After the War Is Over (28 page)

But Edward never did come in search of her, and after a while she began to wonder
if she had simply imagined his being there. He had been very far away, after all.
It might have been another tall, slim, very fair man with a cane.

She let her friends escort her home, after a final round of handshakes and congratulations
from John and Miss
Rathbone and the men from the Trades Union Council. They chattered around her as they
hurried through the cold night, abuzz with the excitement of Charlotte’s speech, but
she could find nothing to say. Instead she thought of her mother and father, and how
she would have to write them in the morning and let them know what she had done. They
would support her, of course, but she wished, now, that she’d asked their permission
before sharing her—
their
—story with so many strangers.

She worried as she walked, and not just about her parents. Would her admission change
the way others felt about her? The women at work, for instance, or her friends from
university? What would Lilly and Robbie think? What about Edward?

It was a good thing there was no chance of her marrying him, for this latest revelation
would surely put his mother in her grave. Robbie’s origins, though humble, were as
nothing compared to Charlotte’s ancestry: Irish, Catholic, and quite possibly illegitimate.

Although the others wished to stay up and celebrate her triumph some more, she pleaded
a headache and put herself to bed right away. It was late, after all, and they all
had to work in the morning.

She fell asleep easily enough, thanks to the sherry, but was roused by the clock at
St. Luke’s as it chimed three in the morning. Wide awake, her mind turned and turned,
obsessively mining the events of the evening like clockworks that had been wound too
tight. It was silly to worry about her speech—it was done and over and she wouldn’t
undo it even if she could.

It hadn’t been Edward at the back; surely it had not been him. And yet . . . if it
were him, if he had taken the time and trouble to come and hear her speak, should
she not attempt to
discover the truth of it? Learn why he had come, and why he had left?

She would stop by the post office on her way to work in the morning and telephone
Lilly. That was the best solution. She would call on the pretext of wishing her a
Happy Easter, and she would ask after Edward. If he were in London, that would put
paid to her imaginings. And if he were elsewhere? If he had been in Liverpool?

She had no notion, not the slightest idea, of what she would do.

C
harlotte was at the post office when it opened at eight o’clock the next morning.
For such a conversation, she couldn’t possibly use the telephone at the office, nor
did she expect Miss Rathbone to perpetually fund her expensive long-distance conversations
on matters entirely unrelated to work.

No sooner had the clerk opened the door than she was rushing past him to the telephone
alcoves, all mercifully free. She went to the nearest, picked up the receiver, gave
the operator Lilly’s number at home, and hung up. It shouldn’t take long for the connection
to be made, not at this time of day.

Only a minute or so later, the telephone rang and she picked up the receiver.

“I’ve made the connection, madam.”

“Thank you very much.” She waited, unaccountably nervous, for someone to answer at
the other end.

“Fraser residence.”

“Hello, Robbie. It’s Charlotte. I wonder if I might speak to Lilly.”

“Of course. Is everything all right?” Presumably they didn’t often receive long-distance
calls first thing in the morning.

“Yes . . . at least I think so. It’s nothing to worry about, I promise.”

“She’s still upstairs but I’ll fetch her.”

Several minutes later Lilly came on the line. “Hello? Charlotte?” She sounded as if
Robbie had woken her up.

“Hello, Lilly. I’m so sorry for getting you out of bed.”

She could hear her friend stifling a yawn. “No, it was time I was up. I stayed up
far too late last night. Reading at first, to pass the time until Robbie came home
from the hospital, and then up another hour while he told me about his day.”

“He didn’t sound tired at all.”

“He never does, the wretch. But tell me—what is the matter? Did something happen at
your speech? I do hope everyone was pleasant to you.”

“Oh, they were. Perfectly pleasant. I couldn’t have hoped for a warmer reception.
The thing is . . .”

“Yes?”

“I think I may have seen Edward there. I mean, I can’t be sure. It was quite dark
at the back of the hall, and the lights were shining in my face, but I’m fairly sure
it was Edward. Do you know . . . I mean, do you think it could have been him?”

Lilly didn’t answer, and after the silence had stretched on for many seconds, Charlotte
began to worry the line had been dropped.

“Lilly? Are you still there?”

“Yes—I’m sorry. It’s only that I wasn’t sure what to say. He did know about your speech.
He came to dinner on Sunday night, and while he was here he asked after you. So of
course I told him that you’d been invited to speak at the congress. But I hadn’t realized
he would go.”

“Ah,” Charlotte said. She had been so certain her friend would say Edward had been
in London the entire time.

“Didn’t he come to say hello afterward?” Lilly asked.

“No, and that’s the curious thing. I mean, why come all that way and then just leave?
Do you know if he might have left London on Thursday?”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t. I haven’t spoken to him since Sunday. As far as I know he’s
been here all the while. Perhaps it might be best if you spoke to him yourself.”

