The Walnut Tree

by Charles Todd

  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 standin
g 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.

  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.”