Promise Me This (39 page)

“None of the girls like her,” whispered Liz, a VAD who looked every bit as young as Annie but who vowed to Matron that she was “twenty-three, Sister—minimum requisite age,” even though she’d been unable to look Sister Artrip in the face when she’d said it.

Annie could not imagine why anyone so young and timid would volunteer to nurse overseas when she could easily have gained a post in one of the London hospitals or wealthy homes turned convalescent centers. She certainly would not, had she any choice. But her contract with her aunt stipulated she nurse in France for the duration of the war.

Annie saw no reprieve, not even if her aunt died—as she prayed every day she might—for Aunt Eleanor had set in meticulous motion guardians to carry out her threats should Annie violate the terms of their agreement. For the sake of Aunt Maggie and Michael, dearest Michael, for Mr. Sprague—indeed for all the Spragues—Annie would follow those terms to the letter.

Aunt Eleanor was privy to the loans Uncle Sean had taken out on Allen’s Run Gardens. Somehow she had procured a dominant share in the bank that held those loans and their overdue mortgage. Her aunt’s pleasure in detailing the plans of her threatened foreclosure sickened Annie.
Oh, why did I not anticipate her? Why did I not arrange for Mr. Sprague to send the funds to Aunt Maggie before I ever set foot in Aunt Eleanor’s house?
Annie closed her eyes.
Why should I be shocked by her venom? It is not new. Her joy lies in the manipulation, the destruction of all whose happiness and generosity stand in contrast to her meanness.

Mr. Sprague’s financial dealings with Aunt Eleanor’s distant relatives in Germany had been at her aunt’s behest and carried out for years before the war. But when Mr. Sprague had challenged Eleanor Hargrave concerning Annie’s welfare and future in the two years following Owen’s death, she had openly hired another solicitor for some of her affairs. That solicitor had, her aunt told her, recently hired a “colleague” to create a distinct and incriminating paper trail between Mr. Sprague and not only her legitimate distant German relatives, but the German military as well—the latter recipients unknown to Mr. Sprague.

She had made it perfectly clear to Annie that her imminent death would eliminate the one person who could vouch that Edwin Sprague had no inkling of his connection with the enemy government. There was enough, Aunt Eleanor had vowed, to ruin Edwin Sprague and his family.

She’d laughed at Annie’s horror and insistence that Mr. Sprague was a good and innocent man, a true British patriot.

“It matters not,” Eleanor Hargrave had purred. “He will stand in the dock until the end of the war. Suspicion and a ruined reputation alone will prevent him from practicing law in the empire—ever.”

Aunt Eleanor had cast a grimy lens over Mrs. Sprague and her support of the suffragette movement and hinted that no one would marry Constance, the daughter of treasonous and modernist parents. The woman had left no stone unturned in her devilish and spiteful imagination.

Annie’s heart sank, but she never doubted her aunt’s determination or ability to carry out her threats. She’d known her too long.

The price of her aunt’s silence and inaction—both in America and Britain—was Annie’s contract to nurse near the battlefields of France for the duration of the war, to leave her inheritance untouched until her return, and to abruptly end all communication with family and friends. Cruel though the terms were, Annie dared not test her bluff. The cost was too great, the stakes for her loved ones too high.

Annie closed her eyes as she waited in line. Her disappearance would hurt the Spragues and Aunt Maggie and Michael, in turn. She choked back a sob at the thought of losing Michael when she’d only gained the desire to truly know and be with him, the secret hope that he might love her in return. But if she stayed, they would all be hurt more; they would all lose everything dear to them.

The train to Revigny was quiet, packed with soldiers returning to the front from their all-too-short fortnight of leave. The dread mixed with quiet determination lining their faces did nothing to calm the shooting pains in Annie’s stomach. She swallowed, her tongue thick, her throat dry.

Barbara—Babs, one of the bolder girls—smiled at a soldier staring from across the aisle; he did not smile in return. Not even the fresh young Englishwomen in spotless VAD cloaks kindled lights in their eyes. Annie looked away.

