Somewhere in France

by Jennifer Robson

  “Of course I do. And please believe me when I say that I am grateful. But—”

  “But what, Elizabeth?”

  What could she say? Of course Lilly felt grateful, but she also knew, to the core of her being, that her mother’s life was not for her.

  “Only that you make it sound as if I’m rejecting everything. As if I don’t want to be a wife, or a mother. And I do, but not yet. I’m too young—”

  “Nonsense. I was eighteen when I married your father, and nineteen when Edward was born.”

  “Mama, please let me finish,” Lilly implored. “You know that’s not what I want, not yet. Perhaps I will, when the war is over. Until then—”

  Her mother crossed the room and sat next to Lilly, taking her hands in a fervent grasp. Lilly was astonished; Mama never touched her, apart from the occasional kiss on the cheek.

  “I realize it is difficult, my dear. I do. Practically every girl your age seems to be wearing a uniform. But they are ordinary girls, common girls. And you are not. You are meant for more.”

  Before Lilly could answer, her mother rose from the sofa and moved across the room, taking a moment to compose herself. Lilly knew, from many years of observation, that this was essentially an internal process, a swift reordering and leveling of her mother’s mental equilibrium. Another woman might be so crass as to smooth her hair, or straighten her stays, but not Mama.

  “Enough of this, Elizabeth. We are expected at luncheon with Lady Walsingham, or have you forgotten?”

  “No, Mama.”

  “Then I shall expect you downstairs at half-past twelve and not a moment later. It will take at least a half hour to drive there.”

  Lilly’s imagination sparked to life at her mother’s words. “Yes, Mama. May I ask if—”

  “Yes?”

  “Will we be spending Christmas in Cumbria?”

  “Of course we will. Why wouldn’t we?”

  “Would you mind very much if I stayed on at the Hall after? Rather than return to London with you and Papa?”

  “Whatever for?”

  “It’s quiet there, with less talk of the war. It would be easier, for me, if I were in Cumbria.”

  “Very well. I suppose you do have a point. Is that all?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  In Cumbria she would be free to spend her time as she wished. And what she wished, she had only now decided, was to learn how to drive.

  CHRISTMAS AT CUMBERMERE Hall was a quiet affair, with Edward in France and her sisters in London with their families. Her younger brother, George, had come home from school for a week, and it seemed to Lilly that he had grown at least a foot since the summer.

  Her parents stayed until New Year’s Day, her brother a day longer, but she let another week pass before she made her move. By then it was clear to Lilly that the household staff had little interest in policing her whereabouts, which meant she could walk and ride the estate grounds without a chaperon. If anyone were to notice that she was spending nearly every afternoon in the company of her father’s retired chauffeur, it was nothing out of the ordinary. Certainly she had always tagged along at John Pringle’s heels when she was little, so what harm could it do now?

  Always known by both names, for reasons Lilly now couldn’t recall, John Pringle lived with his elderly parents in a tied cottage on the estate grounds, their reward for a lifetime of service to Lilly’s father and grandfather. He was a quiet man, painfully shy, and suffered terribly from the rheumatism that had forced his early retirement from full-time work.

  She began by joining him in his tiny garden, helping with the winter crop of vegetables and preparing the beds for spring. And then one day, late in January, the weather was cool and wet, and too miserable for gardening.

  “You might as well head back to the big house,” John Pringle told her when she knocked on his cottage door. “There’s no use going out today.”

  “What will you be doing instead?”

  “I’m thinking to visit the garage and check on the motorcars,” John Pringle answered. “The weather’s been that damp. If I don’t mind them, it’ll be the devil’s own work to set them to rights again.”

  “May I come with you?” she asked, her heart pounding. If he were to say no . . .

  “Suit yourself. I’m only going to turn over the engines a time or two, make sure they’ll still run.”

  That’s how it started. She followed John Pringle around as he looked after the motorcars, watching what he did, listening carefully. When she asked, after a week, if she might try her hand at driving, he didn’t say no.

