**Hold your hat, get ready for an exciting ride in ch 15!

Chapter 14

Mid-February 1918

Elizabeth craned her neck as the motorcar rounded a copse of barren trees revealing Hartfield Hospital in the distance. Acres of sprawling lawn stretched before the converted country home. The rectangular structure flanked by wings on each end wasn't the handsomest manor Elizabeth had seen, but its symmetrical architecture seemed fitting for a hospital.

“How did the Knightleys come to own two country homes within a half-mile of each other?”

Dr. Scott reached for his hat. “In the early1800's, George Knightley of Donwell married his neighbour, a Miss Emma Woodhouse of Hartfield. When old Mr. Woodhouse died, the couple inherited the property. Several years ago the couple's great-grandson George Knightley converted it to a hospital.”

“And the family lives at Donwell?”

“Only Mr. Knightley and his youngest daughter, Sarah. His wife died, but his mother lives nearby, and his eldest daughter, Cornelia, lives in London. That's Miss Sarah Knightley at the door now. I think you'll like her. She reminds me of you.”

An attractive young woman in a blue VAD uniform waved as the car curved around to the front of the house.

A moment later, a chilly wind tugged at Elizabeth's coat as she stepped onto the gravel drive behind the doctor.

“Welcome, Dr. Scott, it's good to see you again.” The woman approached them with a warm smile. “And you must be Miss Thomas. I'm Sarah Knightley.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Knightley.”

“Please, call me Sarah. Shall we go in out of the cold?” She crossed the threshold and spoke over her shoulder. “The Matron in charge had business in the village and asked me to give you a tour. She'll meet us upstairs later, and then Granny has invited us to tea at Ashworth House.”

Sarah's enthusiasm and pluck suggested a kindred spirit—she even had a dark curl peeking from her kerchief cap. Elizabeth was sure they would get on well.

The vivacious young woman led them past the receptionist's desk in the marbled entry, then stopped and turned around. “The south wing here is primarily for our convalescing officers. The enlisted men's quarters are in the north wing.” She pointed down the galleried hallway. “As we pass the officers' recreation and dining rooms, I think you'll find the men quite content.”

Elizabeth followed behind Dr. Scott, glancing into rooms as they passed. In one room, two majors stood over a billiards table. In another, jovial banter rose above a table where a cluster of bandaged officers played cards under a cloud of cigarette smoke. They then passed an immaculately set dining room and a generous library where several officers lounged in wing chairs. Convalescing in a handsome home was certainly preferable to the antiseptic environment of a London's hospital.

As they climbed the back stairs to the first floor, Elizabeth caught bits and pieces of a conversation between Dr. Scott and Sarah about Sarah's older sister, Cornelia. “...we don't see her much.... I can't imagine why any young woman would want to marry such an ancient old codger...he died last year, but she is happy living in London with her finger in every political pie....”

The first floor wards appeared cheery and comfortable. Neatly made beds were draped in blue chequered counterpanes, and the lockers between each bed held a tiny vase blooming with the first flowers of spring.

“Shall we go up to the offices on the second floor?” On the lift Sarah turned to them. “There's not much to see up here. There are additional wards for enlisted men, offices, and the old servants' quarters. Only recently have several been readied for the expected arrival of resident VADs and Sisters when the conversion to a military hospital is complete.”

Elizabeth wondered how the conversion from a convalescent hospital to a military one was being received by the Knightleys and the other VADs working there. It would mean a complete change in personnel. Convalescent hospitals were for men in the last stages of recovery. Besides a local doctor who stopped in once or twice a week, the only other staff included a Matron, cook, and volunteer VADs—generally neighbouring women of high birth who gave a few hours a week to support the war effort.

Military hospitals were for wounded soldiers needing real medical care. Run under strict army rules and regulations, they were staffed by doctors, professional nurses, and full-time VADs who were paid for their commitment. As a genteel part-time volunteer, Sarah would be forced to give up her position.

The lift door opened and the threesome stepped off to the sound of brisk footsteps approaching.

“Matron,” Sarah held out her arm, “allow me to introduce Dr. Scott and his assistant, Miss Thomas.”

The doctor and Matron fell into easy conversation and moved into the offices. Elizabeth turned to Sarah. “Perhaps I should bring in my things. Was there a particular room you had in mind for me?”

