The Walnut Tree (4 page)

“God, yes.” A silence fell. “I haven't seen you since your father died. I'm sorry. I know how close you were.”

“Were you at his funeral?” I hadn't seen him. I'd been in a state of shock and hardly knew where I was.

“I came in at the last minute. The train from London was late, and I had no chance to speak to you before the service. Afterward, you were in seclusion.”

I'd given instructions that I didn't want to see anyone. There had been so many mourners that I'd been overcome by their grief, and I'd needed time to face my own. “It was kind of you to come,” I managed to say, and then, to shut out the painful memories that were rushing in, I added, “And you? What has happened in your life, besides the war?”

“I lost my father as well. But you must have heard that. I chose the Army, as he had done.”

“Who's minding the clan?”

“My younger brother. The lame one. He'll do better than I ever shall.”

“I doubt that.”

“No, seriously, there's so much to be done. And I'm not there to do it.”

“And you've never married?” He was five years my elder. I wouldn't have been surprised to hear he'd taken a wife, if only to assure an heir. Heirs mattered in our families. I understood that very well.

“No. There was a girl I rather liked in Canada, when the regiment was posted there, but nothing came of it.” He glanced down at the ring on my finger. “You?”

For some reason I couldn't tell him I was promised, although of course nothing was official. Not until Alain could speak to my cousin. I was afraid to utter the words aloud, for fear of tempting the gods of war. Too many
ifs
. If Alain came through safely, if my cousin could be persuaded. If we were both of the same mind, Alain and I, after a long separation.

Instead, I said, “Not from want of trying on my cousin Kenneth's part.”

He smiled, a flash of white teeth in the shadows. “If he could see you now, he'd marry you to the first man who crossed his threshold, just to get you out of here.” He was quiet for a moment, then he said, “You should have stayed in Paris. It was safer than coming to Calais.”

I shook my head. “I had to stay until my friend had her child. I'd promised her that. Afterward, I felt a surprising surge of homesickness. I had to find my way to England. Or at least try.”

“You'll never get out through Calais. They can't even take the walking wounded. No room.”

“I've seen them, filling the hotels.”

“Yes. Do you need a blanket? I'll see if I can find one.”

“I'm all right. The stone is still warm.”

“It can be quite chilly at night. After the heat of the day.” He moved his head again and then turned to see what it was that was making him uncomfortable. “A saint's foot,” he said, touching the protruding toe. “Who do you suppose the saint is? I can't make out his symbol.” He leaned back. “French, no doubt.” I thought he might have fallen asleep, for he was silent after that. And then without opening his eyes, he said, “I've got to make rounds, speak to the sentries.” Rising, stretching wearily, he strode away.

Half an hour later he was back. He'd found a blanket, although it smelled strongly of horse, and he laid it across my lap. “You'll be grateful for this later. There's no more tea, sad to say. We're nearly out of ammunition as well. If we aren't resupplied or relieved soon, we're done for. And we need to get the wounded back. Two more have died.”

There was an intimacy sitting here together in the darkness, his feet on the other side of mine, my skirts touching his boots. I could put out my hand and touch his. As if he realized it, he drew back a little. “Should I try to find somewhere more comfortable? Are you all right?”

“You need to sleep, not worry about me.” I passed the blanket to him, to put behind his head. After that, we both slept a little, though not a restful sleep. He was gone several times on his rounds, and once when I awoke, I was lying down, the blanket covering me, stiff and thirsty but not cold.

I was still asleep when I felt a rumble through the stones beneath me. At first I thought the guns had started up again and then I realized the sound was coming from the opposite direction. Peter appeared just then. “Word has come. They've got ambulances and lorries to take us back. Come on, I want you in the first of them.”

We got the wounded loaded, then most of the men on board one or another of the vehicles. The rest would fall back slowly, covering our retreat.

At the last minute Peter leapt into the ambulance beside me, barely space for two and now holding three. I was jammed against his chest, and he had put one arm back behind my head to make a little more room. “Sorry,” he said as my hair caught on one of his coat buttons. “There's literally no other seat. I've been ordered back with the bulk of my men. Another officer has been sent forward to lead the rear guard.”

