Beginning, Previous Section, Section XXVIII, Next Section

June 4th 1917-Longbourn, England

Probable impossibilities are to be preferred to improbable possibilities. - Aristotle

"Kitty, she's written to you again. Why does Lizzie keep writing to you?...and why does she use such awful paper!" Mrs. Bennet frowned darkly at the dirty envelope she had just extracted from the pile.

"I suspect she uses such awful paper Mrs. Bennet because there is no other paper available...at least it is better than sending letters on the back of out-dated staff maps."

"Those letters of yours were difficult to read...especially when you got up near Kanchenjunga."

"Did papa write to you on maps?" Kitty stared at her mother in amazement.

"Oh yes, most of the time. They were the old staff maps which were either too marked or had been worn through or ruined by rain."

"Why?"

"We had no other paper most of the time, and I never remembered to pick the paper up when we did have it." Mr. Bennet gave a faint smile. "Those were indeed the days, none of this driving around in buses and trains, we walked every step of every journey...unless we were returning to Bombay on leave and then you got a fourth class ticket."

"I didn't know there was fourth class." Kitty looked startled.

"Oh there is...and still is, in Europe. They tend to be the empty cattle trucks going in one direction, I'm rather of the opinion that fourth class is more comfortable than third for it has no seats, you take your own."

"That doesn't actually sound at all fun." Kitty frowned.

"Well which would you take, a rough plank of termite ridden wood or your camp stool."

"My camp stool of course."

"Point illustrated, third class was invariably a termite ridden plank."

"Oh." Kitty flushed slightly, but finally opened her letter, it was exceedingly brief.

My dear Kitty,
I write to you in haste for once again I have not much time.

I will not, as hoped, be returning to England, events here have conspired as such that I am merely to be transferred to another hospital. I will write when I am settled and let you know where I have gone, and what it is like. Sister Baker has enquired whether she may not correspond with you, she is due for home leave in three weeks and there is some hope that I may be able to gain some about the same time.

I will write further about everything dear sister, and hopefully will see you at least once before the year is out. But as of today my hopes are not high, I hope this change of events does not upset too many things.

I love you all dearly and miss you terribly,
Lizzie

Kitty stared somewhat blindly at the page in front of her. Elizabeth not to come home? Kitty abruptly rose and fled from the room, she had never even admitted to herself how much she was looking forward to Elizabeth's trip. Anyone from the outside would be a blessed breath of fresh air. It was as if she lived in a dream, she could see people and faces floating around, but they had no impact on her. The world seemed so artificial and shallow, people cracking under terrific strains attempted to laugh, a caricature of amusement. They were so busy attempting to prove that they were happy and that nothing was wrong that they couldn't even begin to seem real. People would be laughing and then with no apparent reason would burst into tears, their friends would hustle them away, out of the public gaze. 'To much to drink' that was such a common excuse...'oh she's had too much to drink'. Kitty shuddered. When had a lady begun to drink like that? Kitty could remember her Aunt Phillips drinking scotch, it was as if she thought that alcohol would bring back Cousin Charles.

"Kitty!" Mrs. Bennet's voice shrilled through the house. "Jane's on the telephone...she wishes to speak to you...though why she can't tell me I don't know."

"Coming." Kitty dumped the letter, and her despair. No time for that now, she'd deal with it after she went to bed. "Hello?" Kitty caught up the receiver.

"Oh Kitty, I'm so glad you're there. Miss Bingley's just arrived and we haven't room for her, we've got too many guests already and she bound to make a fight with them. Can you take her at Longbourn? Just for the nights."

"No problem Jane." Kitty stuck her tongue out at the wall in a most unladylike manner and crossed her eyes.

"Thank you Kitty, you are a life saver. She'll be over in twenty minutes...Walker will bring her in the car."

"No problem Jane." Kitty was thankful her sister could not see her crossed fingers.

Miss Caroline Bingley, now 29 years of age, appeared much the same as she had at 22. The years had been kind to Miss Caroline Bingley in a way they had not been kind to Kitty.

"Good gracious." Miss Bingley hastily clipped her mouth shut. "I do appologise Miss Katherine."

"It's no matter, I know I look a hag." Kitty ushered the unwelcome guest up the stairs. The last few months had been rough and insufficient sleep never suited anyone. "I've put you in Lydia's old room, for it is the only one empty. Dr Blair and Sister Arnolds take up two of the others and Elizabeth's must be left free unless she comes home." Kitty pushed the door open on the small third story bedroom and deposited Miss Bingley's suitcase by the door.

"I quite understand." Miss Bingley paused. "Thank you for putting me up at such short notice."

"It is no problem." Kitty finally gave a slight smile. "Most of the time we get no warning at all, they are just on the doorstep."

"Well Charles has nine Officers, three Privates, a Doctor and three strange types who seem to have no occupation whatsoever." Miss Bingley sank onto the bed and pulled the suitcase across to herself.

"Well I hope you are comfortable, and I'll appologise in advance for the evening meal. Mrs. Hill is ill again and I'm not precisely the best cook in the world." Kitty turned and headed for the door, only to be stopped by Miss Bingley.

"Miss Katherine..."

"Kitty please." Kitty interrupted nervously.

"Very well Kitty, but in that case I am Caroline."

"Very well...Caroline." Kitty bit her lip nervously.

"You are too nervous." Caroline paused for a minute, her expression undecided. "Oh rubbish, I will not let you worry about the meal. You Kitty, are going to bed...I'm going to cook dinner."

"You can cook?" Kitty was blatantly surprised.

"Kitty, do not insult me so. I have done my bit during the war, even if it was just filling in at a few restaurants. I am quite a respectable cook. Now you go lie down and get some sleep, I will attend to dinner and you will get the best dinner you've eaten in months."

"Thank you." Kitty gave in with relief, even though her better judgment warned her otherwise.

Miss Caroline Bingley had not been lying when she said she knew how to cook. When one was a Bingley and one liked cooking, one learnt how to cook. Caroline helped herself to an apron and then went to inspect the larder. The larder was enough to make any cook despair, but Caroline was not any cook so she did not despair.

"Meow." The yowl drew Caroline's attention to the tabby cat which was perched on a kitchen stool.

"No, I will not feed you yet." Caroline frowned at the cat. "I need someone to talk to while I cook and I refuse to talk to an empty kitchen."

"Meow." The cat yowled accommodatingly.

"Very true, this larder is bare." Caroline studied the larder for another minute and then abruptly departed the kitchen and knocked on the first closed upstairs door she found.

"Yes?" Kitty's voice came sleepily from inside.

"Thank goodness it is the right one. May I come in?"

"Certainly." Kitty's voice was rapidly waking up.

"Sorry to disturb you, but there is a tabby demanding food and I'm not certain what is, and what is not, for cooking."

"Oh, sorry, I should have warned you about Gin. Gin is left to feed himself, though you can give him any scraps you don't know what to do with. The whole larder is for use, take what you want we get more tomorrow...but leave enough for breakfast."

"Good, then prepare for a feast...and thank you for the warning about Gin, I will refrain from giving him the breakfast kippers then."

"Oh goodness, you didn't seriously consider that did you?" Kitty jolted upright.

"Just seeing how awake you are." Caroline smiled faintly, she could not explain why, but she felt happy and comfortable like she had not felt in months. "No Methuselah was never fed either."

"Methuselah?"

"Our cat who lived for 19 years." Caroline gave a groan. "He changed names four times before he reached twelve, but then Methuselah stuck and he took a liking to my bed."

"I wish I could have met him, Gin's only five...but he's most talkative."

"So I've found." Caroline responded dryly. "Now back to sleep with you, and I'll return to the kitchen." Caroline retreated with her words and found the kitchen again. Gin was perched on his stool and he yowled once more as she entered the room.

"Meow."

"No I will not feed you the Kippers. Let's see, mushrooms, they'll be for breakfast as well, and so will the tomatoes." Caroline frowned. "No, we will keep one tomato for tonight."

"Meow."

"Yes, I thought that a wise decision too. Next shelf, Macaroni...what peculiar things are to be found in a kitchen today." Caroline looked at the bucket of Macaroni and blinked. "So far one tomato and a bucket of Macaroni."

"Meow."

"I quite agree, this is a very bad selection." Caroline went on to the next shelf and discovered some potatoes, a dozen eggs and a bucket of dried mint. "I think I will look into the cooler." Caroline firmly closed the door firmly and turned her attention to the cooler, which revealed a quarter side of lamb, several rashers of bacon and a block of cheese.

"Meow?"

"Meow." Caroline nodded her head firmly as she adjusted the stove and found the roasting pan. With the lamb installed in the oven and roasting Caroline turned her attention to the rest of the meal. "What can one do with potatoes, bacon, eggs, macaroni and a tomato...of which we cannot use all the eggs, and we probably shouldn't use the bacon. Which leaves us with eggs, potatoes, macaroni, a tomato and a wedge of home-made cheese...and badly made."

"Meow."

