The Woman at the Front

by Lecia Cornwall

Genres: World War I; Women's Fiction; 20th Century Romance

Synopsis

A daring young woman risks everything to pursue a career as a doctor on the front lines in France during World War I, and learns the true meaning of hope, love, and resilience in the darkest of times.

When Eleanor Atherton graduates from medical school near the top of her class in 1917, she dreams of going overseas to help the wounded, but her ambition is thwarted at every turn. Eleanor's parents insist she must give up medicine, marry a respectable man, and assume her proper place. While women might serve as ambulance drivers or nurses at the front, they cannot be physicians—that work is too dangerous and frightening.

Nevertheless, Eleanor is determined to make more of a contribution than sitting at home knitting for the troops. When an unexpected twist of fate sends Eleanor to the battlefields of France as the private doctor of a British peer, she seizes the opportunity for what it is—the chance to finally prove herself.

But there's a war on, and a casualty clearing station close to the front lines is an unforgiving place. Facing skeptical commanders who question her skills, scores of wounded men needing care, underhanded efforts by her family to bring her back home, and a blossoming romance, Eleanor must decide if she's brave enough to break the rules, face her darkest fears, and take the chance to win the career—and the love—she's always wanted.

Release date: September 28, 2021

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 464

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

war office, london

january 20, 1918

Young woman, my advice to you is to go home, sit down, and take up something more useful, such as knitting. If I’d known E. Atherton was female, I would not have taken this appointment at all.”

That was precisely why Eleanor Atherton had used the initial instead of her full first name. A trick, yes, but she’d already written hundreds of letters, made dozens of attempts to see bureaucrats and official representatives in person, and Miss Atherton had been refused every time.

Not this time. Finally, she was sitting before someone who would be forced to listen. The very fact that she was here proved it was not her credentials as a doctor that were lacking. E. Atherton was highly qualified indeed, and had been eagerly invited to this interview.

She regarded the man’s haughty, irritated, uncomfortable expression. She knew that as a rule female doctors weren’t wanted by the military, the War Office, or even the Red Cross, no matter how competent or willing they might be. But the war had dragged on for almost four years, with hundreds of casualties, including doctors. She was certain that if she could just find a way to present herself in person, have the opportunity to speak to someone in a position of authority, then an exception could most certainly be made.

Sir William Foxleigh was the undersecretary to another undersecretary to an assistant director of the War Office. He peered at her over his spectacles with a sharp frown. Her letter of application for overseas medical service sat between them on the polished surface of the mahogany table like a fallen flag. A thick silence followed Sir William’s outburst, and he waited—expected, no doubt—for her to rise from her chair and scurry away, suitably chastened.

Even the clock in the corner tsked brisk disapproval, but Eleanor stayed where she was. The oak-paneled office smelled of lemon polish and Sir William’s hair pomade, of paper and leather and tobacco, a thoroughly male preserve. There was a vase of flowers in the corner, a pallid bouquet of winter hothouse roses, but they did little to perfume the air, or even add color to the airless room. But then, there was a war on, and it had been endless and dreadful, and all the color, save for black and khaki and gray, had long since been sucked out of the world.

For a brief moment, pinned under Sir William’s scornful gaze, Eleanor’s starchy determination wilted a little, and a trickle of sweat rolled down her spine beneath her prim navy blue suit. But only for a moment. She was here now, and she’d been trying far too hard for far too long to give in. She’d waited weeks for this appointment, and she simply didn’t have time to be cowed by his rudeness or his annoyance at having to deal with an unexpected and unwelcome female doctor.

“I understand that doctors are badly needed in France. I’ve read of the terrible casualties at Passchendaele and Ypres, and just weeks ago at Cambrai. I’ve seen those men coming home, maimed and bandaged. There has been a general call for qualified doctors.”

Sir William’s chin jerked. “For male doctors, yes, of course, but not women. What would your husband say—”

“I’m not married.”

