After the War Is Over (9 page)

“Go on,” he goaded her. “Tell me what a failure I am. Tell me what poor use I’ve made
of all my wealth and privilege.”

“But you have—can’t you see that? Can’t you look beyond your own misery? The world
doesn’t revolve around you and your unhappiness.”

He laughed, but it was a bitter sound, made ugly by its utter lack of humor. “So says
Saint Charlotte, made holy by her devotion to others. If only you could hear what
comes out of your mouth. You speak as if your every word is a pearl of wisdom bestowed
by the Almighty.” He surged to his feet and advanced on her, one halting step after
the other, but she stood her ground.

“You shame yourself with such words. You know you do.” Her voice was shaking; so were
her hands. She clenched them into fists and straightened her spine. She would not
back down.

“So you, Miss Brown,
you
are allowed to tell
me
that I’m a pathetic, self-centered failure—no, don’t shake your head, we both know
that’s what you meant—but you are above reproach? Or do you truly believe that your
actions are beyond criticism? Are you really that perfect?”

He stood so close, looming above her, and for an instant she feared he might do something
unwise. Strike her, perhaps. Or even kiss her. She wasn’t certain which she feared
more.

Somehow she found her voice. “At least I’m doing something to help others. All you’ve
done since you came back from the war is whine and moan and feel sorry for yourself.
Isn’t it time you got on with your life? Did something worthwhile? You’re alive, for
a start, which is more than millions can say.
And you are richer than any man has a right to be. Grow up, for heaven’s sake. Simply
. . .
grow up
.”

She walked away, her knees shaking, desperate to escape the anger and shame and despair
that he had provoked in her. But he came after her, so she broke into an undignified
run, driven by her need to escape this exasperating man she had no right to care about.
A man whose troubles ought to mean nothing to her.

She stumbled on a stone that protruded from the path and fell hard on her knees. Before
she could stand again he was at her side, pulling her gently to her feet.

“Stop, Charlotte. Don’t run from me.”

“Don’t touch me. Let go of my hands,” she begged, frantic in her need to be free of
him.

“Look at me, won’t you? Just for a minute?” he asked, sounding as wretched as she
felt. Good, she thought. He deserved no less.

“I spoke in anger just now,” he said, still imprisoning her hands. “You were right,
as you usually are. That’s why I lashed out at you. Please forgive me.”

As the echo of his words floated in the air between them, it dawned on her that she
had been unforgivably rude. She had never been the sort of person to give in to strong
emotions; she had never, in all her life, spoken as harshly to another person as she
had done, just now, to Edward.

“I beg your pardon, Lord Cumberland, for my rudeness. I spoke out of turn.”

“I deserved every word of it,” he insisted. “And I will find a way to sort out my
silly problems. I swear I will.”

She stood there, not moving, and let herself feel the warmth and strength of his hands.
And she recalled the moment, only
six months earlier, when he had come through the door of her and Lilly’s boardinghouse
in Camden Town, and she had seen with her own eyes that, by virtue of some unknowable
miracle, he was not dead. That he had not vanished into the mud and muck and horror
of the war.

She let herself remember the joy she had felt in that moment, at the sight of his
dear, sad face, and with it she remembered all that he had suffered. If only she could
take back her unkind words.

She regarded their linked hands for a moment, and then, another apology on her lips,
she looked up and met his gaze. He looked almost like the old Edward, the boy she
had first met at Oxford, so charming and carefree and sure of his place in the world.
But that boy was dead and gone, and in his place was a man who had seen things she
would never be able to know, let alone imagine. A man who was infinitely more complicated,
and dangerous, than the boy he had once been.

“Do you feel up to returning to the reception?” he asked softly.

“I do. I wouldn’t want Lilly to worry. I don’t look too disheveled, do I?”

“You look perfect,” he said, taking her arm.

As quickly as it had erupted, her anger had melted away, but wasn’t that what always
happened when she was around Edward? No matter what he did, no matter how he behaved,
she always forgave him.

He carried such burdens, admittedly some of them of his own making, and there were
so few people he could trust. Robbie, Lilly, and herself. Perhaps one or two friends,
although she’d met some of his friends before and had not cared for them one whit.
Even his engagement was a sham.

