by Charles Todd
From his expression I didn’t think he cared what the doctors had to say, but disregarding instructions could be just as dangerous as a relapse. I remembered Bruce throwing his crutch across the room and wishing himself dead because he couldn’t walk yet.
Changing the subject, Peter said, “It’s arranged that you’ll dine here tonight.” He seemed to take note of my civilian clothes. “You aren’t wearing your uniform.”
“Long story. It will keep. I must go and speak to Matron.”
“I’ll be here,” he said, his gaze following me as I walked through the door.
I found Matron, had a long conversation with her, and then was taken to speak to Dr. Fuller.
He gave me much the same instructions as Matron had. Captain Gilchrist was not completely out of the woods yet and he had to mind what he did.
“He could still lose his arm if there’s any additional infection. Important to keep the wound clean, the bandages fresh. And he shouldn’t try to walk far until he’s stronger. Too soon will only increase the danger of a fall. That could have serious consequences. Reinjuring his wound, opening an incision, even broken ribs piercing a lung. He’s lost enough blood already.”
There were other sensible cautions as well. Peter must drink fluids and eat well to replace the blood he’d lost. He must be very careful neither to overtax his strength nor overtire himself, nor must he use the arm until the exercises he’d been given had been carried out to the letter for several weeks. And so on, instructions that I had already anticipated. Peter would need a valet to help him dress and undress and he must report to the specialist in London after two weeks’ time to be sure all was well.
“We’re not eager to release the Captain. He’s been a favorite here,” Dr. Fuller ended. “But the bed is needed desperately for new cases, and he tells me you’ve had training as a nurse.”
But I couldn’t stay with Peter and watch over him. I would have to find someone who could.
The next morning, settled in the motorcar, Peter bade farewell to the staff of the clinic and the friends he’d made there. As I drove sedately down the drive and turned toward London, he said, “My God. I don’t think I’ve had a moment alone since I was shot. I can’t tell you how much I’ve looked forward to your coming.”
We had both felt the constraints of the crowded clinic. I said, “It’s good to see you again, Peter. I was so worried. In Calais. Dover. Rochester.”
“You were there?” he asked, surprised. “I thought I’d dreamed hearing your voice.”
“I was there.” Even now I couldn’t tell him how worried I’d been. “You fought a long hard battle to survive.”
“So they tell me. I don’t remember very much about it.” He took a deep breath. “It’s behind now. Thank you, Elspeth, for making it possible for me to leave the clinic.”
We had fallen into our old way of going on together. Two people who felt at ease with each other, like old friends. Like lovers. At once comfortable and dangerous.
From there we drove on to Sussex to the village of Aldshot. I passed the time telling him about my resignation from the Nursing Service, forced by my guardian, about Bruce, even about my brush with crime and Scotland Yard. But not about Alain.
In turn he told me about his foster brother, now on the mend, about his piper, and about others in his regiment. But nothing about his feelings for me.
It was late afternoon when we arrived, and I was aghast at what we saw.
Save for the church, which gave it the rank of village, Aldshot was no more than a hamlet. It consisted of a road that looped back on itself in a rough figure eight, and there must have been no more than twenty houses all told. No inn, no doctor, not even a shop or bakery or ironmonger. Just houses and the farm buildings behind most of them.
But Walnut Tree Cottage was a lovely bungalow set back from the road and ringed by a neatly trimmed hedge. The brick was a warm rose in the dying afternoon light, and a walnut tree held pride of place in the front garden.
I said, “Peter, this will never do. We must go back to Midhurst, or some other sizeable town, and tomorrow I’ll find something more suitable.”
He said, “I don’t think I could face another mile. Not without a rest. Is there anyone inside? There are no lamps lit.”
I left the motor running and got down, walking up to the door. Underfoot I saw several walnuts lying in the brown grass, and I remembered what Sister Blake had said: Bring me a walnut . . .
