The Walnut Tree (11 page)

I'd never forgot that magical moment, and as the train pulled into Glasgow, and I went to find a carriage to take me on the rest of my long journey, I listened to the voices around me, in English and Gaelic, and saw how many of the men were in uniform and how many others were stepping off the train from London with heavily bandaged arms and heads and even legs, crutches tapping across the platform toward the gate. I could see the cost of war here as well as in London and at all the stops we'd made between there and Glasgow. I wondered, not for the first time, if in Berlin or Wiesbaden or Munich there were walking wounded reminding the populace that war had come home to them, even if they had not been invaded.

I fell asleep in the carriage, the horses making good time in spite of a heavy rain. There was snow on the distant peaks, white caps that stood out against the gray skies, and I knew the way even in my sleep, the hollow sounds as we crossed bridges over rills and streams, the feel of the long pull up hills and the brisk trots down again. It wasn't long until I could see the castle in the distance.

It wasn't a castle in the ordinary sense, but a great house nearly overshadowed by the tower ruins that marked the earliest building here. I'd clambered and played over those ruins as a child, with a clansman and my nursemaid hovering to make certain that the laird's only daughter came to no harm. And my governess, trying to teach me decorum, had to struggle against the pull of the hills surrounding us or the stream that watered the valley, where I sometimes ran free of a summer, barefoot in spite of her best efforts to keep me shod, and ruining more than one dress playing with anyone who could be dragooned into joining me. It was a wonderful childhood. I was happy with the house in Cornwall—it was, after all, my very own—but it held few memories compared to the ones that overwhelmed me as I stepped down from the carriage and handed my valise to Geordie, who had hurried out to meet me.

The door stood wide, and I went into the Great Hall, with its enormous fireplace and the array of pistols and daggers, targes and spears, muskets and rifles that decorated the walls. This room had always been the first sight anyone had of Douglas Castle, the proud Scottish heritage on display. Beyond were the formal rooms and family quarters with their fine furnishings and collections of paintings and china and silver pieces. There was another house in Ayrshire and a town house in Edinburgh, but this was where I had lived most of my life.

I walked through the Hall, climbed the stairs to the passage where my father's study had always been, and took a deep breath before tapping lightly on the door, then opening it.

My cousin Kenneth was sitting at the ornate desk that had once been my father's and he rose in surprise as I came into the room.

“Elspeth!” he exclaimed, and came forward to take my hands in his and kiss me on the cheek. “Welcome home.” He was a tall man, that flame red hair seeming to light the room, and his eyes were as blue as the sea. “Catriona will be sorry to have missed you. She's in Edinburgh at present with her sister, whose son John has just been reported killed in action.”

“I'm so sorry to hear that. How sad.”

He held me at arm's length. “You look tired. Was it an arduous journey? I'd have sent the railway car for you, if I'd known.”

I shook my head. “Nothing is quite the same, these days.”

“You're right on that account. Come in. I was just finishing a letter to Rory.”

“What's the news of him?”

“He's well—or was, at the last writing. And Bruce is in York, where the doctors are still finding fault with his recovery. He will go mad before they've finished.”

“But he's all right—he's taking the end of his war well?”

“As well as we can expect. It hasn't been easy for him, but I thank God on my knees every night that he's safe.”

“I understand.”

“What's the news from London? I closed the house, as you know—there wasn't enough staff to keep it open. All the men off to fight, and the younger women taking on war work.”

“As I had done,” I said. “Until you intervened.”

He smiled. “Elspeth. It was best. Truly. Before word got out. You aren't a housemaid who decides to nurse the wounded and dying.”

“Nor are most of the young women who were Sisters working beside me. They came from good families. Bess Crawford's father held the rank of Colonel in one of the best regiments. Diana's parents are gentleman farmers, and Mary's parents are gentry as well. We could invite any of them to dine, and they wouldn't embarrass us by using the wrong fork or introducing unsuitable topics at the dinner table.”

“That may well be, but you could look to marry the highest in the realm. And it wouldn't be suitable for you to have served in the Nursing Service.”

“I'm not interested in marrying a prince of royal blood. And the man I would consider taking for my husband would be proud that I'd served in the war. Ask Bruce or Rory, if you don't believe me. They have both been treated by Sisters at the Front. They can tell you what it means to have trained hands assisting the doctors and saving lives.”

“I'm sure they could. But it's not the place for Lady Elspeth Douglas. There are others who can do that service and do it well.”

“Indeed? What
is
the worth of Lady Elspeth Douglas? What can she do save marry well, conduct herself properly as her husband's wife, entertain his guests, see to the care of his children, and make a good impression on everyone, indicating that she's well bred and above reproach?” I hadn't meant to lose my temper, but his words had stung. Was he hoping I might marry the Prince of Wales? Ridiculous.

