Page 58 of The Forgotten Boy

Joshua nodded in the direction of Clarissa and Mrs. McCann gathering bowls and talking to the four ill boys. “Everyone here is set for now. Come hide with me for a moment and talk.”

It was probably just that she was tired, but Diana was having a harder time than usual shoving Viliers-Bretoneux back into its box. Joshua pulled her into an alcove beneath the grand staircase and sat her down on the curving bench built into the space. He put his palm to her forehead.

“I don’t have a fever,” she said sharply.

“I know. You’re cold and clammy.”

“Very sexy.”

He tried to squat down in front of her but his left leg was too stiff, so he settled next to her instead. “Diana, I know shock when I see it. And I know its aftermath. You were shaky when we were in the hidden passageway. Claustrophobia is a common—”

“I’m not claustrophobic!” She got herself under control. “Or at least, I never was. Before.”

“Before what?”

She had never talked about it. She’d told her doctors in France that she didn’t remember anything, and insisted the same to her mother before fleeing from her family’s smothering concern.

She began slowly. “I was working in a field hospital in Viliers-Bretoneux last spring. We had set up in an old manor house. It wasn’t near the front; there’d been no action near us for months. Until, all at once, there was.

“It’s the refugees you see first,” she told him, and saw Joshua nod in remembrance. “Streaming from the east. The decision was made to evacuate the patients five miles back. I was helping clear the postsurgery ward when I heard the incoming shell.”

Her body twitched, a physical manifestation of remembered panic.

“It hit just at the right spot on the manor—the roof and all three floors came down in seconds. I don’t remember a lot … not that I can describe … just that feeling. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t see, I was buried beneath layers of stone and wood, and there was dust in my lungs, and I was afraid they’d go and leave me and no one would find me.”

He held her hand firmly, an anchor in this moment, which was not that moment. Never again that moment, she reminded herself. She was out. She was safe. She could breathe.

After twenty-seven breaths, she could go on. “Thirteen of us were buried when the shell hit. I was the only one they pulled out alive.” She laughed shakily; Joshua looked unconvinced by it. “Anyway, that is the story of why I don’t like secret passages or tunnels or anything that has the ability to bury me alive at any moment.”

With an indistinct murmur of sympathy, Joshua wrapped his arms around her, and she let herself sink into his steadiness and warmth. Here, she thought, was someone she could trust to hold her up no matter what.

Someone cleared their throat, and Diana pulled out of Joshua’s embrace.

Mrs. McCann said, “Miss Neville, Lawrence’s nose is bleeding again. And there are dark spots on his face.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

DIANA

NOVEMBER 1918

When Dr. Bennett arrived that evening, he agreed with Diana that both Lawrence Dean and an eleven-year-old with a worrying cough should be transported to hospital. Lawrence had dark red spots on his face, and both boys were beginning to struggle with their breathing. They had the gardener hitch up the wagon and lay mattresses and blankets on the benches to cushion the boys. Diana was torn between going with them and staying with the others, but Dr. Bennett promised to drive his motorcar slowly behind the wagon so he could keep an eye on what was happening.

Diana was accustomed to events moving quickly—field hospitals were nothing but chaos punctuated by brief moments of calm—but even so, the speed with which the flu took hold at Havencross shocked her. Within four days, ten of the fifteen boys had been moved to the dining hall infirmary, and so had the gardener. Dr. Bennett phoned Havencross just before noon on Friday, exhausted and harried, and told her he’d try to come by that evening.

“I’ve been in hospital all night,” he reported. “Your boys are stable for now, but I don’t like the look of Lawrence Dean. I’ve got him on oxygen, but he might be progressing to pneumonia.”

“You sound tired.”

“So do you. At least I’m not the only medical officer in hospital.”

“How many patients are you coping with there?”

“Twice as many as we have room for, and they keep coming. The damned Armistice celebrations might almost have been designed to spread infection. I’ll do my best to come round tonight. But I’m telling you right now, unless someone is in very bad condition, they’ll get better treatment with you than they will in hospital. I’ll do what I can to round you up a relief nurse, or at least another pair of hands.”

Her heart sank, but she tried to keep it out of her voice. “I understand. Don’t worry—I’m used to functioning in chaos.”

Which was true enough, but she’d never borne the sole responsibility of care. And if she’d thought the soldiers she’d cared for too young for what they faced, what was she to make of schoolboys? Wearily, Diana replaced her mask and went to the kitchen to speak to Beth Willis.

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