The Walnut Tree (10 page)

I wasn't sure what I was going to find. The exercise helped to steady me.

There were patients in the wards and in the passages as well, and the harassed staff paid little or no heed to me. I searched quietly, carefully. Peter was not there. Not in the wards. Not in the passages. I had the most dreadful feeling he was dead. I finally found my way to the surgical ward, and Matron, pausing as she prepared to attend the next surgery, asked if she could help me.

“You aren't one of our Sisters,” she said with some certainty.

I told her, “I'm searching for a patient, Captain Gilchrist. He's a friend of the family,” I added, for fear she would jump to the conclusion I had a romantic interest in finding him. “I was told he could be in hospital here. I promised his brother I'd look in on him.”

“You're on leave, then?”

“From France. I must go back tomorrow.”

Nodding, she said, “He's just come out of surgery. And he did very well, I must say. Five minutes, Sister. No more.”

My relief was almost a physical blow, and I had to look away for fear Matron would see how much those five minutes mattered.

Fervently thanking her, I went to the recovery ward she indicated, and halfway down the double row of cots, I discovered him. He was still unconscious from the ether, his face pale, his dark hair brushing his forehead, his beard noticeable, a black shadow that emphasized his pallor.

I drew up a chair and sat by his bed for a moment, then reached out and took one of his hands, holding it in my own. The fingers were well shaped, strong, the nails short.

“Are you there, Peter?” I asked softly, so that my voice wouldn't carry to the cot next to him. I knew, from my training, that he couldn't possibly hear me so soon. “You must get well. Are you listening? I want you to live more than anything in this world. I haven't told you about Alain. I couldn't. And as long as he's a prisoner, I can't abandon him. You'd understand that, I know you would. But I can't put you out of my mind. And even though I know it's wrong, I also know that it won't do any good to try. It's a muddle, and I don't know how to find my way out of it. Live for me, Peter, and we'll work—”

I broke off, hearing the Ward Sister coming toward me. I put Peter's hand on the coverlet again, where I'd found it, and turned to face her.

“Are you a relative?” she asked, and I knew from experience what she was about to say.

“The Captain is an old family friend. Indeed, he's like one of my own cousins. I don't suppose that counts.”

“I'm afraid not.”

I rose. “Will you tell me what his prognosis is?”

“If he survives the next four and twenty hours, we expect him to live. We had no choice but to operate, even though he'd already lost a great deal of blood. The infection was spreading. His recovery will be very slow at best. We can't operate again. If this surgery didn't improve matters, then there's nothing more to be done.”

It was a grim prognosis. I felt my heart sink like a stone. I said, “Thank you for being honest.”

She smiled. “I expect you'd guessed as much, Sister.”

I hadn't. I'd been too intent on telling Peter what troubled me. I felt ashamed that I'd put myself first. And yet—and yet—I knew I had had to say what I did, for my sake if not for his. Even if he wouldn't remember, even if he died without waking, I'd told him the truth.

“You must leave,” the Sister added. With a last look at Peter, I walked away.

It was one of the hardest things I'd ever done in my life.

Chapter Eight

W
hen I arrived in France, I found I was well behind the lines in a hospital unit. Matron looked at my orders, then studied my face for a moment.

“Sister Douglas. Are you all right?”

I wasn't. I'd spent my leave searching for Peter, and I had got almost no sleep at all, snatching what rest I could when it was possible.

“Yes, Matron.”

“Have you been ill?”

“No, Matron.” I could see she was of two minds about believing me. And so I added, “I received unhappy news while on leave. A friend of the family has been severely wounded. My training makes it impossible for me to pretend that he'll recover. For all I know, he's already dead.” My voice nearly broke on the last words.

“I understand, but I must remind you that you must put personal matters aside if you are to work with the wounded. If your mind is wandering, you will not be able to make decisions quickly and efficiently. You were told that in your training.”

“Yes, Matron. Only, then, before someone close to my family was wounded, it was easier to believe it was possible to put personal feelings aside.”

She sighed. “My own brother has gone missing. He's in the Buffs. They've taken heavy casualties. But I mustn't put that above my duty.”

I knew she was right. And if she could manage to carry on, then I would have to find a way.

“I'm sorry, Matron. It was wrong of me to bring my feelings back to France with me. You can count on me to do my duty.”

Smiling, she said, “You're very young, Sister Douglas. But an excellent nurse from all reports. I'm sure I can depend on you.”

And indeed, I found that throwing myself into my work helped. I also made certain I was too tired to dream or lie awake worrying. That helped too. But that night I kept my promise to the Gilchrist piper.

I tried to couch my news in the best terms possible, telling the truth but at the same time leaving the door open to hope. There would be no way of knowing if my letter would even reach the piper, but it was important to try.