“And what, pray, is so wrong with that? Catriona has been all those things, and I think she would say, if she were here, that she's been perfectly happy.”

“Has she? Have you ever wondered? Or asked her? When this war is over, I shall bring someone here to ask you for my hand in marriage. And he will not care if I have been a nurse. On the contrary, he will be quite proud of what I have done for my King and my country.”

But would Alain be proud? a little voice in my conscience asked. Henri had been surprised, and Madeleine had been shocked. To tell truth, I couldn't be sure how Alain would feel.

Still. Peter had understood. He had wanted to see me back in England, out of harm's way, but he hadn't been appalled to find me in uniform. Come to that, neither had Rory or Tommy Nesbitt.

“Who is coming to ask for your hand?” Kenneth asked abruptly.

“Alain Montigny.”

“He shouldn't have spoken to you before he talked to me.”

“He hasn't. He has only asked if I would permit him to call on you.”

“And how do you feel about Montigny?”

“It's a proud name. The de Montigny family was one of the oldest in France, before the Revolution. Alain is a man I respect and care for deeply.”

“You haven't mentioned love,” he said. My cousin Kenneth was nothing if not sharp.

“I believe I love him,” I said.

“It was you who told me that love mattered,” he reminded me.

“And so it does. Just like nursing.”

“Does it mean so much to you?” Cousin Kenneth asked, his expression quite serious. “I can't quite comprehend how you could feel so strongly about it.”

“More than I can say. More than you can imagine. You sent your sons off to war, knowing the risks. Why should you be so unwilling to allow your cousin the opportunity to do her part? I have not lessened my worth as a wife, just because I have bound up amputated limbs and held the dying in my arms and written letters for a man blinded by shrapnel.” I kept my voice steady, without accusing inflections. He had asked—and I had tried to answer.

Watching his face, I could see that he was still mystified.

“If you were my own child, perhaps I would have given my consent. But I stand in place of your father, and I must look not to my wishes but to what's best for your future. I'm sorry, Elspeth. I can't let you return to nursing.”

I wanted to argue, but I knew it was useless. Instead I got to my feet.

“And that's your final word?”

“I'm afraid it is.”

I nodded. “I'll stay the night, if you will allow me to. Tomorrow I'd like to go on to York, to visit Bruce.”

“Of course I'll allow you to stay. It's still your home, Elspeth. You must know that.”

“And I
am
a little tired. I think I'll go up to my room now, if you don't mind.”

“Shall I ring for Mrs. Cummings?”

“Thank you, I can manage.”

And I left him then. I knew I had to put a little space between us before dinner. I couldn't go on and on arguing for my way. He had made his decision, and to quarrel with him would only prove that I didn't know my duty.

I had learned much about duty, in Queen Alexandra's Imperial Military Nursing Service.

But that didn't mean that I'd given up. Far from it.

Chapter Nine

T
he next morning I said good-bye to my cousin over breakfast and soon afterward left for Glasgow and the train south and across England to York, changing twice.

Mrs. Cummings said as I went out the door, “Do na' fash yeresel' o'er this business of the nursing, my lady. It's for the best, I'm sure.”

I thanked her and promised to come again soon.

But as the carriage left the drive and turned toward Glasgow, I knew that until this disagreement with my cousin was settled, I wouldn't come back.

Of course, my cousin saw it as settled—his way. I was just as determined to have it settled in the end my way.

I wasn't my father's daughter for nothing.

York was crowded, busy. I was directed to Laurel Hill, a country house just south of the city. It had been turned into a convalescent hospital for leg wounds. I presented myself to the Matron in charge, and she smiled when I added that I was a cousin to one Lieutenant Bruce Douglas.

“I'm so glad you've come. He needs cheering up. His leg has not been healing as well as it should, and so he isn't able to use crutches as often as he would wish. He's quite a favorite with the staff, and we'd like to see him in better spirits. Sister Clayton will take you to him.”

Bruce was in a part of the house that had once been the billiard room. It had been partitioned in half, and a young Sister was trying to help him through the difficulties of handling crutches. He couldn't get the hang of it, his balance out of kilter. As I stood in the doorway watching, he swore and flung the offending crutch across the room, nearly toppling himself to the floor in the process. It was the patient Sister who caught him, scolded him for his language, and guided him to a chair.

At that moment, he recognized me. His face flushed to the roots of his red hair. It was a darker shade than his father's or Rory's, more what was called auburn, and the flush stood out on his fair skin. His dark blue eyes were nearly black with anger. He hadn't cared to have a witness to his pain.

“Hello,” he said gruffly, straightening up. “What brings you to York? Rory told me you were in France.”

“I'm so happy to see you,” I said lightly, “that I'll ignore your rudeness. You can't imagine how worried we were for you.”

“Yes, well, there are times when I wish—” He broke off, but I knew what he was on the point of admitting, that he wished he'd died rather than survived.