I was grateful for his presence beside me, sparing me the worst of the buffeting and bruising that followed. We jolted and bounced, aiming for speed, putting some distance between us and what lay behind, the shuttered beams of the ambulance headlamps helping us not at all but soon touching the grim faces of columns of troops moving up to take our place. British troops, marching to fill the gap and hold on a little longer. They went silently, and I thought,
They know what they will be facing
. They can't help but see the cost, carried in the ambulances.

I watched them with sadness. So much courage . . .

Our driver, hunched over his wheel, the muscles of his bare arms—for he had taken off his tunic—bunched into cords as he fought to control it.

“We need to stop,” he said to Peter soon after we'd encountered the relief column. “The wounded will need to be looked to.”

“Another five miles,” Peter told him. “We must make five more miles, long as our column is.”

I was reminded again of the taxis streaking out of Paris, but this time it was a full retreat in whatever vehicles the Army could muster. I didn't think the new men could hold in face of German determination, any more than Peter's men had. But they would try.

The driver swore in Gaelic, pointing ahead.

Peter Gilchrist said quietly, “Just as well we can't understand what he's saying.”

I could, for my sins.

“He declares he sees steam ahead. Trains.”

Captain Gilchrist leaned forward to stare through the dust-blurred windscreen. “By God, I think he's right!”

“Did you never learn the Gaelic?” I asked.

“My father was in the Scots Guards. I grew up in England. There was no one to teach me, although what I picked up from his men was more useful in a brawl than in polite society.” He had been as tired as I was, but now he seemed to come alive again, knowing his men would be safe for a time buoying him as he watched the lead ambulance thread its way through the companies of soldiers jumping out of the trains and hurrying to fall in.

“It's going to take the rest of the night to untangle this chaos,” he said and reached down to open his door. “But thank God for it. Stay here. I'll make a space on the train for you as soon as I have things in hand. Promise me not to wander off. God knows when there will be another train. Not with Germans on our heels.”

I promised, and he got out. The colder morning air, coming off the sea, swept into his place, and I shivered.

I watched as he and the other officers sorted out the new men and began to load the wounded, the retreating forces with us falling in to lend a hand. They were making good progress when a Major came to the side of our lead ambulance.

“Turn around as soon as you can and start back toward the fighting. There will be more casualties before the sun sets today.”

And then he saw me.

“Who the hell is this?” he demanded of the driver in Gaelic.

“A lass who has been helping the wounded. The Captain was sending her back to Calais.”

“Who are you and what are you doing with the Army?” he said, bending lower to see me better.

He'd spoken in French, thinking I must be a refugee—or worse, a spy—and I answered in English.

“Lady Elspeth Douglas. I was on my way to England, and I got separated from my party in the chaos.”

I was sure I looked more like a drudge than an aristocrat, for he hadn't removed his cap until I gave my name.

“This will never do. There's no place in Calais for a woman.”

“There's no place for me up there,” I said. “Captain Gilchrist—”

“Captain Gilchrist's duties at the moment do not allow for dealing with refugees. Come with me.” He hurried around the ambulance to open my door, saying to the driver, “You have your orders,” as he handed me down.

And the ambulance pulled out. I saw that others were turning as well as soon as they were empty, and the soldiers from the train were starting to form up behind them.

I was led to a staff car waiting by the siding, motor running. The smoke from the engines was making my eyes water, and I couldn't see Captain Gilchrist anywhere.

“Sergeant,” my companion said to his driver, “keep her here. Out of sight. Do you understand?”

“Sir, yes, sir,” the man replied smartly.

And then the Major was gone. I sat in the back of the staff car, watching the scene before me turn to order, hoping Peter would find me before the Major returned. But in the darkness I could hardly tell one officer from another. And luck had deserted me. The Major was back again before very long, taking his seat beside me, his lieutenant reduced to sitting in the front with the sergeant.

Without a word we drove away.

