Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

DIANA SEPTEMBER 1918

Diana Neville arrived at Havencross afflicted with serious forebodings even before the house came into sight. Who lived in the middle of nowhere? she thought crossly, but knew her crossness to be anxiety. And to be fair, Havencross had not been a private home for some time now, although the Somersby family had retained their own quarters upon turning it into a school. But still …

There was a slight, narrow bridge from the west bank of the river. If she'd been in any vehicle heavier and wider than her motorcycle, she might have been worried. As Diana carefully navigated her Douglas across, she eyed the steel-gray water below with misgiving. Even if she knew how to swim she wouldn't trust the icy waters of the North.

HAVENCROSS SCHOOL FOR BOYS proclaimed the austere sign on the other side of the bridge, and in less than a minute the house began to reveal itself. Spires and turrets first, like a medieval fairytale against the washed-out blue of the sky above the small hollow that held the house. Quickly enough the vast building revealed itself and, despite her best intentions to remain unimpressed, Diana's mouth dropped open. Ninety schoolboys? This place could fit three times that. It must cost the earth to heat .

She had sent her trunks ahead with a warning that she would arrive on motorbike so no one would be alarmed when the new school nurse appeared in canvas trousers, knee-high boots, and leather gloves. She had a ready collection of phrases to both introduce and defend herself, but the woman standing at the front door greeted Diana with a warm smile.

"Miss Neville? I'm Mrs. Willis, the school secretary. Welcome to Havencross."

The entrance hall stretched up three floors, with a grand staircase that split onto open landings on each level. The hall was tiled in a cream and dark green William Morris design, with mahogany paneling to head height and buttercup yellow paint above.

"I'll give you a quick tour of the general layout before I show you to your quarters," said Mrs. Willis, neat and trim as an English sparrow. "Including the infirmary, of course. If you're not too tired."

It was a speech that could easily have sounded condescending if delivered by the right sort of woman. But Mrs. Willis was young—early to midthirties at a guess—with soft brown eyes, a quick smile, and a black ribbon pinned to her blouse. A widow? There were widows to spare in England these days. Diana wondered if the woman had children.

She did, it turned out: two boys at the school. "Though my youngest will just be starting his studies this year," she confided.

The building was as efficiently laid out as possible in such an idiosyncratic space. Everything to the right of the central hall belonged to the school: a dining room with five long tables on the ground floor, classrooms on the first that stretched along a connecting corridor to the long east wing, and dormitories on the second floor.

The top floor of the central block was given over to staff bedrooms. "But you'll be housed in a more private area," Mrs. Willis (‘Please call me Beth') said. Separated from the male staff, she meant. Other than Beth, who said that she lived in a suite in the west wing, and Diana, there were only two other women in residence: the cook, who lived near her kitchen domains, and Clarissa Somersby. Not only was Miss Somersby the school's headmistress, but the last family member in residence. She'd hardly be living in an attic floor bedroom.

The infirmary was at the end of the east wing on the second floor, an airy, high-ceilinged space with freshly whitewashed walls and a long line of windows that gave it the feel of a mini-cathedral. There were four beds set up, with room for twice that if needed, and Diana gave a delighted half laugh when shown the connecting examination room that doubled as an office. Situated in one of the turrets, it had a view right over the rooftops to the river. If she stood on tiptoe, she could just see part of the bridge over which she'd come.

"I hope you like it," Beth said. "Our last nurse was a bit old-fashioned. She'd been here since the school opened in 1898, and the space reflected that. Miss Somersby gave me leave to update things. I hope it's acceptable."

"Acceptable? I spent the last three years in field hospitals and military tents. This is beyond beautiful." Diana turned away from the window and surveyed the pale oak desk, the cream-and-blue rug over freshly stained floorboards, the examination table covered in a white drape so clean that it looked as though it would actively repel anything except minor colds and sprained ankles. More softly, she added, "It almost makes me feel guilty."

"Don't." The word came out with a sharpness that was surprising from the mild-faced secretary. "Don't feel guilty. My husband died in a field hospital near Verdun. He lived for three days before infection took him. I know what the nurses did for him there—I know they sat with him and helped him write a last letter to me and the boys. I know he was not alone when he died. So don't ever feel guilty about life being better now. You deserve it."

Diana blinked, then squeezed Beth's hand. "We all deserve it."

From the infirmary, Beth led her to a door that opened onto a corridor with lower ceilings and uneven floors.

"Fifteenth-century manor house," Beth said. "Built strongly enough to be worth preserving all this time."

Even if Beth hadn't confirmed it, Diana realized they'd crossed into a much older section of the house. The walls were stone and very thick, judging by how deep-set the windows were. Diana's bedroom was the lone unoccupied one in a short corridor with four rooms. One of them had been converted into a large bathroom that, even in September, made Diana shiver with cold and hope the water ran hot in the bath. The bedroom's low-beamed ceiling, charming angles, and linenfold paneling were generations removed from the décor of the main house, but the large fireplace and bright linens made it cozy.

Thankfully, her trunks had arrived. After bidding Beth a temporary goodbye and promising to join her and her boys for dinner that night, Diana set about unpacking. As comfortable as her motoring clothes were, she couldn't stay in them forever.

She only made it partway into her "I am a respectable nurse to be trusted with the health of ninety boys and not to be disturbed by fifteen male teachers" transformation. Her blue-striped shirtwaist and gray flannel skirt were demure enough. But she had just taken her hair out of its tight braids (the better to fit her helmet on) and it was still in a riot of loose, tangled curls when she heard a quick rapping on the door. "Come in," she called, figuring it was Beth with something she'd forgotten.

But the woman who entered was clearly not a secretary. Though Diana had not met her in person, she was certain this was Clarissa Somersby, headmistress of Havencross. She looked younger than Diana had expected, and prettier. Weren't all headmistresses gray-haired and iron-browed? Miss Somersby had dark hair pulled back in satin-smooth loops to frame a delicately--boned face and cheekbones Diana would have killed for. Even when she'd lost weight as an overworked battlefront nurse, her face had remained stubbornly round. Diana had always described herself as average height, average weight, average hair color somewhere between brown and mousy blond. Mostly it didn't bother her, except when facing a woman like this.

In a plummy upper-class voice, the woman said, "I am Miss Somersby. I know we're meant to meet later, but I wanted to ensure everything is in order. You are content with what you've seen thus far?"

Calling upon hard-won lessons about dignity and strength no matter if one had been working twenty-four hours straight and had blood up to their elbows, Diana straightened her back and said, "More than content. Havencross seems a lovely school, and the infirmary is wonderfully modern. Especially considering where I've been."

"Good." Miss Somersby took in Diana's tousled hair and the driving coat tossed across the bed. "I have no objection to your motorcycle, but of course the boys are not to be allowed near it."

As if Diana would risk her precious Douglas. "Of course not."

"Then I will see you in my office in one hour, Miss Neville." She paused and, in a much cooler tone, added, "It is a northern name, Neville . Are you part of that particular historical line?"

"As in the Wars of the Roses and Warwick the Kingmaker? If so, it's very distant. My family has been in London for generations. The only war we know is the current one."

Apparently Miss Somersby was not one for small talk. As abruptly as she'd entered, she was gone, leaving the door open. Diana blew out her breath and went to the dressing table to tame her hair into proper order.

Behind her, the door slammed shut with a suddenness that made her drop the hairbrush. An unexpected gust of air from the window she'd opened? Or Clarissa Somersby, deciding to … what? Warn her new employee to always be on her guard?

But on guard against what?