She felt sorry for him; that was all. He was unwell, unhappy, nearly friendless, and
crippled by obligations that would have taxed the energies of even the fittest man.
He needed her friendship, not her censure.

“It will all work out in the end,” she said as they walked up the terrace steps. “I’m
certain it will.”

“If I were still the sort of man who believed in such things, I would agree with you.
As it is . . .”

“Yes?”

“I’ll soldier on.”

Cumbria, England

July 1907

T
here was no reason at all to be nervous. Not yet, at least. Lord Ashford had been
perfectly clear in his last letter: John Pringle, one of the family’s coachmen, would
meet her at the train station in Penrith and bring her to Cumbermere Hall. Only once
she’d had a chance to settle in would she be introduced to the family.

Charlotte had been traveling since dawn, for her journey had begun at home in Somerset,
where she’d gone after the end of term. Although her parents hadn’t criticized her
decision to take on the post of governess to Lady Elizabeth, neither had they been
especially pleased. Her mother had been particularly fretful. “After all your hard
work at university . . . I don’t know. It seems like a step back for you to go and
work as a servant in someone else’s home.”

Charlotte had tried to persuade her that she wouldn’t be a servant, not precisely;
she would be teaching a young lady, not waiting on her hand and foot. But her mother,
who herself had been taught by a governess at home, was unconvinced.

Her father had said little, and on their afternoon walks together they had both avoided
the subject of her new position. Unlike some men, he wore the mantle of paterfamilias
lightly, rarely imposing his wishes on his wife or daughter. If he’d had grave concerns,
of course, he’d have voiced them, but in their absence he was content enough to stand
back and allow Charlotte to chart her own course. In this she was fortunate, and she
knew it. Every blessing in her life had come from her parents. Without them, what
would have become of her? How might her life have turned out?

That morning, both Mother and Father had said good-bye and waved her off with smiles
on their faces and repeated assurances that they knew, simply
knew,
she would excel at her new position. “You’ll be the making of that young woman,”
her father had insisted. “Mark my words.”

It was nearly one o’clock as the train pulled into the small station at Penrith. Charlotte
alighted from the carriage and looked up and down the platform, wondering if Mr. Pringle
would be there or waiting outside the station. After a moment, she spotted a man dressed
in livery a few yards away, his back to her.

“Mr. Pringle?”

He turned around, a broad smile on his homely face, and came forward to take her valise
and carpetbag. “There you are, Miss Brown. I was looking out for you at the wrong
end of the train.”

“Lord Ashford was kind enough to send me a first-class ticket, otherwise I should
have been in the third-class carriages. How do you do?” She held out her hand, and
after a moment’s surprised hesitation, he set down her carpetbag and accepted her
greeting.

“I’m very well, thank you. We’re just outside on the forecourt, if you’ll follow me.”

Mr. Pringle helped her into a modest two-wheeled buggy, which had just enough room
for the two of them, and then strapped her bags to the back of the carriage. “Your
trunk arrived yesterday, so I decided to fetch you in this. Faster than the landau,
and old Bill here’s more reliable than any of his lordship’s motorcars.”

In only a few minutes they had left Penrith behind and were on the road to Ullswater.
On both sides the fells towered above them dramatically, their rugged slopes dotted
with boulders and the occasional cluster of bleating sheep. Raised in the south of
England, where the largest hills were little more than molehills in comparison, Charlotte
was used to more decorous landscapes. But this countryside had never been tamed, had
never been bent and shaped to the will of man, and she couldn’t help but find it a
trifle intimidating.

“Thank you for coming to collect me, Mr. Pringle.” It wouldn’t do to seem standoffish,
not with the first person she met today, and he did seem like a friendly sort.

“You can go ahead and call me John Pringle, just like everyone else does. Can’t remember
the last time someone called me Mr. Pringle.”

“Why both names?” she asked. Was this an idiosyncrasy of all aristocratic families,
or just the Cumberlands?

“Well, there were at least three or four men called John working on the estate when
I started, nigh on thirty years ago. And there were more than a few Pringles, too.
I suppose I could have picked another name, like some do. But I wanted to keep the
names my mum and dad gave me. So that’s why I’m John Pringle to everyone at Cumbermere
Hall—yourself included.”

“Very well, John Pringle it is. How far a drive is it to the hall?”

