“‘I, Rupert Moore, do make Oath, that I will be faithful and bear true Allegiance to His Majesty King George the Fifth, His Heirs, and Successors, and that I will, as in duty bound, honestly and faithfully defend His Majesty, His Heirs, and Successors, in Person, Crown and Dignity, against all enemies, and will observe and obey all orders of His Majesty, His Heirs and Successors, and of the Generals and Officers set over me. So help me God.’”
“Very good.” The sergeant held out his hand, and the man took it after a moment’s hesitation. “Well done, my boy. You’re in the army now.”
The man nodded. The look on his face was lost, confused. His hand went up, as if unconsciously, to touch the primrose in his buttonhole. Sergeant Gilbertson wondered if he really understood what he had done. If not, he was in for a very rough awakening.
Oxford
“Some post for you, Lady Ada,” said the principal as Ada entered the Somerville breakfast room. “News from home, that is always pleasant.”
Ada smiled her thanks and took the letter as she sat down. It did indeed have a Palesbury postmark, and she recognized Georgiana’s handwriting. She felt oddly reluctant to open it. Georgiana knew nothing of Ravi; Ada had kept it a secret from all but Rose. Georgiana knew, of course, that Ada had scandalously left Laurence, Lord Fintan, at the altar—indeed everyone knew, as she had learned from the whispers and glances that followed her everywhere at Oxford—but Georgiana thought that was because Ada had found him in flagrante with Charlotte. She did not know that that was only part of the reason. She did not know that the rest of the reason was Ravi.
Ada was uncomfortably conscious of keeping this from her. She played with the letter, knowing that Georgiana suspected nothing, that her own news would be as artless and as simple as ever. It was unpleasant to have to keep secrets like this from those she cared about most. Of course, if she married Ravi and went to India, there would no longer be any secrets in the matter.
If.
She opened the envelope with the paper knife, aware of her housemates’ eyes on her. The letter was indeed from Georgiana. The first words arrested her.
We have had a telegram from Rose. She is safe, at least for now, but Alexander has joined a battalion in Cairo—he really had no choice, it seems—and rather than accept a passage home on a military vessel, she has chosen to follow him. We do not know exactly where they have gone, that is classified information, though we must assume it is somewhere in the Eastern Mediterranean. But oh, Ada, when I think of the danger that she will face, now that the Turks have entered the war on the side of the Germans! The whole of the Eastern Mediterranean is a battlefield, and she is in it, somewhere. If only we knew where.
There was more, but Ada did not read on; she was too shaken. She stuffed the letter back into the envelope and looked up to find everyone’s eyes on her.
“I—excuse me. My sister. The Duchess of Huntleigh.” Her voice trembled. “We have been so anxious for news and it has finally come.”
“Oh, I hope the news is good!” said Helen Massey, one of the other Somervillians at the breakfast table, wide-eyed. No one had to ask who the duchess was. Rose’s stunning marriage to Alexander, Duke of Huntleigh, had made her a household name. Ada told them quickly what she knew.
“So she has followed him!” the principal exclaimed. “That is, well, of course it is very brave, but it is hardly conventional.”
“It does not surprise me,” Ada said. “I know my sister, and I know that she would never return to England and safety while Alexander was in danger.”
“It is so shocking that this should happen while they were on honeymoon,” said another girl, and everyone agreed. Ada was glad that no one seemed to remember, or if they did, to care, about her sister’s previous life as a housemaid. Times had changed, she thought. And the world had a short memory. Besides, Rose was so good and kind that no one who knew her could fail to like her. Tears came to her eyes as she remembered how much danger she was still in.
“Please excuse me,” she managed, and stood up quickly. She could feel sympathetic eyes on her as she left the room.
She went up to her room for her walking coat, parasol, and hat. She longed for nothing more at this moment than for Ravi to be here, to be able to stroll along the river with him and tell him everything, to cry on his shoulder and be comforted. But he was in London.
