could not go on. Shame followed her initial panic as she faced her own inadequacy. Suddenly she wanted to run, escape from this dismal drudgery.
“Nurse?” A harsh call from the door made Flora snap to and hurry to face the starched, disapproving matron. It was bad enough being surrounded by suffering, but the matron’s constant censure made matters worse. She never missed a chance to slip in a snide remark about the privileged few, coupled with derogatory reflections on Flora’s small frame. Added to that were the woman’s disdainful looks. Often Flora wished she were plain and invisible, ashamed of her trim figure, her misty gray eyes, delicate, translucent complexion and chestnut hair that the matron regarded as nothing less than the wiles of a wicked temptress.
“I was just doing the rounds, Matron,” she murmured hurriedly, afraid her expression might give her thoughts away. “I’m afraid poor Private McPherson passed away.”
“I see. I hope you filled out the chart properly, Nurse. I won’t stand for any inefficiency.” She peered ominously through a pair of thick, horn-rimmed glasses perched on the beak of her bony nose. Behind them, her small, steely eyes glinted like two metal buttons. “You can finish cleaning the floors before you go. There’s to be no slacking. And mind your posture, Nurse. I won’t have slouches on my ward.”
Mustering her dignity, Flora straightened her sore back and dragged herself to the laundry to get a mop and pail, feeling the matron’s piercing gaze boring into her back as she trundled down the corridor. She cleaned the floor with aching arms and sighed with relief when the clock finally struck seven, careful to make herself scarce before the woman found another last-minute task for her to perform.
Flora grabbed her cloak and umbrella, left the drab building and made her way through the heavy rain to a shelter on the street corner. There she waited for the tram that would take her to the end of Prince’s Street, where Murray and the car would be waiting to take her home. She leaned against the damp wall, staring at the rising mist still clinging to the flagged pavement, and glanced shamefacedly at the peeling posters with their patriotic appeals. What right had she to complain, when everyone was suffering just as she was? Still, she knew she’d reached the end of her tether and could not stand the ward or the matron’s badgering any longer.
At the sound of the tram’s approach, Flora went to the curb and waved it down. The aged conductor gave a tired smile. She sat down on the wooden bench, relieved to be off her feet, and considered her situation. As a solution presented itself, a slow smile and a tingle of excitement replaced the shame and fear. Why hadn’t she thought of it earlier? The Foreign Service! Perhaps it wasn’t here at home that she was needed but at the front. Perhaps there, in the midst of it all, she could be of true help, offering more than the menial tasks the matron assigned her. She steadied herself as the tram rumbled along, filled with newfound inner strength, elated despite the physical and emotional fatigue. All at once Jimmy McPherson’s passing and the strange, recurring experiences made sense.
Then she remembered Tante Constance and Uncle Hamish and her heart sank. What would they say? They were sure to protest. Technically, they could even stop her from going. Like Gavin and Angus, their sons, she had lied about her age to become a V.A.D. Still, her mind was made up. Somewhere deep within, a dogged voice summoned, as though the young private’s death had opened a window to her soul, making the months of frustration and endurance—of patiently washing slops and cleaning bowls, rolling bandages and running endless errands—worthwhile.
She gazed out of the clammy window at the drizzling morning, wishing she were a man. Men were simply called up, and neither family nor personal commitment mattered before service to king and country. But for women it was different. The older generation, having so willingly given up their sons, husbands and brothers, considered it the duty of a young woman to attend to them. An ailing parent was enough to call a V.A.D. back from the front, leaving her no choice but to return, wretchedly divided between duty to her family and her country.
Flora leaned forward, pulling her cape closer, anxiously imagining all the arguments her aunt and uncle were sure to put forward. But the more she thought, the more prepared she became to do battle if necessary. No matter how exhausting she found the Foreign Service, it couldn’t possibly be worse than the tedious, unrewarding pattern of the present, where the only highlight lay in Angus’s sporadic letters, carrying brief news of Gavin.
