The Stolen Years. Fiona Hood-Stewart

suggesting? It is absurd, ridiculous—out of the question. I don’t think she should go. You agree, of course, Hamish, yes? It is impossible to permit the child to go. She was only sixteen last week! Mon Dieu! What would your poor cousin Seaton have said if he and Jane were still alive? I’m sure they would have been opposed to their only daughter going to the war.”

      “But Tante, how could they be opposed when they themselves were the first to seek danger?” Flora blurted out. “The missions in Africa were very dangerous. That’s why they were killed. For what they believed in,” she pleaded, caught between the determination to go at all cost, and the boundaries of an upbringing that placed family considerations before all else.

      “That was not at all the same. There was no war at the time and they were missionaries,” Tante Constance replied with a dismissive wave of the hand.

      Flora bit her tongue, knowing it was useless to point out that her father—a distant cousin of Uncle Hamish’s—and her mother had lost their lives in the midst of a tribal feud. So she remained silent, anxiously waiting for Uncle Hamish to answer. Although he ran the MacLeod coal empire like a benevolent nineteenth-century dictator, he often reacted unexpectedly. It was he, despite all Tante’s supplications, who had allowed the twins to lie about their age and enlist, saying that in their place he would have done the same. Now, seeing his gray hair and lined face, it was easy to deduce what it had cost him. There must have been days when he rued his decision, wishing only for their safe return, questioning his own sanity for having allowed them to go. But her uncle bore that, and Tante Constance’s endless reproaches, in stoic silence.

      She waited with bated breath as he laid down the soupspoon and carefully dabbed his thick mustache with a white linen napkin.

      “This is a sudden and serious decision, my dear Flora. Are you certain that you have reflected sufficiently upon the matter?”

      “Oh, yes, Uncle Hamish, I have,” she responded, meeting his gaze full on. “I can’t bear being useless here. I have to go,” she said simply.

      He looked at her hard, then nodded silently before turning to his wife. “I respect Flora’s decision, just as I respected that of our two sons,” he said, continuing before Tante Constance could protest. “There is a war on, my dear. The flower of our youth has suffered its consequences, but so it is. And although, like you, I deplore the fact of her going, I can only applaud our dear Flora for her courage. Patriotism will wear thin soon if nothing breaks,” he added, tight-lipped. “If it weren’t for the endurance of our troops on the western front, their amazing courage and sacrifice, God knows what would become of us all. The future of our nation depends on the effort and fortitude of those willing to sacrifice their personal lives for a bigger cause. Therefore, I believe that she should go if that is her wish.” He turned back to Flora and smiled, his eyes filled with melancholic admiration. “We shall miss you dearly, child, but you have my blessing.”

      “But how shall we manage without her?” Tante Constance’s large form sagged before her husband’s decision.

      “We shall manage, my love, just as everyone else does.”

      “But it seems so unnecessary for her to join the Foreign Service. I’m sure they have enough girls out there already. The government should deal with it.”

      “But Tante, if no nurses or V.A.D.s went to the front, what would happen to all the wounded? What if Gavin or Angus were hurt and there was no one to tend to them?” Flora appealed softly.

      “I know, ma chérie. I…” Constance raised her hands in a Gallic gesture of defeat, lips quivering as she shook her graying head and sighed. “But you are so very young, ma petite. There is so much of life you don’t know yet, things you are not aware of, ought not be exposed to. Girls should not have to go to the front with the men. It is not at all seemly.” She gave another long sigh that expressed better than words all the pain and anxiety, the keeping-up of a brave front while praying fervently that the ominous telegram beginning with those fateful words—We sincerely regret to inform you…—would never arrive.

      “It won’t be for long, Tante.” Flora reached across the table and gently touched her aunt’s trembling fingers. “I’m sure the war cannot last much longer.”

      “How can we tell?” Tante Constance pressed a hankie to her eyes, trying to hold back the tears. “How do we know how much longer? They say in France that General Nivelle has all these wonderful plans, but all the while, the army is refusing to fight. My brother Eustace writes that were it not for the astute intervention of a young officer named Philippe Pétain things would be a disaster. And look at this country! Lloyd George argues with General Haig and that Robertson man, and everything remains exactly the same, more young men dead or wounded, more widows and weeping mothers. Have they no hearts?” she cried. “You are like a daughter to me, Flora dearest.” She clasped the outstretched hand. “I could not bear to lose you, too. Oh, mon Dieu, non!”

      “My dearest,” Hamish said soothingly, “we must all be prepared to make the supreme sacrifice for the good of the nation. Or there will be no nation,” he added dryly.

      Flora stroked Tante’s tremulous hand, wishing she could offer solace. She hated being the cause of more suffering, yet she knew she had no choice. She glanced at Uncle Hamish, struck all at once by the irony that this war that they all deplored was multiplying his fortune several times over. The need for British coal was overwhelming and Hamish’s factory could provide it. But she knew he would gladly have given every last penny to have his sons returned to him safe and sound.

      That night they played cards in the drawing room as they had before the war. Little had altered at Midfield, as though defying the onslaught of change that would inevitably come. Here, a few miles south of Edinburgh, the war seemed a remote happening that had afflicted but not yet debilitated. Rationing wasn’t felt the same here; Uncle Hamish had arranged for eggs, butter and lamb to be brought from Strathaird, the estate on the Isle of Skye where the family used to spend a large portion of the summer holidays before embarking on an annual trip to Limoges. There Tante Constance’s brother, Eustace de la Vallière, and his wife, Hortense, owned la Vallière, one of the largest porcelain factories in France.

      Flora gazed at the green baize of the card table and thought of Cousin Eugène, Oncle Eustace and Tante Hortense’s son, so serious, spiritual and mature despite his youth, entering the priesthood. It had been three long years since they were all together. She tried to concentrate on the game, making sure she made just enough mistakes for Uncle Hamish to believe he’d won fair and square, her lips twitching affectionately when she discarded an ace and his mustache bristled with satisfaction. He was so dear, and she so grateful that he supported her decision, despite his natural concern and what were sure to be endless recriminations from his wife.

      As soon as the game was over and tea was served, Flora excused herself and slipped outside. The rain had stopped and the sky was surprisingly clear. The stars glimmered like the flickering flames in a Christmas procession seen from afar. Were these the same stars Gavin gazed at from his trench, she wondered, sitting on the damp terrace despite Tante’s admonitions about catching a chill, her knees hugged under her chin.

      The pale satin of her evening gown cascaded down the stone steps like a waterfall as she searched the gleaming stars, their sparkle replaced by Gavin’s twinkling blue eyes and possessive smile. She sighed and recalled each precious moment, each tender endearment and the treasured instant when his lips had finally touched hers. Before leaving, he had raised her fingers to his lips, kissing them ever so softly before whispering the question to which he already knew the answer. She smiled and bit her lip. How could he possibly have doubted? Of course she would wait for him. A lifetime, if need be.

      Yet he never wrote. Never communicated directly except for the occasional scribble at the bottom of a page, sending his love and a hug. It was always Angus, the younger twin, who kept her abreast of their life in the trenches, sharing anecdotes, some so tragic they were hard to believe, others oddly humorous despite the circumstances.

      Now, at last, it was her turn to experience these things.

      She rose slowly and wandered back into