Page 56 of Two Wars and a Wedding

There was that word again. Fail, fail, fail.

Maybe if she had just put in a bit less water . . . or a bit more gypsum?

Oh, bother it. What did any of that matter? Her heart was in the right place; surely that counted for something. Hadn’t someone or other said that kind hearts counted for more than coronets and simple faith more than detailed medical knowledge? She might just possibly be paraphrasing a bit, but she felt she’d got the essence right. Unlike that Dr. Kalopothakes, who seemed determined to nitpick.

What was she going to tell everyone? Betsy felt sick to her stomach just thinking about it. Even the bunting didn’t seem to fly as bravely in the breeze. She’d already announced to everyone that she was going to the front. She’d rubbed it in a bit, really. The Harvard boys were openly jealous. Ethel was unimpressed—but that was only because Ethel had no imagination. Professor Richardson had waxed positively effusive and offered his help and support in anything that was needed to get her off to the front and away from the American School of Classical Studies.

She had even gone so far as to telegraph Alex and Lavinia. Lavinia’s chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution had sent a congratulatory note and a donation to the Union of Greek Women. A small donation, but it was the thought that counted. It was the one time Betsy’s sister-in-law had ever approved of anything she’d done, and then only because she was hundreds of miles away, and possibly just a little because Lavinia probably hoped she’d be caught by the Ottomans and thrown into an oubliette and thus out of Lavinia’s hair forever. But maybe she was being unfair. Maybe even Lavinia was moved by the cause of Greek democracy. Or just moved by the fact that Cretan independence was popular at the moment, and Lavinia never liked to be behind on anything, whether it was the new, narrower sleeves or freedom from despots.

In retrospect, perhaps she ought to have waited a bit before sending in a notice to the Smith College Monthly.

But it was more than that. Betsy had counted on this not just for herself but for Ava. She stood up a bit straighter at the thought. That was it, really. Ava would never go to the front without her, and if she didn’t, how was she going to prove to Ava that she was wasting her life by not going to medical school?

Betsy could just see it, the two of them together, like twin Florence Nightingales, moving soothingly from bed to bed in a moonlit hospital ward, bringing comfort and hope and perfectly mixed plaster of Paris casts.

There had to be a way to fix this. If Dr. Kalopothakes wouldn’t let her retake the test . . . she’d tell Aikaterini—Aikaterini had the ear of the queen. She’d explain. Everyone knew the queen had the final say. A direct appeal to the queen, from as many sources as possible, was the only way. Why, Betsy could find dozens of people in Athens, across a spectrum of nationalities, to vouch for her character, stamina, and determination. What was a leaky plaster cast against all that?

Ava was waiting for her already, at a marble-topped table, reading her way through a dog-eared copy of the Lancet.

“Have you been waiting long? The streets were so crowded I could barely thread my way through. Chocolate, please,” Betsy said to the waitress in Greek, flinging herself into one of the small cane chairs. “And some of those little cakes with the honey and nuts in them.”

“Betsy?” Ava had known her far too long. She put down her journal. “What happened?”

Betsy concentrated on drawing off her purple leather gloves. “I might possibly have not quite passed. But don’t worry!” she hurried on, before Ava’s open mouth could turn into words, words Betsy didn’t want to hear. “I’ve come up with the perfect way to fix it. I’ll just ask Aikaterini to intercede with the queen and send me anyway.”

Ava stared at her. “You can’t do that.”

Just like Ava, to assume that failed meant failed. “Of course I can. Aikaterini won’t mind,” Betsy said merrily, her mind teeming with possibilities. The examination that had seemed so crushing an hour ago had receded into the mere minor setback it was. “I’m sure Mrs. Richardson will write for me if I ask. And possibly Mrs. Schliemann. No one can say no to Mrs. Schliemann.”

“They should. No, no cakes for me,” Ava said to the waitress, who put them in front of her anyway. Ava shoved the plate away. “You can’t do that, Betsy.”

“Why not?” Betsy pulled the cakes toward her. She was suddenly very hungry and the cakes looked very good.

“You failed your exam,” Ava said, very slowly and clearly.

“What’s in an exam? It was utterly arbitrary. They had me make a plaster of Paris cast. Really, of all the things.” Betsy picked up the biggest pastry and took a huge bite out of it. “I could ask them to let me take it again, but it’s much simpler this way. Goodness only knows what they might ask me to do next time. Something utterly irrelevant, most likely.”

“Something utterly necessary to the health and well-being of the wounded, you mean?” There were two bright patches of color in Ava’s otherwise rather sallow cheeks.

“The red of these walls suits you,” said Betsy. “You should really get some dresses made in that color.”

“Oh no,” said Ava, sitting up very straight. “You are not going to distract me with trivialities.”

“Dress isn’t a triviality. It affects how people see you.” This was one of the many fascinating things Betsy had learned from Aikaterini.

“But not your actual capabilities. You can’t dress your way into competence by putting on a nurse’s uniform, Betsy.” Ava cast a glance over her shoulder to make sure no one was listening. She leaned forward across the tea table. “It would be criminally irresponsible of you to take a place you haven’t earned.”

“Criminal? That’s putting it a bit strong.” Ava always did take herself a little too seriously, and she’d been even worse since that first aid course.

Ava’s dark eyes fixed on Betsy’s, deadly earnest. “Not if a man dies because you don’t know what you’re doing. That’s murder, or the next thing to it. I understand you’re disappointed, but you can’t just go and talk your way into a job you can’t do just because you think you want it.”

There were so many things wrong with that statement that Betsy didn’t even know where to begin, starting with the “thinking she wanted it” bit. Of course she wanted it. Would she pursue it if she didn’t? And as for the rest . . . “Why can’t I do it? I took that course just the same as you.”

“No, you didn’t.” Ava sat back hard in her seat. “I actually listened. I took notes. You doodled pictures of the Parthenon and scribbled lines of Greek poetry and ran off to meet that Frenchman of yours when you ought to have been studying!”

Just because she had formed a habit of walking with Charles in the afternoons—it was all perfectly respectable, and it was hardly running off. Everyone in Athens promenaded on Stadium Street between the hours of three and five in the winter. It was a social commonplace. Besides, Charles was a colleague, so, really, it counted as work.

“But it’s not just that,” Ava went on, with the air of one determined to get through the worst of a bad business. “It’s not just that you paid no attention to the course. You shouldn’t have been there in the first place. You should have been at the American School attending to your real work! The work you’re here to do. Remember that?”