With her six-month trial period complete, Flora was eligible to apply overseas. The government was appealing daily for V.A.D.s willing to go to the front. As the tram swung round the corner into Prince’s Street, a large billboard came into view, exhorting the population to trust in their country and support those brave young men and women at the front. It had to be an omen, Flora averred.
The moment she reached the car, Flora instructed the chauffeur, who was too old for the war or the coal pits, to drive straight to the inscription office. There she waited for nearly an hour in a stuffy waiting room, while an efficient middle-aged woman in uniform sat behind a large desk, writing diligently. Flora stared at the carpet’s fading gray pattern, which was probably once blue, and read the announcements pinned on the walls. She fiddled nervously with the buttons of her cloak, convincing herself she’d done right to come.
Finally the woman beckoned and Flora followed her down a colorless corridor to a door that had an opaque glass panel with RECRUITING written on it in bold, black letters. She was invited to sit down by an unusually sympathetic young matron who did not question too closely when she blushingly stated her age as nineteen. She merely filled in the blanks on the form, apparently glad that after three long years of pain, tedium and despair, some gallant souls were still ready to go to the western front. The interview went well, and by the end of half an hour she had been accepted for foreign service.
Flora dropped her bombshell at dinner that evening, a formal affair despite the lack of servants. Tante Constance gazed helplessly down the gleaming stretch of fine Georgian mahogany decked with the usual array of silver and porcelain, silently seeking her husband’s opinion in the aftermath of the announcement. Flora fidgeted under the table, about to break the silence, when Tante Constance finally spoke, her French intonation still noticeable after twenty years of living in Scotland.
“But why you, ma chérie? They have so many nurses already. The conditions…Angus writes that conditions are appalling.” She appealed once more to her husband, who continued eating the meager soup, unusually quiet. “Hamish,” she exclaimed, irritated, “did you hear what Flora is suggesting? It is absurd, ridiculous—out of the question. I don’t think she should go. You agree, of course, Hamish, yes? It is impossible to permit the child to go. She was only sixteen last week! Mon Dieu! What would your poor cousin Seaton have said if he and Jane were still alive? I’m sure they would have been opposed to their only daughter going to the war.”
“But Tante, how could they be opposed when they themselves were the first to seek danger?” Flora blurted out. “The missions in Africa were very dangerous. That’s why they were killed. For what they believed in,” she pleaded, caught between the determination to go at all cost, and the boundaries of an upbringing that placed family considerations before all else.
“That was not at all the same. There was no war at the time and they were missionaries,” Tante Constance replied with a dismissive wave of the hand.
Flora bit her tongue, knowing it was useless to point out that her father—a distant cousin of Uncle Hamish’s—and her mother had lost their lives in the midst of a tribal feud. So she remained silent, anxiously waiting for Uncle Hamish to answer. Although he ran the MacLeod coal empire like a benevolent nineteenth-century dictator, he often reacted unexpectedly. It was he, despite all Tante’s supplications, who had allowed the twins to lie about their age and enlist, saying that in their place he would have done the same. Now, seeing his gray hair and lined face, it was easy to deduce what it had cost him. There must have been days when he rued his decision, wishing only for their safe return, questioning his own sanity for having allowed them to go. But her uncle bore that, and Tante Constance’s endless reproaches, in stoic silence.
She waited with bated breath as he laid down the soupspoon and carefully dabbed his thick mustache with a white linen napkin.
“This is a sudden and serious decision, my dear Flora. Are you certain that you have reflected sufficiently upon the matter?”
“Oh, yes, Uncle Hamish, I have,” she responded, meeting his gaze full on. “I can’t bear being useless here. I have to go,” she said simply.
He looked at her hard, then nodded silently before turning to his wife. “I respect Flora’s decision, just as I respected that of our two sons,” he said, continuing before Tante Constance could protest. “There is a war on, my dear. The flower of our youth has suffered its consequences, but so it is. And although, like you, I deplore the fact of her going, I can only applaud our dear Flora for her courage. Patriotism will wear thin soon if nothing breaks,” he added, tight-lipped. “If it weren’t for the endurance of our troops on the western front, their amazing courage and sacrifice, God knows what would become of us all. The future of our nation depends on the effort and fortitude of those willing to sacrifice their personal lives for a bigger cause. Therefore, I believe that she should go if that is her wish.” He turned back to Flora and smiled, his eyes filled with melancholic admiration. “We shall miss you dearly, child, but you have my blessing.”
