Mrs. Drake was waiting for them at the door. She had been with her parents for as long as Charlotte could remember; surely she must be considering retirement? She looked well, though, and as unchanged as the house in which they stood.
“Charlotte, my dear! Come in, come in!”
“How are you, Mrs. Drake?”
“Since when am I Mrs. Drake to you?” the housekeeper asked in mock affront.
“Duckie, then,” Charlotte said, and let herself be enfolded in a comforting embrace.
“Mrs. Drake, indeed. Come in, come in, and your Duckie will take your coat and see you settled. Come on, all of you, through to the kitchen.”
The kitchen, like Duckie, was mercifully unchanged. A huge pot of soup was bubbling away at the back of the range, loaves of bread had just emerged from the oven, and trays of Christmas delicacies were stacked on every available surface: mince pies, buttery shortbread, dark and fragrant loaves of gingerbread, and Duckie’s fruitcake, the only kind Charlotte had ever liked.
“You won’t have met the new girls, will you?” her mother asked.
“What happened to Annie and Ruth?”
“Well, Annie went off to London—do you remember why, Mrs. Drake?—and Ruth got married.”
“I still miss Ruth,” Father chimed in. “Lovely girl.”
“Here they are now,” said Duckie. “Frances, Betty, this is Miss Charlotte, come down from Liverpool to spend Christmas at home.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Charlotte,” said one of them.
“Happy Christmas to you, Miss Charlotte,” said the other.
“Home you go to your families, now, and we’ll see you again on Boxing Day. But first take Miss Charlotte’s case up to her room.”
“Yes, Mrs. Drake. Happy Christmas, Reverend Brown, Mrs. Brown.”
Looking around the kitchen, Charlotte felt the last of her exhaustion melt away. She sighed happily.
“It looks as if you and Mother have been very busy,” she said to Duckie.
“That we have. Couldn’t have you come home to an empty larder. Mrs. Brown, what are you wanting to do for your supper? Have it now, or wait awhile?”
“Ah, yes. Supper. It depends on what Charlotte prefers. Did you want to come to midnight Eucharist with us? If so, I think we ought to eat around nine.”
“I wouldn’t miss it, not for the world.”
“Then I’ll have your supper ready for nine,” said Duckie. “In the meantime, what do you say to a spot of tea and some mince pie?” Without waiting for a response, she slid the kettle onto the range and started to assemble a tray of delicacies. “Go on into the sitting room, all of you. I won’t be a minute.”
One of the maids, or likely both of them working together, had readied the sitting room fire; the hearth was huge, and burned logs the approximate size of a lamb, so a proper fire took some effort to build. Father soon had it blazing away, and by its light the room looked very pretty indeed. Mother had arranged sprigs of holly and boughs of evergreen on the mantel, and the wooden crèche had been set out in its usual place on top of the Pembroke table. There even was a little Christmas tree before the window, its boughs bare of ornaments.
“I’m just going to run upstairs and change,” she said. “Perhaps we could decorate the tree when I come down?”
Her room was at the very top of the house, up two flights of stairs made almost comically crooked by age. Nothing had been moved or changed, though it had been fifteen years since she had left home for university, and looking around she could almost imagine herself eighteen again, excited and terrified and curious beyond belief at what life had in store for her.
Her narrow bed was still set against the wall, her old dolls and books were still on their shelves, and her dollhouse, too, had its place in the corner where ancient oak beams swept low and converged. The view was as entrancing as ever, looking south along the Close to the Chapter House and the inescapable mass of the great cathedral itself. If she opened the window she would be able to hear the music of its organ, she knew; it had been her lullaby for many childhood bedtimes.
She changed out of her travel-tired garments and put on her favorite frock, a dark blue wool, which was several years old but had the advantage of a rather longer hemline than her newer dresses. Her father was a forward-thinking man in many ways, but she didn’t want to alarm him by adhering too closely to current modes.
Their evening passed quietly, just the three of them together, for Duckie had gone to visit her sister in town and wouldn’t be back until the morning. They decorated the tree with paper chains and the folded birds and stars that Charlotte had made when she was little, and then they ate their supper of soup and bread in the kitchen.
As ever, the conversation revolved around Charlotte and her work. Rather to her surprise, Mother seemed to have taken a keen interest in her column for the Herald.
“What sort of a man is this Mr. Ellis?” Mother asked as they were doing the washing up.
“A very good one,” Charlotte answered. “Resolute in his determination that—”
“Yes, yes, of course. I mean, what is he like? Is he married? Does he have any . . . well, personal eccentricities that might, ah . . .”
“He and I are friends, Mother. That is all. And even if I were interested in him—which I’m not, I assure you—he and I would never suit. We’re far too alike. Too earnest about the things we value. We’d suck the air out of every room we inhabited.”
“Leave her be, Davina,” Father ordered. “Now, tell me, my dear, how is Lilly and that new husband of hers?”
“Very happy. They have a sweet little house in Chelsea, scarcely big enough for the two of them. Robbie is back at the London Hospital, where he was before the war, and Lilly is hoping to go to university next year.”
“And what of Lord Cumberland? Has he recovered his health?”