I found myself wishing I could have said good-bye to Peter Gilchrist. But the Major was right about one thing, he was too busy to play at nursemaid, and if I stayed, I could get him killed as he tried to juggle my safety and that of his men.

For the guns had opened up again, first the Germans and then the nearer salvos as the English answered. Peter Gilchrist's night was not over.

Chapter Three

A
s we left Ypres behind and drove through the flat land south of it, dawn broke, clouds on the horizon lingering but still promising another hot day ahead.

The Major began to quiz me.

Who was I? Where had I been? Why had I come to France? How had I got separated from my party? On and on the questions. I was short of sleep and short of patience, but I answered them with courtesy.

“There is a valise in an hotel in Calais. Mine, if it is still there. I should like to see if it is, and make myself presentable before boarding a ship.”

But the Major shook his head. “You aren't crossing at Calais. No. I'll send someone to find your valise if I can.”

“I shouldn't stay in France,” I reminded him.

“I'm well aware of that, Lady Elspeth.”

At that moment the lieutenant, in the front, said something in Gaelic. I caught it but said nothing.

“She's related to the Major, sir. Must be.”

That put a different light on the matter, apparently.

My Major said, “Thank you,” to his lieutenant, then gave the matter some thought. Finally he said, “There's a convoy of lorries on their way to Rouen, or there should be. We're bringing in supplies through the port, and you're more likely to find a space for England there. I'll send a pass with you.”

And then, as if he'd disposed of this thorny problem, he turned to his lieutenant and began making lists of what was needed in the north and what he had arranged to be done. The lieutenant, a notebook on his knee, was writing quickly, trying to keep up with the spate of orders and comments as we bounced and slid on the war-torn road.

I settled into a corner, tried to sleep, but found myself feeling bereft. Alone in a strange, cold world.

C
alais was no better, possibly even worse. The Major sent his sergeant into the hotel I pointed out, and the man came back a quarter of an hour later with my valise. By this time the Major had gone on, leaving me with the young lieutenant.

They flagged down one of the convoy of lorries forming up for the journey to Rouen, and I was put aboard, in the front with the driver, my valise stowed. From his notebook, the lieutenant took three sheets of paper, passed one to the driver, one to me, and the third he held.

“Those are your instructions, Corporal. She is not to leave the lorry before you reach the port at Rouen. Understood?”

“Sir, yes.”

To me he said, “That's your pass for Rouen. You mustn't lose it. And this”—he handed the third sheet to the driver—“this is her passage chit. Don't let her have it until you've handed her over to the port authorities.”

He hesitated, then took off his cap, his fair hair already dark with sweat. “I'm so sorry, Lady Elspeth, but your room had been given over to others, and there was no place for you to freshen up. I apologize as well for the Major, but he has a great deal on his mind just now, as you'll understand. He has your best interests at heart, but we're at war, and he can't take needless risks with civilian lives.”

It was so kind of him. I felt a rush of sympathy for him, having to endure the Major's bad nature. “Thank you, Lieutenant, for your concern. I know how trying I've been. I won't give you or the Major any more cause for concern. And if you should see Captain Gilchrist again, will you give him my gratitude and that of my family for seeing me safely to the trains?”

He smiled, nodded to me, and was gone. I was certain he'd forgot me before he'd walked twenty yards, for his notebook was out and he was busy studying it, dodging the wounded, the relief columns, and the refugees with the ease of long practice.
Quite a comedown for Lady Elspeth Douglas,
I thought wryly, who was accustomed to young men clamoring for the next dance or begging to take me in to supper.

And then he was lost to sight as we turned toward Rouen. I stowed away my pass very carefully and settled down for the journey. The driver was taciturn, a small dark Welshman, polite enough but not very happy to have a passenger. I could smell fresh baked bread, an onion, and what I thought were sausages, very likely his lunch, from just behind my seat.

I hadn't eaten since I left Paris. How long ago was that? But even as my stomach twisted in pangs of hunger, I couldn't ask my companion if I could share his meal. Who knew when he would get another? There were refugees along the road here, faces drawn and weary, shops closed and shuttered in the villages, farm gates barred, everyone holding on to what he had, for fear there would be no more.

