Page 32 of Two Wars and a Wedding

This angel wasn’t on the mantelpiece anymore. Even knowing what she knew, even having seen the things she’d seen, Betsy couldn’t help but feel the thrill of that call to action down to her toes. For that moment, she would have been willing to follow Clara Barton anywhere.

“The captain has his orders. We sail at once for Siboney.”

Miss Barton surveyed the room, making sure to look every person there in the eye, so that each doctor, each nurse felt sure that she was talking to her and her alone.

“It is to the Rough Riders we go. The relief may also be rough, but it will be ready. You will be ready.”

And with that, Clara Barton turned and swept out to begin the thousand necessary preparations, leaving Betsy feeling not the least bit ready at all. But having set events in motion, she had no idea how to make them stop.

Chapter Eight

Darling Ava,

Delphi was most informative. I cannot be persuaded that the god speaks out of the rock—or that the French know how to excavate properly—but I did come away knowing a great deal more about myself and my place in the world. γνῶθι σεαυτόν, quoth the oracle according to Pausanius. Know thyself.

Just because I don’t believe the Greek gods existed doesn’t meant they didn’t sometimes speak sense.

I can just imagine the look you would be giving me right now! I’ll stop writing rubbish and just say I came away from Delphi more determined than ever to make my mark on Corinth. It’s what I’m meant to do. I’m sure of it.

Professor Richardson will have to change his mind about letting me excavate. I won’t let him do otherwise.

Aren’t you proud of my resolution and purpose? And wouldn’t you like to come over here and see for yourself?

All my love,

Betsy

—Miss Betsy Hayes ’96 to Ava Saltonstall ’96

Delphi, Greece

November 1896

“Stop,” Betsy murmured.

She couldn’t quite remember why they needed to stop; it was hard to remember anything with Monsieur de Robecourt kissing a spot on the side of her neck she’d never known she had. She could feel the sun on her face as she tilted her head back, her body wanting more even as her brain was starting to come out of its stupor and remind her that there was something not quite right about this, even if it all felt quite right, better than right, Monsieur de Robecourt’s hands beneath the jacket of her walking suit, burning through the fabric of her chemise, making her feel as though there were no fabric there at all. The bow at her neck had come untied; it slithered to the ground, her shirt gaping open, providing more access, at the base of her neck, the top of her chemisette. . . .

“Stop. We have to stop,” Betsy gasped, although the gasp was a different sort of gasp altogether.

She could feel herself pressing toward him even as she pushed away. Somehow, she’d wound up sprawled against one of the plinths of the stoa, half standing, half reclining, her legs wrapped around Monsieur de Robecourt’s, her hands beneath his shirt, charting the fascinating geography of skin and muscle beneath her fingers.

“Stop,” he echoed, lifting his head, so that his face was above hers, his hat long gone, his hair tousled, his eyes glowing like warm brandy. His mouth was partly open, his lips swollen with her kisses. Betsy knew if she leaned her head back just the littlest bit and closed her eyes he would kiss her again . . . and again . . .

She yanked her hands out from under his jacket and pressed them against his chest, as much to stop herself as him. “What—what just happened?”

A lock of hair fell over Monsieur de Robecourt’s eye. “I believe one would call it a kiss.”

A kiss? A kiss was a peck one exchanged under the mistletoe. This—Betsy could feel the cold air on the exposed skin of her chest, making her shiver with something other than cold, as if she could still feel his lips and hands on her, waking up bits of her she’d scarcely known were there.

“But . . .” It was hard to muster the words when all she wanted was to slide her arms back around his neck and draw him down to her. His eyes had drifted to her lips. Betsy licked them, forcing out the words, “Aren’t you—aren’t you married?”

Monsieur de Robecourt pressed his eyes shut hard. “Ah.”

“Ah?” Betsy’s stomach lurched.

He opened his eyes, looking at her ruefully. “I suppose Aikaterini told you.”

For a moment, Betsy could only stare at him. She’d been waiting for him to say—oh, something. His wife had died and Aikaterini hadn’t heard of it. His wife had run off and the Pope was in the process of annulling the marriage.