"True, it is time we returned to basics. We will give the lamb two and a half hours, and then we shall attend to the rest of the meal." Caroline gave a nod, scooped up the cat and retreated to the far side of the kitchen, where she abstracted some knitting from a pocket. "Two and a half hours...well if I haven't turned this heel by then I shall be heartily ashamed of myself." Caroline applied herself to the task of turning the heel with the same determination as had given her training in cooking from the best chef in Paris and would later produce a feast for the residents at Longbourn from a side of lamb, some potatoes, one tomato, half a dozen eggs, some cheese, and a bowl of macaroni.

Author's Note: The Sopwith Camel is said to be very like a real Camel, it was prone to turn back and bite you. More than one pilot had more fear of flying a Sopwith Camel than they had of facing any German. The next part is bloody, but it is necessary. During the First World War 413 pilots were killed in combat while flying a Camel. 384 pilots were killed in non-combat circumstances. The Camel is called the first true fighter, it was an agile and highly manouevreable aircraft, but these assets were acquired by the simple act of making the aircraft aerodynamically unstable. At low speeds the Camel tended to fall into spins, very tight and fast ones, which were very hard to leave, for take-off and landing low speeds were required. Due to the rotary engine (instead of just the propeller rotating, the entire engine rotated within its casing) torque easily developed at low speeds, and as a result until suitable speed was acquired the pilot had to apply full starboard rudder to prevent flipping into a ground loop and crashing out.

June 6th 1917-Squadron 284, France

"Damn." The word was uttered calmly, it was a calm, disinterested word of one who had fully expected what happened. "Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn." The repetitions were just as calm, bored, and disinterested as the initial word.

"Is that all you can say?" Wallingford snapped explosively.

"Yes." Ashie gave a yawn as he responded, and simultaneously loosened the wire cutters from his belt before heading at a quickish jog down the tarmac.

"What the devil is he made of?...Iron?" Wallingford, deprived of his prey, rounded on the next closest object, which in this case was Pyro.

"No." Pyro answered calmly.

"You could have bloody fooled me." Wallingford spat in annoyance.

"In truth Wally, I must admit that this has been a somewhat unpleasant past week...but take relief in the knowledge that it won't happen again."

"And I'm meant to believe that?" Wallingford glared at Pyro.

"No...but it's the truth all the same." Pyro gave a faint smile, and then abruptly straightened. "You'd best get Moggie out of bed again...and tell Denny to grovel to the Padre again, we need another funeral."

"How do you know?" Wallingford flickered a bewildered glance between Pyro and the wrecked Camel which was huddled against the hedge three quarters of the way down the tarmac.

"Ashie just shook his head, and Ashie never shakes his head near a crash unless the pilot is already dead."

"You're just as bad as he is." Wallingford snapped in irritation before stalking off towards the Recording Office.

"Wally is not happy." Pyro spoke gravely as he approached the mangled wreck which had once been a Sopwith Camel.

"Does that surprise you?" Ashie extended a handful of wires to Pyro.

"No." Pyro took the wires as he responded. "It seems to be a habit that everyone gets frayed the first time they see a mass slaughter."

"I would hardly have called this a mass slaughter." Ashie hacked his way through a couple of struts before he propped the collapsed wing up and set to work on the tricky task of extricating the corpse.

"What got him?"

"Busted neck...Silly ass was leaning out of the cockpit as he went over, copped the coaming in the throat, wasn't a hope for him."

"One broken neck, one shattered skull, a broken leg, two fractured collarbones/shoulders/humerus...how do we compare with other Squadrons?"

"Pretty lousily actually." Ashie paused. "Take comfort, all your casualties have been in your green pilots. So odd, you'd think they'd be the first to get it since they've all flown it at least once."

"Has anyone done worse?" Pyro frowned.

"I'm pleased to report in the negative, but that is mostly because you invariably seem to have an excess of greenies ...life will be hell for the next month or so, Wallingford was wise to get his transfer moving." Ashie gave a yawn and then gave a yell as Lieutenant Hal Edwards abruptly slid free and smothered him.

"You alright?" Pyro asked the question, having managed to drag Ashie out from underneath.

"I would much prefer you had moved him, not me." Ashie rubbed a large abrasion on one cheek in irritation.

"Well I knew I had a pretty good opinion of myself, but I didn't realise that yours was even better. I do appologise Ashie, but really, I'm as likely to move Lieutenant Edwards as I am to pick up an elephant and carry it to America."

"Well that would certainly give you exercise." Ashie swiped the rest of the gravel from his cheek and then stood up. "About time you arrived Moggie, proceed with your analysis of the situation."

"I'll fix up that cheek of yours first." Moggie's fix consisted of wrapping a vast bandage around Ashie's head.

"Very funny." Ashie mumbled indistinctly from under the bandage.

"Wally is not happy."

"So Pyro said." Ashie was occupied with unwinding the bandage.

"In fact he fast seems to be forming the opinion that you are deliberately conspiring to have him dismissed by the Flying Corps."

"Oh the devil take him." Ashie abruptly threw the bandage on the ground. "Where is he?"

"C-Barracks." Moggie continued with his grisly examination.

"Thank you." Ashie abruptly stalked off, leaving Florrie, who had just arrived to frown in bewilderment.

"What's going on?"

"Ashie's gone for the Record Book."

"What good will that do?" Florrie's bewilderment deepened.

"You forget that the death records are in there." Pyro gave a yawn. "Ashie's gone to persuade the budding Squadron-Leader that death is actually an exceedingly common thing out here and that the Higher-ups now tend to ignore such figures."

"But Pyro...there's a slight difference between deaths in strafing runs and this."

"You'd be amazed." Pyro responded cynically. "Besides which, if Ashie wanted fruit-salad and the Kaiser's beard to match he could persuade you of it."

"Inform Ashie his analysis is correct, Edwards broke his neck." Moggie straightened up and having quickly filled in the necessary paperwork he waved the ack-emmas in to remove the corpse.

"I'm sure that will make him happy." Pyro gave a sigh and eyed the wreck thoughtfully. "Well, that one goes behind the hanger...it's nice to start with a nice lot of spares."

"You're sounding damnably flippant Pyro." The deep voice startled Pyro slightly.

"'Ullo Major, what brings you here?"

"Ashie." The response was curt.

"Last I saw he was headed for the Records Office."

"Well he isn't there now...what's been happening here?"

"Ashie's been training us to fly Camels...but some of the silly buggers couldn't follow basic instructions, and the result is that we have a mess."

"So it would appear."

"'Ullo Major." Ashie ambled up yawning widely.

"Greetings Ashie." Darcy nodded briefly, but said no more.

"What needs doing?"

"Nothing."

"Social?"

"No."

"All right you nuts, mugger off afore I belt'cha." Ashie smothered another yawn almost immediately and silence reigned between the two men while the others retreated. "What's cropped up?"

"Not much, we're going way back. I came to cancel the Cricket and Rugger until I speak to you again...or one of the others."

"You got home leave?"

"No."

"Then what do you do?" Ashie frowned. "Surely they're not actually assigning you as Camp Major?"

"No...thank god." Darcy gave a relieved sigh.

"Then what?"

"The Seaforths...I've been assigned to a Brigade of Seaforths on the Arras front."

"What happened to their Brigadier?"

"Got in the way of a tank...the Brigade required a Brigadier who knew the terrain and it seems I'm the only one."

"Well enjoy it. We'll look to see you before the New Year."

"Wallingford staying?"

"No. I tried my level best but he leaves tomorrow...devil of a nuisance right now, we're back down to three pilots again."

"So that's why the three of you keep yawning." Darcy gave a nod.

"And no you needn't bother asking Major, she's transferring on the 20th to Base Hospital 18 where she takes over as Head of the VADs for the hospital."

"Thank you."

"You mean nothing of the sort...you were considering denying that it was the information you wanted." Ashie responded flatly and was rewarded by an amused jerk of an eyebrow. "Mac's on home leave...he took Nero with him."

"Lucky Nero...I wonder which worthy host is currently bewailing the lost of a roast?"

"He said something about London to Freddie, but other than that no one knows where he intends to go."

"He'll go visit Bing." Darcy gave a yawn. "bother Ashie, you're catching. See you soon...I hope." Darcy waved a hand backwards over his shoulder as he headed off and Ashie watched the departure with a frown. What would it take for Darcy to acknowledge it again...or had Darcy known forever and chosen not to act?

June 13th 1917-Netherfield, England

Captain Ellis McKenna gave a disgusted moan as an immense weight abruptly slammed into his midriff and he opened a very unwilling eye to find himself looking at a long and large canine tooth.

"Yes, yes, yes, I'm awake you damned inconvenience....get off my bed before I get in trouble for dog hairs again....how did you get in here to begin with?" But Mac found the answer for himself in the open window.

With Nero off his bed Mac swung his unwilling feet from the bed and slid to the floor, where he hastily pulled on his uniform before quitting his room for the breakfast parlour.

"You're awake early Mac." Charles Bingley was staring meditatively at a slice of toast which was dripping marmalade everywhere.

"Not my fault." Mac slid grumpily into his seat and grabbed an egg before throwing half of his bacon in Nero's general direction. Nero caught the bacon on the fly and promptly retreated with it, leaving the room to eat in peace.

"Going somewhere?" Bingley finally gave up attempting to pick up the toast without getting marmalade on his fingers and chose to eat it anyway and just get marmalade on his fingers.

