The Thorn Keeper

by Pepper D. Basham

Come home soon, my dear doctor. My heart has been at the trenches much too long, but more than anything, keep your hope. Your love has taught me how to hope, so I shall. I shall keep hoping, with each new sunrise, you’ll make your way back to our little haven and to me.

  And do not find the scent of peppermint too appalling when you enter. I have a potted plant of it in every room. Not only does it remind me of you, but I’ve also discovered it keeps Mother from overstaying her welcome.

  With all my love,

  Kat

  January 15, 1916

  My lovely Kat,

  Three letters in one week! You know the way to my heart, darling. Words from you. Whether they are of grand news, sad news, or dull, they are from you, and I gladly drink them in. I must admit to finding particular pleasure in the ones related to bedrooms, pillows and missing keys.

  You have grown so precious to me, even in this distance. Your letters bring scents of your love on every line, even the ones related to Mr. Coates’ Great Dane. I can almost see your smile as you wrote about Monsieur Bauldin or the birth of Annie’s daughter. Oh, to kiss your smile once again.

  I find myself increasingly grateful and awestruck by this powerful love, one for which I cannot express in warm embraces or prolonged kisses at the moment, but I long for the day. Thoughts of you blow through this dreary world of war like the cool breeze of summer, refreshing my spirit and giving me cause to ponder on sweeter times.

  Do you realize how the scent of lavender lingers on your letters? I keep all of them in my satchel, and when I open it, I’m flooded with the welcome scent of you, and I recall you in all of your ravishing beauty. Just the thought of our time together, even now, knocks the chill out of the billowing winter wind in my tent.

  I would not wish you here, even for a second of comfort. This world is a bleeding, dying, fiery place. Each night, I pray that you visit me in my dreams. There, I find a safe and tender haven of memory for us. I cling to the hope in your words and look forward to your letters like my breath. You are such to me.

  Your enamored and grateful husband,

  David

  Mr. Coates delivered another box to Catherine’s cottage from Grandmama’s third story office. She studied it, reluctant to begin another fruitless treasure hunt. Yesterday’s findings had unearthed a single shoe, a moldy lock of hair, and a moth-eaten emerald hat, none of which required sorting into files for later.

  At the bottom of the box, beneath the mounds of faded paper and castoff trinkets, Catherine unearthed a small, decorative box, with tiny portraits painted on each paneled side. The scenes resembled the rolling hills of Derbyshire in various seasons of the year. Catherine smoothed her hand over the designs. Finally, a bit of treasure.

  Inside waited a stack of letters, tied together with a red ribbon. A chill moved over her skin as she touched the time-worn pages. Catherine untied the ribbon and opened the first letter, her breath wedging closed as the realization dawned. These were Grandmama’s love letters from Lord Jeffrey Cavanaugh.

  Oh dear, her dull day just took a three-volume novel turn. How delightful! But as she studied the sweet, passionate notes, the dates posed a quandary. There were ample letters from their courtship and engagement, but then a second half of the letters came after a year’s absence.

  Sentences began to tell a shocking story. My beloved, how can I have you bear this shame alone, when I am the cause of your circumstances?

  My love will always be yours, in heart, soul, and body… I have led you to sin against God and your husband. Forgive me. I cannot live in this house with another when my soul burns for you. Why does the hand of a family’s anger have to rip our lives apart?

  Will your husband forgive you? Will he keep you from shame? I promise to provide for this child you carry – a sweet memory forged from our secret passions.

  With each letter, the story became clear. Uncle William was Lord Jeffrey Cavanaugh’s child, conceived while both Grandmama and Lord Cavanaugh were married to others. Their violent separation, brought on by their families’ bitterness, tore them apart prematurely, but they continued a love affair for a year.

  Everything started to make sense. The large sums of money to Uncle William from a wealthy yet anonymous benefactor, the hints of Grandmama’s story through Lady Hollingsworth, and even Grandmama’s apropos comfort to Catherine’s situation through her letters.

