Ghosts of Winter (32 page)

“I’m not ‘throwing it away.’ I’ll be a better mother through being so well educated,” she said defensively. “Besides, I will still do charity work and use my skills that way.”

“Don’t get in a flap, darling,” Courtney said soothingly. “You know Clara’s a dreadful tease.” She drained her glass. “Evvie, sweetheart, why don’t you ring for more drinks?” Evadne pulled the cord in the corner of the room to summon a servant.

“It is a difficult one though, don’t you think?” Edith said thoughtfully.

“What is?” Evadne asked, turning her eyes keenly on Edith’s serious expression.

“Well, the marriage question,” Edith replied.

“Is it a question?” Madge asked.

“For the rest of us,” Edith said, “it is. You’re lucky in some ways, Madge, that you’re so perfectly sure it’s what you want. We’re not all the same, though. I mean, look at us, all nearly thirty and only one of us married.”

“Clara and I have been together since school. We’re as good as married,” Courtney said.

“Oh, you make it sound rather dreary, Courtney dearest.” Clara massaged Courtney’s shoulder as she spoke, as if she couldn’t bear physical separation.

“Well, we’ll exclude you two lovebirds from the argument since you’ve chosen a deviant path.” Edith smiled at them.

“There’s that word again,” Clara said, protesting mildly. “You should try it Edith, it’s ever so much fun.” She smiled her most seductive smile in Edith’s direction and watched in apparent satisfaction as her friend blushed bright red. Evadne felt herself flushing too, and was pleased when Edith recovered herself to retort, “I’m tempted Clara, really, but I don’t think Courtney would like it.”

“I never said we’d leave her out of the fun,” Clara replied, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

“Honestly, Clara, I’m trying to make a serious point,” Edith said.

Clara had mercy on her discomfort. “Your loss. Go on.”

“Thank you. I mean, really, look at the rest of us. Even Madge has only just married. A decade or two ago, we’d all have been onto our umpteenth child by now.”

“A lot happened in that decade or two though,” Evadne said, knowing the painful memories her words stirred for all of them. “We lost so many men. I didn’t even think of it at the time, in amongst all the tragedy of it, but it’s rather a problem when it comes to finding a husband.” She smiled slightly.

“Did you read about the memorial in Ypres they unveiled last month, on the road to Menin?” Edith asked. “It’s for the men they never found. Clive’s name is on there.”

“Yes, I did read about it.” Evadne watched as Edith’s thoughts lingered on her twin brother, lost when he was just seventeen, towards the end of the Great War.

“My cousin George’s name is on there too,” Clara said. “I considered going for the ceremony, but in the end I knew I couldn’t bear it. We’ve all moved on so far in the last nine years. The world changed. I didn’t want to be reminded of how things were before.”

“But it’s important that we remember, don’t you think?” Evadne asked, seeing the emotion which darkened Edith’s green eyes. “I lost Uncle Simon at the Somme and two of my cousins, one at Verdun and one at Passchendaele. I think Aunt Victoria might have survived the ’flu if it hadn’t been for how devastated she was. And of course, I wouldn’t have Winter if Wilfred hadn’t died at Verdun. I have to remember to honour that.”

“I’m not suggesting we should forget,” Clara said, “only that it does no good to linger on those old times. We’re the generation who are changing everything, the ones who are never going to stop looking for a better life. And we’ll get it too.” Clara spoke with conviction, and it was difficult not to agree with her. However much they treasured their memories of the loved ones the Great War had snatched from them, the effect of those losses was to make them committed to transforming their world. So many had died, and the best way to honour them was to live, as brightly and with as much passion as could be grasped with both hands. Despite their differences, all of the women knew that this undercurrent connected them to each other. Something had died between 1914 and 1918, but their generation was the phoenix which would rise from the ashes, and not be dragged down. Life was precarious and it was precious, and they would value its every passing moment.

