His admission was followed by more gales of laughter at her expense, and without conscious thought Charlotte found herself on her feet, running silently back the way she had come, back to the safety and sanctuary of her room.
SHE SAID A private good-bye to Lilly the next morning, the two of them alone in the nursery sitting room; the poor girl had not wished for anyone else to see her crying, and though they had both done their best to be brave, a great deal of tears were shed before Charlotte was able to pull away.
“I shall write to you the instant I arrive in Somerset, and you must promise to send me a reply by return post. Do you promise?”
“I do. Bon voyage, Charlotte. And thank you for everything.”
She was waiting at the side door downstairs, having made her farewells to the other servants, when the rumble of a motorcar caught her attention. John Pringle had said he would be taking her to Penrith in the two-seater carriage, for he knew how much she disliked riding in motorcars. Perhaps old Bill had gone lame again.
She stepped down, hauling her carpetbag and valise with her, and only belatedly realized that Lord Ashford, not John Pringle, was driving the car.
“I thought I would take you into Penrith myself.”
“No, thank you. I’m quite all right.”
“No choice in the matter, I’m afraid. I’ve already told John Pringle not to come. The horse isn’t even harnessed. If you don’t come with me you’ll miss your train.”
As much as she loathed the notion of going anywhere with him, and couldn’t even bear to look at the man, there was nothing for it but to get into his damnable motorcar. She had told her parents she would be arriving on the evening train, and they would worry terribly if she were delayed.
The one good thing about motorcars was the loudness of their engines. This vehicle was particularly noisy, which meant they passed the entire journey without exchanging a word. Only once they had pulled into the station forecourt, and Lord Ashford had switched off the ignition, was any kind of conversation possible.
“Let me carry your bags to the platform,” he offered.
“I’m quite all right—I don’t need your help. Good-bye, Lord—”
“What is wrong, Miss Brown? You aren’t crying, are you?”
“No,” she lied. “I’ve some dust in my eyes. That’s all.”
“I don’t believe you.” He took her bags, led her to a bench by the station doors, and offered her a handkerchief.
“Are you upset about Lilly? I will keep an eye on her, you know. Or are you sad to be leaving? I did try to persuade my parents, but they were adamant that she make her debut. Although, really, you never know. She might end up meeting a decent enough fel—”
It had to come out. She couldn’t bear it anymore. “I heard you. Last night in the garden, I heard what you said about me. I didn’t mean to—I was sitting there, and your friends just started talking about me.”
Every particle of color drained from his face. “Oh, God. What an ass you must think me.”
Charlotte let silence be her answer. He cleared his throat, and then scrubbed his hands through his hair.
“I am sincerely sorry. I had absolutely no right to speak of you in such a discourteous fashion. I say that wholeheartedly, Miss Brown. Although I only said what I did because I wanted . . . I didn’t want them to think . . .”
Again she said nothing, preferring to watch him flounder about like a fish at the bottom of a boat.
“The truth is that I don’t think you’re plain or unattractive or—”
“Cold as charity?”
He winced, screwing his eyes shut at the memory of his words. “Please forgive me. I was honestly trying to protect you. I was worried, you know, that if they were to see you as I do . . .”
“And how is that?” she asked, her anger suddenly smothered by curiosity.
“As a friend, of course. But also as an intelligent, capable, and lovely young woman. Not as a servant, no matter what they and my parents might think.”
“But I am a servant. Or I was, until a few minutes ago.”
“Never to me. You must know that.”
“I . . . I suppose I do.”
“Can you forget what I said? Allow us to part as friends?”
“Yes. If only because the ones you have aren’t worthy of you.” It was madness to speak so boldly to him, but what did she stand to lose?
“Perhaps not, but they make me laugh. They’re fun.”
“But you’re all grown men. Surely it’s time you stopped thinking about such childish things.”
“And what?” he asked, irritation sharpening his voice. “Seek out employment somewhere? See if any of the collieries are hiring?”
“Yes, if only to teach you the value of hard work, and open your eyes to the world around you.”
He shook his head unhappily. “You don’t understand.”
“I think I do. Your parents have indulged your every whim, your every desire, and like a glutton at a feast you’ve sated yourself. You’re bored, and you haven’t the faintest idea what to do with yourself. So you float through life, spending your time with men who are beneath you, spending your father’s money as if it’s water flowing from a tap, and ignoring anything and anyone that might direct you to a life of purpose and worth . . .”
As the full measure of what she had just said rang in her ears, Charlotte’s mouth went dry with fear. He couldn’t sack her, but he might decide to withhold his letter of reference. Why, oh why, had she said such things to him?
“I don’t think anyone has ever spoken to me so passionately before,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle, a rueful smile on his face. “With the possible exception of Robbie, that is.”
“Your friend from Oxford? The doctor?”
“Yes. He has never indulged me, nor do you. And as much as I should like to continue this conversation, I can hear your train approaching.”
“Oh, goodness. I must go. Will you promise to take care of Lilly for me?”
“I promise. Good-bye, Miss Brown. Good-bye, and good luck.”