Sir William scanned her face and figure appraisingly, gauging her age and potential marriageability. “Your father, then—surely he would not want to see you in a war zone, at the front, under fire, dealing with, with . . .” He rolled the air with his hand as he sought the right words. “Well, with unspeakable things.”

Eleanor lifted her chin. “My father is also a doctor. He served in the South African war. He has seen all the unspeakable things war leaves in its wake. I grew up on those stories.”

Sir William looked more closely at the letter before him. “Dr. John Atherton,” he said in surprise. “Why, I know him. We are members of the same gentlemen’s club in York.”

Eleanor allowed herself to smile, hopeful that now a connection had been made, things would improve. Instead, Sir William removed his glasses altogether and frowned harder. “I’ve known Dr. Atherton for many years. He has never mentioned the fact that he has a daughter, or that that daughter is a doctor. He’s spoken of a son, I believe.”

“My twin brother, Edward. He’s currently serving in France, at headquarters.”

“Does your father know you are here, applying for a medical posting in France? Surely he knows that neither the War Office nor the British Red Cross permit women to serve there.”

Eleanor dug her fingernails into her palms. No, her father most definitely had not given her permission to be here. Eleanor felt a twinge of guilt—she’d told her parents she was taking tea with a friend in York today.

“Female nurses are allowed to serve at the front,” she countered. “VADs are encouraged to go to France, and there are female ambulance drivers and clerks, and—”

He held up his hand. “They are not doctors. Doctors have specific duties, duties that no woman could undertake. War is not a society picnic or a holiday jaunt, Miss Atherton. Soldiers are rough and crude, mannerless at times. It is to be expected in war.” He shifted, his lined face pinkening. “Men have . . . needs. Battle brings out certain . . . animal passions. A medical officer is required to monitor the . . . the most unsavory of ailments. No lady would wish to be exposed to such things.” He looked at her pointedly, and she held his gaze boldly, unfazed. “Medical officers must oversee sanitation and hygiene, and they go into the frontline trenches to do so, working under fire, where the danger is highest. A great number of good doctors have been killed that way. We do not allow women of any stripe there. And the medical aid posts and Casualty Clearing Stations take in wounded straight from the battlefield, horribly injured, dirty, in pain. It is not the clean, sanitary, clinical environment you no doubt saw at medical school . . .” He referred to her letter again. “At the University of Edinburgh.” He read further, underlining her details with a manicured forefinger. “I see you graduated seventh in your class. All women, I assume?”

“There were six women at the beginning, and just two at graduation, but—”

Sir William raised his finger from the page to stab it in her direction like a bayonet. “There, you see? It goes to prove that women are unable to endure the stresses and challenges of a medical career.”

“Their withdrawal had more to do with being taunted and bullied mercilessly by their fellow students, and even the professors,” Eleanor said. “But it also means I graduated seventh in a class of more than one hundred and thirty men.”

His triumphant smirk pulled into a tight pinch. He pushed her letter aside, folded his hands together, and leaned forward. “May I ask how old you are, Miss Atherton?”

“I’m twenty-three,” she said. “My date of birth is included in my application.”

He didn’t bother to look. He kept his eyes fixed on her. “Twenty-three. And a virgin, I assume, if you are unmarried?”

Eleanor was taken aback by the intimate question, and he sat back. “You blush. How do you imagine you’d handle the rigors of battle, the sight of male bodies undressed, the sound of men cursing?”

“It would be in a medical context. A wounded person, not . . .” Her blush deepened, and her tongue knotted itself, but not out of shyness. It was pure molten desire—not for naked men, but for medicine, and the raw need to serve, the frustration of not being allowed to use her education and skills to help those men. She held his eyes. “I would not shirk, Sir William,” she said, and knew that was inadequate.

