The Walnut Tree (6 page)

The proprietor was a middle-aged man with a limp and heavy dark-framed glasses. He peered at me as I came through the door, and I greeted him with all the hauteur of my station, asking if he had any interesting paintings of Scotland that I might buy for my father's birthday.

He showed me several, fine paintings all of them, and I thought perhaps I'd been wrong about the man with the parcel. While pretending to decide whether I liked any of the paintings on offer, I noticed on the edge of his desk several tiny flecks of paint.

Just like the ones I'd seen caught in my silk scarf when I'd searched my valise for the missing parcel.

And in the dust bin behind his desk was a coil of string very like the one around my parcel.

Had someone put that parcel in my valise while I was on the train to Calais—and then retrieved it in Calais while I was in the north helping with the wounded? But why?

If the police had come through the train searching the luggage, perhaps that Highland painting would have aroused little suspicion in the hands of a Scotswoman. And then there were the flecks of paint. That ugly painting . . . had it been hastily overlaid on some more recognizable work? If not properly dried, it would flake. Had whatever was underneath it been looted from a house or museum in Belgium or northern France?

I had no proof.

There was nothing I could do without it. Those flecks of paint and that string would be gone by the time I'd even found a constable. It would be my word against the shopkeeper's.

Turning down the Highland scenes I'd been shown, I wandered around the shop for a few minutes, as if still in search of something my father would like. In fact, I was looking to see if there was anything out of place here.

And I found it. A small study by Frans Hals. It was the same size and shape, certainly, as my parcel, and I couldn't imagine how such a treasure had come to be in such a small shop. I turned to ask the proprietor how much he was asking for the work, and he told me that it was already sold, hastily offering me another painting by a lesser-known artist.

I replied that I couldn't make up my mind what my father would like, and I promised to come back soon to see if there was something new on display.

“Money is no object,” I said casually. “It's my father's happiness that matters.”

He bowed me out of the shop, and I left knowing that the Frans Hals would disappear before I'd walked fifty feet.

What was I to do about this? What could I do?

The question, as it happened, was moot. That very day our orders were posted.

To my great disappointment, I was not sent to France straightaway. I expect it was because I was untested, and far from being fully trained. But I felt I was ready, and I chafed at the delay.

I was posted to Dover, to meet the boats coming in with wounded and help with the transfer to the trains for London. There, sorted and examined on the journey, men would be dispersed to whatever hospital or clinic was best suited to their wounds. Many of them were heavily drugged, to make the journey easier. Some were awake and screaming, while others lay in shocked or dazed silence, too badly injured to respond to our questions or our care. The doctors during our training had told us that the worst wounds, the appalling, mind-shattering ones, never left the battlefield. And yet despite my experience I had to learn all over again to ignore my own reaction to what I saw, and consider the needs of the patient.

I talked to those I could, sometimes asking after Rory and Bruce without mentioning that they were cousins, hungry for fresh news. Cousin Kenneth had written to say that Bruce was now listed as missing and there had been no further word of him since that time. Rory had not been heard from either, but then his name had not appeared on any of the lists. And that I had to accept as accurate.

If Rory was alive when I left France, then I prayed he was still alive.

But Cousin Kenneth's letter had taken so long to reach me, having been sent first to Cornwall, then forwarded to Mrs. Hennessey's, that anything could have happened since it was written.

And then one morning as I was walking down the hill toward the quay Sister Tomlinson came running after me, calling, “Sister? There's a letter for you.”

I turned and saw that she was all smiles as she waved the envelope. “It came with the morning post, and I just discovered it. From France. From the look of it, it traveled by way of China.”

Good news, I prayed. Let it be good news. Of Alain, or Madeleine and Henri. Waiting for her to catch me up, I stood there in the autumn sunlight with the sea breeze on my face, my mind running ahead.

But then I saw it was an English envelope, forwarded many times. To the closed London house, to Scotland, to Cornwall, to Mrs. Hennessey, and now here in Dover where we were quartered. The postal service, with its usual fervor, had tracked me down, war or no war.

I didn't recognize the handwriting. I'd never seen it before. Not Rory, then, nor anyone else in the family.

I turned it over and broke the seal, slipped out the single sheet inside and unfolded it.

No one could tell me what had happened to you. The ambulance was not there, having gone north again, and no one had seen a young woman walking about alone, no one had been given a message for me. For God's sake, let me know if you are all right.

It was signed, simply,
Peter
.

And below, he'd written his Expeditionary Force address.

