After the War Is Over: A Novel

by Jennifer Robson

  Charlotte felt quite certain that she was going to be sick. “Did Lady Helena know of this?”

  “I doubt it. Certainly I never told her.”

  “I assumed . . . I thought that you were in love with her,” Charlotte whispered.

  “Of course not. I don’t know her well enough to love her.”

  A surge of pity for the blameless Helena swept through her. The poor girl was to be picked up and set down like a playing piece on a chessboard, with no regard for her feelings or desires or anything beyond the dynastic concerns of people who didn’t care a fig for her. It was positively medieval.

  “So what do you plan to do?” she asked. “Marry the richest American you can find and solve all your problems?”

  “I’m the one facing financial ruin. I’d have thought you would sympathize.”

  “Ruin? You’re facing nothing of the sort. You have no idea, not the faintest idea, of what true ruin entails.”

  “So enlighten me. Tell me one of your depressing stories. I’m sure you have plenty to choose from,” he said acidly.

  “I do. There’s the family I tried to help last week. Tried, but failed. The father was wounded during the war, so badly he can no longer work. The mother had just been sacked so her job might be given away to a man. They had five children at home, the eldest only eleven. All too young to go out to work—not legally, at least.

  “So I went to them. I went to their flat and told them there was relief to be had, and that there was no shame in it. I promised I would not take away their children. I swore to them that I would help. They only had to come to my office and fill out some forms.”

  “What happened?”

  “They never came to me. I waited for them—I ought to have brought the forms with me when I visited, to save them the trouble of the journey to the constituency office—but they never came. So I went back to their flat the next day, this time with everything we’d need for a relief claim, and they were gone. Had done a ‘midnight flit.’ They were too frightened of the debt collectors, too frightened of me, even, so they disappeared.”

  “I see.”

  “No, your lordship, you don’t. Those children hadn’t eaten a decent meal in days, if not weeks. Their shoes were more cardboard than leather, and there was scarcely a stick of furniture left in the flat. What will become of that family? I lie awake at night thinking of them.

  “But they are only one family, one among hundreds, thousands, and their numbers are growing. If you could only comprehend the magnitude of the disaster I face every day . . . and yet it takes so little to help them. A pound here, a pound there. So little.”

  “I’d have helped. All you had to do was ask—”

  “Of course I never asked. It would have been most improper. You were my friend, not my penny bank.”

  She got up and walked to the far side of the parterre, needing to put some distance between them. She couldn’t breathe with him at her side.

  “Go on,” he goaded her. “Tell me what a failure I am. Tell me what poor use I’ve made of all my wealth and privilege.”

  “But you have—can’t you see that? Can’t you look beyond your own misery? The world doesn’t revolve around you and your unhappiness.”

  He laughed, but it was a bitter sound, made ugly by its utter lack of humor. “So says Saint Charlotte, made holy by her devotion to others. If only you could hear what comes out of your mouth. You speak as if your every word is a pearl of wisdom bestowed by the Almighty.” He surged to his feet and advanced on her, one halting step after the other, but she stood her ground.

  “You shame yourself with such words. You know you do.” Her voice was shaking; so were her hands. She clenched them into fists and straightened her spine. She would not back down.

  “So you, Miss Brown, you are allowed to tell me that I’m a pathetic, self-centered failure—no, don’t shake your head, we both know that’s what you meant—but you are above reproach? Or do you truly believe that your actions are beyond criticism? Are you really that perfect?”

  He stood so close, looming above her, and for an instant she feared he might do something unwise. Strike her, perhaps. Or even kiss her. She wasn’t certain which she feared more.

  Somehow she found her voice. “At least I’m doing something to help others. All you’ve done since you came back from the war is whine and moan and feel sorry for yourself. Isn’t it time you got on with your life? Did something worthwhile? You’re alive, for a start, which is more than millions can say. And you are richer than any man has a right to be. Grow up, for heaven’s sake. Simply . . . grow up.”

