by Charles Todd
I wore the uniforms I was provided with and was so tired when I got to the flat each night that if I had owned a hundred evening gowns with matching slippers, I’d have never taken them out of the wardrobe. I had books on various medical conditions to read, and when we made rounds with Matron and doctors or watched surgeries, I was expected to answer questions put to us by those whose task it was to decide if the probationers were learning anything at all.
I seldom saw my flatmates. Indeed, we seldom had the same hours free. Bess met me the third morning as I came in from hospital and she was just leaving for it. I learned later that her father was a retired Army Colonel. Mary I met on the weekend, when she had twelve hours off duty and had just slept through ten of them. Diana was always talking about the men in her life, but I soon learned that while she was popular, she was as devoted to nursing as the rest of us.
They accepted me as I was—or seemed to be. A young Scotswoman who wanted to serve her country as much as they did.
We qualified in almost the same order—Bess first, then Mary, and finally Diana. I was not far behind. When the day came that I had earned the title Sister, I felt a surprising surge of pride. I had not inherited this title, I had worked for it. Lady Elspeth Douglas was now Sister Douglas, and her skills were saving lives and comforting the dying.
Amazingly, I had been good at nursing. What I’d seen and done along the road to Ypres had helped me face surgery with an iron will if not an iron stomach. And I had a purpose in this war now. I could do something that counted. My Highland ancestors had never been afraid of a good fight, and they’d won their fair share of them. The women of my family had patched up their clansmen and sent them out to fight again another day.
And here I was, in 1914 doing precisely the same thing. Only there were no pipers to skirl me through the ceremony, but I hoped that the men and the women in my family would be proud of me. Once they recovered from the shock, of course.
All this time, I had heard nothing from Alain. Madeleine had written several times, but I received only one of her letters, and it was filled with worry. Henri had managed to get a single torn and filthy letter through, sending it back with a wounded friend, but after that, silence. She too had heard nothing from Alain. She didn’t know whether to go on to the Loire or stay in Paris. But young Henri was thriving, and she wanted above everything for his father to come home and see him. Once, please, dear God, so that he would know. I could feel the anguish behind those lines.
Was I promised to a living man? A ghost? My heart refused to believe that Alain was dead. I’d have known, I’d have felt something. Madeleine believed she would know instantly if anything happened to Henri. Would it be the same for me? Had Alain known I was in danger there on the Ypres road?
Why did I feel nothing? Was it because I didn’t care enough? Or was he well, tired but alive.
Because of my duties, I had had to remove Alain’s ring, but I wore it beneath my uniform on a gold chain. I touched it lightly from time to time, when I needed courage.
Like everyone else, I carefully scanned the British casualty lists in the Times. It was depressing, reading the names of men I knew, men I’d laughed and danced and played tennis with, who had been friends since childhood, there amongst the killed, the wounded, the missing. But not the name I watched for. Captain Gilchrist.
I told myself that I had every reason to be grateful to him. But why did I dream sometimes and see his face so clearly?
There were no such lists in England for French casualties. I had to wait for news.
Twice while taking a letter for France to the post office, I’d seen the same man I’d crossed paths with in Portsmouth—the one who had been seated next to me on the train—coming out, and each time he was carrying a parcel wrapped in heavy brown paper and tied with string. The parcels were of different sizes, but so like the one I’d found in my valise in Calais that I felt a surge of suspicion. On the third occasion, I waited until he’d come out of the post office and walked on. Staying well behind him, I followed him through the London streets and waited at the corner when he went into a shop that specialized in old books and fine paintings.
Had he been posting just such a parcel to London when I’d encountered him in Portsmouth after sending my telegram to Cornwall? And that was decidedly odd, because the train would have carried him and the parcel to London so much faster.
When he came out of the shop—without the parcel—I waited until he had disappeared around the next corner and then went inside.
The proprietor was a middle-aged man with a limp and heavy dark-framed glasses. He peered at me as I came through the door, and I greeted him with all the hauteur of my station, asking if he had any interesting paintings of Scotland that I might buy for my father’s birthday.
He showed me several, fine paintings all of them, and I thought perhaps I’d been wrong about the man with the parcel. While pretending to decide whether I liked any of the paintings on offer, I noticed on the edge of his desk several tiny flecks of paint.
Just like the ones I’d seen caught in my silk scarf when I’d searched my valise for the missing parcel.
And in the dust bin behind his desk was a coil of string very like the one around my parcel.
Had someone put that parcel in my valise while I was on the train to Calais—and then retrieved it in Calais while I was in the north helping with the wounded? But why?
If the police had come through the train searching the luggage, perhaps that Highland painting would have aroused little suspicion in the hands of a Scotswoman. And then there were the flecks of paint. That ugly painting . . . had it been hastily overlaid on some more recognizable work? If not properly dried, it would flake. Had whatever was underneath it been looted from a house or museum in Belgium or northern France?
I had no proof.
