After the War Is Over (27 page)

Her father furrowed his brow, not quite understanding, or perhaps he did understand
and wished very much that he didn’t.

“Lilly’s brother. Lord Cumberland,” she admitted, and she winced at the look of horror
and dismay on her father’s face.
He knew, after all, that she had recently spent a month with Edward. Thank goodness
he was ignorant of the precise circumstances.

“No, Father, you mustn’t think that. Edward is an honorable man.”

“But he is engaged to be married, is he not?”

“He was. Not anymore.”

“Do you believe he loves you?” her father asked.

“I know he does.”

“Then why . . . ?”

She knew what he was thinking. “It’s not that. He does know you adopted me, but that’s
all. He certainly doesn’t think me unworthy in any way. The problem is that his father
left the estate in some disarray, and so Edward needs to marry someone who can fill
the family coffers.”

“Oh, my dear,” her father whispered, and in that moment he looked every bit as miserable
as she felt. “In all my life I have never wanted to be a rich man, not once, not until
this moment. I am so sorry, my darling. So very sorry.”

“I’ll be all right,” she promised him, and set her head against his shoulder. “It
is something, after all, to know that one is loved. But please don’t tell Mother.
Better if she thinks me married to my work.”

“It will be our secret,” he said, and if his voice shook a little Charlotte pretended
not to notice. “Shall we walk by the gatehouse and see if the swans are being fed?
I remember how you used to love watching them ring their bell and wait for their dinner.”

“Yes, please. And, Father?”

“Yes?”

“I hope I haven’t disappointed you.”

“Never, my dear. You and your mother are the lights of my life. Never forget that.”

T
HE NEXT DAY
, as was their tradition every year, her parents attended the bishop’s Boxing Day
luncheon, and since Charlotte was visiting an invitation had been extended to her
as well. As soon as they were seated it became apparent that her mother and the bishop’s
wife had been talking about Charlotte’s future, for eligible bachelors had been placed
at both her left and right.

Of the two, Charlotte far preferred Daniel Heydon, a widowed curate from the nearby
church of St. Cuthbert, to the young and ridiculously self-important deacon from Bath,
seated to her right, whose name she forgot almost immediately. Mr. Heydon was intelligent
and curious, and not only listened to her but also asked reasonable and informed questions
about her work.

She was friendly and warm to Mr. Heydon, though she excused herself from a visit to
St. Cuthbert by explaining that she was leaving early the next morning and felt, at
least for this visit, that she needed to remain with her parents.

As soon as they had returned home, Mother marched into the kitchen, put on an apron,
and began to make biscuits. Soon she was kneading the dough with such vigor that flour
flew in clouds around the kitchen.

“Mother, don’t. The biscuits will be as hard as roof tiles if you keep on like that.”

“It’s either this or I will shout at you, Charlotte. As I’ve never once shouted at
you, I prefer to make biscuits.”

“What have I done?” Charlotte asked, though she knew full well.

“Leaving aside your behavior at luncheon today—I know Rupert Lewis can be tiresome,
but Daniel Heydon is a dear man, you know he is—I simply don’t understand what you
want.”

“I had a perfectly agreeable conversation with Mr. Heydon.”

“I’m not talking about luncheon. I’m talking about your
life
. What normal woman doesn’t want a husband and children? Your father and I admire
the work you do, but neither of us expects you to sacrifice yourself at some . . .
some altar of charity.”

“Nor do I. But work offers my best chance at happiness. Please don’t cry, Mother.”

She came around the kitchen table, and, taking her mother’s hands in her own, led
her to the chairs at its far end. Once they were both seated, she pulled a handkerchief
from her pocket and wiped away her mother’s floury tears.

“I did not set out on this path deliberately, you know. My life led me to it, and
I cannot regret any of the decisions I made along the way. Of all people, you and
Father know why I feel compelled to do this sort of work. You know why I am happy
for it to be everything to me. Were it not for the kindness of strangers, what would
have become of me?”

“I know. But I can’t help but worry. I’ve been so happy in my own marriage, and I
only want the same for you. I want you to have the joy of a child you may call your
own. I only wish the same happiness for you.”

