The Walnut Tree (17 page)

I would manage in some fashion.

I was an Earl's daughter, and I had been taught to conceal my feelings in public. I had already been tested, following behind my father's coffin.

H
enri had arranged a military funeral, no whisper of suicide, and the cortege wound its way through the streets of Paris toward the columns and tall, mismatched towers of Saint-Sulpice. Alain had attended services there whenever he was in Paris, because of its magnificent organ. Henri had told me that Monsieur Widor himself would be playing for the service, for he had known Alain.

The coffin—Alain's coffin—was placed below the high altar, draped with the French flag, and on it lay his dress cap, his sword, and a cushion holding the medals he had been awarded. Sunlight coming through the high windows bathed it in soft light.

A hero.

Duty had taken him into the army, and duty had made him brave, and in the end, duty had killed him.

We three sat together, Henri in his dress uniform. Madeleine and I in black, heavy veils shielding our faces and hiding our tears. On my finger I still wore the ruby ring. The stone, usually such a rich deep red, seemed dull today.

Because of the war, the great church was nearly empty of mourners. There were those who knew the Villards, those who knew Alain, and men who had served with him, their uniforms bright splashes of color amongst the somber black of the civilians. The priest's voice and the hymns echoed around the stone walls, the notes of the organ soaring above our heads into the intricate ribbed vaulting of the nave. Henri delivered the eulogy, his voice firm, his words that of a soldier and a friend. It was a lovely service, but I heard very little of it, staring at the coffin and thinking of what might have been if there had been no war. I'd have married Alain, possibly in this church or in the chapel at Montigny. We would have lived together into contented old age, our children around us. I would never have met Peter Gilchrist again on the Calais-to-Ypres road . . .

My fault, for insisting on returning to England.

I've always known my own mind. Sometimes it's a curse.

And then the Mass was over, and we filed out of the church.

Alain was to be buried in Père-Lachaise Cemetery because Henri's leave was too short to allow the funeral cortege to make its way to Montigny in Burgundy.

I stood there watching the coffin being lowered into the winter-bare earth, added my bouquet of violets, hard to come by at this time of year, to the other flowers strewn gently over it, and then I winced as a company from his regiment fired their rifles over the grave in a final salute.

Afterward the three of us spoke quietly to everyone who had come, thanking them for their support in our grief. At length the condolences were at an end, and the three of us returned to the motorcar. Michel, the new chauffeur, was driving now, Arnaud having been pensioned off to Villard. When we walked into the house, it seemed to echo our footsteps, emphasizing our loss and the fact that we would never see Alain here again. And yet Alain had lived here only a little while, and even then mostly in his suite of rooms.

Madeleine and I went up to remove our coats and hats, then walked back down the stairs together to the dining room, where a cold luncheon was served. The remaining staff had asked to attend the service, and so there was no hot meal.

It didn't matter, I could barely swallow what was set before me, and Madeleine after a bite or two, put down her fork.

“You must leave in three days' time?” she asked her husband, although she already knew the answer.

“I'm afraid so, my love.”

She turned to me. “And you, Elspeth? You will leave now for England?”

“I will stay as long as you like, Madeleine.”

She surprised me by answering, “I would rather you go. I'd hoped you would be my sister, but that's at an end. You now remind me too much of what I have lost. Alone, I can pretend, a little.” She broke off, biting her lip. I saw the tears well in her eyes. “Please, Elspeth, do you understand? It will help me heal.”

I was hurt, but I knew what she was asking and why. France was no longer my home.

“I shall need a pass to travel back to England,” I said. “Perhaps Henri will be able to arrange one for me.”

“Consider it done,” he said, but I could tell, seeing the frown between his eyes, that he was unhappy about his wife's decision. He had hoped, I thought, that I'd stay on at least until the period of mourning was over. Still, it was her choice to make, after all.

And perhaps I should leave Paris and my own memories here. Perhaps it was for the best . . .

