Promise Me This (43 page)

“But they both seemed so nice—and isn’t he a handsome devil?” Kimberly pouted.

“The American woman tricked you into letting that Irisher in. Think of it, Kimberly. She was English and from a good and cultured family—sometime, somewhere. He was northern Irish if I’ve ever heard it! None of it fits. If Elisabeth truly changed her name, she must have had a reason. For all we know, she’s running away from this very bloke. We dare not give her away!”

Kimberly punched her pillow, fluffed it as best she could, and rolled onto her side.
Irish or not,
she thought,
he seemed more a man to run
to
than away from.
Aloud she said, “I don’t know. I hope we’ve done the proper thing.”

Michael pulled the steering wheel hard left, swerving from the road and into the field just in time to miss a crater-size pothole.

Anne Vanderbilt squealed in the seat beside him, grabbed the doorframe for balance, and just as quickly composed herself.

Michael bit his lip.
Feisty lady! And she’s kept up—day after day, hospital after hospital. If only we don’t get a load of German shrapnel on our heads!

Indeed, Anne had accompanied Andrew and Michael on a tour of every château and shop and deserted school turned hospital and nearly every surgical marquee tent wilting in the August heat. They’d spent the second half of a long night of artillery attack in the rubble of a dim, dank cellar, surrounded by soldiers and patients, certain the world would end for them that night.

It was the first time Michael had seen a lady in her sleeping cap and robe since he’d left Aunt Maggie in New Jersey. It had the odd effect of making him pine keenly for home, despite the immediate whistle of howitzers and the sky lit by exploding rockets. They reminded him of the distress rockets shot up from
Titanic
. For the first time Michael entertained thoughts of quitting, giving up this mad search for his “bright needle” and going home to Aunt Maggie and Uncle Daniel.

There were only two field hospitals left to tour in the sector; Michael’s hopes of finding Annie in Verdun waned.

By late afternoon of the following day, he had walked through half the new wards and shown Annie’s photograph to everyone with eyes that could still see. Every head that was able shook a familiar no.

“Please, Sisters.” Michael stopped two VADs just coming from mess. He called every woman in white uniform “Sister.” Better to ingratiate himself to all by using the title freely than to risk offending one who truly carried that high rank. “Please, I’m searching for someone. Her name is Annie Allen—Elisabeth Anne Allen.” He pulled the tattered and creased photograph from his vest pocket.

“Judy, look! Why, it’s Elisabeth, isn’t it?” one woman asked the other. She handed the picture back to Michael. “But her name isn’t Allen; it’s Hargrave. At least it surely looks like her.”

“Elisabeth Hargrave.” Michael’s jaw dropped. He forcibly closed his mouth but thought the earth might spin off its axis.
No wonder she’s on no lists! I’ve been looking for the wrong name!
“Is she here?” The words sounded as though they came from someplace far away, a voice not his own.

The young women pointed to a tent thirty feet away. “Over there—the surgical tent. Elisabeth’s on duty—or just finishing her shift.”

Annie stepped through the flap of the tent into the fierce August heat. She wiped her brow with the sleeve of her uniform and squinted into the late-afternoon sun. Rolling down her sleeves, she straightened her cuffs.

“Elisabeth!” Judy beckoned her.

Annie turned and walked toward the small group.
Why are they staring?

They stood just in the face of the sun; Annie lifted her hand to shade her eyes. The broad-shouldered and uniformed ambulance driver standing beside Judy and Marge removed his cap slowly but gawked boldly, openly. Annie straightened and swiped at her hair. Undone by the young man’s blatant stare, she felt compelled to drop her eyes. Unaccountably, she could not.

As she neared the group, she took in the man’s startling blue eyes, the unruly mass of dark curls atop his head, and the sharp dimpling in his cheeks. Her brow wrinkled, but her heart quickened its beat until it pounded in her ears.

“It cannot be,” she whispered. But she had seen that lopsided grin—a lifetime ago, in a newspaper clipping, amid birdhouses and gazebos. And before that, she’d seen those blue eyes high aboard a great ship about to sail, and even before that, on a street corner one Easter morning.

Michael? Is it you? Why . . . How is it you are here?
But words refused to come. Her breath caught.
Oh—you’re handsome—and I’m a mess!
She wanted to run to him but made herself walk toward the uniformed driver, her eyes caught in his. Annie’s knees trembled.

She stumbled, catching her heel in her skirt. Her hands shot out, her left palm breaking her fall onto the gravel. Pain shot through her arm and heat up her neck.

The young man was beside her before she raised her eyes. He pulled her to her feet, his arm firmly about her waist, then dropped his hand from her side as though it had been set afire—and surely, his reddened face looked to Annie as though it had.

Standing so close that she felt his breath upon her ear, he opened her palm and examined the scrape with the diligence of a surgeon. She looked into his face, so near, and saw the muscles flex in his jaw. But he did not meet her eyes. She saw, as if from a distance, his larger hand holding hers, felt his strong fingers entwine with hers.