Chapter 21
18 September 1919
Dearest Lilly,
This is to let you know that your letter and parcel arrived safely and were delivered by John Pringle yesterday morning. Thank you so much for the copies of Punch. I read the entirety of “The Essence of Parliament” from an April issue to Edward last night, after supper, and he found it very amusing.
He has made great progress this past week. He is still not sleeping as well as I would like, for he was very nearly nocturnal when we arrived here and such habits are most troublesome to correct. There is also the matter of his nightmares, about which you know already, though they have been diminishing in frequency of late. As per his wishes I do not intrude when he is in the midst of one, although I do listen attentively in case he might require my assistance.
His appetite is improving in spite of my limited culinary repertoire, and he eats well and heartily at each meal. He has put on weight and each day looks more and more like his old self. Mrs. Pringle keeps us well supplied with soups and stews, and I even prepared a roast chicken the other day. My skills as a baker have improved out of all expectation, as well, and it has been several days since I last burned anything. Mother would be so proud!
It rained nonstop yesterday and the day before, and both of us are feeling horribly restless and cooped in. Today, however, the sky promises to remain clear, so we will go on a walk after lunch. His prosthesis no longer pains him, he says, although he will not allow me to inspect the stump of his leg for pressure sores. Perhaps he will allow Robbie to do so the next time we see you.
You asked how we spend our time in the evening. For the most part I read to him, for his eyes are often very sore by the end of the day, and reading taxes them further. Once I have finished with the copies of Punch, I will return to Barchester Towers, which he complains about but, I believe, secretly enjoys.
I am not sure if he is yet re
ady for visitors; perhaps in another fortnight? At that point I will be at the end of my agreed leave with Miss Rathbone and we shall have to make some decisions about what to do next.
You said you were worried for me, but I assure you I am well and perfectly content. Edward can be ill-humored at times, as is only to be expected given the circumstances, but for the most part he is excellent company.
I can’t think of anything else we need, apart from more letters. We both enjoy your accounts of life in London and, most particularly, your studies with dear Mr. Pebbles.
Please give my fond regards to Robbie,
With love from your devoted friend,
Charlotte
It was just past ten o’clock in the morning, a fine morning, and if the weather did hold she would insist on their taking a walk. Perhaps they would go as far as the sheepfold at Malkin’s farm. She’d been up for ages already; never in her life had she been comfortable with the notion of lying abed all day. Otherwise how were there enough hours to accomplish everything one wanted done?
She would wake him in five minutes exactly. He would groan and fuss and swear she was trying to murder him from lack of sleep, but she knew if she stood at the door of his room long enough he would eventually get up and begin his day. It was simply a matter of patience.
Each day was a little easier; each day he did a little better. It wasn’t wishful thinking, moreover, for she had kept a detailed log of every aspect of his convalescence, and in its pages was the evidence of how far he had come. She tracked how many hours he slept, when he had nightmares, how much he ate, and the time and duration of his headaches, together with his estimate of their severity on a scale from one to ten. She recorded his complaints regarding dizziness, eyestrain, and any other ache or pain that might be related to his concussion. She made note of how often and for how long he read, walked, and napped.
In every respect he was improving. The first week had been terribly difficult, of course, for he was going without alcohol, tobacco, and caffeine, all at once, for the first time since his return from France some nine months earlier. Had his reliance on drink been of longer standing, she knew, his recovery would have been far more difficult.
As it was, he spent a good deal of that week nearly prostrate from nausea and crippling digestive pain, and his headaches abruptly worsened. At one point he had all the symptoms of a fever—he was perspiring, he couldn’t stop shaking, and he complained alternately of being hot and then cold—but his temperature was perfectly normal when she checked.
And then, one day, he had felt a little better, and the next day even better. He had gone from strength to strength since then.
Charlotte consulted her wristwatch: it was now a quarter past ten. Yesterday she had woken him at half past the hour; tomorrow she would wake him at ten sharp. In such a fashion she hoped to restore his hours of sleep to a more reasonable schedule.
She tramped up the stairs, not bothering to lighten her steps, and knocked on his door.
“Edward? It’s time you were out of bed.”
“Bugger off.”
“I thought we had agreed you would refrain from such puerile insults. Robbie may not mind, but I do.”
“Please go away and leave me bloody well alone. Is that better?”
“No. I shall stand here and speak to you for another five minutes. If you are not out of bed and on your feet by that time, I shall come into your room, open your curtains, and open the window. I shall then remove the bedclothes from your bed and leave you to freeze.”
“It’s not that cold. I lived through worse in the trenches.”
“I don’t doubt it. But you didn’t have warm scones and café au lait in the front lines, did you?”
“I thought coffee was forbidden.”
“It was. But Lilly sent some coffee beans, together with a grinder and a strange little pot. A percolator, I think she called it. She said I was only to allow you a half cup of it and that it was best mixed with warm milk.”
“I’m sure it will be revolting.”
“It isn’t. I had some already and it was delicious. You have three minutes left, by the way. Are you up yet?”