There had been no question of not telling Mother and Father about her month in Cumbria, though she had only furnished them with the barest of details. As far as they knew she had been asked to assist in his recuperation from injuries suffered during the war, and that was that.
“He is quite well. I haven’t seen him since the end of September, but I believe his convalescence is complete.”
“Thank goodness.” Her mother sighed. “When you think of all that poor man has suffered, it simply beggars belief.”
“He did suffer,” Charlotte said, her throat suddenly tight, and she wondered if she would be forced to excuse herself. Fortunately the clock on the cathedral chose that moment to ring the half hour.
“Half past eleven already?” her father muttered, drawing his watch from his waistcoat pocket. “Best be on our way.”
After emerging from the Close, they turned to the right and followed the crowds that were hurrying, like so many ants, toward the immense western front of the cathedral. They sat in the nave, its scissor arches and rood cross looming high above their heads. Just beyond were the choir and high altar; tomorrow she and Mother would sit there, watching Father as he assisted the bishop at Eucharist, but tonight they were ordinary parishioners, made humble by the soaring heights and ineffable beauty of the building that embraced them.
The organ sounded the opening bars of “Adeste Fidelis,” the congregation stood, and nearly a thousand voices rang out in praise, Charlotte’s among them. She ought to have felt like a fraud, for she hadn’t counted herself as one of the faithful for years, yet somehow, in this place that felt as familiar as home, she couldn’t bring herself to doubt.
CHRISTMAS DAY WAS as it had ever been: presents opened in front of the sitting room fire, a light breakfast of toast and tea, back to the cathedral for Eucharist, home again to help Duckie with Christmas lunch—Father remained for Matins—and then roast goose with all the trimmings at one o’clock.
Charlotte helped with the clearing up, for Duckie was expected back at her sister’s for three o’clock, and then, feeling rather at loose ends, she went in search of her parents.
<
br /> “Would anyone like to go on a walk? To the Bishop’s Garden, perhaps?”
“I’ll come,” said Father. “Do you feel able, Davina?”
“Perhaps tomorrow. Do wear your warmest coats, my dears.”
Charlotte and her father maintained a companionable silence at first, touring around the east lawn before wandering over to a bench by the reflecting pond, which boasted a perfect image of the cathedral in its still waters.
Her father looked out over the pond, then he looked at Charlotte, and then, his voice very soft, he asked her the question she had been dreading.
“What is wrong, my darling? Don’t say, ‘oh, Father,’ and tell me I’m imagining things. You are unhappy and I should like to know why.”
“I don’t wish you to—”
“Is it Mr. Ellis? Had you perhaps been hoping for something more from him?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s not John. I’m afraid I am the disappointment there. He’s a lovely man, a true friend, but I cannot feel anything for him beyond the platonic. And I know that’s not enough for marriage.”
“For some it is,” her father said easily, “but not, I think, for you.” He took her hand in both of his and held it tight. “Who is he, then? The man you love?”
“Please, Father . . . we ought to go back. Mother will fret, you know she will.”
“Charlotte Jocelin Brown,” he said in his churchiest voice, though he softened it by smiling at her.
“It’s . . . it’s Edward.”
Her father furrowed his brow, not quite understanding, or perhaps he did understand and wished very much that he didn’t.
“Lilly’s brother. Lord Cumberland,” she admitted, and she winced at the look of horror and dismay on her father’s face. He knew, after all, that she had recently spent a month with Edward. Thank goodness he was ignorant of the precise circumstances.
“No, Father, you mustn’t think that. Edward is an honorable man.”
“But he is engaged to be married, is he not?”
“He was. Not anymore.”
“Do you believe he loves you?” her father asked.
“I know he does.”
“Then why . . . ?”
She knew what he was thinking. “It’s not that. He does know you adopted me, but that’s all. He certainly doesn’t think me unworthy in any way. The problem is that his father left the estate in some disarray, and so Edward needs to marry someone who can fill the family coffers.”
“Oh, my dear,” her father whispered, and in that moment he looked every bit as miserable as she felt. “In all my life I have never wanted to be a rich man, not once, not until this moment. I am so sorry, my darling. So very sorry.”
“I’ll be all right,” she promised him, and set her head against his shoulder. “It is something, after all, to know that one is loved. But please don’t tell Mother. Better if she thinks me married to my work.”
“It will be our secret,” he said, and if his voice shook a little Charlotte pretended not to notice. “Shall we walk by the gatehouse and see if the swans are being fed? I remember how you used to love watching them ring their bell and wait for their dinner.”
“Yes, please. And, Father?”
“Yes?”
“I hope I haven’t disappointed you.”
“Never, my dear. You and your mother are the lights of my life. Never forget that.”
THE NEXT DAY, as was their tradition every year, her parents attended the bishop’s Boxing Day luncheon, and since Charlotte was visiting an invitation had been extended to her as well. As soon as they were seated it became apparent that her mother and the bishop’s wife had been talking about Charlotte’s future, for eligible bachelors had been placed at both her left and right.