I stood there staring at the message.

He had known about the London house, he'd tried to find me there, unaware that it was shut for the duration.

I looked at the date. The end of September. He'd been alive then. He must be frantic—

I said, “I must answer this. Straightaway. Will you cover for me? For just an hour?”

Sister Tomlinson, amused, said, “Is he so important then? I declare, you went white as a sheet as you read the letter. You didn't tell me you had a beau.”

I hadn't told her—or anyone else—that I was promised. The Service was not keen on young women with marriage on their minds. We were trained to serve and heal, not to dream. I'd thought it best to say nothing.

“He's not a beau. A friend.”

She gave me a look that told me how well she believed that lie, then said, “Go on, write your letter. You'd do as much for me.”

I thanked her and rushed back to our quarters, breathless from running up the hill. Pulling my letter box from under the bed, I took out an envelope, sheets of paper, a pen.

And then sat there, staring at them, tongue-tied.

What to say to him? How should I address him? Would he even get this letter I couldn't write?

Calm down,
I told myself. Answer his questions. He's worried, just tell him you're all right.

I began
, Dear Captain Gilchrist,
the proper salutation of a letter to a man I knew slightly. But our acquaintance was more than slight . . .

I balled up the sheet and threw it across the room.

Peter.

Your officious Major discovered me, put me in his staff car under guard—well, the driver's stern eye—and sent me off to Rouen to find a ship for England. I did, arrived safely in Portsmouth, and since then I have finished my training as a nursing Sister. I did leave a message of gratitude with the Lieutenant accompanying the Major, but I suppose no one thought to pass it along. You can reach me at the address below, because the London house is shut and I have taken lodgings to simplify my living arrangements. Hotels are overflowing here, as well as in Calais. Please, stay safe.

Elspeth

I reread it twice, nearly balled it up as well, and then sat there staring at it. The last sentence said so little when I wanted to say so much. Had it been too forward to give him Mrs. Hennessey's address? Did it suggest that I wanted to hear from him? Or was it simple courtesy, telling him where to find me?

Adding
Letters are regularly forwarded to wherever I happen to be,
I folded the sheet, put it in its envelope, wrote Peter's name and direction on it, and then searched for a stamp.

More time had passed than I realized. Leaving Peter's letter in my box, I took my own with me, threw the balled-up sheet into a dustbin after tearing it to shreds—Sister Tomlinson was sweet but overly curious—and then went off down the hill again.

I found an officer I knew who agreed to put it in the official post bag, and then I went to take up my duties.

Sister Tomlinson said, “I should have thought you'd be away all morning, answering.”

“No,” I said, smiling sweetly. “I couldn't think of a thing to say.”

Curiosity writ large in her eyes, she said, “It was addressed to Lady Elspeth Douglas. I happened to notice.”

I felt cold. Summoning my wits, I replied, “I knew the Captain when we were children. He's always called me that. She was a Scots heroine, and he teased me because I was probably named for her.”

“Was she in one of Sir Walter Scott's books?”

“It was an old story my mother used to read to us,” I said, grateful that she hadn't seen my cousin Kenneth's letter on the stationery with the embossed coronet at the top.

A
week later as I was checking the identity cards on the more seriously wounded, I saw a head of red hair covered with a very bloody bandage and felt the shock of instant recognition. It was Rory, and I went quickly to him, looked at his card, and then said, “Can you hear me? It's Elspeth, my dear. You're home. In England.”

He opened his eyes. They were dazed with pain, but with a head wound, there was no relief that could be offered.

“Elspeth?” He frowned, trying to see my face clearly. “Is it you?”

“Yes, of course it is,” I said, smiling. I could see how a bullet had scraped his skull, the skin raw where the bandage ended. “Would you like some water?”

“Why are you dressed like that?” he asked. “Is there a costume party?” And after a moment he added, “My father did write, didn't he? I'd forgot.” He fought the confusion, and then his mind cleared. “Yes, I'm very thirsty.”

I held him so that he could drink, and he said as he finished sipping the cool water, “You shouldn't be doing this sort of work.”

“I'm good at it. I want to do it,” I told him. “Please, Rory, don't tell your father. It's important to me.”

“All right. I won't give you away.”

“Is there any word of Bruce?”

“Yes, thank God. He was a prisoner, but managed to escape.”

I felt a guilty rush of relief. So far our family had fared better than most. So many hadn't been as lucky.

And then I was called away. When I came back, Rory had been put on the train and there was no time to go and search for him.

