In her small trunk there were no evening gowns, only the warmest of her frocks, the shawl she wore when reading on cold days, her sturdiest boots, and her winter coat, still smelling faintly of mothballs. There were her favorite books, too, some wool and knitting needles, and enough writing paper and envelopes for dozens of letters. If she’d forgotten anything it would be easy enough to ask John Pringle to fetch it for her.
HE WAS WAITING at Penrith station when she arrived the next morning. She’d slipped away at dawn, having said good-bye to the Misses Macleod and her friends the night before, and taken the day’s first train north to Preston. From there it was only another two hours by local service to Penrith.
“Good day to you, Miss Brown.”
“And to you, John Pringle. How are you?”
“Can’t say as I have any complaints.”
“And your parents?”
“Keeping well, and thanks for asking. You’ve only brought the one trunk?”
“Just this.”
“Then give it here, and let’s load it on the back.”
It joined a number of boxes and crates already in the back of his lorry, a rather tumbledown affair that looked to have been on the roads since time immemorial, and they set off.
“I’ll get you settled, then come on back with Lord Cumberland when his train gets in later today.”
“I don’t mind waiting,” she protested, but he shook his head. “Only room for the two of us here, and you’ll be wanting some time to look through the cottage.”
“I really am very grateful to you, and your family, for your help. I’m not sure what we would have done otherwise.”
“No need to thank me. Lord Cumberland needs us, and that’s that.”
Although John Pringle wasn’t the most talkative of men, he was happy to tell her about his work at the garage in Penrith, his vegetable garden, and the new strain of dahlia he was planning to show at the county fair at the end of the month.
“How long have you been at the garage?” she asked.
“A little more than four years. Ever since . . . well, you remember. The bother with his lordship’s parents.”
What had she been thinking to ask such a question? The bother to which he referred had been his summary dismissal, which included the loss of his tied cottage, when Lady Cumberland had discovered that he had taught Lilly how to drive. Edward had found John Pringle a job at the garage, and Lilly had sold her jewelry to buy him a cottage of his own, so he and his family had escaped destitution. But still. Reminding the poor man of such a sorry period was inexcusable.
“Do forgive me for mentioning it.”
“I don’t mind. We’re better off where we are, even if we do have to live among town folk.”
“Are we far from the cottage?”
“Not far. It’s right at the northern edge of his lordship’s estate. We’ll be at the turnoff in a minute or two.”
“Was the cottage in poor condition? Lord Cumberland said he hadn’t been there in years.”
“It was all right. Estate manager had kept an eye on it. Needed a good scrub, top to bottom, so I got in my sister to help with that. Cut back the garden, too. Thought you might like to sit out on fair days.”
They turned onto a secondary road, its gravel worn thin, and continued south for about a mile. John Pringle slowed the lorry almost to a crawl, and then directed the vehicle through a narrow gap in the hedgerow. Fruit-laden brambles arched over the lane, brushing at the sides of the lorry, their sun-warmed berries fragrant and infinitely tempting. She would have to bring a basket and collect some for after supper.
“Do you know who lived here originally?” she asked.
“Can’t say as I do. Someone who liked his peace and quiet, that’s for certain.”
The lane curved to the right, and as it straightened out, and the brambles thinned, she caught a glimpse of the cottage. Its steep-pitched slate roof arched low over deep-set windows, and its rough stone walls had once been whitewashed. Closer still, and she saw the stream beyond, rushing headlong to the depths of the Ullswater, and the late-summer blooms that were massed against the cottage’s sheltering southern wall.
“You go ahead and have a look around,” John Pringle told her. “I’ll bring in your trunk and these here supplies.”
There was no lock on the door, only an old-fashioned latch. She went in, wiping her feet carefully, and inspected her home for the next month. To her left was the kitchen, to her right was the sitting room, and straight ahead was a steep flight of stairs. Would Edward be able to manage? If not, she supposed they could set up a bed for him in the sitting room.
She went into the kitchen and heaved a sigh of relief when she saw the relatively modern coal-fired range. There was running water, too, although it came from a pump next to the sink and not a faucet. A building of this age wouldn’t have a WC, she realized, and when she looked out the back door her suspicions were confirmed by the outhouse some yards distant. She would have to make sure there was a chamber pot set up in Edward’s room.
John Pringle came into the kitchen. “Everything in order? I made sure the chimneys are clean and the range is working properly. The coal bin’s in the shed, and there’s wood for the sitting room fire stacked against the back wall.”
“Everything is perfect. Please thank your sister for all her hard work.”
“She made sure you’ve all the food you’ll be needing, and my mum made up a pot of soup for you. Just so’s you wouldn’t have to cook tonight.”
“How very kind.”
“I carried up your trunk. Put it in the smaller room, if that’s all right with you.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll be by tomorrow with fresh milk and a newspaper for Lord Cumberland. When you need anything laundered, give it to me and my sister will do it.”
“Thank you so much.”
“Best be on my way. Just in case his lordship decided to catch an earlier train. I’ll see you again in a bit.”