Chapter Fourteen

T
wo days after Henri left Paris to rejoin his regiment, I set out for Rouen, this time with all my belongings carefully packed into a trunk and a valise.

Henri had obtained my pass, and he kissed me on the cheek when he said good-bye.

I had the strongest feeling that it would be a very long time before I saw him again, and I thought perhaps he had had the same premonition. Madeleine's grief went too deep to measure. I wouldn't be returning to Paris. I wished him well, told him that he must come home safe to Madeleine and his son.

He smiled, promised, and then was gone.

Madeleine had come down to see me off. Michel had brought the motorcar around—Henri insisted that I must not travel to Rouen by train. He had fretted that I didn't have a maid to accompany me. But I had traveled to Calais alone in the midst of the fighting and I felt no fear for my safety.

All the same I was grateful for his care.

I reached Rouen and discovered that Henri had sent word to the port authorities that I had been in Paris to attend the funeral of my fiancé, a hero of the Marne.

And so I was treated with every courtesy.

There was a ship sailing with the next tide. There was no cabin available, but I didn't care. I could hear the heavy guns in the north, a push on, and there was nothing I could do about the wounded, the dying that would soon be flooding the forward aid stations. Instead I stood by the rail and watched France fade slowly into the distance, remembering my school days in Paris, remembering sharing whispered confidences in the dark with Madeleine when we ought to have been sleeping, remembering watching from the upstairs window for Alain to arrive in the Montigny carriage to collect his sister. All in the past now. I felt an overwhelming sadness. Madeleine and Alain lost to me. My work as a Sister taken from me. Even the chatty artillery Captain, his ear and throat swathed in bandages, who came to stand beside me at the rail couldn't lighten my mood.

We had a rough crossing, and as always there was the fear of a German submarine lurking somewhere in the Channel. When the Isle of Wight appeared off the port bow, and then the entrance to the harbor at Portsmouth loomed just ahead, I thought I might feel as if I had come home.

But where was my home now?

Portsmouth was busy, crowded. I didn't want to stay the night there.

With the help of the stationmaster, I was able to find space on a train going to London, my luggage loaded in the van. I sat by the window, watching the lights of Hampshire villages flash by. Not terribly far from where I was traveling now, over the border into Sussex, was the tiny village of Aldshot. By now Peter would have gone back to St. Albans a second time for further treatment. After that, he should be released to live in his own flat until he was judged well enough to return to France.

I couldn't go to him. Not now. Not ever. It would be a betrayal of Alain in my heart. His suicide had made it impossible.

We pulled into London, and I sent my trunk to Cousin Kenneth's house to be stored for the time being. Closed for the duration it might be, but a skeleton staff would still be in residence, if only to keep the fires going and the rooms clean.

I arrived on Mrs. Hennessey's doorstep, tired, unhappy, and uncertain about my future.

Accustomed to our coming and going at all hours, she welcomed me warmly, clearly curious to know where I had been and if I'd sorted out my problem with the Nursing Service.

I had not. It would be useless to try. But I told her that a friend in Paris had died, and I had had no time to think about myself.

“I'm so sorry, my dear,” she said, over the cup of tea she had made for me, late as it was. “I didn't know. Was that the letter from France that you'd been expecting?”

“Yes. It was waiting for me in Aldshot. Thank you for forwarding it.”

“I wondered that it might be bad news,” she said, nodding, “coming all the way from France.” It sounded as if France was as far away as China, and I smiled.

“That's better,” she applauded. “You have such a lovely smile, my dear.”

“Is there any other mail for me?”

There was, a letter from Cousin Bruce and a parcel with no return address.

“Go on, open them,” she urged. “I don't mind, I'll just take the tea things through to the kitchen.”

Left alone in Mrs. Hennessey's small dining room I opened the parcel first, thinking it might have been forwarded from Cornwall.

Inside was a folded copy of the
Times
. As I drew it out, a slip of paper fluttered to the carpet, landing at my feet. I retrieved it and read the message.

We kept your name out of it, but we have in custody a ring of thieves, our receiver of stolen goods, and our murderer—the man you identified. We are very grateful.