“Eight miles, more or less. Could have taken a shortcut, but I thought you’d like
a proper view of the great house for the first time you lay eyes on it.”

“I gather it’s very large.”

“That it is, but it’s beautiful all the same. My people have lived here, and worked
for the earls, for more’n a hundred years now. Feels like our home, too.”

They sat in silence for another few minutes; though Charlotte was brimming over with
questions, she didn’t want to test John Pringle’s patience or loyalty to his employers.
It wouldn’t do to offend him with impertinent questions—and what if such questions
were reported to Lord Ashford or his parents? It was a risk she didn’t care to take.

The carriage was slowing; from what she could tell they were still in the middle of
nowhere, the only sign of human habitation a lattice of low fieldstone walls fencing
in pastureland and the road itself. She looked to John Pringle, concerned that something
was amiss.

“We’re coming up to the entrance to the park, Miss Brown. Just past this bend.”

The gates seemed to appear out of nowhere, but then they had been hidden from view
by a stretch of especially high hedgerows. John Pringle slowed the horse to a walk
and neatly guided both animal and carriage under a monumental archway that linked
two halves of a gatehouse. The buildings would have looked perfectly at home in Belgravia,
their neoclassical façades brightened by window boxes brimming over with petunias.
The gates themselves, more baroque in style, were made of wrought iron painted a gleaming
black, each half inset with a heraldic crest.

They turned onto the long approach to the great house, old Bill at a trot again, pulling
at the reins in glad anticipation of home. Deer scattered at their approach, disappearing
into the dappled shade cast by the park’s ancient oaks. The carriage passed through
deeper woodland, the drive continuing straight as a Roman road. And then they were
in the sun again, and the house lay in the distance before them.

Charlotte couldn’t suppress a gasp of wonderment as she saw Cumbermere Hall for the
first time. Rising four stories high, it faced south, with wings stretching north
at either end. Scores of windows marched in perfect symmetry the length of each wing
and story, their sole interruption a majestic entrance set into the center. But rather
than stop in front of the house, John Pringle steered the carriage around to the western
wing, to an entrance that was many times less grand in both size and decoration, and
there drew the carriage to a halt.

As he helped Charlotte down, the door opened and an older woman emerged, her status
evident by the ring of keys at her waist and the lace cap that crowned her neatly
arranged hair.

“Welcome to Cumbermere Hall, Miss Brown,” the woman said, coming down the steps and
extending her hand in greeting. “I am Mrs. Forster, the housekeeper here. Do come
in.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Forster.”

“Your trunk arrived yesterday, and is already in your room. Menzies, take Miss Brown’s
things upstairs. I shall now take tea with her in my sitting room.”

Charlotte followed the housekeeper inside, along a corridor that gave onto a series
of kitchens and storerooms, and into a small room neatly furnished with a pair of
armchairs, set on either side of an empty hearth, and a small table and chairs.
In the far corner was a rolltop desk with a set of pigeonholes above.

Mrs. Forster invited her to sit at the table, which already held a plate of sandwiches
and fancies and a large earthenware teapot.

“Tell me a little about yourself, Miss Brown. Where did you grow up?”

“In Somerset, ma’am. My father is a cleric at Wells Cathedral.”

“I see. Have you any siblings?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Your parents must be very proud of you. How do you take your tea?”

“With milk, thank you.”

“Help yourself to some sandwiches and cake. A little something to hold you until suppertime.
While Lord and Lady Cumberland are at the hall you’ll take your meals with the other
senior staff, but after they return to London you’ll be with Lady Elizabeth in the
nursery.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“There’s no need to ma’am me, my dear. Plain Mrs. Forster will do. Now, where was
I? The girls and Master George have their rooms in the nursery wing, which is overseen
by Nanny Gee. Mrs. Geoffrey, but everyone calls her Nanny Gee. Lovely woman. There’s
the governess for Lady Mary and Lady Alice, too. Miss Shreve.”

“I hope . . . that is, I worry she may take offense at my coming here.”

“I shouldn’t worry. Between you and me, the poor thing looks as if the next stiff
wind might blow her over. A few kind words and she’ll be your friend for life.”

“I see,” Charlotte said, drinking the last of her tea. “That is a relief.”

