After the War Is Over (18 page)

“That smells horrid,” he said as she advanced with his breakfast tray.

“Only because you’ve been starving yourself. You should be glad it isn’t bread and
milk.”

“God help me.”

“Is there anywhere you might eat properly?”

“There’s a table in the drawing room next door,” he admitted.

“Lead the way.”

It was just as dark there, though the air was a trifle fresher, and as Edward picked
at his food and grumbled about the absence of coffee she busied herself by opening
both of the room’s large windows, though she was careful to draw the draperies almost
shut once she’d finished.

She pulled out the table’s other chair, sat down, and stared at him, trying to assess
what she observed in a strictly clinical fashion. She saw a man so thin that his clothes
hung upon him. Skin that was dreadfully pale. Eyes sunken by dehydration and shadowed
with pain. Hands that shook as they reached for a piece of toast or lifted the teacup.

She said nothing, only waited and watched him eat a few bites of toast, one or two
spoonfuls of egg. Not enough to sustain a two-year-old child, but it was a start.

“There,” he said, pushing his chair back from the table. “Are you happy now?”

“I am pleased. When was the last time you ate a decent meal?”

“I can’t remember.”

“When did you last venture outside? Feel sunlight on your face?”

He shrugged and began to fuss with a button at the cuff of his shirt.

She heard a motorcar pulling to a stop on the street below, and then the muffled noises
of arrival and welcome in the front hall. Footsteps on the stairs, taken two at a
time from the sound of it, then Robbie appeared at the door, his doctor’s bag in hand.

“Hello, Charlotte. Hello, Edward. Up with the larks today, hmm?”

“Bugger off.”

“Here’s the aspirin you wanted,” Robbie said, and pressed a bottle into her hand.

Charlotte poured Edward a fresh cup of tea and handed him two tablets. “Swallow these.
You can wash them down with your tea. Doctor’s orders.”

“Have you finished your breakfast?” Robbie asked.

“As much as I can stomach.”

“Good. Charlotte, would you mind waiting in Edward’s bedchamber while I examine him?”

“Not at all.”

She knew Lilly was downstairs, waiting for news, but she wanted to be nearby in case
she was needed. So she busied herself with nursely duties: stripping the bed, opening
the windows wide, and collecting a mountain of dirty dishes, empty brandy bottles,
and overflowing ashtrays in the only available receptacle, an empty hearth bucket.
Carrying this downstairs to the kitchens, she exchanged it for a set of fresh sheets
from a startled and apologetic Mr. Andrews.

“I used to be a nurse,” she explained. “I can make a bed in no time at all.”

By the time Robbie called for her to return, perhaps a half hour later, Edward’s bedchamber
was in perfect order, if not as clean as it ought to be. But then the poor housemaids
likely had been banished from the room for months.

“It’s impossible to be certain without doing a series of X-rays,” Robbie began, “but
I suspect that you have, in addition to your other, more obvious injuries, a skull
fracture that has healed indifferently, a degree of whiplash to the upper cervical
spine, and almost certainly the remnants of a severe concussion. How severe, it’s
impossible to tell at this late juncture, but I think it serious enough to have kept
you bedridden for months even if your leg had remained uninjured.”

Robbie turned to Charlotte. “Was this what you suspected?” She nodded. He heaved a
great sigh and rubbed at his temples.

“This is all my fault. In my eagerness to bring you home I never considered a physiological
explanation for your troubles. The physicians in Belgium never said anything about
a head injury, and fool that I am, I never thought to ask. I am more sorry than I
can ever say.”

“Don’t apologize. I forbid it.” Edward leaned forward and grasped hold of Robbie’s
near hand. “Do you hear me? You have nothing to be sorry for.
Nothing
.”

“May I ask what made you consider traumatic neurasthenia?” Robbie asked Charlotte.

“It was his persistent headaches and dizziness. Of course it could have been a host
of other things, but we saw it often enough at the hospital. Men whose nervous shock
was overlaid by concussion.”

“It’s been more than a year,” Edward said quietly. “Will I never recover?”