That was the last thing she wanted, but it wouldn’t do to admit it to Lilly. “Very
well. Do you have his telephone number at home?”

“It’s Kensington 1227. But I wouldn’t call now. At this hour he’s likely to be at
the clinic.”

“What clinic? He isn’t ill, is he?”

“No, silly. The clinic he founded in Whitechapel. The Free Clinic for Disabled Servicemen.”

“But I . . . I had no idea. When did this happen?”

Another pause, and although Charlotte couldn’t be certain, it sounded as if Lilly
might be smiling.

“I think you must speak to him directly about it. There isn’t a telephone at the clinic,
not yet, so you’ll have to wait until this evening to ring him at home.”

“You won’t tell me any more?”

“No. I think it’s past time you and he spoke directly to one another. Long past time.
The clinic,” Lilly added, “is at the corner of Fieldgate and Parfett Streets, just
off the Whitechapel Road. I’m going to ring off now. Good luck, my dear.”

And then, with a tinny click, Lilly was gone. Charlotte went to the counter, emptied
her purse of every last shilling to pay for the call, and continued on to work, her
thoughts more awhirl than ever. It simply made no sense. No sense at all.

She spent the workday that followed in a daze, jumping out
of her skin every time the telephones rang in the reception area or Miss Rathbone’s
office, though the calls were never for her. She spent hours toting up figures for
a study on wages and expenditures, only to discover, after copying everything out
in ink, that she had made a number of idiotic errors in her basic arithmetic and would
have to start again.

Although it had been her practice for some months to eat her sandwich and have a cup
of tea with the other women at lunchtime, she remained in her office, at her desk,
for she felt quite unable to engage in any sort of lighthearted conversation. If her
colleagues noticed, they were too kind to say anything.

Late in the afternoon, Miss Margison brought her a cup of tea, but rather than leave
when Charlotte thanked her, she instead lingered at the door.

“If you’re feeling poorly, you ought to go home, you know. There’s nothing happening
here that won’t keep for a day or two.”

“Thank you, but I’ll be all right. If I can just get through today, I’ll have the
weekend to rest.”

“Suit yourself. Let me know if you need help with anything.”

“I will. Thank you, Miss Margison.”

Even after the others had gone home she lingered, finishing off any number of inconsequential
tasks she’d left undone for want of a quiet moment, and only when the sky outside
was nearly dark and the clock at All Saints was chiming seven o’clock did she put
on her coat and hat and set out for home.

The post office was still open and wouldn’t close for another hour. She could call
him, if she wished, though it was Friday night and he would likely have gone out for
the evening. So there was no point in trying, for she’d only waste her shillings
on a conversation with Mr. Andrews or one of the other servants. She would definitely
try to call him tomorrow.

She might try to call him tomorrow.

At home, the others were just finishing their supper. After apologizing to the misses
and Janie for her tardiness, she took her seat at table and tried, not altogether
successfully, to choke down her meal of fried cod and onions. Every bite seemed to
catch in her throat, rather as if the cod had been chopped into pieces and cooked
with every last bone intact. It was no use.

“I’m so sorry,” she said to the room at large. “I have a terrible headache. I think
I had better put myself to bed.”

Once cocooned in the sanctuary of her room, however, she sat on her bed, quite unable
to decide on what she ought to do next. She did have a headache, likely because she
had starved herself all day, and she ought to swallow an aspirin or two. Then she
ought to put on her nightgown and switch off the light and go to sleep. Ought to,
ought to . . .

“Charlotte?” came a voice from the hall. “It’s Rosie. May I come in?”

She ought to say no; say that she had already gone to bed.

The door opened and her friend’s worried face peered around it. “Whatever is the matter
with you?” Rosie asked, coming in and sitting next to her. “You’re not fretting about
last night, are you? Because you were—”

“No, that’s not it.”

“So out with it. What has you looking as if the Germans won the war?” It was such
a Rosie sort of thing to say.

“I don’t know . . .”

“Of course you know. Or is the problem that you don’t know if you can tell me? Because
you can, you know. You can tell me anything and I’ll still be your friend.”

Charlotte nodded, for of course she trusted Rosie. And it would be so heavenly to
simply talk about it with someone. To confide in her friend, and learn what she thought
of everything, and perhaps, together, find a way forward.

“Last night, just as I was leaving the stage, I saw Edward. Lilly’s brother.”

“Lord Cumberland?”

“Yes.”

“Are you certain? If it had been him, surely he would have come round afterward to
say hello.” Rosie was so very practical.

“That’s the thing. The not knowing, if I can call it that, has been torturing me all
day.”

“Why do you hope it was him?” Rosie asked softly.

