After the War Is Over (29 page)

By the time Charlotte had tidied her hair and changed into her second-best blouse,
Rosie’s suit, and Meg’s hat, the taxi had arrived.

“Thank you so much,” she told Rosie. “Will you explain everything to the misses? And
the others?”

“Of course I will. Good-bye, my friend. And good luck.”

C
harlotte’s train arrived in London at just past dawn the next morning. She hadn’t
thought to go to the bank earlier in the day, so hadn’t been able to afford the fare
for a sleeper berth in first class. As a result she had passed the night dozing fitfully
in a third-class compartment, her sleep interrupted by the grunts and snores of the
large woman seated next to her.

From the train she went directly to the ladies’ cloakroom, for she badly needed to
change her blouse, wash her face, brush her teeth, and restore her hair to some kind
of order. That accomplished, she inspected her appearance in a full-length mirror
by the bank of sinks. She wasn’t at her best, her eyes ringed by shadows that her
spectacles utterly failed to hide, and the stark black of Rosie’s suit had a rather
deadening effect on her complexion. But she would do. At the very least, she looked
neat and respectable.

Her stomach was growling alarmingly, and so she decided to first have some breakfast.
What had she said to Meg on that sad evening back in December?
Once you’ve eaten, it will be much easier to think and plan.
Or something of that nature.

There were several refreshment stands in the station’s great
hall, but there was nowhere to sit apart from benches, and the first kiosk she passed
only had a row of tired-looking hot cross buns for sale. Instead, she left the hall
and entered the station’s restaurant. She had enough money left for tea and a sandwich,
and then the Underground fare to Edward’s house.

She took her time with her egg-and-cress sandwich and her cup of tea, for it wouldn’t
do to rush through her meal and end up feeling poorly for the rest of the day. It
was still early, only half past seven; surely Edward would still be at home.

But there was only so long one sandwich and one cup of tea could last, and eventually
there was nothing for it but to gather up her valise and handbag and go downstairs
to the Underground station. Before paying her fare she took a minute to study the
route map near the ticket hall’s entrance, for she wasn’t sure of the best way to
reach Chelsea. When she’d been at the hospital she had used the station at High Street
Kensington, but surely there must be other stations closer to Edward’s house.

The map wasn’t really to scale, but after inspection it seemed that Sloane Square
would be the closest. It couldn’t be that far from Cheyne Row—perhaps a half mile
or mile at the most? After all that time penned in on the train, a walk in the spring
air would do her good.

In a little more than a half hour she was running up the steps at Sloane Square. The
weather was far from glorious, for the skies were low and gray and the temperature
was unseasonably cool. It certainly wasn’t the kind of day one pictured when contemplating
a reunion with the love of one’s life.

Her knock on Edward’s door was answered almost immediately by Mr. Andrews. If he was
surprised to see her there so unexpectedly, he gave no sign of it.

“Miss Brown! Do come in. How very nice to see you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Andrews. I’m very glad to see you, as well. I was hoping to see Lord
Cumberland. If he’s in, that is.”

“I’m sorry, but he’s already left for the day.”

“Ah,” she said. She ought not to have lingered so long over her breakfast.

“He’s gone to the clinic.”

“Yes, the clinic. I’m not quite sure how to get there from here, I’m afraid.”

“Were you thinking of taking the Underground? Or a taxi?”

What should she say? That she only had money enough for one more ticket, and after
that her change purse would be empty? Perhaps she had better walk over to Lilly’s
and ask for her help.

“The thing is, Miss Brown, Lord Cumberland likes to take the Underground over to Whitechapel.
So that means his motorcar is still here. If you don’t mind waiting a minute or two
for me to bring it around, I can drive you over.”

“I couldn’t possibly impose,” she protested. “I’m sure you are very busy.”

“Not at all. And he’ll be that glad to see you, and have the chance to show you around.
He’s so proud of the clinic. Forever talking about it, he is. You sit here, and I’ll
be back in two shakes.”

“Thank you,” she said, feeling grateful beyond words. Another journey on the Underground
would have taken the starch right out of her. When was the last time she had felt
so tired?

