After the War Is Over (30 page)

“So you decided to help?” she asked, her eyes hot with unshed tears.

“I did. I’ve plans for other clinics in Manchester, Cardiff, Tyneside, Merseyside,
and Glasgow. That’s only to start, mind you—there’s enough money to fund half a dozen
more.”

Edward pushed himself to his feet, came round his desk, and, moving her handbag to
the floor, sat in the other chair. “I want you to know that I didn’t do this to prove
my worth to you, but to myself. I had to know I was worthy of you before I approached
you again.”

He would certainly make her cry if he persisted in saying such things. “Is that why
you came to see me?”

“Yes, and also to cheer you on. You were magnificent.” He reached out to tuck a strand
of hair behind her ear, and then, as if he couldn’t help himself, he kissed her forehead.
“Can you forgive me for all the ways I have failed you? If I’d been thinking straight
I’d have figured this out months ago.”

“There is nothing to forgive.”

“I will try to make you happy. God knows you deserve it.”

“You aren’t concerned by what I said in my speech?”

“About your having been abandoned? Not in the least. It only makes me all the more
proud of you.”

“I love you.”

“And I you.”

“I so wish . . . I wish I hadn’t been so critical of you. I ought to have been a better
friend.”

“But you were. I’d never have had the courage to take this path if not for you.” He
took her hands in his. “Will you marry me? Even if it makes you a countess?”

It was such a comical thing for him to say that she burst out laughing. “There’s no
getting around it, is there?”

“No, there isn’t. So . . . ?”

“Yes, Edward. Yes, I will marry you.” She leaned forward, set her hands on his shoulders,
and kissed him until they were both breathless.

“Shall we call your parents?” he asked a little while later. “I don’t
yet have a telephone here, but the post office is just down the street. Will that
do?” He stood up carefully and pulled her into his arms.

“I can hardly wait to tell them.”

“After you’re done, we’ll walk over to the hospital so I might ask Robbie if he’ll
stand up for me. And then we’ll ask Lilly if she will do the same for you.”

“Mr. Andrews is waiting outside. He refused to leave.”

“I know. I recognized the sound of my motorcar as soon as you pulled up.”

“So you knew I was there all along?” she asked, so giddy with delight that she was
glad of his supporting arms.

“Yes, my darling. All along I knew you were there.”

Oxford, England

October 1920

T
he man at Shepherd & Woodward, the academic outfitters, had explained it all to her.
She would wear her commoner’s gown to the first part of the ceremony, then return
to Convocation House to change into her graduate’s gown and hood. As for the rest,
Somerville’s newly elected dean of degrees would be her guide.

Charlotte was one of forty women receiving their degrees today, for this was the first
graduation ceremony, since the university’s founding in the fourteenth century, in
which women would be included. She was nervous, of course, though no more so than
she’d been on her wedding day back in June.

It had been the simplest and nicest of weddings. Neither of them had wanted anything
grand, so the ceremony had taken place in the Lady Chapel at Wells Cathedral, her
father officiating, with only their immediate family and closest friends in attendance.

Those receiving degrees, as was tradition, had been asked to wait in the Convocation
House that adjoined the Sheldonian
Theatre. She and the other women had gathered in one corner, and there they’d set
out their graduates’ gowns and hoods, which they would retrieve after the first part
of the ceremony.

It felt odd to be wearing subfusc again, for more than a decade had passed since she’d
written the last of her examinations. For luck, she was wearing Rosie’s black suit,
together with the white blouse, black tie, and soft woolen cap that the university
mandated for women students. The cap looked, to Charlotte’s eyes, as if it belonged
in a Holbein portrait, but was no less ridiculous a piece of headgear than the mortarboards
worn by the men.

And then it was time. The men marched out, arranged by precedence according to their
degrees, with the women following them across the rain-drenched courtyard, through
the great south doors, and into one of Sir Christopher Wren’s most beautiful creations.