"Wasn't intending to, but I probably best get back to London...It is the 13th isn't it?"

"Correct."

"My leave has expired then and I really must get shifting or I'll be listed as AWOL and that won't be at all fun."

"Going by train?"

"Yep." Mac, having finished the eggs and bacon turned his attention to the toast and marmalade.

"Well have a good journey, and I hope they have something for you to fly back."

"They probably won't."

"You are optimistic Mac, no wonder Ashie calls you a wet sock."

"Ashie's opinion leaves me supremely indifferent...unless he is talking aeroplanes." Mac finally kicked his chair back, and hastily swallowed his coffee as he stood up. "Thanks for the use of one of your bedrooms, I'll see you again when I'm next on leave...enjoy yourself until then."

"Enjoy yourself to...and tell Darcy I said hello."

"He'll probably respond with a nod." Mac gave a wide yawn and then hastily exited the room, there was only an hour before the train left and packing was the least of Mac's concerns.

The paper Mac acquired at Paddington Station sat for an extended period unopened on Mac's knees as he stared moodily out the window at what would have been dripping countryside had it not been too dark to see. Nero's head rested on Mac's knee, but nevertheless it still required frequent growls from that faithful canine for his head to be scratched. It had taken Mac longer than expected to get his travel permits, cross London to Victoria Street Station and find his seat. It was an extra loud growl from Nero which finally dragged Mac's attention back from the window.

"'An un'appy sounding dawg that."

"Let Nero voice an opinion on that and you'll regret it." Mac turned a frosty eye onto the 50-some lawyer type who sat next to him.

"Beggin' yer pardon sir, didna realise you was no likin' talkin'." The man hastily retreated leaving Mac to finally attend to his Newspaper.

Births; Deaths; Marriages; Killed-in-Action;

Mac scanned the list with a lackluster eye, and quite as he expected he recognised only one or two names.

Personal Ads: Entertainment: concerts, Lectures, Art Exhibitions; Legal Notices; Shipping Notices.

The whole lot was totally uninteresting. Page 2 was supposedly to supply a Roll of Honour and Losses in the Ranks. Mac was quite willing to ignore Page 2, and the same went for Page 4 which supplied Local News, page 5 which supplied World News. Pages 6&7 supplied War Reports.

3 years and 315 days.

Mac eyed the line with distaste. Had he really lost that much of his life to the bloodthirsty business? Page 9 supplied the Law report, and page 11 supplied the War Office report. Mac was tempted to throw the newspaper out the window, but with a sigh he opened it up fully and tried to engross himself with its contents.

Mac's efforts paid off with ten minutes of interesting reading and two hundred and forty minutes of utter boredom. The ten minutes came from an article on the fifth page singing praises about the RFC and its heroics. The utter boredom came from his efforts to be interested in articles which he knew nothing about and supposedly were of great import when it came to the success or lack thereof of the war. Mac shoved the paper into his pack with a sigh, he'd give the paper to Ashie and no doubt receive a very full and detailed report on all features of the articles and why. It was strange, as recently as a year ago the paper would have been endlessly interesting, but now Mac was not the slightest bit interested in the contents, they did not concern him, or his Squadron, or any acquaintance near to him. As a result the papers were now dead bore. When had the change in thought direction occurred, when had he become so isolationist in his mode of thought that the immediate, present, and tangible were the only items of interest.

"Say. You heard 'bout Liverpool?" It was a blackened and dusty looking Private who dropped wearily down onto the dock next to Mac.

"Liverpool?" The total disconnection from Mac's current thoughts caused the Private to catch his attention, and as a result Mac did not rip the man's hair out for undiscipline and lack of respect for rank.

"Aye, Liverpool Station...the dirty 'Un bombed it just this afternoon. That and a school." The Private gave a nod.

"How do you know?" Mac looked sharply at the man, it was a remarkably good explanation for the disorder at the transport office.

"I was there. Most got wiped out by a lump o' brick, and then leant a 'and...what's the 'old up?"

"U-Boats." Mac responded briefly.

"Dirty sods...Beats me why they can't find nuthin' be'er ta do 'en creep around preventin' us from crossing to kick 'em up the pants."

"Possibly they do not like being kicked up the pants."

"All the better reason to do it." The man responded with relish. "Yer a flyboy ain't you?"

"No." Mac responded coolly. "I am a pilot though."

"Yer knew what ah meant." The man sounded slightly grumped. "I'm going infantry. Tried the RFC but I got airsick...that yer dawg?"

"Yes...Nero!" Mac abruptly realised that Nero had strayed once more and peremptorily called him back.

"'E's an awful big dawg. Why ya keep 'im?"

"Because he keeps his mouth shut...most of the time."

"True...but I ain't a dawg so such cannot be expected of me." The Private responded easily and Mac finally smiled wryly.

"When was Liverpool Station bombed?"

"'Bout twelve-thirty, I was headed for lunch when the sods came over."

"Raided in broad daylight?" Mac stared at the Private in amazement.

"Yep...bloody 'Un...Oh wells, 'at's me call. Cheerio ol' boy. 'Ope I see you someday when this bloody mess is over."

"I hope similarly." Mac watched the Private fade into the gloom of the dock and into a large crowd by one large shipper. The U-Boat all clear had sounded only minutes earlier.

"Will Captain Ellis McKenna please report to the Shipping Office immediately...Captain Ellis McKenna." The Loudspeaker system barked harshly, and with extreme weariness Mac responded to the call of duty. Only to find twenty minutes later that he was being driven at breakneck speed along roads to the nearest aerodrome where a Bristol awaited him...a Bristol and yet another night flight.

June 30th 1917-Base Hospital 18, France

"Lizzie! Mail!" Sister Felicity, the current Communications Sister, came dodging through the tent pegs and guys to where Elizabeth was busy out-staring Sister Matthews.

"What was that?" Elizabeth turned away in annoyance.

"You just received some mail." Sister Felicity held out the grimy and much battered envelope.

"Thank you." Elizabeth took the surprisingly thick envelope and tucked it into the pocket of her apron before turning back to Sister Matthews. "And I mean it Sister, get some sleep."

"But Sister Bennet, I'm not tired." The protest was soft.

"Sister Felicity, how long has Sister Matthews been absent from her tent?"

"Two days." Sister Felicity glanced nervously at Sister Matthews, everyone knew that this new sister had been miserably homesick.

"She is off shift, and will remain off-shift until she has had twelve hours of sleep." Elizabeth jerked the envelope out of her pocket as she walked away to the edge of the tents.

After 23, 18 seemed fairly pitiful. Just the single, low-slung tin shed formed the Hospital, all staff were camped around it in neat regimental lines. Autumn had brought a slurry to the hospital, and a pervading damp. Everything seemed damp and chilly, and the hospital was an utterly depressing place to be, death seemed to loom large in the chilly grey space, divided up as it was by white sheets.

Elizabeth gave a shiver as she cleared the last tent and abstracted the letter from the grimy envelope. It had been nearly two years now since she had last received a letter like this. Elizabeth couldn't explain why, but letters from the Line had an air peculiarly their own. The address was written in a crabbed and cramped hand, in fact it was only just legible. Elizabeth grimaced as she unfolded the pages, if the address was anything to go by this would be a long letter to read, but the address belied the hand for the letter was written in a relatively familiar calligraphy.

Feel free to discard this letter, it will probably say little of interest to anybody. The weather has been terrible, beautiful clear skies and nearly not a breath of wind, a baking hell, to be regularly dusted by the Hun Artillery. This afternoon has been deadly dull, everything seems to have been all but sleeping under this sun....which means we'll probably be shot to hell this evening, provided of course that we do not shoot first.

However, I should not complain, I was out at 284 the other week and they'd just lost two thirds of their Squadron in a series of accidents. That's one strange Squadron, they keep getting pared back to the old timers. Once again there is just the single flight of them left operational...

Elizabeth frowned and re-read the first paragraph or so, it was curiously abrupt and impersonal at the beginning, but it dropped down towards a fairly normal letter style by the time the ink set in. Elizabeth held the page up to the sun, and tried a few other manoeuvres, but the heavy black ink remained impenetrable. Elizabeth gave up trying to read even a single word of the blacked out paragraph, the censor had been altogether too thorough about his job. Elizabeth wondered what the censor had found to disapprove of in the paragraph, but a quick check showed there were several other blacked out paragraphs within the five pages.

...Ashie observes that you've been ignoring him.

I re-read that and I'm of the opinion that the censor will black that section out. Well let him, I'm not a happy person. Talk about the intricacies of fate. I finally get a Brigade, and just as promptly get ten days of home leave. Do I get my ten days? You bet your black boots I don't. Instead I've been shifted to replace (temporarily) an Officer who got run over by a tank. Of all types they had to attach me to they really had to choose the Scots.

Still deadly quiet, though we've been pounded around a fair bit the last couple of nights. Moving back tomorrow which will be a relief. I hope they can send me back to my mob soon, I miss them, I keep upsetting the Officers here (deliberately not considering whether this might be due to the fact that I'm not a Scotsman).

Possibly this is wrong to be writing, but except for Georgiana there is really no one else to write to...and I feel sure you will understand why I write. Today is a bad day, I find myself wondering why...