He shifted in his chair. “You think you would not, but one never knows until one is tried in battle. There is your future to think of, and the feelings of your father and mother in this matter. As of this moment, there is nothing to prevent you from forgetting this nonsense and seeing sense. My advice is to return home, find a suitable husband, and take your proper place as a wife and mother. Britain needs strong families just as badly as we need fighting men and frontline doctors—maledoctors.” He glanced up at the gilt-framed portrait of King George V that hung over the fireplace. “You would still be doing something vitally important.”

“What are my other options?” she asked, ignoring the patriotic speech. “For practicing medicine, I mean, helping with the wounded?”

“Confound it, Miss Atherton, can you not knit?”

“I prefer embroidery, actually,” she said. “It has helped me perfect my suturing.”

For an instant his brows rose in surprise, then he shut his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. When he looked up at last, his gaze was both baffled and resigned, the suffering look of a man faced with the vexing problem of a willful child—or a difficult woman.

“If you are so set upon this course, I suggest you consider practicing at one of the hospitals here at home that care for women and children.” He tried smiling at her, a fond uncle soothing an unruly niece, performing an uncomfortable but necessary role, providing a gentle correction. “That would be most suitable, something more genteel, a role that will keep you busy until you marry, eh?”

“Is there anywhere else I might apply?”

The avuncular look faded. “There are hospitals run by women in France—but not under our jurisdiction. They’re under the auspices of the French Red Cross.” He sniffed with disdain. “There’s also a convalescent hospital in London staffed by women, and there are female doctors treating refugees in Serbia, but they do not have official support, and there is rampant disease and contagion there. Those women serve at their own risk and expense, and with the understanding that they cannot expect official aid from the king’s government.”

Eleanor sat forward, hopefully. “Would they—”

He thumped his fist on the table. “Young woman, as your father’s friend I beg you to go home and stop this nonsense! This is not the kind of life for a well-bred woman.” She refused to wilt under his icy glare. She held his gaze boldly until he was the one to sigh and look away. “Do you truly wish to embarrass your parents?”

“I hope to make them proud of me.”

She remembered how her mother had cried at the graduation ceremony, sure her daughter had ruined her future with an advanced education and a medical degree. In the eight months since that day, she hadn’t stopped looking at Eleanor with a mixture of bafflement and disappointment. It was much like Sir William’s terribly pained expression now. Her father had been an army doctor once, and she’d thought—hoped—he’d understand why she wanted this, why she felt called to serve as he had. She recalled his flat frown and crisp dismissal the single time that she’d broached the subject.

“I daresay your father would like to continue his career and eventually retire without anything marring his reputation in that community—both the medical one and the social one,” Sir William said. “What you do next will reflect upon him, Miss Atherton, and upon your future husband. A good man might think twice before proposing to . . . a woman with such experience.”

He pushed her letter across the desk with the tip of one finger and rose from his chair. He took out his watch and glanced at it pointedly.

The interview was over.

There was nothing to do but pick up the letter, fold it, and put it in her pocketbook. Frustration rose, and Eleanor swallowed, tasting bitterness on her tongue. If Sir William knew how far she’d come, all she’d done to become a doctor, he’d not doubt her determination.

She’d dreamed of being a doctor her whole life. She’d watched her father work, and she’d read every medical book in his study. At medical school she’d worked harder than any other student in her class because she wanted to be taken seriously, though excelling had led to jealousy and scorn from her male classmates, not admiration. She’d been bullied, too, like the rest of the women in her class, but she’d endured it, learned to concentrate with all her might on her studies, on the prize of a medical career, and ignore the taunts.

She lifted her eyes to Sir William, a renewed plea on her lips, but he’d already turned away, was crossing the room to open the door for her. She followed, her spine stiff, her expression placid. She’d also learned that at medical school, to not let disappointment or frustration show, no matter how those emotions raged in her breast. It was weakness, and it made one easy prey, a victim—or a casualty. Find another way. It had become her motto, her creed, to go around the obstacles in her path.

Find another way.

Sir William paused with his hand on the latch. “Have you considered the possibility of applying to serve as a nurse or a member of the Voluntary Aid Detachment?” he asked. “Much more ladylike pursuits.”

