Tales: Short Stories Featuring Ian Rutledge and Bess Crawford by Charles Todd

passed the Army recruiting office where men could enlist. In the early days of the war, August and September 1914, in particular, these had been nearly overwhelmed with volunteers, men who were determined to get into the fight before the Kaiser changed his mind and sued for peace. It didn’t quite happen that way, and it wasn’t long before the Government had had to turn to conscription to fill the ranks.
    The office looked rather forlorn, and through the open door, where a shaft of warm sunlight lit up the posters and the enlistment forms and the polished shoes of the officer seated behind the desk, I could almost catch a feeling of resignation. As if, with the war ending, this little room, once a small shop, had lost its usefulness and was just waiting for someone in London to remember it existed and close it down. A sign, perhaps, that the war would end, that no more men would be asked to die for King and Country.
    Strolling with no particular goal in mind, I soon found myself making my way toward the cathedral precincts. This was a lovely place to spend a quiet hour, and when I came to the massive Christ Church Gate set into the high wall, I stepped through it and walked down to where I had the best view of the west front.
    For a moment I simply stood there, looking up at the three ornate towers. It occurred to me how fortunate the French had been not to lose any of their great cathedrals. Damaged, some of them, but they would survive. Far too many of their lovely old village churches had fallen to artillery barrages. The sun was warm on my face, the view splendid, and in spite of the others here in the broad precincts, passing me on the walk, I was reluctant to step inside just yet.
    Someone called my name.
    “Bess? Sister Crawford? Is that you?”
    I turned toward the speaker, and he exclaimed, “Good Lord, it is!”
    I didn’t recognize him at first.
    He had filled out, his dark hair thick now and well cut. It had been shaved to attend to his head wound, although it was the wound in his side that we thought would surely kill him. But it didn’t, although he’d been quite thin and gaunt by the time he’d been stable enough to transport to England.
    “Captain Ashton,” I exclaimed, and held out my hand in greeting as he came to meet me. But he grasped the hand and leaned forward to kiss me on the cheek. “How well you look.”
    “Thanks to you and the good doctors. And it’s Major now,” he added, touching his insignia. “How are you? And what are you doing in Canterbury?”
    I explained about the wounded, and he nodded. “It’s a good hospital. I spent some weeks there myself, if you remember. Do you have time for a cup of tea?”
    “Yes, in fact, I do,” I said. “They’ve no idea when my train will come in, and I’ve been passing the morning seeing the sights. Two minutes more and I’d have been inside the cathedral, admiring the stained glass windows.”
    “My luck that you hadn’t gone inside. Otherwise, I’d have missed you.” He fell in step beside me, offering his arm. There was the slightest sign of a limp in his gait, but he walked steadily along the path, and I was glad to see it.
    Captain Ashton—as he was then—had been very popular with the nursing staff. He was an attractive man, of course, but his sense of humor in the face of his severe wounds had won our admiration. Refusing the morphine as often as he could manage it, he did everything he was told with a smile, however shaky that smile might be, and made light of his suffering. It was true, there were many in that surgical ward in far worse shape than he was, but we’d worried endlessly that we might finally lose him to infection and loss of blood.
    “I don’t have to ask how you are, Bess,” he was saying. “You look well. Tired, yes, God knows, don’t we all? But still the prettiest Sister in the ward.”
    I looked up at him. “And you haven’t lost your skill at flattery. I thought you were to be married as soon