“But how shall we manage without her?” Tante Constance’s large form sagged before her husband’s decision.
“We shall manage, my love, just as everyone else does.”
“But it seems so unnecessary for her to join the Foreign Service. I’m sure they have enough girls out there already. The government should deal with it.”
“But Tante, if no nurses or V.A.D.s went to the front, what would happen to all the wounded? What if Gavin or Angus were hurt and there was no one to tend to them?” Flora appealed softly.
“I know, ma chérie. I…” Constance raised her hands in a Gallic gesture of defeat, lips quivering as she shook her graying head and sighed. “But you are so very young, ma petite. There is so much of life you don’t know yet, things you are not aware of, ought not be exposed to. Girls should not have to go to the front with the men. It is not at all seemly.” She gave another long sigh that expressed better than words all the pain and anxiety, the keeping-up of a brave front while praying fervently that the ominous telegram beginning with those fateful words—We sincerely regret to inform you…—would never arrive.
“It won’t be for long, Tante.” Flora reached across the table and gently touched her aunt’s trembling fingers. “I’m sure the war cannot last much longer.”
“How can we tell?” Tante Constance pressed a hankie to her eyes, trying to hold back the tears. “How do we know how much longer? They say in France that General Nivelle has all these wonderful plans, but all the while, the army is refusing to fight. My brother Eustace writes that were it not for the astute intervention of a young officer named Philippe Pétain things would be a disaster. And look at this country! Lloyd George argues with General Haig and that Robertson man, and everything remains exactly the same, more young men dead or wounded, more widows and weeping mothers. Have they no hearts?” she cried. “You are like a daughter to me, Flora dearest.” She clasped the outstretched hand. “I could not bear to lose you, too. Oh, mon Dieu, non!”
“My dearest,” Hamish said soothingly, “we must all be prepared to make the supreme sacrifice for the good of the nation. Or there will be no nation,” he added dryly.
Flora stroked Tante’s tremulous hand, wishing she could offer solace. She hated being the cause of more suffering, yet she knew she had no choice. She glanced at Uncle Hamish, struck all at once by the irony that this war that they all deplored was multiplying his fortune several times over. The need for British coal was overwhelming and Hamish’s factory could provide it. But she knew he would gladly have given every last penny to have his sons returned to him safe and sound.
That night they played cards in the drawing room as they had before the war. Little had altered at Midfield, as though defying the onslaught of change that would inevitably come. Here, a few miles south of Edinburgh, the war seemed a remote happening that had afflicted but not yet debilitated. Rationing wasn’t felt the same here; Uncle Hamish had arranged for eggs, butter and lamb to be brought from Strathaird, the estate on the Isle of Skye where the family used to spend a large portion of the summer holidays before embarking on an annual trip to Limoges. There Tante Constance’s brother, Eustace de la Vallière, and his wife, Hortense, owned la Vallière, one of the largest porcelain factories in France.
Flora gazed at the green baize of the card table and thought of Cousin Eugène, Oncle Eustace and Tante Hortense’s son, so serious, spiritual and mature despite his youth, entering the priesthood. It had been three long years since they were all together. She tried to concentrate on the game, making sure she made just enough mistakes for Uncle Hamish to believe he’d won fair and square, her lips twitching affectionately when she discarded an ace and his mustache bristled with satisfaction. He was so dear, and she so grateful that he supported her decision, despite his natural concern and what were sure to be endless recriminations from his wife.
As soon as the game was over and tea was served, Flora excused herself and slipped outside. The rain had stopped and the sky was surprisingly clear. The stars glimmered like the flickering flames in a Christmas procession seen from afar. Were these the same stars Gavin gazed at from his trench, she wondered, sitting on the damp terrace despite Tante’s admonitions about catching a chill, her knees hugged under her chin.