Revigny was the end of the line—the last stop before the long lorry trip to Verdun along the only road left open.

“They call it
la Voie Sacrée
—the Sacred Way. Verdun is a veritable hellhole and gorge of French blood,” Andee, the only volunteer American among them, confided with the intensity of a master storyteller. “It is a point of greatest honor—all France is bent and driven to recapture it from the
Boche
.”

Annie had heard the same rumor in London, and more: Germany, determined to take advantage of France’s patriotic spirit, continued to lure the enemy to Verdun and to their knees by the thousands, with the sole intention of bleeding the French army white.

The engine’s long whistle announced their arrival in the gathering dusk, well before the train lurched to a stop. Matron stepped confidently from the train, but even her rigid face paled at the sea of men and the stench of their blood-soaked bandages and unwashed bodies.

Annie and the other young women followed tentatively, stumbling over broken cobbles. Not one of the freshly recruited and voluntarily trained young Englishwomen had encountered in close proximity so many filthy, broken soldiers straight from the battlefield.

Lines of black-powder burns creased the natural contours of male faces, their eyes hooded and weary beyond their years. Rows upon rows of stretchers burdened with men, and what was left of men, waited for the cars to empty of soldiers so they might take their place and return to Calais or Boulogne or any port that would send them finally to England and respite care.

The VADs stood, mesmerized, horrified, and rooted to the muddy ground.

“Come along, girls!” Matron shouted above the din. “We are bound for that parade of lorries—step smartly!”

But the lorries were loaded and heaped with ammunition and equipment bound for Verdun. “Nothing supersedes the resupply of our men in Verdun—not the wounded, not the dying, and certainly not you, Sister, with your gaggle of VADs!” shouted the driver of the last lorry. Matron drew herself up and prepared to launch an attack, but he waved her away and gunned his motor that she might not be heard.

The girls stifled giggles. Annie knew better and studied her feet as Matron returned to the clustered group, her face red and her eyes nearly bulging from their sockets.

The stationmaster shrugged. “The young ladies must wait until morning for the lorries to return. Only then may they be transported to their field section.”

Matron shouted at the little man. “You cannot expect these girls to sleep in the station with soldiers roaming hither and yon!”

He shrugged again and pointed to a wooden café across the square, brightly lit and boasting a Union Jack. Annie caught the words
La Cantine de Dames Anglaises
.”

Matron led her gaggle away in a huff.

“Welcome to
Café Gratuit
!” sang two young Englishwomen from an open window above a long outdoor counter. They called with all the cheeriness of French mademoiselles, bundled though they were against the cold in layers of woollies and mufflers.

“Tea,” Matron ordered. “Serve them tea.” She turned to her charges. “We shall spend the night here in the canteen. There are no accommodations. Remember your orders. Be ready to board the lorries first thing.” And then, to the relief of all, Matron stalked away into the gathering gloom.

“Well, she’s rather frightful, isn’t she?” one of the sprightly young women observed critically.

“At least she’s gone!” Andee exclaimed.

“Don’t speak so loudly,” Marge begged. “She’s got eyes in the back of her head and invisible ears plastered to our foreheads; I’m sure of it!”

Andee scoffed but stole a glance toward Matron’s retreating form.

Annie turned her head, wishing only to remain anonymous.

“My name is Kimberly, and this is my sister, Karen,” the young canteen worker offered. “Do come round the back, and we shall let you in. At least you’ll have a place to sit down. You’ll need to keep your wraps. It’s frightfully cold!”

The moment the girls were settled, Karen and Kimberly began filling a round of mugs with tepid tea. “It’s been ages since we’ve had a group of girls here—always soldiers, don’t you know.”

“And that’s a problem?” Marge asked, laughing as she shivered. “We’ve a shortage of eligible men in England this year!”

