Emeralds & Ashes

by Leila Rasheed

  “I suppose William will join up,” the countess said. “It seems to be de rigueur.”

  “I don’t suppose any such thing. William has no sense of honor or duty; he could never have behaved so unspeakably to poor Priya, if he had.” Georgiana still found it hard to speak of her cousin William, the heir to Somerton Court and the title of Earl of Westlake, without becoming breathless with rage. He had forced himself on his son’s nursemaid—under the very roof of Somerton—and Georgiana held him directly responsible for her death.

  The countess was not listening; she smiled as she entered the dining room.

  “Good morning, my dear,” she said, pausing to drop a kiss on the earl’s graying head. “Michael.” She nodded to her son. Georgiana murmured a greeting to her father and glanced at Michael with the same concern that she always felt for him nowadays. He had loved Priya, and though that had been a secret sorrow for her, she knew her unrequited love paled in comparison with the pain that he must have gone through in losing Priya.

  They took their seats at the table, and the meal began. Georgiana saw her stepmother raise an eyebrow as Thomas and a young woman with vivid auburn hair swept neatly up under her cap came in and began serving. This girl must be the new parlormaid, Georgiana realized—Rebecca. Georgiana watched nervously, aware that the countess was ready to jump on any error, but soon felt able to relax. Rebecca went about her duties with quiet efficiency, and the initial unfamiliarity of having a female hand pour the tea and slice the muffins quickly vanished, smoothed away by her obvious competence.

  Unfortunately, there was still plenty for the countess to disapprove of, and she did, with a series of small sighs and irritated glances at her husband, who was doing his best to hide behind his newspaper. Georgiana knew that the plates were not as shiny as they had been under Mrs. Cliffe, and there was a very obvious stain on the tablecloth, but she smiled with determination, hoping that Thomas could sense her goodwill and that he would manage his first meal in his new role well, despite the countess’s pursed lips.

  “The tea is brewed to perfection,” she announced, although it seemed much the same as always.

  “A pity it is cold,” murmured the countess. Georgiana had a strong urge to kick her under the table. She valiantly resisted.

  “I do apologize, my lady. It won’t happen again,” Thomas murmured.

  Georgiana spotted his fingers trembling as he poured coffee for Michael. She winced in sympathy. Thomas didn’t have the presence of James; she had noticed that he seemed happier chatting with the chauffeur out in the yard or fixing the boiler—no one else seemed to have such a way with the cranky old thing, and though it was hardly a footman’s job, let alone a butler’s, it certainly saved the expense of calling an engineer. James, she thought, would never have been seen doing such a thing. Thomas would do his best, but she couldn’t help thinking he would be happier in a different role.

  “Has anything been done about the housekeeper?” the earl said, his mind plainly moving along the same lines.

  “Please don’t consult me. You know I have enough to do with keeping up the London house,” the countess said, opening her post as she spoke.

  Georgiana knew the countess had never liked Somerton, had never wanted to live in the country, but she did wish that she took a little more interest and didn’t simply complain.

  “The experience with Mrs. McRory was so unpleasant,” Georgiana began, “that I”—she glanced at the countess, who was, after all, nominally the mistress of the house—“that we hardly like to try an agency again. And the need to economize—”

  “Hmm, quite.” The earl glanced at Thomas. “Never mind. I have the greatest of faith in our own people.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Thomas murmured.

  “Where is the sugar?” the countess demanded.

  Thomas looked up.

  “I’m very sorry, my lady…Cook says there is none to be had in the village.”

  “No sugar!” The countess’s face fell. “I expect it is Lady Amersham. That terrible woman—I saw her motorcar in the village the other day. She has bought up all the dry goods in Shropshire, it appears, and is now coming over to our county. So unpatriotic. This war demands everything from us, it seems.”

  “The Empire demands it, my dear,” said the earl, as Thomas and Rebecca retired.

  “Yes, of course. The Empire.” But the countess’s expression was far from happy.

