Page 88 of Two Wars and a Wedding

But the rest? Betsy couldn’t bear to make herself think of it. But she couldn’t not think of it. It was there in every breath she drew, in every step she took, it was there in every sunset and every dawn.

“Quinine,” she said, arriving breathless at Holt’s bedside, even though she hadn’t been running, at least she didn’t think she had. Everyone was running; the camp was in a foment, stretchers being prepared, men being examined before being discharged. “Take this. If it’s tertian fever you should feel better shortly.”

“Yes, I heard the doctor say,” said Holt, his voice weak and scratchy but lucid, and Betsy could have hugged him with the relief of it, but one didn’t hug one’s patients, even if one had already kissed them. Kissed his cheek. The rest had been entirely an accident.

So many accidents. Sometimes it felt like her life was one big accident, only Ava would say it wasn’t an accident if it happened often enough, it was just a way of doing what one wanted to do and then disclaiming responsibility.

“I wish you’d listened to the doctor better the first time and let him dress your leg,” Betsy blustered, as Holt struggled to swallow the tablet through the chills that shook him. She held a cup of water to his lips to wash it down. “Why didn’t you take any quinine? I thought all the men did. We’ve had cases in here of quinine poisoning from men taking too much.”

Holt tried to smile but his teeth were chattering too hard to manage it. “Didn’t think about it.”

“Just like you didn’t think about running in front of a bullet?” Betsy busied herself fussing with his sheets. “You’ve soaked through your bedding. I’ll get you some fresh. Although they’re moving you in an hour or so anyway. . . .”

Holt’s hand moved weakly against the bedclothes, his finger brushing hers. “Come . . . with . . . me.”

Betsy stared at him. Words jostled on her tongue. There was going to be another battle. It was just a short voyage.

But the Albania had been just a short voyage. Just one night. And there had been doctors on board there too.

For a moment she thought she could see Holt there, on the Albania, lying on that hard deck on that endless night, the priest’s beads clattering as he walked from dying man to dying man.

Betsy couldn’t breathe; her chest was tight. She couldn’t. She couldn’t go and she couldn’t stay; she didn’t know what to do. She could remember, so long ago, telling Charles that next time she’d be ready, next time she’d do better. What if this was next time?

And what if it wasn’t? How was she to know?

And how was she to assume she would do any better? After all, look at what had happened with Charles. . . .

“I’ll tell the next nurse on duty that you need clean sheets,” Betsy said, and fled, trying not to see the hurt on Holt’s face. But he didn’t know. He didn’t know how often she’d failed or how badly.

The next nurse on duty was Kit, grabbing a nap in the little room they used for rest when they could get it, and to store supplies. Kit was curled up on the cot, her buttoned boots poking out under the hem of her uniform, a uniform that, like the rest of theirs, hadn’t been changed in days. They boiled their aprons and put on new ones, but Betsy was pretty sure the dress underneath was glued to her for life.

“Time to wake up, sleepyhead,” she said with forced cheer. “You’re missing all the excitement.”

Kit scrunched herself up further. Betsy didn’t blame her. She felt the same way. She wanted to curl in a ball and pull a blanket over her head and not have to make any decisions. She could do that. She could take her four hours of rest and let the ship sail away without her and pretend it wasn’t her choice. But she’d know. She’d know she was letting Holt down. But if she went with Holt, she’d be letting Ava down, and Kit, and Paul, and all the men still out there. It was impossible.

“Come on. Arise and shame the dawn! Or is it shame the stars? I can never remember. Kit?” Betsy shook her friend gently by the shoulder.

Kit curled further in on herself, coughing a horrible, dry, hacking cough, like dead leaves in a graveyard.

Betsy knew that cough.

Dreading it, but knowing she had to, her hand went to Kit’s head. Betsy didn’t need the thermometer to tell her Kit was burning up. Kit had been so tired these past few days—but they’d all been so tired. She’d complained of stomachache—but they’d all been short on food, eating odd things at odd hours.

Betsy’s hands shook as she loosened the pin that held Kit’s collar. And there, beneath, on the skin of her neck, she could see a constellation of small red dots. She could try all she liked to claim it was heat rash or pimples or just wearing the same dress for two weeks, but she knew better.

“No, no, no, no, no.”

“What is it?” Ava bustled in, turning up her sleeves to scrub her hands at the washbasin.

“It’s Kit. Nurse Carson.” Ever since learning that Ava had been jealous of her new friends in Greece, Betsy had tried to protect Ava’s feelings by being more formal with Kit. “She has a fever.”

Ava didn’t hesitate. “I’ll tell Lawrence.”

“Wait!” He’d put Kit in the fever hospital. He’d put her in the fever hospital, where there might be—all right, there almost definitely was—yellow fever spreading. They might pretend otherwise all they liked, but Betsy had seen Sister Minnie. Moving Kit there, already weak with typhoid, would be nothing short of a death sentence. “Have you heard about the patients being moved out? They’re to be transferred tonight. Onto a hospital ship. Kit should go with them.”

Ava’s dark brows drew together. “If she has a fever . . .”

Betsy planted herself in front of Kit’s cot. “Half of them have fevers. We’ll keep her separate. I’ll keep her separate.” She’d made her decision without even realizing it. She looked anxiously at Ava. “If I were to go with them, could you manage here?”