There was nothing I could do without it. Those flecks of paint and that string would be gone by the time I’d even found a constable. It would be my word against the shopkeeper’s.
Turning down the Highland scenes I’d been shown, I wandered around the shop for a few minutes, as if still in search of something my father would like. In fact, I was looking to see if there was anything out of place here.
And I found it. A small study by Frans Hals. It was the same size and shape, certainly, as my parcel, and I couldn’t imagine how such a treasure had come to be in such a small shop. I turned to ask the proprietor how much he was asking for the work, and he told me that it was already sold, hastily offering me another painting by a lesser-known artist.
I replied that I couldn’t make up my mind what my father would like, and I promised to come back soon to see if there was something new on display.
“Money is no object,” I said casually. “It’s my father’s happiness that matters.”
He bowed me out of the shop, and I left knowing that the Frans Hals would disappear before I’d walked fifty feet.
What was I to do about this? What could I do?
The question, as it happened, was moot. That very day our orders were posted.
To my great disappointment, I was not sent to France straightaway. I expect it was because I was untested, and far from being fully trained. But I felt I was ready, and I chafed at the delay.
I was posted to Dover, to meet the boats coming in with wounded and help with the transfer to the trains for London. There, sorted and examined on the journey, men would be dispersed to whatever hospital or clinic was best suited to their wounds. Many of them were heavily drugged, to make the journey easier. Some were awake and screaming, while others lay in shocked or dazed silence, too badly injured to respond to our questions or our care. The doctors during our training had told us that the worst wounds, the appalling, mind-shattering ones, never left the battlefield. And yet despite my experience I had to learn all over again to ignore my own reaction to what I saw, and consider the needs of the p
atient.
I talked to those I could, sometimes asking after Rory and Bruce without mentioning that they were cousins, hungry for fresh news. Cousin Kenneth had written to say that Bruce was now listed as missing and there had been no further word of him since that time. Rory had not been heard from either, but then his name had not appeared on any of the lists. And that I had to accept as accurate.
If Rory was alive when I left France, then I prayed he was still alive.
But Cousin Kenneth’s letter had taken so long to reach me, having been sent first to Cornwall, then forwarded to Mrs. Hennessey’s, that anything could have happened since it was written.
And then one morning as I was walking down the hill toward the quay Sister Tomlinson came running after me, calling, “Sister? There’s a letter for you.”
I turned and saw that she was all smiles as she waved the envelope. “It came with the morning post, and I just discovered it. From France. From the look of it, it traveled by way of China.”
Good news, I prayed. Let it be good news. Of Alain, or Madeleine and Henri. Waiting for her to catch me up, I stood there in the autumn sunlight with the sea breeze on my face, my mind running ahead.
But then I saw it was an English envelope, forwarded many times. To the closed London house, to Scotland, to Cornwall, to Mrs. Hennessey, and now here in Dover where we were quartered. The postal service, with its usual fervor, had tracked me down, war or no war.
I didn’t recognize the handwriting. I’d never seen it before. Not Rory, then, nor anyone else in the family.
I turned it over and broke the seal, slipped out the single sheet inside and unfolded it.
No one could tell me what had happened to you. The ambulance was not there, having gone north again, and no one had seen a young woman walking about alone, no one had been given a message for me. For God’s sake, let me know if you are all right.
It was signed, simply, Peter.
And below, he’d written his Expeditionary Force address.
I stood there staring at the message.
He had known about the London house, he’d tried to find me there, unaware that it was shut for the duration.
I looked at the date. The end of September. He’d been alive then. He must be frantic—
I said, “I must answer this. Straightaway. Will you cover for me? For just an hour?”
Sister Tomlinson, amused, said, “Is he so important then? I declare, you went white as a sheet as you read the letter. You didn’t tell me you had a beau.”
I hadn’t told her—or anyone else—that I was promised. The Service was not keen on young women with marriage on their minds. We were trained to serve and heal, not to dream. I’d thought it best to say nothing.
“He’s not a beau. A friend.”
She gave me a look that told me how well she believed that lie, then said, “Go on, write your letter. You’d do as much for me.”
I thanked her and rushed back to our quarters, breathless from running up the hill. Pulling my letter box from under the bed, I took out an envelope, sheets of paper, a pen.
And then sat there, staring at them, tongue-tied.
What to say to him? How should I address him? Would he even get this letter I couldn’t write?
Calm down, I told myself. Answer his questions. He’s worried, just tell him you’re all right.
I began, Dear Captain Gilchrist, the proper salutation of a letter to a man I knew slightly. But our acquaintance was more than slight . . .
I balled up the sheet and threw it across the room.
Peter.
Your officious Major discovered me, put me in his staff car under guard—well, the driver’s stern eye—and sent me off to Rouen to find a ship for England. I did, arrived safely in Portsmouth, and since then I have finished my training as a nursing Sister. I did leave a message of gratitude with the Lieutenant accompanying the Major, but I suppose no one thought to pass it along. You can reach me at the address below, because the London house is shut and I have taken lodgings to simplify my living arrangements. Hotels are overflowing here, as well as in Calais. Please, stay safe.
