Page 45 of Two Wars and a Wedding

“Your job?”

“My job is writing about hat trim. And this season’s sleeves. They let me do this because I begged them, because I convinced them it would be a stunt to have a girl reporter at the front.” Kit breathed in deeply through her nose and out through her mouth. “Marshall got a bullet through his spine and his first thought was making sure his story made it in.”

“Wouldn’t you do the same?”

“Yes. And that’s what scares me.” Kit kicked the laundry basket. “I don’t know if I’m a bad reporter because I look at him and wonder what would happen if I didn’t make it home, or if I’m a bad mother because I would have been in his place in a heartbeat.”

Betsy offered the only comfort she could think of. “You’re smaller than he is. The bullet might have missed you.”

Kit dropped her face into her hands.

“Think of it this way,” said Betsy encouragingly. “You could get hit by a tram going to look at this season’s sleeves. Or poisoned by the mercury in hats.”

“I wrote an article about mercury poisoning from hats,” said Kit in a muffled voice. “They told me to take out the depressing bits and put in more about the shape of the hat.”

“All I’m saying is, there are dangers everywhere. My father caught a chill coming to visit me in Northampton.” Because she’d been flouting authority, skipping classes, sure she was smarter than everyone. Just innocent high spirits, but her father had died for it. Betsy hastily tried to think of something else. “I knew a girl at Smith who broke her arm falling up the stairs. Just tripped and crack! And a friend told me about her cousin who choked to death on a billiard ball. He put it in his mouth for a dare and . . . that was that.”

Kit lifted her head. “This is meant to cheer me up?”

“Did it?”

To Betsy’s surprise, Kit grabbed her in a fierce hug. “Thank you.”

Betsy froze. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had hugged her. Her family wasn’t much for displays of affection. Then there was Ava. As much as she loved Ava, embraces weren’t at all Ava’s sort of thing. A swift pat on the arm represented the extremes of emotion.

For a moment, Betsy stood stiff, not quite sure what to do. Then, tentatively, she put her arms around Kit and hugged her back, resting her head against the other woman’s shoulder, breathing in the familiar scents of bleach and lye.

“It will be all right,” she whispered, even though she wasn’t sure of anything of the kind.

“Nurse Hayes, Miss Carson! Touching as this is . . .” Sister Bettina sounded more weary than angry. They were all weary. “Miss Barton wants us all. Out front.”

Kit released Betsy and stepped back, straightening her apron. Her eyes were suspiciously bright. “Thanks,” she said.

Betsy suspected she looked equally pinkish around the eyes. “Think nothing of it. I’m happy to share more tales of disaster whenever you need them.”

Kit gave a snort and turned to follow Sister Bettina to the front of the building, Betsy trailing behind, feeling, strangely, better than she had in a long time.

General García and Miss Barton were standing on the front porch, the rest of the nursing staff gathered around.

“I apologize for interrupting your labors,” said General García, “but I wished to thank you personally for your service before you move on. We know how to appreciate such friendship as this. You have given the men new strength.”

“We’re moving on?” Betsy yelped.

“We have been summoned.” Miss Barton did her best to sound impassive, but the expression on her face might, in a person of lesser stature, have been termed a smirk. “I have received a communique from Major Louis La Garde respectfully requesting our assistance in caring for the patients of the so-called hospital near the port.”

No one cheered. They were too well-trained for that. But a palpable fizz of excitement ran through the group.

“It appears they anticipate a major engagement in the next few days and lack the beds, the supplies, and the personnel to manage a new influx of wounded. And it seems the men have raised a clamor about their condition compared to that of their Cuban allies.”

She looked to General García, who essayed a half bow in response.

“I did tell them to complain to their doctors,” murmured Kit to Betsy.

Miss Barton lowered her voice thrillingly. “I needn’t describe to you the magnitude of the work. General García has been kind enough to help us secure a dwelling to use as a hospital.”

“What about the current hospital?” asked Kit, back in reporter mode. Betsy could tell she was itching for her notebook.

Miss Barton’s face hardened. “It does not deserve the name of hospital. It is a noisome, foul place fit for use only as kindling. I pity the men who have been forced to suffer needlessly in those walls.”