  Instead, he ushered her into the stable annex where the estate vehicles had been mothballed for the duration. Surveying the row of motorcars, he circled round each of them, muttering to himself. And then he turned to her, a wide smile on his face, his choice made.

  “We’ll start you on Lord Ashford’s old coupe. A Vauxhall Prince Henry and a real beauty. Dead easy to drive, though the engine is another story. Come on, now. I’ll take her round back and we can get started.”

  John Pringle was the best of teachers, patient and gentle and utterly unflappable. It must have been frustrating work, given that the essential step of getting out of first gear took her nearly a week to master, but he seemed to relish the challenge.

  Slowly, over the days and weeks, he taught Lilly how to drive, first on the Vauxhall, then on the other motorcars. He also insisted she learn how to drive the estate’s sole lorry, a temperamental four-ton Thornycroft that had a disconcerting habit of slipping the brake and lurching forward just as she was about to finish hand cranking the engine.

  Considerably less enjoyable were her lessons in vehicle maintenance, but John Pringle insisted. So she dutifully learned how to strip down an engine and rebuild it, part by part; learned, too, how to change a punctured tire entirely on her own.

  Soon she felt quite confident behind the wheel of all the cars; the lorry, too. Past time, then, to apply to the VAD and the FANY for work as a driver. Surely one of them would need her assistance and would offer her a position. Once it was settled, she would tell Edward, for with his support her parents were all but certain to give in, just as they’d done when she’d asked for a governess of her own.

  By the summer she’d have found a place for herself in this war. She was certain of it.

  Chapter 7

  Cumbria, England

  March 1915

  It had been three weeks since Robbie’s last letter. Not an unprecedented length of time, given how erratic the post from France could be, and it was perfectly likely that he had been busy with work at the hospital and hadn’t been able to find the time, in recent days, to write to her. But it was worrisome all the same.

  As soon as she finished this row, she would set aside her knitting and write to him again. He might not have the time to write to her but she could boast of no such excuse. And he had told her, any number of times, that he keenly anticipated the arrival of her letters.

  At first Lilly didn’t notice the faint ringing noise in the distance. Only when Mr. Petrie, the underbutler, knocked on the door of the morning room did she recall the existence of the telephone in the library. It had been installed years before but no one ever used it; the post was efficient enough for most occasions, and for anything more urgent a telegram might do.

  “I beg your pardon, Lady Elizabeth. There is a telephone call for you from London. From Mr. Maxwell.”

  An icicle of dread slithered down Lilly’s spine. Mr. Maxwell would never place a telephone call without a direct order from her parents. And her parents would only use the telephone in case of dire emergency.

  Edward. Something had happened to Edward.

  She threw aside her knitting and sprinted along the corridor to the library, to the low table in the corner where the homely apparatus had been installed.

  She picked up the receiver, her hand trembling, and held it to her ear.

  “Yes?”

  “Is that you, Lady Elizab
eth?”

  “Yes, Mr. Maxwell.”

  “Lady Cumberland has asked me to inform you—”

  A blizzard of static obscured his next words.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Maxwell. I couldn’t hear you. Could you repeat what you just said?”

  “I beg your pardon. I said that Lady Cumberland has asked me to inform you that she and Lord Cumberland will not be going to Cumbermere Hall for Easter. Her ladyship asks that you return to London instead.”

  This was the reason for the telephone call? She was being summoned home?

  “Very well. Did my mother say anything else?”

  “Only that she wishes you to come immediately. On the eleven o’clock train if there are any seats left in first class. You are to bring one of the maids with you, she said. Doris will do.”

  “I see. Will I be met at the station?”

  “Her ladyship says you are to take a taxi from the station. Mr. Petrie will provide you with sufficient funds for the journey.”

  “Is that all, Mr. Maxwell?”

  “Yes, Lady Elizabeth.”

