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Hamilton. If I wanted to pursue this idea of training to be a nurse, I had to do it quietly, without fanfare.
    The first order of business was to find respectable lodgings where no one would recognize me once I was wearing a uniform. For one thing, I couldn’t remain in an hotel of the sort my father would have chosen to stay in; I was all too likely to run into people I knew. I couldn’t come and go at all hours without attracting gossip. Word would very soon reach my cousin’s ears.
    But London seemed to be cheek by jowl with people on the same errand. Every respectable lodging house I approached was already full.
    Then, as luck would have it, I saw another young woman in the uniform of Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service, and once more I boldly accosted her as she was about to cross the street.
    When I’d finished telling her what I wanted, she smiled. “I’ve just heard from a friend that a woman called Mrs. Hennessey in Kensington has turned her house into lodgings for young women of good character who are training as nurses.”
    I got Mrs. Hennessey’s direction and thanked Sister Keyes, before hurrying off.
    Mrs. Hennessey lived in a large house in Kensington, and she came to the door herself when I knocked. I liked her at once. A pleasant, middle-aged woman, she invited me into the downstairs flat where she herself lived, and asked if I’d already qualified as a Sister.
    I gave her my best smile. “I’ve just come to London to begin my training,” I said.
    â€œWhich hospital, my dear?”
    â€œWhichever one will take me on,” I said, unwilling to lie to her any more than I needed to do, under the circumstances.
    â€œGo to St. Helen’s, my dear. I hear they have the best program. Scottish, are you?”
    â€œYes, from north of Edinburgh.” I, who had always taken pride in my title and my lineage, was suddenly finding it a problem. People seemed delighted to help Elspeth Douglas on her way. But everyone who knew Lady Elspeth had been intent on bundling me off to Scotland and safety.
    â€œMy late husband had a dear friend who lived in Stirling. I think he would be happy if I took in a Scottish lass.”
    After we’d had tea, she showed me to the flat with a vacancy. “There are three young women already living here, but there’s still room for two more. You should fit in very nicely.” She saw my hesitation and said with regret, “It’s all I have at the moment.”
    Used to rooms three times the size of the entire flat, I tried to think what to say. There were five bedrooms not even as large as my mother’s dressing room, and then a sitting room shared by all five of us. I could feel the walls closing in as I stood there in the middle of the floor and tried to tell myself I could manage.
    â€œYes, I’ll take the fourth bedroom,” I said before I could change my mind. It had two windows, making it seem less claustrophobic than the other choice.
    She led me back downstairs where we worked out the details, and then with a flourish she handed over a key.
    â€œThere is one rule,” she told me. “I don’t allow any male over the age of ten up these stairs. If your father or brother or cousin or fiancé comes to see you, you will meet him downstairs in the hall. Is that acceptable to you? I maintain high standards of conduct myself, and I expect my young ladies to do the same.”
    As I had no father, no brother nor even a cousin, and certainly no fiancé in London, I had no difficulty in agreeing. I was also glad that in such a tiny flat, I wouldn’t have to deal with the male relatives of the other residents.
    I now had a place to live. It was far more difficult to get myself accepted for training.
    When my trunk arrived from Cornwall, I had chosen my most sedate walking dresses for interviews, patterning myself on someone like Sister Fielding. Several times I was