Return to the Island: An utterly gripping historical romance

by Hewitt, Kate

“But what if he doesn’t?” Ellen protested. “Caro, he might not have even received that telegram. What if he’s—”

  “Don’t say it,” Caro cut her off. “Surely we would have heard if he hadn’t received it. They would have said it couldn’t be delivered. He’s our only hope, Ellen. He’s their only hope.”

  “Isn’t there anyone else?”

  “Isn’t that what everyone says?” Caro fired back, and Ellen sighed.

  “I’m just worried for you, Caro. You look exhausted, and it’s so much for one woman to bear—”

  “I’m fine,” Caro returned firmly. “Now you go back home, and tell Mum I’ll be all right. See to those guests.” She called to Andrew, who had been waiting patiently by the horses, ready to fetch the minister and undertaker.

  “Get home quick, Andrew, and then go on to town,” Caro instructed. “Then, if you can, come this evening with some more food.” He nodded, and Caro gave Ellen a quick hug. “Go now, and don’t worry about me. Take care of yourself, Ellen. You look ready to drop, never mind me.”

  Ellen managed a smile, although she was conscious she still hadn’t told Caro about Peter. It would have to wait—again—and yet by the time she had a chance to tell her, Peter would have already gone. If she didn’t say something now…

  “Caro, there’s something you should know,” Ellen blurted before she could think better of it. “About Peter.”

  Caro’s careworn face hardened into something like suspicion. “What do you mean?”

  “He has an appointment at a hospital for veterans in Toronto,” Ellen said in a rush. “On Monday.”

  Caro stared at her for a moment, as if she couldn’t take in the words. “You arranged it?” she asked finally.

  “No, Lucas did. But I asked him.” She felt a compulsion to confess her own part. “I spoke to Jed, and he spoke to Lucas. Lucas recommended the hospital. He knows one of the doctors.”

  “You arranged all this and never thought to tell me?” Caro demanded. “You had no right, Ellen Copley—”

  “I’m sorry.” Ellen tried not to be hurt by the use of her last name, as if Caro was emphasizing her otherness. “I wanted to speak to you about it, but there never seemed to be a good moment, with how busy you’ve been with the Wilsons.”

  “Don’t blame the Wilsons! There were plenty of moments you could have told me.” Caro’s face was flushed, her eyes bright with anger.

  Ellen stared at her miserably. “I didn’t want to add to your burdens…”

  “You didn’t want me to know you were interfering, especially as I told you not to!” Caro looked as if she might fly into a rage, and Ellen steeled herself for it. It was no more than she deserved, she knew. She should have told Caro what she was up to long before this. She’d simply been too cowardly to do so.

  “I am sorry, Caro, truly…”

  “Oh, never mind.” Caro sighed heavily as she looked away, her lips pursed. “I can’t think of all that now. I suppose my mother has gone along with it?”

  “She agreed, yes.”

  “You had no right.” Caro shook her head. “No right. But, like I said, I can’t think of it now.”

  “Miss Caro?” Lizzie peeked her head out the front door. “Can we have some bread and butter?”

  “Yes, of course, Lizzie. I’ll be right there.” Caro gave Ellen a long, level look. “I won’t forget this, Ellen.”

  “It’s for Peter’s sake, Caro—”

  “It wasn’t your place.”

  “Oh, and what is my place?” Ellen demanded, her voice vibrating with hurt, but Caro just shook her head.

  “I’m not going to talk about this now,” she said, and went back inside with Lizzie, closing the door firmly behind her.

  Ellen let out a sound that was half sigh, half cry, and then went back to the wagon where Andrew had been waiting. He gave her a questioning look as she climbed up, but Ellen just shook her head. She couldn’t speak of it now. Not to Andrew, not to anyone.

  It wasn’t her place, Caro had said. Then where, Ellen wondered as they started back down the lane, was her place?

  Chapter Nineteen

  By the time Ellen arrived back at Jasper Lane, everything was in a flurry and she had no time to dwell on her argument with Caro. The guests were due to arrive in Stella in a matter of minutes, so Andrew set off to collect them, while Ellen washed as quickly as she could and Sarah, Gracie, and Rose all hurried around doing their best to keep everything spotless.