Charlotte went upstairs and unpacked her things, brushed her hair, and then pulled out her old nursing apron and put it on, though it was very creased and would never have passed inspection by any nursing sister worth her salt. She was going to do some baking.
As a child, she had loved making currant scones with her mother. Duckie, as Charlotte always called their housekeeper, hadn’t minded their occasional forays into her domain, secure in the knowledge that her own confections were unlikely to suffer in comparison. They had always made scones, never anything else, but that was part of the fun. Knowing exactly what ingredients they would need, teasing Mother when she pretended to forget the currants, getting flour all over her pinafore as they rolled and cut the scones.
She found everything she needed quite easily, and as the range was already lighted she only had to add a small amount of coal to heat up the oven. In no time at all she’d made the scones and put them in to bake, washed up the dishes she’d dirtied, and cut enough Michaelmas daisies and astilbes from the beds outside to fill two small pitchers. One of these she set on Edward’s bedside table; the other on the kitchen table, where they would take their meals.
The scones were out of the oven and cooling on a rack set over the draining board when she heard the rumble of an engine. She went to the door and saw that Edward had already alighted from the lorry. As she watched, he and John Pringle shook hands, and then the latter drove away.
“I hadn’t expected you until later.”
“I took the express north.”
“Did you only bring the two cases?”
“Yes. I didn’t think I’d need much more than a change or two of clothes.”
“You won’t,” she said, and then she remembered to smile. “Come along in. I’ve made some scones, and the kettle is singing.”
“Lovely.”
“You must be tired,” she said. “Go on into the sitting room. I’ll deal with your things.”
She picked up his bags, and then set them down again
right away. Far too heavy for a few changes of clothing.
“Edward?”
“Yes?”
“I must ask if you brought any spirits with you.”
His answering smile was brittle. “What do you think?”
“Very well. Do I have your permission to go through your bags?”
“What if I say no?”
“Then I will leave immediately.”
“Very well. Do your worst.”
She took his bags upstairs, one at a time, and set them upon his bed. She unpacked his clothes and put them away, and then she transferred the half-dozen bottles of brandy she had discovered, and the packets of cigarettes, into one of the now empty cases. This she brought back downstairs.
Working quickly, fearful that he would come in and object, she poured the brandy down the sink. The cigarettes went into the rubbish.
That accomplished, she poured cups of tea for them both, and piled a plate high with currant scones, which she split and buttered.
“Will you have some tea and scones?” she asked as she brought in the tray.
“I’d rather have coffee.”
“We don’t have any. Milk and sugar?”
“I take it black. You know, Nurse Brown, you could have taught Torquemada a thing or two.”
“Perhaps,” she admitted, sipping her tea.
After a moment he opened his eyes and reached for a scone. He ate it, and then another, and he even drank his tea.
Charlotte sat opposite him, in her own rather battered old armchair, and let the contentment of the moment wash over her. The cottage was really quite charming, far nicer than she had hoped. Edward had allowed her to confiscate his brandy and cigarettes without raging at her, or abandoning the entire enterprise before they had even begun.
She hadn’t burned the scones.
This wasn’t forever. It wasn’t a life she could ever allow herself to miss, or to love. But for now, for today, it was enough.
Chapter 20
Cumbria, England
July 1911
I can’t bear the thought of your leaving,” Lilly grumbled for at least the tenth time that day.
“I know. I’m very sorry to be going, but you’re eighteen now. We always knew this day was coming.”
“If only Mama would allow you to remain as my chaperone . . .”
As much as Charlotte would miss Lilly, she was more than ready for a change; but it wouldn’t do to admit such a thing to her pupil. “I’m certain there are other ladies better suited to such duties. Besides, it’s time that we both made our way in the world.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“I shall always be your friend. Always. And if we are to be friends, you must call me Charlotte. Will you do that for me?”
“Yes, please—Charlotte.”
“Thank you, Lilly. See? We are peers now, both of us women grown.”
They were returning from a walk to Haverthwaite, the closest village to Cumbermere Hall, having posted some letters and bought some new stationery for Lilly. Tomorrow was Charlotte’s last day, for she was catching a train home to Somerset in the morning. Not without regrets, of course, for she was justifiably concerned for Lilly. All attempts at persuading Lord and Lady Cumberland to allow their daughter to attend university had failed; even Lord Ashford had been unable to move them. University for women, according to the countess, was a lamentably middle-class conceit, and that was that.
“I don’t think I would be quite so upset about your leaving if I had something to look forward to. Something worthwhile to anticipate.”
“I know,” Charlotte soothed. “But there’s no harm in having a bit of fun. That’s what being eighteen is all about.”
“Would you have wanted this for yourself when you were my age?”
“To be perfectly honest, no. I never did. But then I was a bit of an odd duck.”
“It’s so unfair.”
“Perhaps. But many things in this world are unfair, and a great deal of them are far more unpleasant than putting on pretty clothes and going to balls and parties. And, besides, it’s only for a few weeks. By the middle of August the Season will be over and you can return here for the winter.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Of course I am. Now, I need to finish packing my things, and you need to have a rest before dinner. Your brother—”
“Here he is now! Look, there’s his motorcar coming up the drive.”
