Chapter 3

The dawn brought a bright and cheery day—one that would have been bright and cheery for any season, but which was especially nice for February. Caroline Devereaux smiled as she walked briskly up the steps of the school-turned-hospital. Charles was to be away this weekend, and this, she realised guiltily, made her even happier. No entertaining boring old men and their boring old wives; no disapproving looks if she laughed or showed a sign of enjoying herself; no harsh words at her small suggestions of what they might do together. It'll be lovely.

In all she was in a very good mood. She was looking forward to her work, to being useful both to the "real" nurses and to the patients. And, if she were honest, looking forward to blue eyes and curly hair.

After checking in with the matron, Mrs White, Caroline walked the ward to give a smiling greeting to each of the conscious patients before she began her real work of the day. She tended to be responsible for the simpler tasks, freeing up the sisters for the tougher cases. Her day was filled with taking and recording temperatures, changing some of the easier dressings, and helping the patients by emptying bedpans, replacing bed linens, bathing the men, and what she sometimes thought of as the most important thing: just spending time with them. Talking with them, reading them correspondence or books, and helping them write letters home seemed as crucial to their health as injections.

With a chuckle at herself she began in the ward so as to finish with Sergeant Foyle. She would be able to spend more time with him that way.

Foyle was awake when she walked in. His eyes followed her down the line of beds while she gave a smile and a nod to each patient. He received the same smile and nod. Or was there extra warmth in the smile directed his way?

No, it's just your overactive imagination, he chastised himself.

With disappointment he noticed she began her work far away from him, but he entertained himself with tracking her gradual progress through the ward. Presently it was time for his pain medicine, but a different nursing sister brought it to him and helped him sit up to take it. He requested that she leave him that way so that he could enjoy the beautiful day through the large arched windows. The nurse expertly fluffed pillows behind him and left him comfortable and able to observe the whole of the infirmary. And one nurse in particular.

What was this big squarish room with its gothic style windows, before? he wondered. A chapel? A room for assembly? He tried to remember from his quick look-through here before the war. Fifteen beds each side, filled with men bandaged in various ways. It was apparent from the marks on the floor that at times a centre row of beds was added.

A scan of the room told the young soldier that he certainly was not one of the most badly wounded. Miss Devereaux was just now helping an apparent adolescent with gauze over the right side of his face and his right arm missing from midway between his shoulder and where his elbow should have been. As Caroline pulled back sheets he could see further damage along the youngster's chest. The young man chatted happily with Nurse Devereaux even while grimacing often during the change of dressings. Foyle could see from their easy manner together and the signs of healing that the youth had been here for many days. How long will I be here? And then what? Back to the trenches, I'm sure. Britain could not long spare an experienced sergeant with all of his limbs still attached.

Nurse Devereaux started down the row of beds on his side, making it more difficult for him to surreptitiously watch her as closely. He glanced at her as often as possible but tried not to be obvious about it. At one point he was enormously discomfited to notice her giving a rather intimate sponge bath to a fellow soldier. The thought of Caroline Devereaux sponging his body—particularly that part of his body—both excited him and filled him with dread.

Her presence was already a stupefying distraction. She was lovely, yes; but he had seen women nearly as beautiful. With her, though, there was something else; an intensity when she looked at him that he'd never seen in any woman's eyes before. Oh God, please give me control over my body. Please, no sponge bath!

After decades had passed she finally was at his bedside, and they exchanged shy smiles.

"Hello, Sergeant Foyle. How are you feeling today?"

His eyes crinkled; nervously he tamped down his thrill. "Very well, thank you, Miss Devereaux."

"It's Mrs Devereaux, actually." She followed his eyes to her left hand. "Yes, well, Dr Lindsey is quite the tyrant about any jewellery. He believes it harbours dirt and that it's easier to scrub completely with no rings or bracelets or such. We leave them in the nurse's room at the beginning of our duty."

"Mrs Devereaux," he echoed hollowly, somewhat taken aback. Then he flashed a wan smile up at her and asked, "What sort of treatment do you have for me?"

"I'll be changing the dressing on your shoulder, sterilising your wound, and helping you clean up a bit." She smiled the smile that he could feel to the bottom of his feet. "I must warn you that sometimes patients find the cleaning of the wound and changing of the dressing—umm—unpleasant."

Foyle raised his eyebrow. "Sometimes?"

They both chuckled nervously. She removed the dressing on his shoulder carefully; still Foyle could not keep from wincing. With an apologetic frown she began to dab the wound with disinfectant.

His shoulder was on fire. He breathed out a groan. Oh my God, the pain.

"Done with the front. It's looking quite good. Now lean forward so I can clean the back."

Foyle leaned forward. Mrs Devereaux braced him with her left arm while she quickly but thoroughly cleaned the exit wound. At one point he gasped and reflexively gripped her arm. "Almost finished," she murmured, holding back tears at the thought that she was hurting him.

The pain eased and he self-consciously released her arm.

"Hold still while I get a dressing on your back." She efficiently bandaged him and eased him back on the pillows. "Is sitting up all right, or do you need to lie back?"

"Sitting up is fine," he replied, though his voice cracked slightly.

Caroline applied a new dressing to the wound on the sergeant's upper chest.

"Stay right here while I dispose of these dressings and I'll bring a basin of warm water for a bath."

She laughed softly at his stricken, wide-eyed look. Heavens, he's adorable. "I think you'll be able to bathe yourself for the most part. I'll just help with some of the more impersonal but hard-to-reach spots."

Christopher was able to wash himself with only a modicum of help from the lovely young Mrs Devereaux.

"Is there anything else I can help you with?" she asked him hopefully.

"Yesss… I do need to write to my mother. She's staying with my aunt in Leicester and she won't have had word about my wounding or my being here in England."

"Very well, I'll fetch paper and pen and we'll get word to her."

TBC...