“It’s hopeless. We agreed it was hopeless, we were both agreed.” Her eyes threatened
tears again. Where on earth was her handkerchief?

“What is hopeless?”

“I love him. I’ve always loved him, and I discovered he feels the same way.”

“When you spent the month with him?” To Charlotte’s relief, Rosie didn’t sound at
all disapproving.

“Yes, but we admitted it to one another only at the end.”

“I still don’t understand why it’s hopeless.”

“When his father died, when Edward became the earl, he was left with huge debts, and
then the inheritance taxes to pay. He has to marry someone with money. It’s the only
way he can do his duty to his family.”

“What about his duty to
you
? People falling in love with one another—that doesn’t happen every day. Despite what
films and books and songs may say, most people never even have a
taste of it. And you’re going to toss that away because of something as unimportant
as
money
?”

“But there is simply no other way he can pay—”

“Rubbish,” Rosie said flatly. “Rich people always have bags of money lying about,
but rather than part with any they prefer to find more of it. If you truly love one
another you can find a way. I know you can.”

“I suppose . . .”

Rosie began to pace around the room. “I think you gave in too easily. I think you
convinced yourself that you didn’t measure up. That you weren’t good enough for him.
You listened to the poison his mother poured in your ear and you
believed
it, and then you decided it was easier to let him go.” She turned to face Charlotte,
her expression both accusatory and disappointed.

Charlotte was about to answer, about to defend herself and say that it hadn’t been
anything of the sort, when Rosie made for the door. Was she truly going to leave after
saying such things?

“I need to show you something. I’ll be back in a moment.”

This conversation really was not proceeding as Charlotte had expected. Where was the
sympathy? Where was the understanding shoulder upon which she could weep out her pain?

When Rosie returned, she sat on the bed again and handed Charlotte a small leather
folder. The words
Atelier Frères Bouchard
were stamped in gold on its front.

Inside was a photograph of a young man in military uniform. He was in his late twenties,
his expression serious, and he was terribly handsome. His dark hair had been combed
neatly back from his brow, and he had lovely dark eyes. Intelligent, sensitive eyes,
Charlotte thought.

“Who is this?”

“His name was David Cohen,” Rosie answered, her voice trembling a little. “We met
in the autumn of 1917. He was a patient at the hospital, though not on my ward. He’d
been injured by shrapnel, quite badly, and had been recuperating for several months
already when I met him.

“I was having my lunch in the garden and he came and sat with me. We got to talking,
and I kept eating my lunch in the garden every day, just so I might see him, even
once it was really too cold to be eating outside. By December he was nearly well enough
to return to his unit. Just before he left, he told me he loved me. And although I
knew by then that I loved him, it seemed impossible. I told him it was impossible.”

“Why?”

“He was a Canadian, from Montreal, and he was Jewish. I knew my parents would never
approve, and his family would be just as horrified. The thing is, he didn’t fight
me. We agreed that it was for the best, and he left. He even wrote to me, once he
was back in France, and I replied, but I never told him I loved him. I never suggested
that he visit me when he had leave . . .”

“What happened to him?” Charlotte asked, her heart in her throat.

“He was killed at Soissons the following July.”

“Oh, Rosie. Oh, my dear.”

“I wrote to the War Graves Commission last year. They were very nice. They told me
where to find his grave. I think . . . I think one day I’ll go. If only to tell him
how sorry I am, and that I did love him. I never stopped loving him.”

Charlotte embraced her friend, and then they wept together for a while. At length
Rosie straightened her back, dried her eyes, and cleared her throat.

“You must go to him. This isn’t something you can sort out over the telephone. Go
tonight. If you go now you might be able to get on the overnight service to London.”

“But what if—”

“I turned my back on the man I loved, Charlotte, and I will regret it for the rest
of my life.
Go to him
.”

The time for dithering and fretting and wondering “what if” was over. She saw that
now. So she pulled her valise from under her bed and went to the wardrobe. “I must
pack.”

“That’s the spirit. Pop in a nightgown and some underthings, and a fresh blouse for
tomorrow. And your brush and toothbrush and soap and so forth. I’ll fetch my black
suit.”

“But . . . I thought I could wear this,” Charlotte protested, indicating the frock
she’d worn to work.

“Do I have to drag Norma into this? No. You’ll want to go to him straight off, so
you need to be dressed in your best. My suit is far nicer than that frock. And you
can borrow my new coat, too.” It was a kind offer, for the garment was made of a fine,
bluebell-colored wool, and beautifully tailored.

“Should I wear the hat that Meg gave me for Christmas?”

“The navy one with the narrow brim? Yes, do. You look lovely in it. Wait here while
I bring down my things, and then I’ll go next door to the Atwaters’ and ask them to
ring up a taxi to take you to the station.”