The pale satin of her evening gown cascaded down the stone steps like a waterfall as she searched the gleaming stars, their sparkle replaced by Gavin’s twinkling blue eyes and possessive smile. She sighed and recalled each precious moment, each tender endearment and the treasured instant when his lips had finally touched hers. Before leaving, he had raised her fingers to his lips, kissing them ever so softly before whispering the question to which he already knew the answer. She smiled and bit her lip. How could he possibly have doubted? Of course she would wait for him. A lifetime, if need be.
Yet he never wrote. Never communicated directly except for the occasional scribble at the bottom of a page, sending his love and a hug. It was always Angus, the younger twin, who kept her abreast of their life in the trenches, sharing anecdotes, some so tragic they were hard to believe, others oddly humorous despite the circumstances.
Now, at last, it was her turn to experience these things.
She rose slowly and wandered back into the house, gazing affectionately at Tante’s stiff French furniture, the paintings and the delicate porcelain on the shelves, realizing how much it all meant to her.
Midfield and Strathaird had been home to her since she was barely four, when the family had taken her in as a surrogate daughter and sister after her parents’ death. It seemed a lifetime ago. But then, so did the boys’ departure to the front.
She heaved another sigh, feeling worldly-wise and much older than her years. The last few months spent at the hospital had been a shock at first, a revelation. The prim, innocent young girl who had entered its portals with no more knowledge of male anatomy than a nun was now a different person. She smoothed the faded brocade of her favorite cushion, glad that women were taking on new functions, becoming vital to the country’s economy, and learning much about themselves and their capabilities. That was about the only positive aspect of this dreadful war. All at once she remembered Tante’s veiled remarks at dinner and grinned, wondering if her aunt had the slightest idea of the tasks Flora performed each day—washing the men, dressing their wounds, emptying their bedpans.
At the drawing-room door she paused, smiling at Millie, Gavin’s spaniel. The dog wagged her tail patiently, hoping to be allowed into the hall. “Just a minute, Millie,” she said, her eye catching a photograph in a silver frame. It had been taken at Chateau de la Vallière, her cousins’ home in Limoges, during that last, wonderful summer of 1913.
She picked up the picture, tears welling suddenly. There was dear Eugène, serene as always, and his baby sister Geneviève. René, their younger brother, was slouching behind him and sulking. Uncle Eustace, dressed in a white suit and panama hat, leaned on a walking stick behind his sister’s deck chair, while in the foreground were Gavin, Angus and herself, sitting on the grass, their arms entwined. The merry trio—or rather, Gavin and his two faithful followers. What a beautiful day it had been. They had laughed and played, oblivious of what life had in store for them. She replaced the picture with damp eyes, wondering when the friendly banter she engaged in with Gavin had transformed into an embarrassed awareness that left her dizzy, her heart racing whenever he was around. Perhaps it had been that very afternoon. But it was not until last year, when he had returned for a short week’s leave, that she knew she was in love.
She leaned against the door, staring into space, recalling that thrilling moment when he’d walked in and their eyes had met and clung. Oh, what heaven it had been. Gavin, so tall and mature in his well-worn uniform. The white and purple ribbon of his M.C., the Military Cross won for bravery at the Battle of the Somme in 1916, was worn with casual nonchalance, although he was the youngest man to have received it yet. For days they had walked, talked and laughed, each too shy or too young to make the first move, yet so aware of one another it hurt.
She wrinkled her nose and stared at the picture once more. If she’d known half of what she knew now, she’d have given herself to him without a second thought, she realized, shocked at her own depravity. But there might never be another chance, unless…perhaps she would be blessed, and one day he would be brought in to her section of the field hospital. Not with a bad wound, of course, but just enough for him not to return to the front and for her to take care of him.
Tante’s singsong voice calling from upstairs interrupted her daydreams. She let Millie into the hall, regretting now that all she’d allowed Gavin was one chaste kiss. The thought of his lips on hers made her shiver, and she ran quickly up the stairs and along the corridor to her room. If only she was at Strathaird, she wished. There she had her favorite spot, among the worn chintz cushions of the window seat in the upstairs sitting room, where she would curl up and dream, gazing out over the lawn to the cliff and the churning sea below. Oh, how she missed it. The family fondly called the room “Flora’s dreamery,” for it was there she spun her yarns, meditated, daydreamed and saw things others didn’t, and where everyone always knew they could find her.