She went out of the college. As she did so, she found herself looking at Connor Kearney, who was just coming up the path. He raised his hat when he saw her. His hair was dark, but she noticed that in the dappled sunlight red and gold strands shone in it—a curious but handsome mixture. He was not as old as she had thought him; it was only the gown that gave him an air of serious dignity.
“Lady Ada! Good morning,” he said, walking toward her.
Ada murmured a greeting. She was not pleased to have met him. It was intimidating being in the presence of someone so incisively intelligent, so unafraid of voicing his opinions, and even more so in her present frame of mind.
Kearney smiled as he reached her. It lit his face. She caught the scent of his cologne, and cigar. “I wanted to say that I enjoyed your proposal at the debating society the other week,” he said. “It was an interesting motion. There was of course no hope that you could win a debate for Indian independence, but you argued for it very cleverly. I think if more people allowed themselves to see beyond their prejudices you would have carried the day.”
Ada blushed. Praise from Connor Kearney was rare, and she found herself unusually tongue-tied. After waiting a polite moment, Kearney went on, “I am sorry to say I have come with some bad news, which you will no doubt hear gossip about in the town, so perhaps I should forestall it. It is likely that Somerville may close in the near future.”
“Close!” Ada was shocked.
“It will be converted into a hospital for wounded officers,” he said. “In this time of national need, we must be ready to make sacrifices.”
“And of course it must be the women’s college that is to close, not one of the men’s.” Ada found herself in a towering rage, as if all her pent-up anxiety for Rose had found an outlet. “It was not women who began this war, and I don’t think we should have to suffer for it. Men began it—let one of their colleges close.”
At once she regretted her outburst. It was unmannerly, and she had made a bad impression on Connor Kearney—a don she so wanted to impress.
Connor, however, did not seem at all perturbed. He simply raised an eyebrow. “But it isn’t women who are paying the ultimate price. So should women not be glad to do their bit, as far as they can? To sacrifice their comfort, even if they cannot sacrifice their lives?”
Ada faced him boldly, grateful that he had not taken offense but had turned it into an opportunity for debate. “I am glad to sacrifice for my country, but I ask for equal sacrifice with men. Don’t take our education from us as being a nothing, a plaything that we can well do without. Instead, let us go to the front alongside the men, and then you can take Somerville and welcome.”
“Bravo! An excellent argument.” Kearney grasped her hand and shook it, smiling broadly. Ada was relieved but embarrassed. She let go of his hand quickly, but couldn’t avoid blushing. “But I am glad to tell you that none of the students will have to give up their education. You will be moved to one of the men’s colleges.”
“That is a relief!” Ada’s voice shook. She stepped back, afraid that she would betray herself into more embarrassing demonstrations of emotion. “Please excuse me. I want to profit from the sunshine.”
“An excellent idea.” He raised his hat again as she turned away.
Ada hurried down toward the river. The color was high in her cheeks, and she was not sure quite why—whether because of the news about Rose, or the news about Somerville…or simply because Connor Kearney had praised her argument.
London
Charlotte, sitting next to the countess in the audience of the latest charity concert in aid of the Red Cross, was bor
ed, and guilty for feeling bored. This was war work, she reminded herself: being here was helping men like Laurence. And yet, she thought as the singer’s last fluid notes died away and she joined the audience in applause, it seemed as if her mother and her friends had simply taken the opportunity to continue doing exactly what they had been doing—only now they did it for charity. Somehow it seemed too easy.
Her mother nudged her as they got up from their seats and prepared to make their way to the buffet lunch. “Look, there is young Castleton.”
“He looks so different in uniform,” Charlotte said. It was strangely shocking to see someone she had once danced with, flirted with, suddenly appear so serious and grown-up. She wondered if he felt afraid, like Laurence—and remembered with a quick shock of guilt that she had not yet replied to his letter. Her mother had kept her in such a social whirl these past few weeks.
“Perhaps we should invite him to stay before he goes overseas,” her mother murmured in her ear. Charlotte realized with a start that her mother’s thoughts about Bertie were quite different from her own.
