He almost screamed when the touch came down between his shoulder blades. But the hand was warm. Freddie did not move. Tears had dried on his eyelashes.
Faland pulled him to his feet as though he weighed nothing at all. Freddie had the sensation of being borne along by a cold, black river, by a will stronger than his. He still hadn’t opened his eyes.
“Tell me a story, Iven,” said Faland.
And Freddie, his face buried against Faland’s throat, did.
CHÂTEAU COUTHOVE, FLANDERS, BELGIUM
March–April 1918
When Mary took Laura outto the field behind Couthove to teach her to ride a motorcycle, Laura was determined to learn faster than any woman in history. The news from the south had only worsened—there was talk of the enemy advancing, of lost positions and hurried retreats. Couthove was unsettled, its people straining after news. Laura was eager to be away. Every hour, her window of time felt narrower. She faced Mary over the bony metal conveyance and waited.
Mary leaned on the handlebars, looking raffish. “First off: Have you made a will?”
“Droll, Mrs. Borden.”
“All right, all right, get on the seat—yes, like that. Do you know which is the left and right?”
The motorcycle was an awkward thing to bestride, especially in skirts. “Mary, your comic stylings are delightful, but for God’s sake…”
“I see my sense of humor is wasted on you, Iven. All right. That’s the speed lever—make sure it’s in neutral, yes, there—unless you want to take off at top speed. Here’s the clutch—no, down there,near the front wheel. Shove it in. Good. All right, look now, you spark it, give it some gas. Then put your foot on the crank and push.”
On Laura’s fifth try, a sound like an explosion rattled from the engine, and the motorcycle sprang forward, bucking. Laura fell off.
“Not the moment for dismounting,” said Mary.
“Mary, you—”
“Now try again. Look, once it’s going, you push the gear out, throw the speed from neutral to low,slowly.”
Mary kept Laura at it until she was soaked in nervous sweat. Finally, Mary shook her head, got on herself, pressed the clutch, gave it gas, and ripped off like she was spurring a horse in a hunt. “You’ll get it in time,” Mary shouted back over her shoulder.
“The sooner the better,” said Laura, watching Mary fling up arcs of cold mud. “How do you stop it?”
“Well,” called Mary, coming back in a wide circle. “A time-proven method is to pick out a stout tree dead ahead.” She laughed at Laura’s expression. “A better one is to turn off the spark, throw out the gear, and apply the brakes. Like this. Come on, get up behind me, Iven; you’ll see how it feels.”
Laura got up, felt the rumble, the nervous tremor of the machine between her knees.
Mary let out the clutch, gave it gas. “Don’t let go.” They shot off.
Laura shouted. She could feel Mary laughing where Laura gripped her round the waist. “Maniac!” bellowed Laura, but her heart was racing with delight. However much the war had cost, it had paid with this freedom: to run a hospital without interference, to ride a motorcycle without judgment. Strictures belonged to the old world too. Mary whipped round, heading toward the front of the château, and Laura was laughing as well by then, leaning forward.
Then she saw that a horse had come in through the gate and was cantering down the drive. Its rider was tall, white-gloved, straight-backed, like a knight-errant who’d taken a wrong turn. Or yet another refugee from a vanished world. His horse halted neatly at the door, arching its neck.
“What now?” muttered Mary, killing the motor. They left the motorcycle standing and approached their visitor. With surprise, Laura recognized Lieutenant Young, from the party in London. His ears still stuck out, but he was graceful in the saddle as he’d not been on the ground.
“Lieutenant,” Mary said, masking any surprise. “What brings you to our door, sir?”
He’d looked a knight on horseback, but he was still awkward once he dismounted. “Mrs. Borden,” he said eagerly. “I’ve news. That concerns this hospital. And, er—” He swallowed. Said, self-consciously, “I’ve come to visit Mrs. Shaw. She wrote me. Said it was urgent. May I speak to her?”
Mary and Laura looked at each other.
“Did she, sir?” said Mary, recovering her wits first. “I believe she is on duty, but I will have her come to you. What do you have to tell me?”
“Well,” said Young, dropping his voice. “There are fears of an attack in the sector.”
“Yes,” said Mary, with a trace of impatience. As though anyone was unaware.
