Pettigrew was out of the cockpit as we taxied towards the hangar and walking down the aisle towards us. He stopped to look at Barry for a moment but said nothing. I continued to hold Barry's hand and didn't look up. His gaze went to Philippe. "It would be best if you let our lads look at your arm too, Captain," he said to him.
"The doctor—"
"He treated Mr. Alexander too, sir—and he's burning up with fever now."
"It might be best, Philippe," Elizabeth said. "That doctor was probably very good, but I'd reckon that he doesn't see too many gunshot wounds."
He sighed. "I guess it won't hurt anything—"
"Right," Pettigrew said brightly. "After all, we can't have Miss Elizabeth's beau coming down sick whilst visiting the family of his intended, can we?"
I wondered when he'd learnt about Elizabeth.
He moved towards the back of the cabin then. A moment later, the engines were cut and Pettigrew threw open the portal. Before I knew it, I was asked to move aside and two Royal Navy medics were efficiently helping a nearly unconscious Barry Alexander from his seat. A moment later, they had him strapped to a gurney and were carrying him towards the back of the aeroplane.
"Barry?" I mumbled as I watched him being carried down the aisle.
Pettigrew's hand closed on my arm. "Come along, my Lord, we'll ride with him."
Numbly, I allowed him to lead me out onto the tarmac and into the ambulance that had been waiting for our arrival.
I was in shock.
There was the letdown that was the aftermath of the attacks on me, that had left Barry wounded and killed my best friend. But there was also the reality that I had simply been unprepared for Barry's life becoming so precarious so suddenly.
He had been so full of life from the moment I met him. His smile, his warmth, and his love had become a cushion that protected me from the world around me.
Now, however, there was no smile. His face was lax and he'd slipped over the edge of consciousness. His eyes had been dark and sunken as the medics laid him out on their gurney. His breathing had become increasingly laboured since we left France and his skin looked pale and pasty as the ambulance carried us across Portsmouth Naval base. There was only his body warmth now and I couldn't even touch him to feel that. It was almost as if he were dead.
I instantly closed the mental door to that line of thinking. I was not able to think about Barry Alexander dying. I could not, would not, do it. Besides, it was simply impossible. He was only sick, after all—probably some sort of infection; the Royal Navy doctors here at Portsmouth would give him an antibiotic and he'd be himself again in the morning.
I stood at the open door of the ambulance and watched as the two medics carried Barry into the hospital. "He's going to be all right, Robbie," Elizabeth said from beside me, her voice pulling me out of the shock that had descended over me.
I looked at her and she smiled up at me.
Pettigrew appeared at the entrance of the hospital. "Capitaine d'Orléans," he called and I felt movement as Philippe turned his attention to John. I hadn't even realised that Elizabeth's fiancé had been standing at my other side.
"Yes?" he called.
"There's a surgeon inside who'll look at that arm of yours," Pettigrew told him.
"Robbie, I think perhaps we should go inside," Elizabeth suggested. Together, they led into the hospital.
A nurse met us as we entered and motioned Philippe to her. Elizabeth looked from him to me and back. "Go with him, Eliza," I told her. She smiled acknowledgement and followed the man she'd chosen for herself.
"My Lord, the base commander is in the waiting room to meet you," Pettigrew informed me, giving me his name, as we were left alone in the entrance corridor.
"The base commander?" I asked, my interest piqued.
Pettigrew grinned back. "I think that Mr. Churchill had something to do with it, sir."
"Churchill again?" I yelped. Damn! But that man was beginning to intrude in every facet of my life.
"Shall we go to meet the admiral, sir?"
I looked around me. "Where's Barry?" I asked.
"They've moved him into an observation room. The base medical officer is examining him now." He paused and I felt him study me closely. "Lord Petersholme, they call this chap in for the King's annual check ups—Mr. Alexander couldn't be in better hands. Mr. Churchill insisted on it."
The admiral had little to say, other than being effusive to someone for whom Winston Churchill had such high regard. I hadn't expect anything else, of course. The man was, after all, twenty years my senior and had never been on Aunt Alice's list of eligible bachelors for Elizabeth. But I would have liked to be with Barry instead of performing the part of some visiting dignitary. At least, I wanted to know what the Royal Navy's imminent physician had found was wrong with him. Barry shouldn't have been in the state he was when we arrived in England.
Elizabeth and Philippe joined us in the waiting room and the admiral was properly impressed to have the heir to the Pretendant of France on his base. I thought that Philippe was a bit embarrassed by the man's effusion. That made me a bit more comfortable.
We made small talk for an hour. It was like having the local vicar at Bellingham for tea. I accepted that Churchill had, for some reason, made me the admiral's special project. My thoughts wandered but always returned to Barry and my growing concern for him. I wished that the base commander would find himself another special project.