Some miles out of Rouen, my driver reached over into the back and pulled out a small canvas holdall.

I still had my tin cup in my pocket, and I hoped he had wine or tea or even the strong French coffee as well.

To my surprise, he offered to share with me, but I took only enough of the bread and sausage to keep me from feeling faint, and a little of the tea. He ate hungrily, and I knew I'd done the right thing.

It was late afternoon before we reached Rouen, famous for its cathedral, its long history, Joan of Arc, and its very popular racecourse, closed now for the duration. Riders and punters all gone off to war.

We made our way to the port, the line of lorries echoing loudly in the narrow streets of the town, causing those walking along to stop and stare at us. Two nuns made the sign of the cross, and a little girl, clinging to her mother's skirts, began to cry. How long before they were inured to war, and took no notice of British lorries?

The officer in charge of the port, we were told, had come down with an attack of malaria. No one had taken his place, and there was chaos everywhere I looked.

My Welsh driver looked at me, said, “This is the port,” and handed me my orders. “You'll have to fend for yourself, lass, and if you get into any trouble, don't look to me.” It was said with more kindliness than it sounded.

“I want nothing more than to sail for England. As soon as may be. The Major is not alone in wanting me out of France.”

He looked around him. “They're saying in London the war will be over by Christmas.” He shrugged. “I'm not sure I believe them, standing here.”

For the commercial port had become an armed camp, and it was taking on an air of permanence even as we watched, or so it seemed to me.

He turned and went to join the other lorry drivers waiting for instructions.

I had learned much since I left Paris.

I walked smartly down to the port, found a man to carry my valise, and after a few well-placed bribes, I found myself on board the
Leviathan,
given the third officer's cramped cabin. And as the ship plowed through the darkness, down the Seine and out into the rougher waters of the Channel, I set about making myself presentable for my arrival in England. I'd been right to bring as little as possible from Paris. Whatever would I have done with a trunk? I wondered wryly. Though wrinkled, the clothing in my valise was clean, fresh enough, and quite suitable for landing in Portsmouth. That was all that mattered.

It was a measure of how tired I was that I hadn't noticed that the painting was missing from my valise. I was just putting up my hair when it occurred to me. I turned and looked through my possessions, even though I knew it wasn't there.

What I did find, to my surprise, caught in a silk scarf, were several specks of what looked rather like tiny flakes of paint. They were the same blue used in one of the kilts.

But who would steal such an ugly painting, leaving behind my jewelry? I couldn't fathom it, but I was really beyond caring.

I was about to fall asleep when another thought struck me. I had no idea where that painting had come from. I'd just assumed it had been meant as a gift, the giver thinking that the scene would appeal to me.

But what if it wasn't?

A knock at the cabin door distracted me, and I found a rating outside with a covered tray. I could smell soup and meat, and there was bread; I could see the outline of it under the serviette.

“With the compliments of Mr. Thomas,” the rating said, and I struggled to remember who that was. The third officer?

“Thank Mr. Thomas for his kindness,” I said, and took the tray from him.

There
was
soup, and with it roasted potatoes and several slices of ham with cabbage. Seaman's fare, but I ate it all and was grateful. I must have dropped off to sleep again soon after finishing the meal, for when I woke up some time later, the tray had been taken away and a blanket had been pulled up across my shoulders as I lay in the berth. Somehow it had wedged itself around me, protecting my back against the ship's roll and pitch, feeling remarkably like the comfort of arms.

I realized instantly what had awakened me—a difference in the motion of the ship. I turned off the lamp and looked out the porthole. We were just coming into Portsmouth.

I had decided early on that once we had docked in Portsmouth I would go on to Cornwall. Most of the wardrobe I'd taken with me to Paris was still there, of course, and I needed something more appropriate to London than what I had with me, mainly travel clothes. Hardly suitable for dinners or even afternoon calls. But by the time I'd disembarked, I had changed my mind, sending a telegram to Cornwall and giving the staff there my instructions for what to send to me in London in care of my cousin Kenneth's house.