“No, Mother, please! He isn’t interested in me at all…nor am I interested in him.” She walked away quickly. Her mother followed.
“What is wrong with him?” she said in a low voice. “You simply can’t be so choosy. Not anymore.”
“He’s dull.”
“Well,” said her mother, glancing around, “with things the way they are, you may not have to suffer more than a few weeks of his dullness.…Goodness, what a look you just gave me. I’m only thinking of your happiness, dear.”
Charlotte couldn’t find a polite reply. She walked away, not even looking where she was going. It was too horrible to think of marrying someone and calculating on their being killed. She found herself by the buffet, next to a woman in a VAD uniform. Charlotte glanced shyly at her, then realized she knew her. It was Portia Claythorpe, a girl she had never had much time for before the war. She was a bishop’s daughter, plump, sweet-tempered, with a rather prim kind of way about her that had irritated Charlotte. But now, dressed in the flowing white gown of the VAD, even with the ugly apron ruining what there was of her waist and her hair hidden under the cap, she looked admirable. She looked as if she was really part of what was going on, a mysterious creature, with heavy responsibilities—not just a lapdog to be dressed up and ordered around by her mother. Charlotte found herself tongue-tied with admiration. It was some time before she summoned up the courage to speak to her.
“I see you have joined the voluntary aid detachment,” she said at last. “You are very brave.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Someone has to do something for these poor men,” Portia replied. “It makes one feel better somehow, being able to be of use.”
“You have been abroad, then?”
“No, only here in London. I do hope to go abroad, however. I long to, in fact. I want to do the most that I possibly can to share the suffering of the poor men.”
“It must be inspiring work.”
Portia smiled tiredly, and again Charlotte had the sense that Portia was in some way on the inside of things, that she was looking out on Charlotte as one looked at a younger sister who knew nothing about love. “It is certainly very hard work. Hard on the body, and on the mind, too.” She hesitated. “We received some casualties from Ypres.” Her voice lowered. “I know we’re not supposed to speak of it, but it was terrible, it was—”
“But it was a victory for us, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, but…” Portia fell silent as Lady Emily joined them. Charlotte could guess what she was going to say. The cost was too great. She was left with an unpleasant shiver down her spine, and a feeling of both dread and curiosity.
“Portia, you look simply charming,” Lady Emily announced. “I would join the voluntary nursing services, but Vivian won’t hear of it. He thinks I shouldn’t compromise my femininity.”
“I never thought that a concern of yours,” Charlotte said with a raised eyebrow. Lady Emily had always been the most insufferable suffragette, but it somehow disheartened Charlotte to see her changed.
Lady Emily shrugged prettily. “There are other ways of doing one’s bit. I have been selling flags, and handing out feathers. It’s a shame to see so many fit young men shirking their duty. In fact,” she added, getting out a small clutch of white feathers, “I shall have a word with those two waiters. A woman’s touch, you know.”
She sallied off. Charlotte and Portia exchanged an expressive glance. Charlotte was longing to ask her more about the life of a VAD, but before she could do so, her mother arrived, Castleton in tow. Charlotte was mortified to see the polite confusion on his face.
“My dear,” the countess announced, “I know you wanted to return that copy of Swinburne’s poems that Bertie lent you…” She went on, overriding Charlotte’s protests that she hadn’t been lent a book. Charlotte found herself making plans to entertain Bertie at home for a light tea the day before he went abroad, but to her relief, Bertie Castleton interrupted.
“I say, Countess, frightfully sorry to interrupt you, but is Lady Emily quite all right?” he inquired.
Charlotte looked around. She saw Lady Emily by the door; she was holding a telegram that a boy had just brought to her. As Charlotte watched, she turned pale, swayed, and almost fell. The crowd rustled with shock. A man leapt forward to help her to a chair. Charlotte saw Portia go quickly and professionally to her side; she knelt by her, speaking in a low voice.