Knocking at the door, I waited for someone to come. Just then a woman called from across the street, throwing a shawl over her shoulders as she hurried toward me.
“Did Sister Blake send you? I’m that sorry, I didn’t know. The letter must have got delayed. We don’t have a regular post here, not since the war, you know.” She reached me and held out a key. “I did for Sister Blake’s mother, when she was alive, and I keep an eye on the cottage for her. Was you intending to stay long, my dear?”
“You’re Mrs. Wright?” I took the key and unlocked the door. The house was chill inside, I could feel it as I stepped into the short hall, then walked into the front room.
“Yes, indeed,” the woman was saying as she lit the lamps. “Now, that’s better.”
As the first wick caught, I could see the hearth, carefully laid for a fire, and when the second lamp bloomed into light, I noticed that the room was immaculate, polished furnishings, an old but beautiful carpet on the floor, and a bowl of lavender making the air sweet. It all looked as if the late Mrs. Blake had just stepped out for the afternoon, and the house was waiting for her return.
Mrs. Wright was already kneeling by the hearth, striking a match and holding it to the kindling until it caught properly. As it fed on itself and the flames licked at the wood in the grate, the effect was quite cheerful.
“I don’t think we can stay after all,” I said to Mrs. Wright. “The officer in the motorcar has just been released from hospital. He will need more care than we can find here in Aldshot. I shall have to drive back to Midhurst. But first I think a short rest might be best for him, and perhaps some tea.”
She smiled. “It’s all right, Sister. I can prepare your tea, and a light supper, after. The beds are made up, the sheets are clean. And my husband can do for him, if he needs help. You needn’t drive all the way back to Midhurst tonight. Tomorrow will be soon enough.”
“He will require a doctor’s care—”
“There’s a very fine doctor in Midhurst. Baker is his name, Dr. Baker. He’s nearing sixty, but a better man you’ll never find.”
Peter was still sitting in the motorcar in the cold. I said, “I must bring Captain Gilchrist in. Could you make our tea, please? Or is it possible for me to find what I need here?”
“I’ll just run across to my house for a jug of milk, and there’s a bit of cake left from our own tea, if you don’t mind that it’s already been cut into. Joel, my husband, can help you get the Captain down from the motorcar and settled.”
She seemed set on having us stay. But it was impossible. I couldn’t spend the night in the same house with Peter, it would be wrong. I thanked her for her help, and we closed the door to the front room to keep in what warmth there was while I went back to the motorcar.
Peter said, “What’s happening?”
“You’re to come down and rest for a bit. Mrs. Wright is bringing us tea, and her husband can help you inside.”
At that moment, a man who must be Mr. Wright came out of the house and walked briskly over to the motorcar.
“Now, then, sir, we’ll just get you out of there. Lean on me, I’ll give you support until you can stand.”
“It’s my chest, not my legs,” Peter said irritably.
“That’s right, sir, but the legs get cramped, like, sitting for a long spell. From London, are you?”
As he spoke, he helped Peter from the motorcar, and together th
ey walked up the path to the cottage door. I followed, wishing I’d brought Mrs. Hennessey with us, for I was beginning to think we might indeed have to stay the night after all. Peter was walking stiffly, holding his arm and shoulder carefully so as not to jar them. I watched him inside, and then Mrs. Wright was there, a jug of milk in one hand and a covered plate in the other.
We followed Peter and her husband into the cottage and made Peter as comfortable as we could in the front room. Mrs. Wright ran up the stairs to the bedrooms above and brought more pillows for Peter, gently helping to settle him without fussing. Then she disappeared into the kitchen.
“Where was you wounded, sir?” Mr. Wright was asking Peter, and I left them to it, walking to the room across the passage and finding that it boasted a piano. I ran my fingers over the keys, surprised to discover that it was in tune.
From there I went to the kitchen, small and compact. Mrs. Wright looked up. “Mrs. Blake’s father owned much of the land hereabouts,” she said, busy with the tea tray. “And she spent her summers here. She loved the cottage, she did. You can feel it, can’t you? That it was a happy house, and cared for. Her daughter loves it too.”