“There’s no shortage of men here!” Karen raised her brows significantly. “Not if you don’t mind being proposed to twenty times a day.” She laughed as she pulled a twisted paper from her uniform pocket. “Here, share our sugar ration—we’ve been saving for a celebration.”

The girls accepted appreciatively. Annie had stirred sugar in her tea in England that morning, but it seemed ages ago.

“But are they sincere proposals? That’s what I want to know!” Babs begged.

“Oh, they’re sincere enough in the moment,” Kimberly answered. “But then they’re off to the front to do their ‘sacred duty,’ and who knows if we’ll ever see them again!”

“Don’t be callous!” Karen admonished. “Poor blighters. This canteen and the women who run it are the loves of their lives—their short lives, many of them.”

“Is it really as bad as they say—up in Verdun?” Liz asked nervously.

Karen and Kimberly exchanged a glance.

The VADs drew back. Annie swallowed. She had already nursed survivors of Verdun.

“Let’s not talk of that now,” Karen said. “Enjoy your time here. Anything we can get you, we will.” She forced a smile and returned to her post behind the counter.

Babs tugged Kimberly’s sleeve. “Tell us.”

Kimberly glanced over her shoulder at her sister, waited until her attention was captured by a flirtatious French officer, and lowered her voice to the group. “This road—the French call it the Sacred Way. It is the only road into or out of Verdun. Thousands of soldiers go in every day. Not so many return.” She cast another glance at her sister, but Karen was still pouring coffee. She whispered, “They mean to recapture and hold Verdun, no matter what the cost.” She looked away, then studied the girls and repeated, “No matter what the cost.”

Andee whispered to the girls, “I told you so.”

Annie stretched toward the ceiling every hour or two; her back and legs cramped from sitting at the canteen tables on hard wooden benches through the long, cold night.

“At least we’re allowed inside.” Judy kept her stiff upper lip, no matter that it shivered. “The men have to sleep out in the cold.”

“I don’t know how they manage,” Evelyn said near midnight. “It’s absolutely freezing out there.”

Annie didn’t know either. She was so cold that she could barely bend her fingers; she longed for a hot bath, a hair wash, and a steaming cup of tea.

The girls tried to sleep sitting back to back or used their forearms crossed on the table for a pillow.

Gray morning came at last, bearing none of the niceties Annie had wished for.

Kimberly appeared in the doorway, rested and chipper. “We shall open in another hour. You girls will want to use the facilities before we open the window to serve—too many observers, if you know what I mean.”

The queue filed through quickly. “Nothing like cold water to shorten a lady’s trip to the lavatory!” Andee quipped.

Kimberly poured an early round of tea for the girls. “You’re a quiet one,” she said to Annie. “What is your name, love?”

Annie’s spine stiffened. “Elisabeth,” she said. “Elisabeth Hargrave.” The name her aunt had insisted upon still came none too easily.

“You’ll want to post your cards before the lorries return,” Karen announced to the group, who stared blankly at the sisters. “Your postcards—to your families.”

“But we’ve only just arrived,” Marge said. “There’s nothing to write yet.”

“Not even!” Babs echoed.

Karen and Kimberly exchanged their secret-code glances.

“Just the same,” Karen replied before she turned to her duties, “let your families know you’re here—in Revigny, in France.”

It was a sober reminder of all that lay ahead, and the girls obediently penned tiny letters onto cards, intent on cramming in every detail they might for loved ones beyond the channel, now a world away.

“You’ve no one to write to, Elisabeth?” Kimberly chided good-naturedly as she collected the cards. “No one at all?”

Annie drew in her breath, squared her shoulders, and turned away. “No one.”

Before the lorries roared to life at seven thirty and pulled their long train over the rough and shell-holed road toward Verdun, the VADs posed, smiling, for a group photograph.

“We post them on the canteen walls so the soldiers can see them as they pass our serving window,” Kimberly said, snapping the photograph. “It’s a happy reminder for the blokes of what they’re fighting to preserve—a little smile of encouragement away from home.”