Soldier On

by Erica Nyden

Genres: Historical Fiction; World War II; Women's Fiction; Historical Romance; 20th Century Romance; Friends to lovers

Synopsis

War. Love. Perseverence.

 

Just weeks after the Nazis begin their brutal air attack on London, twenty-one-year-old nurse Olivia Talbot is sent to remote Cornwall to care for the blind and embittered Major William Morgan, a former prisoner of war.

Major Morgan challenges Olivia's innate bedside manner with harsh words and ingratitude, but she persists. Her tenacity and courage force him to reckon with his demons and awakens his will to live. Against the backdrop of peaceful Keldor, the major's family estate, a budding friendship blossoms into an unexpected romance.

Now, as war ramps up across Europe, harsh realities intrude. An unwelcome guest visits Keldor, reviving William's inner soldier. Olivia is caught in an air raid, causing William to act on a decision that changes their future forever.

When war comes close to taking everything Olivia holds dear--including her belief that she'll see William again--can she resurrect the strength she is known for and soldier on without him?

 

Release date: March 24, 2020

Publisher: Creative Raven Press

Print pages: 346

Content advisory: Depiction of torture; Mention of sexual assault

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

Only two other passengers disembarked from the train in Par along with Olivia. The telegram she clutched told her the tall man in a black topcoat and driver’s cap who was waiting on the platform must be James. It hadn’t warned her of the downturned mouth or abject silence she would be subjected to once he’d confirmed she was indeed Nurse Olivia Talbot from London. That was all right, though; she wasn’t in the mood for talking either.

Inside the roomy motorcar, she pulled her coat closed and adjusted the strap of her gas mask that had fallen from her shoulder. The required apparatus seemed unnecessary here in the country. The window, inches from her face, emitted a chill that clung to her cheeks like London fog, only cleaner. Olivia suppressed a smile at James’s ostrich-shaped head bouncing up and down as they jostled along the narrowing road. He drove boldly down its center until the corners grew tight and the descent increased. His speed slowed, and the dense hedges on either side fell away, replaced by tall oaks crowned with masses of yellowing leaves that twisted and skipped in front of the motorcar.

She’d been told her new job would be at a country estate, but it was hard knowing what that meant these days. Estates had lost the grandeur of the past. Updating old houses to twentieth-century standards was expensive, and many had been left to crumble—that or the government had requisitioned them for war use, converting them into dormitories for rowdy soldiers.

As the motorcar crawled down the graveled drive, her new home emerged through the streaked windscreen. A stone railing smothered in wandering vines separated the drive from the house, a honey-hued fortress in the sunlight. Thick walls supported a shingled slate roof heightened by a multitude of chimneys. But even in the bright afternoon, the place looked sad—eerie, even. Most windowpanes were black as ink, and the ones that weren’t stared vacantly, as if in shock. The landscape wore a similar expression. Random branches protruded from hunched shrubbery, causing once-regal plants to look defeated. The grass grew so long in some areas that the blades lay over themselves like the hairs of a Scottish terrier.

War had visited here, too. The sloping grounds and wooded glens didn’t swarm with sirens, yet despair pervaded this place the same way cancer grows, quiet and lethal.

“Storm’s coming,” James said, bringing the motorcar to a stop.

Surprise at hearing his voice kept her quiet.

“The sun may shine, but it’s the wind, miss. In these parts, wind always brings a storm.”

He hefted her bags, and the two made their way up the granite steps. A gray-haired woman opened the massive black door, hands resting on her wide aproned hips and confusion flooding her face.

Praying there hadn’t been some mistake, Olivia mustered a smile she didn’t feel. “How do you do? My name is Olivia Talbot. I’m the nurse?”

“Oh my, but you’re just a child, aren’t you? James, take Nurse Talbot’s things on up to her room. Come in, nurse. Welcome to Keldor.” The r at the end of Keldor hung in the air between them. Like James, her words were peppered with the West Country accent; unlike James, she was much more talkative. “I apologize. I thought Dr. Butler was sending someone more—”

“Experienced?”

