After the War Is Over: A Novel

by Jennifer Robson

  “We thought him lost. For so long we thought him dead. Vanished, never to have a grave. We lost . . .”

  Lady Cumberland’s voice broke, and Charlotte could only watch, stricken by pity, as her adversary fought to regain her composure. “When he returned, as if risen from the dead, after we had all lost hope . . . it seemed miraculous. Yet now I fear we are going to lose him again.”

  “To the drink?” Charlotte asked. “Or to despair?”

  “To both, I think.”

  It was time to put on her nurse’s hat. “Do you know what I did during the war?”

  “Of course not,” replied Lady Cumberland, her nostrils flaring delicately. “Why should I know such a thing?”

  “I was a nurse at the Special Neurological Hospital for Officers in Kensington.”

  “Shell shock,” whispered the countess.

  “Yes. I haven’t seen much of Lord Cumberland since his return, but it may be possible that he is suffering from some degree of nervous shock, if you will. Not because he is lacking in courage or moral fiber, but because he has been forced to endure the unendurable.”

  It was a mark of Lady Cumberland’s desperation that she didn’t immediately reject Charlotte’s suggestion. “I’ve brought in doctors. He refuses to talk to them. He won’t even talk to Mr. Fraser.”

  “He might talk to me. Not because of any sort of romantic attachment, I assure you. Edward trusts me to tell him the truth. That is all.”

  “I see,” the countess said. “If you were to agree to help him, what fee would you charge?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re a nurse, aren’t you?”

  Of course. Charlotte was the hired help. She would always be a servant in the eyes of Lady Cumberland. “Not any longer. If I did agree to speak with him, I would be acting solely as a friend.”

  “Will you help him?”

  “I shall try.”

  “Very well. When will you visit him?”

  “I shall have to speak to Miss Rathbone, my employer, and arrange to take a day or two off. Once I know, I’ll telephone Lilly. Will that do?”

  “Yes.” The countess rose to her feet and went to the door of the sitting room. Curiously, she made no move to open it. Was she waiting for a footman to materialize from the ether?

  “Thank you, Miss Brown.”

  “I promise to do my best.”

  Lady Cumberland extended a gloved hand, and Charlotte realized, to her astonishment, that she was meant to shake it. She did so, feeling very glad indeed that she had not removed her own gloves, and watched as the countess opened the door and swept from the room.

  Charlotte returned to the sofa. It seemed best to get her thoughts in order before she did anything else.

  “What on earth was that?” Rosie asked from the doorway. “I heard her leave just now. Are you all right?”

  “I’m not sure. That was an exceedingly strange conversation.”

  “Was that Lilly’s mother?”

  “It was. She . . . I can barely make sense of this.” Charlotte stood, feeling steadier already, and straightened the lapels of her coat. “I need to speak to Lilly. I’ll tell you everything when I return, but I must get to the post office before they close.”

  WHEN SHE ARRIVED at the post office on Upper Parliament Street, breathless from having run most of the way, the telephone kiosks were all occupied. Nearly ten minutes passed before one became free, time that she used to compose herself, suppress her indignation at Lilly’s having said nothing, absolutely nothing to her, and concoct her request to Miss Rathbone for yet more time off.

  It was the first occasion she’d had to telephone Lilly at her and Robbie’s new home in Chelsea, for they’d only moved in a fortnight earlier. She passed on their number to the operator and waited for the call to be connected. It was a clear line, for once, and the answering voice might easily have come from an adjacent kiosk.

  “Hello, Fraser residence. Ruth speaking.”

  “Oh, hello. May I speak to Lady Elizabeth? This is Miss Brown ringing from Liverpool.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Right away, ma’am.”

  A blur of background voices, and then, “Hello? Charlotte?”

  “Lilly.”

  “I’ve been meaning to call. How are you?”

  “Feeling rather dazed after a visit from your mother.”

  Lilly gasped in dismay. “From Mama? Oh, Charlotte. I am sorry. Was it about Edward?”