Moments later the four-seater coupe roared past them, covering both women in a layer of dust from the road, and nearly deafening them with the roar of its engine. Lord Ashford pulled to a halt at the foot of the front entrance to the hall, not even bothering to park the motorcar properly, and jumped out.
“May I run to him? Please?” Lilly begged. “It’s been ages since his last visit.”
“Of course you may. I’ll be right behind you.”
Not for anyone, excepting perhaps the reanimated spirits of William Shakespeare or Jane Austen, would Charlotte embarrass herself by running pell-mell down a country lane. She took her time, instead, keen to retain some measure of personal dignity in front of Lord Ashford and his friends.
He was swinging his sister around in circles, lifting her high, just as one might treat a small child, but rather than interfere, Charlotte simply waited for him to set Lilly down. She was leaving in a matter of hours; what was the point of arguing with the man?
“Charles, Seymour, Billy: allow me to present my youngest sister, Lady Elizabeth Neville-Ashford.”
Lilly shook their hands and greeted them prettily, which would have pleased Charlotte had the men she was meeting been of better character. They answered her charmingly enough, but there was an air of dissipation about them, a determined sort of indolence, that made her skin crawl. What was Lord Ashford thinking to bring such men to stay with his family?
“Edward, did you know that Miss Brown is leaving tomorrow?”
“I did, sweet pea, and I’m sorry to hear it. Is she—”
“Good afternoon, Lord Ashford.”
“Miss Brown, I do beg your pardon. I’m afraid I didn’t see you there. How are you?”
“Very well, thank you.”
“All set for your journey home?”
“I believe I am.”
“Gentlemen, allow me to present Miss Charlotte Brown. Miss Brown has been my sister’s governess for these past four years, but is leaving us tomorrow. Miss Brown, allow me to present Lord Charles Milford, Seymour Ardley, and William Thorpe-Davison.”
His friends came forward, each shaking her hand in turn, but one of them—Mr. Ardley, if she remembered correctly, looked her over from hat to hem and then, one eyebrow raised, gifted her with a revoltingly oleaginous grin. It was all she could do not to wipe her hand against her skirts.
“If you would excuse us, Lord Ashford, we ought to be on our way.”
“Of course. Forgive me for delaying you. I do hope to see you again before you leave.”
Charlotte could think of no correct way to respond to such a statement, for he had only spoken out of courtesy. Not for a moment did she believe he truly wished to see or speak to her, no more than he might wish to sit down and take tea with the housekeeper. So she nodded, and smiled, and led Lilly up the front steps and out of the too-bright afternoon sun.
AFTER LILLY HAD gone to bed that evening, and once Charlotte had packed away the last of her things, there was nothing much to do. She hadn’t the heart to go downstairs and sit with Mrs. Forster one last time, nor could she bear to sit in her little bedroom, which would soon show no evidence of her having lived in it for much of the past four years.
She had left out the airiest of her summer shawls, and after drawing it about her shoulders she hurried down the back stairs to the kitchens and, without stopping to chat with anyone, slipped outside into the cool, soft air of a midsummer evening. She would go to the pergola in the corner, the one nearly smothered in honeysuckle blossoms, and look at the star
s for a while.
She had only been there for a quarter hour when she heard the men she’d met that afternoon, their voices blurred by too much wine and port. Lord Ashford was with them, his speech familiar and yet somehow foreign. But then, she’d never encountered him when he was intoxicated. Tonight he spoke as if someone had erased the edges from his voice, leaving it sibilant, persuasive, even sensuous.
She drew herself deeper into the shadows, praying they would not notice her as they passed by, but instead they stopped at the parterre that backed onto her pergola. She would have to go; it wouldn’t do to—
“Saw that little governess making calf eyes at you earlier,” said one of the men. “You know you need to watch out for ones like her. The maids’re easy to buy off, but one like that—”
“Essackly,” hiccuped another friend. “She’s one a’ those respec, restec, respectable types. Might even have some ideas about climbing a few rungsh a’ the shocial ladder.”
Charlotte couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. She might as well have been glued to the pergola. If only she could stand, run away, even raise her hands to cover her ears—
“She’s plain, but those types have hidden depths,” said a third man, the same one, she realized, who had looked at her so avidly that afternoon. “You never know what’s lurking beneath a set of spectacles and a shabby gown.”
Why were they saying such things? And why was Lord Ashford not defending her? He had insisted, more than once over the course of their acquaintance, that he was her friend. So why would he remain silent at such a moment?
At last he spoke up, his voice so languid and carefree he might have been talking of the weather. “Miss Brown is pretty enough, but she’s as cold as charity. Trust me.”
His friends roared with laughter, hooting and barking like the jackals they were. “Turned you down flat, did she?”
“In a manner of speaking. At any rate, she’s not worth your bother. I assure you of that.”
After the War Is Over: A Novel Page 18
