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The top floor of the central block was given over to staff bedrooms. “But you’ll be housed in a more private area,” Mrs. Willis (‘Please call me Beth’) said. Separated from the male staff, she meant. Other than Beth, who said that she lived in a suite in the west wing, and Diana, there were only two other women in residence: the cook, who lived near her kitchen domains, and Clarissa Somersby. Not only was Miss Somersby the school’s headmistress, but the last family member in residence. She’d hardly be living in an attic floor bedroom.
The infirmary was at the end of the east wing on the second floor, an airy, high-ceilinged space with freshly whitewashed walls and a long line of windows that gave it the feel of a mini-cathedral. There were four beds set up, with room for twice that if needed, and Diana gave a delighted half laugh when shown the connecting examination room that doubled as an office. Situated in one of the turrets, it had a view right over the rooftops to the river. If she stood on tiptoe, she could just see part of the bridge over which she’d come.
“I hope you like it,” Beth said. “Our last nurse was a bit old-fashioned. She’d been here since the school opened in 1898, and the space reflected that. Miss Somersby gave me leave to update things. I hope it’s acceptable.”
“Acceptable? I spent the last three years in field hospitals and military tents. This is beyond beautiful.” Diana turned away from the window and surveyed the pale oak desk, the cream-and-blue rug over freshly stained floorboards, the examination table covered in a white drape so clean that it looked as though it would actively repel anything except minor colds and sprained ankles. More softly, she added, “It almost makes me feel guilty.”
“Don’t.” The word came out with a sharpness that was surprising from the mild-faced secretary. “Don’t feel guilty. My husband died in a field hospital near Verdun. He lived for three days before infection took him. I know what the nurses did for him there—I know they sat with him and helped him write a last letter to me and the boys. I know he was not alone when he died. So don’t ever feel guilty about life being better now. You deserve it.”
Diana blinked, then squeezed Beth’s hand. “We all deserve it.”
From the infirmary, Beth led her to a door that opened onto a corridor with lower ceilings and uneven floors.
“Fifteenth-century manor house,” Beth said. “Built strongly enough to be worth preserving all this time.”
Even if Beth hadn’t confirmed it, Diana realized they’d crossed into a much older section of the house. The walls were stone and very thick, judging by how deep-set the windows were. Diana’s bedroom was the lone unoccupied one in a short corridor with four rooms. One of them had been converted into a large bathroom that, even in September, made Diana shiver with cold and hope the water ran hot in the bath. The bedroom’s low-beamed ceiling, charming angles, and linenfold paneling were generations removed from the décor of the main house, but the large fireplace and bright linens made it cozy.
Thankfully, her trunks had arrived. After bidding Beth a temporary goodbye and promising to join her and her boys for dinner that night, Diana set about unpacking. As comfortable as her motoring clothes were, she couldn’t stay in them forever.
She only made it partway into her “I am a respectable nurse to be trusted with the health of ninety boys and not to be disturbed by fifteen male teachers” transformation. Her blue-striped shirtwaist and gray flannel skirt were demure enough. But she had just taken her hair out of its tight braids (the better to fit her helmet on) and it was still in a riot of loose, tangled curls when she heard a quick rapping on the door. “Come in,” she called, figuring it was Beth with something she’d forgotten.
But the woman who entered was clearly not a secretary. Though Diana had not met her in person, she was certain this was Clarissa Somersby, headmistress of Havencross. She looked younger than Diana had expected, and prettier. Weren’t all headmistresses gray-haired and iron-browed? Miss Somersby had dark hair pulled back in satin-smooth loops to frame a delicately-boned face and cheekbones Diana would have killed for. Even when she’d lost weight as an overworked battlefront nurse, her face had remained stubbornly round. Diana had always described herself as average height, average weight, average hair color somewhere between brown and mousy blond. Mostly it didn’t bother her, except when facing a woman like this.
In a plummy upper-class voice, the woman said, “I am Miss Somersby. I know we’re meant to meet later, but I wanted to ensure everything is in order. You are content with what you’ve seen thus far?”
Calling upon hard-won lessons about dignity and strength no matter if one had been working twenty-four hours straight and had blood up to their elbows, Diana straightened her back and said, “More than content. Havencross seems a lovely school, and the infirmary is wonderfully modern. Especially considering where I’ve been.”
“Good.” Miss Somersby took in Diana’s tousled hair and the driving coat tossed across the bed. “I have no objection to your motorcycle, but of course the boys are not to be allowed near it.”
As if Diana would risk her precious Douglas. “Of course not.”
“Then I will see you in my office in one hour, Miss Neville.” She paused and, in a much cooler tone, added, “It is a northern name, Neville. Are you part of that particular historical line?”
“As in the Wars of the Roses and Warwick the Kingmaker? If so, it’s very distant. My family has been in London for generations. The only war we know is the current one.”
Apparently Miss Somersby was not one for small talk. As abruptly as she’d entered, she was gone, leaving the door open. Diana blew out her breath and went to the dressing table to tame her hair into proper order.
Behind her, the door slammed shut with a suddenness that made her drop the hairbrush. An unexpected gust of air from the window she’d opened? Or Clarissa Somersby, deciding to … what? Warn her new employee to always be on her guard?
But on guard against what?
CHAPTER FIVE
DIANA
SEPTEMBER 1918
The boys began to arrive three days later. The staff was kept busy in every corner of the house: checking students in, overseeing luggage, tactfully separating parents as quickly as possible from the younger boys while keeping the older boys from running wild. Diana spent nearly six straight hours in her new office.
It was her job to accept any updated medical records for returning students and go through a thorough health history with the parents of new ones. It was a luxury she’d rarely had—to make note of such minor issues as measles and chicken pox, a broken ankle from falling out of a tree or stitches from a bicycle accident. She reassured the anxious mother of an asthmatic nine-year-old that his physical activity would be closely monitored and politely deflected a father who wanted assurances his son wouldn’t be coddled despite a bout of rheumatic fever last winter.
Some of the parents had lost older sons in the war; some of the boys had lost their fathers. Diana listened patiently to a mother whose only child was beginning here this fall.
“I didn’t want to send him away,” she admitted. “My husband has been in France since 1915 and has only just been invalided out with lung damage. But Luke has been asking me for a year to go away to school. I’ve told him he can change his mind at any time, that I’ll come get him at once if he wants to come away. I just wish I knew what was best to do.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Diana said reassuringly. “He’ll be well watched over.”
“Truthfully,” the mother said, in a much softer voice, “I think he’s glad to get away from home. His father is not … not exactly as he was before. Too much noise, too much bother. The littlest things make him angry.”