Charlotte looked to Robbie, but he seemed content for her to answer. “I believe you
will, but the truth is that you have been making it worse. Everything you do, and
have done since you returned home, is interfering with your recovery. Shall I tell
you the only cure for something like this?”

“Go on.”

“It’s an old-fashioned rest cure. Perfect quiet and calm until you are recovered.”

“I’d rather be dead than go to a sanatorium. I swear it, Charlotte.”

“Who said anything about a sanatorium? What you need is nothing more complicated than
fresh air, nourishing food, exercise, and plenty of sleep. And quiet. Above all you
require quiet.”

“Up north, perhaps?” Robbie asked.

“Not Cumbermere Hall. Mama would install herself and badger me from dawn to dusk.”

“Think of your estates. Isn’t there anywhere you could go?”

“What about Cawdale Cottage?” Robbie suggested.

Edward closed his eyes and let his head fall back against one wing of his chair. “It
might do.”

“Cawdale Cottage?” Charlotte asked, though admittedly she was no expert on the smaller
properties on the Cumberland estates.

“My bolt-hole when I was younger and needed some peace and quiet. I haven’t been there
in years.”

“Let me telephone the estate manager,” Robbie suggested. “He’ll know if it’s been
kept up.”

“Wait a moment. Who will go with you? You can’t do this alone,” Charlotte said.

“Mr. Andrews?”

“Thank you, Robbie, but no. I am fond of the man, but if his face were all I had to
look upon I should expire after the first day.”

“Perhaps we could hire a—

“You, Charlotte. I’ll do it if you accompany me.”

If he had slapped them across the face, one after the other, he couldn’t have shocked
them more.

“She couldn’t possibly—”

“You can’t ask such a thing of—”

“I’ll get Lilly.” This from Robbie, who practically ran out of the room to fetch his
wife.

Once again Edward had confounded them all. Rather than mulishly refuse help, as she’d
been certain, he was accepting it—with one impossible condition.

“I can’t do it,” she said at last.

“You can.”

Lilly came in and sat next to her on the sofa. “So. Robbie has explained everything,
though I’m not certain why you’re insisting on Charlotte. Can’t we hire a nurse to
accompany you? Or perhaps an ex-RAMC medic?”

“No. It’s Charlotte or nothing.”

“But why, Edward? You’ll be turning her life upside down.”

“Not necessarily. Her Miss Rathbone has been accommodating in the past. I don’t see
why she’ll balk at this.”

“It may take weeks. Months. It isn’t fair of you to ask.”

“I know it. God help me, I do. But I won’t go without Charlotte.”

“Charlotte?” Robbie prompted. “If you were able to arrange a leave, would you do this
for him? We’d ensure you were paid in the interim, of course.”

“I don’t care about that,” she said. “It’s only . . . what if word got out? That he
and I were alone in that cottage? I doubt even Miss Rathbone would have me back then.”

“No one would have to know,” Lilly said. “We could arrange for provisions to be delivered.
John Pringle would help.”

“And the cottage is remote?”

“Exceedingly so,” Edward answered.

Still Charlotte hesitated. Not to anyone, not even Lilly, could she voice her truest,
deepest fear: that in helping Edward to restore his future, she would lose her own.

She looked him in the eye, though it hurt her to do so. “Edward, I—”

“I would kneel before you, Charlotte, if there were a prayer of my getting up again.”

“Don’t.”

“I’m at your mercy. I need you.”

“Stop. All of you
stop,
just for a moment. If I agree, and I’m not saying I will, but if I do, you must accept
whatever measures I impose.”

“Understood.”

“That includes no drink. Of any kind.”

He swallowed hard. “Agreed.”

“If at any point you reject my treatment, or refuse to comply with any of the measures
I impose, I will leave immediately.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. Will you help me?”

It was madness, the acutest form of self-delusion, to imagine that she could spend
weeks alone in his company and not be forever changed. It was impossible to remain
unaffected by his charm, his kindness, his easy grace, even his maddeningly blinkered
view of the world.