Elizabeth gave a sigh as once again the censor interfered with his thick black pen. Whatever day that day had been, it had obviously been more than a slightly bad day. Even directly after Arras there had not been the feeling of deadness around him. Elizabeth gave a shiver and returned her attention to the letter, she knew the signs well for she had seen the result often, Darcy needed leave soon or he was going to break and shatter, and the result would be messy if it happened.

...But such is life, and the censor has probably deleted all of that as well. Possibly it is best that the censor reads these letters, therefore I can say what I like and someone else will edit it to appear as it should.

Elizabeth gave a short laugh, instead of just going onto the next line a small face had been scribbled in the rest of the space on the line. It had a wry grin for an expression and hair fell into its eyes. Elizabeth was thankful that the Censor had not seen fit to delete the item, even though he started on the very next line. The Censor's Pen occupied the next two pages and a half, and truth be acknowledged Elizabeth was more than a little curious to know what had been written over those two pages and a half. But with the departure of the pen the handwriting was the awkward, crabbed hand which had addressed the envelope.

...enter me once more. please excuse the hand but I'm writing with my left hand and it is not eazy. likewise capitals are proving mostly impossible to form unless they are Is so you must excuse the bad punctuation. as explanation for this deplorable hand I muzt first admit that I slammed my hand in a door, possibly it was slammed in there for me I do not remember, and the result is eighteen stitches and having to learn how to move my right hand again (doctors just say it's the shock which haz made movement so difficult) bother, I seem unable to remember which way s's and z's go, anb I'm not much better with d's and b's. I really hope this is not as difficult to read as it is to write, but everyone around me is asleep and the Sister is off somewhere else (besides which I'm not to talk to her unless it is important and I'm not considered too crippled to write my own mail) If it weren't that you'd probably respond by asking how I could fight, I would ask how you can work in a place like this. the gloom seems to creep from all corners, enfolding this place in a chilly gloom. my hand aches, my eyes ache, my other hand aches and I've probably managed to give you a fit of the blue dismals, so if you'll excuse me I'll sign off and get this into the post before the censdor feels compelled to ink out the entire letter.

Your
D.F. Darcy

Elizabeth frowned at the letter in perplexity and then walked slowly back to her tent, rubbing her cheek as she went. To say the least she was puzzled, and she was very uncertain of her ground. To behave correctly called for her not to respond, in fact it called for her to totally ignore the existence of the letter...and yet. Elizabeth rubbed her head again as she slid into her tent and settled down onto the camp-bed stretcher. Elizabeth gave a sigh and pulled a piece of paper towards herself and picked up her pen, wise or not she was going to respond.

The same leave as you gave me I extend to you, you may feel free to discard this letter. I will admit that it was a surprise to receive, but no letter is unpleasant, they are a welcome diversion from events of the hospital. I hope your hand is recovering fast, there is nothing more frustrating, I have found, than a hand which will not operate as expected. I hope you have returned to your usual mob, you did not sound at all happy with your temporary friends.

They weather here has been a cold drizzle for the past couple of days, and as a result the ground between our tents is a slurried slush and not particularly pleasant to meet in the morning, we continue to wear our boots to bed. Some hospitals are better than others when it comes to that pervading aura of death, my current one has a bigger problem with that pervading dampness, it is exceedingly difficult to keep dressings dry and pneumonia is nearly doomed from the moment it enters.

Elizabeth gave a groan as she heard someone calling her name. A quick check of her watch revealed why she was being called and Elizabeth hastily scribbled a farewell and then shoved the letter into an envelope which she hastily addressed and shoved into the postbag before escaping from her tent and heading across to the hospital. Her letter had been even more blue and dismal than his and probably not a word of it would get past the censor as it was too grim and demoralising, but frankly Elizabeth felt utterly demoralised and very out of place. She should never have been made a Head Sister.

"Oh there you are Lizzie." Sister Felicity caught Elizabeth's arm. "Mae-Beth's fallen ill again."

"How many times is that now?" Elizabeth rubbed her forehead, there were times when it was embarrassing being the Head Sister of the hospital, especially when most of the Sisters were older than you were.

"Three times this past week alone."

"She's got to go home...who's able to replace her?" Sister Felicity responded to Elizabeth's question with a speaking shrug. "Thank you Sister Felicity." Elizabeth gave a sigh and then frowned. "Time I did some more front door work anyway. See that Mae-Beth goes to bed, then could you please attend to her transfer papers."

"Yes...Lizzie, I think it would kill her to return to England."

"What do you suggest then?" Elizabeth looked enquiringly at Sister Felicity. "She can't stay here, she falls sick to frequently and we haven't the people to spare for such upsets."

"Could you not send her back to L'Hopital de Angleterre for retraining in administration or something similar?"

"Do you think that will help her? I think, from the doctors and nurses resident, that it would be better if she were to return to England, one of the Shock Hospitals as a Head of VADs...north England, she always wanted to go to Yorkshire didn't she?"

"You think it would happen?" Sister Felicity gazed at Elizabeth steadily.

"She will get her Shock Hospital in Yorkshire or Derbyshire if I have to build it myself." Elizabeth growled softly. "No one will question that Sister Mae-Beth Harolds has served with dedication and resolve during her extended overseas tour of duty. I will vouch for that. Sister Helen O'Niell, a former nurse here, will vouch for it. I also assume that all the current VADs and the majority of, if not the entire, staff will also vouch that only ill health interferred with her activities. I may have only been here for a couple of weeks Sister Felicity, but I am not blind, and I fully appreciate Sister Harolds' work here, but the fact remains that she is becoming more of a drain than a use. I personally would prefer she retired with honours to England and a Shock Hospital than in six months she either died or was forced to leave, pitied and despised by the staff here because they never knew her well and viewed her as a sickly and pitiful object who must have come out here due to a rich relative."

"You can't be sure that will happen." Sister Felicity objected.

"Sister, look for yourself. The two other VADs who arrived with me do not consult with Sister Harolds on anything, it is only you VADs who have been here for at least six months who know her abilities and rely at least in part on her. In the past month alone she has slid from taking only occasional breaks to being sick on nearly a daily basis."

"Well you're telling her, not me. I won't have a thing to do with killing Mae-Beth." Sister Felicity sniffed.

"Sister Felicity if you took any such action unto yourself it would be an act of insubordination and I'd have you gone as quickly as I could. You are not the Head of VADs here, and you never were....please remember that. Though your information, intelligence, and time are exceedingly welcome, they do not make you an immovable object."

"I appologise." Sister Felicity took a deep breath. "I over-stepped the boundaries of my position, it will not happen again." Sister Felicity took a few steps before Elizabeth caught her.

"I offended you...I did not mean to...why?"

"Not your fault." Sister Felicity shook her head. "Sister Clarence lacked resolution and as a result I was the one usually nominated to carry out the unpleasant tasks. I got in the habit of doing them automatically...and one day Sister Clarence hauled me up just like you did and if it had not been for Doctor Edwards I would now be in some mouldering backwater in England."

"I'll appologise for my shortness...I'm sorry, but I find it difficult because I'm well aware that I'm younger than most of you and probably the least experienced. That makes me afraid of being considered..." Elizabeth paused as she searched for the word.

"An easy job?" Sister Felicity supplied with a smile. "Never fear Sister Bennet, you will never be considered and easy job here."

"Why?" Elizabeth looked curiously at Sister Felicity.

"How does one put it? You've worked for the better part of a year with Dr Alastair and not crashed out. It's a known fact that Captain Ashington-Frankston from the Cads considers you as a friend. There is also some rumour that you're acquainted with a Brigadier...Darcy rings a bell, one of the youngest ones out here, or something like that." Sister Felicity shrugged. "Even without that rumoured Brigadier, you've got to be a pretty tough customer to cope with Alastair and with even one of the Cads, let alone the Squadron-Leader. You've got a reputation Sister which precedes you by many miles for hard, fair, and reliable work, you're reported to be no shirker and not afraid of honesty. Sure you're young, but out here, age has no seniority, the important feature is ability and that's what counts every time." Sister Felicity gave a shrug. "Sure, you'll always run into catty people who down play your abilities and claim that it's just because of your friends. But the important things is you." Sister Felicity emphasised her point with a finger. "Ignore your critics for the most part, just make certain you are satisfied with your own work...and remember there is always something new to learn."

"My brother said the most important people to listen to were the Privates. Use your batman for ears, for a Private will never lie about your abilities." Elizabeth spoke softly.

"Your brother was one intelligent being...who was he?"

"Lieutenant Bennet...he died at Loos."

"Ahhh! The infamous Bennie. I had to watch over the Lieutenant who was involved with that mess on his return to England...did he really get a posthumous M.C.?"

"Yes." Elizabeth gave a nod.

"Good, more for us to boast about, not only do we have a young, pretty, and very capable Head Sister, but she's also got a brother who died honourably in action and was decorated for it."

"I would prefer my brother was alive." Elizabeth spoke softly.

"If he was alive he would not be the brother you knew, so don't even think about it. He'd probably be some weak-kneed pacifist who his behind bureaucratic red tape, a frightful bore and ugly to boot." Sister Felicity gave another quick grin. "Now we should be moving Lizzie, there's a Front Room full of men waiting for our godlike decisions." Sister Felicity wrinkled her nose. "I do appologise about that, working here seems to have made me dreadfully flippant about both life and death, and religion. Seems you either become flippant, or a wild fanatic...take your pick, but I prefer flippancy any day."