Elspeth
I reread it twice, nearly balled it up as well, and then sat there staring at it. The last sentence said so little when I wanted to say so much. Had it been too forward to give him Mrs. Hennessey’s address? Did it suggest that I wanted to hear from him? Or was it simple courtesy, telling him where to find me?
Adding Letters are regularly forwarded to wherever I happen to be, I folded the sheet, put it in its envelope, wrote Peter’s name and direction on it, and then searched for a stamp.
More time had passed than I realized. Leaving Peter’s letter in my box, I took my own with me, threw the balled-up sheet into a dustbin after tearing it to shreds—Sister Tomlinson was sweet but overly curious—and then went off down the hill again.
I found an officer I knew who agreed to put it in the official post bag, and then I went to take up my duties.
Sister Tomlinson said, “I should have thought you’d be away all morning, answering.”
“No,” I said, smiling sweetly. “I couldn’t think of a thing to say.”
Curiosity writ large in her eyes, she said, “It was addressed to Lady Elspeth Douglas. I happened to notice.”
I felt cold. Summoning my wits, I replied, “I knew the Captain when we were children. He’s always called me that. She was a Scots heroine, and he teased me because I was probably named for her.”
“Was she in one of Sir Walter Scott’s books?”
“It was an old story my mother used to read to us,” I said, grateful that she hadn’t seen my cousin Kenneth’s letter on the stationery with the embossed coronet at the top.
A week later as I was checking the identity cards on the more seriously wounded, I saw a head of red hair covered with a very bloody bandage and felt the shock of instant recognition. It was Rory, and I went quickly to him, looked at his card, and then said, “Can you hear me? It’s Elspeth, my dear. You’re home. In England.”
He opened his eyes. They were dazed with pain, but with a head wound, there was no relief that could be offered.
“Elspeth?” He frowned, trying to see my face clearly. “Is it you?”
“Yes, of course it is,” I said, smiling. I could see how a bullet had scraped his skull, the skin raw where the bandage ended. “Would you like some water?”
“Why are you dressed like that?” he asked. “Is there a costume party?” And after a moment he added, “My father did write, didn’t he? I’d forgot.” He fought the confusion, and then his mind cleared. “Yes, I’m very thirsty.”
I held him so that he could drink, and he said as he finished sipping the cool water, “You shouldn’t be doing this sort of work.”
“I’m good at it. I want to do it,” I told him. “Please, Rory, don’t tell your father. It’s important to me.”
“All right. I won’t give you away.”
“Is there any word of Bruce?”
“Yes, thank God. He was a prisoner, but managed to escape.”
I felt a guilty rush of relief. So far our family had fared better than most. So many hadn’t been as lucky.
And then I was called away. When I came back, Rory had been put on the train and there was no time to go and search for him.
I wanted to write to my cousin Kenneth that night, to tell him that Rory had been wounded but that I believed he wasn’t in any danger. But how could I, without explaining where I’d come by such information? I was supposed to be in Cornwall, not in Dover. The Army would inform him soon enough, surely.
I fought a battle with my conscience over my decision.
In the end, I asked Sister Tomlinson to write the letter. Curious, she wanted to know why I couldn’t attend to it myself.
“After all, you saw this officer. You judged his con
dition.”
I hadn’t realized that my decision to become a nursing Sister would be so fraught with peril. I was becoming quite adept at lying.
“I know his brother,” I said finally. “I shouldn’t care to have the family think my letter was an attempt to curry favor.”
She laughed. “An Earl’s son? You’re remarkably foolish, Elspeth. How could you not wish to have them in your debt?” But she wrote the letter as I dictated it, and I was grateful.
There was always the possibility that with his multitude of contacts in the War Office, the Home Office, and the Foreign Office my cousin would hear that his ward was in the Nursing Service. And if he didn’t approve, he could easily put an end to it. What I hoped was that by the time he discovered the truth, I’d have had a chance to demonstrate my skill, to prove that I was a good nurse, something to weigh in the balance against his disapproval. A very small hope, but all I had.
The opportunity that I’d been waiting for came sooner than expected. With only twenty-four hours’ warning, seven of us were ordered to France to relieve Sisters who were being rotated home with the next convoy. I sent word to Mrs. Hennessey to hold my letters until I knew where I’d be posted and boarded the next ship to make the crossing to Calais.
Chapter Five
The first person I saw as we made our way out of Calais toward the Front was Henri Villard, arguing with a British officer in the middle of the road.
Our ambulance driver was on the point of sounding his horn when I put a hand on his arm, then jumped out my door to speak to Henri. He was wearing a Major’s uniform; he’d been promoted. Except for new lines in his face, he appeared to be healthy, no signs of wounds, no limp, no stiff arm . . .
