The Walnut Tree

by Charles Todd

  He couldn’t go far, and it wasn’t good for his lungs to breathe in the cold December air. But it was the best way to regain his strength and increase his appetite.

  We tried to walk a little farther each day, and sometimes one or the other of our neighbors would stop to speak to us, accepting us, Mrs. Wright told me, because we were staying in the Blake house. That, it seemed, was entrée enough for the local people.

  We had come to a comfortable arrangement with the Wrights. They did the marketing and the cooking, the cleaning, and so on, and we paid them at the end of each week for what they had spent, although they were always reluctant to take anything for themselves. I finally had to tell them that Sister Blake had insisted that we must pay for services as well, and finally, shyly, they agreed to let us carry out her wishes.

  It was difficult to spend my days so close to Peter. He said nothing more about his love for me. Before we’d come to Walnut Tree Cottage, it had been different, snatched moments in the midst of a war, Peter wanting me to know how he felt, what his intentions were. Here, where I was in his company hour after hour, he was careful never to make me uncomfortable, careful never to press his suit or in any way take advantage of our present circumstances. Even my guardian couldn’t have expected more consideration from a suitor.

  The problem was on my side. Peter’s laugh, the way his eyes reflected his smile, his small kindnesses, his very presence, protective in every way, the sound of his voice from another room, quickening my pulse, knowing he was near, within call—these things and so many others wrapped me in happiness. I felt loved, and in the afternoons or after dinner, we would talk in that companionable way people do when they’re content in one another’s company.

  I thought one evening as Peter and I sat by the fire, watching the flames leap into the chimney, red and gold at the heart, that Alain and I had never reached this stage in our relationship. We’d always been chaperoned, and so it had never been possible. Only on that last evening before he’d joined his regiment had we approached it, and it was all too quickly gone.

  I knew I should leave. I knew it was unwise staying here, giving my heart away bit by bit. But the thought of going was insupportable.

  One afternoon Peter came down the stairs wearing his officer’s greatcoat and using the cane that Joel Wright had found for him in the village. It was old, the handle well rubbed by the hands of many people, and sturdy enough to support him properly.

  We set out down the path. Looking up at the walnut tree, he said, “It’s a pleasure to see a tree like that, after the blasted and blackened stubs of trunks I’d grown accustomed to in France.”

  “Yes, it must be beautiful in the spring, as the leaves come out.” We wouldn’t be here to see that, I thought.

  He took my arm to counterbalance the cane, and I could feel the warmth of his body so close to mine. I wanted to move closer, cling to his arm, our heads almost touching as we talked. But I kept the proper distance, as I’d been trained to do as a Sister, assisting but in no way encouraging contact.

  We walked as far as the church. Mrs. Wright had told us that the Rector was serving in France as a chaplain. He had left in November, and now the village was served for the duration by the priest in the next village over.

  There was an interesting story to the construction of the church. According to Mrs. Wright, it had been built by a former resident of Aldshot who had feared for his immortal soul. One of Mrs. Blake’s ancestors, he had left the village to seek his fortune, and gone out to India with Robert Clive. He had come home a nabob, but apparently his conscience bothered him—no one seemed to know quite why—and so he donated land as well as the money to build “a fitting church” in his birthplace. And in his will he had asked to be interred in “the foremost place before the altar.” His wish was granted, but the general opinion of Aldshot was that whatever he’d done in India, it had taken more than the gift of a church to cleanse his soul.

  Pausing, leaning heavily on his stick, Peter said, “I never thought to ask the Wrights. Where is the rectory?”

  “Over there, I think,” I said, pointing to a house across the road. “It has a lovely orchard. Do you see? Well pruned, healthy.”

  “The ancestral Blake’s largesse didn’t extend to the rectory,” he commented. For it was no bigger than any other cottage in the village. “Either that, or the church had proved more costly than he’d imagined.”

  I smiled. “I’ll ask Sister Blake, if I ever see her again.”