  “Are you sure you’re all right, love?” Rose asked just as the old buckboard turned up Jasper Lane. The woman sitting in the front wore a hat so bedecked with feathers, fruit, and even a stuffed bird that it added another two feet to her height. Inwardly, Ellen quailed at the sight. A woman wearing such a hat could not bode well for the week ahead.

  “I’m fine, Aunt Rose,” she said with a reassuring smile, determined not to mention anything of the argument with Caro. “Just a little tired.”

  Soon enough, the guests were disembarking, and it was every bit as bad as they’d all feared, with Isadora Welton of Hamilton, Ontario turning her nose up at just about everything, her carrying voice with its affected accent remarking on all she found lacking.

  “If the Framptons of New York enjoyed their stay, I don’t know why a Welton of Hamilton can’t,” Gracie hissed viciously as she came downstairs, Mrs. Welton having returned the pitcher of washing water because it wasn’t warm enough.

  Ellen plonked the kettle on the stove, her arms aching with the effort. “They’ll be gone in a week, Gracie. Let’s just do the best we can.”

  “At least you’ll have some respite, going to Toronto,” Gracie said, rolling her eyes, and Ellen managed a smile, although she did not know how much respite that particular journey would offer, especially with Caro’s harsh words echoing in her ears.

  The next twenty-four hours passed interminably. Isadora Welton seemed determined to find fault with everything, and her daughter Elspeth, although apologetic about her mother’s airs, was cowed by the woman to the point of meek and subservient silence, and did not make any objection when Mrs. Welton sent back the chicken pie Rose had made, claiming it to be too plain, and then the dessert, saying the cream had gone off.

  “Milked this morning,” Rose had whispered in despair. “I’m sure it’s fresh…”

  “Of course it is,” Gracie had flashed. “Irritating Isadora simply wants to find fault with everything.”

  “Gracie, hush—”

  “It’s true—”

  “This is part of having guests,” Rose had insisted staunchly. “They won’t all be to your liking. We must manage as best as we can. Sarah, give her another bowl of pudding without the cream.”

  Thankfully, Isadora Welton ate that without too much complaint.

  Still, she seemed to take pleasure in elucidating her many complaints at every opportunity—the bedclothes, including Rose’s beautiful handstitched quilt, were scratchy, the food was overcooked, the bath water was either too hot or too cold, and Ellen’s art lessons were clearly not up to scratch.

  “I was expecting someone with a bit more… gravitas?” Mrs. Welton suggested with an acid smile on Sunday afternoon. “A bit more experience and standing. You said you’ve been to art school somewhere, did you, dear?”

  “Glasgow Art School,” Ellen clarified as politely as she could. It didn’t help that Isadora Welton was a rather uninspired artist herself. “As it happens, Mrs. Welton, I will not be available to instruct you now until Tuesday morning. A pressing matter has called me away tomorrow.” Although Ellen had considered staying for the guests’ sake, family was more important.

  “What!” Isadora looked thunderous. “But I have paid—”

  “I have left detailed instructions, of course,” Ellen continued, “and the two Miss McCaffertys will be here to see to all your needs. You are in good hands, I assure you.”

  Isadora continued to complain, much to Rose’s alarm and aggravation, but Ellen begged her not to think o
f it.

  “We need to think about Peter now,” she told her on Sunday night, after the Weltons had gone up to bed. “He’s more important than a few fussy guests.” She knew she needed the lecture as much as Rose, especially as she’d been accosted by doubts ever since Caro had stormed at her. “Besides, Isadora and her complaints will still be here upon our return.”

  “Unfortunately,” Rose agreed with a sigh.

  Ellen wished there was time to call in at the Wilsons before they left for Toronto; she longed to speak with Caro as much as to hear any news of Jack Wilson. There wasn’t any time, however, for they had to wake up just after dawn to make the first train from Kingston to Toronto the next morning. Caro was still with the Wilsons, having sent a message to Rose that Iris’ funeral would be a quiet affair as there was no money for a proper service or burial, and Caro would stay at the farm until Jack Wilson arrived—if he arrived. Perhaps he already had. Gracie, Sarah, and Andrew would stay at Jasper Lane to manage the demanding Weltons.