  “If sugar is the only sacrifice we have to make to the gods of war,” Georgiana could not help saying, “I should be most grateful. Is there any news of Rose, Papa?”

  The earl shook his head gravely. Georgiana knew he was as concerned as she was. Rose, his illegitimate daughter, had been brought up without knowing who her father was, working as a maid in the house where her sisters, Ada and Georgiana, were ladies. When the truth had come out, it had threatened to cover the Averleys in scandal. Georgiana was deeply proud of her father for acknowledging and adopting Rose at last. She sensed that Rose was in some ways the dearest of his daughters to his heart, because he felt so much guilt at not having acknowledged her sooner.

  “Nothing since the telegram that let us know she was still in Egypt,” he said now. “I have spared no effort to contact them, but the War Office is simply too busy to prioritize the messages.”

  “Oh, I do hope she is safe.” Georgiana put down her knife and fork; she had no appetite. “When I think she is really in the center of the fighting…”

  “At least she is with Alexander,” Michael said. “He wouldn’t allow any harm to come to her.”

  “No, I am sure,” Georgiana sipped her tea, but put it down almost at once. “I wonder if he too has had to join a regiment. He would detest it.”

  “Oh, please let us talk about something other than this depressing war,” the countess said in annoyance.

  “But there is nothing else, Mother, and no use pretending that there is.” Michael’s voice was more serious than Georgiana had ever heard it. “There’s nothing to do but to sign up and join in.”

  “How can you say that? If everyone goes off to join in this madness, how will we ever restore peace?” Georgiana exclaimed.

  “For once, Georgiana, I agree,” the countess said. “The war is madness. I don’t think we should encourage it.”

  “Mother!” Michael’s hand shook as he put his cup down. “The war is not a…a pushy salesman who refuses to leave. It’s a conflagration, a catastrophe. We cannot ignore it.” Georgiana could see he was in earnest as he went on: “Since the subject has arisen, I may as well tell the truth. I would not have chosen a war, but now that one is here, I see it as my duty to enlist.”

  “Well,” said the countess acidly, “I am delighted to say that you will not get the chance. You are not of majority.”

  “I don’t see why that should matter. I can shoot a gun, I can ride a horse. I am a British subject as well as any nineteen-year-old. It’s dishonorable, Mother, for me to stay at home, when I know what is happening just across the Channel. Even James has gone!”

  “Oh, Michael!” Georgiana could not keep quiet a second longer. “This isn’t a cricket match. You don’t seem to realize you could be killed.”

  The earl said dryly, “Georgiana, my dear, I would prefer to see my daughter display a little more patriotism.”

  Georgiana could feel her temper rising.

  “Real patriotism doesn’t involve sending thousands of your countrymen to die,” she answered. “What can it possibly matter to us if some Austrian prince is shot in Serbia? How can that possibly be worth the life of a single Englishman, let alone thousands? You saw the newspapers last week—it’s terrible, terrible bloodshed. I don’t know how you can encourage Michael to risk his life, Papa, when poor little Philip is hardly in his grave.” She could hardly keep the tears from her eyes as she thought of it. Philip had not had much of a life, with an older brother like William, and his death from scarlet fever—she blamed William for refusing to bring him home from school e
ven when notified of the outbreak—seemed a particularly cruel blow.

  “We all feel that loss very much,” said her father quietly. “But a childhood disease is not the same thing as doing one’s duty in time of war, is it, Georgiana?”

  Georgiana looked at Michael.

  “What about killing people? Could you bring yourself to do that, Michael?” Her voice was challenging. “For myself, I think dying would be the easy part. I would rather die than take someone else’s life, just to carry out a stupid order.”

  There was silence as everyone looked at Michael.

  “I wouldn’t like to do it, but I want to do my duty,” he said quietly, his eyes meeting hers. “I’d be proud to go. It’s what we’ve practiced for in school, after all—the Officer Training Corps and all that. Besides, the war is here now; it’s win or lose. Someone has to go, and I don’t have a wife, or a child depending on me. So I of all people am the best fitted to give my life for my country.”

