After the War Is Over: A Novel Page 3

  At this hour there was a chance she might find Robbie at the hospital before he embarked on rounds or disappeared into the operating theater for the day; even if he were occupied, his clerk would be able to take a message. She picked up the earpiece and waited for the telltale burst of static that invariably preceded the operator’s appearance on the line.

  “Operator.”

  “Hello. I need you to put through a call to the London Hospital, in Whitechapel, East London.”

  “Yes, madam. I’ll ring back once the call is connected.”

  Charlotte hung up the earpiece and waited, wishing she had thought to bring some work with her. At last the telephone trilled out its response.

  “Operator here. I’m connecting you with the central telephone at the London Hospital. Please hold the line.”

  “Thank you.”

  A different voice came on the line, this time distinguished by an East London accent.

  “London ’Ospital. ’Ow may I direct your call?”

  “I need to speak to Robert Fraser in general surgery. Or his clerk, if he’s not available.”

  “One moment, please an’ thank you.”

  A man’s voice came on the line. “General surgery.”

  “Good morning. Is this the clerk for the surgeons?”

  “It is, ma’am.”

  “May I leave a message for Robert Fraser?”

  “You can speak to him yourself. He’s right here.”

  “Thank y—”

  “Fraser here.”

  “Robbie? It’s Charlotte. I got your telegram. How is Lilly?”

  “Saddened, of course. And surprised, as are we all. I’d always assumed her father was indestructible.”

  “What happened?”

  “It was yesterday morning, straight after breakfast. He got up, took a step, and collapsed. I’ve spoken to the physician they called and he thinks it was Lord Cumberland’s heart. All but instant.”

  “I see. Well, I’m ringing to let you know that I shall of course come to the funeral.”

  “Thank you. Lilly’s finding it all a bit much. As you can imagine, her mother and sisters have been quite dramatic about it all. And Edward is naturally feeling the effects of this, too.”

  Edward. The eldest, the heir—and now the Earl of Cumberland. “He couldn’t have expected it, not so soon.”

  “Exactly. And on the heels of everything else he’s endured. At any rate, the funeral is tomorrow afternoon, two o’clock, at St. Peter’s Eaton Square, with a reception to follow at Ashford House.”

  “Ah,” was the only response Charlotte could muster. So much for her long-ago vow never to return to that tomb of a house in Belgravia.

  “I know,” Robbie said. “We’ll both be as welcome as ants at a picnic. But it can’t be helped, and you’ll have an ally in me—I promise.”

  Lord and Lady Cumberland had detested Robbie from the moment they had laid eyes on him, back when he and Edward had become friends as undergraduates. The idea that their son and heir should associate with the son of a Glaswegian dustman had all but induced apoplexy in them both. Their daughter’s decision to then marry the dustman’s son had only deepened their enmity.

  But Lilly, for her part, had refused to be cowed by her family’s disapproval. She had left home not long after the beginning of the war, had served with distinction in the Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps, and even after her demobilization had refused to return to her parents. Instead she had moved into the same boardinghouse where Charlotte had lived during the war.

  “You are a dear.”

  “Oh—I almost forgot. Lilly says you’re to stay with her at Mrs. Collins’s. It’s all arranged.”

  “That’s very kind of her. Well, then—I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Shall I have a car meet you at Euston?”

  “No, thank you. I can easily make my way there. And you have other things to worry about. Do give Lilly my love.”

  “Good-bye until then.”

  “Good-bye.”

  After they’d rung off, she sat at the desk and stared into space for long moments, unable to shake the sense of unease that had settled over her like a too-warm shawl. She had to go. She had said she would, Lilly was expecting her, and she was needed. But, oh, how she dreaded it.

  She worked late, ensuring her desk was clear before she left, and arrived home just as the other women were finishing supper.

  “Hello, everyone. Is there anything left from supper, Janie?”

  “Yes, Miss Charlotte. I’ll fill a plate for you now.”

  “Thank you. Before I forget, you needn’t cook for me tomorrow night. I have to go to London for a funeral. For my friend Lilly’s father. The service is tomorrow.”

