The Walnut Tree (18 page)

She offered me a chair by the hearth, and then finished clearing away, whisking out a clean white tablecloth for my supper.

“Please don't go to any trouble—”

“It's no trouble at all. And you'll stay the night, won't you? There's weather coming in and you shouldn't be on the road all alone.”

I thanked her for her kindness, and then, as the stream of words seemed to slow at last, I managed to say, “You have another letter that's waiting for me, I think.”

She stared at me.

“From London. From Queen Alexandra's—”

“Of course! It's in the desk there, let me fetch it for you.”

She hurried across to the little desk by the window, let down the top, and reached into a pigeonhole for an envelope.

“I didn't know when you might be coming back. Or where to send it. I asked the Captain what I should do, and he told me to hold on to it. That he believed you'd come back to us. And he was right, you have.”

I couldn't bear to hear about Peter.

Turning away, I opened the letter from QAIMNS.

It wasn't an official notification of my resignation.

On the contrary, it informed me that there had been a mistake made, and that I was reinstated without prejudice. I was to report to the London headquarters as soon as practical to resume my duties as a Sister.

I couldn't believe the evidence of my own eyes. I read it again, and then a third time.

What had happened? Surely Cousin Kenneth hadn't relented and changed his mind.

It was very unlike him, once a decision had been taken.

Bruce—

I had told Bruce what had happened, and how upset I was over his father's high-handedness in forcing me to resign.

Dear Bruce, had he intervened on my behalf, had he told his father to change his opinion of what Queen Alexandra's Imperial Military Nursing Service had done for wounded and dying men?

Cousin Kenneth was from another generation. Perhaps he had been made to see that times had changed, and that women of my class had not put themselves beyond the pale by doing their duty for King and Country. After all, Queen Alexandra, widow of the late King Edward, was the royal patroness. She wouldn't have agreed to allow her name to be used if she had had any reservations about the Service.

Whatever had happened, I felt as if my life had been turned round, that after so much unhappiness, I could at least return to the work I did so well.

I smiled, looked up at Mrs. Wright, and said, “It's good news. I'm so glad I came down.”

“Yes, dear, that's wonderful. We could all use good news from time to time.”

She brought me in a cup of tea, some fresh bread, slices of cold chicken, a dish of parsnips and carrots roasted in her oven, and a pudding.

“It's not much,” she apologized, “but it will keep starvation from your door.”

I thanked her for her generosity and ate with more appetite than I had felt in weeks.

I had finished the pudding, and she was removing the dishes, when I realized that there was something on her mind. Was she wondering where I had been? Why I never came back to Peter or Aldshot?

I owed her an explanation, but all I could say was, “A dear friend was very ill in Paris. I had to go. I had to be there with the family.”

“I'm sorry to hear it, my dear. Has she recovered?”

“It was her brother who was recovering from severe wounds. He—he died.”

“How sad. Let's hope he's in a better place now. I've come to believe that, seeing the wounded as I do from time to time. For some there's no hope of a good tomorrow.”

It was well put, and I nodded.

“Is that his ring?” she asked, curiosity overcoming good manners.

“It was a family heirloom,” I answered. “I've known him for many years, and he asked me to wear it in remembrance.”

“The war has taken away so many good men,” she said in sympathy, then urged me to move closer to the fire. After fussing with the grate, she straightened and said diffidently, “There's another letter for you. Well, not really a letter. I wasn't sure whether I should mention it, as you didn't ask.”

“A letter? From whom?” Please God, not from Peter. I couldn't bear it.

She went back to the desk and drew out another envelope. I saw at once that there was no stamp on it. And I knew then that Peter had left it for me. And I had treated him so shabbily.

I opened it slowly, turning a little so that Mrs. Wright couldn't see my face. But she busied herself with the dishes, giving me a measure of privacy. I was reminded of Mrs. Hennessey, doing the very same thing.

It was a short letter.

Where are you? I wish I knew. It's been the very devil, wondering. I'm well enough now to leave the cottage and return to my flat. Mrs. Wright said you'd come back for a letter from France. I'd always thought there might be someone else, possibly in Paris. There was that other ring, you see. And you never told me you loved me. I wish him well. I don't know what to do about my ring now. I was going to leave it on the mantel shelf, but that wouldn't do, if someone else came here before you returned. Or perhaps you'll never return. And so I took it out and buried it at the foot of the walnut tree. It belongs here. And here it will stay. I love you enough to wish you happiness, wherever you are. God keep you safe.

And it was signed simply,
Peter
.

I sat down in a chair by the table. I wanted to cry, for Peter, for myself. For Alain.

After a moment I said to Mrs. Wright, fighting to keep my voice steady, “Do you have a trowel? Could I borrow it, please?”

She stared at me. “There's one out in the shed, of course. Joel's. Why should you need a trowel, my dear? In this weather?”

“It's important. It's something Peter—Captain Gilchrist left for me. Please?”

For a moment she hesitated, for it must have seemed to her a mad request, and then with a nod she left the room. After a few minutes she was back again, an old and well-used trowel in her hand. “It's snowing, surely it can wait until tomorrow? Whatever it is?”

“It can't wait. It's waited too long already. Bless you.”

Taking the trowel, I put on my coat and hat, wrapped my scarf around my throat, and went out the door. I knew Mrs. Wright was anxiously watching from the window.
I'll explain later,
I thought.
Once I have it safe. Then she'll understand.

