Promise Me This (45 page)

Michael pretended to have developed a wartime attraction to Elisabeth Hargrave, the shy English nurse—all from a discreet distance. Each clandestine meeting was no more than a handful of fleeting moments behind the mess tent or a rare passing in the dark between shifts—long enough for him to squeeze her hand or for her to push the tumbled locks from his eyes.

Michael held tight to the joy of living each precarious day near Annie, but his fear for her safety grew with the passing of those days of increased shelling from the enemy. He could not reconcile his joy of being with her with his responsibility and inability to protect her. She must leave this place, he knew, but how?

As Christmas approached, he laid his plans and forged a ring from scrap metal.

It was not the ring or proposal he’d so long and diligently planned. It was not the vision he’d carried while digging, planting, and hoeing the gardens of Owen’s roses in New Jersey, singing Christmas carols at the top of his lungs. It was not the image he’d held close while barreling through battle zones to retrieve wounded during the last year.

But it was wartime, and there was no end in sight. He needed to see that she was safe—away from battle zones—if only she would agree. A promise, hope for brighter days—any days—might carry them through. And when the war was over, they would go home to New Jersey together.

How he would manage a proposal, let alone a wooing in the intimate setting Annie so deserved, he had no clue. But he knelt and laid bare his heart’s petition to the One whose example he followed, the One who knew above all others how to woo a Bride.

Three days before Christmas, Michael believed the answer came when Mack, the tentmate whose bunk lay opposite, dropped his news after a long and grueling transport from Revigny.

“They’re sending a civilian up to do a Christmas Eve Communion for the field hospital.” Mack pulled his boots from his feet, wrapped his toes in rags for added warmth, and wound himself in his tarp. “All against regulation, but the brother of one of the doctors. Just goes to show whose country pulls rank in this stinking war.”

“Not French, then?” Michael wondered.

“And not a priest—a proper Protestant vicar, from Lincoln. Came to check on his younger brother, wounded at the Somme, but too late. Decided he’d best stop here for a visit with his older brother before something happens to him.” Mack rolled over. “They’ll probably both be shot to bloo—” he mumbled into his coat. “I’m to fetch him from Revigny tomorrow.” Mack pulled the tarp over his head. “Close that tent flap. Let me pretend it’s dark.”

Michael pulled the flap tight and shook his head. He knew what it meant to lose a sibling. The fear of losing another reminded him of Owen, stirring again his sense of the urgent.
A vicar, a proper English vicar.
He repeated the words over and over in his brain, a mantra of growing proportions. “I’ve need of your help, Mack—and perhaps we can ask for that of Liz and Evelyn.”

Mack pushed the tarp away. “Evelyn?” Just saying her name lit a small fire in Mack’s eyes. “What now, Dunnagan?”

“Can you arrange a quiet moment for me with the vicar before you release him to the officers’ tent?”

“In exchange for . . . a quiet moment with Evelyn?” Mack was fully awake.

“That’ll be her saying yea or nay. I’ll not urge based on friendship.” Michael held his breath.

Mack stared him down. “What do you want with the vicar?”

“A wedding.” Michael’s grin spread from ear to ear. “A secret, surprise Christmas Day wedding for Annie and me. You and Evelyn and Liz and that bloke she likes come and stand with us.”

“You’re crazy—bonkers! Didn’t ya notice there’s a war on?” Mack turned away. “Stupid Paddy.”

“Bonkers I am—bonkers in love!” Michael gazed stupidly into the half-light, scheming, dreaming. He pulled Mack’s shoulder until he faced him. “But will you do it, then? And you’ll stand with me?”

Mack groaned, punched his makeshift pillow, and shook his head. Grinning, he turned his back on Michael again and mumbled, “Just make sure she tosses Evelyn the bouquet.”

On Christmas Day the officers and surgeons ate dinner first, then the sisters, and later the VADs. Last of all came the ambulance drivers, stretcher bearers, and all those besides. It was a cheerful day, compared to others. The mess was warm, if not tempting. The Germans were quiet and, Michael prayed, deep in their cups.

After the vicar served Communion to the surgeons and staff, he went through the tent wards. Michael recognized the holy hush that had fallen over the ranks. It was the same quiet as before Communion served by Reverend Tenney in the meeting house in Swainton. It was the same pervading peace that followed.

Michael saw the vicar as a good man, with the added bonus of being a civilian not bound by military regulations. At least no one had specifically forbidden him to perform marriages in battle zones. Younger than Michael had imagined; still, the vicar was married—a man who surely understood the pain and longing of love. Michael had not actually told the vicar that he’d not yet proposed to Annie in words face to face, but he was certain of her answer—more certain of her than of the ultimate ending of the war. Memories of Aunt Maggie and Daniel’s Christmas Day wedding hallowed his preparations.

As soon as he’d spoken with and received a blessing and pledge of secrecy from the vicar, Michael set arrangements in motion with Liz and Evelyn. They would give Annie his letter after Communion, then accompany her to the vicar’s tent—against regulations, he knew, but for the best of causes, and the vicar would be there, after all.

By then, nothing could mar the day, nothing more would require her attention, and the vicar’s brother would be on hospital duty—no interference there. Thanks to Mack, the night would belong to the newly married couple. Mack had persuaded the vicar to trade his tent for Michael’s bunk—a wartime wedding gift. Michael thought they might name their firstborn after the man—or at least after Mack.