Eleanor’s simmering frustration came to a boil. She clenched the handle of her pocketbook so tightly that she heard the bamboo crack. A foul curse word—also learned at medical school—rose to the tip of her tongue. She clamped it behind her teeth just in time.

Instead she raised her chin and looked along the length of her nose at the bureaucrat. She was taller by half a head, and he noted that, colored, and subtly rose on his toes.

“I am not a nurse, Sir William, or a volunteer.”

She leaned forward, her nose inches from his, her eyes narrowed.

“I am a doctor.”

CHAPTER TWO

thorndale, yorkshire

february 3, 1918

The errand would take only a few minutes. Eleanor would present herself at the side door of the east wing of Chesscroft Park at precisely 11:00. She would ring the bell and inform the footman, maid, or butler that she had come to see the Countess of Kirkswell’s secretary. That efficient gentleman would be summoned, and he would arrive at the door with enough servants to unload the parcels of knitted goods from the doctor’s car while he supervised. He would convey his thanks to the ladies of the St. Everilda’s Ladies’ Knitting Circle on her ladyship’s behalf and assure Eleanor that the countess was most grateful for such a steady contribution to the war effort. It would take no more than half an hour.

By 11:30, Eleanor would be on her way back to the doctor’s surgery, ready to tackle the list of chores her father had left for her. She would start by taking inventory of drugs and medications on hand. By 1:00, she’d be sitting down to transcribe his case notes into the official patient records. At 3:00, she’d dust and tidy the surgery, and at precisely 3:47, she would leave for the train station to be on time to meet her father when the 4:02 express from York arrived.

She glanced over her shoulder at the bundles of knitted goods in the rear of the car, dozens of pairs of socks and gloves, mufflers and vests for the troops in France.

There may be a shortage of doctors, but never of knitted items.

That was uncharitable of her, Eleanor thought. Not only did the countess support the good works of the villagers by providing the wool, she had opened the entire east wing of her home as a convalescent hospital for wounded officers. After her disappointing interview with Foxleigh two weeks ago, Eleanor had hoped the countess might need another doctor to help with the patients, and knowing Eleanor was at medical school and had graduated, she might consider enlisting Eleanor’s help. The request had not come, and her mother insisted that Eleanor must not embarrass her parents by going up to Chesscroft to apply for work like a scullery maid—as if cleaning the surgery at home wasn’t just that.

It wasn’t as if she knew the countess well enough to request a favor from her. Her ladyship lived a life beyond the touch of most of the villagers. She knew Eleanor by name and by sight, of course, as a member of the community and the doctor’s daughter, but aside from an acknowledging nod from the countess and an awkward curtsy from Eleanor upon a chance meeting, they had never spoken directly. Edward was much closer to the noble family, of course, as a dear friend of Lord Louis, the countess’s youngest son.

Eleanor bit her lip as she drove, wondering if she might dare to presume on that boyhood friendship to beg an interview with her ladyship and a position at the convalescent hospital. As close as Edward and Louis were, she was an outsider, not one of the Kirskwells’ inner circle. Edward had deliberately kept her separate, and her parents had never enjoyed a closer relationship based on their son’s connection. It was as if Edward lived two lives.

Another vehicle roared past her in the narrow road, horn honking, throwing in its wake a sudden splatter of thick yellow mud across the front window that landed with a crack so loud it sounded like a clap of thunder or a bomb going off. Eleanor flinched, suddenly blind as muck covered the glass completely, turning day to night. She hit the brakes and felt the car skid.

And still the other vehicle honked frantically as she struggled to control the car. Someone heading to Chesscroft, perhaps. Someone cocky, a city sort, driving too fast, not realizing there was not space for even one car in the narrow lane, never mind two abreast between the high stone walls and thick hedgerows.