  She walked away, her knees shaking, desperate to escape the anger and shame and despair that he had provoked in her. But he came after her, so she broke into an undignified run, driven by her need to escape this exasperating man she had no right to care about. A man whose troubles ought to mean nothing to her.

  She stumbled on a stone that protruded from the path and fell hard on her knees. Before she could stand again he was at her side, pulling her gently to her feet.

  “Stop, Charlotte. Don’t run from me.”

  “Don’t touch me. Let go of my hands,” she begged, frantic in her need to be free of him.

  “Look at me, won’t you? Just for a minute?” he asked, sounding as wretched as she felt. Good, she thought. He deserved no less.

  “I spoke in anger just now,” he said, still imprisoning her hands. “You were right, as you usually are. That’s why I lashed out at you. Please forgive me.”

  As the echo of his words floated in the air between them, it dawned on her that she had been unforgivably rude. She had never been the sort of person to give in to strong emotions; she had never, in all her life, spoken as harshly to another person as she had done, just now, to Edward.

  “I beg your pardon, Lord Cumberland, for my rudeness. I spoke out of turn.”

  “I deserved every word of it,” he insisted. “And I will find a way to sort out my silly problems. I swear I will.”

  She stood there, not moving, and let herself feel the warmth and strength of his hands. And she recalled the moment, only six months earlier, when he had come through the door of her and Lilly’s boardinghouse in Camden Town, and she had seen with her own eyes that, by virtue of some unknowable miracle, he was not dead. That he had not vanished into the mud and muck and horror of the war.

  She let herself remember the joy she had felt in that moment, at the sight of his dear, sad face, and with it she remembered all that he had suffered. If only she could take back her unkind words.

  She regarded their linked hands for a moment, and then, another apology on her lips, she looked up and met his gaze. He looked almost like the old Edward, the boy she had first met at Oxford, so charming and carefree and sure of his place in the world. But that boy was dead and gone, and in his place was a man who had seen things she would never be able to know, let alone imagine. A man who was infinitely more complicated, and dangerous, than the boy he had once been.

  “Do you feel up to returning to the reception?” he asked softly.

  “I do. I wouldn’t want Lilly to worry. I don’t look too disheveled, do I?”

  “You look perfect,” he said, taking her arm.

  As quickly as it had erupted, her anger had melted away, but wasn’t that what always happened when she was around Edward? No matter what he did, no matter how he behaved, she always forgave him.

  He carried such burdens, admittedly some of them of his own making, and there were so few people he could trust. Robbie, Lilly, and herself. Perhaps one or two friends, although she’d met some of his friends before and had not cared for them one whit. Even his engagement was a sham.

  She felt sorry for him; that was all. He was unwell, unhappy, nearly friendless, and crippled by obligations that would have taxed the energies of even the fittest man. He needed her friendship, not her censure.

  “It will all work out in the end,” she said as they walked up the terrace steps. “I’m cer
tain it will.”

  “If I were still the sort of man who believed in such things, I would agree with you. As it is . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ll soldier on.”

  Chapter 10

  Cumbria, England

  July 1907

  There was no reason at all to be nervous. Not yet, at least. Lord Ashford had been perfectly clear in his last letter: John Pringle, one of the family’s coachmen, would meet her at the train station in Penrith and bring her to Cumbermere Hall. Only once she’d had a chance to settle in would she be introduced to the family.

  Charlotte had been traveling since dawn, for her journey had begun at home in Somerset, where she’d gone after the end of term. Although her parents hadn’t criticized her decision to take on the post of governess to Lady Elizabeth, neither had they been especially pleased. Her mother had been particularly fretful. “After all your hard work at university . . . I don’t know. It seems like a step back for you to go and work as a servant in someone else’s home.”

  Charlotte had tried to persuade her that she wouldn’t be a servant, not precisely; she would be teaching a young lady, not waiting on her hand and foot. But her mother, who herself had been taught by a governess at home, was unconvinced.

