“I have written to my surgeon for advice as to what I should do,” said Hugh. “I do not feel able to sit idle if I can be of service in some capacity. I hope to be called to London any day.”
“And will your surgeon’s daughter be willing to give you up to some war effort, or will she cling to you in this hour of desperation?” asked Daniel. Hugh frowned, for he was quite sure he had not mentioned her to Daniel, and this meant Daniel had been nosing about his desk again, no doubt stealing all his best pen nibs and laughing at the many drafts it took him to compose a suitably casual note to a woman.
“Miss Ramsey has far too many beaux about her to notice me,” said Hugh. He hoped Daniel would probe no further as he was not about to confide in his cousin and be rewarded with endless gibes.
“Perhaps you should join the cavalry,” said Daniel. “Women love a man in uniform.”
“And you would stay in flannels and play cricket until the Hun are at the beaches?” asked Hugh.
“I’ll have you know I wrote to Craigmore to propose an immediate launch of our journal in London,” said Daniel. “We shall give our finest young poets and artists a superior forward position from which to defend our nation through art and language.”
“I thought you said patriotism is anathema to art?” asked Hugh.
“I have decided that, like money, it is best considered a necessary handmaiden to the cause,” said Daniel. “Of course I shall keep all patriotic items to the rear of the journal and smother them with illustrated borders so that no one will actually read them.”
“You are in a practical mood,” said Hugh. “War has had a sobering effect on us all.”
“And with concrete results,” said Daniel. “Craigmore writes that he and his parents are coming down to visit.” He reached down for his notebook and pulled some onionskin pages from the middle. “Part of some sort of commission to assess local defense arrangements.”
“And does he say his father agrees to your venture?” said Hugh.
“Not in so many words,” said Daniel. “But the universe brings all together. I am sure Craigmore and I can make an unassailable case for art and poetry as part of our national defenses.”
By the last post of the evening, Hugh received a letter summoning him to London, and after some difficulty at the Rye railway station, where the ticket office had no change and the stationmaster graciously allowed him to write an IOU, he set off for London the next morning.
—
The London home of the surgeon Sir Alex Ramsey was a tall Harley Street house of warm red brick, handsomely ornamented with stone and appointed with large windows trimmed with lead window boxes of late-summer flowers. A discreet brass plaque was the only suggestion that the house contained the surgeon’s consulting rooms, a small suite just beyond the front door. Behind the gracious fa?ade, the home contained a number of commodious rooms with lofty ceilings and wide hallways. Hugh had seen both upstairs and downstairs parlors, the library, and the surgeon’s private study. He particularly enjoyed the lower back parlor, which was Lucy’s domain, and from which her charmingly arranged conservatory led to an elegant garden with a small carp pond and brick walls lined with espaliered peach and apple trees. Waiting on the front step, Hugh allowed himself a moment to imagine owning such a house, and perhaps a large, well-managed medical practice of similar renown. It would require many years to attain such eminence through his talent and hard work, but he was not afraid of the effort. He acknowledged the flowering of some hope that Lucy Ramsey’s affections might smooth his way, but he knew himself innocent of any dark motive. If they were to marry, he thought, any advancement would be mere gilding to the sufficiency of love.
“Come in, my boy, come in,” said the surgeon, waving as the butler showed Hugh into the book-lined consulting room, where only the plainness of the carpet and the slightest hint of carbolic suggested a professional use. “Lucy has the usual crowd in to tea, but she insisted I must have a few moments’ private talk with you alone, Grange.”
“I’m honored,” said Hugh, sitting in a comfortably upholstered chair in front of the polished mahogany desk. “How were the Lakes, sir?” They chatted awhile about the hardships of the lecture tour, the crowds at Bellagio, and the superior pleasures of the quiet towns of Lake Como’s western shore.
“I think Lucy liked the quiet,” said the surgeon. “A baronet with a phaeton and matching set of white ponies saluted her every day in the gardens, but nothing could turn her pretty head. She’s a sensible girl and no mistake.”
“And did you have any trouble getting home?” asked Hugh. “I hear the European banks stopped honoring our drafts?”
“We got out just in time,” said the surgeon. “The manager at our hotel cashed a check in gold sovereigns and we caught one of the last trains to get through to Paris before the borders closed for good. One or two people were taken from the train, but I’m relieved to say that Lucy did not have to witness any nastiness.” He stroked his beard and added, “They were warned not to take up arms, these Belgians, but apparently some of them would not follow orders. Of course I share the communal outrage, and I mean to bring all my expertise and resources to aid my country and my King.”
“I wanted to ask how I might be of service in those efforts,” said Hugh. “I do not wish to offer you any less than my full attention as your assistant, but perhaps on my days off I can volunteer some extra hours in one of the hospitals?”
“That is exactly why I wanted to talk to you, my dear boy,” said Sir Alex. He shuffled some papers on his desk and handed Hugh what appeared to be a list of equipment and staff needed to set up a full hospital with several operating theaters. “This war is the opportunity of a lifetime to advance our field at a rate unheard of in peacetime.” He rubbed his hands. “Think of a new specialist hospital and an unlimited supply of wounded, offering us the opportunity to catalog every possible type and severity of brain injury! I envision a whole battery of the new X-ray machines, the latest in equipment from bone saws to drug compounds, and of course, the brightest of our doctors to work with me on this Herculean task.”
“It would be an enormous advance in the field,” said Hugh. “Where will it be, sir? I heard they were commandeering an asylum in Chelsea?”
“No, no, my boy, we shall go over there!” said Sir Alex. “As close to the lines as possible in order to get the freshest cases. Head wounds don’t travel well, as you know. I would prefer a seaside location…”
“In France?” asked Hugh. He was conscious of a thump of anxiety in his chest. Not fear, he told himself, but just a natural reaction to the idea of going into the war.
“The War Office is proving wary of civilian efforts—too many ladies of the realm wanting to stock a grocer’s van and call themselves an ambulance. Then there is always the question of funding.”
“Some significant hurdles,” agreed Hugh.
“They have offered to set up my hospital as a military effort, part of the Royal Army Medical Corps,” said the surgeon. “I was concerned, of course—military bureaucracy and all that—but they have offered me a commission.”
“Congratulations, sir.”
“Just a colonel rank to start, I believe,” said the surgeon. He tucked a hand in his jacket and straightened his back as he spoke. His contented face suggested he might be contemplating other honors. “In the meantime I must recruit. I must have the best and brightest, and of course, that includes you, my boy.”
“I thank you for the compliment,” said Hugh, evading a direct response.