  Turning by common consent, we walked back the way we’d come, toward the cottage. Peter was unusually quiet, and I thought perhaps his ribs were hurting in the cold December wind.

  Almost to the hedge that surrounded the front garden, he stopped, his gaze on the walnut tree.

  I stopped as well, hoping the outing hadn’t been too much for his strength. He still had good days and bad.

  But I was wrong.

  Without looking at me, he said, “We can’t do this, Elspeth. I thought we could manage, but it won’t work. I love you too much. And at present I can’t speak to Kenneth. You must go back to London. But not today. Tomorrow . . .”

  “Not today,” I agreed, keeping my voice steady by an effort of will. “We’ll leave tomorrow to itself.”

  He chuckled, deep in his chest, and I felt myself go weak in the knees. “Peter.”

  I wanted to tell him about Alain. Now. While I could.

  “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t say anything. Just give me your company. I won’t ask for more, I won’t tell you again that I love you. Friends?”

  But I knew even as I repeated “Friends” that it would be impossible. For both of us.

  We walked the rest of the way without speaking, and by the time we had come in and warmed ourselves by the fire in the hearth, Mrs. Wright was bringing in our luncheon.

  We sat talking until quite late that night, keeping to topics that led us safely through the quagmire of emotion, and then I went across the street to rouse a sleepy Joel Wright to put Peter to bed.

  As I went up the stairs to my own room, Mrs. Wright, standing in her doorway in her dressing gown, said, “He’s such a lovely man, isn’t he? The Captain? It’s a pleasure to see to him. I hope he’ll be staying on.”

  “I believe he will,” I said, and wished her a good night.

  The next day crept into another and then another. I knew it was best to return to London as soon as may be, but I put it off, night after night. And then one evening as I was preparing to go in search of Wright to help him upstairs, Peter called to me from the front room.

  “Come and see, Elspeth. You won’t believe what they’ve done!”

  It was a bright, starlit night, clear and cold. As I went to the window to see what Peter was talking about, I drew in a breath in disbelief.

  The walnut tree in the front garden was alight with candles at the end of its branches, each in a small saucer of paper, and the flames danced in the night air like something alive, blue and gold and white hot, a halo that set the tip of each branch aglow with warm light.

  It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I stood there, staring out at the spectacle, and suddenly I realized the purpose of the tree alight with the brightness of joy. It was Christmas Eve! I had lost track of time, and so had Peter.

  He put his good arm around my shoulders, pulling me close, and we stood there together as the candles burned down.

  And then he bent to kiss the top of my head.

  “A happy Christmas, my love. May there be many, many more for us.”

  A tap at the door broke the spell, Wright come to see Peter to bed. We stepped apart, not looking at each other, and I said, “How late it is, I must go!”

  I hurried out of the room as Wright came in, and walked through the light cast by the walnut tree, seeing it glimmer and glisten into bright rainbows through my tears.

  Chapt
er Eleven

  I had no gift for Peter the next day. I hadn’t expected to stay as long as this. But I’d already driven into the nearest village for gifts for the Wrights. These were intended to thank them for all their kindnesses, but they would do for Boxing Day just as well.

  Mrs. Wright was at the foot of the stairs as I came down to my breakfast. In her hands was a small blue glass jar with a festive arrangement of ribbons around the top.

  “A little something for you,” she said, handing it to me.

  “And this is for you,” I said, holding out a silk scarf that matched the blue of her eyes. “I’m so sorry I had no paper to wrap it for you. And with it comes my gratitude for your many kindnesses to me.”

  “Never you mind about the paper,” she said stoutly. “You’ve given Joel and me such happiness just watching the two of you together.” And before I could answer, she led the way to the front room where my breakfast was always set out.

  I opened the jar, expecting to find potpourri or a lotion made of herbs and rose hips, that sort of thing, and instead found it contained shelled walnuts from the cottage tree.