He groaned theatrically, and after an endless pause—had the wretched man actually fallen back asleep?—the bedstead creaked as he sat up and pulled his prosthetic leg from the chair next to his bed. She could hear him fastening it on, though the exact manner in which he did so remained a mystery to her; he refused to let her see him without the leg attached, and even more stoutly denied her requests to examine his stump.
The door opened. He was dressed in his usual attire: moleskin trousers, very worn and patched, an old linen shirt, and a woolen jumper that looked to have been knitted sometime in the last century. His hair, rather charmingly, was standing on end, and his days-old beard had a thread of lint caught up in the hairs.
“Wait,” she said, catching at it with her fingertips, “you have something caught in your whiskers.”
He stood stock-still, his eyes wary, as she drew the thread away. “Thank you,” he said after a moment.
He seemed to enjoy his breakfast, even his woefully milky coffee, and polished off nearly half a jar of Mrs. Pringle’s blackberry preserves with his scones. When she suggested they take advantage of the improved weather and go for a walk, he agreed so readily that she was taken aback. Normally she had to badger him into doing anything apart from sitting by the fire in his chair. They made it as far as the bluebell wood, still a quarter mile short of Malkin’s farm, before she noticed a slight hitch in Edward’s gait and, suspecting that his prosthesis was paining him, asked if they might turn back.
The rain returned in the afternoon, so he stretched out on the sofa and read aloud from Punch while she fussed with her knitting and tried to recall, with limited success, the steps involved in turning the heel of a sock. He was a natural mimic, and when he recited the magazine’s fictitious exchanges between notables—David Lloyd George lambasting underlings, for example—he perfectly captured the rolling Welsh cadences of the prime minister’s voice.
There was no electricity in the cottage, only kerosene lanterns, and as the afternoon light faded he put aside the magazine and shut his eyes, wincing, but he didn’t complain.
“Is it your eyes? Or a headache?”
“Both.”
“Will you let me try something new to help?”
“Is it painful? Embarrassing?”
“Neither. Let me fetch it from the kitchen.”
As well as the coffee and magazines, Lilly had sent a tiny blue bottle, unlabeled, but instantly recognizable as lavender oil when opened. In the first-aid box in the kitchen, Charlotte found some olive oil, normally to be used for earache. She poured off a teaspoon’s worth into a teacup and mixed it with several drops of the lavender oil. This she carried back to the sitting room.
“Would you mind sitting up? And can you take off your jumper? I don’t want to stain it.”
“With what?” he asked, sounding more than a little apprehensive, but he pulled the jumper over his head and tossed it aside.
“Lavender oil. Now, turn to me and close your eyes. I’m going to rub some of it into the skin at your temples, then some more at your neck and shoulders.”
“You’ll leave me smelling like my grandmother,” he grumbled.
“Very likely. But it should help with your headache.”
She dipped her thumbs in the oil, wiped away the excess on the rim of the teacup, and began to massage his temples with the lightest possible touch. She moved her thumbs in circles, arching them low over his cheekbones and then up and over his brow.
“Bend your head toward me,” she told him, and after scenting her fingers anew she began to rub behind his ears, slowly and soothingly, until his shoulders sagged and his head dropped forward in relief.
“Turn away from me, now, but keep your head bent,” she said, and began to massage his shoulders, only so far as she could easily reach through the open collar of his shirt
, as well as the straining tendons and muscles of his neck.
“Christ, Charlotte . . . you’ll put me on my knees.”
“Is it helping with the headache?”
“Yes . . . at least I think it is. May only be that you’re distracting me.”
“Do you think you could rest now? Only for a half hour or so, otherwise you won’t be able to sleep tonight.”
“Yes, I think so. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Put on your jumper so you don’t catch cold. I’ll wake you in time for supper.”
He didn’t stir again until the golden glow of dusk had crept past the deep stone windowsills and into the room, its gentle light softening everything it touched.
“You look so lovely sitting there,” he whispered. “There’s a sort of halo around you, from the sun. So lovely.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Not yet.”
“I should probably—”
“Don’t. Not yet. I . . . I used to dream of you. When I was in that hospital in Belgium, half out of my mind with fear and pain and shame, I would call for you. They told me I was calling for you. And you would come to me, in my dreams, and you looked just as you look now. An angel sweeping low to greet me. An angel with a halo of gold.”
“Did it comfort you?” she asked, hoping he could not see her reddening nose, or the tears that threatened to fall.
“Yes. You comforted me.”
“I was thinking of you, too. Praying that you were still alive.”
“Did you mourn me? Weep for me?”
“You know I did.”
“I so longed to die. I was desperate for it.”
“Why? It will never make sense to me.”
“I knew how disappointed you would be, all of you. It seemed easier to simply slip away.”
“I was never disappointed in you,” she promised.
“Really? I always assumed it was a chronic state where I was concerned.”
“You mistook me. I was dismayed by your behavior. Not you. I knew you were, and are, a good man. Not without your faults, but a worthy man all the same. I know I told you differently at Lilly’s wedding, but I was wrong.”
After the War Is Over: A Novel Page 19