I wanted to write to my cousin Kenneth that night, to tell him that Rory had been wounded but that I believed he wasn't in any danger. But how could I, without explaining where I'd come by such information? I was supposed to be in Cornwall, not in Dover. The Army would inform him soon enough, surely.

I fought a battle with my conscience over my decision.

In the end, I asked Sister Tomlinson to write the letter. Curious, she wanted to know why I couldn't attend to it myself.

“After all, you saw this officer. You judged his condition.”

I hadn't realized that my decision to become a nursing Sister would be so fraught with peril. I was becoming quite adept at lying.

“I know his brother,” I said finally. “I shouldn't care to have the family think my letter was an attempt to curry favor.”

She laughed. “An Earl's son? You're remarkably foolish, Elspeth. How could you not wish to have them in your debt?” But she wrote the letter as I dictated it, and I was grateful.

There was always the possibility that with his multitude of contacts in the War Office, the Home Office, and the Foreign Office my cousin would hear that his ward was in the Nursing Service. And if he didn't approve, he could easily put an end to it. What I hoped was that by the time he discovered the truth, I'd have had a chance to demonstrate my skill, to prove that I was a good nurse, something to weigh in the balance against his disapproval. A very small hope, but all I had.

The opportunity that I'd been waiting for came sooner than expected. With only twenty-four hours' warning, seven of us were ordered to France to relieve Sisters who were being rotated home with the next convoy. I sent word to Mrs. Hennessey to hold my letters until I knew where I'd be posted and boarded the next ship to make the crossing to Calais.

Chapter Five

T
he first person I saw as we made our way out of Calais toward the Front was Henri Villard, arguing with a British officer in the middle of the road.

Our ambulance driver was on the point of sounding his horn when I put a hand on his arm, then jumped out my door to speak to Henri. He was wearing a Major's uniform; he'd been promoted. Except for new lines in his face, he appeared to be healthy, no signs of wounds, no limp, no stiff arm . . .

As I approached he was just turning away from the British officer, his face like a thundercloud. I don't think he even recognized me when I spoke his name—his mind was still on the argument he'd apparently lost.

“Henri? It's Elspeth—Elspeth Douglas.”

He stared at me blankly, then took in my uniform, his gaze finally coming to rest on my face.

“Dear God!” was all he could manage. “What are you doing here?”

“Henri, have you heard from Madeleine? Do you know you have a son?” I asked quickly, for my driver would be impatient to be on his way.

“Yes, her letter found me three weeks after he was born. I was frantic with worry. I wrote to her in return, but the mails are chaotic. She wants me to come to Paris, to see the boy, but how can I?” He gestured around us at the lorries and the wounded, the columns of troops and the long lines of ambulances heading the other way. “I'm here as temporary liaison with the British, but I might as well be in Corsica, for all the good it does me.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, “I know it must chafe. But I don't think our side knows what's happening either. It's all been so quick. Henri, is there word of Alain?”

“You haven't heard? He's missing. Somewhere in the Marne. There is hope that he was taken prisoner, but so far we've learned nothing to substantiate that.”

My heart turned over, and I could feel Alain's ring against my skin. It seemed almost too heavy to bear. Like Henri's news.

“Missing? But surely—”

Henri shook his head. “You've no idea what it was like in those first weeks.”

“I saw the Paris taxis set out for the Front. I was there.”

“Were you?” He seemed to find that hard to take in. “You were still in France?”

Behind me, the ambulance driver hit the horn, and both of us jumped.

“Yes, Madeleine went into labor that very day. I must go.”

He reached out, took my arm. “Elspeth, thank you for all you did for Madeleine. For the child. I won't forget. My family owes you more than I can ever repay.”

He leaned forward, kissed me on the cheek, and then said, “Be careful. Please.”

“And you.”

Then he was gone, and I was clambering back into the ambulance. Before I had the door closed, we were lurching forward, catching up with the line of lorries and other ambulances heading toward the fighting.

I sat back in my seat, thinking of Henri and Madeleine. Of Alain.

Missing? That could mean he was a prisoner, or that his body had never been found. Even that he was badly wounded and no one at the French hospital knew who he was. There was no way of guessing which, and if the French Army couldn't find him, how then could I?

We were out of Calais now, on what passed for a road that was so deeply rutted and scarred it was impossible to make any speed at all. The signs of devastation were all around us soon enough, shelled villages, blasted orchards, toppled church towers, ruined convents, a land of the dead. Horses littered the verges, and cows, all dead, and there were rough crosses here and there where people too had died.

