Chapter Fourteen

DESPITE THE PLEASANT HALF HOUR she had spent in Dirk’s company, the nightmare came again, almost as soon as Eleanor had gone to sleep. It was always the same. She was squeezed into a space that was too small for her. There was blood on her blouse, and she knew someone was watching her, someone who meant her harm. When she woke with a start, sweating, her conversation with Dirk seemed unreal, almost as if it had never taken place, and she had lain sleepless in the dark, unwilling to go back to sleep.

Next morning, she was tired, and her heart sank when Kit bounded into the room after coming off night duty, asking immediately, “Did you see Dirk last night?”

“Yes,” Eleanor answered briefly, but of course, Kit wasn’t to be so easily fobbed off.

“Well?” Kit said, sitting down on Eleanor’s bed. “Tell me what he had to say. Don’t go clamming up on me again.”

So, Eleanor found herself telling her friend a little about Dirk’s difficulties with his work, keeping away from anything the two of them had said that was in the least bit personal. Kit seemed satisfied by the little Eleanor had told her, if a little envious.

“You lucky, lucky thing, being off duty like that when he came,” she said. “And not getting discovered by Sister Palmer in the bargain! I should have been discovered, as surely as a cat chases a mouse. Still, I did have the compensation of being on duty when the most attractive man was brought in.”

Eleanor smiled, grateful that the topic seemed to have moved on from Dirk.

“He’s British, too,” Kit said. “And he has the most amazing blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Apparently, he was terribly brave and risked his life to save his officer; he’s here too by the way. Terribly injured though; it’s very sad. But I tell you, you won’t be able to miss our hero. A real looker, he is. Actually, come to think of it, he reminds me a little of Dirk’s poor friend Jimmy.”

It wasn’t the first time Kit had waxed lyrical about one of the new arrivals, and Eleanor gave it no further thought as she went on duty.

Security had been stepped up significantly since Lazare’s suicide. Medicines had always been kept locked away, but previously the key to the store had been kept by someone on duty on the ward. Now the key was kept in Sister Palmer’s office, and whenever medicine trolleys needed to be restocked, the key had to be collected, signed for, and then returned and signed in immediately when the trolleys were ready.

Eleanor’s first job of that morning was to go to fetch the key, and she did so, unlocking the door to the medicine store and going inside. The store was adjacent to the ward and was fairly roomy, with a glass panel set into the door so that it was possible to see into it from outside. It was kept scrupulously neat and tidy in order to find things quickly.

As Eleanor counted out dressings and supplies, her thoughts turned to VAD Brown, the girl who’d been held responsible for leaving the store unlocked when Lazare had committed suicide. She’d been sent back to England in disgrace; Eleanor had seen her leave in tears. The whole incident had been a great tragedy, and Eleanor sincerely hoped the poor girl had been able to recover. She had certainly been careless, but from what Eleanor had heard, the incident had taken place at the end of a particularly busy shift when the staff had been almost dead on their feet.

Her thoughts were interrupted as someone knocked on the door to the store. Assuming it would be another member of staff, Eleanor turned and drew in a jagged breath. There was a man staring at her through the glass panel. “Come on, Eleanor,” a voice said in her head. “You know it’s what you want.”

The knocking sound came again, and Eleanor blinked, dragging herself back to the present. It was one of the patients knocking on the door. There was nothing to be afraid of, just as there had been no need to almost suffer a heart attack the previous evening when Dirk had called out to her.

“Yes?” she said, pulling herself together with difficulty. “Can I help you?”

The man moved into the entrance, and just for a moment, Eleanor thought she caught a cruel twist to his mouth, an icy perception in his blue eyes. But then he smiled, and the illusion went away.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “For a minute there, you looked as if you’d seen a ghost.”

A ghost. Yes, that was what it was, a specter that haunted her nightmares. It had no place here in the light of day as she went about the business of the ward.

“I was counting my dressings out,” she told him. “You startled me.”

“My apologies once again.”

Instinctively, Eleanor knew the soldier was Kit’s “looker.” Although a bandage swathed his head and there were scratches on his face, even from a few yards away she could see that those eyes of his were a deep blue, fringed by soot-black lashes.

