A Rose in No-Man's Land (20 page)

“God, Amy.” A pulse convulsed in his jaw.

“Please.” Her eyes glistened with tears. “Why should we wait for a marriage certificate? It’s only a piece of paper. I’ll go to England if you promise me one thing.”

“Anything, darling.” In his heart he knew he couldn’t promise her much at all. Certainly not what she deserved. A loving husband and a family.

“Let me stay here tonight with you. I couldn’t bear to be alone.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Yes, I do. When I get to England, you can spend your leave with me. No one would know we aren’t married.”

“I shouldn’t let you take such a risk.” His protest sounded weak, even to his own ears. What kind of despicable bastard would let her sacrifice herself like this?

“We don’t have much time,” she whispered.

A few days, weeks maybe, if their luck held. That’s all they had. Amy didn’t know, but in less than a week the British had sustained over a hundred thousand casualties, and the French army had been virtually wiped out at Verdun. He wasn’t prepared to traumatize her further by putting into words the likelihood of him not returning from the next battle.

“All right,” he agreed, knowing full well he deserved to be flogged for accepting what she offered so generously. He could not deny himself, not when war shrouded every Somme valley with death.

As they left the dining room, he nodded to several officers, and Amy felt her cheeks redden at the knowing smirks cast their way.
I don’t
care what they think,
she told herself fiercely.
I won’t let anything spoil these precious few hours.

They made their way to her room without speaking. When they got to her door, she fumbled with the lock.

“Let me.” A quick flick of his wrist and the door swung back.

Her mouth dried up; her accelerated heartbeat rolled like a drumbeat in her ear.

“You can still change your mind,” he rasped.

Only she couldn’t, because when the lamp flared into life, it showed raw, desperate hunger burning in his eyes. He needed her more now than ever before, and she needed him. Her need for him was overwhelming, all consuming.

“No, Mark, this night is ours. No one can take it away from us.”

“Amy.” Drawing in a deep breath, he gathered her close. “I love you so much, it seems a lifetime since we stayed in Paris.”

His mouth closed over hers and he kissed her hungrily, straining her to him until their bodies fused together in a wild fever of urgency. Her whole body stiffened, then trembled. She started sobbing and couldn’t stop.

“Darling, don’t cry so.”

She became so distraught he had to undress her. He laid her on the bed and dragged off his own clothes. Sliding in beside her he held her close, and her skin felt as cold as death.

“It’s all right, my love, it’s all right,” he soothed. “You’re safe with me.”

Still the terrible weeping continued, the sobs dredged from the depth of her soul itself. It was truly awful, knowing how much she suffered yet not being able to do anything to ease her pain. He did the only thing he could, held her, crooned words of comfort, and let the heat from his own body infuse warmth into hers. Finally, when she was absolutely spent and collapsing against him, the sobbing ceased.

On the one hand he felt frustrated and somehow cheated because his more carnal desire would not be met tonight, but on the other, he was glad he could ignore his own needs and put his mind and body into comforting her, something he had never done in the past for any woman. It put his feelings for Amy onto a special plane, something so exquisite it transcended anything he’d ever felt before. She had changed him into a better, more decent person.

Amy trembled with exhaustion. Mark had expected to make love to her tonight, but she had a greater need of comfort just now, needing him to warm her cold body and give her back her soul. To lift her out of the black depths of despair so she could once more see the light.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He didn’t even pretend to not know what she meant. “It’s all right, my darling. I shouldn’t have expected anything from you, not after what you’ve been through. My beautiful, sweet girl, how can I ever bear to say goodbye?”

“When do you have to go back?” She ran her fingertips across his chest.

“Tomorrow.”

“So soon?”

“Yes. Before I go, I’ll make arrangements so you can leave for England straight away.” He rested his head on her breast. “There’s an address in Marylebone where you can stay until I arrange something else. It’s a large terrace house. The owner lets out rooms, but don’t worry, she’s discreet. It’s only a couple of miles from Hyde Park, so you could walk into London if you felt energetic.”

“I wish you could come back with me now.”