  Grandmama was a fallen woman.

  Catherine stared down at the papers, digesting the information with a strange mixture of disbelief, grief, and then sweet admiration. Grandmama had ended their romance amicably, begging his forgiveness and pleading for God’s, appealing to her desire to choose and love her husband better in the future than she had in the past. A half-written letter in Grandmama’s hand, smudged and probably rewritten, waited at the end of the stack.

  We cannot live in what was, dear Jack. We must move beyond our past and build a future, even if our hearts are torn. I have caused great pain to a good man, a man who has chosen to love me despite my unfaithfulness. I now choose to love him and pray for God’s forgiveness for my sin.

  Our connection was something beautiful once, but it cannot be so anymore. Please understand and know there is a place in memory where you will always hold my heart, but in memory it must remain.

  Catherine thought of her Grandfather Dougall, with his kind eyes and unfettered laughter. He’d died when Catherine was only ten, but she never forgot how her grandparents doted on one another, like to young lovers, or her grandfather’s tenderness toward Grandmama, or how grievously she’d mourned at his passing.

  Love worked miracles, even when it was undeserved….or, perhaps, especially when it was undeserved. Just as Christ’s love had done for her.

  Catherine folded the letters and placed them back in the box. This secret was hers to keep, and this grace lesson hers to remember.

  February 3, 1916

  Oh, my dearest David,

  My heart is broken. Annie’s sweet Clara died in her sleep three nights ago. I have no words for such devastation. I know I shouldn’t write to you of sad times, since I am certain you receive a daily helping of them, but I cannot hold back my heartache. I’ve tried to comfort Annie as best I can, but I would have craved your wisdom in it, for you know my tendency toward bluntness. All I could think to say amidst the gnawing ache of grief was what God has taught me over these last months of grieving my sin and longing for you.

  God holds us. We are protected by his grip in such a precious way that the good and the bad must pass through his fingers to us. No harm, fear, or pain can reach us without his allowance, and yet, it is a loving grip. A loving allowance we cannot understand until time has frayed our pride and tempered our heartbreak. And even then, our only answer may be to trust His love more than our understanding.

  Our world is a broken place. Young men are being killed and killing one another. The constant barrage of death and poverty appears to have no rhyme or reason. It’s all topsy-turvy and shattered. That’s why we need someone who can take our pieces and somehow create a beautiful portrait through the pain…in the pain.

  Even in this grief, in this longing for justice, He cradles us close.

  I’ve learned that I have two options. I can scream to the heavens of the injustice, which I am prone to do and for which God’s ears must be deeply panged, and harden my heart to God’s work whether down the easy path or the path of suffering…or I can trust in the One who knows my wretched, complaining heart, who loves me as I am, and understands the best way to take broken pieces and mend them back together for his glory.

  I had no answers for her. I am not God, for which I’m reminded every time I try to control my world, but I wished to give her comfort…some semblance of hope in the middle of her pain. Do you think I gave the right answer? Did I pour salt in her gaping wound with unfeeling words?

  Oh, I pray I did not.

  You would have known what to say. You, with all your generosity and tenderness!

 
The conscription was introduced last week and has caused many tears among the families of our dear village. More separation. More pain. Oh, David, I wish to cry with the psalmist, how long, O Lord? How long?

  Please know that I think of you throughout my day, wishing my soul could reach out to touch yours across the miles. I ache for you. I cannot wait to rest within your arms again and know you are safe.

  Yours,

  Catherine

  Another long shift of unending work left David exhausted. Even Jessica’s tireless energy waned from the strain. They’d moved north-east to a field hospital set up to serve the casualties in a place called Verdun. Along the Meuse River, it was probably once a beautiful countryside until the French artillery lines and German bombardment rendered the river banks a wasteland.

  David and Jessica finished a late shift and walked together through the wet night to their tents, the tireless rain adding insult.