That day in Oxford when they’d first met, so long ago now, he had crashed into her—and
she was still reeling, never to be sure of herself again.

“Yes, Edward. I will help you.”

A
month’s leave, you say?”

“If not more. His recovery is still so uncertain. His family has asked me to accompany
him on a rest cure.”

Miss Rathbone didn’t seem so much perturbed as mystified by Charlotte’s request. “And
you say he will allow no one else to nurse him?”

“I’m afraid Lord Cumberland is quite intransigent. He’s had a very bad time of it,
you see, and he’ll only accept someone he trusts as his nurse.”

There had been no recourse but to tell her employer the truth, or at least most of
it. Miss Rathbone already knew of her connections with the Cumberland family, so it
was a straightforward enough matter to explain that Edward’s health had taken a turn
for the worse and required a period of convalescence.

“If you feel you must dismiss me, I understand.”

“Of course not. You are far too indispensable. As such, I am prepared to make do without
you for a month if I can be sure you’ll return.”

“You can, Miss Rathbone. Of that I am certain.”

“Excellent.”

“The Cumberland family has offered to cover my wages while I am gone. I ought to have
said so already.”

“How very kind of them. I’m sure we can put the money to good use. When were you thinking
of leaving?”

“Not until the end of the week, and only then if everything here is arranged perfectly.
Perhaps I might train up Gwen Vickers to take over some of my duties? Miss Petrie
could easily take responsibility for anything directly involving constituents.”

Miss Rathbone steepled her hands beneath her chin and thought for a moment. “No. Gwen
is very good, but she’s only been here a matter of months. I’d rather you ask Miss
Margison. She knows the workings of the office better than almost anyone.”

Charlotte acquiesced, for what else could she do? Instruct Miss Rathbone on the running
of her own office? So she nodded, and agreed that it was for the best, and said she
would show Miss Margison where everything was before Friday was at an end.

Of course she put it off for as long as possible, working late each night so that
nothing would be left half done. Friday dawned, and her desk was nearly clear.

She went to the woman’s desk, in the big room where all the clerk typists sat, and
cleared her throat lightly. “Excuse me, Miss Margison. Might you have some time to
go over things with me before I leave?”

“Oh, right. You’re off on holiday, aren’t you?”

“Not on holiday, no. A leave of absence.”

“All right for some.”

Never had Charlotte experienced such a punishingly penitential
day. With every new file that she opened, every binder of meeting notes that needed
to be transcribed, every letter that required a response, Miss Margison’s expression
grew more and more smug, presumably from the satisfaction of seeing so much work left
undone.

Of course she had no notion of the true burden of Charlotte’s duties, for she’d never
had to go into people’s homes and speak to them of their troubles, or go cap in hand
in search of aid for those same families. Sitting at her typewriter all day, her mind
preoccupied by petty jealousies and resentments, a woman like Miss Margison could
not possibly understand the sort of work Charlotte did.

She stopped by the
Herald
’s offices on her way home, knowing that John would be at his desk until ten or eleven
that night. He already knew she was going away, for she’d written to him at the beginning
of the week. But it seemed only right to speak to him directly, and assure him that
her column would not be delayed.

“You did receive my letter?”

“I did. It’s a family friend who has taken ill, you say?”

“Yes. He was injured during the war, but has recently suffered a relapse. I’ve offered
to supervise his recovery.”

“That is kind of you.”

“His family has been very good to me,” she said, wincing a little. That was rather
too close to a lie for comfort.

“Will you write to me while you’re away? Not simply about your work, but to let me
know how you’re getting on? I ask as your friend, that’s all.”

“I know.”

“I, ah . . . well, I might as well admit that I did hope, when we were first becoming
acquainted, that we might one day become
more than friends. We get on so well together, you see . . .”

“I do. I felt that way, too,” she admitted. “And I did try. I promise I did.”

“Don’t look so mournful, Charlotte. I ought not to have said anything.”

“I don’t mind, not at all. As long as we remain friends.”

“We will. Of that I am certain. Will you stay and have a cup of tea with me?”

“I should love to, but I leave first thing tomorrow.”