But tonight she had to content herself with having achieved her objective. At least now she would be close to Gavin, and truly serving her country. Finally she would be a part of this war to end all wars that would mark their lives forever.
2
Arras, France 1917
“‘If you were the only girl in the world,”’ an out-of-tune voice warbled.
“Gawd, you’ve got a bloody awful voice, mate.”
“Says who?”
“Says I. We should stick you out in no-man’s-land and let Franz ’ear you. ’E’d be off ’ome in an ’eartbeat, ’e would.”
Laughter ran the length of the trench, and banter flew as the men moved, ankle-deep in mud, trying desperately to keep their spirits up while they repaired the traverses, piling sandbags near the entrance to secure it before the next rainfall. Those taking a break sat smoking wherever they could find a dry spot, wrapped in their greatcoats, exchanging jokes. Lieutenant Angus MacLeod, of the Fifty-first Scottish Highlanders, leaned over and offered his brother a light.
“Thanks.” Gavin shielded it with his palm, took a long drag and surveyed the men, wondering how long it would be before they finally made an advance into the massive defenses, through the endless stretches of mud and barbed wire that separated them from the enemy. There was something big stirring, he was certain, for powerful artillery had been moved in to back them up. He felt sure General Harper’s orders would be imminent. Smoking, Gavin silently calculated their chances of success and reckoned they were slim. The German offensive was gruesome. “I hope things will be better than at Ypres,” he murmured to himself. There, the Guards, the Fifteenth Scottish, the Sixteenth Irish and several other assault divisions had fought themselves out from August through September in what was known as the battle of the mud at Passchendaele.
“It’s one of my last, so smoke it slowly,” Angus remarked, referring to the cigarette.
Gavin grinned affectionately, watching the thin ribbon of smoke rise above the damp earth of their burrow, and listened to the sound of the enemy artillery becoming uncomfortably close, noting the occasional flash of flares. Too damn close, he realized. Eyeing Angus, he decided not to share his misgivings with his brother. Although they were fraternal twins, their personalities were as different as their looks. Angus hated it all. They never talked about the war much unless they could help it.
“God, I wish this were all over,” Angus remarked gloomily.
“I don’t know, it has its moments.” Gavin took another long drag, enjoying the scent of the Will’s tobacco, which was a dash sight better than the never-ending stench of gangrene and death. “This may be the one exciting thing that will ever happen in our lives. Once we’re home, Papa will expect us to follow in his footsteps, enter the wretched coal business and lead life exactly as he did.”
“Ha!” Angus shook his red head. “Trust you to consider this mess an adventure.”
“What makes you think life will be the same as it used to be?” Jonathan Parker, a young medical student from Cambridge, asked, swallowing tea from his tin mug. “I don’t think anything can ever be the same. For one thing, people aren’t going to be as complacent as they were. And God knows what will happen if we lose.”
“Lose, be damned,” Gavin replied. “We can’t.”
“If the doughboys don’t take a hand in it soon, we will, old chap. Look at us, for Christ’s sake! Three bloody years and we’ve only a couple of miles gained and few hundred thousand dead to show for it. That’s not counting the wounded,” Jonathan added with a bitter laugh.
“You’re right.” Angus nodded, pulled his greatcoat closer. “Who knows how long it may go on?” he added dismally.
With the sound of a courier arriving at the entrance of the trench, every head turned in unison. The men stopped smoking and those working laid down their picks and shovels, silently praying his name would be called. Letters from home were what kept a man sane. As names were called out and letters passed down the line, those who received nothing got back to work, masking their disappointment.
“Angus MacLeod.” Angus leaned forward as the letter was passed down.
“Who’s it from?” Gavin asked, stubbing out the precious cigarette casually, knowing the girls at Paris Plage could get him more.
“Flora. It’s from Flora,” Angus replied, blushing, his hands trembling as he slit open the envelope.