  “Then I expect I’ll see you this evening. Thank you for calling.”

  Of all the insensitive ways to effect her return to London. Her mother ought to have known that anything beyond a simple letter would be certain to give Lilly a fright. Mama ought to have known, but likely hadn’t cared.

  Lilly checked the clock on the fireplace mantel: a quarter to ten already. She had precious little time to pack and dress for the journey, alert Doris that they were leaving, and run down to the stables to let John Pringle know she was returning to London.

  It was raining, so she threw on her battered old mackintosh and rubber boots and ran across the back courtyard to the stable annex. Though she couldn’t see John Pringle, she could hear him fussing away with something in the back. Likely the lorry’s carburetor was clogged again.

  “John Pringle? It’s Lilly.”

  He emerged from the bonnet of the Thornycroft, a wire brush in one hand and the offending carburetor in the other, an expression of grim satisfaction on his face. “Took me ages to loosen this. Look at all that carbon.”

  “I can’t stay, but I wanted to tell you. I’ve had a telephone call from London.”

  His face paled. “Not Lord Ashford?”

  “No, nothing like that. Thank goodness. No, my parents have asked me to come to them for Easter. I’m not certain when I’ll be back. I hope in a few weeks, no more.”

  “Miss Lilly . . . there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “Yes, John Pringle?”

  “The other day, when we were out in the lorry, the vicar saw us. I think he’d been fishing in the stream when we drove over the bridge. He was none too pleased to see you at the wheel.”

  “He is rather old-fashioned about these things.”

  “The problem is, Miss Lilly . . . he came to see me after. Said he was going to write to your father. Tell him what you were up to. I didn’t think any harm could come of it, when he told me. Thought he was making a fuss over nothing. But now . . .”

  “I see.”

  “Do your parents know about the lessons?”

  “I hadn’t thought to tell them,” she said. A lie: she hadn’t wanted to tell them. “That is, I didn’t think they would care.” Also a lie.

  “It might be nothing, you know. They might just be wanting you with them for Easter.”

  “That’s probably it. But all the same . . . I won’t let you be blamed for this, John Pringle. I swear I won’t.”

  “Never you mind about me. You’ve a train to catch. Be off with you now.”

  “Have a very happy Easter, and please pass on my best wishes to your parents.”

  “The same to you, Miss Lilly.”

  She ran back to the house, packed a few things into a valise, and arranged for a carriage to Penrith, her anxiety mounting with every passing minute. Why on earth hadn’t she been more careful? Anyone might have seen them. It was a miracle no one had written to her parents before now.

  And though she had tried to make light of John Pringle’s concerns, she knew very well what was waiting for her in London. Nothing less than disaster.

  LILLY HAD SCARCELY set foot inside Ashford House before Mr. Maxwell was rushing up to her.

  “Lady Elizabeth! Thank goodness you’ve arrived.”

  “Is anything wrong, Mr. Maxwell? Surely I’m not that late.”

  “No, Lady Elizabeth. It’s your parents. They’re waiting for you in the blue drawing room.”

  Lilly ascended the stairs, her movements hampered by choking tendrils of dread. Her parents never bothered to greet her when she returned from a visit away.

  Her mother was sitting, motionless, at a table in the center of the drawing room while her father paced fretfully behind.

  “Mama, Papa—what is it? What has happened?” The room spun before her, and she had to reach for the doorframe to steady herself. “Edward?” she asked, the hollow echo of her voice fracturing the silence of the room.

  Her father, hurrying forward, guided her to a chair across the table from her mother. “No, your brother is fine. As far as we know, at least,” he clarified. “I’m afraid it is something else.”

  At last Lady Cumberland looked up, and it seemed to Lilly that her mother now saw her for the first time. From her lap, she produced a stack of envelopes, which she tossed onto the table. “What are these, Elizabeth?”

  Lilly picked up the topmost letter and was horrified to see that it, like its fellows, was from Robbie.