“I shall be doing my rounds in the ward just as soon as I’ve loaded my trolley up. Is it anything that can wait until then?” she asked him.

He smiled. “I’m not sure you’ll have what I need on your trolley. I’m after some paper.”

“Paper?” she repeated, frowning at him. “Do you mean a newspaper?”

The smile distorted slightly. “Oh, no, nurse,” he said. “I’ve been living the news just lately, I have no need to read about it too. No, I’m an artist. I want to do some drawings to pass the time, that’s all. It’s deathly dull in here.”

“Oh,” Eleanor said, surprised. “Well, I’m sure I’ll be able to find something. Leave it with me; I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.” The man gave her a final smile and began to withdraw. Then he came back again. “I’m in the furthest bed on the ward. Cartwright’s the name. Private Leo Cartwright.”

“Very well, Private Cartwright. I’ll be with you shortly.”

Eleanor stood looking after him for a moment, glad to be alone again. Her heart was still beating quickly from the initial fright of seeing him. She couldn’t bear the thought that her nightmares were spilling into her waking hours, influencing her behavior and her reactions. That was no good at all. How would she function if things went on like that? She had to try to put a stop to it, and perhaps she could start with Private Cartwright. Kit had said he’d saved his commanding officer’s life, so there was absolutely no reason for her instincts to be warning her about him. He was a hero, and she would treat him like one, starting with finding him something to draw on.

The only paper Eleanor could immediately find was some packaging the latest supply of bandages had been wrapped in.

“This is the best I could do for now, I’m afraid,” she told Leo Cartwright when she took it to him. “I’m sorry it’s brown. I’ll have another look later on, see if I can find something more suitable for you.”

But Leo all but snatched it out of her hand in his eagerness to have it, saying only, “Thank you, nurse. I’m forever in your debt.” He then produced a pencil from somewhere and began drawing then and there, his bandaged head bent over the paper.

“Please don’t forget you have a head injury,” Eleanor told him. “You mustn’t overdo it.”

He didn’t look up. “I won’t, nurse. Don’t you worry.”

Eleanor felt reluctant to leave. It was pleasing to see Leo Cartwright’s quick confident pencil strokes on the paper. “I’ll leave your dressing change until the end, but should Sister Palmer come on duty, you might want to conceal your drawing from her. I’m not altogether sure she would approve of you drawing in bed. She’s a stickler for clean sheets.”

He did look up then, albeit briefly. “Oh? And how will I know who she is?”

“Believe me,” Eleanor said grimly, beginning to wheel the dressing trolley away. “You’ll know.”

As she went, Eleanor felt pleased with herself for the way she had managed to speak with Private Cartwright. He was just a man, like all the other men here, after all, and perhaps if she continued to make an effort to defy her instincts, then the nightmares would cease to have such a hold on her. Perhaps they would even cease altogether.

There were a lot of difficult dressings to be done, so Eleanor didn’t have the chance to look back in Leo Cartwright’s direction again until Sister Palmer swept onto the ward with the doctor at nine thirty. When Eleanor did look over, it was to see Leo sitting up in bed with not a drawing or a pencil in view, and she smiled to herself. He had listened to her warning.

When it was finally time for her to change his dressing, Leo gave Eleanor a wink when she went over to his bed. “My thanks for the warning, nurse. Sister Palmer looks like a real battle-ax.”

“She’s very good at her job,” Eleanor said, refusing to give way to a smile, busying herself with pouring some clean water into a bowl instead, ready to wash Leo’s wound. The bandage on his head was caked with dried blood, and although the wound didn’t appear to be life-threatening, it had bled freely. There would be no way now to remove the bandage without causing him considerable pain.

“I’m afraid this may hurt a good deal,” she warned, taking hold of the bandage and wondering what his reaction to the pain would be. Some men were silently stoic; others screamed or passed out.

“Are you ready?” She paused, waiting for his consent, her hands on the bandage, and he gave a brief nod.

“Ready.”