“When you’re back, then.”

“Of course. Good-bye, John. I’ll see you when I return.”

“Farewell, Charlotte. Good luck.”

S
HE WAS MORE
forthcoming with her friends at the boardinghouse. They knew that Lilly’s brother,
wounded during the war, was experiencing a relapse, and that she was going to Cumbria
to nurse him there. Unlike her colleagues at work, they also knew that Lilly’s brother
was a young, handsome, and exceedingly wealthy earl. Norma all but swooned at the
romantic possibilities this presented.

“It’s like something out of a film.” She sighed. “‘Injured war hero finds a reason
to live in the caring arms of his nurse.’”

Well-meaning words, so why did they feel like a stiletto jabbing between her ribs?
“Please don’t talk like that of him. Lord Cumberland is my friend and nothing more.”

“Besides, anyone who thinks we nurses are constantly falling in love with our patients
should walk a day in our shoes,” said Rosie. “It’s hard to look at a man with stars
in your eyes after you’ve emptied his bedpan.”

“Rosalind
Murdoch
.”

“Sorry, Miss Margaret. I was just trying to prove a point.”

“Have you finished packing yet?” Norma asked. “Don’t forget to take something for
the evening. They all dress for dinner, you know.”

The notion of her and Edward, dressed to the nines as they ate their supper in a tiny
country kitchen, was comical enough to make her smile. “We won’t be dining formally.
But thank you for the suggestion.”

With her doing the cookery, their meals would be far from the gourmet fare that usually
graced Edward’s table. She knew the basics, for her mother had been adamant that Charlotte
learn some rudimentary cooking skills before she went to university, but it had been
years since she’d done anything more than butter a slice of toast.

In her small trunk there were no evening gowns, only the warmest of her frocks, the
shawl she wore when reading on cold days, her sturdiest boots, and her winter coat,
still smelling faintly of mothballs. There were her favorite books, too, some wool
and knitting needles, and enough writing paper and envelopes for dozens of letters.
If she’d forgotten anything it would be easy enough to ask John Pringle to fetch it
for her.

H
E WAS WAITING
at Penrith station when she arrived the next morning. She’d slipped away at dawn,
having said good-bye to the Misses Macleod and her friends the night before, and taken
the day’s first train north to Preston. From there it was only another two hours by
local service to Penrith.

“Good day to you, Miss Brown.”

“And to you, John Pringle. How are you?”

“Can’t say as I have any complaints.”

“And your parents?”

“Keeping well, and thanks for asking. You’ve only brought the one trunk?”

“Just this.”

“Then give it here, and let’s load it on the back.”

It joined a number of boxes and crates already in the back of his lorry, a rather
tumbledown affair that looked to have been on the roads since time immemorial, and
they set off.

“I’ll get you settled, then come on back with Lord Cumberland when his train gets
in later today.”

“I don’t mind waiting,” she protested, but he shook his head. “Only room for the two
of us here, and you’ll be wanting some time to look through the cottage.”

“I really am very grateful to you, and your family, for your help. I’m not sure what
we would have done otherwise.”

“No need to thank me. Lord Cumberland needs us, and that’s that.”

Although John Pringle wasn’t the most talkative of men, he was happy to tell her about
his work at the garage in Penrith, his vegetable garden, and the new strain of dahlia
he was planning to show at the county fair at the end of the month.

“How long have you been at the garage?” she asked.

“A little more than four years. Ever since . . . well, you remember. The bother with
his lordship’s parents.”

What had she been thinking to ask such a question? The bother to which he referred
had been his summary dismissal, which included the loss of his tied cottage, when
Lady Cumberland had discovered that he had taught Lilly how to drive. Edward had found
John Pringle a job at the garage, and Lilly had sold her jewelry to buy him a cottage
of his own, so he and
his family had escaped destitution. But still. Reminding the poor man of such a sorry
period was inexcusable.

“Do forgive me for mentioning it.”

“I don’t mind. We’re better off where we are, even if we do have to live among town
folk.”

“Are we far from the cottage?”