  Her father had said little, and on their afternoon walks together they had both avoided the subject of her new position. Unlike some men, he wore the mantle of paterfamilias lightly, rarely imposing his wishes on his wife or daughter. If he’d had grave concerns, of course, he’d have voiced them, but in their absence he was content enough to stand back and allow Charlotte to chart her own course. In this she was fortunate, and she knew it. Every blessing in her life had come from her parents. Without them, what would have become of her? How might her life have turned out?

  That morning, both Mother and Father had said good-bye and waved her off with smiles on their faces and repeated assurances that they knew, simply knew, she would excel at her new position. “You’ll be the making of that young woman,” her father had insisted. “Mark my words.”

  It was nearly one o’clock as the train pulled into the small station at Penrith. Charlotte alighted from the carriage and looked up and down the platform, wondering if Mr. Pringle would be there or waiting outside the station. After a moment, she spotted a man dressed in livery a few yards away, his back to her.

  “Mr. Pringle?”

  He turned around, a broad smile on his homely face, and came forward to take her valise and carpetbag. “There you are, Miss Brown. I was looking out for you at the wrong end of the train.”

  “Lord Ashford was kind enough to send me a first-class ticket, otherwise I should have been in the third-class carriages. How do you do?” She held out her hand, and after a moment’s surprised hesitation, he set down her carpetbag and accepted her greeting.

  “I’m very well, thank you. We’re just outside on the forecourt, if you’ll follow me.”

  Mr. Pringle helped her into a modest two-wheeled buggy, which had just enough room for the two of them, and then strapped her bags to the back of the carriage. “Your trunk arrived yesterday, so I decided to fetch you in this. Faster than the landau, and old Bill here’s more reliable than any of his lordship’s motorcars.”

  In only a few minutes they had left Penrith behind and were on the road to Ullswater. On both sides the fells towered above them dramatically, their rugged slopes dotted with boulders and the occasional cluster of bleating sheep. Raised in the south of England, where the largest hills were little more than molehills in comparison, Charlotte was used to more decorous landscapes. But this countryside had never been tamed, had never been bent and shaped to the will of man, and she couldn’t help but find it a trifle intimidating.

  “Thank you for coming to collect me, Mr. Pringle.” It wouldn’t do to seem standoffish, not with the first person she met today, and he did seem like a friendly sort.

  “You can go ahead and call me John Pringle, just like everyone else does. Can’t remember the last time someone called me Mr. Pringle.”

  “Why both names?” she asked. Was this an idiosyncrasy of all aristocratic families, or just the Cumberlands?

  “Well, there were at least three or four men called John working on the estate when I started, nigh on thirty years ago. And there were more than a few Pringles, too. I suppose I could have picked another name, like some do. But I wanted to keep the names my mum and dad gave me. So that’s why I’m John Pringle to everyone at Cumbermere Hall—yourself included.”

  “Very well, John Pringle it is. How far a drive is it to the hall?”

  “Eight miles, more or less. Could have taken a shortcut, but I thought you’d like a proper view of the great house for the first time you lay eyes on it.”

  “I gather it’s very large.”

  “That it is, but it’s beautiful all the same. My people have lived here, and worked for the earls, for more’n a hundred years now. Feels like our home, too.”

  They sat in silence for another few minutes; though Charlotte was brimming over with questions, she didn’t want to test John Pringle’s patience or loyalty to his employers. It wouldn’t do to offend him with impertinent questions—and what if such questions were reported to Lord Ashford or his parents? It was a risk she didn’t care to take.

  The carriage was slowing; from what she could tell they were still in the middle of nowhere, the only sign of human habitation a lattice of low fieldstone walls fencing in pastureland and the road itself. She looked to John Pringle, concerned that something was amiss.

  “We’re coming up to the entrance to the park, Miss Brown. Just past this bend.”