She heard the rake and squeal of branches on the roof of the car, and then it came to a stop. There was no crash after all, just a hard bump. For a stunned moment, she sat still, trying to catch her breath and still her pounding heart, holding tight to the steering wheel as the rain drummed on the roof.

“Bloody idiot,” she muttered. She squinted at the watch pinned to her lapel. It was 10:36. She’d have to get out and see if there was any damage to the car or if it was stuck in the mud, and she didn’t have an umbrella. She’d be late, and she’d arrive at Chesscroft soaked to the skin and muddy.

Worst of all, at precisely 4:04, two minutes after he’d stepped off the train from York and surveyed the damage to the car in stunned silence, her father would skin her alive with a blistering lecture about duty and responsibility and care. He’d remind her that the sight of the doctor’s shining, pristine motor pulling up outside a cottage or farmhouse was in itself a source of comfort to the sick and injured. A damaged fender, or even a scratch, would undermine Dr. John Atherton’s impeccable professional image, suggest carelessness and undue haste, breed fear and uncertainty in those who must feel the utmost confidence in their doctor’s skill and patience. He’d tell her again that he’d only allowed her to learn to drive because her brother was away in France and there were errands to run, deliveries to make, and—

The strident knock on the window beside her startled her. A hand swiped the mud away and the blur of a pale face peered in at her.

“Doc?”

She recognized Charlie Nevins, a farm lad from up in the dales. Sharp words about driving with more care sprang to her lips. She opened the door and held her skirts carefully to one side as she stepped out. Cold rain hit her face, and the icy mud slithered under her feet and instantly soaked the soft leather of her boots. “Charlie? What on earth do you think you’re—”

She saw the worry on his face and paused. But it wasn’t for her. There was mud on his clothing, and—blood.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

He ignored the question and bent to peer into the car. “Is your father with you, El? I need him.”

It was serious, then. Her gut tensed.

“He’s gone to York today. I dropped him at the station not half an hour ago. What’s—”

“Gone?” His eyes met hers, round with despair.

“Where are you hurt?” Eleanor asked again, scanning Charlie’s wind-chapped face and rangy body, his raw-knuckled hands, knobby knees, and muddy boots, looking for the source of the blood.

He glanced at the truck, stopped now in the middle of the lane a few yards ahead of the car. “It’s not me—it’s my da. He slipped on a patch of ice up in the high pasture, cut his leg open on some wire. It took me an hour to get him down. He’s in the truck, bleedin’ bad. We stopped at the surgery, but your mother told us the doctor was out. When I saw the car, I was hoping he’d be in it.” He cast another anxious look at the truck. “Can ye tell me when the doc will be back? Da’s in a bad way.”

“I can help.” She didn’t hesitate. She dove into the car for her medical bag.

Charlie shook his head when she emerged and frowned at the black case. “Begging your pardon, but it’s your da I need, not you, El.”

She blinked the rain out of her eyes and tightened her grip on the handle of her bag. She’d yet to have the chance to use it for anything more significant than delivering liniment for sore joints or syrup for a child’s cough, though it had waited, packed and ready, for the whole of the eight months since her graduation from medical school.

“I’m a doctor now as well, Charlie,” she said, in case he didn’t know that. It felt odd to say that to someone just a few years younger than she was, a village lad who’d been brought into this world by her father, whose older brothers had played cricket on the heath with Edward before they’d all marched off to war, leaving fourteen-year-old Charlie behind to help his father run the farm.

“But it’s not a—a woman’s complaint, or a child.” he said. “It’s an emergency.”

She didn’t argue. There wasn’t time if it was a true emergency. She strode toward the truck, ignoring the mud and squinting at the cold rain falling into her eyes. Charlie hurried to catch up. “Eleanor, wait—”

“How long ago did it happen? Is the cut deep?”

“Um, I can see the bone,” Charlie muttered. “But Da won’t want—”

She reached the truck and opened the door. Arthur Nevins lay on the seat, his right leg wrapped in a blood-soaked blanket. His face was white, his lips drawn back in pain. His brow crumpled in confusion when he saw Eleanor. “What the devil—” He looked at his son. “Where’s the doctor, lad? I told ye to fetch the doctor.”