It was already a little slippery underfoot, and great white flakes were falling silently from the sky, softly touching my face, sticking to my coat. If this continues, I thought, by tomorrow I shan't know where to dig.

I crossed the road, went through the hedge, and knelt at the foot of the walnut tree, feeling with my fingers for any sign of loose earth. And there it was, just in front of me.

I began to dig very carefully, scraping at the earth until I heard the trowel's edge strike something that must be metal.

It took me another five minutes to winkle it out of the cold ground. Then I saw what it was. A Princess Mary Christmas Box, the small metal tin that was given to every member of the Army and Navy, containing a gift of chocolate and tobacco and other necessities, from a grateful nation. Acceptance of the truth, that the war wouldn't—couldn't—be over by Christmas.

Still kneeling on the snow-wet ground, I opened it. In the distance I could hear the jingle of harness and the hoofbeats of horses as a carriage came down the road. Ignoring it, I opened the box and looked inside.

A small square of silk lay there, and on it the ring that Peter had made for me. A simple thing, carved from a pig bone.

I closed my fingers over it, my eyes shut, remembering when the bare tree above my head was lit with the light of dozens of candles, flickering in the dark.

The carriage turned into the farmyard just past the Wrights' house, and I knew Joel must have made it home safely from Midhurst. But I ignored him, trying to hold fast to that memory, trying to hear Peter's voice again, and feel the warmth of his shoulder touching mine as we stood close together by the window, looking out at the Christmas gift of the village to two strangers in their midst.

But it was slipping away, in spite of all I could do.

I felt hot tears running down my face. “Please come back,” I whispered to the fading image in my mind. “Just this once, please let me remember.”

Joel's voice, clear in the quiet of the snowfall, was calling to his wife as he unhitched the horses and took them into the barn. And my memory seemed to shatter with the distraction.

The ring in my palm was cold from being in the ground. I couldn't warm it.

“Elspeth?”

I knelt there, unable to move.

And then I felt his hands on my shoulders, pulling me to my feet. My hat went flying.

“I don't know where you've been,” Peter said softly, his lips against my hair. “Or why. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters but the fact that I've found you again.”

I turned in his arms, and he held me tight, as if afraid I might vanish into the night.

“Your wound,” I said, anxious not to hurt him.

He laughed, that deep chuckle rumbling in his chest. “In another month, six weeks at the most, I'll be rejoining my regiment.”

“But what are you doing here? Mrs. Wright—”

“I was on my way here. I ran into Howard in London. He'd just seen you, he said you'd borrowed his motorcar, something about a letter in Sussex. I drove like a madman until I had a flat tire on the road outside Midhurst. Joel was coming back from taking one of the farmers in to see the doctor. He found me, brought me the rest of the way. I was afraid I'd missed you, that you'd turned back to London in this weather.”

Before I could say anything, in the soft light from the snow falling over us he saw the ring on my finger, dull gold and ruby red. He pulled away.

“He was Madeleine's brother. Alain,” I said quickly. “He lost his arm fighting on the Marne, and he couldn't bear that. He killed himself. If he'd lived, I'd have married him, Peter. He asked me, long before I met you again and fell in love with you. And I would have kept faith with him because he needed me. I wear his ring still because he was a brave and honorable man, and I was very fond of him. But
this
is the ring that I will keep until I am old, because you gave it to me.” I held it out in my palm, for him to see.

He took it from me and put it on my finger.

“I'll give you another. As soon as I've gone to Scotland. And you'll travel with me. I'm damned if I'm going to risk losing you again.”

I was supposed to report to the Nursing Service for duty as soon as practicable.

But QAIMNS had waited this long. They could wait another few weeks. Peter kissed me then, standing under the bare branches of the walnut tree.

About the Author

CHARLES TODD is the
New York Times
bestselling author of the Inspector Ian Rutledge mysteries, the Bess Crawford mysteries, and two stand-alone novels. A mother and son writing team, they live in Delaware and North Carolina, respectively. Visit their website at charlestodd.com and like CharlesToddNovels on Facebook.

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www.AuthorTracker.com
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Also by Charles Todd

The Ian Rutledge Mysteries

A Test of Wills

Wings of Fire

Search the Dark

Legacy of the Dead

Watchers of Time

A Fearsome Doubt

A Cold Treachery

A Long Shadow

A False Mirror

A Pale Horse

A Matter of Justice

The Red Door

A Lonely Death

The Confession

The Bess Crawford Mysteries

A Duty to the Dead

An Impartial Witness

A Bitter Truth

An Unmarked Grave

Other Fiction

The Murder Stone

Credits

Cover design by Mary Schuck

Cover photographs: woman © by Richard Jenkins; building © by Panoramic Images/Getty Images; tree © by Shutterstock

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The
characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and
are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

THE WALNUT
TREE
. Copyright © 2012 by Charles Todd. All rights reserved under
International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required
fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access
and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be
reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored
in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form
or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter
invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

FIRST
EDITION

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication
Data

Todd, Charles.

The walnut tree / Charles Todd. — 1st
ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-0-06-223699-9

1. Young women—Fiction. 2.
Nobility—England—Fiction. 3. Nurses—England—Fiction. 4. World War,
1914–1918—France—Fiction. 5. World War, 1914–1918—England—Fiction.
I. Title.

PS3570.O37W36 2012

813'.54—dc23

2012031037

EPub Edition © NOVEMBER 2012 ISBN:
9780062236883

12 13 14 15 16
OV/RRD
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1