She and the other degree supplicants were seated around and above the officers of
the university, which afforded the perfect opportunity to take in the spectacle of
the ceremony as a whole. Above were the glorious colors of the Sheldonian’s painted
dome, while below gleamed the jewel-bright gowns and hoods of the university’s masters
and wardens, deans and provosts, rectors and fellows.

The theater was ringed by galleries, and that is where she found her family: Edward,
her parents, Lilly and Robbie, and Miss Rathbone. She’d so have loved to invite more
of her friends, but each graduate was given only so many tickets. It wouldn’t have
been fair to ask for more.

The vice chancellor, who not long ago had opposed the granting of degrees to women,
read the traditional Latin introduction,
as well as an English translation. Men receiving higher degrees, doctors of divinity,
philosophy, medicine, and the like, were admitted first, college by college, followed
by those receiving master’s and bachelor’s degrees.

And then it was the women’s turn. Leaving their seats, Charlotte and the others processed
to the floor of the theater, where they stood before the vice chancellor as the junior
proctor read out their names. When the deans had voted, by their silence, to admit
the women, the senior proctor announced—he had the perfect baritone for such an occasion—that
they might receive their degrees.

The vice chancellor read them the oath, which required them to swear unending obedience
and fidelity to the university, and together they replied,
“Do fidem.”
I swear it. He then read his invocation, which, if Charlotte’s Latin hadn’t deserted
her altogether, meant that she and the others had been admitted to their degrees.
They curtsied and were led out the east door, back to Convocation House, where their
gowns awaited.

Charlotte had hired her master’s gown, for it had seemed silly to waste money on a
garment she would never wear again, but the black silk hood, lined in crimson, was
her own. Or, rather, it was her husband’s, for it was the same one Edward had worn
at his own degree ceremony more than a decade earlier.

Then it was time to return to the Sheldonian, this time as graduates of the university.
The women stood before the vice chancellor a final time, curtsied again, and then,
although the ceremony hadn’t ended and any sort of spontaneous applause or vocal approbation
was frowned upon, the entire congregation began to clap and cheer and stamp their
feet.

She looked up to the gallery, to where the cheers were loudest,
and found the people she loved most in the world. They had come here today for her,
to cheer her on and applaud her success and show her, by their support, that she was
worthy of them.

The ceremony at an end, its participants and spectators converged on the courtyard
outside. Cold rain was pelting down, the sky dark as dusk, and a phalanx of identical
black umbrellas stood between Charlotte and her loved ones.

Without warning, a hand grasped her waist, spinning her back into a pair of waiting
and wonderfully warm arms.

“Is that Charlotte Jocelin Neville-Ashford, M.A.?”

“It is. What did you think?” she asked, although Edward’s smile was all the answer
she needed.

“Far more impressive than my own degree ceremony. But then, you helped to make history
today. Are you ready to celebrate?”

“Yes, please. Where is everyone else?”

“I sent them ahead to Somerville. You don’t mind walking up, do you? Just the two
of us?”

“Not at all. It may be our only chance to talk until this evening. Oh, look—the rain
is stopping.” Charlotte stepped out from under the umbrella they shared, still holding
her husband’s hand, and tilted her face to the sky. “And there’s the sun. Just in
time.”

“If I still believed in such things, I’d say it was a harbinger of days to come.”

“Such a romantic. You’ll make me swoon,” she teased.

“Yet it’s true. We survived the storm—I hope you recognize that I’m speaking figuratively,
since you are the one with a degree in English literature, and here we are—”

“Here we are, having our day in the sun. What more could any woman want?”

“The rest of her family at her side as she celebrates her achievements?”

“There is that. Shall we?”

Arm in arm, with Charlotte measuring her steps to match Edward’s pace, they moved
forward together. Across the gold-tinged stone of the courtyard, down onto Broad Street,
and into the long-awaited sun.

I
offer my sincere thanks to the following for their assistance, with the further observation
that I alone am responsible for any remaining omissions, inaccuracies, or errors.