I came in and took the chair next to his. The Sister had picked up the offending crutch and set it by him, then with a nod to me, walked out of the room to give us a modicum of privacy.

“I
was
in France,” I said, making an effort to ignore his comment because I wasn't sure how to respond to it. More than one soldier I'd tended had expressed such a death wish. Most of them were amputees, but not all.
Not coming back whole
was dreaded more than dying. I'd always found words of comfort, but this was my favorite cousin, and I felt my throat close over them.

“You're on leave? This is a dreary place to spend it.”

I hadn't intended to burden him with my troubles, but his mood was black, and it would do him good, I thought, to see that he wasn't the only one feeling down.

“Your father decided that it was unsuitable for a Douglas to be a nursing Sister and he informed the Service that I had not had his permission to train. I hadn't used my title, you see, when I applied. I'm sure it appeared that I'd joined under false pretenses.”

He stared at me. “Is that true? You hadn't asked his permission?”

“I had a feeling he wouldn't approve.”

Bruce laughed then, the lines in his face easing. “Dear Elspeth! You are your father's daughter.”

I was torn between pleasure at his laughter and irritation at his amusement at my expense.

“It isn't something I find entertaining,” I said with mock severity.

“No, of course not,” he replied, his blue eyes still merry. “You
are
good company,” he added. “I've missed you, truly I have.” He put out his hand, and I took it. “It hasn't been easy being wounded,” he went on. “I sit here and brood over what I can no longer do, and then I try these damn—these infuriating exercises, but there's no improvement. I'm still helpless.”

“Impatient man! It takes time for muscle and bone and tissue to heal. You can't expect miracles overnight.”

“I never found sitting and doing nothing very pleasant—unless I'm reading. I want to be out and about. Well, I can hardly go stag hunting on crutches, or even walk the bounds with the ghillies. Which reminds me, MacLachlan's son was killed at Mons. I was there. And I was glad that his father was already dead.”

MacLachlan the piper.

His son had not inherited his father's genius with the pipes, but he was a respectable piper, and he'd joined the regiment to be with Bruce, my cousin told me. I was saddened by the news.

The Sister appeared in the doorway, ready to resume Bruce's exercises. I sat and watched as under my eye, trying to prove he could do them, my cousin gamely went through his paces. Stretching and tightening the muscles in his leg, moving the foot first this way and then that, and standing by a table trying to rise on his toes and then down again, he clenched his teeth against the discomfort and made no complaint.

When he had finished, the Sister took him off to put cold pads on his legs, and Matron, who must have come to the doorway at some point, said, “You're good for him, Lady Elspeth. I haven't seen him so cheerful—and cooperative—since he arrived. He was quite down, then, and in a great deal of pain. Have you ever considered nursing? You have the knack for it, you know. Encouraging, keeping his mind off his disappointment at his slow progress, applauding when he accomplished his tasks. It's a gift.”

I was so pleased at her praise. “I
was
a nursing Sister,” I told her. “But my guardian disapproved.”

“A shame, if I may say so. But then some men are still of the opinion that skilled nursing is best left to the lower classes. Would you be free to come again and work with your cousin? It would make such a difference.”

“I'd be happy to,” I told her, for I had intended to leave tomorrow for Rochester. Here was an excuse to put it off for another day, perhaps two. If Peter had lived, then there was time. If he had not, then I was in no hurry to find out.

I took a room in the village, and on my first night wrote to Mrs. Hennessey, begging her to keep me on at the flat while I spent a little time with Bruce as he recovered.

I knew she wouldn't understand why I wasn't in France or at one of the new clinics that were opening up all over England. I couldn't bring myself to tell her the truth, that I'd been dismissed. After a bit, when I'd grown used to the news myself, I could go to London and explain in person.

And so it was that I spent the next few days working with Bruce, cajoling, ordering, daring, promising, and even joining him in his exercises. He was on the point of managing his crutches when the letter came from Mrs. Hennessey in response to my own.

I'm so happy to hear from you, my dear,
she began, then gave me news of Bess and Diana and Mary. She added,
There has been a letter for you. Shall I send it on to Yorkshire or will you be coming back to London when your leave is up? It's fortunate that you were able to spend it with your dear cousin.

Maddeningly, she hadn't told me who had written to me. Mrs. Hennessey was convinced that to read letters addressed to someone else was the height of rudeness, and she included in that interdiction even looking at the name of the sender.

I hurried back to my room that night and wrote again to her, asking her to send the letter on to me in care of the inn in the village. I could have gone directly to London, but I'd finally worked up my courage to travel to Rochester.

Was it from Alain? Or from Madeleine with news of her brother and Henri?