"But if you were always flippant no one would ever take you seriously."

"And if I was a fanatic everyone would find me a dead bore. As ever Lizzie you are right, I will stick to the nice middle path which can't decide whether to be flippant or wildly fanatical, and as a result alternates between the two options at the worst possible times."

"It makes you interesting." Elizabeth finally responded with a quick grin, which set Sister Felicity laughing just before they entered the Front Door. Cascading gold and silver, Elizabeth couldn't help but smile as she entered the room, and here and there among the men who lay moaning on the floor a face could be seen contorting up into a smile at the sound. Folin had been right, a smile and a laugh, nothing can clear away dampness and death faster.

July 6th 1917-Base Hospital 18, France

"I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I --
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference." - Robert Frost

"Lizzie." Sister Felicity came barrelling into the ward where Elizabeth was helping bandage a shattered leg once more. The leg needed amputation, but none of the staff were up to it, and the next transport back to Paris wasn't for another two days. The patient was filled with Morphine and resplinted regularly to cope with the flood of fluids from the wound.

"What is it?" Elizabeth knotted back the last strip as she spoke, somewhat muffled by several pins she held clamped between her teeth.

"There's a man to see you...He says it's important."

"Did he give a name?" Elizabeth straightened, and threaded the pins into the top of the pocket of her apron as she spoke.

"Y-yes." Sister Felicity finally stuttered nervously, a nervousness she had been struggling to control. "He said he was Brigadier Darcy."

"Then it will be important. Sister Janes, if you will continue with the round until I return...I'm sorry to do this to you." Elizabeth quickly checked her uniform before exiting the room, VAD etiquette demanded that at no time did one look hassled or rushed, even if that meant you had to change.

"Sister Bennet." Darcy nodded briefly from his seat on a nearby wall.

"Brigadier Darcy." Elizabeth nodded back before sitting down near him on the wall.

"Can you explain this?" Darcy handed Elizabeth a dirty sheet of paper. Elizabeth opened the page and scanned it quickly, it was a letter she had written two days earlier and sent, care of Mac, to Darcy.

"Explain what?" Elizabeth glanced steadily back at him. "Why I wrote it? The subject? The breach of etiquette? The mode of delivery?"

"The subject." Darcy paused. "You wrote just enough to intrigue me, but not enough to answer any questions."

"Private James, Peter James, arrived here three weeks ago. Private James has one broken arm and minor shell lacerations to his face. If such was the entire situation he would have been transferred to Paris about a week ago and left in one of their attached houses for convalescence." Elizabeth paused and rubbed her face.

"Brother, one, KiA?" Darcy lifted a curious eyebrow.

"That is where the problem lies. Private James is not fit to move anywhere...or at least not in the company of other wounded. He is so utterly out of the world that you'd think he was suffering from 3rd degree Shell Shock. He is the gloomiest, most depressing person ever. We thought he was just a generally morose type until a fellow Private turned up and practically passed out with shock at the change in him."

"The point?" Darcy had pulled his knees up to his chest and was resting his head on them as he watched and listened to Elizabeth.

"Lieutenant Howard James was the Platoon Officer for 1st Platoon...Private James was in 1st Platoon...Private James was dragging Lieutenant James back from a dangerous situation when he was injured...Lieutenant James did not survive."

"Why did Private James go rescue Lieutenant James?"

"Because, as far as we know, there are only the two of them left...Lieutenant James was eight years older and had been responsible for Private James' education and life, at the expense of his own. This I cannot guarantee, we had it from other Privates in the company, but it seems probable."

"Hmm." Darcy frowned darkly at the grey tin hospital building, and Elizabeth abruptly noticed the dirty white bandage wrapped around his right hand. "Can I see the Private?"

"I don't know...I was hoping you could suggest someway of jolting him out of his mindset, he's just going to die if something doesn't happen soon."

"You don't want him to die?" Darcy looked sharply at Elizabeth.

"He is a polite boy...when he's awake and with it...he's also interesting to talk to, I think he will never be more than a Private, but he has good commonsense instincts about the world in general." Elizabeth gave a shrug. "I just don't like people dying...least of all when they needn't."

"I can't help unless I've seen the boy." Darcy spoke quietly. "It's a tricky matter and depends a lot on the character of the person."

"I'll speak to Dr Harris and see if you can see him." Elizabeth slid off the wall and beckoned Darcy to follow her, having first returned the letter to him.

"Yeah?" Dr Harris' groggy response to Elizabeth's soft tap was not at all promising.

"Sister Bennet, sir."

"What's wrong now?" Harris' tone held foreboding.

"No problems that I know of sir, but Brigadier Darcy wishes to speak to Private James."

"Can't have Officers seeing him." Harris grunted roughly.

"Perhaps if I don't go as an Officer then?" Darcy rubbed his cheek.

"And how do you intend to manage that?" Harris rolled an eye up to look at Darcy.

"Possibly by not changing into my uniform before I go." Darcy's response caused Elizabeth to realise that Darcy was clad in rough flannels and heavy boots, definitely not uniform.

"Why do you want to see James?"

"His condition interests me from a psychological view point."

"You lie."

"True, but I have no real reason beyond curiosity."

"Go see him then, but rile him and I'll murder you."

"Feel free to...in fact do it now, it'll save me a lot of pain."

"Don't joke on such subjects." Harris spat savagely.

"I'm not joking." Darcy stared levelly back at Harris. "I'm here after a prolonged fight with the Doctor at my hospital. If you were to murder me, I would not be the only one let out of a difficult position."

"Yeah, but I would be put into a very difficult position." Harris gave a twisted smile. "Okay, go see him, I won't enquire as to the injury and what's gone wrong with it."

"Merely infected Doctor...I have orders to have it inspected before I return. Sister Bennet, show me the way." Darcy let out his breath with relief as they cleared the room.

"Doctor Harris is not that scary is he?" Elizabeth glanced inquisitively up.

"No-o." Darcy hesitated and then abruptly grinned. "That particular doctor and I have met before and it as not pleasant."

"Why is it that most of the people you have met do not seem to have had a pleasant meeting?"

"I couldn't say...it seems to be a habit." Darcy ducked to follow Elizabeth into the tent where Private James was housed in lonely splendour.

"Peter." Elizabeth gently shook the one slender shoulder which was visible. "Wake up Peter."

"Don't want to." Peter mumbled incoherently.

"Well you've got to, you've got a visitor."

"Don't want a visitor, I want my brother."

"So would I." Darcy spoke shortly. "But your brother can't come so how about sitting up and being polite."

"'Oer you?" Peter rolled over, the pale face beneath the thick shock of dark hair was graced by a sullen scowl.

"Seymour, David Seymour, ex-prospector from South Africa."

"What brings you here?"

"A friend asked me to come see you...that's all."

"What friend?" The scowl dropped away and for the first time Elizabeth saw the first glimmer of interest.

"Well maybe you give a name and I'll tell you if you've got the right friend."

"I don't have any friends who know a mountain like you." The response was candid and clear.

"Don't you? You might be surprised."

"No I won't." The bitter cloud abruptly seemed to drop again. "'Arry was the only one who ever came to see me. I ain't got no friends."

"Would Howard like to hear you speak like that?"

"Doesn't matter, Howard ain't here." It was sullen again.

"That is a matter of opinion...I suspect that Sister Bennet might disagree on that subject...I know for a fact that I do."

"Why's that?" The question was unwilling.

"You're killing yourself...do you really want to die? Is that how you intend to reward your brother for his efforts on your behalf?" Darcy's abrupt change of focus and subject caught both Peter and Elizabeth by surprise.

"Ehh?" Peter blinked uncertainly.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but did not your brother support you for the past umpteen years for schooling? Are you going to repay that sacrifice by dying without doing anything at all."

"Get out of here." Peter spat viciously.

"Never fear Private, I'm going right now." Darcy promptly ducked out of the tent and strode easily across to the hedge, where Elizabeth found him five minutes later. "Don't eat me, there was no other way."

"You think that's going to help?" Elizabeth eyed Darcy doubtfully.

"No, but with luck it will start him thinking again." Darcy rubbed his arm awkwardly and sighed. "Are you sure you want to help him Elizabeth? He's going to get very difficult before he's back on his feet...Very proud, it's going to take a lot of insulting to get him back on his feet...bloody bad form that his Company Officer hasn't interfered with this business." Darcy's expression darkened and he shifted restlessly.

"Excuse me." The voice came from behind them and Darcy was only halfway through turning when the fist cannoned into the side of his face.

"You're excused." Darcy's tone was positively icy as he finished his turn. "Do you realise that that is the second time you have hit me you damn infant."

"Well you shouldn't insult my brother then." Peter had flushed to his ears.

"On neither occasions have I insulted your brother, now take yourself off before you make me do something I regret." Darcy turned his back on the boy and Peter hesitated, only to catch Elizabeth's eye and hastily retreat.

"You're going to have a black eye." Elizabeth made the observation in a distant manner.