And it was true. There was an air about the cottage that seemed to enfold us, welcoming us in spite of the cold that had seeped into the floors and the walls as summer faded.
“I come over and light a fire in the rooms once a week, to air them and keep things fresh. It’s something I enjoy.”
“Does Sister Blake often send—er—visitors here?”
“Once in a while. She likes to know the house is lived in again. Not just standing empty.”
“Who planted the walnut tree?”
“That? Mrs. Blake’s father planted it the day she was born. Walnut cake, that’s what Mrs. Blake loved best. I made her one before she died, when she was too ill to do for herself. She ate every bit of it, and it gladdened me to watch her.”
“You’ve known the family a long time,” I said.
“Yes, that we have. My father did for the Blakes, and my mother was the housekeeper. Most of the other people in Aldshot worked the land or kept the horses or looked after the gardens in back. The manor house burned down a long time ago. The family kept the cottage and built another house in Pulborough. Sister Blake’s mother married for love, and she said to me that it was the only thing that could take her away from here. And so every summer she’d come back for a month, just herself, and then her daughter, until the day her husband died. When that happened, she came home to stay. She said she couldn’t bear to rattle around in that big house in Pulborough all alone. When she first came, I thought she’d die of a broken heart, mourning him. But the cottage brought her back to herself. It was something to see, how she slowly healed here. Mind you, she still missed him, but she knew she had to live on for her daughter, and that she did.”
Picking up the tea tray, she smiled. “The kitchen is warming up already with the fire in the stove. I’ll see that it’s banked properly tonight, ready for breakfast in the morning.”
“We can’t stay,” I said. “It wouldn’t be proper. I’m his nurse, yes, but we aren’t—married.”
“You can sleep in my extra bedroom, if you like, and Joel will stay with the Captain. I don’t see anything wrong with that.”
I followed her into the front room. Peter was looking less pale, and I could tell that Mr. Wright had been telling him the history of the house, for he was describing the planting of the walnut tree as we came in.
Mrs. Wright set the tea tray on a table her husband brought closer to the fire, and then he disappeared as she poured out two cups of tea.
“We’re about out of sugar,” she said, “but the hives have flourished this year, and there’s plenty of honey. I’ll bring you a pot tomorrow, and see that you have a good breakfast.”
Just then I heard the outside door open, and the next thing I knew, footsteps sounded on the stairs. Mr. Wright was bringing in our luggage.
“We can’t stay,” I began.
Peter said, “It will be all right, Elspeth. Wright here says you can take their spare room for the night. I don’t think I could face getting back in the motorcar just now.”
I could see the circles of pain under his eyes and the tightness of his jaw. I felt angry with myself for not having the wit to look at Walnut Tree Cottage myself before bringing him this far.
The fault was mine. I’d assumed that the cottage would be in located in a sizeable village where Peter would have everything he needed to heal. I was used to a different world, and I had misjudged this one.
I wanted to argue, to set my mistake to rights, but it would cost Peter more than he could face just now. My pride could wait.
I helped him cut up his slice of cake, noting that he handled his teacup left-handed with reasonable skill.
“If you’d prefer to stay,” I said lightly, “then stay we shall.”
He gave me a grateful look, then managed a smile. “Pretend it’s the Petit Trianon.”
The small château on the grounds of the Palace of Versailles where Marie Antoinette could escape the formality of the French Court and play at being an ordinary person. Her version, of course, of ordinary.
I laughed, pleased to hear him make light of his situation.
He dozed in his chair until supper was brought, and afterward, Joel Wright helped him up the stairs. I’d already turned down the bed while Mrs. Wright made up the fire and then prepared blankets on the floor for her husband. “He’ll be close by if the Captain needs anything,” she said, standing back to admire her handiwork. “There’s another blanket if he wants it. And I’ve set a covered glass of water by the bed, if the Captain is thirsty in the night.”