  “What are you going to wear?” asked Norma.

  “I hadn’t thought of it. I have a black skirt and coat that more or less match. They should do.”

  “Those things you wear to church? I’ll beg your pardon now, but they’re awful. How long have you had them?”

  “I’m not sure. I bought them just after I moved to London, so . . . early 1915?”

  “Precisely. They’re hopelessly out-of-date. You’ll look like the help if you wear them.”

  If only Norma knew the truth. “But I haven’t anything else that’s suitable. And I don’t have time to visit the shops before I leave.”

  “I’ve a suit you can wear,” Rosie offered. “I had it made only last year. We’re nearly the same size, I think.”

  “And I’ve a hat you can borrow,” said Meg, surprising everyone when she spoke up. “Black wool felt, with a high crown and narrow brim. Perfect for the occasion.”

  “There you are,” said Norma, who was clearly in her element. “Let’s get you dressed and see how you look.”

  Garments were collected, Charlotte was sent into her room to change, and all awaited her return to the sitting room so they might weigh in and offer suggestions. As there was no full-length mirror in the house, Charlotte had to be content with the other women’s assessment of her appearance, as well as such glimpses as she could catch with her tiny hand mirror. Rosie’s suit seemed to fit well, and Meg’s hat was alarmingly stylish compared to the battered wool cloche she’d worn for the past two winters.

  “I suppose I’ll do.” The suit, which she wore with her best high-necked white blouse, was beautifully made, its lapels and pockets edged with wide grosgrain ribbon. She would never fit in, for Lilly’s family could spot bourgeois impostors at a thousand yards; but at least she wouldn’t embarrass her friend, and that was what mattered.

  “What about your hair?” Norma asked. “You wouldn’t have time to cut it, would you? Imagine how nice it would look.”

  If there were one concession to fashion Charlotte absolutely refused to consider, it was cutting her hair. She had a plain face, and even on her best day was never more than passably attractive—pretty enough, one well-meaning friend had once said—but her hair was beautiful.

  “No, Norma. I’m not cutting my hair. I’ll put it in a low chignon. It looks well like that, and with enough pins it will stay in place.”

  She raised the mirror to her face, intent on assessing Meg’s hat, but her attention was caught, and held, by the woman who stared back at her. Did she always look so serious, her eyes wary, half-hidden shadows behind the metal rims of her spectacles? She attempted a smile, but it looked all wrong. It was the grimace of someone in pain, someone who carried with her the memory of joy, with none of its delight.

  SHE CAUGHT THE 9:15 train to Euston the next morning. With nowhere to leave an overnight bag during the funeral service, she had only her handbag by way of luggage. Once she’d packed an extra set of combinations and stockings, and her toothbrush and comb as well, there hadn’t been enough room for a book. Then again, she rarely managed to read while she was traveling, for the countryside provided too engaging a diversion. Even now, at the wan end of spring when the trees had barely come into bud and the fields beneath lay fallow, t
he land was beautiful, achingly so.

  Alone in her compartment, Charlotte felt secure enough to nap for half an hour, her bag tucked securely under her arm, and then to eat the tinned salmon sandwich Janie had made up for her. It wouldn’t do for her stomach to disrupt the funeral proceedings with a plebeian growl.

  Her train arrived at Euston a little past one o’clock, which left just enough time to visit the ladies’ waiting room at the station and ensure her face was free of any soot or grime. It was too far to walk, at least three miles, and she didn’t dare risk taking the Underground if the trains were running behind. She would have to splurge on a taxicab, although she was loath to spend so much for such a short journey.

  The journey to Belgravia took no time at all; with motorcars and horses alike still in short supply, traffic was light. Everywhere she saw signs of rebirth, of the nascent spring: advertisements for luxuries like chocolate, bicycles, face powder, and hair pomade now adorned billboards in place of recruitment posters, while fresh paint gleamed on the façades of public houses, private homes, and shop fronts.