  “Yes. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I meant to, honestly I did. But we were away until July, and then there was all the bother with the painters and movers and so forth, and getting settled in the house. We scarcely saw him all summer.”

  “When did he break his engagement?”

  “Last week, I think. It was long overdue, of course, and fortunately Helena took it well. I saw her the other day and she told me she was relieved.”

  “And the drink?”

  “We’d been worried. But we honestly hadn’t realized the extent of it until just the other evening. Robbie went to visit him and Edward emptied the better part of a bottle of brandy.”

  “Has this been going on all summer?”

  “I think so. Perhaps even for longer.”

  “Has he mentioned having any headaches? Any dizziness?”

  “He has, yes. He complains of his head pounding day and night. But when I ask him if he’s spoken to a doctor about it, or if he’ll agree to let Robbie examine him, he simply walks away. When poor Mama asks, he shouts at her. I was going to ring you, just to ask if you might suggest anything else. If perhaps you had any advice as a result of your work during the war.”

  “I do. At least I think I may.”

  “Thank heavens.”

  “I told your mother I would come to London and speak to Edward. See if I can persuade him to accept help. I haven’t yet spoken to Miss Rathbone, but I feel certain she’ll give me a few days of leave.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  “I’ll ring again as soon as I know more.”

  “You will stay with us, won’t you? The house is a shambles, boxes everywhere, but I’m ever so keen to show it off.”

  “Of course I’ll stay. Give Robbie my regards, and I’ll see you soon.”

  Chapter 18

  The train was slowing, shunting from track to track, the hiss and grind of its locomotive descending to a statelier register as it approached Euston station. As soon as it had lurched to a stop, Charlotte pulled her valise from the luggage rack above her seat, shouldered her handbag, and set forth along the platform, intent on arriving at the station’s taxi rank before the queue stretched down the street.

  On the other side of the barrier, however, Lilly and Robbie were waiting for her.

  “I told you I would take a taxi,” Charlotte protested.

  “You did. I then said I preferred to collect you,” Lilly replied, embracing her friend.

  “You can’t expect her to pass up a perfectly good opportunity to drive her new car,” added Robbie as they walked outside.

  “New car?” Of course Lilly had been an ambulance driver while she was in the WAAC, but Charlotte had assumed her friend’s interest in motoring had ended at the same time as her demobilization.

  “My wedding present from Robbie. There she is.” Lilly pointed to a Model T Ford parked just beyond the taxi rank. “It’s a 1915 model, but she runs like new. Go on and sit in the front.”

  After stowing Charlotte’s bags in the backseat, Robbie cranked the engine while Lilly started the car via a series of entirely mystifying actions. Having never ridden in the front seat of a motorcar, Charlotte had little notion of how one worked. Once the engine was purring away nicely, Lilly nodded to her husband and he climbed into the backseat, albeit rather awkwardly, as the motorcar’s single door was shared by both banks of seats.

  “I wish you could have seen my face when Robbie had Henrietta delivered. I nearly fell over,” Lilly said, steering them between the massive p
illars of the great Euston Arch and into the London traffic with the calm assurance of an old hand.

  “Henrietta?”

  “Well, actually she’s Henrietta the Second. I named her after my little ambulance—the one I crashed while we were evacuating the Fifty-first. Who in turn was named for Henry Ford.”

  “I see,” said Charlotte, although she couldn’t imagine why anyone would give a motorcar a name. “You really are a very accomplished driver.”

  “Thank you. Practice makes perfect. I was nervous at first—I hadn’t driven since I was invalided home—but it really is ever so much easier driving here. The roads are in far better shape, to begin with. Now, tell me,” she said, downshifting as they swung into a huge roundabout, “if you had any difficulty getting time off work. I mean, it was such short notice.”

  “I called Miss Rathbone yesterday afternoon. I told her what was happening—that is, I told her that a friend of mine had fallen ill and his family had asked me to visit. It’s a version of the truth, I suppose.”