“Don't be silly,” Sarah smiled, “we have the Tudor room at Donwell aired and waiting for you.”

“Your family won't object to me as a guest? My family's standing is hardly on par with yours.”

“Well, neither is Dr. Scott's, nor is Dr. Robert Knightley, Donwell's heir apparent. Dr. Scott grew up as a stable hand at my Aunt Catherine's estate. Now the family is strutting like a peacock that such a well-respected doctor is coming to Hartfield. Robert's father was the black sheep of the family. It's taken awhile, but my family is finally accepting him—well, maybe not Granny so much, but I adore him. He was just home on leave. I'm sorry you won't have the chance to meet him.”

“So your grandmother highly regards Dr. Scott but not the family's heir?”

“It's unfortunate but true. Dr. Scott is somewhat of a pawn—a victory that Granny can claim over Aunt Catherine. It's silly that two grown women bicker and carry on like children always trying to outdo one another.”

Elizabeth chuckled. “Most families have at least one difficult member.” With Mama and Lydia, Elizabeth's family was no exception.

“I suppose you're right. Just don't be surprised if you hear Granny chiding me for being the difficult one. She calls me bohemian—a rebel.”

“Why is that?”

“My brother Stephen was some ten years older than I, and we were very close. He had no interest in hunting parties or overseeing an estate. He much preferred tinkering and inventing, but as the heir, he had no choice. Father had no patience for him. The family insists he died in a hunting accident. They refuse to admit that he took his life because he was so unhappy.” She pressed her lips together. “Just thinking of it makes me furious. This antiquated lifestyle holds perfectly good people down, while elevating others without a whit of sense. I refuse to let it ruin me. I'll live my life as I please and marry whom I choose, regardless of his station.”

Elizabeth chuckled to herself. If only Sarah had met her a year ago. Elizabeth had also been ready to take the world by the horns, sure she was right about everything. But a year at the Front and the gentle hand of Fitzwilliam had shown her how naïve and deceived she'd been. “Is there a suitor you have in mind?”

“Not at present. But if Granny had her way, she'd marry me off to my cousin William Darcy. She seems to think we are a perfect match just because her sister was William's grandmother, and William's sister is one of my dearest friends.”

Elizabeth stiffened but maintained her ease. “Is he amenable to this arrangement?”

Sarah chuckled. “Not hardly. But neither is he enthused about Aunt Catherine's attempts to snag him for my cousin Anne.” Her gaze drifted into the distance. “William is very kind, and my heart aches for him. These last few years have been difficult for him, and apparently he recently lost a woman he deeply cared for.”

Elizabeth blinked back the moisture in her eyes.

“Margaret!” Sarah brightened and beckoned to a VAD who stepped off the lift. “Meet Juliet Thomas, Dr. Scott's assistant.”

Elizabeth turned to the approaching impeccably groomed VAD who embodied the perfect picture of a lady. With golden brown hair, flawless skin, and graceful carriage, she seemed to float down the hallway.

“Hello.” Margaret dipped her chin in greeting. “Sarah and I have been looking forward to your arrival.”

“Ah, Miss Hale. How nice to see you again.” Dr. Scott emerged from the office.

“Hello, Doctor,” Miss Hale nodded at him then broadened her focus. “I'm sorry to interrupt you all, but Lawson is here with the car. Mrs. Knightley is expecting us for tea.”

A short ride to Ashworth House found them greeted at the door by a lean, aged butler. Elizabeth followed Sarah and Margaret into a stuffy drawing room that carried a sickly-sweet odour of old. Upon entering, a small, dignified woman clad in royal purple rose to her feet. A patronizing smile pushed up the wrinkles on her cheeks as she greeted Dr. Scott. “Welcome to Highbury, doctor. We're honoured to have such a distinguished physician.” Though her compliments were effusive, her elevated chin and manner left no doubt who had the upper hand.

“Granny,” Sarah gestured to Elizabeth, “may I introduce Miss Juliet Thomas, Dr. Scott's assistant?”

The peacock feather on the matriarch's hat wavered as her raised chin pivoted towards Elizabeth. “Miss Thomas. Yes....” The woman's beady eyes swept her from head to foot.

Elizabeth nodded, then perched demurely on the settee beside Sarah. This woman was as bad as Fitzwilliam's Aunt Catherine!