  The cab drew to a halt on Wilton Street, just north of the church, for the street beyond was thronged with carriages and motorcars, many of them draped with swaths of black crape.

  “A funeral you’re going to, miss?” asked the cabbie.

  “Yes. The father of a friend.” She handed over her fare, together with a generous tip, and let herself out of the cab. “Thank you very much.”

  St. Peter’s was set well back from the street and had, to Charlotte’s eyes, a forbiddingly austere exterior. Inside, however, the sanctuary was warm and light, with soaring Romanesque arches, delicately carved screens, and jewel-bright chapels. The altar itself had been adorned with garlands of hothouse flowers; additional arrangements flanked the chancel entrance, their heady scent perfuming the air even yards away.

  Declining the assistance of an usher, she found a seat near the back of the congregation and settled down to watch a parade of England’s elite fill the church near to bursting. The prime minister and at least half his cabinet were there, together with nearly every duke, marquess, and earl in the land. Last of all the guests were the Prince of Wales and Prince Albert, and despite the solemnity of the occasion Charlotte was unable to quell a flutter of excitement as they marched past.

  And then it was time for the Cumberland family to process to the front of the church. A phalanx of Lilly’s relatives swept past, most of them unfamiliar to Charlotte, and then finally her friend appeared, arm in arm with Robbie. More relatives followed—several sisters and their families, as well as Lilly’s younger brother, George. Finally Edward, now the Earl of Cumberland, entered the sanctuary on the arm of his mother, who looked more or less as she always did: pale, dignified, and utterly composed. He was using a cane, Charlotte noticed, but didn’t seem to be putting much weight on it.

  Although Charlotte’s religious observance and belief had become rather frayed in recent years, she had grown up in the bosom of the Church of England, and the traditional funeral service was a balm to her spirits. Everything was exactly as it ought to have been: “Guide Me O Thou Great Redeemer,” Psalm 23, and words of prayer so familiar she scarcely had to think to summon them to her lips.

  The church’s forecourt cleared rapidly after the service, with most of the congregants making the short journey to Ashford House by motorcar or carriage. It was no trouble to find Lilly among the thinning crowd, and before she thought better of it, Charlotte threw open her arms for her friend’s embrace.

  “Charlotte! You came.”

  “Of course I came. There was never any question of that.”

  “You are coming back to the house with us? I know it will be torture—”

  “Never mind me. You’re the one who is important today. You need me, and so I’ll be there.”

  Now Robbie came forward, shaking her hand and offering a gentle smile. “Hello, Charlotte. How was your journey?”

  “Very restful, thank you.”

  “I know it’s easier to walk back, but I think it will be too far for Edward. Will you come with us in the carriage?” Lilly asked.

  “Thank you. Although if—”

  “Hello, Charlotte,” came a voice from behind.

  She spun around and, in her haste, nearly bumped into the man who had approached her.

  “Lord Cumberland,” she answered. “I am so terribly sorry—”

  “Christ, Charlotte. None of that, not today. Please.” He grinned halfheartedly, but there was no humor behind his smile.

  “Edward, then,” she replied, and shook his outstretched hand.

  “Will you come in the carriage with us?” Lilly asked her brother.

  “I suppose. Would rather walk.”

  “I know. But you’ll be on your feet all afternoon, and you know what the doctors said. You mustn’t overtax yourself.”

  “Fine. Where is the bloody thing?”

  “Right behind you,” Robbie answered. “So haul your miserable carcass inside and stop complaining.”

  The four of them were soon settled inside, the women facing forward and the men sitting opposite. Edward immediately closed his eyes, pulled off his hat, and let his head loll back against the tufted seat back, while Robbie focused his attention on his gloves. Apparently the women would have to do the heavy lifting, as far as conversation was concerned, until they arrived at Ashford House.

  “How are you feeling, Lilly?” Charlotte asked.

  “Well enough. I mean, I know I wasn’t terribly close to Papa, but his death was a shock all the same.”

  “And your mother?”

  “Cool. Calm. As remote as always.”

  “How has she been treating you?”