“Oh no, my dear. I’m sure you’ve plenty experience, coming from London, what with all the wounded returning home from Dunkirk, like.” She shook her head. Gray wisps danced around her kind careworn face. “I suppose I pictured someone more my age. But I’m sure you’re quite capable, and we’re glad to have you. My name is Mrs. Pollard. Come. Let’s get you to your room. Are you hungry, miss?”

“No, thank you. I’m a little nauseated from the train, actually.” Olivia smiled genuinely this time.

At the top of the stairs, a dark passage lined with rows of closed doors stretched to the left and right. Portraits of important-looking people hung in gold-leaf frames. These were likely the Morgans, the family who owned the estate.

“This way,” Mrs. Pollard said, turning left. “The major’s room be here.” She lowered her voice as she swept her hand toward a door on the right. “And I’ve got you in the room across the way from him.”

They entered a bedroom the size of her parents’ entire house. The white cushioned headboard of the bed matched the vanity and wardrobe. The bedspread, the color of a robin’s egg, complemented pale drapes of the same hue that bordered a wall of windows blotted by blackout curtains. A narrow doorway led to a small lavatory on the right.

“This is lovely,” she said.

“Wonderful.” Mrs. Pollard gave a soft handclap. “I hope you’ll be comfortable. You settle in, and then we’ll have tea. The room’s been shut up, so take the blackout down if you like. The sun won’t set for a couple of hours yet. Your patient be napping, but I’ll let him know you’ve arrived as soon as he wakes. He’ll be eager to—”

A horrible moan like something from The Son of Frankenstein issued from the hall. Olivia’s eyes met Mrs. Pollard’s. Before either of them could speak, the bellow came again, long and guttural.

Mrs. Pollard’s face fell.

“What was that?” Olivia asked, fearing the rebuke of a resident ghost.

“That’d be Mr. William.” The housekeeper’s eyes darted to the door, then back to Olivia. She raised an eyebrow. “Your patient.”

Olivia darted past the housekeeper and across the hall. In the center of a four-poster bed, a man lay curled on his side. His hands covering his face, he rolled onto his back, kicking a heap of bedclothes to the floor that barely missed a large black dog and unveiled his skeletal form. Her patient indeed: Major William Morgan, thirty-two years old, officer in the British Army who’d spent the last two months as a prisoner of war in North Africa. The experience had left him blind and riddled by shell shock, which likely provoked the horrible sound that sliced the uncomfortable silence.

She stepped over the hound and blankets, climbed onto the bed, and gripped the man’s damp arms to turn him slightly, exposing his stricken face. “Major Morgan, my name is Olivia Talbot. I’m your nurse. It’s time you woke up, sir.”

Left and right he lurched, struggling for release. He sat up and pushed her. “Not again—I won’t allow it!”

She caught herself and pushed back, but lost hold on his shoulders. Up and down she bobbed, dodging his haphazard blows, until his arms went limp at his sides.

“Please,” he whispered, opening his eyes. His face twitched fearfully, as if he awaited a pounding.

She sat primly at his side, smoothing a hand up and down his shoulder. “You’re all right, Major.”

He pulled away, locking his arms around his bony knees. Though his arms held fast, his white-knuckled hands trembled. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“My name is Olivia Talbot. I’m your nurse. Dr. Butler sent me.”

“Mr. William?” Mrs. Pollard stood at the door twisting her pinafore, her face swollen with apology.

“I’m all right, Mrs. Pollard, I’m fine,” he said.

He was far from fine. “Mrs. Pollard, would you mind putting the kettle on? I need a pot of plain hot water. And before you leave, would you fetch me one damp flannel and one dry?” She turned her attention back to the shivering man, his shoulders hunched up to his ears. “We’ve got to get you out of your nightclothes, sir. They’re soaked through.”