“I think the next decade will be the one for us women,” Courtney said, backing Clara up, as she always did.

“Hasn’t this been a good decade for us?” Madge asked.

“Nowhere near good enough, darling,” Courtney replied. “There’s work to be done.”

“There speaks the spirit of the suffragettes,” Evadne said, laughing lightly.

“I may not be chaining myself to railings,” Courtney said, “but I will be addressing a gathering of the Women’s Union next month.”

“You’re so political, darling.” Clara held Courtney tighter.

“And very brave,” Edith said. “I could never talk to all those people.” Evadne noticed that she still wore a look of sadness and knew her thoughts were still largely on her lost twin.

“I intend to keep advising women on preventing pregnancy,” Madge said, as though determined to prove her own contribution to the female cause.

“Excellent,” Clara replied, “and no doubt you have to pretend all of them are married before you can breathe a word of it. And will all women be able to vote?”

“Oh, I think so,” Courtney replied. “After all, they let us manufacture ammunition and play at being conductors on the trams during the war, why not let us all vote too? Mr. Lindbergh can fly across the Atlantic, and I’ll soon be able to telephone Mater in Manhattan. Surely all women being allowed to vote is such a little thing in these advanced times.” The sarcasm in her tone was biting. There was a pause as they all reflected on her words.

“Well,” Evadne said, getting to her feet, “I must say this is a rather serious conversation, girls. How about we leave the politics alone for tonight and listen to some music?” She walked in the direction of the gramophone in the corner of the room and opened the wooden chest containing her collection of records. In truth, she mostly wanted to lighten the mood for the sake of Edith, who still looked so terribly sad.

“What’s the latest you have?” Courtney enquired, sitting forwards and looking more animated. “Anything decent?”

“If you mean anything from your side of the Pond, then you’re in luck,” Evadne told her. “I have a couple of Ruth Etting’s, Paul Whiteman, and some Duke Ellington.”

“You have impeccable taste, darling,” Courtney said. “How about
Varsity Drag
, do you have that one? I think it’s the cat’s pyjamas.”

“I most certainly do,” Evadne replied, laughing at her friend’s slang. She selected the record in question and slipped it out of its sleeve. As she was setting it up in the gramophone, there was a knock on the door, and it opened to admit the slight frame of her red-haired housemaid, May. Evadne could not afford to keep many servants, but maintained she could not manage her life, nor Winter Manor, without a housekeeper, cook, and butler. There were, of course, gardeners and other workers involved in the upkeep of the house and grounds, but Evadne left the management in the hands of her butler, Thomas Hodges, and she could not quite keep track of her entire staff.

Evadne lowered the needle onto the record and the opening bars of the music blared into the room. She looked at her friends in various attitudes of relaxation, and thought back to the days when they had all been schoolgirls, in their brown tunics and orange ties, dreaming idly of the lives before them. At ease in the comfortable Common Parlour, which she much preferred over the more formal and old-fashioned Blue Drawing Room, they could almost have been back in the old prefects’ room they had shared. The war had ended in the same year they had left St. Hilda’s, and the future had been the great unknown. Looking at them now, she wondered, were any of them really where they’d expected to be? Clara and Courtney maybe, she pondered, they had always known they were meant to be together, whatever happened. But the others? Certainly, she had not expected to find herself sole mistress of Winter.

Winter Manor had belonged to Evadne’s uncle, on her mother’s side. It had been expected that it would pass to his only son, Wilfred. But Wilfred had lost his life in the mud and barbed wire of Verdun when she was seventeen. His mother and father had hoped for another child, someone to maintain their family’s presence in Winter. But Evadne’s aunt had died of influenza in 1919 and her uncle had followed his wife six years later, having shown no interest in remarrying or producing another heir. Winter had passed to his only living relative, his sister Mary, Evadne’s mother. Her father had died when she was still small, and she had no brothers or sisters. When her mother had passed away in the previous year, Winter had become hers.