  I was close to tears, staring down into it. She couldn’t have known, could she, how much that tree had come to mean to me. And, I thought, to Peter as well. I’d already thanked her for the candles last night, as I came in to go to bed, and she had flushed with pleasure.

  “It took half the village to get it done quickly and quietly,” she told me. “We’re so glad you liked it. Mrs. Blake had always put candles on the walnut tree for her birthday, from the time when it was hardly more than a stalk and a few limbs. Her father wouldn’t allow her to light them, he did that himself. And Joel and I thought, Wouldn’t it be fine to do it for a Christmas surprise?”

  I put the lid back on the jar and set it beside my plate.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Wright. That’s the most thoughtful gift you could have given me. I’ll always remember it.”

  “I’d send a jar to Sister Blake too, if I could, but she’s always moving about and packets go astray, often as not.”

  I recalled my promise to Sister Blake—I owed her a walnut from that tree, as “rent.” I would make a point to collect one that very morning, on my way across to the cottage.

  When I got there, I found Peter in a very odd mood.

  He reached into his pocket and took out a carefully folded handkerchief, handing it to me.

  I opened it, and inside was a circlet of bone. It had been cleaned and polished and then engraved with what I quickly identified as tiny walnut shells. It must have taken hours and hours of work, and it was quite beautiful.

  “I can’t offer you a ring,” he said. “Not until I speak to Kenneth. This is simply a gift between friends. I hope you will accept it as such.” He grinned. “I wanted to give you something, and this was the only thing that came to hand. I don’t expect you to wear it. Lady Elspeth Douglas would hardly go to a ball sporting a pig’s bone.”

  Such a contrast to the ruby ring that Alain had given me. I could feel it on its chain around my neck, holding me to my promise.

  After a moment, I said lightly as my fingers closed over the ring, “Peter, you shouldn’t have. I’m overwhelmed by your extravagance.” It took every ounce of my will to say that, but I managed it without tears.

  “And so you should be. It was the devil to carve.”

  We laughed, and I put the circlet on my finger. To my surprise it fit.

  I took it off again and set it carefully on the mantel shelf.

  “Now I must have a look at your bandages.”

  Wright always replaced them perfectly, copying the way the doctors in St. Albans had put them on before Peter left their care.

  The wound was healing well. I sprinkled it with septic powder, then rebandaged it. But when I asked him to lift his arm, he was unable to raise it beyond the level of his shoulder.

  “The damn—the exercises seemed to have stopped working.”

  “Then it’s time to take you to a doctor in Midhurst or Pulborough—even to London, if need be. He can order new exercises. Tomorrow is Boxing Day. The next day, then.”

  We agreed. And then I put it all out of my mind, trying to make the day merry. I saw the bone ring on the mantel shelf every time I passed. And yet I couldn’t bring myself to put it on again. I knew Peter would have liked to see me wear it, if only for the day, but there was Alain. And I couldn’t. Even for Peter.

  On the day after Boxing Day I drove Peter to Midhurst. The doctor there, recommended by Mrs. Wright, examined him and afterward told me, “I’d be happier if he went back to his doctor in St. Albans. He knows the case, he’s the best one to advise on new exercises. The last thing we want to do is tear open something that’s already on the point of healing. And an X-ray might well be in order. I don’t have access to a machine, I’m afraid.”

  Peter, dressed again, made a face as he came out of the doctor’s surgery. “Did he tell you? Back to St. Albans. I’d rather go back to Aldshot.”

  “Yes, I’m sure, but the thing is, we must do what’s best.” I couldn’t help but think that if I made it possible for Peter to heal, he’d be back in the thick of the fighting again. And I couldn’t bear to contemplate that. The next time he was wounded . . .

  “St. Albans it is,” he said with a sigh.

  And so we went on to St. Albans, stopping briefly in London for a late meal. The doctors at the clinic were pleased to see him, and Dr. Fuller said, “You’ve clearly been in good hands, Captain. I’m impressed with the progress you’ve made. Still a way to go, of course, but your general health has improved.”