Of the two, Charlotte far preferred Daniel Heydon, a widowed curate from the nearby church of St. Cuthbert, to the young and ridiculously self-important deacon from Bath, seated to her right, whose name she forgot almost immediately. Mr. Heydon was intelligent and curious, and not only listened to her but also asked reasonable and informed questions about her work.
She was friendly and warm to Mr. Heydon, though she excused herself from a visit to St. Cuthbert by explaining that she was leaving early the next morning and felt, at least for this visit, that she needed to remain with her parents.
As soon as they had returned home, Mother marched into the kitchen, put on an apron, and began to make biscuits. Soon she was kneading the dough with such vigor that flour flew in clouds around the kitchen.
“Mother, don’t. The biscuits will be as hard as roof tiles if you keep on like that.”
“It’s either this or I will shout at you, Charlotte. As I’ve never once shouted at you, I prefer to make biscuits.”
“What have I done?” Charlotte asked, though she knew full well.
“Leaving aside your behavior at luncheon today—I know Rupert Lewis can be tiresome, but Daniel Heydon is a dear man, you know he is—I simply don’t understand what you want.”
“I had a perfectly agreeable conversation with Mr. Heydon.”
“I’m not talking about luncheon. I’m talking about your life. What normal woman doesn’t want a husband and children? Your father and I admire the work you do, but neither of us expects you to sacrifice yourself at some . . . some altar of charity.”
“Nor do I. But work offers my best chance at happiness. Please don’t cry, Mother.”
She came around the kitchen table, and, taking her mother’s hands in her own, led her to the chairs at its far end. Once they were both seated, she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped away her mother’s floury tears.
“I did not set out on this path deliberately, you know. My life led me to it, and I cannot regret any of the decisions I made along the way. Of all people, you and Father know why I feel compelled to do this sort of work. You know why I am happy for it to be everything to me. Were it not for the kindness of strangers, what would have become of me?”
“I know. But I can’t help but worry. I’ve been so happy in my own marriage, and I only want the same for you. I want you to have the joy of a child you may call your own. I only wish the same happiness for you.”
“I know, Mother, but happiness may be achieved in many different ways. And I am happy,” she promised. “Shall we try to bake those biscuits, or would it be best to start over?”
“I suppose if we ladle on enough jam your father will never know the difference,” her mother said, sniffling a little.
“There you have it. I’ll put the kettle on, too, and we’ll have biscuits and jam and some of Duckie’s fruitcake. Who could ask for anything more?”
She had fibbed to her mother, but only to spare her further hurt. She might not be happy at present, but Charlotte had every intention of being happy one day. She had the memory of it, which helped, and she had family and friends who loved her. It was more than enough, and more than many others had.
It would be enough.
Chapter 29
Liverpool, England
April 1920
Hurry up, everyone—I daren’t be late!”
It was half past seven already and she was meant to be going onstage at eight o’clock. They’d have left a quarter hour before if Norma hadn’t gone back to change her hat twice. What was the girl thinking? It wasn’t as if she’d end up dancing with one of the trade unionists.
“Calm down, calm down. We’re almost there. The Davy Lou is just at the next corner,” Norma reassured her. “How are you feeling? Nervous?”
“A little,” Charlotte admitted.
In early March one of her columns had caused a sensation among readers. A passionate defense of trade unions, it had ended with a plea to the unions that they not marginalize women workers, and in its wake she’d been invited to address the Easter Congress of the Liverpool Trades Union Council. It had all been arranged through John and the newspaper, so she was fairly certain of a warm reception, but she couldn’t help feeling a
little unsettled. There were bound to be a lot of people in the theater at the David Lewis building, and not all of them would be keen to hear what she had to say.
“I was there for a show at Christmas,” Norma said, “and there must have been a thousand people in the audience. That theater is enormous—”
“Norma, do you want Charlotte to keel over in the street? Look at her face,” Rosie cautioned.
“You’ll be fine,” Meg said, coming closer so she might take Charlotte’s arm. “You’ll have all those men under your spell in no time at all.”
They rounded the corner of Upper Parliament Street and turned onto the open triangle of Great George Place. Looming over the other buildings was the inescapable and faintly stolid redbrick mass of the David Lewis Hostel and Club, otherwise known as the Davy Lou.
John and Miss Rathbone were waiting for her just inside the door. She only had time for a quick embrace from each of her friends before they hurried inside the theater and she was led, feeling ever so slightly like a lamb to the slaughter, to a parlor where she and the other speakers for the evening had been asked to gather.
“We’ve still got some time,” John explained. “They’re finishing off some resolutions now, so the speeches won’t start for a quarter hour at least. How are you feeling?”
“A little apprehensive,” she admitted. “I’ve never spoken in front of such a large gathering.”
“I feel certain you will be splendid, and I know Eleanor does as well.”
“Quite,” said Miss Rathbone. “If you feel at all anxious, simply pick a face in the audience and speak directly to him or her. That’s what I always do, and I never feel the slightest hint of nerves.”
Of course she didn’t; nothing and no one could ever make Miss Rathbone nervous. But Charlotte smiled, and thanked her, and prayed that the tightness at the back of her throat didn’t mean she was about to be sick.
After the War Is Over: A Novel Page 26