  “Französisch verstärkungen kamen gestern. “

  The words whispered in harsh German from a nearby tent. David grabbed Jessica’s arm and pulled her behind him, carefully following the voice. David’s German was infantile, but he recognized something in the statement about French reenforcements.

  “...nehmen Sie die Westbank.“

  It sounded like someone was sharing French strategem. A German, working among them? The very idea burned a line of fury up through David with such force, not even the frigid air left memory on his skin.

  The cold chill of metal at the base of his neck stalled his turn toward his sister.

  “Dr. Ross, what a shame.“

  David turned to face the unwelcome end of a pistol and the sardonic grin of Dr. Richard Cramer.

  “You are a very good doctor, so it gives me no pleasure to spill your blood.” His accent smoothed into thick German. “We are not monsters. We value strength and nobility.”

  “Betraying people to mass murder is neither noble nor strong,” David took a look at his periphery, praying Jessica had run for help.

  “It depends on which side you’re on, ja?” He chuckled and waved his gloved hand in the air for someone to approach. “Your skill will be useful to me, but I cannot keep you here to tell your friends about my duplicity.”

  David straightened, and a vision of Catherine flashed in his mind. Forgive me.

  “You’ll have to kill me, Doctor. I’m not going with you.”

  The man tsked. “Brave words. Brave and stupid.”

  Another man emerged, cloaked in black and midnight. David’s blood ran cold. The man had Jessica pinned against him.

  Dr. Cramer kept his gaze on David but turned the pistol toward his sister. “Ja, good doctor, I think you will come with me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “I should have known.”

  Catherine had barely crossed the threshold of Madame’s shop before Lady Cavanaugh caught her arm. “How dare you make me the fool!”

  “The fool? I make a point to stay very far out of your way.”

  “You insult me further by spitting your lies to my face! I should have known you would be just like her. The same feigned piety. The same deceptive plans. Oh, to see the end of such a despicable family line would be too soon for me.”

  Catherine stood against the insipid remarks, taking them and maintaining some composure, but only with God’s help. Her initial reaction was to gather up the nearest mannequin head and toss it at the woman’s atrocious hat.

  “Now you too have gone behind my back and stolen what was mine.”

  “I’ve never stolen anything from you.”

  A humorless laugh resurrected from her wrinkled snarl. “No? What about Catherine Everill? You’re not the only one with pretenders and spies, my dear. All it took was for one of my former employees to work here long enough to gain information, and, for the right price, share the truth. That Catherine Everill is nothing more than the proprietor of a whore house glossed up as a dress salon.”

  “I’m sorry for what was taken from you years ago. For the trust that was broken.”

  Lady Cavanaugh stepped back, the fight seeping from her expression like a withering flower.

  “I cannot imagine the wounds left behind by such a deception. Wounds which have hardened to bitterness and revenge.” Catherine stepped forward, gentling her reply. “But your pain doesn’t give you the right to steal hope from others. Madame’s shop is a legitimate display of not only impeccable fashion but impeccable grace. These people you squash underfoot deserve a second chance to make things right.”

  Her snarl returned. “There is only one way to deal with your kind.” Her tone took a sinister turn. “Not all love you, Catherine Dougall. Your plans to take my property from me, to reestablish old businesses which have outshone new ones, have incurred their own enemies. This Beacon of yours has cost people their employment as well.”

  And Pierre was quick to hire Mr. Dandy’s castoffs. Catherine refused to shrink under the threats and intimidation. There would always be people who battled against grace and goodness, but better still, there would be those who rise for God’s truth, open-handed and open-hearted.

  “My Lady, I don’t own your former properties.”

  “I know you are the one who bought them, regardless of the actress you hired as your secretary.”