“He wasn’t in the car, Da. It was just Eleanor. The doc’s gone to York, but she says she can see to ye.”

Arthur Nevins gaped at her, then echoed Charlie. “No offense to ye, lass, but this isn’t some female complaint—it’s me leg. I need a proper doctor.”

She squared her shoulders and pushed the sodden hair out of her eyes. “I am a proper doctor, Mr. Nevins.” She reached for the edge of the blanket and lifted it. She swallowed hard. The wire had bitten deep into the calf muscles, carved a long, bloody gash. She saw smears of dirt and manure on his skin. Risk of infection. The wound needs cleaning, possibly cauterizing, and suturing, her medical brain noted. Amputation? She shook off that thought. This wasn’t just a patient. She’d known Arthur Nevins all her life. He had four sons. Two were in the army, still alive, and one—Matthew—had been killed at the Somme in ’16.

Arthur needed his leg.

“We need to stop the bleeding,” she said carefully. “The wound needs cleaning and stitching. Is the bone broken?”

But Arthur flipped the blanket back over the wound. “Leave it be, lass. If I wanted a woman practicing her needlework on me, I’d have had my Muriel sew me up. I need a doctor!”

“I’ll take him up to the surgery in Ribblesdale,” Charlie said.

Eleanor shook her head. “That’s ten miles away over rough roads, and we had word last week that Dr. Skerritt was called up. He’s gone to France, and his replacement isn’t due to arrive for another week. My father is the only doctor—the only male doctor—in the district. Charlie, this can’t wait. It’s very serious. I can—”

“No,” Arthur interrupted sharply. He drew the blanket up to his chin like a shy maiden and glared at her over the edge of it.

Charlie stared at her for a moment, rubbing his jaw, assessing her, perhaps, deciding if she could truly help his father or not. “We need to hurry, Charlie.”

Charlie took a breath and swiped the wet hair off his forehead, then turned to his father. “Da, see reason. I’m leaving in a fortnight. What will ye do then? Ma can’t help with the sheep, and it’ll be lambing time soon.” He looked at Eleanor. “I turned eighteen last month, and I’ve been called up. I’m going to France.”

Eleanor looked at him in surprise. She hadn’t realized that Charlie was old enough, but she saw the stubble along his narrow jaw, the jut of the Adam’s apple at his throat. She couldn’t imagine him as a soldier. He was tall and skinny, his eyes still wide and blue and innocent. Still, he was full-grown, strong, and able-bodied. She looked at him and knew what his father must be thinking, what his mother feared. Matthew had been eighteen when he left, was killed at nineteen, and now it was Charlie’s turn to go.

Worry shimmied up her own spine, but there was another emotion as well, a darker, distinctly selfish one. Charlie was going to France to do his bit while she was stuck in England running errands, forbidden to go. It made her more determined to help Arthur, to do what she was trained for.

“Charlie’s right, Mr. Nevins. I’m fully qualified, and you’re in a bad way. This is very urgent. The wound needs to be seen to at once, cleaned, disinfected, properly cared for. There are germs in the soil, tetanus . . .”

“I ain’t got germs!” Arthur said. He turned to his son. “Take me home, lad. Your mother can put a poultice on it for me, and when the doctor’s back again, he can see to it.”

“No!” It was Eleanor’s turn to object. “It will be too late. It could be—” Fatal. She stopped herself from voicing her greatest concern aloud. If blood loss didn’t kill him, infection would set in. The leg would turn septic, gangrenous. There’d be fever, delirium, and terrible pain. Amputation, too, if it wasn’t too late.

She considered her options. The surgery was nearly three miles away, but Chesscroft was less than half a mile up the lane. “We’ll take him to the convalescent hospital at Chesscroft,” she said to Charlie. “Every minute counts. I’ll come with you.” She took a wad of clean bandages out of her bag and climbed into the truck.