Not twenty-four hours later, another letter found me, this one from Madeleine. She wrote that young Henri was thriving, and that despite the shortage of food in Paris, she was managing to feed the household.

And I've heard from Henri again. He says he has seen you, and that you are in good health. I'm so glad to hear it, dear Elspeth. I've been very worried about you.

There's been no word from Alain, but we have learned that he was wounded in the shoulder and could lose his arm if the infection doesn't respond. Henri is trying to have him released in some sort of prisoner exchange, since he has been so ill. But so far this has not come to pass. He killed quite a few of the enemy before he was captured, and the Germans could well see this as a reason to keep him. I am so worried for Alain and for Henri. I wish this wretched war was over and we could all be happy again.

I could sympathize with her. All of us had hostages to Fortune in this war. I prayed that Alain would keep his arm. Amputations were not always successful, and I couldn't bear to lose him too. He enjoyed tennis, golf, driving. Losing these, losing his independence would be inconceivable to him. I wished there was a way I could reach him and tell him that I thought about him every day and wanted him to come home safely. To raise spirits that must already be low as he fought to save his arm.

I replied to Madeleine as soon as I could, reassuring her that all would be well with Alain and Henri. That she mustn't worry too much and make herself ill. Advice she wouldn't take, I was sure, but I had to give it for the baby's sake.

There were, sometimes, exchanges of prisoners. If anyone could arrange such a thing, it would be Henri. He had been liaison to the British forces when last I saw him, and I wondered just how much he could achieve from our lines.

Dr. Higgins was a good man, and he spent long, arduous hours trying to save men who should have been given up for dead. I watched him work miracles, and I thought each time that here was someone's loved one given a chance to live. I wished that Alain and Peter had the same care, and waited for word that never came. Not from England. And not from France.

I was in the middle of sorting the incoming wounded when the Gilchrist piper came limping out of the dawn brightness, his eyes scanning the lines of wounded, the stretcher cases, the Sisters busy with bandages, jugs of water, and containers of septic powder. He spied me just as I turned to the next man, and I straightened, feeling such a sinking feeling in my heart that I could hardly breathe.

I turned away, not wanting to know what he had come to tell me.

I finished assessing a shattered foot, and by that time the piper had made his way to me.

“Is there news?” he asked in Gaelic.

“Did you receive my letter? Good, I'm glad. I've heard nothing more,” I responded in the same language, and I saw the expression in his eyes as he turned to look toward the first hint of a rising sun.

“I have a verra' heavy feeling here,” he said, and touched his chest with his fist.

“You've left your lines,” I said, concerned for him.

“I brought in three wounded men,” he told me, then added, “I volunteer every time, in the hope of news.”

“The Captain is in England,” I told him. “I'm not likely to hear anything. But I'll send word if I do. In a letter and by the walking wounded.” For they were treated and returned to the lines as quickly as possible.

“Aye, that 'ud be verra' fine.” He touched his cap, turned and walked away, heading for the trenches.

I watched him go. It was a measure of his devotion to Peter that he wouldn't give up. I admired him for it and wished that I'd heard something that would give him hope.

It was not long after that when an officer walked into the surgical ward, asking for Matron. I was bending over a patient, changing a bandage, when I looked up in time to see him frown.

I recognized him at once. It was the irascible Major who had sent me away from Peter and put me into a lorry for Rouen.

“I know you,” he said, stopping in front of me.

I wasn't going to help him remember. I didn't like him, and I saw no reason to refresh his memory.

“After I sent you to Rouen,” he said, finally placing me, “I realized why your face was familiar. You're that man Douglas's daughter. Lady Elspeth Douglas. I've seen your photograph in one of the society gazettes.”

I looked quickly around, but none of the other Sisters were within earshot.

“Did you know my father?” I asked, trying to direct the conversation away from my title.

“Not at all. But I know your cousin. Kenneth Douglas. I was at Sandhurst when his eldest son was there.”

Rory. “Have you had news of him?” I asked quickly.

“I have not. Does your cousin know about this?” He gestured to my uniform and the bloody bandage lying beside the fresh one.

I didn't know what to say. But he was waiting for an answer. I couldn't put him off. “I believe he does,” I replied. For all I knew, that might be the truth.

“We'll see about that. I am not persuaded that your cousin would allow you to do this sort of work. I should have realized when I encountered you before that you were as headstrong as gossip says you are.”

I said, trying to deflect what was coming, “My cousin is my guardian. I have done nothing to make him ashamed of me.”

“So you say. Now where is Matron?”

“Major—”

But he turned away, and I knew I would only make matters worse by pleading with him.

“Matron has gone to the officers' ward,” I said briskly. “You'll find her there.”

Without a nod or word of thanks, he stalked out of the tent and disappeared.

I watched him go with a sinking heart.

