Chapter 4

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Sergeant."

Christopher had to drop his glance when Nurse Devereaux heard that his father had just died; the genuine sympathy and caring emanating from her eyes moved him nearly to tears. Foyle had tried at first to write a line of the letter, as it was his left arm that was most debilitated, but even penning the salutation seemed to command more coordination than he yet had, and he began to tremble so that he felt faintly sick. Gratefully he had allowed "his" nurse to take over.

"I think I've finally got used to the idea that he's gone," he admitted to her, "but I worry awfully about Mother. My aunt said in her letter that she seems to have lost interest in everything, since learning about Dad."

"Yes…" Caroline's eyes took on a distant look. "Sometimes that's the way, when two people are so close."

Christopher examined her expression, and had a sudden thought. "Um… is—is your husband… ?"

She realised what he was thinking, and shook her head. Her smile was an enigmatic blend of reassurance and irony. "Er, no… no, my husband Charles is an MP… not a soldier." She shook her head. "Not in danger."

Christopher had the oddest sense that it wasn't just because Charles' work was relatively safe that Caroline showed little of the fear or emotion a soldier's wife would do. Instinctively he knew that the "two people so close" to whom she had referred were not her spouse and herself. He furrowed his brow. Why are you relieved to learn that? You know very well that nothing can come of this if she is married. Disappointment flooded through him, followed by despair. As if you'd want to make any woman wait for you, when you'll most likely end up dead…

Caroline watched the play of emotions over the soldier's face. That was the fascinating thing about this young man; he could be so still and inscrutable, and yet have so many of his thoughts show in the quirks of his mouth; in his clear, sweet eyes… she realised all at once that she and Christopher were gazing at each other far too deeply and long.

Foyle shook his head to clear it, but did not smile. "I'm… I'm glad of that."

The nurse gave him a weak smile of gratitude, and read back to him the letter they had begun. "Dearest Mum, In case the news came through to you that I have been wounded, I want to reassure you that I am all right. It is not a severe wound, but I shall have to rest for about a month while I heal. I am not far from home and may even be able to recuperate there for part of the time. Aunt Ivy wrote that you have been melancholy, and that worries me…"

"I wonder if she is ill and they just aren't telling me," he mused suddenly.

Are those tears in his eyes? Her heart lurched.

"Sergeant Foyle…" Caroline rose and brushed one unruly lock of hair from his brow. The look he cast up at her was filled with pain, but she knew it had nothing to do with his shoulder.

"Please…" he fixed his soft gaze on her again. "Won't you call me Christopher?"

She smiled softly, turning her hand to brush his temple with the backs of her fingers. He was in need of a shave, and the shadow of his beard was just visible. He shivered, and she had to shut her eyes.

"Only if you'll consent to call me Caroline." She tried to say it lightly, but her heart was beginning to pound. What do you think you're doing?

But she had never felt anything like this before, not towards anyone. The sharp, almost-painful pleasure of it was exhilarating, thrilling, and irresistible. She knew it was wrong and yet that seemed to be part of the excitement of it. One more look into his eyes and she knew that this was what it was to 'be in love'; and to feel more yearning than she ever had before. She felt dizzy, and had to sit down.

She was very still, perched there on the portable seat. His eyes on hers were full of concern, hers downcast. She abruptly took a gulp of a breath, shook her head minutely, and stood.

"Ser—" She paused. "Christopher, I must go. I'll see you tomorrow."

He tightly shut and then slowly reopened his eyes as she walked briskly away, then ran his hand wearily over his face.

As she was leaving the building a few minutes later, the head matron called to her.

"Mrs Devereaux" —Mrs White, who otherwise treated her well, always spoke her name as if it tasted foul— "Mrs Devereaux, I hate to ask, but would you be available at all to help this weekend?"

Caroline hesitated, thinking about the hour she had just spent with Sergeant Foyle. She enjoyed her work most times, she hoped to be of use; needed this feeling of helping the brave young men. Above all she craved the company of one brave young man who had quickly become more than important to her. And that was a problem.

She snapped her head up decisively and replied, "Yes, Mrs White, I'd be happy to help this weekend."

The next two days, Thursday and Friday, passed in much the same way. A routine was established. The only bed next to Foyle held a seldom-conscious man, so without anyone to talk with, Foyle would frequently look up from his book to watch Caroline as she worked in the ward—he would carefully behave as if he wasn't watching her, and she would act as if she wasn't aware of his surveillance. Then, after spending the majority of the day ignoring each other, they would end the day together.

She would minister to his wounds, help him walk as needed, now he was gaining a bit of strength; change his linens and help him shave or bathe. After these duties she would sit by his bedside and they would talk: books, music, fishing, birding, and childhood memories. Caroline would leave when the orderlies began to serve the evening meal, and Foyle would anxiously await her return.

There was entirely too much time for thinking, and since Caroline had told him she was married, Foyle had been thinking too much. She had told him too late—he had already begun to fall in love, and the quickness of his fall worried him slightly. Rationally, he knew that a young man fresh from the battlefield, wounded and also grieving the loss of a loved one, might look to the first kind woman for comfort. Emotionally, he knew that there was nothing false about his regard for Caroline. He had never felt this intensely about anyone; he had never desired a woman with as much fervour as he desired Caroline Devereaux.

Devereaux—there was the crux of the problem. Surely he couldn't be in love with a married woman. And to Charles Devereaux!

Charles Devereaux, who had been elected to Parliament just before the war and whose family had held land near Brighton since Christ was a corporal. It was an entirely untenable situation. She was married—married to gentry—and he was just a policeman's son destined to return to the bloody trenches.

To add to Christopher's strangely enjoyable misery, Caroline had scarcely any time with him on Saturday. As Head Nurse White had expected, several casualties were admitted into the ward that morning, and the doctors and most of the nurses were hard at work for such long hours that Nurse Devereaux was helping with everything for which she was even remotely qualified.

Sunday morning Foyle looked up to see her arrive, looking utterly exhausted. Two of the younger nurses intercepted her just inside one of the doors and, after swiftly darting glances to see if Old Dragon White were about, asked for a word. Then (just casting his eyes slightly upward while appearing to read his book) he saw them briefly look his way and then whisper in a huddle as conspiratorial as the three little maids from school. By the time Caroline arrived at his bedside, she was smiling with a touch of embarrassment.

"Some of my sisters believe I should have lighter duty after yesterday's rush. They claim you improve markedly when I sit with you, so for both your sake and mine, I should be allowed to do so for most of today."

His eyes widened. "Don't they know that… ?" Well. Perhaps they don't mean it that way…

She ducked her head sheepishly, and he furrowed his brow, bemused.

Leaning a little closer, she answered quietly, "They do. But they are very taken with the romance of it all. You know, Lancelot and Guinevere, and all that."

TBC...