Mrs. Wright led me across the road to her house, far simpler than Walnut Tree Cottage, and apologized for the small, plainly furnished little room down the passage from hers, where I was to sleep. She had at first insisted that I should have their room, but I refused to allow it, saying that I would be perfectly fine in the spare room.
To my surprise, I was, and I slept well enough there.
Peter, on the other hand, had slept better in Walnut Tree Cottage than he had for weeks in the clinic.
“Even at night it was never quiet. A veritable chorus of snores, the sounds of coughing, men moaning in their sleep, some even crying out. I expect I was also tired, but it was a very good night.”
Breakfast was served on the tea table, where I suspected that Mrs. Blake had also taken her meals, and then the Wrights retired to their own home for their breakfast.
“Did you manage last night?” Peter asked. “I was rather selfish, abandoning you to God knows what arrangements. But I don’t think I could have crossed the road if my life had depended upon it.”
“The spare bedroom is small but comfortable,” I assured him. “And Mrs. Wright saw to it that I had everything I needed.”
“Must we go back to Midhurst today? This is heaven, after the jolting on the roads. A day—two at most—and I can face anything.”
“I got you into this,” I said ruefully. “If you’d prefer to rest a bit, I can only let you have your way.”
“It’s a lovely little cottage.” He was gazing about the room, noticing more than he’d felt like taking in the night before.
“Petit Trianon indeed,” I said.
He laughed. “Mrs. Wright would be astonished to learn that an Earl’s daughter slept in her spare room.”
“Hush! They might come in and hear you.”
“Don’t worry, from where I’m sitting, I can see them the instant they leave their own doorway. I will say that Mrs. Wright is an excellent cook.” He had had a good appetite for breakfast, according to Mrs. Wright, although there were still signs of pain and fatigue marking his face.
He held out a book. It was a Dickens novel. “I found this in the bookshelf upstairs. Read to me?”
I put more wood on the fire and then sat down again. “Are you sure you are comfortable here? We can’t be sure the doctor in Midhurst is as good as Mrs. Wright suggests.”
“I’ve been poked and prodded by doctors since I was wounded. I’ve had two surgeries, a long recovery, and more prodding and poking. This is bliss, this cottage. Better even that rattling around in my flat or your Cornish house. If I need to see a doctor, we can always find one.”
He seemed to take it for granted that I would stay as well. At least for a few days.
And as if he’d read my mind, he said, “My dear, don’t fuss. I’ve got you to keep up my spirits, Mrs. Wright to feed me, a comfortable chair and a comfortable bed, with Wright to help me dress and undress. I’ve been a soldier long enough that I don’t require a large house and a full staff of servants to manage my life. Where will you go? What will you do, when you leave here? Go back to London and fret over your cousin’s interference? There’s nothing you can do to change his mind, and by the time you’re of age to make your own choices, the war will be a distant memory, and it won’t matter any longer.”
He was right.
But there was the other side of that coin. If I stayed here too long, I would find it harder to convince myself that I didn’t love Peter Gilchrist. And that could never be. Just sitting across from him, enveloped in the warmth of his caring, listening to his deep, quiet voice offering me comfort, I had to fight my own desire to throw caution to the winds and stay at Walnut Tree Cottage forever.
We talked for a time, and I read to him until he fell asleep. Mrs. Wright had come in again, had made the bed upstairs, cleared away the breakfast dishes, and brought in our tea by the time Peter woke up.
“Sorry,” he said, flushing a little. “Your voice is soothing, and I couldn’t help myself. Poor company for you, sitting across from a sleeping man most of the morning.”
“You aren’t here to provide amusement for me,” I said, taking his cup of tea to him, then returning to pick up my own. “Rest is a great healer.”
“After my tea, if Wright can help me manage the stairs again, I’ll do my exercises. Then perhaps we could walk a little.”