“Miss Thomas, tell me about your family.” The matron crossed her hands in her lap.

Elizabeth saw immediately where this was going. She squared her shoulders, refusing to be intimidated. “My father was a physician in America.”

“And you're now working as a clerical assistant?”

Dr. Scott broke in, his voice tinged with annoyance. “She's lending her much needed medical expertise to the war effort, madam.”

“I see.”

He crossed his legs. “I'm grateful Miss Thomas was willing to accompany me here. She was quite an asset at St. Dunstan's, and I'm sure she will continue to be lauded at whatever hospital she is assigned to overseas. As soon as my work is published, her foreign application will have my highest recommendation.”

The domineering matriarch glanced at Elizabeth with a near-sneer, then turned back to Dr. Scott. “So tell me, doctor, about this planned hospital conversion. Shall there be demolition and remodelling or merely a change in signage?”

“We'll need to add an operating theatre, a Red Room, and make some adjustments for blind patients, but other than that, I think it will suit our purposes quite well.”

“A Red Room, did you say?”

“Yes. A room for those arriving with red medical cards. The red tags indicate those whose condition is critical and need to be carefully watched.”

“My,” she chuckled, “so even the lowliest of soldiers these days are awarded personal servants.”

“After what those boys face on the Front, madam, they deserve whatever comfort and care we can provide.”

Elizabeth huffed under her breath at the woman's callousness.

Sarah leaned over and whispered, “Don't mind Granny. She and the rest of my family are still living in the Dark Ages, but Margaret and I are of your mindset. We're delighted to have you here.”

When they rose to depart, Mrs. Knightley turned to the butler. “Hobson, have Lawson take Miss Thomas to Hartfield.”

Sarah stepped forward. “We've arranged the Tudor room for her at Donwell.”

“I think the accommodation at Hartfield will be quite suitable. She'll be not more than a half-dozen steps from the offices.”

“But Granny—”

“To Hartfield, Hobson. Good day.”

Elizabeth bit her lip. Fitzwilliam's Great Aunt Eliza was indeed cut from the same cloth as his Aunt Catherine. But Elizabeth would watch her tongue. Her time near the Front had taught her that life was too short to waste on posturing and arguing for the sake of proving a point. Perhaps boarding at Hartfield wouldn't be so bad. Besides, she would be on a boat bound for France or Egypt within three months.

That was the plan, anyway.


Chapter 15

End of March 1918—Six weeks later

Darcy's spoon clanked on the enamel plate, and he pushed the mound of cold something-or-other to the side of his makeshift desk. Dining in the company of rats in a dank dugout permeated by the stench of mud, urine, and rotting flesh did nothing to enhance his appetite. And knowing that in two days he would be leading his company over the top was no help either.

He swigged his lukewarm tea and drew out a sheet of stationery. He'd write to Georgiana while he had the chance. Like any offensive, it could be his last.

He addressed the envelope and paused. Elizabeth. How he longed to share his thoughts with her! Did she know he was still alive? Did she care? He reached for the picture in his breast pocket but dropped his hand when his batman ducked into the tiny dugout.

“Fuller phone is fixed, sir.” Thornton set the large wooden box on the desk, stooping under the low earthen ceiling.

“Good work.” Darcy patted the device. “I hear you are adept under the bonnet as well.”

“Somewhat, sir.”

Darcy looked up at his batman who could have passed for his brother. “How is it that a cotton mill owner came to be so mechanically inclined?”

Thornton pressed an amused smile and met his eyes. “When one's business depends on mechanical machinery, its owner is wise to have an understanding of how it works. The same way I imagine you as a landowner are somewhat of an expert on farming.”

Darcy chuckled. “You have a point there, but there's more call here for mechanical aptitude than ploughing.” Darcy tilted his head, turning serious. “Have you thought about a commission? The Army needs good leaders.”

“Thank you, sir, but my experience leading men in Milton ended badly. I'm content to allow someone else to make decisions.”

Two beats of awkward silence passed before Thornton reached for the plate and enamel cup. “Will there be anything else this evening, sir?”

“That will be all. Get some rest. We'll be up early with a long march ahead of us.”