Eleanor began to tug at the bandage, easing it from the wound as gently as she could, squeezing drops of water onto it from a sponge when it was stuck fast, before trying once again. Leo Cartwright kept his eyes closed the whole time, the long shuddering spasms of his body the only sign of his agony.

“There,” she said. “All finished. I am sorry about that. You were very brave.” After disposing of the soiled dressing on the bottom of the trolley, Eleanor straightened to glance at him and gave a little gasp of surprise. For, just as in the dispensary, Leo was looking right at her, his expression icy cold. Then, just as quickly, he smiled, and the cold expression vanished, causing Eleanor to blink and to doubt whether it had been present at all.

“I…I’ll just clean the wound now,” she said. “Then we can get a nice fresh bandage on you…”

Her hands were shaking as she plunged a piece of gauze into the water, ready to wash the wound. All the time she worked, she could feel Leo Cartwright silently watching her movements. It was a relief when he finally spoke.

“Tell me, are you interested in art, nurse?”

“Yes,” she said, squeezing the excess water out of the gauze and proceeding to gently dab at his wound. “That is, I don’t know very much about it. But I’ve often enjoyed making some watercolors. Just school girl paintings, you know, landscapes and such…” She could hear herself babbling, and bit her lip to stop herself.

“I should like to see them,” Leo said. His voice sounded very normal so she forced herself to look at him. Sure enough, he was smiling at her. Had she imagined that cold, piercing look before?

The wound was clean now, and Eleanor began to apply the dressing, her body necessarily close to Leo’s face as she wound the bandage around his head.

“I don’t have any of my paintings here,” she said. “They’re all back home in England.”

She used a pair of scissors to cut the end of the bandage in two in order to tie it in place. “And I’m sure my immature daubs wouldn’t impress a proper artist like yourself. There, you’re all done.” She stepped back from him to replace the scissors and took hold of the trolley handles, preparing to leave his bedside.

“D’you want to know what I was drawing?” he asked, and Eleanor glanced quickly over her shoulder to check that the coast was clear.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I saw the old trout leave ten minutes ago, when you were in the middle of removing my scalp. Here, look.” He reached beneath his covers to pull out the dressing packaging and held it out to her.

Eleanor took it from him, and found herself looking at such an accurate portrait of Sister Palmer, she had to quickly cover her mouth with her hand to stop herself from snorting with laughter. Oh, how Kit would love this, if only she were here. The picture really wasn’t accurate, since the poor sister was part bull, part woman. Something about the steam being snorted from the unfortunate woman’s nostrils, though, was absolutely spot on.

Eleanor handed it back to Leo, grateful that she had succeeded in pushing away her ridiculous feelings of doom and gloom about him. “It’s very good,” she said. “Although I really shouldn’t approve of it. And if I were you, I would keep it very well concealed.”

Leo grinned at her and winked. “Will do, nurse,” he said. “Will do.”

Later that day, Eleanor managed to purloin some drawer lining paper from Jenkins and took it to Leo. After that, it became a habit for her to pause by his bed to see what he had been working on. As their friendship developed, she was pleased that she had been able to overcome her initial reservations about him, and put his watchfulness down to the fact that he was an artist.

However, if she had thought that breaking down her self-inflicted barriers would have the effect of stemming her nightmares, she was wrong. No matter how exhausted Eleanor was, they came to her regularly each night, until she was almost afraid to go to sleep.

Leo was lying in his bed outside on the abbey terrace, the sunshine warm against his eyelids, making him inhabit a world of vermilion red. It had caused the nurses and porters a huge amount of work to bring the beds outside, but he was glad they had done so. It was a treat to be out in the air again.

All around him, other men were talking, laughing, or playing cards. For the most part, Leo successfully managed to block them out. Right now he was thinking about Severini and his wife, Jeanne, picturing the petite woman shaving her husband in their Paris apartment, the loving skills with which she had wielded the blade on her husband’s jaw.