She patted his knees, prompting him to stretch out. With the expertise brought by wartime nursing, she nimbly unfastened the buttons of his nightshirt. She’d dressed and undressed many patients, some unconscious, others with severed limbs, many wailing and writhing in pain. By comparison, the major appeared an easy subject. She peeled the clinging fabric from his skin like a coat of old paint until his body jerked and he snorted.

“Are you all right, sir?”

He didn’t respond, so she continued drawing the nightshirt away but found she couldn’t. Pull as she might, the garment held fast. He grunted, this time with snarling lips.

She stood and peered over his shoulder. Worn bandages flapped across the top of his back over encrusted and bleeding lacerations of every shape and size. In some areas, silk sutures secured the inflamed flesh, dark as barbed wire and just as ugly. In others, the bloated bandages had lost their tackiness and revealed avulsions, places where chunks of skin had been carved from his back as though it were sandstone. Shallower cuts possessed no bandage at all. Blood and pus had seeped into his nightshirt and cemented the material to his skin, and Olivia’s tugging had reopened several wounds. Blood, brilliant and alive, coursed the length of his back and pooled in the folds of his nightshirt.

“Oh, dear,” she whispered, whilst in her head she shouted the few profanities she knew. “Mrs. Pollard?”

Somewhere in the house, a faucet turned off before a shuffle brought Mrs. Pollard back to the bedroom, bearing flannels.

Olivia dabbed the raw flesh before continuing to work on Major Morgan’s nightshirt. She saturated the fabric with the wet washcloth until, bit by bit, she could bring the shirt away. His sharp intakes of breath disguised the screams he deserved to release. He listed to the left, and she righted him by his shoulders, massaging his taut unmarked skin, hoping to rub away several layers of tension before carrying on.

“Mrs. Pollard, before bringing that pot of water, would you mind fetching my medical bag from my room? It’s the smaller of the two.”

“Right away.” The woman bowed her head and left.

She bent back to her task. “I’m sorry we had to meet this way, Major Morgan. Again, I’m Olivia Talbot. Dr. Butler sent me to stay with you for as long as you need. I am at your disposal.”

Under her ministrations, the bent figure responded with small heaves and shivers—out of pain or mere contact, she wasn’t sure.

Mrs. Pollard returned, trading Olivia’s medical bag and more clean cloths for the soiled nightshirt and bloodied flannels. After drying the major’s lesions and stanching most of the blood flow, Olivia found the ointment she needed. The salve’s greasy sheen only amplified the gore before her. The network of bright red horizontals, verticals, circles, and diagonals left her confounded.

“When was the doctor here last, Major?”

“Two, three days ago.” He answered as if each word tapped his last stores of energy.

“I see. Your bandages were quite worn. I’m glad I arrived when I did.”

She was putting the final dressings on when a girl not much younger than herself entered the room. Eyes averted, she placed a tray holding a teapot and two teacups on the small table beside the bed. Olivia nodded a quick thank-you before the girl scurried away in silence.

From her medicine bag, Olivia pulled a satchel of dried herbs. She approximated two tablespoons and sprinkled them into the pot.

She kept her voice soft and gentle. “What you’ve experienced is a night terror, Major. I gather you’ve had them before? Do they come often?”

Mrs. Pollard nodded as she reentered. “They’ve come every night since he’s been home, and during the day, too. Mr. William doesn’t sleep much, I’m afraid.”

“And what has Dr. Butler prescribed for your sleep, sir?”

Mrs. Pollard opened the bedside table drawer and handed her a bottle. “These. He’s to take two an hour before bed.”

Barbiturates. “Are you taking these as directed, Major Morgan?”

“Yes.” He closed his eyes.

Night terrors were common amongst those with war trauma, and their effects were terrifying to witness. This wasn’t the first time Olivia had wrestled a grown man as he shook and cried, only to awaken him to his new reality—not of falling bombs and piercing shrapnel but of missing limbs, lost friends, and a future of replaying the past every time he closed his eyes. Night terrors were often stronger than the treatment prescribed, and yet doctors still promoted these useless remedies.