For a second, the sweet softness of her gray eyes and her mysterious smile replaced the mud, the wet and growing rumble of enemy fire. And for a moment, Gavin wished he’d written, but it just didn’t come naturally. He could say the words, and felt them deep inside. But write them? No. He didn’t like writing letters. He hadn’t even written that infamous “goodbye” letter, the one you left for after you were killed. Not him. Something told him it wasn’t a good omen. He shrugged, eyeing Angus impatiently as he read the letter, wishing she’d addressed it to him.
“I think you’ve got a crush on her,” he teased, dying to hear what she had to say.
“You know she only has eyes for you.” Angus scanned the lines avidly, then frowned.
“Well,” Gavin prodded, “what does she say?” Again he wished that she’d write to him. But then, she had before and he’d never taken the trouble to reply. Gavin shrugged. Flora knew he loved her. She would wait. She understood him as no one else ever could. She was his. He wished he’d kissed her again that last time they’d been together. But he couldn’t. If he had, things would have gotten out of hand. She was so young, so lovely, so innocent…Biting back his feelings, he nagged his brother again. “Well, come on. What’s she got to say for herself?”
“She’s coming out,” Angus replied in a flat voice.
“What do you mean?” Gavin’s head flew up.
“She’s asked to be posted overseas. She’s being sent here to France.” He glanced at the date of the postmark. “In fact, she’s probably here by now. This letter is more than a month old.”
“Good God. But why would she do that? There’s no reason for her to. Surely Papa could have intervened.”
“She says here that Father backed her up. She wants to do this, Gavin,” he added quietly, handing him the letter. “She’s made a choice.”
Gavin scanned the lines. Feeling powerless, he kicked a piece of stray traverse angrily, afraid for the first time. He knew how to take care of himself, damn it, but the thought of Flora in danger, without him to take care of her, had him swearing. Why hadn’t she stayed at home, where he knew she’d be safe? “You’re right about this damned war,” he exclaimed suddenly. “It’s time we got on with our lives. Do you think she’ll be posted near us?”
“She’ll probably be sent to Etaples,” Angus replied. “That’s where most of the V.A.D.s get sent when they first come out.”
“At least that’s not in the middle of the fighting. Still, I don’t like it.” Gavin looked up as the sound of shellfire intensified. He glanced at his brother, away in a world of his own, then stared back at the letter. His name had been pointedly avoided. She was angry he hadn’t written, he supposed. Well, he’d explain later, clear things up.
“Perhaps we’ll be able to see her,” Angus said dreamily.
“Maybe. If we live long enough,” Gavin answered, squinting upward.
“Oh, you will,” Angus laughed, his face alight with sudden admiration. “You’re like a cat, always falling back on your feet. We made it out of the Somme last year thanks to you.”
“Rubbish.” Gavin handed him back the letter then checked his rifle. “We all did our part. Imagine our little Flora at the front, though. It seems so strange. And I don’t like it one bit.”
“Not so little anymore, and from what I gather between the lines very much in love with you.” Angus gave him a fixed smile.
“I don’t know.” Gavin cocked his ear and tried to identify the exact direction of the increase in shellfire.
“Of course you do. You always have. You’ve only had eyes for one another for as long as I can remember,” Angus replied a touch bitterly.
Gavin gave him a surprised glance. “Jealous?”
“Of you two? Of course not.” Angus shook his head. “You’re meant for one another. I never stood a chance. She’s very fond of me. As a cousin and friend, that is.”
“Well, if anything happens to me, I suppose you’d better take care of her for me. Can’t have her going to some stranger.” Gavin spoke with a flippancy he was far from feeling, and scanned the trench once more. Deciding where to position his men, he ducked as the firing grew suddenly louder and a flare nearly grazed his head. “What in hell’s name’s going on? I know we’re in the middle of a bloody offensive, but it’s too damn close for comfort and I’ve not received any direct orders from H.Q. I hope the telephone lines aren’t down.” He raised his head aboveground.
“Don’t, you fool, you’ll get yourself killed.” Parker yanked him back.