Though the prospect of managing the house alone was daunting, she soon found the presence of the servants made it rather easier to run than she’d expected. She was learning to love Winter, her own private domain. She had grown to value the space and privacy of her home, though sometimes she still felt terribly alone. A shiver of cold fear swept through her, and she wished her mother was still alive, though she’d never been very close to her. She longed for a confidante, someone to share her secrets, her happiness, and her fears.

Evadne looked over at Edith, who was asking May for a dry Martini. She sighed softly and turned to Clara and Courtney, who leaned into each other on the sofa. They made their life together appear so easy. But some stories were not meant to have happy endings.

“Gin and tonic for me, May, thank you,” she called as brightly as she could manage, and swaying her hips in time to the music, moved back into the middle of the room and the company of her friends. For now she wanted to forget her fears.

*

May Shipley left the Common Parlour, with its lively gramophone music and bright light, made her way to the back staircase, and went downstairs, in the direction of the kitchen. Cook was seated at the big table, drinking a cup of tea, and Mr. Hodges was opposite her, flicking through the pages of a newspaper. Mr. Hodges looked up when she entered.

“More drinks, May?”

“Yes, Mr. Hodges,” May replied, and repeated the list of required drinks to him, as he rose to his feet to prepare them. It irritated May that he did not trust her to manage the task competently.

“What are they doing up there?” Cook asked with interest.

“Just talking and listening to music, I think,” May replied. The refrain of the gramophone tune was still echoing in her head, and it made her want to tap her foot in time.

“Even the one who thinks she’s a fella?”

“All of them,” May replied, thinking of the extraordinary gathering of women in the Common Parlour. Her mistress had never appeared to live an especially remarkable life, and yet one look at her friends hinted there was something more to Miss Evadne Burns than she had suspected. Part of May wished she could join the ladies in the room upstairs, with their music and drinks and lively conversation. And part of her was both terrified and bewildered by such women. Not just the one in her absurd man’s suit, but her American companion in her sparkling dress, like the night sky, who seemed to admire the one in the suit as if she really were a man. May was a little nervous to speak to either of them. She was frankly rather intimidated by all of the women, even the plain, brown-haired one who looked at her with sharp eyes and spoke rather too abruptly.

The door which led into the back of the house from the kitchen garden, up a short flight of stone stairs from the kitchen, opened, and a gust of the warm, flower-scented summer air swept into the room. “Evening all,” called a young man’s voice. Moments later, he came jauntily down the stairs. May blushed before his eyes even made contact with hers.

“Evening, John,” Cook said to the newcomer.

“Mr. Potter,” May said shyly, “it’s lovely to see you.”

“Please call me John, I’ve told you before, May.” He looked at her in a way that made her blush more. He had an earnest face, if not perfectly handsome, with very attractive curls in his brown hair, and strong shoulders.

“John,” May repeated, enjoying the way the syllable felt in her mouth. He smiled at her, clearly pleased.

“I’ve come to see if you’ll be wanting any extra milk this week, with Miss Burns having guests here.” He directed his words to Mr. Hodges, though he quickly turned his attention back to May. She smiled at him again and felt her heart beat harder. Was this how falling in love felt? If it was, then it was even better than she’d expected it to be. She knew nothing about love, but it certainly seemed like John had a particular interest in her.

John farmed the land which bordered the Winter estate on its eastern side. The thought of escaping domestic service and becoming the wife of a farmer was a delightful daydream she dared to indulge. She watched him as he discussed the week’s order with Mr. Hodges. Some characteristic in his bearing reminded her of her beloved father, lost to the war when she was just eight years old. From just that resemblance alone she knew him to be a good man, for surely no man who reminded her of her father could possibly be bad.

The drinks made, Mr. Hodges passed the tray to May, who, smiling a silent apology to John, picked it up carefully and made her way back up the servants’ stairs to take the refreshments to the women above.

*