Chapter Thirty-Two

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

DIANA NOVEMBER 1918

One advantage of Havencross for dealing with multiple patients was its size. The dining hall routinely seated more than one hundred people, with the boys crammed together on benches at long tables. Those tables were so long and so heavy, that it was impractical for only the handful of available adults to move them out of the room entirely. They lined them up against the walls instead; covered with linen, they could accommodate everything from extra bed linens and medications to basins for vomiting and other needs.

They brought in twenty beds, enough for every student and staff member, and placed them six feet apart, a luxury of personal space that Diana had never had in France. Best to count her blessings wherever she could.

Diana and Clarissa were making up beds with fresh sheets. Thank goodness for a well-run household; washing the linen of all the boys away on holiday had given them an abundance that made Clarissa say, "We could change their beds three times a day for fun, if we wanted."

No point in painting the headmistress a picture she didn't need yet, such as how many ways these sheets could be stained in the coming days. No point in telling her that any linen they used now might have to be burned afterward.

One apocalypse at a time.

Dr. Bennett appeared in the hall just after noon. "Very nice, indeed," he said, nodding. "Nothing like working with the military to inspire order I suppose, Miss Neville."

"Honestly, it was the nursing supervisors who kept everything orderly. The doctors and surgeons had a hard time looking beyond their own immediate patients. No offense, Dr. Bennett."

"None taken. And I would indeed like to see my immediate patient."

Diana escorted him to Lawrence's room and excused Mrs. McCann. She could hear the other boys in their rooms along the corridor, talking to one another through their open doors, while Dr. Bennett spoke to his patient in a comforting but matter-of-fact way. Diana made note of the changes in pulse and temperature (his fever had dropped a tiny bit to just under 103).

Dr. Bennett smiled at Lawrence. "You're going to feel awful for a time, young man, but I know you'll be a good patient and do everything Miss Neville asks. Right?"

"Yes, sir."

They moved into the corridor and stepped away far enough to discuss without being overheard.

"What do you think?" Diana asked.

"Oh, it's influenza. I just don't like some of the oddities. The high level of pain, for one, and the bloody nose for another. There have been flare-ups around the country since August with these and other complications."

"Do you want to admit him?"

"The local hospital admitted five people last night, all of whom were either at church on Sunday or at the thanksgiving services yesterday. Which tells me there will be many more cases in the next three days. As long as Lawrence remains stable, he'll get better care here. You know what to watch out for?"

"Difficulty breathing, congested lungs, resistant fever—all the signs of pneumonia."

"Pneumonia cases I'll want in hospital, but I'm telling you right now we might be slow at transporting boys from here."

"We have the wagon. The gardener can come and sleep in the stables. He can transport boys if needed."

"My biggest concern is for you, Miss Neville. If you fall ill—"

"I don't think I will. I had influenza in April."

"In France? From the epidemic that swept through the military? Yes, that's a good sign. But don't try to be a hero. We'll do our best to get you what you need. I'll come morning and evening. Ring my office or the hospital in between."

He had just left when Mrs. McCann, who had been checking in up and down the corridor, reported to Diana that three more boys were running fevers. Diana started three new medical reports and then moved the four ill boys to the dining room. When they were settled with aspirin and cool cloths, and drinking the salty chicken broth that Beth Willis had made, Diana set up a desk at the end of one long table and put everything in order: casebook, separate medical folders for each patient, an oil lantern to light her work when the boys slept at night.

Diana stood up, automatically smoothing her skirt as though the ward supervisor would show up at any moment to check her uniform. Then she folded her hands behind her back and surveyed her domain.

With a jolt, she realized that the last time she'd examined a recovery ward, she'd not been a nurse but a patient. A feverish, frightened, traumatized patient.

It wasn't influenza that had put here there. That was simply a side effect of being in hospital in the first place. After Viliers-Bretoneux, after the high whine of the shells and the screaming of trapped soldiers …

She was so shaken that she didn't realize Joshua had appeared until he put a hand on the small of her back. "Are you all right? You look rather pale."

"It's not … I'm not ill. It's nothing."

Joshua nodded in the direction of Clarissa and Mrs. McCann gathering bowls and talking to the four ill boys. "Everyone here is set for now. Come hide with me for a moment and talk."

It was probably just that she was tired, but Diana was having a harder time than usual shoving Viliers-Bretoneux back into its box. Joshua pulled her into an alcove beneath the grand staircase and sat her down on the curving bench built into the space. He put his palm to her forehead.

"I don't have a fever," she said sharply.

"I know. You're cold and clammy."

"Very sexy."

He tried to squat down in front of her but his left leg was too stiff, so he settled next to her instead. "Diana, I know shock when I see it. And I know its aftermath. You were shaky when we were in the hidden passageway. Claustrophobia is a common—"

"I'm not claustrophobic!" She got herself under control. "Or at least, I never was. Before."

"Before what?"

She had never talked about it. She'd told her doctors in France that she didn't remember anything, and insisted the same to her mother before fleeing from her family's smothering concern.

She began slowly. "I was working in a field hospital in Viliers-Bretoneux last spring. We had set up in an old manor house. It wasn't near the front; there'd been no action near us for months. Until, all at once, there was.

"It's the refugees you see first," she told him, and saw Joshua nod in remembrance. "Streaming from the east. The decision was made to evacuate the patients five miles back. I was helping clear the postsurgery ward when I heard the incoming shell."

Her body twitched, a physical manifestation of remembered panic.

"It hit just at the right spot on the manor—the roof and all three floors came down in seconds. I don't remember a lot … not that I can describe … just that feeling. I couldn't move, I couldn't see, I was buried beneath layers of stone and wood, and there was dust in my lungs, and I was afraid they'd go and leave me and no one would find me."

He held her hand firmly, an anchor in this moment, which was not that moment. Never again that moment , she reminded herself. She was out. She was safe. She could breathe.

After twenty-seven breaths, she could go on. "Thirteen of us were buried when the shell hit. I was the only one they pulled out alive." She laughed shakily; Joshua looked unconvinced by it. "Anyway, that is the story of why I don't like secret passages or tunnels or anything that has the ability to bury me alive at any moment."

With an indistinct murmur of sympathy, Joshua wrapped his arms around her, and she let herself sink into his steadiness and warmth. Here, she thought, was someone she could trust to hold her up no matter what.

Someone cleared their throat, and Diana pulled out of Joshua's embrace.

Mrs. McCann said, "Miss Neville, Lawrence's nose is bleeding again. And there are dark spots on his face."