Familiar to me from my earlier experience, but to the other nurses it seemed like a moonscape, with nothing about it to show what once had been here. I could hear them, in the back of our ambulance, exclaiming in horror.

We were passing a column of Scots troops, and I scanned them for faces I knew. And then I saw him, at the head of the column, in deep conversation with another officer.

“Peter? Peter, it's Elspeth,” I cried out the window.

He heard my voice, turned to look, and then we were past him, moving steadily forward. Out of reach, out of touch.

But leaning out my window, I saw him lift a hand in greeting.

I settled back into my seat once more, smiling. My driver said, “Do ye know half the Army, then?”

I didn't answer. My heart was still thundering in my chest, and I could hardly believe my luck.
I'd seen Peter.
He was alive, he was well. First the letter, and now this, however brief an encounter it was.

And then the euphoria seeped away. He was marching toward the fighting, not away from it. Today—tomorrow—he would be in another battle. I could find him in my aid station, bloody and half recognizable. Or lying there on a stretcher, already dead.

But even that would be better than his being taken to another station. Where I would never know if he lived or died of his wounds.

Uncertainty was as unsettling as knowing, but then war carried no guarantees in its wake.

It was nightfall when we reached our post. In the darkness ahead we could see the flashes of artillery salvos, feel the earth shake as the shells exploded. But there was no time to dwell on that. A row of stretchers waited for us, orderlies moving amongst them, and then we were taking our places beside the handful of Sisters already at work. The doctor had been killed two days before, and we found ourselves doing what we could to save men who needed care beyond our skills.

I spent the next week working feverishly to keep men alive, to prevent infection setting in and taking away a life that shouldn't have been lost. For infection was the enemy we all faced, doctors, nurses, patients. A bit of cloth, a bit of earth, anything driven into a wound, too tiny for the eye to see, could make the difference in survival. I reached a point where I hardly looked at faces, only at shattered bodies, and prayed while I worked that this one or that one would live against all odds. Thank God another doctor was quickly sent up to us, and when he slept I couldn't have told anyone. I myself was short of sleep, we all were. And then there was a lull in the fighting, and we finally caught up. I stood there, hands on my back, stretching weary muscles as the last of the patients left for hospitals behind the lines.

“Go to bed,” Sister Maynard told me. “Sleep while you can.”

“You're as weary as I am,” I answered.

“I slept a little, earlier. Go on.”

I thanked her and was on my way to my quarters when a shadow stepped out of the deeper patches of darkness by the tents.

Startled, I opened my mouth to call out to Sister Maynard when the shadow's torch flicked on and I saw that it was Peter Gilchrist.

“Oh, you gave me such a fright,” I exclaimed as he turned off the torch. “I couldn't imagine—”

“I shouldn't be here,” he said quietly. “But I kept looking for you. Earlier, on the Ypres road. I couldn't understand what had happened. Whether you were safe, or something had gone wrong.”

“But you must have got my letter.”

“Have you written? We've been on the move, and the post hasn't caught up. When first I saw you there on the road last week I thought you had never left France. And then I recognized the uniform. I knew then that you must have reached London safely.”

I told him what had happened that day, and he nodded. “The Major. He's been relieved, thank God.”

I couldn't invite him into my quarters, and there was nowhere else that was even remotely private where we could talk. But before I could say anything, he took my arm and was leading me toward a battered motorcar.

“It's Lieutenant Harding's motor. He bought it from a Captain who was shot outside Mons. I don't know who owned it before that. It has quite a history, apparently.”

Surprisingly the seats were intact, and he held the door for me, then walked around to sit behind the wheel.

“I didn't know you were a Sister,” he said.

“I wasn't. Not when we met on the Ypres road. When I got back to England, it seemed to be a very sensible thing to do.”

“I can't imagine your cousin agreeing to this.”

“He has no idea.”

Peter chuckled.

“I don't believe anyone knew who I really was, when I went into training. I was Elspeth Douglas of Cornwall. A nobody whose late father was a Scot. I now live in a flat with three other nursing Sisters, or possibly there are four now. It's not even half the size of the small drawing room in the castle. I sleep in a room that the lowliest drudge in the kitchen would distain. But then I hardly had time to sleep, the training was so rigorous.”

“You are remarkable,” he said. I could see his smile, a flash of white teeth in the darkness. “But I must tell you that it's far too dangerous to work in forward aid stations. I wish you would ask for a transfer to a rear hospital.”