The base commander was saying something inane when he suddenly smiled. "Lord Petersholme, Monsieur le Comte, Miss Elizabeth," he said, naming us all, "I'd like you to meet our chief medical officer here at Portsmouth."
I turned to face the man who was walking towards us. My heart caught in my throat when I saw how glum he was. Barry's dying, I told myself and began to believe it. Elizabeth's hand found and gripped mine.
The doctor looked directly at me. "You're Lord Petersholme?" he asked before the admiral could begin to make introductions. I attempted to swallow my heart so that it returned to its proper place. "Then I need to speak with you, sir—" He glanced at the others. "Alone," he added ominously.
"Mr. Alexander has developed an upper respiratory infection, my Lord," the doctor said without preamble when we stood across the waiting room from the others. "It's not septic yet—"
"Septic?" I asked hesitantly, wondering how in the world poor King George with his stuttering ever survived an examination by this man.
"Spread throughout the body. It's not reached that stage yet, fortunately. He's your guest, isn't he?" I nodded. "How old is he?"
"Eighteen or nineteen, I think. He just entered the London School of Economics in the autumn."
"Good. He does seem to have a strong constitution and his age is a definite plus." He studied me for a moment. "His condition is quite guarded at the moment but we're treating the infection aggressively. He's also in an oxygen tent."
I gulped. "It's that bad?"
"It would be if he were older. He should pull through this, though."
"The doctor in France kept injecting him with morphine," I babbled.
"Country quacks!" he hissed softly, glancing back at the others. "No wonder the French lost so many good men at Somme. Us too." He shook his head. "Drug them to the nines and let them die in peace." He frowned. "Ours were doing it as well."
"He's going to recover, isn't he?"
"The next twenty-four hours will tell the tale, my Lord. If he responds to treatment, he'll soon be up and chasing his nurses around his bed like it was a maypole."
"May I—" I glanced to Elizabeth. "May we sit with him?"
"Of course. We do have him sedated and a nurse will check him over on the hour."
"I'll tell the others then—"
"My Lord, do you know if he has a personal physician here in England?"
"Not that I know of. Why?"
"His wound was a bad one—not life-threatening in itself—but it did mess up his shoulder a bit." He shrugged. "The x-rays we took will be available at any rate. I suspect that he'll need a good deal of therapy to get it back to anything approaching normality."
"He'll be a cripple?"
"No. Nothing that bad. Just quite stiff." He smiled then. "Enough that he'll be able to sit out this next war that damned Hitler is pulling us into."
I nodded. I grinned. I was as happy as a lad getting his first horse. Barry was safe after all. All he had to do was get through the next twenty-four hours.
"Robert?"
My eyes flew open and jerked back in my chair. Philippe leaned over me, his good hand on my shoulder. I sat in a chair beside Barry's bed and realised that I'd fallen asleep.
"Your young aviator is to fly Elizabeth and myself to your home. Is this acceptable to you?"
I nodded, still groggy.
"Good. He'll stay the night there, yes?"
Again, I nodded, more awake now.
"He'll meet Mr. Churchill tomorrow morning in order to bring him here."
I was awake now. Churchill was going to enter my life again.
"I understand how you feel for Barry here, but the doctor assures me that he will not wake in the night. Pettigrew has offered his rooms that you might sleep there tonight. I think it would be a good idea if you accept."
"I can't possibly—" I looked at Barry. His face and upper body hidden behind the oxygen tent. His body so still.
"Mon ami," he said, changing to French. "I do not understand this love between you and Barry. But then I do not understand electricity. I accept the existence of your love, however—as I accept that of electricity." He paused, obviously collecting his thoughts. "Robert, there is going to be a war. A terrible war. England will need her very best men, as will France. You are one of the best that your King has, mon ami. Please do not force him and Mr. Churchill to avoid you by doing openly something that is against your law."
'Philippe—"
"No. Robert, Barry receives the very best medical care that England can provide now. His doctor is the one who administers to your King. It is enough. You do not want to make the Royal Navy aware of how much you love him or how. You do not want to force Mr. Churchill and your King to avoid you when you're the best man they have. Barry sleeps.
"He knows in his soul that you love him. That is all that he needs from you at this moment, Robert. Now, you must think of what your King and your country will need from you and make the appearances so that it possible to satisfy that need when the time comes."
He stepped back, his hand dropping from my shoulder. Again, I looked at Barry. So still. So like a dead man.
"Come. Pettigrew has found you a driver to take you to his rooms. The same driver will bring you back to hospital in the morning."
I knew that Philippe was right. I swallowed my fears. I stood and followed Philippe from the room.
Copyright © 2006-2025 David MacMillan
First posted 2006
Updated 2 July 2025