many living in need of attention.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Captain Barclay said after several miles of silence.
I smiled ruefully. “Sorry. I was distracted.”
“This wasn’t simply a courtesy call, was it?” the Captain asked after a few minutes. “There’s something on your mind. Why did you go to visit Mrs. Carson?”
That was too close to the truth for comfort.
“Actually I was thinking about Major Carson’s journal. He kept one, according to Julia. She’d seen it, he’d read her a few passages from it. But it didn’t come home with his other possessions.”
“Is it important?”
“I—don’t quite know. For Julia it is.”
“It could have been lost when he was wounded and every effort was being made to save his life.”
“He died instantly, according to his commanding officer.”
“It’s what we’re taught to write. No mother or wife wants to hear that a loved one died screaming and writhing in agony. When he was hit, his men would have done what they could, and whatever falls into the unspeakable muck in the bottom of a trench is lost forever. Or it could have been buried with him.”
“True,” I said doubtfully, unable to tell him that it could all have been a lie, how Vincent Carson had died.
“You don’t believe me. Why do women fix on tangible things? He could have given instructions for the journal not to be sent home. It’s possible he wrote what he believed to be the truth at the time, but still words that perhaps it would pain his wife to read after he was dead and unable to explain. Or perhaps his commanding officer read enough to feel it was unwise.”
“Yes, I do believe you,” I said, threading my way through a flock of sheep that was taking up the road. “Thinking about it in that light.” But it once more raised the specter of marital problems. There was nothing about Julia even to hint that she was glad to be free to marry someone else. But if Vincent had fallen out of love with his wife and there was someone else, he could have written about his struggle with himself. A very good reason to order it destroyed if he was killed.
“Good. Anything else worrying you? I’m always happy to make your burdens lighter.”
I had to laugh. For the rest of the journey we talked about him—how he’d come to join the Canadian Army, when and where he was wounded, and what he hoped to do when the war finally ended.
We had come within sight of the gates to Longleigh House when Thomas Barclay said again, without warning, “Tell me again who Simon Brandon is.”
C HAPTER F IVE
I WROTE TO Simon that evening in the quiet of my room. A storm was blowing up, and I listened to the distant thunder, reminded again that I ought to be in France.
By telling Simon what I had learned, I was able to put it in better perspective.
Was there anything really suspicious in what Julia had told me? Or was it my imagination looking to support my own belief about how Major Carson had died?
I sealed the letter and set it out for the post, then went to bed.
I was kept busy over the next few days. One patient was on the brink of developing gangrene, and with my battlefield experience Matron asked me to work in the surgical theater with Dr. Gaines.
When I went to read to the ambulatory, Captain Lawrence had been scanning a newspaper, and as he set it aside, I glimpsed a photograph on the page turned up. It was Mrs. Campbell. I couldn’t see the full caption, but the first part read DIVORCEE ARRESTED FOR—
For what?
When the hour was over, I was summoned to the surgical theater again. An abscess required draining. As the patient was being taken away for recovery, Dr. Gaines said to me, “You really ought to be in France, you know. Your skills are wasted here.”
Surprised by his praise, I said, “My family was frightened by my illness. I think they pulled strings to keep me in England.”
He nodded and said nothing more. I realized I’d been too honest, but I didn’t want him to
“Penny for your thoughts,” Captain Barclay said after several miles of silence.
I smiled ruefully. “Sorry. I was distracted.”
“This wasn’t simply a courtesy call, was it?” the Captain asked after a few minutes. “There’s something on your mind. Why did you go to visit Mrs. Carson?”
That was too close to the truth for comfort.
“Actually I was thinking about Major Carson’s journal. He kept one, according to Julia. She’d seen it, he’d read her a few passages from it. But it didn’t come home with his other possessions.”
“Is it important?”
“I—don’t quite know. For Julia it is.”
“It could have been lost when he was wounded and every effort was being made to save his life.”
“He died instantly, according to his commanding officer.”
“It’s what we’re taught to write. No mother or wife wants to hear that a loved one died screaming and writhing in agony. When he was hit, his men would have done what they could, and whatever falls into the unspeakable muck in the bottom of a trench is lost forever. Or it could have been buried with him.”
“True,” I said doubtfully, unable to tell him that it could all have been a lie, how Vincent Carson had died.
“You don’t believe me. Why do women fix on tangible things? He could have given instructions for the journal not to be sent home. It’s possible he wrote what he believed to be the truth at the time, but still words that perhaps it would pain his wife to read after he was dead and unable to explain. Or perhaps his commanding officer read enough to feel it was unwise.”
“Yes, I do believe you,” I said, threading my way through a flock of sheep that was taking up the road. “Thinking about it in that light.” But it once more raised the specter of marital problems. There was nothing about Julia even to hint that she was glad to be free to marry someone else. But if Vincent had fallen out of love with his wife and there was someone else, he could have written about his struggle with himself. A very good reason to order it destroyed if he was killed.
“Good. Anything else worrying you? I’m always happy to make your burdens lighter.”
I had to laugh. For the rest of the journey we talked about him—how he’d come to join the Canadian Army, when and where he was wounded, and what he hoped to do when the war finally ended.
We had come within sight of the gates to Longleigh House when Thomas Barclay said again, without warning, “Tell me again who Simon Brandon is.”
C HAPTER F IVE
I WROTE TO Simon that evening in the quiet of my room. A storm was blowing up, and I listened to the distant thunder, reminded again that I ought to be in France.
By telling Simon what I had learned, I was able to put it in better perspective.
Was there anything really suspicious in what Julia had told me? Or was it my imagination looking to support my own belief about how Major Carson had died?
I sealed the letter and set it out for the post, then went to bed.
I was kept busy over the next few days. One patient was on the brink of developing gangrene, and with my battlefield experience Matron asked me to work in the surgical theater with Dr. Gaines.
When I went to read to the ambulatory, Captain Lawrence had been scanning a newspaper, and as he set it aside, I glimpsed a photograph on the page turned up. It was Mrs. Campbell. I couldn’t see the full caption, but the first part read DIVORCEE ARRESTED FOR—
For what?
When the hour was over, I was summoned to the surgical theater again. An abscess required draining. As the patient was being taken away for recovery, Dr. Gaines said to me, “You really ought to be in France, you know. Your skills are wasted here.”
Surprised by his praise, I said, “My family was frightened by my illness. I think they pulled strings to keep me in England.”
He nodded and said nothing more. I realized I’d been too honest, but I didn’t want him to
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