That done, I nearly changed my mind again. It would be tempting to go directly to Cornwall, shut myself behind the walls of my stone house overlooking the sea, and put this wretched war out of my mind. I'd seen its reality, the terrible wounds men and their weapons could inflict on one another, men dying by the roadside or in the meager shelter of a ruined town. But there was no running away. Not for me. The question was, what was I going to do with myself?

I touched the ring on my finger, wondering how long it would be before I heard news of Alain.

Why had I told Peter Gilchrist that I wasn't engaged? I could have explained—I could have told him that the ring was a token of Alain's promise to speak to my cousin as soon as he could.

Instead I'd denied any commitment, and more to the point, I'd taken pleasure in Peter's company. I could still feel his arm around me, his body breaking the worst of the ambulance's jolting ride.

I tried to convince myself that it was the war, it was the frightfulness of being shelled, of working with the wounded and dying, the unsettling experience of being in the company of men without the presence of a chaperone or a male member of my family.

I'd just stepped out into the street after sending my telegram when I nearly collided with a man hurrying toward the post office. He was familiar, I'd seen him before, but I couldn't remember where.

It wasn't until I had reached the railway station that I remembered. He'd had the seat next to mine on the journey from Paris.

The train north was crowded and very slow, for we were often held up as troop trains hurtled past. And when I reached London at last, I discovered that my cousin's house—once my father's—had been shut up for the duration, only a skeleton staff in residence. I asked the housekeeper to watch for my trunk, went up to my room, and took away some clothing to be going on with.

Before leaving, I asked for news of my cousins, and the housekeeper told me, “My lady, there's been no word about Mr. Bruce. His lordship did write to say the Captain is all right. We pray for both of them every night.”

As I myself did.

I went to Brown's Hotel, but Reception and the lounge were jammed with people in search of rooms. It was my first taste of what was to come, if the war lasted beyond Christmas.

On my third try, I managed to find a room, and that afternoon I went to call on one of my father's oldest friends. Gerald Hamilton was a slim man of medium height, with new lines in his face that told me what the past few weeks had cost him. He had taken his seat in the House of Lords as soon as he'd come into his title, and he had urged my father to do the same. Speed consumed him instead, and yet the two men had remained firm friends.

We talked about my father for a few minutes, and then I told Lord Hamilton what I had seen in France, leaving out my two days along the road to Ypres.

“I want to do something to help,” I said in conclusion. “I need advice, and I don't know where else to turn.”

He considered me for a moment. “Your cousin would want you to go home. And as your father's friend, I'd advise that as well.”

“How can I hide in Scotland from this war? My cousins are fighting in France. I've been told—I was told that one of them could be dead.” My voice nearly broke as I finished.

“My dear girl, I hadn't heard—”

Before I quite knew what I was saying, I interrupted him. “I want to join Queen Alexandra's Imperial Military Nursing Service.”

He stared at me. “Are you quite serious? What will your cousin say? What would your father think?”

“My father would tell you that I can speak for myself,” I countered, avoiding answering the question directly.

But Lord Hamilton wouldn't hear of it. In the end, I thanked him and left soon thereafter, promising to consider his advice to go to Scotland.

Outside I stood there wondering where that sudden decision to join the Nursing Service had come from. I knew nothing about nursing, nothing about the qualifications or the training. More to the point, I had no idea how to go about finding out. But I already understood very well the need for trained care for the wounded.

A stream of people coming and going into the House of Lords were stepping around me, and I realized that I was blocking the doorway.

I walked on, deep in thought, and as I came into Trafalgar Square, I glimpsed a young woman in the distinctive blue uniform of the Service. I ran after her, causing heads to turn, and called, “Sister!”

She stopped, looking around, and as I caught her up, I said with a smile, “I'm so sorry for shouting after you. But you see, I'd like to know how to join the Service. And no one will tell me.” It wasn't precisely true that
no one
would tell me—I'd only spoken to Lord Hamilton—but that was neither here nor there.