Astonished, I could only stare at him. Finally I said, “I thought you of all people would understand. That day on the road to Ypres—it changed me. I don't think about the danger, only about broken bodies, men dying.”

He was silent for a time and then he said, his voice different in the darkness, “That day changed me as well. I think I'm in love with you, Elspeth Douglas. And I can't protect you, if you walk into danger.”

My mind was in a whirl. He shouldn't be telling me such things. There was Alain, there was the ring—

And there was Peter, sitting so close to me I could feel the warmth of his body in the cramped confines of the motorcar. I could remember his arm around me in the ambulance, the way his dark eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

Alain was quite possibly the handsomest man I knew. Peter was black Scots, tall, dark, and not handsome at all in the conventional sense. And yet there was something about him, something I couldn't name, but it was compelling, and it drew me. It was his face I saw in my dreams. The guilt of that was suddenly more than I could bear.

“For God's sake, say something,” he said as the silence dragged on.

“Peter, please—”

And then a torch flashed across our faces, and I saw the outline of Dr. Colton behind it.

“What's going on? I thought I heard a motor coming up.”

“Dr. Colton. This is Captain Gilchrist. He's a friend of the family. He's in the line not far from here and he came to see if I was all right.”

Peter got out and extended his hand to Dr. Colton, who after the briefest hesitation, took it.

“I'm sorry if I've caused a bother,” he said easily. “I encountered Sister Douglas on the way to her quarters, and we've been sitting here talking.”

“She should be sleeping,” Dr. Colton replied, casting a glance at me. I wondered if my guilt was writ large on my face, and if he read into it more than he should.

“Yes, I know. I was just leaving.”

I got out of the motorcar, realizing that Dr. Colton expected it of me.

“Good night, then,” Dr. Colton said, and with a nod, he walked away, giving us a final moment of privacy.

The width of the motorcar separated us, Peter and me.

I said, “Peter. It's too soon.” It was all I could find to say. This was not the time nor the place to explain Alain. Not after Dr. Colton's interruption. And I wasn't sure what I wanted to tell him. I couldn't be falling in love with him. I couldn't—

“Yes, I know. I ought not to have spoken. But war makes a mockery of propriety sometimes. There's no way I could speak to your cousin, now or in the foreseeable future. Will Rory do? He's somewhere here in France.”

“He's just been taken back to England with head wounds,” I said.

“Ah.” There was desolation in that one word. Peter looked toward the Front, his dark brows drawn together in a frown. “Still, I can't say that I regret telling you. There are no guarantees of tomorrow, are there? And it's probably better if we wait for peace and know where we stand. But I'm yours, yours to command. I want you to know that. Whatever happens.”

And then he was getting back into the motorcar.

I couldn't very well say,
Thank you for coming . . .
I couldn't very well walk around to the driver's door, closer to him. All my training in the proper way to address everyone from the bootblack to the Queen, and I was at a loss when it really mattered.

Peter tried to make it easier for me. He smiled, that flash of white teeth, and I could imagine it touching his eyes as he said gently, “My dear girl, I've everything to live for now. You haven't seen the last of me.”

I smiled. And then realizing that in spite of his boast, I might never see him again, realizing how easily life was snuffed out by a bullet, a bit of shrapnel, the finality of a shell landing in the wrong place, I quickly moved forward, reached through the open window into the motorcar, and offered him my hand.

I hadn't thought—clutching the windowframe with my right hand, I'd given Peter my left—and there was no ring upon it now. But he wasn't to know why. He took it, held it for a moment, his fingers warm as they enclosed mine, then he lifted it to his lips, turned it over, palm up, and kissed it.

As I stepped back, he reversed, and then he was swallowed up by the darkness, the sound of the motor fading in the distance.

I walked on to my quarters, still feeling the touch of his lips on the palm of my hand, wondering how in the name of God I was to sleep after Peter's visit.

The cold reality of life intruded as I lay down on my cot. Alain was missing. Possibly killed in action. Under the circumstances, I had no right to listen to Peter's promises or anyone else's.

I was committed to Alain. Until such time that I could in honor tell him that I loved someone else.

The question was, did I?

What were my true feelings for Peter Gilchrist?

Over the next few days it was a question that haunted me as we worked with the wounded, and it was all I could do to concentrate on the task at hand. Then Dr. Colton accused me of woolgathering as we dealt with a chest wound, and I made a concerted effort to put Peter Gilchrist out of my mind.