  Skirting the truth with Miss Rathbone had made her desperately uncomfortable, but the details of Edward’s condition were not hers to share with anyone outside his family.

  “So Miss Rathbone didn’t object?” asked Lilly.

  “Not in the slightest. I was well ahead with all my work, which helped, and I’ll be back for Tuesday morning.”

  They turned off one large road onto another, and almost immediately Lilly swung right onto a small street of Georgian cottages that ended in a cul-de-sac. The houses, charmingly, were painted in a spectrum of pastels, from palest pink to a vibrant primrose yellow. The Frasers’ house was at the end of the street, its frontage rather narrower than the rest, its paint the exact hue of a robin’s egg.

  Once they were through the front door, Robbie carried her bags upstairs while Lilly led the way into the sitting room. It was large and beautifully proportioned, and had been sparely furnished with older pieces, their upholstery soft and faded, their wood warm with age.

  “Almost everything came from the attics at Cumbermere Hall,” Lilly explained. “Edward told me to help myself. You wouldn’t believe how much was stuffed up there, all covered in dust and spiderwebs, simply because it had fallen out of fashion. There was enough for ten houses at least.”

  “Where is the shambles you spoke of on the telephone?”

  “As soon as I knew you were coming we carried all the unopened boxes into the garret,” Lilly admitted. “We still have to unpack our books, and there are crates of paintings and photographs and so forth to set out, but otherwise we’re feeling quite settled.”

  Robbie set a plate of sandwiches on the occasional table next to Charlotte. “Ruth made these up before leaving for the night. And I’ve a pot of tea brewing in the kitchen.”

  As if by mutual consent, their conversation that evening entirely avoided the subject of Edward. Instead they spoke of the Frasers’ honeymoon in Cornwall, Robbie’s return to work at the London Hospital, and Lilly’s studies with a dauntingly serious tutor.

  “I’ve begun to have nightmares about my Latin and Greek, but Mr. Pebbles insists we press ahead.”

  “Mr. Pebbles? Is that honestly his name?”

  “It is.” Lilly giggled. “Dorian Pebbles.”

  “Poor man. Is he a good tutor?”

  “Excellent. Very patient. He thinks I have a good chance of passing the entrance exams for university in the spring.”

  “Of course you will,” Robbie said. “I’ve no doubt at all.”

  “Have you thought of where you’d like to study?”

  “Yes.” Lilly took Charlotte’s hand in hers and squeezed it tight. “You must know that you’ve always been an inspiration to me. So I’ve decided to apply to the London School of Economics, and do a degree in social policy.”

  Lilly thought her an inspiration? She opened her mouth, about to respond with praise for her friend who had been so courageous, so stalwart in her every endeavor since leaving home, but the words, or perhaps they were tears, clogged her throat and left her mute. She found the handkerchief she’d tucked in her sleeve earlier, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose.

  “Thank you, Lilly. I . . . I feel the same about you. Both of you.”

  “I think it’s high time we are all off to our beds,” Robbie interjected. “Charlotte’s had a long day, and we’ll all be on tenterhooks tomorrow. Let’s get some rest while we can.”

  “Shall you come with me to see him?” Charlotte asked.

  Lilly looked to her husband for confirmation. “Not right away. Not unless you need us. I don’t want him to feel as if we’re press-ganging him. Perhaps once you’ve spoken with him, and possibly made some headway, you could ring us here?”

  “I’ll work from home tomorrow morning,” added Robbie. “We’ll be straight over if you need us.”

  “That sounds very sensible. Good night, then. Until tomorrow.”

  NATURALLY IT WAS raining again in the morning, and although Charlotte wore her mackintosh and carried an umbrella, her skirts, and nerves, were thoroughly dampened by the time she reached Edward’s house, though it was but ten minutes away by foot.

  Only a few hundred yards from the Thames, it was part of a row of comfortably imposing town houses, their brick-and-stucco exteriors as plain as Puritans. She knocked, listened for footfalls inside, knocked again. At last the door was answered.