Minutes later Darcy shook out the thin mattress and replaced it over the wire mesh that served as his bunk. He loosened his tie and released the top button on his uniform's khaki shirt, then climbed under the coarse brown woollen blanket. He rolled over to blow out the lone candle but paused. Rolling back he pulled Elizabeth's picture from his tunic's breast pocket, then placed the tiny music box on his chest and raised its lid. The delicate tinkling of their song flooded him with memories: holding her in his arms, dancing on the veranda of The Ritz, their kiss.... Staring at her image, tears blurred his vision. He drew a deep breath, working to bring air into his constricted lungs. Where are you, Elizabeth? If she were dead, he would almost welcome a bullet or shrapnel shard to reunite them. But if there was a chance she was still alive....

Darcy sighed and returned the items to his pocket, then rolled over and blew out the candle. It was a no-win situation.

~~~*~~~

A brush against Darcy's cheek brought him to the surface of slumber. He twitched his nose and shifted. A second later, tiny feet scampering across his chest jolted him awake. He snapped the blanket and sent the offending rat sailing into the earthen wall.

Now fully awake, his mind drifted to the next few days. Before dawn his company would leave the reserve trenches they now occupied, and he would march them to another sector some fifteen miles east. Sometime before midnight they would relieve a Scottish company of their front line post. Too bad he and his men couldn't just leave mid-morning, but all movement in and out of trenches had to be under the cover of darkness. However, it was his next mandate that unnerved him. Two days from now he'd lead his men over the top. The last time he'd led a company as part of a major offensive, his country had lost some twenty thousand men—the worst one-day slaughter in Britain's history. Would it play out the same this time?

~~~*~~~

The next day

Darcy led his company up a winding road and around a copse of trees. In the landscape before him, the poplar-lined road cut through the meadow below, and a weak sun brought a hint of warmth to the April afternoon.

Far in the distance, a cloud of smoke hung high in the sky, and the thud and booms of artillery echoed through the air. He hadn't anticipated this sector to be so active. Had the Allies already begun softening up enemy lines with shelling? It was his understanding that they would wait until morning to keep the attack a surprise.

He turned to the sergeant leading the column. “We'll hold up here. Have the men rest and get something to eat. We'll head out at twenty-one hundred hours.”

The ranks broke, and the men tossed their kit down, stretched out, and immediately fell asleep. Darcy did likewise.

Two hours later his eyes popped open. The shelling had intensified. He leapt to his feet, then drew his field glasses from their case and peered through the lenses. Jabs of flame rose from the village some three miles in the distance. The smoke converged in a great column that rose to a black cloud seeping across the sky. Alarm ricocheted through him. That village was behind the Scot's trenches; the Jocks had retreated!

“Fall in!” he shouted.

His company sprang to life. The clatter of equipment mixed with anxious chatter as his men roused themselves and fell into formation. Darcy pulled out a map and traced his finger along the road. The left fork a few miles ahead would lead them straight over the canal and into the village.

“Captain!” A breathless dispatch rider rushed up and handed him a message.

Darcy snatched the paper and read:

Situation critical.
Heavy casualties.
Platoon reinforcements required.
All communications down.
Attack forming on eastern flank.
Colonel L. Craig

“Deliver this on to headquarters!” Darcy handed the message back to the dispatcher. “Report that Company C is moving up to reinforce.”

“Yes, sir.” The rider saluted then roared off on his motorcycle.

Five minutes later Darcy had his company moving down the road at a breakneck pace. By the time they reached the fork some half-mile from the canal, fire from incessant explosions lit up billowing clouds of smoke rising from the village. Gazing down the right fork, Darcy spied a factory chimney rising just above the trees with its top blown off. Just beyond was a bridge crossing the canal. If they needed a secondary avenue of retreat, that chimney would be their landmark.

He turned his company left and pressed on, then halted his men just behind a wagon standing only on its back two wheels. The front was completely smashed. A private severed in half by a great fragment of steel lay in a pool of blood beside the mutilated remains of a horse. Blood, splintered wood, and debris littered the pocked road. He turned, shouting back at his men, “The boys ahead are more weary than we are and need our help. Give it all you've got—for God, King, and Country. Dum spiro spero!”

“While I breathe, I hope!” the men rallied in return.

“Dum spiro spero!” He shouted again.

“While I breathe, I hope!” the men chorused louder.