“You can’t want it any more than I do.” He gave a heavy, heartfelt sigh. “It’s safe in England. I won’t worry so much about you there.”

“I…I don’t have any money.”

“Everything will be taken care of. I’ll give you a letter to my bank so you can draw funds at any time.”

“When will you be able to join me?”

“A few weeks, maybe. There’s a big push on soon because we have to consolidate our position before winter comes.”

“I’ll never forget what we’ve shared, Mark, no matter what happens,” she assured him softly.

Chapter 11

Amy glanced around London’s Victoria Station in bewilderment. What an enormous cavernous place, with its soaring roof and intricate iron lacework. Everyone, civilians and soldiers alike, seemed to know where they were going except her. Slouch-hatted Australians thronged the platforms, but they seemed to be in groups, and on her own she dared not approach them.

The channel crossing had been quite pleasant; she would have enjoyed it given different circumstances. Mark’s farewell—no, she mustn’t dwell on that now, otherwise she would start blubbering in public. If only he could have come to England as well, how much easier things would be.

You have the Marylebone address written down on a piece of paper and a purse full of English money, so what’s wrong with you, Smithfield? Get a taxi cab and stop dithering like an old woman.
She picked up the brown leather case Mark had provided, tossed her head back, and followed the crowds of soldiers who jostled and shoved each other as they made for the exit.

On the channel crossing, an English nurse had told her the YMCA arranged leave hostels for soldiers who did not have “an address.” They could get a bed for nine pence and a decent meal for the same price. If she couldn’t find the Marylebone place, she might be able to stay there too.

The Australian Imperial Forces (A.I.F.) headquarters was on Horseferry Road. She would go there once she settled in, to find out exactly where she stood regarding the Army Nursing Service. Would Ella’s spite follow her across the English Channel? Would her papers be stamped
Dishonorable Discharge
? It was dreadful not knowing her exact status. Maybe one of the Australian army hospitals in London would allow her to nurse there.

This thought brought a spring to her step because she could help the boys while filling in time waiting for Mark.

She gave the lady porter her ticket with a smile and tightened her grip on her case.

“We’ll meet up at Big Ben for Christmas.” The pact she had made with Guy, Jules, and Billy at a dance in Kilmore suddenly came back to haunt her because she was the only one of them who had made it to England.

The summer sun and the bright blue of an English sky could not warm the icicles forming around her heart when she thought of her two dead friends and her wounded cousin.

A talkative cab driver took her to the address Mark had written down. “Charles Dickens used to live in Marylebone, miss. Royalty used to come here, too.”

“How interesting. I didn’t know that.”

“Seems strange driving a young Australian lady around. Now your soldiers, I’ve ferried plenty of them about. You must be a nation of giants. Every one of them is over six feet tall.”

“It’s the sun and our wide-open spaces, I suppose.” Her heart filled with heaviness as she thought of all the fine young men slaughtered on Gallipoli, and the ones who lay dying even now on the blood-soaked fields of France.

They pulled up outside a large terrace house, one of many set in a crescent around a pretty green field. “Here we are, miss. Like me to help you inside with your case?”

“No, I’m all right, thank you.” She paid the driver, and stood watching as his motorized cab chugged away.

Slowly she walked toward the front door, hesitating for a moment before rapping her knuckles against the woodwork.

“Mrs. St. John?” Amy queried the thin, sharp-faced woman who opened the door.

“Yes.”

Amy handed her Mark’s letter and waited. What if there wasn’t a room? What if Mark’s name didn’t mean anything to the woman?

The woman’s lip curled slightly. “A top-floor suite is available.” With a sniff, she shoved the letter into her pocket. “Bedroom, parlor, and scullery. Four pounds a week.”

“Four pounds!” Amy couldn’t hide her shock. The price was outrageous.

“Fully furnished,” Mrs. St. John snapped. “If you don’t wish to accept it…”

“No, I’ll take it. I’m sorry, it just seemed a lot of money.” Discretion did not come cheap. Had Mark arranged for other women to share this address with him? Did some wealthy friend boast about setting his mistress up in a place like this? She couldn’t decide which of the scenarios was worse.

