Page 4 of Two Wars and a Wedding

Betsy could see Sister Bettina taking in the Paris traveling suit, which had been beautifully fitted two years ago, when Betsy had stopped to shop in Paris on her way to Greece and academic glory. It hung from Betsy’s reduced frame.

“You’re not sickly, are you?”

Betsy put her shoulders back and bared her teeth. “Strong as a horse. Although I be small, yet I be fierce.”

“Hmm,” said the nursing sister. She shuffled through the papers in front of her, pausing at one. “You come very highly recommended—by Queen Olga of Greece?”

Betsy gave a modest wave of her hand. “I did some work with the Red Cross there.”

Sister Bettina’s eyes narrowed. “Bandage-rolling parties are all very well, but our work here requires skill and dedication. We face hardship and spartan conditions in a climate that can only be termed inhospitable.”

Betsy cut the nursing sister off before she could say more. “It was hot in Greece too.” Did the woman want hardship and spartan conditions? She could tell her about all of it. About the smell of putrefying flesh, the sound the flies made as they buzzed closer, drawn by blood. “It doesn’t matter if they’re speaking Greek or English. I’ve seen men die before.”

Sister Bettina was not impressed. “Our goal, Miss Hayes, isn’t to watch them die but to keep them alive.”

Sometimes there wasn’t much choice. Sometimes they died anyway.

But she couldn’t say that. Not when she needed Sister Bettina to take her on. “I’ll do my best.” When the sister looked unconvinced, Betsy added, “I spent three months patching up wounded men in the midst of a war zone. I have some experience with field dressings.”

She didn’t mind mangled limbs. There was something strangely satisfying about sewing together torn flesh and watching it knit. It was the fever that terrified her, that invisible foe, leaving men sweating and gasping, convulsing as the enemy attacked from within. A familiar face made strange with pain, eyes glassy and unseeing.

Sister Bettina sighed. “We’re not so well-staffed we can turn down a trained nurse.”

“You’re taking me on?” Betsy didn’t know whether to be delighted or run away screaming.

“Final approval will rest with Miss Barton, but . . . yes. Collect a uniform and we’ll find you a berth.”

“A berth?” Betsy was still making sense of the ship as a temporary hospital; she certainly hadn’t expected to live there. “But—I’ve booked a room at the Tampa Bay Hotel.”

“You’ll just have to cancel it, then. We all live and work here on the ship,” Sister Bettina explained. “Our work calls us at all hours and we must be here for it.”

“But the war hasn’t started yet.” This was not good. How was she meant to grab Ava, talk some sense into her, and shove her onto the nearest train for Boston if they were stuck on a ship?

Sister Bettina regarded her with something very like impatience. “Men don’t wait for the bugles to blow to fall ill. There are refugees and prisoners of war in dire straits. They won’t wait for us to come from the Tampa Bay Hotel.”

She made Betsy feel about six inches tall. In another life, Betsy might have agreed with her. She’d felt that way once. Full of zeal for the cause and scorn for those who shirked their duty. Had that only been a year ago? It took Betsy a moment to remember that she was twenty-four. She felt as ancient as a sibyl.

Betsy put back her shoulders and tried to look like the old Betsy, the one who was ready for anything. “Right. Never an idle moment.”

Sister Bettina took a deep breath and looked as though she wished she hadn’t. “You’d best stay the night at the hotel and join us in the morning.” Sister Bettina waved over another woman garbed in the traditional white pinny with the Red Cross insignia on a tight band on her left arm. “Miss Carson. You’ll find a uniform for Miss Hayes.”

“Yes, Sister Bettina.” Miss Carson turned a friendly face to Betsy. She had curly brown hair stuffed beneath her white cap, and a pleasant, crooked smile. “Hallo there. Let’s get you kitted up.”

“Miss? Not sister.”

The other woman grinned, revealing a deep dent in one tanned cheek that was almost a dimple. “I’m here under false pretenses.” She stuck out her hand. “Kit Carson of the St. Louis Star Ledger. I’m here to report on the war.”

Betsy looked at the other woman’s uniform, then back at Sister Bettina. “But then why . . .”

“Because I couldn’t get over any other way.” Kit caught Betsy’s look over her shoulder. “Oh, Sister Bettina knows. Miss Barton said she’d take me along as a nurse, provided I write up the Red Cross. And do my share of bandage rolling. Sister Bettina gave me an abbreviated version of the usual course. But I gather you’re the real thing.”

“I’ve rolled my share of bandages.” So much for skill and dedication. Apparently those counted for less than a few inches of newsprint. Betsy followed along after the other woman to a room filled with sundry supplies, all neatly labeled. “Since you’ve been here—have you met a nurse named Ava? Ava Saltonstall?”

“No Avas or Saltonstalls. I’d remember a name like that.” Kit Carson was shaking out aprons, trying to find the smallest of the bunch. “Here’s one that won’t swamp you. Why do you want to know?”

“We were at Smith College together.” Betsy stuffed the apron into her carpetbag, on top of two much-abused dresses and a set of combinations. “She told me she’d be here.”

“College women.” Kit gave a whistle of admiration. “She might be in the next batch. There’s a whole detachment of nurses being sent by the New York Red Cross—or that’s what Sister Bettina says.”