  “If things get too much, I’ll hit Mrs. Welton over the head with a frying pan,” Gracie informed them cheerfully as they took their leave the next morning. “That will sort her out.”

  “Gracie.” Rose shook her head, smiling worriedly as Lucas helped them into the wagon. “The trouble is, I think you actually might.”

  Peter, Ellen saw, was quieter even than usual as they boarded the train in Kingston; he spent the entire journey watching the world slide by as Rose chattered nervously away and Ellen tried to keep up her end of the conversation, although she found it difficult; she felt unaccountably tired and her head ached, no doubt from all the pressing needs and events of the last few days.

  “Do you know, I’ve never been to Toronto,” Rose told Lucas. “Have you got used to such a big city, after all this time?”

  “I suppose I have,” Lucas answered. “The population topped half a million this year. It’s the biggest city in all of Canada.”

  “My goodness.” Rose shook her head in wonder. “Half a million. I can’t even imagine. Do you suppose you’ll stay there?”

  Lucas’s gaze moved fleetingly to Ellen for a moment before he turned back to Rose. “It’s difficult to say.”

  Several hours later, after alighting at Toronto’s Union Station, only just built and taking up an entire city block, they took a taxi—Rose marveling at being in a motorcar—to the Toronto Military Orthopedic Hospital on Christie Street.

  It had been converted from an old factory only recently, and looked big and square and gloomy, a severe sort of brick-fronted building that made Rose glance worriedly at Peter, who stared impassively back.

  “I know it doesn’t look much,” Lucas said cheerfully, “but the medical staff is top class. Peter will be in good hands.”

  “What a relief,” Peter said flatly, and Rose bit her lip.

  Ellen hoped her cousin would be amenable to being examined by a doctor; although he’d come this far, she sensed his reluctance as if it were as solid and immutable as the brick walls of the hospital.

  Inside, the hospital was not much better than its exterior. A smiling young orderly gave them a tour of the wards, with the narrow, military-style beds with scratchy gray blankets drawn up tightly, the walls painted a depressing dark green. But worse than the beds or the walls were the men themselves—some slack-jawed and indifferent, staring sightlessly into space, others seeming tense and tightly wound, their eyes wild, their fists clenched, as if they were ready to spring.

  “And this is the day room…” the orderly said as he led them into a large, open room scattered with sofas, chairs, and about a dozen men staring blankly in front of them. Two men sat at a table with a checkerboard in front of them; neither man so much as picked up a piece.

  “What a lovely, bright room,” Ellen said, although her heart felt as if it were faltering within her. As cheerful as they’d tried to make the room, it felt stifling and almost unbearable in the grim sorrow that permeated the place like an invisible fog. How could they possibly want Peter in a place like this?

  After the tour, Lucas’s acquaintance from the war, Dr. Stanton, greeted Peter, shaking his hand and welcoming him, although Peter did not reply.

  Rose, Lucas, and Ellen all waited anxiously while Dr. Stanton took Peter to his office for a private interview.

  “Will he… examine him?” Rose asked in a whisper.

  “I believe they’ll just talk,” Lucas said. “As you know, neurasthenia cannot be diagnosed through a physical examination.”

  “No, I suppose not.” Rose sighed and shifted on the hard bench where they’d been asked to wait. “It would be easier, in a way, if it could be. Or if he’d been damaged physically. Lost an arm or—oh.” She glanced apologetically at Lucas. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t even thinking of Jed just then.”

  “I understand your thoughts completely,” Lucas assured her. “The invisible wounds can be the most difficult to treat.”

  Ellen thought of what Jed had said, about how every soldier had scars, some more obvious than others. What, she wondered, were Lucas’s?

  After nearly an hour, Dr. Stanton opened the door and welcomed them into his office, a small, friendly room that was cluttered with books and papers and seemed quite homely after the grim sterility of the wards.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you all.” He sat behind his desk, lacing his hands together in front of him. “And I very much enjoyed meeting and talking to Peter.” He gave a smiling nod towards Peter, who was sitting silently, his hands resting on his thighs, his expression unreadable. “After our discussion, I think it would be of benefit for Peter to stay with us for some time.”