“I know, Mother, but happiness may be achieved in many different ways. And I
am
happy,” she promised. “Shall we try to bake those biscuits, or would it be best to
start over?”

“I suppose if we ladle on enough jam your father will never know the difference,”
her mother said, sniffling a little.

“There you have it. I’ll put the kettle on, too, and we’ll have biscuits and jam and
some of Duckie’s fruitcake. Who could ask for anything more?”

She had fibbed to her mother, but only to spare her further hurt. She might not be
happy at present, but Charlotte had every intention of being happy one day. She had
the memory of it, which helped, and she had family and friends who loved her. It was
more than enough, and more than many others had.

It would be enough.

Liverpool, England

April 1920

H
urry up, everyone—I daren’t be late!”

It was half past seven already and she was meant to be going onstage at eight o’clock.
They’d have left a quarter hour before if Norma hadn’t gone back to change her hat
twice. What was the girl thinking? It wasn’t as if she’d end up dancing with one of
the trade unionists.

“Calm down, calm down. We’re almost there. The Davy Lou is just at the next corner,”
Norma reassured her. “How are you feeling? Nervous?”

“A little,” Charlotte admitted.

In early March one of her columns had caused a sensation among readers. A passionate
defense of trade unions, it had ended with a plea to the unions that they not marginalize
women workers, and in its wake she’d been invited to address the Easter Congress of
the Liverpool Trades Union Council. It had all been arranged through John and the
newspaper, so she was fairly certain of a warm reception, but she couldn’t help feeling
a little unsettled. There were bound to be a lot of
people in the theater at the David Lewis building, and not all of them would be keen
to hear what she had to say.

“I was there for a show at Christmas,” Norma said, “and there must have been a
thousand
people in the audience. That theater is enormous—”

“Norma, do you want Charlotte to keel over in the street? Look at her face,” Rosie
cautioned.

“You’ll be fine,” Meg said, coming closer so she might take Charlotte’s arm. “You’ll
have all those men under your spell in no time at all.”

They rounded the corner of Upper Parliament Street and turned onto the open triangle
of Great George Place. Looming over the other buildings was the inescapable and faintly
stolid redbrick mass of the David Lewis Hostel and Club, otherwise known as the Davy
Lou.

John and Miss Rathbone were waiting for her just inside the door. She only had time
for a quick embrace from each of her friends before they hurried inside the theater
and she was led, feeling ever so slightly like a lamb to the slaughter, to a parlor
where she and the other speakers for the evening had been asked to gather.

“We’ve still got some time,” John explained. “They’re finishing off some resolutions
now, so the speeches won’t start for a quarter hour at least. How are you feeling?”

“A little apprehensive,” she admitted. “I’ve never spoken in front of such a large
gathering.”

“I feel certain you will be splendid, and I know Eleanor does as well.”

“Quite,” said Miss Rathbone. “If you feel at all anxious, simply pick a face in the
audience and speak directly to him or her. That’s what I always do, and I never feel
the slightest hint of nerves.”

Of course she didn’t; nothing and no one could ever make Miss Rathbone nervous. But
Charlotte smiled, and thanked her, and prayed that the tightness at the back of her
throat didn’t mean she was about to be sick.

“Do you want anything to drink?” John asked. “I’m sure they could fetch you a cup
of tea.”

“No, thank you. I think I might just read through my speech one last time.”

“It’s still a version of your column?”

“Yes. Since that’s the point of my coming here, to try and ensure that women’s concerns
aren’t swept aside, I thought I should cleave to that subject.”

“Perfect. I’ll leave you to it.”

She read through it once, then a second time, and soon felt a little steadier. As
soon as she had folded her speech back into her handbag, Miss Rathbone approached
and asked if she might introduce Charlotte to the evening’s other speakers, all of
them senior members of the Trades Union Council. She shook their hands and thanked
them for inviting her and promptly forgot every last one of their names.

Moments later an usher, or perhaps it was the theater manager, led all of them out
of the parlor—the green room, he called it—and along a dark hall, and then quite unexpectedly
onto the stage itself. They were seated on a row of chairs, right under the hideously
hot and blinding lights, and within seconds Charlotte felt perspiration gathering
at her temples and nape. If only she’d allowed Norma to powder her face before they’d
left.