"I'm going to have more than that." Darcy turned around and gently felt around the bruise which was already forming. "Do you have any sharp-edged doors around?"

"No." Elizabeth looked at Darcy in utter perplexity.

"Then remember, and remember it well, I tripped and hit my head on the wall while trying to catch myself." Darcy cautiously felt the bruise once more. "There aren't any knuckle prints are there?"

"No, just a reddish-blue bruise which stretches back under your hairline." Elizabeth eyed the bruise critically, and then frowned at him. "Why are you covering up what happened?"

"Elizabeth, I'm a Brigadier and he is only a Private. Do you know what happens when a Private hits an Officer?"

"No."

"Gaol, he'll be tucked away for the better part of a month possibly even discharged from the Army." Darcy gave a sigh and shook his head. "Keep that boy stuck here for the next three weeks unless posting orders come through for him."

"Why?"

"Call it revenge if you like, but I'm getting that boy posted with our new recruits if I have to twist every arm in London." Darcy's eyes danced suddenly. "I haven't had a batman who ever did more than say yes or no sir, and it's about time I got another one...If I'm any guess Private Peter James will probably not even say yes sir to me if I was pulling his arms off him."

"Why do you seem to have a liking for the most disrespectful people? Nash barely opens his mouth but to call you names and Ashie's not much better, yet they're the two people you count as most important in your life."

"Maybe because I'm sick and tired of sycophants." Darcy gave a shrug, he had tensed somewhat. "Ashie's the only one left now." It was an oddly inconsequent remark, and as a result it took Elizabeth a moment to actually understand what he had said.

"No." Elizabeth couldn't believe it. It was impossible that Nash was not just about to appear, swearing good-naturedly as he chased breathlessly after Dougal. The wrinkled, kindly face, the rough exterior which hid a man capable of great kindness and sacrifice. If the fortnight the previous year when Elizabeth had been watching him had taught her nothing else, it had allowed her to see the real Nash. Nash, the man who had by means unknown penetrated through the ironcased emotional armour worn by Darcy and was never really the prisoner he was supposed to be. To call Nash a criminal would be harsh, he broke the law because it was the law, a law he'd never been inside. Nash firmly believed that if one were ducky enough to spend money on a dodgy claim one deserved to lose the money. Certainly there could be few criminals who took the ruling of the law so placidly. Nash, that consummate escape artist, who escaped merely to prove that he could.

"He was happy to go, sad he'd never see you again, and asked that I say goodbye to you for him."

"I don't believe he said anything nearly so polite." Elizabeth's voice was muffled by the lump in her throat and by Darcy's coat, she did not know how she came to be in his arms, but it was certainly comforting.

"True." The response came with a soft chuckle. "To quote him 'You tell that confounded Miss Beth 'at she's the devil's own conspirator an' I'm damn sorry I cain't bug 'er no more.'"

"When did he die?" Elizabeth straightened up and slipped clear of Darcy's arms before blowing her nose and wiping her eyes.

"Night you left. We burnt him in the second pasture at Netherfield and then I legged it for London. Nash never wanted to be buried, he hated being underground, he could never get back to the surface fast enough. Took me two days to reactivate my commission and right now I'm wondering whether I should have, I seem to go from sickness to injury and back again. It would be a damn sight easier on the Brigade if they had a regular Officer."

"Do the Brigade want a regular Officer?" Elizabeth looked curiously up at Darcy. "Have you ever considered what they do want, instead of what they should want? Ashie says you'll sooner retreat than be broken and you have one of the lowest casualty rates for all the messy corners you're put in. The Scots next to you in Arras didn't manage to retrieve a single Officer from those that had been on the Line...you managed to retrieve three or four of yours. It's a well-known fact that you can bend the rules on occasion, Miles was once heard to say that you listen to the lowest Private before you listen to your own Brigade-Major when it comes to happiness in the ranks. The fact that you're a Brigadier, when you came into the war with little or no experience and have since had a good ten months on convalescence and sick leave says you must be doing something right."

"Alright, alright, alright." Darcy's ears had gone red, much to Elizabeth's amusement. "I'd better let Dr Harris view my hand so Dr Ranalds will be satisfied and then I must be flying. See you around Elizabeth." Darcy gave a wave of his left hand as he threaded back through the tents and into the hospital. Elizabeth frowned and paused before she also returned to the hospital and Sister Janes. When had she become just Elizabeth?

July 9th 1917-Minnehaha, Minnesota

"Magnificent." Mr. Elton was studying the painting from beside Emma, his gaze alternating between subject, likeness, and painter. "I do not believe a better likeness could be done, even in Washington D.C."

"You made her head too long." Mr. Knightley's contribution of opinion was damping to say the least, and only spurred Mr. Elton to greater and more extravagant compliments. The painting must go to D.C. for framing, nothing but the best would be good enough for it.

"Well then you shall take it to D.C. for framing." Emma abruptly rolled up the canvas and handed it to Mr. Elton before finally beckoning Harriet away from her perch. Harriet was visibly relieved to descend from the broad branch she had been posed on. It was a never ending source of amazement to Emma that Harriet was not comfortable unless she had either her two feet firmly planted on the ground, or the four legs of the chair firmly planted there.

"I shall do so immediately, it shall have none but the best to frame it." Mr. Elton took his leave as he spoke with Harriet to accompany him as far as Mrs. Goddard's and Emma was annoyed to see Mr. Knightley's eyebrow lift somewhat sarcastically at her.

"Still persuaded that he is utterly infatuated with Harriet?"

"I have no need to be persuaded of the fact, it is there for all to see." Emma growled in irritation as she folded away the stand and set about cleaning up her paints.

"Obviously I must not be at all common, I saw something quite different." Mr. Knightley mumbled the latter part under his breath.

"Did you come here for any other reason than to be annoying?" Emma finally dumped the mass of equipment onto her chair and started dragging the chair back to the house.

"I did not actually come to be annoying." Mr. Knightley caught the bar between the front legs of the chair and lifted it easily off the ground.

"Well so far that's all you've been." Emma paused and glanced back over her shoulder. "Why did you come?"

"I came to invite you to Donwell for dinner in three days, Senator Weston and his wife are due to arrive and it is only fitting that they be welcomed back."

"True." Emma paused. "Ask father, though I will say now that only bad weather will prevent him from accepting...and then he will bewail 'Poor Miss Taylor' just loudly enough for everyone to hear."

"You do not sound charitably disposed towards the paternal parent."

"Oh do be quiet, the last thing I need right now is your self-righteous jawing."

"If I have ever self-righteously jawed I do appologise and most abjectly. Emma you are getting utterly impossible."

"Well better to be impossible than to be a bore. Father is in there, you may tell him I have gone to visit Miss Bates and her mother."

"Most charitable of you." Knightley's tone was ironic as he mounted the stairs, and Emma flushed at the implication.

"I like Miss Bates."

"I'm sure you do." The response to her somewhat childish insistence left Emma glaring futilely at the now closed door, glaring because she knew that once more she was in the wrong.

"Bother him for being right as ever." Emma glared at a defenseless tree as she scrambled over the fence and headed across the fields to where the Bates' were installed. Miss Bates had been a friend once, but for months now these visits had been consigned to the boring necessities position. "Why has this happened?" Emma looked enquiringly at some uncut grass. "Why can I not take some honest pleasure in the news of Jane Fairfax?" Emma didn't even require a response from the grass. "To true, it is because Jane Fairfax's angelic perfections drive me insane. The ninny would probably scream if she saw a snake and no doubt would do sufficient quilting to satisfy anyone...I have it officially from Miss Bates that none can equal her needle craft." The trip across the fields was soon completed and Emma was met, predictably, by Miss Bates at the door, bubbling away about the latest letter from 'Dear Jane'. Emma rolled her eyes, accepted her cake and then proceeded to hear nothing while appearing to listen closely. It averaged about every third week that Emma would actually listen because guilt forced her to, but that one listen was sufficient to ward of the guilt for another three weeks, no matter how many promises she made to herself to behave otherwise, town gossip and letters from angelic nieces did not appeal to Miss Emma Woodhouse.

July 12th 1917-Minnehaha, Minnesota

Emma frowned uncertainly as once more she observed Mr. Robert Martin departing from Mrs. Goddard's boarding house. It was a well-known fact that Robert Martin went to see Harriet, and it was just as well known to Emma that such a match would not be at all appropriate. Miss Harriet Smith from Washington D.C. was not to throw herself away on a one-armed country nobody who worked the Abbey Mill farm.

"Oh Emma." Harriet flew out of her room and embraced Emma warmly as Emma entered the house. "You would not believe who just came to visit me."

"Well I saw Mr. Martin departing, so I assumed he must have seen you."

"Well not really, he only stopped to deliver a letter, he barely even said hello as he did so."

"Then who did you see?"

"Oh, Senator Knightley was not here two hours ago to talk to me. I fear I must have bored him for he left quite soon after he arrived." Harriet paused. "But it was most kind of him to come, I was quite flattered."

"Why shouldn't he visit? You're my friend...and quite beautiful at that."

"Oh Emma that reminds me..." Harriet rifled around her desk before finally surfacing with a sheet of paper which she held like a precious jewel. "I wanted your advice on this letter, for I was not certain on how to respond."