  “How much time?” Rose asked anxiously, and the doctor spread his hands helplessly.

  “I could not say, Mrs. McCafferty. As long as needed, one hopes. My initial estimation would be three months, but of course, that can change.”

  “Three months…”

  “I am sure you have questions about a residential stay,” he said kindly, his eyebrows raised.

  Rose, clutching her handbag tightly, threw Peter an anxious glance before admitting hesitantly, “The hospital… it’s not quite what I expected.”

  “No,” the doctor agreed, “I’m afraid it never is.”

  “I thought… I thought…” Rose shook her head. “I thought the patients—the men—they’d all be a bit happier, if I’m to tell the truth.”

  “They can be, sometimes, Mrs. McCafferty,” Dr. Stanton said, his tone gentle. “We’ve had some quite jolly times here. But it’s also difficult, and sometimes it feels endless.” He glanced at Peter, his expression softening into a deep compassion that made Ellen’s anxiety ease a little bit. Dr. Stanton looked like a man who understood. “Doesn’t it, Peter?” he asked quietly, and Peter’s glance flicked to him, his expression inscrutable, before he gave the tiniest of nods.

  “What types of treatment do you use here, Dr. Stanton?” Lucas asked, his tone friendly and reasonable, as if they were talking about any particular matter of interest. Ellen was glad he’d come. He was a steadying presence when she so desperately needed one, as did Rose, and of course, Peter.

  “We try to use psychotherapy as much as possible,” Dr. Stanton answered, and Rose blinked.

  “I don’t think I’ve…”

  “The talking cure, it’s sometimes called,” he explained with a smile. “Some of my colleagues have reported success with electric shock treatment, but I am not yet convinced that such measures are either helpful or necessary.”

  “So Peter would just… talk?” Rose looked doubtful; she glanced again at Peter, whose face remained impassive.

  “Yes, in a contained, unpressured environment, with the opportunity to remember and discuss elements of his war years that would, in time, I hope, help him to make sense of all he has experienced. In the meantime, he has full medical support, as well as the companionship of men who understand what he is experiencing, which, I must say, can go a long way towards helping men to rec
overy.” Dr. Stanton gave Peter another warm look.

  “I don’t know.” Rose bit her lip. “I feel like he might be better at home with us, just getting on with things.” She glanced again at Peter, who had remained silent all the way through this unsettling interview. “What do you think, Peter?”

  Peter looked at his mother for the first time. “I want to stay,” he said quietly.

  Rose’s mouth opened silently, her eyes filling with tears. “Peter…”

  “I know I’m not right,” he said quietly. “Even if I pretend that I am. Even if I wish—and I do, so much—that I was. I can’t hide it all the time, and to tell you the truth, I’m sick to death of trying. Of feeling different, of feeling like an outsider… here they understand me. They’re like me. I want to stay.”

  Rose’s lips trembled before she pressed them together and she nodded. “If you’re sure, Peter…” Her expression clouded as she glanced nervously at Dr. Stanton. “Except… I’m afraid I don’t know how much it costs. Three months…”

  “Aunt Rose,” Ellen interjected, “Remember, I said I could—”

  “The costs have already been covered,” Dr. Stanton informed them easily. “For the foreseeable future.”

  Ellen’s jaw dropped along with Rose’s.

  “Covered?” Rose repeated in disbelief. “But how…”

  Dr. Stanton smiled. “An anonymous donor. We have them sometimes, by God’s grace. So I am not at liberty to tell you who it was.”

  “But… but…”

  “Let’s accept it in the spirit it was given,” Ellen said. She’d been ready to offer to pay, but she didn’t know whether the rest of her savings would cover three months in hospital. She was glad for this solution, although she wondered who on earth had paid, even before they’d arrived. It felt too wonderful to believe, but she was too tired to do anything but trust it. “This is for the best, Aunt Rose.”

  “Yes, of course.” Rose still looked shaken, both to realize Peter would be staying, and that it was already paid for. “When shall Peter come back to begin his… his stay?”