In short order Mr. Andrews brought around the motorcar, a surprisingly modest creature
compared to the luxury vehicles Edward had once favored, and helped her into the backseat.

“It might seem a little odd, but I’m going to cross the Thames
at the Albert Bridge and then go west to Tower Bridge,” he explained. “That way we’ll
avoid the traffic in Westminster and the City.”

“Of course,” she agreed. “How far is it?”

“Well, it’s about five miles as the crow flies, but there’s no such thing as a straight
road in this city. I reckon it’s about seven miles or so. Should take us about half
an hour, depending on whether Tower Bridge is open or not. If you don’t mind my saying,
Miss Brown, you look tired. Why don’t you shut your eyes and have a rest? I’ll get
you there safe and sound.”

“You’re very kind,” she answered, although she knew she would never sleep. Instead
she imagined what she would say to Edward when she saw him.

There was the polite version, in which she asked him how he had been and if, just
perhaps, he had come to see her speech on Thursday night. There was the direct version,
in which she asked him why he had scurried away without coming to see her and, furthermore,
why he had opened a clinic for disabled servicemen. And there was the angry version,
in which she shouted at him until he admitted the truth. The truth of what, precisely,
she wasn’t sure, but he was very sorry for it. At least he was in her imagined version.

Soon they were across Tower Bridge and heading west, or at least she assumed it was
west, along a largish and quite busy road. They turned right, then right again, then
left, until she was thoroughly discombobulated and badly wished she had a compass.
Mr. Andrews pulled up at a corner, the car half blocking the street, and switched
off the engine.

“We’re here.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, peering out her window. “That looks like a grocer’s, not
a clinic.”

“Next door. The brick building, all whitewashed? That’s the one.”

“But there isn’t any sign.”

He didn’t answer directly, for he’d got out and was coming round to open her door.
“Clinic hasn’t opened yet. They’re still fitting up the insides. Do you want me to
come in with you?”

“Oh, no. No, thank you. I’ve taken up too much of your time already.”

“I’ll wait until you’re done. If you decide to stay, or Lord Cumberland has other
plans, you just let me know. But I’ll not leave you here until I know something’s
been arranged. In you go, now.” And he took her elbow and urged her out of the motorcar
and across the pavement to the clinic.

She stopped at the threshold, unsure of what to do next. The room was swarming with
workmen, some of them repairing the plaster cornices, some painting the window frames,
some scraping the floorboards. She stood there until one of the men, a painter, noticed
and approached her.

“Can I help you, miss?”

“Yes, please. I’m here to see Lord Cumberland.”

“One of the nurses come for an interview?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“He’s in his office. Go through that door and straight on to the back.”

She thanked him and walked forward, the corridor stretching by some trick of light,
or wishful thinking, into infinity. Yet all too soon she was at the end of it, and
an open door was at her left.

She took a small step, then another, until she was able to peek round the doorframe.
Edward was at his desk, immersed
in his work, surrounded by piles of ledgers and account books and a huge stack of
correspondence that had been anchored, curiously enough, with a piece of broken brick.

Charlotte stared and stared, desperate to say hello, but the word would not pass her
lips. So she simply admired him, at his too-long hair falling over his forehead and
his beautiful hands, and she noticed how the shadows had vanished from beneath his
eyes. How he had put on a little bit of weight, just enough to soften the once-gaunt
angles of his jaw and cheekbones. She saw and was glad beyond measure.

He stopped writing and put down his pen, and then he looked up and smiled at her.
“How long have you been standing there?”

“I don’t know. Not long,” she fibbed. “You look well.”

“As do you.”

“Was it you?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“You traveled all the way to Liverpool to see me, but you left without saying hello?”

“I’m sorry. I had every intention of coming to see you afterward, but then I saw .
. .”

“Yes?” She sidled a little farther into the room, still clutching her valise and handbag.

“I saw how you were with Mr. Ellis. You seemed so at ease with one another, and I
feared you might have formed an attachment to him.”

“
Edward
. If you’d come to say hello, I would have told you that John is my friend. No more
than my friend.”