It was signed by Inspector Morgan. I unfolded the newspaper and saw the headlines in bold black letters.

SCOTLAND YARD: ARREST OF MURDERER AND BAND OF RUTHLESS THIEVES

That was good news. I was glad I'd taken the time to go to the Yard.

Setting the newspaper aside to read later, I turned to Bruce's letter.

It had been written two weeks before. Bruce was much improved and had been given leave to travel to Scotland. He had graduated to two canes and hoped to need only one before very long. He had wanted to see me, if I was in London when he came through to make his connection. But he expected I would be back in France by that time.

I reread the last part, frowning over it. Bruce knew, I had told him myself, that I had been forced to resign from the Nursing Service. He couldn't have known about the letter from Madeleine that had taken me back to Paris. And yet he wrote as if he thought I was still a Sister, serving in France once more, for he ended the letter with,
Be safe, my dear girl.

Mrs. Hennessey came back into the room and spotted the newspaper.
“
Oh, the
Times
. Did someone send you a copy? It was all very exciting, I can tell you. Looting from those poor Belgians and the French, theft of precious objects, murder. Quite the most amazing events.” Looking up, she saw my face. “Are you all right, Elspeth, dear? Your letter wasn't more bad news, was it?” she asked, concerned for me.

“I'm a little confused,” I said. “My cousin thinks I'm back in France. But I told him myself that I'd had to resign because his father disapproved.”

“Is he delirious, dear? Has he taken a turn for the worse?”

“No, no, he's convalescent, he was on the point of leaving for Scotland, to visit his father. He must have been considered well enough to make the journey.”

“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “there's that other letter that came for you. From the Nursing Service. The same day I saw you and told you about the letter from France. I'd just sent it along to Aldshot. Did you find it?”

But it hadn't come. Only the letter from Madeleine had reached me there. And I had been in a mad rush to get back to London after reading her news. I hadn't waited for it to arrive.

“Surely it was sent back to you here,” I suggested. “Since I wasn't there, they would have guessed where to find me.”

She smiled. “Yes, but perhaps they expected you to return? Did you tell them you'd be away for some time?”

Peter would have waited for me. He must have stayed on for several more weeks. Weeks wondering where I was, wondering why I hadn't written. I twisted the ruby ring on my finger.

Surely Peter wasn't still in Aldshot? Surely he'd have sent the letter back to Mrs. Hennessey and the flat, before he left. Then where was the letter? Had he simply set it on the mantel shelf in the cottage, next to my Christmas ring, thinking that one day, someday, I would come back? Or had he been too angry with me to care? It wasn't the first time I'd left him without a word. I couldn't blame him.

I sat there, thinking hard.

I must find that letter. If I couldn't go back to Peter, at least I'd have my nursing. Something salvaged out of the wreckage of my life. Was I strong enough to go to Aldshot, and if Peter was still there, tell him the truth about Alain? I didn't know. I owed it to him to try.

I needed a motorcar to reach the village. Where on earth was I to find one?

I said, “Do you know anyone who has a motorcar, Mrs. Hennessey? I want to borrow one.”

“A motorcar, my dear? I can't think of anyone. Bess has one, I believe, but it's stored in Somerset.”

“Too far. Let me think.” I went through a mental list of my acquaintances who lived in London and who owned a motorcar. It wasn't a very long list, but the name that leapt out at me was Timothy Howard's.

I rose, already planning what I must say to him. And then I remembered how late it was.

Tomorrow. I'd have to wait until tomorrow.

Thwarted. I had to laugh at my impatience. The letter had waited all this time, it could wait another day.

“It's been a tiring journey. I should go up to bed. Is anyone else here?”

“That's a very good idea, my dear. Things always look better in the morning, don't they? And you'll have the flat to yourself. Bess left two days ago, Diana has leave and is visiting her family, and Mary is still in France.”

I thanked her, climbed the long flight of stairs, and once in the flat with the door shut on the world, I simply went to bed. There was nothing more I could do.