  It had. He had regained the weight he’d lost, and except for stiffness in his arm, looked fit and remarkably handsome.

  Peter glanced at me, and I could almost read what was passing through his mind—happiness made all the difference. Aloud, he said, “I’ve walked every day, and my appetite has picked up.”

  “Yes, and I dare say a good night’s rest hasn’t gone amiss. We’d like to keep you a day or so, to see how the arm responds and to teach you the new exercises. Will that be all right with your chauffeur?” He turned to smile at me.

  “I’d like to run down to London and look in on Mrs. Hennessey,” I said to Peter. “It should work out well.”

  I could see in the tightness around his mouth how sad he was that our idyll was over.

  We said good-bye shortly afterward, and I went on to the inn where I’d stayed before. Early the next morning, rather than interrupt the schedule at the clinic, I drove on to London without seeing Peter.

  Mrs. Hennessey, on her way home from marketing, saw me arrive and said in a fluster, “My dear! I just posted a letter to you in Sussex yesterday morning. And here you are!”

  “A letter? From whom?” There had been no letters for either of us in Aldshot.

  “From France, Elspeth. I knew you’d be eager to get it. And then this morning there was something from Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service. I put it in the post just now.”

  The official notification of my resignation. It could wait. But the letter from France . . .

  Peter would be in St. Albans for another day. I could easily drive back to Sussex, find my letter, and return before he was discharged.

  It was silly to make such a long circuit, but if there was bad news, the sooner I knew the better.

  I thanked Mrs. Hennessey, reversed the motorcar, and set out for Sussex.

  It was late when I reached the cottage. There had been a military convoy on the road and an overturned caisson. It had held me up for an hour or more.

  I let myself in and fumbled for the lamp, lighting it and looking at the fire. Mrs. Wright, bless her, had kept it up, and the room was comfortably warm.

  My ring lay where I’d left it, on the mantel shelf. I picked it up, slipped it over my finger again, and then in
a spasm of guilt, took it off and put it back on the shelf once more.

  Mrs. Wright came hurrying over, apologizing for not having my dinner ready. “But we weren’t sure how long you might be in Midhurst, and I kept it warm in my kitchen instead. I’ll have it quick as a wink.” She looked around. “Where’s the Captain? Has he gone up to lie down?”

  “He’s in St. Albans. The doctor wanted to keep him for several days. I came back because I’m expecting a letter to arrive.”

  “There’s been no post this last day or so. I expect everyone is still busy with Christmas and all. Sit down and warm yourself by the fire. I’ll come back shortly.”

  She started out the door, but I got up and hurried after her.

  “Perhaps I could eat my dinner where I have my breakfast,” I suggested. “And then go up to bed.”

  I couldn’t sit here in the empty cottage any longer. I missed Peter’s presence terribly.

  “Well, if you like,” she said, giving me a quick look. “The cottage does seem rather quiet without the Captain moving about. He’s such a lovely man, the Captain. I don’t know when I’ve met anyone finer. Come along, then. I’ll step over and see to the fires later.”

  I ate my dinner alone, and then went up to bed. I tried to read a little in one of the books I’d been reading to Peter, but in the end, I fell asleep, letting it slide to the floor with a thump.

  The next morning I waited for the post to arrive. It hadn’t come by eleven, its usual time, and I told myself that there was nothing for Aldshot, that I’d have to wait until tomorrow for my letter.

  And then close on to two o’clock, there was a knock at the door, and I hurried to answer it. There was the post van, and a man muffled to the eyes in a new scarf, clearly a Christmas gift from someone in the family—I could see the dropped stitches and where a different shade of blue had been employed halfway through—held out a letter to me.

  “I’d thought of not coming at all,” he said, “since this was the only letter for Aldshot, but it was foreign like, and I thought it might be . . . news.”