Marching past another splintered wagon and a lorry that appeared untouched, he spotted the canal in the distance. Swift-moving thunder roared overhead. Darcy ducked as it burst a hundred yards ahead, spraying them with dirt.

“Aye, Captain.” A kilted lieutenant saluted and emerged from the smoke then shouted in his Scotch brogue, “We're mighty glad to see ya'! I've Colonel Craig's orders to take half y'er company to reinforce the east side of town. The colonel wants the rest of ya' to report to him at Town Hall.” He pointed to his left. “Cross that field to the farm'ouse, then head four blocks straight to the middle of town.”

Darcy sectioned off half of his men for the lieutenant, then waited until they were safely on the other side of the canal before hastening his half across the bridge. Darcy turned aside as a whistling shell exploded on the bank of the canal twenty yards away. Shrieks of agony mingled with the ringing in his ears as a cluster of his men fell. His head pounded as though struck with a battering ram. Was he hit? He swiped his hand across the back of his neck. Only a small cut, but his legs were splashed with mud, blood, and bits of flesh.

“Dum spiro spero! Go, go, go!” he hastened his survivors across a shell-pocked field to the large farm.

A minute later he poked his head into the doorway of the stone cottage and found a medical officer in an apron smeared with blood, working from the kitchen table like a butcher in his shop. A handful of hollow-eyed wounded lay scattered about the floor.

“I've a half-dozen men with flesh wounds. Where do you want them?” he shouted over the thundering barrage.

Raising a bloody hand, the doctor pointed to the adjoining room. “Tell them to get in line. Are there any ambulances on the way?”

“I don't know.” Darcy shouted back. “A dispatcher passed us an hour ago with a message for headquarters.”

The doctor shook his head and returned to his patient.

Darcy strode from the kitchen and peered towards the village, an inferno of fire and falling rubble. “Move out!” he shouted to his men.

With their kit bags bouncing on their backs and rifles poised in their hand, Darcy led them down the street strewn with bricks and plaster. Flames leapt from gashed structures, and roofs toppled with an appalling clatter. With every bursting shell the men scattered for cover to avoid the showering shrapnel. Here and there strings of kilted Scotsmen ran for a moment and then disappeared with the next explosion.

“Steady on, we're almost there!” Darcy called over his shoulder as they passed two dead highlanders and two more moaning inside a doorway.

He'd led his men into the jaws of death. If anyone survived it would be a miracle.

At last they reached the remains of the Town Hall. A bursting shell shattered its clock tower, bringing it down in a shower of masonry chunks and dust.

A sergeant beckoned to him shouting, “Colonel Craig's in the cellar!”

Darcy routed his men inside and followed the sergeant down a wide staircase littered with debris.

“Colonel, sir.” Breathing hard, Darcy saluted his superior.

“We're in a hell of fix here, Captain. Communications are all down and there are at least thirty wounded. Huns are attacking the west side, and we're blind to the position of their artillery. It's imperative we hold this village. We can't let them cross the canal.”

“Your dispatch said they were attacking from the east.”

“They changed tactics.”

The two men's eyes met and held. That meant headquarters would be sending reinforcements in the wrong direction. “How can we re-establish communications?”

The Colonel shook his head. “Unless you've got pigeons or equipment and wire, we can only send dispatchers. One left five minutes ago.”

“What about a signalling flag?”

“Where would you signal from? The top of the bloody church steeple?”

“What about the factory chimney just outside the village?”

“Jerries already took it down.”

“Only the top is gone, sir.”

“Do you have any signallers with you?”

“My servant or I could do it.”

“Then get your servant. Any thoughts about how to evacuate these wounded? Haven't seen an ambulance in hours.”

“What about the lorry on the other side of the canal?”

“Engine's stalling.”

“My servant's also adept under the bonnet. He could have a go at it.”

“No. Sending that signal is more important. The lives of two hundred men depend on it.”

“Then let me send the signal.” Darcy held his gaze steady on the colonel. It was as good as a suicide mission. As soon as Fritz saw him waving that flag, he'd send a whizzbang or a sniper's bullet.

The colonel glanced away, then looked back.

“Very well. And thank you. Send a man with your batman and take whatever you need for yourself.” The colonel turned and called across the room, “Lieutenant! Take the rest of this company and fortify the west side. Sergeant, find the captain a bed sheet and a pole.”