Severini had been pontificating as usual, sitting in his chair with a towel draped on his chest, accepting his wife’s ministrations without comment. Then, right at the end of the procedure, when his jaw was smooth and Jeanne was about to move away to empty the bowl of used water, Severini had caught her free hand and pressed it to his lips—all with only the briefest of pauses in what he was saying to Leo about the use of light and dark to describe tone. Somehow, to Leo, the gesture summed up the couple’s marriage, and as he lay on his bed outside the abbey, he wondered what it would feel like to live like that, to be cherished and to willingly offer service to another. It was not something he had ever experienced himself. Although there had always been plenty of women around who were ready to do anything he desired in order to keep him in their lives, none of them had ever moved him enough for him to want to seek a commitment.

Severini and his wife had met when Jeanne had come to pose for him. Leo had heard the tale of the sixteen-year-old Jeanne turning up on Severini’s doorstep with her glowing skin and angular cheekbones, and he knew the artist had painted her obsessively for years before the couple had married. Severini’s paintings of Jeanne were amongst his strongest work. They were also the paintings that had first earned him a reputation in the art world. Jeanne was—and still continued to be—Severini’s muse and inspiration.

Just as this thought entered Leo’s head, VAD Martin appeared on the far end of the terrace. One of the soldiers called out to her, and Leo saw her smile shyly, saying something in French in response. Some of the other men joined in with the conversation, and general laughter ensued. As VAD Martin drew nearer to his bed, Leo saw she was blushing slightly. It reminded him of how she had blushed a few days previously, when he had presented her with a quick sketch he’d made of her. When she had thanked him with a shy smile, Leo had experienced a glow of pleasure.

“Good morning,” he said to her now. “Have they been teasing you?”

She smiled. “They’re asking me for drinks.”

“But you’re not on duty?” he guessed, noticing that she had a book under her arm.

“Not for another hour, no,” she said. “But in any case, I shouldn’t be able to bring the kind of drinks they’re requesting. They want me to fetch the gin they’re convinced Sister Palmer keeps in her office.”

Leo smiled. “Hmm,” he said. “Now, that would be good. With plenty of ice and lemon.”

“Yes, that’s what they said, too.” She smiled and went to continue on her way, but Leo reached out his hand to detain her, an idea forming in his mind.

“Listen,” he said, “if you’re only going to read, would you mind terribly doing it here? I’d love to draw you from life, instead of relying on my memory.” The blush came again, a look of uncertainty crossing her face. “I should be very grateful,” he pressed on. “I do so miss drawing directly from the human figure.”

She hesitated a moment longer, an intriguing series of expressions flickering across her face, and Leo waited, hoping he had succeeded in making his request as impersonal as possible. It seemed he had, because finally she nodded.

“Very well,” she agreed. “As long as I can read my book, I’ll sit for half an hour for you.”

Leo smiled. “Thank you.”

A chair was procured, and Eleanor sat and opened her book. Straight away, Leo began to draw, his pencil strokes strong and confident. She was bent over her book, the sun illuminating the left side of her face, the shadows lovingly silhouetting the outline of her breasts above the cinched-in waist of her uniform. Leo had always thought her pretty, but as his pencil moved and defined and shaped, he realized she was beautiful. How he should like to paint her properly, not dressed in all that starched cotton, instead draped in flowing velvet of rich red or vivid green. Outdoors amongst nature, holding a bunch of flowers to her face. Or better still, naked.

Leo’s body grew aroused at the thought. Yes, perhaps this was it, what he needed. Perhaps VAD Martin—Eleanor—could be his muse, the way Jeanne had become Severini’s muse. Eleanor was sweet and kind, the type to put other people before herself. She would be accommodating and never demand too much attention, surely the perfect companion for an ambitious man such as him.

A nurse was helping a patient walk along the veranda toward them, and she called out to Eleanor. “I say, VAD Martin, have you taken up a new career as an artist’s model?”

As he watched, Eleanor closed her book, the self-conscious expression quickly returning to her face. Leo sighed, sensing the drawing session was at an end. Damn the stupid nurse!

“Oh,” said Eleanor quickly. “I was just helping Private Cartwright out for a moment, VAD Hurst. Wasn’t I, Private Cartwright?”