  “More or less as she always does—which is to say that she ignores me whenever possible, and tolerates me when she cannot ignore me.”

  At this Edward laughed bitterly, but before Charlotte could open her mouth to reply, she felt the quelling pat of Lilly’s hand upon her forearm. She turned to her friend, who shook her head minutely, and decided to swallow her retort.

  Instead, she tucked Lilly’s arm in hers. “When do you leave for Cumbria?”

  “Late tomorrow morning. Papa’s interment will be on Sunday. Needless to say I’m dreading it.”

  “At least we’ll have this evening.”

  “We will. And we won’t have to stay so very long, will we, Edward?”

  “Not long at all,” her brother confirmed. “I told Mama I will remain for one hour exactly, and not a minute more. And there’s to be no reception line.”

  The carriage drew to a halt. As they waited for the footman to lower the step, Charlotte peered out the window, curious to see if her memories had played her false. They had not, for the icily perfect façade of the Belgravia mansion was as unwelcoming as ever. If buildings had faces, then Ashford House resembled nothing more than a humorless and rigidly austere Roman statesman.

  The carriage door opened. They had arrived.

  Chapter 5

  It had been eight years since Charlotte had last entered Ashford House. Although Lilly was at her side, she hesitated a moment at the doorstep, her heart in her throat, her hands clammy inside her gloves.

  But there were scores of people behind her, flowing out of their plush vehicles like luxe, bejeweled lemmings, and so there was nothing for it but to take a deep breath and let herself be swept along by the crowd. Across the grand entrance hall, up the cold, wide marble staircase, and into the echoing acreage of the blue drawing room.

  At first she stood with Lilly and Robbie, but then Lilly went to say hello to a childhood friend, and Robbie went in search of a cup of tea for him and Charlotte both. So she stood her ground, feeling increasingly out of place, and prayed that her discomfiture did not show on her face.

  She had made up her mind to approach Lilly, who certainly wouldn’t have minded, when a tap, tap, tap of heels alerted her that someone was approaching. Charlotte turned her head and realized,
to her horror, that it was Lady Cumberland and Lilly’s two sisters. It was almost comical, the way they walked so preeningly, so evidently aware of people’s admiration and envy. They were wearing beautiful gowns, dead black of course, as high mourning had to be, but so gorgeously fashioned and trimmed that one didn’t even notice the color, or lack of it, after a moment.

  Lilly’s sisters had grown plump, though they kept themselves well corseted, while Lady Cumberland didn’t appear to have aged at all. She had to be in her fifties at least, but looked scarcely older than her daughters, and her beauty had not diminished one whit in the eight years since Charlotte had seen her last.

  It was then that she made a critical error: she looked Lady Cumberland in the eye. Without saying a word, without even glancing at her daughters, the countess wheeled about and the three of them, arranged in perfect formation, positioned themselves before Charlotte.

  Once she had been expected to curtsy whenever she encountered the countess. She would not do so now. She stood even taller, lifted her chin a fraction higher, and gritted her teeth against the sudden, paralyzing fury that surged through her veins. Once she had vowed she would never expose herself to their disdain again, and to do so, now, went against her every instinct.

  Lady Mary, the middle of the Cumberland sisters, fixed her with a predatory stare. The three of them, Charlotte decided, resembled nothing so much as grimly assessing ravens, glittering in their black plumage, their eyes chill and calculating.

  “Have we met?” she asked, each word a precise, cutting blow.

  Before Charlotte could speak, Lilly’s other sister, Lady Alice, provided the answer. “Don’t you remember? She was Lilly’s governess—oh, it was ages ago, wasn’t it? Certainly long before the war.”

  “She was? What on earth is she doing here?”

  “Lady Elizabeth invited me.” That was all the explanation she would give. Not one word more.

  They said nothing else, which was a relief, though Lady Cumberland continued to unnerve her by looking through Charlotte as if she weren’t even there. She then turned her back and walked away, back in the direction she had come, leaving her silly, spineless daughters to trail after her, whispering and giggling into their gloved hands.