The Irish Nurse at the Lodging House: Heart-wrenching and addictive World War Two historical fiction (The Wartime Lodging House Book 1) by Natalie Meg Evans

Author:Natalie Meg Evans [Evans, Natalie Meg]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bookouture
Published: 2025-10-21T00:00:00+00:00

In the library, Grace found Sir Gideon and Owen poring over the charts. Owen was telling his uncle that RAF Tangmere had fallen off the edge.

‘I haven’t missed it,’ Sir Gideon insisted. ‘My map only goes as far south-west as Brighton.’

‘The Germans bloody well won’t. You need a bigger chart.’

Sir Gideon noticed Grace. ‘Yes, my dear?’

What on earth could she say, with Owen in the room? She explained that Lady Ventnor had opened a letter, ‘Addressed to you, Sir. You might want to read it before I take down Her Ladyship’s reply.’ Her vocal underlining was lost on Sir Gideon, who pointed to a bureau.

‘Help yourself to writing materials.’ As she searched for a pen, he asked, ‘What d’you make of my nephew today?’

Grace faltered, as it forced her to look directly at Owen. He was wearing his uniform trousers and a jumper over his shirt, no tie, his collar loose. He’d taken off his head bandage. Bruises and contusions discoloured his forehead.

‘Think he’s on the mend?’ Sir Gideon prompted.

‘Well…’ Her heart was beating the way it used to when she was summoned to Matron’s office. Owen was standing with one shoulder notably higher than the other, suggesting he’d torn muscles and tendons. Grace assumed her professional persona. ‘Bruises heal, and rest is so important. You were wearing your flying helmet when your head met something solid, Flight Lieutenant?’ She summoned a smile.

Owen returned the smile. ‘Some would say the solid object was my head. My plane flipped on landing and I’m told I’m lucky not to have broken my neck.’ He put a hand on a point on his left shoulder, pressed down and tilted his head, his teeth clenching. ‘This is the painful bit.’

‘You need a good massage,’ she said, then blushed in case he thought she was offering.

He did think it. ‘I’m all yours. It’s giving me the most fearful headaches.’

‘Take an aspirin.’ She grabbed what she’d come for and hurried away, thinking, Dear God, Grace Whelan, some nurse you are.

Owen called to her as she mounted the stairs, telling her he was coming up to see his aunt shortly.

‘Tell her not to go to any trouble. I’ll see her as she is.’

You’d better not; her backside on show.

Lady Ventnor was in the same position as Grace had left her. She gave Owen’s message, at which any plans to write a reply to Primrose Henderson flew from Lady Ventnor’s head.

‘Bring my hairbrush and a mirror. And my jewellery. And get me sitting up. Hurry, hurry. He can’t see me like this.’

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