“Yes, well, I know that now.”

“What is all of this?” She put down her valise and gestured sweepingly around the
room.

“The clinic?”

“I mean, I know what it
is
. I want to know
why
. How can you afford such an undertaking?”

“It’s a long story. Won’t you sit down?”

There were two chairs pulled up on the opposite side of the desk to Edward. She deposited
her handbag in one and sat in the other.

“I tried to do it. I came back to London and I set about finding a wife. I did meet
one girl, Edith Hale—”

“Lilly mentioned her. In a letter.”

He winced a little. “I assure you it didn’t go very far. Edith is terribly nice, and
I’m sure that if I’d never met you I could have married her without a second thought.
The same could be said for Helena, too. But there was one thing I couldn’t stand about
both of them.”

Lilly had said Miss Hale was very pleasant, and Charlotte had seen with her own eyes
how friendly and inoffensive Lady Helena was. “What do you mean?”

“They weren’t you.”

“Oh.”

“I moped about for a while—has Lilly told you how horrid I was at Christmas?—and then
it occurred to me that I could do with some decent advice. I’ve a terrible head for
figures, so when the solicitors and estate managers and various officials I spoke
to all swore I was on the path to ruin, I assumed they were right. I never questioned
them.”

“Who was it? The person you asked for advice?”

“Robbie. He went through everything with me, every single document, and together we
got to the bottom of it all. It took us weeks to find where all the money had gone,
and how much was left.”

“How bad was it?”

“I wouldn’t say it was good. But it was far less bad than I’d been led to believe.
I owed estate duty of a little less than three hundred and fifty thousand pounds,
whereas I’d thought I was on the hook for half a million. That was a relief.”

“I imagine so.” And yet . . . he still owed a third of a million pounds. The amount
was so colossal that she felt faint just imagining it.

“It was Robbie’s idea to next sort out what I had, and that was very much in excess
of three hundred and fifty thousand pounds. At that point it became merely a question
of selling off what I didn’t need.” Was this Edward before her, or some oddly rational
doppelgänger?

“What did your mother say to all of this?”

“She was and is very unhappy, largely because I sold Ashford House. I’ve always hated
the place, so it was surprisingly easy. I also bid adieu to my father’s dreadful hunting
lodge in Aberdeenshire, a house in Brighton none of us had ever visited, and the town
house in Bath. Then there were mountains of things in the attics at Ashford House
and Cumbermere Hall. Paintings, sculptures, some very valuable pieces of furniture.
I let my sisters and brother choose what they liked and then I sent what was left
to be auctioned off.” He looked as delighted as a schoolboy who had just figured out
a very complicated sum.

“This is . . .”

“I know. Overwhelming.”

“I feel as if I ought to lie down.”

“Be my guest. Though the floors are very dusty.”

Only then did she realize he hadn’t answered her initial question. “Why the clinic?”

“Even after all the bills are paid, and I’ve taken care of allowances
for my mother and George, I still have a ridiculous amount of money coming in. It’s
so ridiculous I’m ashamed to even say the approximate amount out loud. I mean, I’m
happy to tell you if—”

“No, don’t. Not yet.”

“Then I won’t. I will say, though, that I certainly don’t need it. So I decided—inspired
by you and your work—that I ought to do something useful with it.

“
How
I might do so was unclear until one night at the end of January. I was walking through
Sloane Square, and there was a man standing by the Underground entrance, dressed in
little more than rags, and he was begging. I handed him all the coins in my pocket,
and when he looked up to take them, I realized he was a soldier from my own company.
He’d been invalided home in 1916. He told me how he’d been denied a pension, no doubt
for some utterly indefensible reason, but couldn’t find work as he was partially lame.”

“What did you do?”

“I brought him home with me, called Robbie over to see him, and then between us we
found him a bed at St. Mary’s in Roehampton. He’s still there, and has made good progress.
It made me wonder what had happened to the other soldiers I had known. And then, when
I asked Robbie about it, he said the receiving rooms at his hospital are full of veterans.
Hundreds of men, and no one is making any concerted, organized effort to help them.”