  Georgiana blinked back tears. It was heartbreaking to hear Michael’s words. She knew Priya’s death had hit him hard, but did he really have nothing to live for? Could he think of no one who would miss him? She turned aside so no one would see her emotion. She glanced through the tall window at the lawn sweeping down to sunny fields. It was one of the last fine summer days they would have before autumn set in, she knew, and she gazed at it as if she could drink in all the golden sunshine before it fled from the fields. It was sickening to think of the blood splashed in every word of the newspapers, and to think that the only effect would be not mass protests demanding peace at all costs, but boys like Michael, like James the footman, rushing to the recruiting offices in some crazy belief that it was their duty to die young.

  She came back to herself to hear her father saying: “There is no use asking me to put in a word on your behalf, Michael. You know how I feel: I support any brave lad who wants to fight for his country. But I cannot go against your mother in this regard.”

  “And I forbid it entirely,” said the countess.

  Michael bowed his head submissively, but before he did so, Georgiana saw a rebellious glint in his eye. It troubled her. But before she could think too much about it, the countess glanced at the clock, exclaimed, and put her napkin down.

  “I must go,” she announced, standing up, “or I shall miss the train to London.” She nodded to Thomas, who at once left the room to summon the motorcar.

  “I hope you will not spend too much money.” The earl frowned. “The petrol alone is such an expense.…”

  “Of course not, my dear, but moderation in all things, even economy. Charlotte may have had her last season, but we should never give up hope. A new dress may change everything.”

  Georgiana exchanged a glance with Michael. It was hard not to feel sorry for his sister, Charlotte, even though Georgiana had always thought her vain and cold. The countess’s determination to get her married off was as steely as any bayonet.

  “But, my dear…” began the earl.

  “It really won’t cost a thing. Besides, I shall pay for it myself. I’m sure the government cannot object to that. Unless our army is suffering under a pressing shortage of sequins.”

  Georgiana sighed as the countess swept away through the door, leaving the earl stony-faced. She knew it was wrong, when so many people were suffering, but she was a little envious of Charlotte. Her own coming-out season was supposed to have been this year. Nothing had been said, but she knew it was postponed, if not canceled. Her father didn’t have time to arrange it, and her stepmother would not bother. Charlotte had had three seasons already, three glittering whirls of dance and dress and heart-fluttering romance, before the war. Georgiana had not had even one.

  “If only there were a duke with a few thousand a year and he was prepared to marry Charlotte,” Michael said, cutting into her thoughts. “Lord Kitchener would just have to parachute him behind the German lines and put my mother at the head of his brigades. We’d be in Berlin by Boxing Day.”

  Georgiana, who had just taken a sip of tea, choked on an unladylike giggle.

  “Michael,” said the earl sternly, but there was the hint of a smile in his eyes.

  London

  “‘Captain Sir Vivian Osborne and Lady Emily Fintan, by special license from the Bishop of Winchester, et cetera et cetera, at Medbury Church, et cetera et cetera, owing to the emergency of the wedding on account of the regiment being ordered on service in the war, only the colonel, officers and men of the regiment, and the parents of the bride were present.’ Well!” The countess put down the Times, which she had been reading in the back of the motorcab, and smiled at Charlotte. “That’s not what I call a wedding, although without doubt Vivian Osborne is a nice catch for someone of Emily’s age. She is a year older than you, isn’t that correct, Charlotte?”

  “Exactly the same age: nineteen,” said Charlotte. The breeze through the motorcar window ruffled her blond curls and freshened her complexion. She knew that people still turned to look after her when she passed. She also knew that nineteen, and three years out, was not the same as sixteen and a debutante.

  “Humph.” The countess’s mouth turned down in dissatisfaction. “You are hardly an old maid—still, the business must be concluded this year.”

  “No matter with whom?” Charlotte said wryly.

