“You and Carruthers and possibly that Michaels chap, though he’s asthmatic if you ask me; probably won’t take him,” said the surgeon. “Some of you’ll have to serve where they need you for the few months until we get set up.”
“It’s just that I have only a few months left to be fully qualified,” said Hugh. “I had thought my place was here.” He had looked forward to assisting the surgeries, to conducting hospital rounds at the side of the eminent surgeon, to working in the clean, tiled laboratories, and to the writing of an academic paper or two. He had planned to continue living simply but to perhaps buy opera tickets and to invite Lucy to an afternoon or two at the British Museum. And he had seen volunteering in the evenings—an extra surgery here and there to save a limb, or an eye—looking for no recognition beyond Lucy’s admiration for his indefatigable efforts.
“My boy, one month at the front will be worth ten years in the operating rooms of London,” said the surgeon. “Think of the experience, the papers to be published, and the advancement of our scientific understanding.” Hugh might have added the saving of lives to the surgeon’s list of advantages, but he understood that the mind of such a great man was all on the science.
“With your permission, I would like to consult my uncle,” he said. “And I must write to my father abroad.”
“Plenty of time to decide before the autumn term,” said the surgeon. “I hope you receive their blessing. Those notes you put together for me on the effects of keeping patients warm after surgery were quite well received this summer. I had thought we might consider a paper on the subject?”
“Thank you,” said Hugh. Though he knew the name of a lowly assistant would not appear on any paper the great man published, he was thrilled to imagine his ideas being discussed by influential surgeons on the Continent.
“I would be sorry to lose you,” added the surgeon, giving him a stern look. “And I know Lucy would be sorry to see you part from us.” Hugh’s elation evaporated. He did not know quite how to respond, for it was suddenly clear that the surgeon did not mean to continue to supervise any of his students who did not agree to go to France. It had been one of the proudest achievements of Hugh’s life to have been chosen to work with Sir Alex, and he had come to feel secure under his wing. Now he felt, like a blow to the chest, that he might have seen genuine affection in what was, perhaps, merely an affable manner.
“Why don’t we go to the parlor and ask Lucy to give us a cup of tea?” said the surgeon, gently. “I know she has been counting the moments to your arrival.”
To walk into a parlor filled with colleagues and friends, with the great surgeon’s arm across his shoulders, was to receive such attention, acknowledgment, and not a little envy that Hugh could not but feel comforted. That the surgeon’s benevolence might be self-interested did not preclude a genuine warmth, thought Hugh, and he basked in the knowledge that all assembled knew he had just been closeted with the great man.
“Our star brings tales from his country doctoring,” said Sir Alex. “I hope you’ve left him some tea cakes, Michaels?” Hugh shook hands with his colleagues and was introduced again to several young ladies of Lucy’s circle who seemed to delight in coming to tea with the young doctors and then conversing among themselves about all the young men they knew from higher circles. The tea party spilled into the conservatory, where more young people perched amid troughs of fern and glazed Italian urns of aspidistra and rubber plant. Under the slender arms of two tall potted lime trees that shaded the glass roof, he spotted Lucy sitting on a wicker settee, a low table at her elbow containing the tea urn and a large platter of cakes. Two of her friends sat with her, doing their patriotic duty by knitting green wool socks for soldiers. His nearest rival for the attention of both the daughter and the father, Carruthers, had obtained a favored spot on the settee itself, where he held a skein of green wool for Lucy to wind. As Hugh paused to admire Lucy’s white lace dress with its girlish pink ribbons on the tight bodice, and her pale blue French boots propped alluringly on a low footstool, she raised her heart-shaped face from her winding and gave him her most brilliant smile.
“You must cede your place now, Mr. Carruthers,” she said in a charming tone that brooked no opposition. “You have had the monopoly long enough, and I promised our friend Mr. Grange a real talk.” As Carruthers got to his feet to shake hands and to make his somewhat grumbling departure, the two knitting girls also made their whispered excuses, Lucy leaning her pale curls towards them and lowering her lashes over her blue eyes as they spoke. Hugh had the distinct impression that she and her friends were fully aware of her father’s plans, and he wondered how many of the surgeon’s other students had been persuaded with tea cake and a private chat in the conservatory.
“Now, Hugh, you look even more stern than usual,” she said, pouring tea into a china cup. “You are quite the most serious and least charming of my father’s acolytes, and yet I must confess it makes me like you the most.”
“I am honored,” he said, sitting by her side and accepting a cup of tea and a buttered tea cake from her long, pale hand. His pulse quickened at the touch of her elegant fingers, and as he felt her breath on his cheek and the slight heat of her body against the coolness of the flowers, he was ashamed of his churlishness.
“Those other boys are so quick to flatter and be silly,” she said, smoothing her skirts across her lap. “They present no challenge at all.”
“I do not mean to be difficult,” he said. “Have I been rude?”
“Not at all,” she said. “But as usual, how to make you smile is a puzzle.”
“I am not good at parlor conversation,” said Hugh. “How were the Lakes?” She talked at some length about her trip, and Hugh learned that she had noticed the baronet and white horses rather more than her father suspected. But she was charming in her insistence that she had missed Hugh’s conversation, and when she put her pale hand on his arm, he thrilled again with all the feelings he had discovered in her absence.
“But enough of my silly holiday,” said Lucy. “These times make light conversation less attractive, and I know you might prefer to talk of serious matters.”
“Indeed I would,” said Hugh, wondering how to begin some sort of declaration of his intentions.
“My father is set on going to France,” said Lucy, with a more serious face than he had ever seen. “I know he has asked you to go with him.”
“Yes,” said Hugh. It was not the opening he wished, but he would follow her lead. “What will you do when he goes?”
“My father wishes me to go to my aunt in Wales,” she said. “But it is not a pleasant house, nor as lively a city. I have asked to stay in London, where my friends and I plan to contribute to the war effort in so much larger a fashion.” She paused and gave a pretty sigh. “But I know I should not worry my poor papa when he is making ready to sacrifice so much.”
“I’m sure he’ll be quite safe,” said Hugh. “He won’t be in the front line, you know.”
“I do so hope you’ll go with him,” said Lucy. “I won’t flatter you, but only say that it would give me such peace to know he has you.” She looked into his eyes, and Hugh felt a vibration between them that inspired him to be bold.
“I find that I have missed you this summer, and I do not welcome the idea of going away,” he declared.
“Why, Hugh, I missed you too,” she said. “The Lakes were so dull, and full of portly old people, that I thought of you with increasing fondness.” He thought she was teasing, but her face revealed no irony. That she should so often be unaware of the funny things she said was a contrast to the sharp wit of such women as his aunt, or the schoolteacher, Beatrice Nash, but he thought it a charming symptom of her youth.