“Annie.” The young man’s voice broke. “Annie,” he said again, cradling her hand.

Annie could not hold the tears welling in her eyes. She could not stop them from coursing over her cheeks. “How did you find me?” she whispered at last, swiping her face, rubbing her wet fingers over her bloodied apron.

But all she could think was,
Why did you come? Did you come just for me? Thank You, God! Oh, thank You!

Slowly, reverently, he lifted her dirtied fingers to his lips. He held them there and closed his eyes, as though he breathed a prayer over them.

“Ahem.” Marge coughed, tapping Annie on the arm. “I say, ‘Ahem!’” She tugged Annie back to consciousness. “You two had best leave off. Matron’s sprinting down the avenue as we speak.”

Annie pulled her hand away. She brushed away her tears again and lifted her chin to face him. “We musn’t let her know. I’ll explain later. Do this for me.”

“Oh, what a scrape!” Marge exclaimed loudly. “You’ve got to see to that straightaway, Elisabeth! Here, let me help you.”

“What has happened? What is going on here?” Matron demanded.

“Matron—Elisabeth’s taken a tumble, that’s all.” Marge stepped between Annie and Michael. “This gentleman saw her fall and came to give us a hand. But never you mind; we’ll see to her.”

Matron looked from one girl to the other, barely scanned the bleeding scrape in Annie’s palm, and narrowed her eyes at the beet-faced ambulance driver. “Very well. See that you do.” She half turned. “And you.” She nodded toward Michael. “Drivers are billeted over there.” She pointed across the way, to the far end of the camp.

“Yes, Sister.” Michael tipped his cap. “Thank you, mum.”

Matron raised herself, looked as if she was about to say something more, then turned and stormed away.

“She’s not fond of the Irish,” Judy whispered, leaning near him. “But never mind her. Let’s get Elisabeth cleaned up, and you two tell us what in blazes is going on!”

“I’ll help her. Show me where I can wash her wound.” Michael lifted Annie’s hand protectively and squared his shoulders.

All three girls looked up.

“Round the mess tent. There’s water there.” Annie nodded the way. She whispered to Marge and Judy, “Please, oh, please, don’t say anything to anyone.”

The girls lit with the delight of new suspense. “You can count on us,” Marge whispered back. “Just be sure you tell us—” she looked at Michael—“everything!”

Annie smiled despite her wish to remain serious, then allowed Michael to guide her behind the mess tent. “Where did you come from? How did you get here?” she begged, but Michael led her on.

“Wait. Wait here,” he ordered gently.

He poured water from the standing supply keg into a basin and unpinned a clean rag from the line of washed linen. “Give me your hand.”

Carefully he dipped Annie’s injured hand into the water. He picked the surface gravel from her bleeding palm and wiped the grit from the surrounding area. He swirled the dirty water in the basin, tossed it away, and filled the basin again.

Annie watched his face, the line of his jaw and the long dimple that creased his cheek, now very near her hair. She stood close enough to know that he swallowed, that his breath drew shallow, that his nerves remained tensed.

She’d stood beside, even bathed, wounded men for months. Never had she wanted with everything in her to stand closer still.

“You’ll need to keep this clean,” Michael ordered again, still holding her injured hand beneath the water. “The bleeding’s stopped.”

Dutifully, Annie nodded. She could not hide her smile. She nestled closer.

Michael stopped his washing. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, smiled in return, but did not face her.

“Michael?”
Why won’t he look at me? He looks positively petrified!

Annie slipped her free hand into the water and, holding her breath, clasped the top of Michael’s hands. She watched the miracle of his hands unfold and wrap her fingers.

“You’re a treasure hard to find,” he whispered in her ear, exploring her wrists and the slender spaces between each finger. “I swear I’ll never lose you again, Annie Allen.”

Annie’s heart caught. She felt it swell and swell until she thought it might burst. She leaned her hair against his face, catching the stray tear that trickled from the corner of his eye.

Michael pressed his face against the top of Annie’s head and closed his eyes.

A minute passed, and unaccountably, she giggled. And then she laughed—for the first time since setting foot on French soil. Annie felt her eyes widen at her foreign outburst. But she laughed again. She pulled her hand away, cupped water from the basin, and splashed him fully in the face, delighted with her own impudence.

Michael gasped and stepped back.

But she did it again and again, teasing until he splashed her in return.

They were both soaked when Michael grabbed her by the wrists, the blue lights dancing in his eyes. “Enough of that, Miss Allen!” Worry lines melted from his face. He pulled her into his arms.

Willingly she came; willingly he kissed her.

Over the next two days Matron had a difficult time keeping track of Annie. When the girl was scheduled for duty, she reported promptly, as always. But after her shift, Matron was hard pressed to locate her.

“She must be dead on her feet. Elisabeth picked up an extra shift in the night for one of the girls, Matron.” Marge had looked her in the eye when she’d said it, but Matron was certain she was lying.

Doubtful, Matron peeked in the tent Elisabeth shared with the other VADs, but seeing the form of a girl beneath the sheet, she walked away.