  It was true that the news of Emily’s wedding had come of something of a shock. They had been friends, but they had also been bitter rivals throughout their seasons. But as Charlotte looked out at the London streets that were transformed by the war, she couldn’t find it in herself to feel jealous. At a glance she could see how the world had changed. Lord Kitchener’s face, his monumental mustache, plastered the walls, his finger pointing at you…you…you. Pairs of women patrolled the street, selling Union Jacks to raise money for the war. Every other man seemed to be in uniform.

  “Charlotte? Are you listening to me?” The countess tapped her on the knee with her fan.

  “I’m sorry, Mother.”

  “You must keep your mind on the matter at hand. We have a fete, a tea dance, and a dreadful meeting to discuss the charity events for the Red Cross, all this week. Bertie Castleton will be at the tea dance, and Sir Morton Mongredien will be at the meeting. Both of them are charming and I would so like you to get to know them better.”

  “Don’t you think there are now more important things in life than getting married?” Charlotte hadn’t meant to speak so bluntly, but the words sprang from her.

  Her mother sat back, and gave her the look that could still freeze Charlotte just as it had when she was a little girl in the nursery.

  “There is nothing more important in a woman’s life than her marriage,” she said. “If my example has taught you nothing else, let it teach you that. My first marriage, to your father, brought me fortune. My second has brought me power. A woman is judged on her marriage. She is defined by her husband’s position and supported by his money. I thought that I had raised you to understand that without need for explanation.”

  “You have,” said Charlotte quietly. It was true. It was just that the world, from the vantage point of the nursery, had seemed a very different place than it did now. “But…”

  Her mother raised an eyebrow. “But?”

  “But now the war is here, I could do something useful.”

  “What?” her mother said sharply. “What could you possibly do that is useful?”

  “I don’t know, but I…” Charlotte faltered to a halt. She knew her mother was right. Her useful skills were nonexistent. She could not drive an ambulance. She could not take shorthand or replace a man on the farm. She could not even dress herself without a lady’s maid to help.

  “You are good for one thing only and that is attracting a husband. And to date you have not succeeded. So let us keep our mind on the business at hand, shall we, dear?”

  Charlotte felt as if she had been slapped. Her face reddened. She knew her mother meant only to bring her back to herself, but s
he had not expected her to be so blunt.

  They had arrived at L’atelier. As the chauffeur got out to open the door, her mother placed a hand on her arm and spoke in a low voice as they approached the door.

  “Don’t be jealous of Emily, dear girl. We will find someone for you, someone who will quite overshadow her catch. War puts everyone in a marrying mood.”

  Charlotte finally found her tongue. She would never allow her mother to see how much she had hurt her. She had too much pride for that. “I’m not jealous.” She disentangled her arm as the doorman opened the door for them and they stepped through. Her cool, sarcastic voice was back, a familiar disguise. “Bickenhill Park is charming, but Vivian Osborne is the most frightful bore.”

  Charlotte walked through the doors of Céline’s L’atelier workshop, the countess at her side. It was like stepping into another world. Mannequins and patrons mingled in an atmosphere of perfumed luxury. Silk, satin, and the scent of perfume seemed to coat the air. She saw many familiar faces among the ladies who were waiting to be fitted, or were trying on gowns, and she also heard foreign voices—French, Spanish, even German accents.

  The countess glanced about with satisfaction. “I believe that London is smarter than it has ever been. It must be due to all these elegant arrivals from the Continent. We may no longer be able to go to Paris, but it seems Paris has come to us.”

  “I’m glad you can see something good in the situation,” answered Charlotte. Just a year ago it would have filled her with pleasure to be here, choosing a new dress at the most exclusive couturier in London. But things were different now. She followed her mother to a French-style sofa and sat, twirling her parasol idly as she glanced around at the company. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she thought the chattering voices were quieter, more subdued.

  Her mother cast a few sharp glances around.

  “I would think we’d be seen instantly,” she said under her breath. “Really, as an old employer I feel Céline owes us special treatment. If it were not for us she would never have come to the notice of society, after all.”