Bruce was making good progress, and I was beginning to take note of a budding friendship with the Sister in charge of his therapy. Where they had been at odds over his behavior, now they were working in tandem, and his enthusiasm returned with each small conquest. He would never walk without a cane. I knew that now, the muscles and nerves having been terribly damaged and then neglected when he was taken prisoner. But I could see that it was only a matter of time before he could cast off his crutches.

Matron, inviting me to take tea with her in her small office, said, “You must know how much your presence had brightened the lives not only of your cousin but of the other three officers who are working with Sister MacLeod. They are eager for your approval too. If you ever convince your guardian to let you return to the Service, I shall be happy to give you a good recommendation. It would please me no end.”

I thanked her, but I was fairly certain that Cousin Kenneth was immovable on this subject.

On Friday evening I found a letter waiting for me when I returned to the inn for my dinner. The innkeeper's wife, delighted to have a titled lady in her humble inn, curtseyed to me as if I were the Queen herself, and said, “Your ladyship will be ready to dine in half an hour?”

“Yes, that would be lovely,” I told her, as I had done every evening since I'd taken rooms here.

“And the post has brought another letter for you, which I have taken the liberty to leave on the little desk in your room.”

“A letter?” I hurried up the stairs.

I could see before I had even reached the desk that my letter had not come from France. Disappointed, I picked it up and looked at the handwriting. No one I knew, I thought, for it was very round and feminine and unfamiliar.

I removed my hat and my coat, set them in the wardrobe, changed into a proper gown for my dinner, and then picked up the letter, opening it.

Dear Elspeth,
it began, and I frowned. Had it come from one of the Sisters with whom I'd served? Apparently, I thought with a sigh, gossip had picked up the story of Sister Douglas and spread it to France.

I am not able to write to you, and so Sister Dennis has kindly suggested that she write for me. The muscles in my right arm are still quite stiff, and the chest wound has proved to be a nuisance, dragging on and on until I am sure to die of boredom long before it has finally healed. I am learning to write with my left hand, and to feed myself as well, but it is not a pretty sight. Sister Dennis has just told me that I have shown remarkable improvement, but I know she is being kind. I need to leave this place and learn to fend for myself. The doctors have forbidden me to travel to Scotland, but I think I could persuade them to allow me to go to Cornwall, if you are agreeable. I wouldn't be surprised to find that the house is closed for the duration, and if that is the case, I withdraw my request. As you have your lodgings in London, I won't be trespassing on your leaves, and I require little in the way of staff. A man to help me with my dressing and my exercises, and a cook-housekeeper. Do let me know if this is feasible.

And it was signed,
Yours, always, Peter
.

I sat there, feeling as if a weight of stones had been lifted from my shoulders.

Peter.
He had lived
. I felt like dancing around the room, throwing caution to the winds. If life gave me no other gifts, this one would suffice until my last moments.

It was several minutes before I was calm enough to reread the letter.

The house in Cornwall was indeed closed, only a skeleton staff to manage it. But Peter was welcome to go there, I would even take him there myself, if I could beg or borrow a motorcar. Anything to help him heal. For like Bruce, he was a proud man, and he would be anxious to get back into uniform as soon as possible, cursing every day of enforced idleness.

I was so relieved to know where he was, and that he was alive and well, that my hands were shaking as I fetched my letter box, intent on writing him at once and telling him that he was welcomed to the house in Cornwall, that I would see to it that his transfer there was by easy stages.

I dropped my pen in my haste, found it where it had rolled under the table, and then drew out a sheet of paper. As I did, something fluttered to the floor, and I nearly left it there in my hurry. But habit dies hard, and by habit I never left anything underfoot to trip a doctor or the stretcher bearers. I reached for it, was on the point of tossing it back into the letter box, and in the same instant recognized it.

It was the scrap of paper that Sister Blake had given me what seemed like ages ago, offering me her mother's house in Sussex as a refuge if I couldn't make it to London on a short leave. I'd never gone there—in fact, had foreseen no need to do so.

I slowly unfolded the scrap of paper and stared at it.

If I took Peter to Cornwall, I could find myself in the same predicament that had already cost me my place in the Service. Someone would talk. A self-righteous servant, a villager, a visitor. The local doctor who would have the care of him, or his wife or nurse. I'd been burned once by self-righteous tattletales. How long would it take gossip from Cornwall to reach Cousin Kenneth's ears?

It was one thing to offer Peter the use of the house, for I was not living there. I had my lodgings in London. But if I visited Peter without what could be considered a proper chaperone, Cousin Kenneth would be shocked and angry. And rightfully so, even if we were innocent of any wrongdoing. Whispers about my conduct would be enough to cause irreparable damage to my reputation.

What's more I couldn't imagine how Alain would feel about that.

But in Sussex, who was there to gossip about the Scots officer and the Scotswoman who came to see how he fared? It would be so much simpler where no one knew us. I could always ask Mrs. Hennessey to accompany me on visits, and I would never stay overnight, even given her presence.