“Not far. It’s right at the northern edge of his lordship’s estate. We’ll be at the
turnoff in a minute or two.”

“Was the cottage in poor condition? Lord Cumberland said he hadn’t been there in years.”

“It was all right. Estate manager had kept an eye on it. Needed a good scrub, top
to bottom, so I got in my sister to help with that. Cut back the garden, too. Thought
you might like to sit out on fair days.”

They turned onto a secondary road, its gravel worn thin, and continued south for about
a mile. John Pringle slowed the lorry almost to a crawl, and then directed the vehicle
through a narrow gap in the hedgerow. Fruit-laden brambles arched over the lane, brushing
at the sides of the lorry, their sun-warmed berries fragrant and infinitely tempting.
She would have to bring a basket and collect some for after supper.

“Do you know who lived here originally?” she asked.

“Can’t say as I do. Someone who liked his peace and quiet, that’s for certain.”

The lane curved to the right, and as it straightened out, and the brambles thinned,
she caught a glimpse of the cottage. Its steep-pitched slate roof arched low over
deep-set windows, and its rough stone walls had once been whitewashed. Closer still,
and she saw the stream beyond, rushing headlong to the depths of the Ullswater, and
the late-summer blooms that were massed against the cottage’s sheltering southern
wall.

“You go ahead and have a look around,” John Pringle told her. “I’ll bring in your
trunk and these here supplies.”

There was no lock on the door, only an old-fashioned latch. She went in, wiping her
feet carefully, and inspected her home for the next month. To her left was the kitchen,
to her right was the sitting room, and straight ahead was a steep flight of stairs.
Would Edward be able to manage? If not, she supposed they could set up a bed for him
in the sitting room.

She went into the kitchen and heaved a sigh of relief when she saw the relatively
modern coal-fired range. There was running water, too, although it came from a pump
next to the sink and not a faucet. A building of this age wouldn’t have a WC, she
realized, and when she looked out the back door her suspicions were confirmed by the
outhouse some yards distant. She would have to make sure there was a chamber pot set
up in Edward’s room.

John Pringle came into the kitchen. “Everything in order? I made sure the chimneys
are clean and the range is working properly. The coal bin’s in the shed, and there’s
wood for the sitting room fire stacked against the back wall.”

“Everything is perfect. Please thank your sister for all her hard work.”

“She made sure you’ve all the food you’ll be needing, and my mum made up a pot of
soup for you. Just so’s you wouldn’t have to cook tonight.”

“How very kind.”

“I carried up your trunk. Put it in the smaller room, if that’s all right with you.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll be by tomorrow with fresh milk and a newspaper for Lord Cumberland. When you
need anything laundered, give it to me and my sister will do it.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Best be on my way. Just in case his lordship decided to catch an earlier train. I’ll
see you again in a bit.”

Charlotte went upstairs and unpacked her things, brushed her hair, and then pulled
out her old nursing apron and put it on, though it was very creased and would never
have passed inspection by any nursing sister worth her salt. She was going to do some
baking.

As a child, she had loved making currant scones with her mother. Duckie, as Charlotte
always called their housekeeper, hadn’t minded their occasional forays into her domain,
secure in the knowledge that her own confections were unlikely to suffer in comparison.
They had always made scones, never anything else, but that was part of the fun. Knowing
exactly what ingredients they would need, teasing Mother when she pretended to forget
the currants, getting flour all over her pinafore as they rolled and cut the scones.

She found everything she needed quite easily, and as the range was already lighted
she only had to add a small amount of coal to heat up the oven. In no time at all
she’d made the scones and put them in to bake, washed up the dishes she’d dirtied,
and cut enough Michaelmas daisies and astilbes from the beds outside to fill two small
pitchers. One of these she set on Edward’s bedside table; the other on the kitchen
table, where they would take their meals.

The scones were out of the oven and cooling on a rack set over the draining board
when she heard the rumble of an engine. She went to the door and saw that Edward had
already alighted from the lorry. As she watched, he and John Pringle shook hands,
and then the latter drove away.