On the morrow, Michael would walk with Annie, hand in hand, to Matron. She would be furious, likely dismiss Annie on the spot. Michael figured his bride would surely be sent home within the month, and he would follow as soon as he could. Even if he had to wait out the war, Annie would be safe from the battle zone and out from under the thumb of Matron Artrip. Everything would work out fine.

The blessing of shared Communion and the peace she found when partaking of the one bread and one cup was a gift so rare that Annie had almost forgotten its beauty. That her Lord loved her and had died for her was beyond comprehension. “Owen understood this mystery better than I,” she whispered. “Bless him for that, Lord. Thank You for the life You lived, the life that Owen lived, and this life that You’ve given me with all there is to come. Help me to sacrifice as lovingly, as willingly as You have done for the world, as Owen did for Michael and me. Bless our love, heavenly Father. Give me patience. Help me stay the course, and please, oh, please, bring an end to this war.”

She’d barely risen from her knees to her cot when Liz eagerly pulled her to her feet and shoved a clean apron in her hands. “I know you’ve nothing proper to wear, but take my fresh apron. I blued it yesterday. It will do.” Liz clapped her hands like a child.

“Whatever for? Is this a Christmas gift?”

Evelyn pushed Liz aside. “Don’t pay her any mind. But you will want to do something with your hair, and I’d suggest a good nail scrubbing. You know how the muck gets under our nails.”

“What are you two going on about?” Annie wondered if they’d been in the coffee or, perhaps worse, discovered Christmas spirits sold on the black market.

“She gave it to you, didn’t she?” Evelyn turned to Liz. “Well, did you? Did you give it to her?”

“Gave me what?”

Liz slapped her own cheek. “Oh, here it is! Read it quickly—over here, by the lantern.” She passed Annie a paper, folded and refolded, addressed in Michael’s hand.

Fingers near trembling, Annie smoothed the creases one by one. “He’s arranged a meeting time and place. The perfect Christmas gift! I was beginning to fear he’d not taken any notice of the day!” Her breath caught and her heart danced at his words:

My dearest Annie,

When first I promised Owen to watch over you, I did so with duty and gratitude to the best friend I’d ever known. But I have found in your love more life and joy than I have ever hoped or dreamed—more than any man has a right to claim this side of heaven. I love you, Annie Allen. I love you with all that is in me. I will love you always. Come with Liz and Evelyn. We’ve a surprise waiting.

All my love,

Michael

Annie bit her lip, smoothed again the paper he’d written upon, and smiled at the girls. “What have the three of you been up to?”

Liz and Evelyn exchanged tentative glances.

“I still think we should tell her,” Evelyn admonished.

“But he said not to say a word—it would spoil the surprise!” Liz wrung her fingers.

“But it could be a shock,” Evelyn began. “What if she doesn’t—?”

“Never mind! If he wants to surprise me, let him. He must have conspired and troubled to do it. I don’t want to spoil it.” Annie tucked the missive in her pocket.

“Oh, it’s most definitely a surprise!” Evelyn quipped.

Liz poked her friend in the ribs.

“Now, help me with my hair,” Annie ordered. “It’s not every Christmas Day a girl gets a date with a handsome ambulance driver in a French battle zone!” She laughed, and even to her, her happiness rang like the sound of bells.

A half hour later Liz pronounced her friend presentable. The three girls wrapped themselves in another layer against the cold and peeked through their tent flap into the last light of day. The first stars were just beginning to shine, and the moonrise cast a glow across the crusted snow. They needed no lantern to guide their way but picked their steps gingerly along the shoveled trail, shushing each other with good-natured jabs and giggles. Annie could not guess why her friends were in such high spirits, but it gave welcome relief from the normal tension and tedium of camp life. She began to suspect that Michael had prepared a party of some sort. Perhaps he’d found some secret store of sweets or perhaps there was a letter from Aunt Maggie. She gladly joined in their small parade.

When they reached the vicar’s tent, Annie had second thoughts. “We’re not to be here, surely!” She stopped the girls, arms linked on either side, in their tracks. “Matron will hold us accountable!”

“We’ve worked it all out. If necessary, we’ll say we’ve been to confession,” Liz assured her.

“But he’s not a priest! He doesn’t give absolution!” Annie knew that much.

“And we’re not asking—we’re simply confessing!”

“Confessing what?” Annie demanded.

But Evelyn pushed her through the tent flap, and when Annie saw Michael standing there, the love light risen brighter than the moonrise in his eyes, she forgot about confessions and absolutions altogether. She barely realized that Mack and T. C. and the vicar stood behind him.

When Michael pulled her gently from her friends, she came willingly, her heart beating a joyful staccato in her chest. When he pushed back the hood of her cape, she felt the warmth of his palms upon her face.

“Merry Christmas, Annie.”

“Merry Christmas, Michael.” It was only a word, a name, but it meant everything.

Turning away from the group huddled near the far side of the tent, Michael pulled her to a camp chair in the corner, kneeling before her. “I’d hoped to ask you in the gazebo I built in the midst of Allen’s Run Gardens,” he whispered, her hands cupped in his, “outside our future home. I’d planned to bend my knee and offer you a bridal bouquet of Owen’s white double roses, lobelia the very blue of your eyes, and that trailing English ivy you love. But summer is gone, and we are not in New Jersey.”

She felt his fingers massaging hers. The staccato in her chest drummed into a powerful beating.

“Even so, marry me, Annie. Marry me now—today—and let me take you home.”

Annie felt her eyelids open and close without rhythm. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. She closed it.