What would Cousin Kenneth have to say? Not only about my training as a nurse but also about my failure to ask his permission? He took his role as my guardian quite seriously, and he was far more conservative than my father. He could very well see this as willfulness and insolence on my part, a lack of respect for his authority. It had been meant as nothing of the kind, but would he even listen to me?

I could only hope that Rory and Bruce would take my part and help me convince their father that this was the right thing to do. I was serving my country, just as his sons were, and I had not compromised my good name or my standards.

The Major must have left right after speaking to Matron, because I didn't see him when I went to the small canteen for my tea. And when I asked one of the other Sisters if she had seen him, describing him to her, she shook her head.

Matron didn't summon me later in the day, as I'd feared she would.

I sighed with relief and went about my duties with a lighter step. The Major had not said anything to her. I was sure of it.

And when I gave her my report on the condition of Sergeant Freeman, she made no mention of the Major.

I put him out of my mind and gave what comfort I could to the men in my care.

It was a week later when the letter arrived from London.

I was given leave to report to my superiors in the Queen Alexandra Imperial Military Nursing Service.

My heart sank. There could be only one reason for this summons.

W
hen I arrived in London, I went to Mrs. Hennessey's house, freshened up after my journey, dressed in a carefully pressed uniform, and kept my appointment with my superiors. There the Matron in charge informed me that I had joined the Service without the consent of my guardian and that she had no choice but to ask for my resignation.

“I've been a very good nurse,” I began, hoping to convince her that my skills were too valuable to lose, given the pressing need for trained nurses in France.

She cut me short. “You have been an exemplary nursing Sister,” she told me. “But that isn't the issue here, is it? You did not give your title when you applied for admission for training, and you did not inform us that your cousin was your guardian. You told us only that your parents were dead and that you were your own mistress.”

It was true. If I'd been a young orphaned woman of good family, I could have served my country. But for me it was not that simple.

Why had my father insisted in his will that my cousin Kenneth serve as my guardian until I was thirty? Had he been so unsure of my good sense? Had he been afraid that I would marry unwisely, or throw away on mad extravagances the fortune my mother had left me?

Or had he written his will when I was very young, and his protectiveness was a measure of his love for his motherless daughter?

“I can't believe that my guardian would insist on such a step. Perhaps if I speak to him—”

“If you wish, of course. But I must insist on your resignation before you leave here today.”

I stared at her, wishing I could find the right words to change her mind. It didn't matter to her that I was Lady Elspeth Douglas, accustomed to having her own way. I was the young woman who had broken the rules.

And rules were important to the dignity and the authority of the Service.

I handed in my resignation, feeling close to tears, but too proud to let them fall. I was asked to return my uniforms and identification and insignia by messenger. And then I was escorted by a young Sister out of the Service's headquarters and the door closed with finality behind me.

This had been my achievement, something that I had earned not by hereditary right but through my own efforts. It was something that I had been very proud of. Something more important than what to wear to the next party or dinner or ball.

It wasn't as if I'd chosen the theater or run away with an unscrupulous fortune hunter. I hadn't sullied my family name.

My hurt feelings turned to anger. It seemed so terribly unfair. Cousin Kenneth had inherited my father's title, my home, everything that had been mine when I was a child, even into young womanhood. And now he had taken this as well.

I wanted to hate him. And I found that I couldn't, which seemed much, much worse.

I went back to Mrs. Hennessey's flat, boxed up my uniforms, and carried them back to the Service, handing them over personally. They had been too much a part of my life to send them by post or by messenger.

And then I packed a small valise with just the things I needed, and went to find myself a seat on the next train to Scotland.

The house where I'd grown up was not far from the glen where the clans had mustered to fight for Bonnie Prince Charlie.

My father had taken me there as a child and shown me the wildly beautiful stretch of water and the long empty valley.

“Imagine,” he'd said, standing on a knoll and pointing down to the valley, “hundreds of clansmen, led by their chiefs, marching in to camp alongside the loch, the smoke from their cook fires hanging low over the water. And as they came, the Prince watched. He spoke no Gaelic, he'd been brought up in France, his mother was Polish, but he was brave enough to put his life at risk to claim his rightful place on the throne of England and Scotland. Tall, fair, blue-eyed, surrounded by chieftains who were willing to put themselves, their people, and their fortunes at his disposal. It must have been a glorious sight, Elspeth. And yet no one has painted the scene. Can you believe that? Because we lost the fight, we were defeated and chased and captured and killed for traitors, and no one wished to remember the nightmare that followed.”

And I had imagined the chieftains in their kilts, the sweep of eagle feathers in their bonnets, their retinue around them, the pipers with their bagpipes, sunlight flashing on swords and silver buckles and great cairngorm pins at their shoulders that held their plaids in place in a graceful fall down their chests. Serious business, a revolt against a sitting king, rightful king or no, but the clansmen laughed and boasted and told tales around their campfires of daring deeds and black betrayals.