  The gates seemed to appear out of nowhere, but then they had been hidden from view by a stretch of especially high hedgerows. John Pringle slowed the horse to a walk and neatly guided both animal and carriage under a monumental archway that linked two halves of a gatehouse. The buildings would have looked perfectly at home in Belgravia, their neoclassical façades brightened by window boxes brimming over with petunias. The gates themselves, more baroque in style, were made of wrought iron painted a gleaming black, each half inset with a heraldic crest.

  They turned onto the long approach to the great house, old Bill at a trot again, pulling at the reins in glad anticipation of home. Deer scattered at their approach, disappearing into the dappled shade cast by the park’s ancient oaks. The carriage passed through deeper woodland, the drive continuing straight as a Roman road. And then they were in the sun again, and the house lay in the distance before them.

  Charlotte couldn’t suppress a gasp of wonderment as she saw Cumbermere Hall for the first time. Rising four stories high, it faced south, with wings stretching north at either end. Scores of windows marched in perfect symmetry the length of each wing and story, their sole interruption a majestic entrance set into the center. But rather than stop in front of the house, John Pringle steered the carriage around to the western wing, to an entrance that was many times less grand in both size and decoration, and there drew the carriage to a halt.

  As he helped Charlotte down, the door opened and an older woman emerged, her status evident by the ring of keys at her waist and the lace cap that crowned her neatly arranged hair.

  “Welcome to Cumbermere Hall, Miss Brown,” the woman said, coming down the steps and extending her hand in greeting. “I am Mrs. Forster, the housekeeper here. Do come in.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Forster.”

  “Your trunk arrived yesterday, and is already in your room. Menzies, take Miss Brown’s things upstairs. I shall now take tea with her in my sitting room.”

  Charlotte followed the housekeeper inside, along a corridor that gave onto a series of kitchens and storerooms, and into a small room neatly furnished with a pair of armchairs, set on either side of an empty hearth, and a small table and chairs. In the far corner was a rolltop desk with a set of pigeonholes above.

  Mrs. Forster invited her to sit at the table, which already held a plate of sandwiches and
fancies and a large earthenware teapot.

  “Tell me a little about yourself, Miss Brown. Where did you grow up?”

  “In Somerset, ma’am. My father is a cleric at Wells Cathedral.”

  “I see. Have you any siblings?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Your parents must be very proud of you. How do you take your tea?”

  “With milk, thank you.”

  “Help yourself to some sandwiches and cake. A little something to hold you until suppertime. While Lord and Lady Cumberland are at the hall you’ll take your meals with the other senior staff, but after they return to London you’ll be with Lady Elizabeth in the nursery.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “There’s no need to ma’am me, my dear. Plain Mrs. Forster will do. Now, where was I? The girls and Master George have their rooms in the nursery wing, which is overseen by Nanny Gee. Mrs. Geoffrey, but everyone calls her Nanny Gee. Lovely woman. There’s the governess for Lady Mary and Lady Alice, too. Miss Shreve.”

  “I hope . . . that is, I worry she may take offense at my coming here.”

  “I shouldn’t worry. Between you and me, the poor thing looks as if the next stiff wind might blow her over. A few kind words and she’ll be your friend for life.”

  “I see,” Charlotte said, drinking the last of her tea. “That is a relief.”

  “If you’ve any trouble with the other staff, let me know immediately. Not that I expect you will, though. All of us are very fond of Lady Elizabeth. Such a dear girl, and simply desperate for a little attention. I think you’ll get on very well here.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Forster.”

  “Are you ready to go on upstairs? Good. If you have any difficulty in finding your way about, simply ask one of the staff. Of course, you’ll be with Lady Elizabeth most of the time, so she’ll be your guide.”

  Mrs. Forster led them along a corridor, around a corner, along a second and even longer hallway, and then up flight after flight after flight of stairs. By the time they had arrived at the baize-lined door to the nursery wing, Charlotte was thoroughly discombobulated, and certain she would require a trail of bread crumbs to navigate henceforth.