Despite having her own ideas about what the boys should or shouldn’t be taking, at St. Mary Abbot’s Hospital, she’d never administered anything outside of doctors’ orders. But tonight, not one hour at her new job, she would try something different. And why not? Clearly her new post came with an opportunity to make her own decisions as a professional.

“Let’s see if this helps you sleep any better.” She peeked into the teapot.

“What is it you’ve got there?” Mrs. Pollard rose on her tiptoes for a better look.

“An herbal tea my grandmother makes.”

“For sleep?”

“Yes, and to reduce anxiety. Harvested directly from her garden and dried in her kitchen.” Olivia gave a knowing smile to Mrs. Pollard, hoping she shared an affinity for homegrown remedies. There was none, only a creased forehead and skeptical eyes.

“Sounds like a witch’s brew,” came the unexpected muttering of Major Morgan. “I suppose you read the leaves, too?”

Not the friendliest tone, but at least he could speak for himself. “Not at all, Major. But I believe this tea may work better than what you’ve been taking.”

She picked up the cup next to the pot and poured the light green, steaming tea into it, leaves and all. She guided one of his hands to cup. “Here you are. It’s hot, sir. Please be careful.”

“I’m quite used to hot tea, Nurse Talbot, even if it smells as dreadful as this.”

He couldn’t see her embarrassment, but Mrs. Pollard could. The woman gave a sympathetic smile and handed Olivia a clean nightshirt.

“Thank you, Mrs. Pollard. I’ll let you know if we need anything further.”

“Of course. Come along, Jasper.”

“Leave Jasper—please, Polly,” the major said, his voice faint.

“Very well, Mr. William.”

Olivia scratched the dog’s head. Her father had their spaniel destroyed once the war started. It was the humane thing to do, he’d claimed, for an anxious dog that would be exposed to the chaos of war and who knew what else. Veterinarians in London had been up to their necks in animal carcasses, her Laddy one of them.

She turned back toward the major. “Are you hungry, sir? Would you like something to eat?”

“No. I’m just bloody tired.”

“I’m sure you are. Tomorrow, before breakfast, we’ll be sure you”—she struggled to word her intent without making the man sound a child—“get your bath in.”

The major finished his tea and held the cup out, lips pursed. He said nothing.

“Here we are,” Olivia took the cup and held his right hand aloft. “Let’s get you dressed and back to bed, Major.”

* * *

Though it was still early, the skies had grown dark, proving James’s forecast correct. Coastal rain fell in sheets outside the tall windows, echoing in the vast kitchen where Olivia and Mrs. Pollard were taking tea. The flicker of pillar candles cast warmth on their modest supper of boiled pork, potatoes, and carrots. The older woman likely took her meals here alone, for James and Annie, the young girl she’d seen upstairs, were nowhere about.

“Tell me, Mrs. Pollard, how long has the major been home?”

“One week exactly. Haven’t seen Dr. Butler for days. Seems he had to travel to London, so it’s good you’re here.” She leant across the table and patted Olivia’s hand.

“Have you worked for the family long?”

“I came to Keldor as a young woman, nineteen years old and already a widow. The sea took my husband a month after we wed, and I needed work. Mistress Charlotte knew of my plight and asked if I’d serve as nursemaid to her child once he or she arrived. Mr. William was born, and I took care of that little man like he was mine.” Her eyes brightened, and the shallow creases around them deepened when she smiled. “Years passed and he went away to school—he didn’t need me anymore, not in the same way, like. So when Mrs. Carne retired, I took her job as head housekeeper. A fine family to work for. Even after all these years, I can’t imagine myself anywhere else.” Long wrinkles shortened, and the sober face from upstairs returned. “But through the years, this house has endured one tragedy after another. Sweet, selfless Charlotte died of Spanish flu when Mr. William was still a boy, after his father, Colonel Morgan, returned home from war. The doctor told you about the colonel?”