The Imperial War Museum, the Merseyside Maritime Museum, the Museum of Liverpool,
the National Archives (U.K.), and the Toronto Reference Library. Their wealth of digitized
holdings formed the foundation of my research for this book.

Dr. Kathryn Ferry, for her extremely helpful advice regarding Blackpool and British
seaside culture in the early twentieth century.

Ms. Sue Light, for her invaluable assistance in regard to Charlotte’s service as a
nurse during the war. Ms. Light, herself a trained nurse and midwife, specializes
in the history of the military nursing services of the early twentieth century.

Dr. Ross McKibbin, Emeritus Research Fellow, St. John’s College, Oxford, and Mr. Philip
Waller, Emeritus Fellow, Merton College, Oxford. I am most grateful to both of them
for graciously agreeing to read and make observations on the manuscript of this book.

Major Thomas Vincent, the Canadian Scottish Regiment, for his illuminating insights
into the life of an infantry officer, and for clarification on a number of details
regarding command structure and military routine.

My father, Professor Stuart Robson, for his advice in regard to everyday life in the
front lines, and for his careful reading and critique of the entire manuscript.

My literary agent, Kevan Lyon, and her colleagues at the Marsal Lyon Literary Agency.
I am so deeply thankful for their continuing support and guidance.

My editor, Amanda Bergeron, who is simply the best writing teacher I’ve ever had,
and my copy editor, Martin Karlow, who regularly astonishes me with the precision
and elegance of his corrections; and production editor Serena Wang who has a sharp
eye for detail. Thank you to Elle Keck for all of her help. I am most grateful to
Camille Collins and Lauren Jackson in publicity at HarperCollins U.S., and Miranda
Snyder and Sonya Koson, their counterparts at HarperCollins Canada, for their hard
work on my behalf, as well as their colleagues in marketing, among them Molly Birckhead,
Emma Ingram, Shannon Parsons, Alaina Waagner, and Kaitlyn Vincent. I am also very
thankful to the art department at HarperCollins, most notably Emin Mancheril and Mumtaz
Mustafa, for creating such beautiful covers and capturing the spirit of my books so
perfectly.

My circle of friends, among them Ana, Clara, Denise, Erin, Irene, the Janes, Jen,
Katarina, the Kellys, Libbie, Liz, Mary, Michela, and Rena. Thank you for believing
in me, for taking care of my children (and me) whenever I needed a helping hand, and
for hand-selling so many copies of my books to your relatives and colleagues!

My family, all of you, in Canada and abroad. Thank you for
your support, encouragement, and praise. Most of all I thank my sister Kate Robson,
who is my inspiration in all things, and so smart, hardworking, and courageous that
she puts Charlotte to shame.

My children, Matthew and Daniela, for being so patient and supportive, and whose unconditional
love is the light that brightens my days.

And my husband, who is the dearest, funniest, smartest, and kindest man I have ever
met. Claudio—I could turn you into a hero in one of my books, but people would say,
“this character is too good to be true.” You are the best.

About the author

Meet Jennifer Robson

A Conversation with Jennifer Robson

About the book

The Enduring Appeal of Blackpool

Glossary of Terms Used in
After the War Is Over

Reading Group Guide

Read on

Further Reading

Natalie Brown/Tangerine Photo

JENNIFER ROBSON
is the
USA Today
and #1
Globe & Mail
bestselling author of
Somewhere in France .
She first learned about the Great War from her father, acclaimed historian Stuart
Robson. In her late teens, she worked as an official guide at the Canadian National
War Memorial at Vimy Ridge in France and had the honor of meeting a number of First
World War veterans. After graduating from King’s College at the University of Western
Ontario, she attended Saint Antony’s College, University of Oxford, where she earned
a doctorate in British economic and social history. She was a Commonwealth Scholar
and an SSHRC Doctoral Fellow while at Oxford. Jennifer lives in Toronto, Canada, with
her husband and young children, and shares her home office with Sam the cat and Ellie
the sheepdog.