“If you’ve any trouble with the other staff, let me know immediately. Not that I expect
you will, though. All of us are very fond of Lady Elizabeth. Such a dear girl, and
simply desperate for a little attention. I think you’ll get on very well here.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Forster.”

“Are you ready to go on upstairs? Good. If you have any difficulty in finding your
way about, simply ask one of the staff. Of course, you’ll be with Lady Elizabeth most
of the time, so she’ll be your guide.”

Mrs. Forster led them along a corridor, around a corner, along a second and even longer
hallway, and then up flight after flight after flight of stairs. By the time they
had arrived at the baize-lined door to the nursery wing, Charlotte was thoroughly
discombobulated, and certain she would require a trail of bread crumbs to navigate
henceforth.

“I’ll introduce you to Nanny Gee, and then take you to your room. I expect she’ll
be in the children’s sitting room with Master George.” They stopped at a door, roughly
halfway along the corridor, and Mrs. Forster knocked briskly before entering.

“Good afternoon, Nanny Gee. How are you today?”

“Very well, Mrs. Forster. Is this Miss Brown with you?”

“It is, indeed.”

“Don’t be shy, Miss Brown. Do come in. We’ve been all in a tizzy waiting for you.
Miss Lilly’s been that excited. I don’t think she’s slept for days. Come, now, Master
George. Say hello to your sister’s new governess.”

“Hello, Miss Brown. How do you do?”

Charlotte came forward to shake George’s outstretched
hand. He was a handsome boy, about seven or eight years old, and very similar in appearance
to his brother. “I’m very well, thank you, and pleased to make your acquaintance.
Yours as well, Mrs. Geoffrey.”

“Oh, none of that, dear. Call me Nanny Gee. Your room’s all ready for you. Used to
be Master Edward’s until he left for university. Shall I take you?”

“No need, Nanny,” Mrs. Forster replied. “We’ll leave you to finish your meal.”

Charlotte’s room was small and modestly furnished, but made pleasantly bright by a
large, west-facing window. Against one wall stood a single walnut bed topped with
a plain linen counterpane; her trunk sat at its foot. On the opposite wall were a
wardrobe and a chest of drawers. An old armchair, its upholstery somewhat worn, sat
before the window, with a desk and chair next to it.

“There’s fresh water in the ewer, and the necessary is at the end of the hall,” said
Mrs. Forster. “If you need anything else, simply let me or Nanny Gee know.”

“The room is lovely. I’m sure I won’t need a thing.”

“I’ll send up a footman to escort you down to meet the family. They’re finishing luncheon
now, so I expect you’ll have about half an hour. Will that do?”

“Yes, of course. Thank you for everything.”

“You are most welcome, my dear. I’ll see you at supper.”

Charlotte wanted nothing more than to lie down and close her eyes, but time was of
the essence. She might be summoned at any instant, and it was imperative that she
make a good first impression on Lord Ashford’s family.

She opened her trunk and drew out her best day gown, a charcoal-gray wool that she
had wrapped in tissue paper for
just this eventuality, and as she buttoned it up she was relieved to see the paper
had protected it from creasing. After washing her face and hands, she unpinned her
hair, brushed it carefully, and fixed it back into the same severe, low chignon she
always wore. Her spectacles were dusty, she realized belatedly, so she washed and
polished them as well.

At five minutes before the hour, a little less than the thirty minutes Mrs. Forster
had promised, there came a knock on the door.

“Miss Brown? Are you there?”

She hurried to the door, certain that it couldn’t be—but there he was, standing in
the hall, his expression the picture of delight.

“Lord Ashford? What are you doing . . . ? That is, I mean, ah . . . I wasn’t expecting
you . . .”

“I bumped into Mrs. Forster and she said you’d arrived, so I told her I would fetch
you myself. I’m terribly sorry I didn’t greet you. We were still at table, otherwise
I’d have been there myself. Are you ready? Lilly is simply beside herself with excitement.”

“Yes . . . at least I think so. Do you think your parents will find me suitable? That
is, am I dressed suitably?” There really wasn’t any reason at all for her to be so
nervous. It wasn’t as if she were being taken in front of a magistrate.

“You look exactly right. And remember that
I
am your employer, not my parents. I am delighted with you, and Lilly is certain to
be as well. That’s really all that matters.”