Olivia shook her head. “I’m afraid I know nothing about the family.”

“Mr. William had been missing for months, like. And the colonel, I found him dead”—she thumped the table between them—“just weeks before they found Mr. William.”

The poor man upstairs had no one, then. “Dear God.”

Mrs. Pollard nodded and wiped her eyes with her cloth napkin. “Such a shock, too. It’d been James and me working for the late colonel. When he died, and with poor Mr. William missing so long, Mr. Bather, the family’s solicitor, told us the house would sit empty. Requisitioned, more like. We’d had our bags packed. But the day before we was to leave, James to his brother’s and me to my sister’s, a telegram came. Mr. William was coming home. I can’t recall having been so happy. He’s like a son, you know.”

* * *

Immersed in the darkness of her new bedroom, Olivia struggled to sleep. The storm clouds outside had waned, and the night’s stillness ushered in a blanket of maddening doubts over her new assignment.

Her first few weeks at St. Mary Abbot’s had been miserable too. Back then she’d been reprimanded for minor yet frequent mistakes. Meaningful friendships were scarce, and homesickness constant. She’d begun questioning her career choice until, in late May, Dunkirk happened. On temporary assignment at an emergency hospital in Sutton, she witnessed horrors they never told her about in nursing school: bleeding stumps, faces blown away, men begging for death.

But amidst the stress of tending to the endless stream of critically injured soldiers, she thrived. She assisted the doctors in surgery, managed her own caseload, and picked up the slack of her more delicate colleagues. Her tender hand brought smiles to all men, even those who no longer could physically show it. She learned the names of each patient she met, and because of her efficacy, the doctors and head nurses learned hers. After the crisis, they praised her attention to detail. Knowing she’d helped so many boys—boys who fell over themselves with gratitude—had given her a sense of satisfaction she had yet to feel here.

She likely never would.

Before taking herself to bed earlier this evening, she stopped by the major’s room. He woke as soon as the door creaked open and sat up with a grimace. Mrs. Pollard scampered in behind her, announcing their presence and placing his meal tray by the bed before coaxing Jasper to join her for a quick trip outside. Obviously unhappy with the intrusion, the major climbed out of bed and plodded to the toilet, finding his way there and back quicker than Olivia expected.

Mrs. Pollard had prepared something he could consume independently, a broth-based soup easily sipped from the bowl and a hunk of crusty bread. But despite Olivia’s urging that he eat, the major only grumbled.

“You need to eat, sir,” she said. “You’ll not get better otherwise.”

“And why should I want to do that, Nurse Talbot?”

She wouldn’t be baited by his rancor. “How did you sleep this afternoon?”

Rather than answer, he reached for his meal. She handed him a piece of bread and he stuffed it into his mouth. He chewed slowly.

“I’ll ask again, sir: How did you sleep?”

He held his hand out for whatever else she had to offer and took a swallow of broth. “Fine.”

“Brilliant. I’d like you to drink more of the tea I gave you earlier. Mrs. Pollard will bring a pot up with Jasper. And I’ll not be giving you your prescription tonight.”

“You’re in charge.”

Yes, she was. Once they’d settled the major in for the night, Olivia strode alone to her new bedroom, flush with promise.

But her optimism was dwindling. The unhappy man across the corridor clearly resented her presence here. He had no wish of getting better, and it was impossible to change the mind of someone who had no desire to change. A lifetime of refusal from her mother to her most benign requests had taught her this much.

Olivia hugged her pillow and snuggled the blankets around her shoulders. A soft rhythmic sound from the open door across the hall broke the silence. She lifted her head. The major was in deep slumber. Reduced to skin and bones on the outside, he was filled with misery on the inside, where her greatest challenge would lie. She couldn’t fix his despair, but once he regained his health and she taught him to become self-reliant, perhaps that would wane.

She lay back down, somewhat encouraged. He was her patient, not her mother. Despite the major’s contempt, she had a job to do, and as she’d done in Sutton, she would succeed.