Leo nodded, but before he could reply, he noticed that the soldier who was in the interfering nurse’s care was staring at Eleanor. Since Leo had, himself, just realized how attractive she was, this wasn’t entirely surprising, but there was an odd sort of intensity about the man’s regard that stirred Leo’s curiosity.

Then the man spoke. “I know you, don’t I?” he said to Eleanor.

As she looked over at the man, Eleanor’s book slipped from her hands and clattered to the ground. “I…I don’t think so,” she said, bending to pick it up. Her voice sounded oddly fearful to Leo, and he frowned, wondering why.

“Yes,” the man persisted. “I’m sure I do. I’ve met you in England. I never forget a face.”

“Perhaps you have a doppelganger, Eleanor,” VAD Hurst said with a laugh. “A double of yourself!”

Eleanor’s chair scraped as she pushed it back and stood, not returning the nurse’s smile. “My apologies, Private Cartwright,” she said quietly to Leo. “I must go and get ready for my shift now.”

However, before she could go more than a few paces, the soldier called out again.

“I’ve got it!” he said. “Your father’s the vicar of St. Mark’s in Hertford. I went to a wedding there once. And a christening.”

Eleanor froze on the veranda. Although she didn’t turn round, Leo could see she was gripping her book so hard her knuckles were white. “No,” she said quietly. “I…I’m afraid you’re mistaken. My father’s dead.”

“Oh?” the man persisted, sounding confused. “I could have sworn…”

“Honestly, Private Pryce,” said VAD Hurst. “I think VAD Martin ought to know who she is. As I said, she must have a double.”

“Martin?” repeated Pryce. “That was his name, I’m sure of it! If she’s got a double, then she’s got a double with the same name to boot!”

There was an awkward silence. Though curious about the conversation, Leo felt a sudden dislike for Pryce. Without the man and his stupid questions, Leo would still be drawing Eleanor. “Are you calling the nurse a liar?” he snapped.

“No,” said Pryce. “Of course not. But—”

“Excuse me,” said Eleanor, finally making her escape.

Pryce looked away from Leo to follow her every step until she went into the abbey and vanished from sight.

“If VAD Martin says you’re mistaken, then you must be mistaken,” Leo continued, and Pryce turned round to glower at him.

“All right, all right,” he said. “A man can make a mistake, can’t he?”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” said VAD Hurst, leading Pryce on past Leo’s bed. “This is such a silly argument.”

“Well, I didn’t start it,” grumbled Pryce. “And anyway, I haven’t made a mistake. It is her; I know it is.”

“Let’s leave it, shall we?” said VAD Hurst, and as she led him round the corner and out of sight, Leo leaned back against his pillows and wondered.

It had been a mistake to lie. She had recognized Pryce as soon as he had mentioned attending her father’s church. Her terror at being discovered had been so great, however, that the denial had just slipped out. She couldn’t turn back from it now, even when the man frowned at her every time she passed by his bed that day.

Absorbed in her work as she had been these past months, Eleanor had almost been able to forget all about her unhappy home life. But now the thought that this man might return to Hertfordshire to recuperate and possibly inform her father of where she was filled her apprehension. The strain of it was such that when she came off duty she didn’t feel up to eating anything. Neither could she sleep properly, not that night or the next. The nightmares had worsened. Every time she went to sleep, it was waiting for her, suffocating and claustrophobic, leaving her gasping for breath when she awoke. In no time at all, Eleanor looked and felt very ill.

“Eleanor? You look perfectly dreadful,” Kit said to her later that week. “Are you all right?”

With Kit’s face such a picture of concern, it was suddenly all too much for Eleanor. Closing her eyes to prevent herself from crying, she knew she couldn’t face going out onto the ward that day.

“I don’t feel too well,” she told her friend at last. “I think…I think perhaps I’m coming down with influenza.”

Kit looked even more worried. “Shall I get the doctor?”

Eleanor shook her head. “No, no. Just tell Sister. I’m sure I’ll be right as rain after a rest. But you’d better tell Sister as soon as you can; she’ll need to arrange for someone to cover the ward.”