The next morning, I went in search of Timothy, and I finally ran him to earth just before the noon hour. He had gone to his club for lunch and a meeting there, and so I had to ask the staff if they would tell him I was waiting. I was allowed to stand in the foyer, for it was overcast and spitting something that might be rain or sleet.

Two minutes later, he came running down the stairs and greeted me warmly. His uniform was freshly pressed, creases sharp as knives. He was attached to the War Office. But I was reminded of Henri's arrival at the Villard house, his uniform stained and wrinkled.

“Lady Elspeth, it's wonderful to see you. How are you? More to the point, how is Bruce?”

“He's in Scotland. They gave him leave to go home to finish his convalescence.”

“Oh, that
is
good news.”

“Timothy, I've come to ask a favor. An important letter has gone astray. I think it's in Sussex, and I need to go there straightaway to retrieve it. The nearest railway station is miles away and there's weather coming in. Is your motorcar still in London? Could I possibly borrow it for a day?”

He frowned. “That's a long drive alone. Are you sure you can manage?”

I wanted to tell him I'd already driven that journey several times over, but I said cheerfully, “Yes, of course, I wouldn't ask if I felt it was too much.”

“It's in the mews behind my flat. Number sixteen. Tell them it's all right if you borrow it. But if you have any doubts, someone there should be able to go with you.”

That was the last thing I wanted. But I thanked him for his suggestion.

“You owe me a chance to take you out to dinner one night,” he said, smiling. “I don't think we've had dinner together since before the war started.”

“Done,” I said, and turned to leave, eager to be on my way. I was halfway out the door when he called to me.

“Lady Elspeth, I'd almost forgot. There's news of Peter—”

“Yes, I've heard,” I said, waving a hand in acknowledgment. But the truth was, I didn't want news of Peter. Not now.
I mustn't think about Peter . . .

“Good,” he said, and was away up the stairs to his meeting.

I found the mews and number sixteen. A man came running to pull open the doors, and there was Timothy's motorcar. I told the man that I was borrowing it for two days, and he too looked askance. I assured him that I was perfectly capable, but he watched me bring the motorcar out and drive it down the lane to the street.

It was still spitting a cold rain when I reached the main road out of London and turned toward Portsmouth. But that was crowded with convoys, and I soon struck inland, toward Midhurst, and from there south.

I heard the clock in the village just before Aldshot striking the hour as I passed through, and I counted to nine. My headlamps barely pierced what seemed to be sleet on the verge of snow. My windscreen wipers kept up, but I had to peer out at the road to see where I was going. I could feel my shoulders, stiff with cold and tension, knotting as I leaned forward.

Aldshot's church tower loomed ahead on my left, and just beyond I could pick out the cottage. It was dark—I'd expected that. Even at this distance I had the feeling that it was empty. Closed. No motorcar out front. Just as well, I told myself. There was lamplight in the Wright house, and so I pulled up by the path to their door, and got out. My knees ached from sitting so long in the cold motorcar, for the heater did little more than warm my feet.

Walking briskly up to the door, I knocked and then waited. A curtain in the front-room window twitched.

After a moment or two, Mrs. Wright opened the door and exclaimed in surprise. “I saw the motorcar, my dear, and I thought, surely someone's lost his way in this weather. I never dreamed—is there anyone else with you?” She was peering around my shoulder to see.

“I'm quite alone. It's a borrowed motorcar, and I must have it back by tomorrow.”

“Come in,” she said, realizing she was keeping me standing on her doorstep. “The kettle is already on, and Joel will be back soon, I hope. He had to take old Harry Clinton into Midhurst. His sciatica is bothering him again. Have you had your dinner? There's food in the pantry—”

She was running on, words tumbling over themselves.

I followed her into the sitting room where I had taken my breakfast all those weeks before. I felt a tug at my heart as the memories came rushing back. She had been clearing away the table, and there was only a teacup and a dish of parsnips still there, as if I'd interrupted her on her way to the kitchen.