"The letter from Mr. Robert Martin." Emma pursed her lips as she read the signature, but then she went to the top and began reading. "Well he writes well, quite a respectably educated hand...but most certainly from the local school."

"Yes, but what of the contents."

"Well he's proposed marriage to you." Emma stated the matter bluntly, for that is precisely what Robert Martin had done. It was not a lyrical screed, in fact it was blunt, straightforward and practical, not at all the sort of letter the sprite-like Harriet deserved.

"But what do you think of it?"

"Blunt, to the point...infinitely the countryman who is more familiar with the plow than the pen." Emma returned the letter to Harriet, and was satisfied to see that the glowing ardour had died slightly from Harriet's face as she looked at the letter with fresh eyes.

"Do you think I should accept him?" Harriet's expression was verging on the troubled.

"Let's say I think you could do better...but I am not the one to lecture you as to your own happiness...though Mr. Elton has become quite pointed in his attentions to you." Emma rose to her feet and gave Harriet a hug. "I leave you to your letter and come back another day."

"Oh no, please Emma, I want you to help me with it...I've never had to answer a letter like this before."

"Well I hope you haven't decided I'm the person to consult on the matter, I've never even received a letter like that either." Emma laughed softly before handing Harriet pen and paper.

Emma let herself in through the side gate and eyed the lowering sun somewhat remorsefully, she had told her father that she would see that the garden was turned today.

"Greetings Emma. I see you've finally returned to us." The Knightley who rose from his seat on the side porch was a Knightley Emma had not seen in several years. Gone were the fine linens and high-quality broadcloth, back were the heavy homespuns and cloddish boots.

"Did you think I might not?" Emma trod up the steps and shot an enquiring look at Knightley's boots.

"I did Donwell's garden this morning...and yours this afternoon."

"I forgot." Emma flushed.

"Garden's can't be forgotten Emma, the turning is critical and well you know it...and as a result I won't lecture you on the subject."

"How kind of you." Emma responded ironically, and then flushed. "Sorry. You just finished?"

"No, I've been waiting for you for the past hour."

"Father is not in?"

"Your father is engaged with Mr. Perry...playing chess."

"Why father needs to play chess with his physician I do not know."

"He does it because you hardly play at all and I beat him every time."

"I do play." Emma objected.

"True, and either you make glaring errors in your game or you win...surely you don't expect your father to take kindly to that...likewise you were not in to be challenged."

"I was visiting Harriet." Emma cast her hat and shawl onto the porch rocker and disposed of herself on the swing chair.

"And how was Miss Smith?" Knightley settled back into his seat and lifted an eyebrow.

"Much as she was when you visited her this morning, though flattered and nervous that she had bored you."

"She had...how you tolerate her is beyond me Emma, she had nothing to comment on beyond Mrs. Goddard's latest baby and the fact that Miss Priscilla Nash has a new dress."

"One must make allowances for nervousness...but no, Harriet's intelligence is not of the highest."

"That is a major understatement...though that is meant as no slight to Miss Smith, few men actually like a wife who is as intelligent as they are."

"Oh, so you're looking for a stupid wife?" Emma made the enquiry sarcastically.

"Not at all." Knightley placidly ignored the attack. "I'm one of the few men who actually like intelligent women...which reminds me, your Miss Smith is about to receive and advantageous offer."

"Is she?...who from and when?" Emma looked curiously across at Knightley.

"I suspect it will be tomorrow, and it is from Robert Martin."

"Are you sure about the tomorrow?" Emma looked enquiringly at Knightley.

"Why do you say it that way?" Knightley eyed Emma warily.

"Well I just left Harriet posting a letter to Mr. Robert Martin...she refused him." Emma tried to keep the smug note of success from her voice, but if Knightley's expression was any to go by she did not succeed.

"She refused him?" Knightley sounded like he couldn't believe his ears.

"Yes...why shouldn't she? He is infinitely beneath her."

"Infinitely beneath her?" Knightley abruptly scoffed. "Emma I have no idea where you get your delusions from, but to think that Robert Martin of Abbey Mill farm who can easily trace his antecedents back to respectable stock in England is beneath Miss Harriet Smith of no known parentage at all is absolutely mind-boggling...and you accuse me of class prejudice." Knightley muttered the last under his breath in an amazed tone.

"I do not care that Harriet's parents are not known...she is clearly from highly respectable stock, you can see it in every move."

"But you can't see it in every thought...and with a name like Smith...Good grief Emma she could be gutter scum for all you know." Knightley shook his head in amazement. "How could you do it Emma? how could you so devaluate what little worth she has by making her refuse Robert Martin. Elton will never propose to Miss Smith, I don't think he even consciously registers her above one in ten times they meet. And even if he did he still wouldn't propose, Elton is ambitious and he needs a wife who will draw people to his table. Yes Harriet could probably manage respectably at the dining table, but she wouldn't be a hostess of note, she won't be someone you remember for sparkling conversation and wit. You've seen the meals she selects, she has the taste of a rabbit, bland dull and repetitive. How could you so devaluate her?"

"Who says I did." Emma was stung by the accusation. "How can you know it wasn't her own decision."

"Because she was ready to accept him this morning and since then only you have been in contact with her."

"Well maybe she changed her own mind."

"Maybe I know for a fact that she is not that decided. Admit it Emma, for once in your spoilt life admit that you're wrong. I don't know what spiteful, malicious thought was in your head when you persuaded Harriet to refuse Robert Martin, but I hope to God it never raises its ugly head again. There are not too many times when I actually feel like killing you Emma, but right now I could string you up by your toenails and leave you there until you dissolved into dust. Robert Martin not good enough." Knightley shook his head in disgust and hastily left the porch before he said something he truly regretted. Emma watched Knightley stride angrily across the home pasture with mixed emotions, part of her was remorseful that he had found something to so disgust him. Another part was absolutely boiling furious that he had made such presumptions and dared to think that Robert Martin was nearly equal to Harriet. A third part had a nagging fear that Mr. Knightley was correct, and she Emma might have just made a mess of Harriet's life. The fourth part of her mind was dismayed that this evening was the night of the welcome home party for Senator Weston, and she was going to have to try and persuade Mrs. Weston that she was not in the middle of a huge fight with Knightley...and worse than that Knightley would not help with the charade of peace in the slightest. Would he ever forgive her?

July 24th 1917-4th Midlanders Brigade, France

Darcy watched in silence as the entire Brigade went through its parade sequences. To the accompaniment of shrill whistles the sequences were smoothly welded together into a single body. Two months had brought about an impressive recovery, and now Darcy was willing to say that the Brigade was finally battle ready and burning to go. With the last sequence complete Darcy finally rose to his feet, gave a brief, but approving clap and dismissed the Brigade.

"You wanted to see me?" Carrigan dropped heavily onto the grass next to Darcy, his captaincy had finally come through the system and Carrigan was firmly in control of B-Company, but still the Brigade-Major.

"Yes I did." Darcy rubbed his chin before he finally straightened his legs and stared up at the sky. "Do you have a Private Peter James within the company?"

"Yep, he's a bit of a sore thumb though. He isn't fresh, but he's new, as a result he's also a bit of a loner still."

"Well he's going to become more so, I want to see him this evening after dinner."

"Is Harper really that bad?" Carrigan looked enquiringly at Darcy.

"Private Harper is too damn good, I can get nothing but yes sir out of him and it is driving me insane. Fingers crossed your sore thumb will have more to say for himself."

"He probably will, he got in strife for back-chatting Lieutenant Hewsin yesterday."

"Hewsin asks for back-chatting, he gives absolutely ridiculous orders and just expects them to be followed."

"But still, it isn't a Private's job to take on."

"True." Darcy pushed up onto his feet and scratched his head. "Looks like we've got a pretty impressive mob here."

"I'll say. The N.C.O.s have been through hell getting this all up and ready for you. I came in on them a week ago and the drill schedule was for nearly twelve hours straight. Seems that there had been complaints about excessive work so Mollins called in all of our officers in France and we've been pounding the sods into the ground. There's nothing like threatening a twenty-four hour drill run to make 'em work hard." Carrigan gave a grin. "I think they only forgave us because we stayed out the whole time with them and went through every sequence with them."

"They'd want to forgive you...I thought Ashie was the only one who did everything his privates did."

"Nope, we all do it...you seen any Americans around, they arrived about a month ago."

"Saw some over Arras way last week, they are soft though. They'll get a hell of a beating the first time they go up I think."

"Poor devils, for their sake I hope you're wrong."

"I hope I am too because they've got a transport system which leaves us in dust." Darcy abruptly frowned. "Oh Great, now I'll have to parade with the Privates to. Bugger off Carrie and make sure that Private is in my office after dinner...preferably before midnight." Darcy walked off, accompanied by the sound of Carrigan's laughter. It was the standing joke that when Darcy had been with the Seaforths, any after dinner interview usually occurred after midnight unless Darcy personally went and collected the wanted person.

"You wanted to see me sir." Darcy's watch had just clinked the hour of nine when the door had been opened and a familiar pale face under a shock of dark hair appeared.

"I did indeed. Take a seat Private." Darcy gave a two-fingered approximation of a salute in response to Private James' very proper salute. "We have met before." Darcy had waited until Peter had sat down before he spoke again.