After Kit had gone, Eleanor got back into bed, her mind in turmoil. At night on the wards, the men were visited by ghosts—ghosts that made them cry out in their sleep. The ghosts of friends, blown apart before their eyes, and Germans they’d met face to face before blowing their brains out. She’d never minded hearing about her patients’ dreams because she knew what it was like to be haunted. Now here she was, lying here, letting them all down.

“Sister was awfully annoyed,” Kit told her when she returned. “Honestly, anyone would think it was a crime to be ill. She’s insisting on the doctor, but I’m sure that’s because she thinks you’re lying rather than out of concern for your health. Lying! You of all people!”

But she was, wasn’t she? She didn’t really have influenza. She was just frightened—frightened and weak. A failure. And when the doctor examined her, he would realize as much. He would realize what Pryce already knew: that she was a liar. Dishonest, no good. Not to be trusted.

“Perhaps I’d better get up…” she said, lifting herself up.

“No! I won’t hear of it!” Kit was angry, pushing her back into bed, and Eleanor relented.

But in the end, Eleanor was not seen by the doctor. While Kit was downstairs arranging some tea for her, a telegram arrived.

Kit’s brother, Arthur, had been killed in action.

Eleanor knew nothing of it until Sister Palmer brought the weeping Kit to their quarters. “Can I leave her in your hands, VAD Martin?” she asked Eleanor. “I know you aren’t feeling too well yourself, but I simply can’t spare anyone else.”

Kit launched herself into Eleanor’s arms, shudders of grief tearing through her body. Holding her tightly, Eleanor rocked her as if she were a child. “Yes, of course, Sister,” she said.

The older woman looked at her for a while, then gave a nod. “Good,” she said and left.

For several hours, Eleanor and Kit stayed up in their room together. Some of the time Kit cried, and some of the time she angrily remonstrated against the injustice of it all. Later, she suddenly felt the need to take action.

“I must see Mama and Papa, Eleanor,” she cried. “I must go home.”

“Yes,” Eleanor agreed. “You must.”

With almost bewildering speed, it was all arranged, and Sister Palmer allowed Eleanor to accompany Kit to the station. Her friend’s eyes were red and swollen with the tears she had wept all night, but she was calmer now, even though she was still infinitely sad.

“Funny how one never thinks it will happen to one’s own,” Kit said with a catch in her voice as they sat on a bench waiting for the train to arrive. “Even working in a hospital as I do, seeing casualty after casualty. Not even when poor Jane’s brother was killed. I just can’t seem to take it in. That Arthur is…really dead. That I shall never see him again.”

“I know,” Eleanor said, and found Kit looking at her sharply.

“Of course, you do, don’t you?” she said. “You’ve lived through both of your parents dying. Perhaps that’s what makes you so strong.”

Eleanor looked away, feeling ashamed of the lies she’d told her friend when they first met, before she knew she could trust her. “I’m not so very strong,” she said, thinking of how she’d stayed in bed that morning because she was afraid to face Pryce’s reproachful expression. “Not really. And besides, you’re far stronger than you realize yourself.” She returned her gaze to her friend, remembering her brief meeting with Arthur Ballantine and the obvious affection and admiration he’d felt for his sister. “And I know your brother would have agreed with me.”

Kit’s eyes filled with tears once again. “Oh, Eleanor,” she sobbed, “I shall miss you so much.”

“And I you,” she said, and they embraced. “Will you come back?” she asked at last.

Kit brushed her tears away. “Oh, yes. At least, I want to. The only thing is…Mama and Papa. I shall have to see how things are. Oh, but yes, I do want to come back. If Arthur…If Arthur had been injured instead of killed, he would have needed a nurse who cared about him…”

When the train came, Kit got on and looked down at Eleanor. “I’ll write to you,” she promised, a wistful, shrunken figure with large dark smudges around her expressive eyes.

Eleanor reached up to squeeze her hand. “And I’ll look forward to receiving your letters,” she said truthfully. As the train began to pull away, she waved and waved until it disappeared from view.

Eleanor returned to her duties the next day. Arthur Ballantine’s death and Kit’s grief had lent her own private fears some perspective. England and her father were a long way off. It was the here and now which were important.