I won’t think like this. I mustn’t. Mark loves me. I have to believe that. We only want some happiness now before the carnage in France swallows him up for all eternity.

With goose-bumps pebbling the skin of her arms, she followed the woman up a carpeted stairway to a landing where a stained glass window dominated all of one wall. They turned into a passageway, walking a little farther until they came to a second flight of stairs. The highly polished banisters glistened, and a strong smell of beeswax polish permeated the air.

“Here we are,” Mrs. St. John said, pointedly not addressing Amy by any name whatsoever. “You’ll have your own key, of course. I don’t encourage visitors—understand?”

“Yes.”
I get the message loud and clear. You don’t want me entertaining a string of different men.
Did the woman think her a common prostitute? Bile soured her throat, and she swallowed down its bitterness.

When Mrs. St. John flung the door open, Amy hesitated. Once she put even one toe over the threshold, she was committed. There could be no turning back. Amy Smithfield would be Mark Tremayne’s mistress until he could make her his wife, or until a bullet with his name on it separated them forever.

On shaking legs, she took the step.

“If you need a personal maid, I happen to know of a girl,” Mrs. St. John said.

“Thank you, but I can look after myself.”

“As you wish.” Mrs. St. John gave another audible sniff. “I live in the back section on the ground floor, should you require anything.”

The large airy bedroom contained a double bed with matching dresser and wardrobes, in a rich honey-colored wood. Sprigged wall paper covered the walls, and an enormous mat rested on highly polished floorboards. A small sitting room was similarly decorated, Amy noticed, as she saw Mrs. St. John to the door.

Putting her meager belongings in one of the cavernous wardrobes, she noticed fine bed linen and towels laid out across the top shelf. The tiny scullery had a small potbellied stove suitable only for boiling a kettle. Obviously those who normally rented apartments such as these ate elsewhere. The Savoy or the Ritz?

A giant oak tree with leafy branches towered above the roof. She opened the window to let in some fresh warm air. On a distant rise, the spire of a stone church soared skyward.

Would she ever go back to the Australian bush? A sudden longing for the spaciousness of home and the rough untamed scrubland almost overwhelmed her. Would she ever see Guy, Sophie, and baby Elizabeth? Ever smell the perfume of the eucalypts or pick the golden wattle blooming in the gullies? Only if Mark wants us to, or if… No, she mustn’t think like this or she would drive herself crazy.

I’ll write to Guy tonight and let him know I’ve arrived in England safely. I’ll put my address down as c/o A.I.F. headquarters, so he won’t worry.

“You coward,” she castigated herself out loud. “Why don’t you tell him the truth?” She never would, because the worry would just about kill Sophie. There was also the fear of losing not only their good opinion but their love, if they knew her position. Mark Tremayne’s mistress.

Would they still welcome her back home? Dear God, she must stop punishing herself like this. Was it too much to ask for her and Mark to have a little happiness together?

****

War news dominated the papers, and Amy trembled every time she read the casualty lists. If Mark got wounded, or worse, who would they notify? Not her, that was a certainty.

“Good morning, Mrs. St. John,” Amy said as the woman minced past her and all but pushed her into a rose bush.

What a pious, two-faced old biddy. Going to church several times a week, condemning me, yet making money out of what she obviously considers an immoral lifestyle.

I’ll walk into London today.
Having explored all over the Marylebone area, she decided it was time to venture further afield and not waste such a lovely warm day. In a few weeks, the English summer would be gone, so she must make the most of it now.

She dashed inside for a hat, gloves, and bag, and set off humming “Roses of Picardy.”

A mixture of military and civilian personnel filled the London streets. Two young slouch-hatted soldiers, dressed in their blue walking-out hospital suits, passed close by, and she smiled at them.

“G’day, boys.”

“You’re an Aussie, miss?” They jostled each other excitedly. “What are you doing in London?” asked the one with a patch over one eye.

“I’m living here for the moment.” A well-dressed couple walked past, casting a look so full of disapproval that Amy wanted to push them into the gutter.