It had been agreed that John would introduce her, so he went to the lectern at the
front of the stage, and then, finding it not to his liking, stood to one side and
waited for the
audience to fall silent. He was perfectly at ease, entirely in his element, and it
struck her, then, that he ought to run for Parliament. A Britain run by men like John
Ellis would be a fine place indeed.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is John Ellis, and I am the editor in
chief of the
Liverpool Herald
.” He paused for the round of applause this provoked, waiting patiently until the
hall was silent again.

“Thank you very much. I have come here tonight to introduce a young woman whose name,
I believe, will be recognizable to those among you who are regular readers of the
Herald
.

“Nearly a year ago, I received a letter from Miss Charlotte Brown. She spoke of the
suffering she was witnessing among the people who came to her office in search of
help, and she asked me to give voice to their troubles. She wished for them to be
heard. I was so impressed by her letter that, on the spot, I offered her a weekly
column in my newspaper. To my great relief she agreed, and in the ten months since
she has never once disappointed me.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my very great honor, and my distinct pleasure, to introduce
Miss Charlotte Brown to the members of the Liverpool Trades Union Council.”

While John had been speaking, Charlotte had removed her gloves and extracted her speech
from her handbag. Leaving the bag on her chair, she walked across the stage, shook
John’s hand, and stood behind the lectern. It was several inches too tall for her;
she could barely see across it. So she did as John had done: she moved to the side
and looked out across the theater. It was packed full—nearly a thousand people, Norma
had said. She swallowed once, twice, and waited for her nerves to settle and the pounding
heartbeat in her ears to fade.

People were looking at her expectantly, though, and the theater was perfectly silent.
She would have to begin.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you, Mr. Ellis, for your most gracious
introduction. I will add only that it is my honor to be associated with your newspaper,
and that I am deeply grateful to you for having given me a platform for my thoughts
and concerns.

“As some of you may know, I work as a constituency assistant to Miss Eleanor Rathbone,
and though the scope of my work is varied, I daily encounter people who, through no
fault of their own, have fallen on hard times and need help of one sort or another.”
She drew a deep breath; it really was going well so far.

“As a result of my work, it has become clear—”

“What’s a toff like you to know about our problems? Who are
you
to speak for us?” came a voice from the crowd.

An outburst of jeers and catcalls followed from other members of the audience, which
blessedly seemed directed at the man who had interrupted her. He was not cowed. Instead
he glared at her, his arms crossed, his expression angrily defiant.

At length the theater fell silent again, those who had been standing took their seats,
and Charlotte knew she had to answer. What, indeed, gave her the right to speak out?
Simply to assume she possessed such a right would be to cast in her lot with those
very people who stood on the backs of the poor and ignored their existence.

Yet to admit the truth of it, to answer honestly, would be to broadcast a secret to
which only her parents and a few family friends in Wells were privy. None of her own
friends knew, not even Lilly, for she had
decided long ago never to speak of it. It was so long ago she couldn’t remember why,
exactly, she had decided to shut it away. Most likely she had been worried that her
parents might be embarrassed.

If they were here tonight, though, what would they tell her to do? Would they tell
her to hem and haw and conjure up some mealymouthed explanation that justified her
presence on the stage? Or would they tell her to do what she knew was right?

“I believe I owe the gentleman in the audience an answer. Who am I? How can I possibly
claim to understand such suffering? My answer is simple: I understand because I have
lived it myself. I, too, have suffered, and I do know what it is like.

“Yes, I attended the University of Oxford. And, yes, when I speak I sound as if I
were born with the proverbial silver spoon in my mouth. But the truth is quite different.
The truth is that I spent the first four years of my life in the dockside slums of
Bristol.”

The theater was now so silent that she scarcely had to raise her voice. “I was abandoned
in Wells Cathedral when I was four years old. I was dirty and starving and I only
knew my first name. It was Bridget, by the way.