  “So this is why I haven’t heard from him recently. Have you been stealing all my post, or only my letters from Captain Fraser?”

  “Be silent!” her mother commanded. “I am saving you from a most unfortunate entanglement. The less you have to do with that man, the better. How long have you been writing to him?”

  “You have no right to ask me such—”

  “How long?” The vehemence of her mother’s voice, so at odds with her typical demeanor, was startling.

  “Since the autumn. How long have you been taking them?”

  “I have read all your incoming and outgoing post since January, when one of his letters to you was delivered here. I opened it, naturally, and I was appalled. He addressed you by your Christian name, he described things no decent young woman should even know about—”

  “He’s being honest with me. He respects me.”

  “He’s hardly more than a tradesman, you silly girl. I am acting in your best interests. For you to settle on some nobody—”

  “Captain Fraser is worth ten of any of the foppish, empty-headed, chinless dolts you have paraded me past, year after year. If you had any idea of the work he’s doing, you wouldn’t discount him so easily,” Lilly interrupted angrily.

  Her mother stared at her in astonishment, unaccustomed to hearing her daughter speak with such passion. Lilly decided she needed to return the discussion to a more even keel.

  “I apologize for my outburst, Mama. Yes, I admire Captain Fraser. Yes, we’ve exchanged a number of letters over the past months. But surely you could see for yourself that they were completely innocuous.”

  “They were nothing of the sort, which is why your correspondence with him must end.”

  Before Lilly could protest, her mother launched a fresh salvo. “There’s also the matter of this letter from the vicar. Mr. Burgess says he saw you driving the estate lorry.”

  There was nothing for it but to put on a brave face. “I didn’t think it would trouble you, quite honestly. Certainly you’ve never forbidden me to drive.”

  “It may not have been expressly forbidden, but your silence on the matter tells me you were quite aware of what my feelings would be. Once again you have demonstrated how duplicitous, how ungrateful—”

  “Oh, Mama. Only you could regard something as harmless as driving a motorcar an act of duplicity. Perhaps I should have been more forthcoming with you, I admit. But the two of you persist in treating me
like a child, and an empty-headed child at that. I’m twenty years old, nearly twenty-one. It’s past time you allowed me the same freedoms as other girls my age.”

  “Do not attempt to turn the conversation away from your misdeeds, Elizabeth. You realize of course that we shall have to let John Pringle go.”

  Long seconds passed before Lilly was able to reply. “He’s done nothing wrong, and you know it.”

  Her mother no longer looked at Lilly directly, her eyes focusing instead on a point on the far wall. “Your father and I have agreed to extend him and his family two weeks’ notice on their cottage. That is more than generous.”

  “John Pringle has worked for our family all his life. His parents, too. Yet you mean to turn them out over something so trivial?”

  “He ought to have thought of that before blemishing his family’s record of service in such a fashion.”

  Desperate beyond measure, Lilly approached her father, setting a hand on his sleeve. “How can you stand by and let this happen? The Pringles have served you faithfully for generations. To treat them like this is beneath contempt.”

  But her father, unwilling to intervene, turned away.

  A rush of shame swept over Lilly, bitter as gall, poison-sharp in its intensity. That her actions should have resulted in such calamity for the Pringles, that those carefree hours with John Pringle should be responsible for their ruin . . . why had she not seen how her mother would react?

  And then, oh God, the realization that she had been hoping for just this sort of confrontation with her parents. Had known, but hadn’t acknowledged to herself, that it was only a matter of time before open battle commenced.

  How could she have been so thoughtless, so selfish? Even worse was the knowledge that there was no going back. No matter how she humbled herself, no matter how she begged for mercy for the Pringles, her mother would never relent.

  Her mouth had gone so dry that it was an effort to speak. Somehow she forced the words past her lips. “Will you not reconsider? Allow me to prove I can be trusted? Allow me to show you that John Pringle is innocent of any disloyalty to you and Papa?”