“What are ye doing?” Arthur demanded, his voice rising an octave as she pressed in next to him and lifted his leg carefully into her lap to elevate it.

“I’m going to put a clean pad on the wound, something to absorb the blood until we get to the hospital.”

Charlie slid behind the steering wheel. “The countess’s hospital is just for loonies, isn’t it? Officers not right in the head?”

“It’s a convalescent hospital for all kinds of wounded officers,” she said, concentrating on the wound.

“There are real doctors there? Not just nurses?” Arthur asked.

“Yes, Mr. Nevins. Male doctors,” she said tartly. She pressed the bandage over the wound, and blood immediately soaked the white linen. “Hurry, Charlie. Drive fast.”

Minutes later, Charlie flew through the gates of Chesscroft Park at top speed. The truck jumped from the rutted lane to the manicured gravel drive, and Arthur yelped in pain. Eleanor held the bandage in place and glanced out the window, trying to judge how long it would take to reach the east wing. Two minutes, three perhaps, no more than that. She glanced at the black wreaths on the estate’s gates, indicating a recent death in the family and a house in mourning. Not a war death this time, but an accident that had claimed the earl’s eldest son only three months earlier.

The wadded cloth covering Arthur’s leg was soaked in blood, her hands red with it, and she replaced it. She held tight, bracing her shoulder against Arthur’s to minimize the jolting as the truck skidded to a stop by the east door. He grunted with pain anyway. “Mind the gears, boy,” he muttered weakly.

“Go inside and get help,” she said to Charlie. “I’ll wait with your father. Tell them it’s urgent.”

“No offense, lass, but a proper doctor should be a man,” Arthur said, staring at her, an older, more weather-beaten version of his youngest son. His mouth was drawn tight with either his conviction or pain, and his eyes were still suspicious.

She changed the cloth again and didn’t bother to reply. Her hands were slick with blood. She heard the ticking of her watch, or perhaps it was just the rain on the roof of the truck and the gravel outside. Time was passing, time Arthur Nevins didn’t have to spare.

She wondered if Peter Ellersby, one of the doctors here at Chesscroft and a major in the Royal Army Medical Corps, would be on duty today. He’d become a friend of her father’s, and he often came to the surgery for supper. He’d be happy to help, she was certain.

“Where the devil is Charlie?” Arthur muttered fretfully.

Eleanor looked up at the pitiless facade of the imposing manor house. The yellow stone glowed against the gray sky, and the crumbling bulk of the original Norman tower peered out from behind it, testament to the fact that there had been Chastaines in this spot since they arrived with William the Conqueror.

How many times had she followed her brother here as a child? Edward and Lord Louis had been playmates as boys, then partners in mischief and misadventure as they got older. They’d climbed and played and swum together, had gone to Cambridge together, and enlisted together, though Louis had eventually joined the air corps, while Edward found a place as an adjutant at headquarters, thanks to his connection to Louis. And now Louis’s older brother was dead, and Louis was the new Viscount Somerton and would be the next Earl of Kirkswell.

If he survived the war.

She pushed the grim thought from her mind, concentrated on changing the sodden dressing on Arthur’s leg yet again and pressing a fresh wad of linen against the wound, the last one she had. Where wasCharlie? She couldn’t leave Arthur to check.

When the door opened at last, only the countess’s secretary stepped out. He stayed under the porch out of the rain and peered at the truck. He pushed his spectacles back up his nose. “Mr. Ross, I need help!” she called. His brow furrowed, but he stayed where he was.

“Yes, Miss Atherton, I understand, but I’m afraid that—”

Charlie shoved past him, his face alight with indignation and worry. “They won’t help him!”

“What?” Eleanor said, stunned. “Why?”

“That settles it. Take me home, lad,” Arthur said, trying to shift his position on the seat of the truck. He hissed in pain.

“Stay still! ...