“The people who found me, Laurence and Davina Brown, later became my adoptive parents.
They had always wanted a child of their own, and to them, I suppose, the wretched
four-year-old they found, asleep on a pew in the choir, must have seemed like a gift
from God. It took some time for the authorities to find where I’d come from, and all
that while I stayed with them, with my new parents, and in the fullness of time they
adopted me.

“My mother had vanished, but the story unearthed by the authorities was a tragic one.
Her neighbors told of how she had taken to drink after my father had died. She was
Irish,
Catholic, friendless and alone in a foreign country, and no one would employ her.
No one would give her any help. So she had taken me from Bristol, where we had been
living, to Wells Cathedral, for reasons we will never know. She left me with the clothes
I was wearing and a ragged blanket. There was no note, likely because she didn’t know
how to read or write. And then she disappeared. I will never know what became of her.

“I had a very happy childhood. My adoptive parents were loving and kind and everything
that good parents ought to be. They cherished me, and my ambitions, and paid for my
education.

“Today I live an easy life—I freely admit it. I am paid well for the work I do, I
live in a lovely home, I am never hungry, and I rarely have to go without anything
I want.

“But I still remember, nearly thirty years after the fact, what it was like to be
cold and hungry and alone. I recall how my mother would disappear for hours at a time,
and how there was never anything to eat. I recall how cold my feet were, always so
cold, because I didn’t have any shoes. I remember what it was like to be utterly helpless.

“It is my belief—and in this I am certain you agree with me—that no child should live
like that, nor any woman or man. So that is why I do the work I do, and that is why
I presume to speak on behalf of those who have nothing.”

She had . . . she could think of nothing else to say. So she took a step back, and
then another, and waited for someone to fracture the deadening silence that had fallen
over the hall. She would almost welcome jeers from the crowd, if only someone would—

The man who had challenged her stood up. He began to clap, and within seconds everyone
else was on their feet, their
applause and shouts of “hear, hear” so deafening that she couldn’t hear anything else.

She felt a hand on her arm, and turned her head to see that it was John, leading her
back to her seat so she might fetch her handbag, and then off the stage, into the
welcome dark and peace of the wings.

“Save your speech for another night,” he told her, bending close so he might speak
in her ear. “You’ve won them over, Charlotte. The next time they’ll be putty in your
hands.”

She nodded, knowing he was right, and in any case quite certain that she was done
with public speaking forever and ever. She looked out at the audience one last time,
hoping to fix the moment in her memory. It was far easier to see, standing here, than
it had been onstage with all the lights shining in her face. In the gallery, in the
top row, she found her friends, standing and applauding madly for her. And then she
spied a flash of fair hair at the very back of the theater.

Could it be? She shaded her eyes with her hand, squinting against the glare that made
it so difficult to see through her spectacles. The man was so far away, yet she recognized
the way he stood, the way he carried himself, even the way he was smiling so broadly.

“John—there’s someone I know in the audience,” she protested, but instead he took
her arm and led her to the green room.

“Sorry about that—I couldn’t hear a thing back there. Why don’t you sit down for a
moment? May I fetch you a glass of sherry?”

Miss Rathbone, who had been right behind them, shook her hand and then, for the first
time in all their acquaintance, she
embraced Charlotte. “You were magnificent. Simply magnificent.”

“Wasn’t she? Here you are, Charlotte. Down that and you’ll feel better in no time.
Would you like a sherry, Eleanor?”

“Yes, please.”

“Have you ever heard such a reaction? I think it quite unprecedented.”

Charlotte wanted very much to join in their conversation, but her thoughts were still
in the theater, still focused on the man she had seen at the very back, all but invisible,
standing in the shadows.

“As I was leaving the stage,” she interrupted, “I spotted an old friend in the crowd.
I should so like to see if he is still there.”

“They’ve started up the speeches again,” John answered, “so I’d say you’re best to
stay here. But if you wait for a while he’ll probably come to you.”

It did make sense, so she accepted her glass of sherry and, sipping at it, waited
for an usher to come and tell her that a man was waiting at the theater door and would
like to see her. An usher did come, but it was only to admit Rosie, Norma, and Meg,
who were perfectly happy to accept their own glasses of sherry and wait with her in
the green room until all the evening’s speeches were done.