  “Yes, I bought them.” Catherine turned to the people in the busy shop. “I’m Catherine Everill, the designer of the clothes most of you wear now. I’m also Catherine Ross, wife of the quite remarkable Dr. David Ross, and I happen to work with Madame Rousell to hire seamstresses who have no work and who would be considered fallen women in search of redemption.” She turned back to Lady Cavanaugh. “Now, the damage is done. The word is out, and I’m not afraid of it. If you wish to obtain your former properties, you’ll have to ask the current owners for their prices. My goal was to give this town to its people.”

  She offered an incomprehensible blink.

  Catherine tried once more. “Can’t you find it in your heart for the good of Ednesbury, if not your own heart, to forgive those who’ve wronged you and help build this village into the place it once was? The place your husband loved.”

  Lady Cavanaugh shook her head and backed to the door, swinging it wide. “Don’t try your silvery tongue on me. You know nothing of the pain in my past, and I’ll not give you—especially you—rest if I cannot obtain it myself.”

  She slung the door closed behind her with such force the bell flew across the room and landed in the middle of the undergarments section. Catherine stared at the closed door, sighed, and then turned to the shop, brightening her smile. “French shops? French drama.”

  But the outward humor only sank so deep against the nip of Lady Cavanaugh’s threat. How desperate and vengeful could bitterness make someone?

  Feb 21, 1916

  My darling wife,

  I have been reassigned to a field hospital in northern France and only arrived a few days ago. The hospital is a portable sort, so medical equipment is minimal, but it seems we might be entrenched here for some time. I must make my letter brief since I am called to meet with the other surgeons, but I wanted to get down a few lines before the mail went out.

  I miss you. Your conversation, your pacing with an idea, your fiery spirit and passionate love.

  Do you remember the night you stumbled upon me in the hallway outside your room? The one in which you readily prayed with me? It was the first time I’d seen all of your magnificent hair, free and beautiful. I was pondering the sweetness of that moment, the glint of love’s taste. To touch your hair again. To unpin it and reveal all its glory. How I miss you!

  Do not tease me of entrapments, for I am the captivated one. You, my darling, have captivated me with your love. Who, but God, could have designed a plan to take you with your past and me with my pride and combine the two so perfectly? Forgive my prolonged absence from you. Forgive my desperate need to conquer the world of war.

  Should God bring me home, I will redeem the lost time
with enough passion to compete with yours. Key or not.

  Always remember how much I love you, my darling.

  David

  Catherine pressed the letter against her chest. It was the last one she’d received from him, followed by a month of painful silence. There had been times when his letters came in a bunch after two weeks, but a full month? She set the paper on her desk and returned to her sketch. A colorful little tea gown in linen to welcome in the spring. She couldn’t imagine fitting into it at present.

  A knock came from the door. “Mrs. Ross?”

  “Come in, Mrs. Bradford.”

  The woman walked forward, a delicious bundle of letters in her hands. “I thought you might not wish to wait for these until you returned to the house, so I brought them straight away.”

  Catherine stood so quickly her chair almost toppled. “You are a darling, Mrs. Bradford. Remind me to bring you a box of chocolates.”

  “Don’t tease me with such nonsense, Miss. There’ll be no place for chocolates around here.”

  Catherine raised a finger. “There’s always room for chocolates.” She took the package from the housekeeper and slid her palm over the precious envelopes, then stopped.

  These letters weren’t from David.

  They were her own.

  Ones she’d sent to him, returned. The strength in her legs fled with the air in her lungs. She stumbled back into her chair.

  “Miss?” Mrs. Bradford rushed forward. “What is it?”

  Catherine looked up, frigid shock spreading through her. “Something’s terribly wrong.”

  Catherine stood on the platform of Victoria Station, staring at the engine in front of her. She’d sneaked from Beacon House two days after receiving David’s returned letters, making Mrs. Bradford swear secrecy. Telegrams and telephoning provided no answers to his whereabouts, growing a relentless, maddening anxiety. She’d made it all the way to London before reality seeped through desperation.