"Have we sir?" Peter had rigidly studied his shoes ever since he entered.

"Yes." Darcy paused. "In fact we have met twice."

"'Deed sir? I have no memory of such an occurrence." Peter flickered a lightening quick glance at Darcy before returning to study his boots.

"Private, two years ago...minus a couple of months, you were in Meryton, Hertfordshire on a school tour of Military Camps. You attended the meeting which occurred in the village...am I correct so far?"

"Aye." Peter took another look at Darcy, but it was only fractionally longer than the first.

"After that meeting you and two friends retired to the bar of the Fox and Hounds Inn where you happened across a man who was referring somewhat scathingly to Britain's armed forces. You hit that man, and would have kept hitting him had the tapboy not interfered. At the time you were puzzled that the man had not retaliated in the slightest to your blow, but you soon forgot the matter and the man...correct?"

"Aye." A wary look entered Peter's eye as he shot yet another quick look at Darcy.

"Three weeks ago you were in hospital with cheek lacerations and a broken arm. You were visited by a rude man, who had the gall to suggest that you were a spineless weakling who was more than willing to throw away the work and sacrifices of an elder brother. This man you hit, and once again you were puzzled by the total lack of response...and no Peter James, my lack of response had nothing to do with the presence of Sister Bennet." Darcy paused. "Now do you remember."

"Your pardon sir, I never realised I was hitting an Officer."

"If you had realised on the first occasion I was an Officer you would have died."

"Why?"

"Because I was supposedly a Conscientious Objector, but was actually helping track down an intelligence group."

"Awfully sorry I hit you sir."

"Don't bother, it taught me a summary and much needed lesson and that is not why I dragged you away from your comfortable bed."

"No sir."

"Have you ever been a Batman?"

"No sir."

"Well unless you care to object you've just become one...and remember I'll box your ears whenever you are actually polite to me."

"Don't worry, I've it on strong recommendation that me and the word polite ain't acquainted."

"Try not to irritate Hewsin too much, my Batman is little use if he is in Gaol."

"True." Peter suddenly grinned. "To quote me brother's friend 'Losh but yer a great lad'. Dinna worry, I won't be polite and I'll bet you'll never get a better Batman. I'll wake you late, I'll spill coffee on your papers and I'll always forget to polish your buttons."

"Good, now get out of here." Darcy was a hand in dismissal and returned his attention to the papers before him.

July 31st 1917-Ypres Salient, France

"For 14 hours yesterday I was at work ---teaching Christ to lift his cross by numbers, and how to adjust his crown; and not to imagine his thirst till after the last halt. I attended his Supper to see that there were not complaints; and inspected his feet that they should be worthy of the nails. I see to it that he is dumb, and stands at attention before his accusers. With a piece of silver I buy him every day, and with maps I make him familiar with the topography of Golgotha." - Wilfred Owen in a letter to Osbert Sitwell

"Oh hell." Peter's remark held an awful lot of feeling and Darcy looked up from his mail in astonishment. Reading by cigarette light at one in the morning was admittedly a job but Darcy really didn't believe it warranted such an exclamation.

"What's up?" Darcy quickly finished off his last letter before the cigarette burnt his fingers.

"I think this is in the wrong pile." Peter sounded nervous to say the least.

"Well whose pile did you think it was meant to be in?" There were five of them crushed into the cramped pillbox which formed Brigade headquarters.

"Yours." Peter looked sheepishly at Darcy.

"Oh damn." Miles swore. "Ten to one it's another promotion Carrie."

"I'll skip, see if you can fob it off on Harralds."

"I'm not taking." The Regimental Officer gave a grin as Darcy finally took the crumpled slip of paper.

"Well what is it? V.C., promotion...or the boot." The last was added with a grin.

"I'll take the boot." Darcy shoved the slip into his pocket with a groan. "Signals, have we got anything?"

"Another weather report." The signals trench was a tunnel dug under the wall and into a trench.

"Damn." Darcy's response spoke for them all. "How long is it going to take Mayhew to get back to us?"

"Calculating at odds of one hundred to one and no one will take you inside of five minutes." Carrigan gave a yawn.

"Then I'll take myself and give you the other end." Darcy straightened as he spoke and ducked out of the cramped pillbox.

"Why is it this place always seems to double in size as soon as he leaves?" Harralds asked the question of the ceiling.

"Well it's better than the fact that space diminishes when you depart." Carrigan responded shortly.

"Shut up both of you." Miles growled briefly. "It's bad enough without you two scrapping."

"Well maybe if we knew whether we were to be massacred or not would make a difference." Carrigan responded shortly before drawing his legs up against his chest and struggling to smother a shiver.

"What was it Peter?" Miles turned to the diminutive Private who seemed out of place alongside the other three officers.

"Promotion, 'e's General Darcy now."

"How fortunate for him." Miles gave a sigh. "Devil take it Carrie, couldn't you have taken the bet?"

"Sorry Miles, I'm saving up for leave." Carrigan gave a grin before rolling into a tighter curl as Darcy re-entered the pillbox.

"Why'd you go?" Harralds was reading a letter from his wife and there was little interest in the question.

"We're going." Darcy was already sweeping papers away into folders and boxes. "Peter, get these shifted back to Divisional Headquarters. "Carrigan, get Intelligence in and then go wake your mob....we've got four hours to get into place...Miles, you and Harralds get moving as well...I want things moving in ten minutes."

"Why so suddenly up?"

"Hazy took sick with trench fever and both his Regimental Officers and half the privates seem to have gone with him due to the Gas on the 26th...they're really in no shape to stay forward so they're pulling out and we're going in and all hell will be to pay if we're not in place in time."

"Glory be." Carrigan gave a yell. "Let's show them glory boys what the 4th Midlanders Brigade is worth...move it Miles."

"To see those two one would never believe that they were both bitterly opposed to this war." Harralds made the remark somewhat abstractly as he collected his legs and stood up.

"No sensible man wants this war." Darcy responded shortly as he finished closing up the headquarters.

"Are you against it to?" Harralds looked curiously at Darcy.

"I said that no sensible man wants it, to that I will add that no mentally balanced or reasonably logical being wants it. No Colonel, I hate this war, I hate it with every fibre of my being. But to decide to sit out would help nobody...here at least I may manage to save a few lives by efficient work...possibly I have saved a few from injury or sickness."

"I find I like it." Harralds spoke softly.

"Don't mix war with military life. War is the dead bodies, the corpses rotting out on those fields. War are the men who currently lie moaning in hospitals. War is the civilians waiting for a message, a letter, a telegram for the news that a loved one has perished or gone missing in action. War is crouching in those muddy, blood-soaked trenches wondering whether the next bullet or shell will take you. Miles is against war...ask him, he'll admit he enjoys military life, but he hates bloodshed...hates it with a passion."

"You show less propensity for it than Miles does when things get moving." Harralds frowned.

"And in that lies the difference, for me I do not shed any blood but necessary blood because it is good manners. There is no emotion to what I feel, it is an opinion which cannot be affected by what is around me...Would you passionately embrace your wife in Piccadilly Circus?"

"No." Harralds looked shocked.

"There is your answer, you would not embrace your wife because you know that such behaviour would be improper. Where as in the same place you might embrace your daughter because she has just done something that makes you proud...or you might just be relieved to see her." Darcy heaved his pack up from the floor. "Now you have a Regiment waiting for your tender ministrations...get moving...and send Peter to me as soon as he gets back."

"Yes sir." Harralds quickly ducked out of the pillbox just as the Intelligence Officer was preparing to come in.

"Well?" Darcy adjusted his pack with a frown.

"They're pitching us into the middle." Benchly gave a grin and produced a heavily marked map. "Couldn't say whether we'll get the right spot, absolute mess of trenches between."

"You'll be amazed." Darcy shifted his pack once more and then removed it and returned it to its corner. "Check your compass because you're the one I'll eat alive if we aren't settled in the right place when that gun fires." Darcy dug his warm out of his pack and shrugged it on. "And I'll eat myself next because I'm going with you...what is it Peter?"

"Colonel Harralds said you wished to see me on return sir." Peter gave a stiff salute, it hadn't taken Peter long to adjust to the singularly odd position he had been put into and only an ass would cheek Darcy just before a battle.

"True." Darcy gave a nod. "Awfully sorry but you're assigned runner duties again."

"Right...Corporal Beck has out the Rum again."

"You tell Harralds?" Darcy frowned.

"No, he was having enough trouble with Lieutenant Hewsin...when I said there was a problem he told me to tell you."

"See to it Benchly, I will not have the Brigade a bunch of drunken sots...Peter go see General Mayhew and inform him we are moving out in ten minutes...I'm off to speak to Miles...Jimmy!"

"Yes sir?" The Signalling Corporal appeared from the trench.

"Go get in touch with Colonel Chering and tell him we're moving off in ten...he'll find Benchly with Hewsin's Platoon...tell him to make sure his mob have got the position and objectives down at least on the map if not in their heads...and set someone else to watch the telephone."

"Yes sir." There was a wild scuffle and the headquarters which had so recently been very crowded was now utterly empty.

Continued in Next Section