What had happened? The room was hot and crowded, perhaps that was the trouble, Charlotte thought. A whisper was passing through the crowd. Necks were craned; black feathers on hats trembled. It was Mrs. Verulam who turned to them, her face suddenly showing all its age.
“My dears, such terrible news,” she said in an undertone. To Charlotte’s surprise, Mrs. Verulam placed a hand on hers. Charlotte, looking into her eyes, was suddenly full of foreboding. “It is Lord Fintan,” Mrs. Verulam said quietly. “Laurence. Emily’s brother. He was hit by a sniper. A bullet directly through the heart.” She added, more gently than Charlotte had ever heard her speak before, “I am sorry, my dear. I know he was one of your set.”
Charlotte could not find her breath. Laurence, dead. Laurence, whom she had danced with only months before, had kissed only months before. Laurence, whom she had once thought she would marry. Laurence, whose unanswered letter, his last confession, still lay in her writing case.
“I think we should go home,” her mother said, breaking the silence. “Oh dear. Everyone will be greatly upset by this news. He was so promising.” She tucked her arm into Charlotte’s, and from that rare gesture of kindness from her mother, Charlotte knew that the news was really true. This was no bad dream or hideous joke.
She followed her mother to her motorcar, in a daze. She had thought there was more time. Time to answer the letter.
“Charlotte? Are you all right?” Her mother leaned toward her as the car drove off. Charlotte was jolted against the soft leather interior. She still could not speak. She clung to the ivory handle of her parasol as if to a life belt.
“I just can’t imagine it,” she managed to say. “A bullet through the heart.”
“Don’t try.”
But Charlotte could not stop trying. Laurence, debonair and handsome in a ballroom or a debating hall. She had never seen him in his uniform, and she could not call an image to mind now. Somehow she had to take that lively, scornful, ambitious young man whose tie was always perfectly knotted and imagine him in a muddy field, with a bullet through his heart. Her hand went to her own heart, unconsciously. A memory, sudden, unbidden, of a shoot at Somerton a couple of years ago, came to her mind. Explosion after explosion cracking the sky, and the birds tumbling down, all soft-feathered like fainting women in ball gowns, the dogs running up with them. Even then, death had seemed clean.
She stared out of the window. All she could see was black. Black on hats, on armbands, on dresses, on parasols. So much black.
“Charlo
tte,” her mother said again.
“I am quite all right, mother,” Charlotte made herself say.
“I know you cared for him.” It was the closest to concern that Charlotte had ever heard from her.
“It isn’t that.”
“I blame myself. I should never have encouraged it. You were too young.”
“No, mother. I did care for him once, but that’s all over. It’s simply that…”
“He was one of us. One of our set.”
Charlotte wanted to say that that was not it either, that she was stunned because she realized now that there were no sets, only millions of men suffering and dying, that this pain was only part of a web that connected everyone in Europe, perhaps in the world. But what her mother said next drove it out of her mind. “After the shocking way that Ada treated him—”
“Oh, Ada!” Charlotte’s hand went to her mouth. Ada had been engaged to Laurence, had nearly married him. She had been as close to him, in her own way, as Charlotte had. This news would be a blow to her too, Charlotte knew that. She could not allow her to find out in the most brutal way, through the newspaper report that would surely follow the death of a peer.
They were pulling up outside the Mayfair house. Charlotte got out as quickly as she could. As soon as the butler opened the door, she ran up to her room. “MacIvor,” she said breathlessly to her startled maid. “I must send a telegram at once.”
Oxford
The lecture hall filled with discreet noise as chairs scraped back and the women collected their books. Ada was one of the last to stand up; her cheeks were flushed and her heart was beating fast.
“Professor Kearney.” She accosted him at the door.
“Lady Ada?”
“I want to tell you how much I passionately disagree with everything you have just said in your lecture,” she said. She knew she was speaking too fast, but she could not hold her tongue. Kearney looked at her in surprise and she was aware of her fast breathing. “And how much I admire you for saying all of it,” she finished.
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