Marrying the Royal Marine by Carla Kelly Page B

sound stopped; she was prepared to swear she had never heard it. When it started again, it was louder, and she knew right where to go, provided she wasn’t too afraid to get up from the chair.
    Shame on you. Suppose Colonel Junot had chosen to ignore you? Polly told herself. She rose, drew a deep breath, and walked down the corridor, pausing at one door, then moved to the next, until she found the right one. She opened it.
    The window was tiny, but the moon shone in bravely, casting its light on an empty bed. Alarmed, Polly closed the door behind her, then let out her own cry of terror as someone grabbed her by the wrist.
    The young girl had been hiding behind the door, pressed against the wall. She barely came up to Polly’s shoulder, making her wonder what age the French soldiers considered too young to violate. With a great gulp, she swallowed her fear and put her hand on the girl’s hand, not trying to pry off her cold fingers, but just to let her know she had a friend. Whether any of that would be conveyed by her almost-involuntary gesture, Polly had no idea, but it was the only tool in her skimpy arsenal.
    Since her Portuguese was non-existent, Polly thought of Sister Maria Madelena’s well-meaning British lover and spoke as softly as she could. ‘You’ve had a fright, haven’t you? You must be tired. Let me help you back to bed.’
    She moved, expecting resistance, but found none. Polly wondered if the girl had been sleepwalking. She led her back to bed, tucked her in, and then looked around for a baby. There was no crib. This must be one of the girls without babies that Sister Maria had mentioned. She found a doll made of surgical towels like the one her nephew adored, and tucked it in the crook of the girl’s arm. With a sigh of relief, the girl—scarcely more than a child, herself—rested her cheek against it and closed her eyes as she caressed the towel doll. Polly sat with her until her breathing was slow and steady.
    Shaken, Polly returned to her chair in the hall. She sat for only a moment, then hurried to another room, where a shriek was followed by a young child’s startled cry. Polly ran to the room to find a young woman huddled on her pillow, her eyes wide and staring. She had wakened her child, who sat up in his smaller bed, crying. Polly went to the child first, soothing the little boy until he returned to sleep.
    Polly sat on the bed, her mind a complete blank. In desperation, she started to hum a lullaby she had heard Laura sing to Danny. To her relief, the girl’s eyes began to close and her head drooped forwards. She resisted Polly’s first effort to induce her to lie down. After two more choruses of the simple tune, she did not object to sliding between her sheets again and closing her eyes. She did not release Polly’s hand until she was deep in slumber.
    ‘I understand you,’ Polly whispered. ‘Colonel Junot held my hand when I could have sworn the ship was sinking. Can I do any less for you?’
    So it went all night. She went from room to room down her side of the intersecting corridor while Sister Maria Madelena did the same in the other hall. Some rooms she went to twice to console young girls too soon old. One girl could not be consoled until Polly took her in her arms and held her as a mother holds a child. Her horror at such terrible treatment at the hands of French soldiers turned to rage that anyone would harrow up the innocent. When dawn came, Polly knew she would never be the same again, not if she lived another fifty years.
    Exhausted in body, one part of her brain wanted to sleep until the war was over. The other part told her she must return every night, until the last victim in the world had been consoled. She wanted to tell Sister Maria Madelena everything she had learned, but she was too tired to do more than nod, when the nun came to her and said it was time to leave.
    They walked in silence. Soon Polly was back in the part of the convent familiar to her. She smiled