  She recognized the man who greeted her, though she couldn’t recall his name. He’d once been a footman at Cumbermere Hall.

  “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, Miss Brown. Do come in.”

  “I beg your pardon, but I can’t quite—”

  “It’s Andrews, ma’am. I see to Lord Cumberland when he’s in residence here at Cheyne Row.”

  “Of course. Mr. Andrews. I’ve come to see his lordship, although I suspect he’s still abed.”

  “That he is.”

  “Would you be so kind as to inform him that I am here and will not be leaving until he agrees to see me? I’ve come at the behest of Lady Cumberland and Lady Elizabeth.”

  A spark of hope flared in the man’s eyes. “I will, ma’am. Would you care to wait in here?” He took her coat and hat and showed her into the sitting room, a dull and somber chamber that looked to have been furnished with the contents of an undertaker’s parlor.

  When Mr. Andrews returned, only a few minutes later, his deflated expression told her everything.

  “He’s awake, ma’am, but he won’t come down. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Then I shall have to go up. Don’t worry,” she called back as she started up the stairs, “I’ll say I barged past when your back was turned.”

  “Good luck, Miss Brown. It’s the door to your right on the first-floor landing.”

  At this time of day most houses, especially those of the aristocracy, were a ferment of activity, with much cleaning of hearths, beating of carpets, making of beds, and so forth. Here, by contrast, a deathly quiet prevailed, without even the gentle sounds of belowstairs activity drifting up to puncture the atmosphere of funereal decay.

  She knocked once, sharply, and let herself into Edward’s bedchamber. The draperies were drawn tight, and it was so dark she could barely see, so she stood at the threshold and waited for her eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom. The air felt close and suffocating, and as she took her first tentative steps forward her nose was assailed by a wretched miasma of cigarette smoke, spilled brandy, and stale coffee.

  She could see better now, if imperfectly. Edward was in bed, facing away from the door, one hand flung over his eyes. His prosthetic leg lay on the floor.

  “Did you send her away?” he mumbled.

  “He did not.”

  When he said nothing further, she moved to his bed and, emboldened, sat gingerly on its bottom corner.

  “Aren’t you going to throw back the curtains? Shout at me to get up?”

  “No, because that would only make things worse. I think you ought
to stay where you are, just for now, and tell me what is wrong.”

  “Well, you see,” he began, “back in the summer of 1914 the Archduke Franz—”

  “Don’t make a joke of it. Not today, at least. What are your symptoms? Tell me exactly.”

  “Splitting headache, nearly all the time. Not from the drink; this is different.”

  “Go on.”

  “Light-headed, though not so regularly I can predict it.”

  “Have you fallen because of it? Fainted?”

  A pause. “Yes.”

  “What of light? Does it hurt your eyes? Do you have difficulty reading—not in making out the words, but in focusing on the page without it hurting you?”

  “Yes to both. Any light bothers me—sunlight, lamplight. Feels like an ice pick at my temples.”

  “Are you exhausted by simple activities? Exclude anything that has become more difficult since you lost your leg. I mean things like having a conversation on the telephone or getting through a meal in company.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you able to sleep?”

  “Only once I’m at the point of exhaustion. Even then I wake up after a few hours.”

  “I see. Why are you answering my questions so readily? You’ve refused to speak to Robbie about this.”

  “Meddling Scot. Always thinking he knows what’s best for me.”

  “You’ve decided it can’t possibly get any worse. That’s what I think,” she said.

  “It might. You’re about to tell me I have something incurable, aren’t you? Don’t be shy. I’d welcome it.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. I need to ask you a few more questions. The night you were taken prisoner, you were knocked down by a shell that exploded nearby. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. We were cutting wire, well into no-man’s-land. It was our own artillery that shelled us. I heard it hit, about eight or nine yards distant, and I was knocked down. That’s all I recall.”

  “I know your leg was injured, but do you recall if you hit your head as well?”

  “I might have. Can’t be certain.”