Darcy located Thornton, then singled out two privates and explained the plan as the lieutenant ushered the rest up the stairs.

“Be careful, sir.”

Darcy locked eyes with his batman in silent farewell.

Minutes later Darcy was weaving his way through the street with the three-foot flagpole in his hand and a private at his heels. With an eye on the smokestack peeking above the treetops, they turned a corner and met a flatbed wagon tearing down the street, its driver goading the mare at full speed. Darcy ducked into an alley to get out of the way. BOOM! A shell exploded on a building. Shrapnel blasted out the windows and blew the driver off the wagon sending his mangled body cartwheeling into the air.

Staggering from the concussion, Darcy braced a hand against the building and swallowed hard. Turning, he found his private lying in a puddle of blood with a jagged shard of glass protruding from his neck. Dead. Darcy winced and turned away.

The wagon's mare, dancing wide-eyed in the street, was pocked with bleeding cuts but otherwise appeared unaffected. Darcy didn't know what the driver's purpose had been, but the conveyance would hasten him to the chimney.

He vaulted up onto the wagon seat, then pulled the bit in the horse's mouth to turn around and charged down the street. Swerving onto the open road, the signalling flag skittered across the seat. Darcy reached for it just before it flew over the edge.

With every hoof beat that carried him closer to the factory, the chimney loomed taller like a goliath daring him to a challenge.

Minutes later his boots sprinted across the barren plank floor, echoing through the cavernous factory. He spotted the chimney just ahead, rising above a massive floor-grate littered with huge chunks of toppled masonry. He scrambled across the iron grid, then located the blackened steel rungs embedded in the bricks. With the flagpole crammed into the back of his trousers, he began his ascent. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his hands slipped on the sooty rods as he climbed. He glanced at the circle of daylight above. It was a long way up. But every erupting artillery shell brought more death to his countrymen.

With his lungs heaving, he reached the top and peered over the jagged lip of the smokestack to survey the landscape. Miles of open meadow stretched before him. He swivelled his head to look behind him and wavered, nearly losing his balance. Craning his neck to see over the trees, he spied the Jerries hunkered in their trenches just outside the city. More were advancing on the west side of town.

The Huns launched a shell towards the village. Then another. Tracking the sound and smoke trail, Darcy pinpointed the exact location of their artillery. His countrymen's return fire was off to the right by a hundred yards.

If he could communicate the enemy's position, the Allies had a chance. But a sniper's bullet or a slip of his foot would send him free falling some eighty feet. He had no choice but to try. The lives of two hundred men depended on it.

Wrapping his left arm around the masonry lip, he shifted his feet up one rung and then down another to secure his balance, then carefully drew the pole from his trousers. Hanging on for dear life, he stretched out his right arm and waved the white flag in huge sweeping arcs over his head to attract his countrymen's attention. His gaze scanned the countryside.

No reply.

He signalled again.

Nothing.

If his countrymen didn't see him soon, the Huns would. One well-placed shot would take him out.

He swept his arm overhead once more. Off to his right a signalling lamp flickered. They'd seen him! He waved back: up, down, up, down. Small arcs for dots and large arcs for the dashes of Morse code. Slowly he spelled out the exact location of the enemy's artillery. His foot slipped, but he managed to stay upright by grabbing onto the bricks.

Bullets pinged off the tower below him, and one whizzed past his ear. His heart pounding, he completed the message and received confirmation just as a shell whistled overhead. Tossing the flag over the edge, he began his descent, climbing down as fast as he could. A deafening explosion rocked the structure; the factory had been hit. Left, right, left, right, he alternated his hands and feet down the ladder faster and faster. Another shell clipped the chimney's top, sending a shower of bricks and dust raining down on him. His eyes and mouth filled with soot and grit, but he'd accomplished his objective. Another twenty feet and he'd be on the ground. Now all he needed to do was get out alive.

Another shell screamed then BOOM, his ears exploded in pain, and he was falling. Georgiana, Pemberley, Elizabeth....
##

In posting this, I was reminded of the riveting account of a British reporter that inspired this scene as well as the CCS being housed in a convent. You can read the account here. (Click on the picture). Inspiration for the smokestack scene was also taken from a historical account, but it was two soldiers who climbed up inside just to see the view of the battlefield. Yes, truth is sometimes stranger than fiction!