On a Cold Dark Sea

by Elizabeth Blackwell

  Charlotte may not have been a real widow, but she lived as one, knowing the “Mrs.” gave her a social standing she’d never have as a “Miss.” Her sham marriage came in especially helpful during the war, when she interviewed other women who’d lost their husbands and occasionally joined in their tears. Charlotte wrote far too many stories of young men snatched from their families too soon, as she desperately tried to conjure heroics from youthful promise and the Flemish mud where the young soldiers had died. In time, she suffered her own loss, a young officer who left for the front before her usual disillusionment set in. She knew she was mourning the idea of him more than the man himself, who would have inevitably disappointed or bored her. But that didn’t make her sorrow any less real.

  Teddy, somewhat unexpectedly, made a name for himself as a fearless war correspondent, a reputation that led to his appointment as the Record’s editor in 1925. He gave Charlotte her own column and a substantial raise, and suddenly “Mrs. Evers Reports” became required daily reading for anyone who wanted to vicariously savor—while outwardly condemning—the outrageous behavior of the so-called bright young things. Scandalous divorces, young heirs fighting over Grandpapa’s fortune, secret love children and paid-off mistresses—Charlotte wrote about them all with witty panache. The disillusioned youth of the 1920s were a never-ending source of material.

  Charlotte transformed herself with the times, the fustiness of her Edwardian youth giving way to Art Deco sleekness. Her curly, once-tempestuous hair was subdued into sleek marcel waves, her lace-trimmed shirtwaists and petticoats abandoned in favor of sharp wool suits. As she passed through her thirties into her early forties, Charlotte lost her appetite for shape-shifting. She bought a flat in Belgravia, cultivated a circle of artistic friends, and settled into her role as the Record’s tartly amusing social columnist. No one ever asked about Mr. Evers. Like Charlotte, her companions had turned resolutely away from the past.

  It was impossible to escape that past completely, of course, not when one’s job depended on keeping up with the news of the day. From time to time, Charlotte would read about one of her fellow lifeboat passengers: Mr. Wells, the surly fireman, who was killed in the Battle of Jutland in 1916; or the old woman, Mrs. Dunning, who died not long after the Armistice. But Charlotte never made an effort to find out what happened to the others. Of all the people in the lifeboat, the only one she ever gave any thought to was Mr. Healy. During her first years at the Record, as she was zealously plunging into her new life, he lingered in her memory, the way an abandoned book tantalizes with its unknown ending. She’d never met another man with whom she’d felt such instant rapport. It wasn’t just his looks, though his classically handsome features had made him a favorite with the female spectators at the hearings. It was something about the man himself, a deep-rooted sense of honor that offered a ballast to Charlotte’s wayward soul. She’d find herself wondering what he was doing and whether he was still at sea. If he ever thought about the awful reckoning they’d faced on the lifeboat. Charlotte imagined Mr. Healy appearing on her doorstep and inviting her to tea, and the thought of seeing him again brought her a peaceful sort of satisfaction.

  It was wishful thinking, in any case, because Mr. Healy never did trouble himself to find her. Charlotte could have sought him out, if she wished; the White Star Line would have records on his family and his last known address. But if she did write, what would she say? All she had were memories of emotions from years before, emotions he might not welcome or share. And so, as with all well-intentioned but potentially humiliating impulses, it was easier to do nothing.

  The meeting that Charlotte had been dreading was arranged for Saturday, two days before her departure for America. The chauffeur arrived at two o’clock sharp, and Charlotte settled into the Rolls Royce’s luxuriously tranquil interior for the hour-long drive to the country. In her handbag was a letter dated November 23, 1930, typed on the engraved stationery of Grainger & Sons, Solicitors. For nearly two years, it had been lying under a pile of correspondence in the bottom drawer of her desk, its silent accusation pricking at her conscience.

  Dear Mrs. Evers,

  I am writing on behalf of my client, Lady Upton, wife of the late Frederick St. Vaughn, Lord Upton. In addition to her most recent bereavement, Lady Upton suffered the loss of her youngest son, George St. Vaughn, on the Titanic. For some time, she has wished to locate a Mr. Reginald Evers, an acquaintance of her son whose name appeared on a list of British citizens who survived the sinking. It is her hope that Mr. Evers can provide an account of Mr. St. Vaughn’s last hours.

  In the course of our inquiries, we have not been able to locate an address or record of employment for Mr. Evers, and we believe it likely he changed his name or moved abroad. However, a Mrs. Evers also appeared on the survivors’ list, and we are writing to inquire if you are the wife of Mr. Reginald Evers or otherwise related to him. If so, would you please write at your earliest convenience? Any information that assists in our search would be a great comfort to Lady Upton.

  Yours most sincerely,

  Oswald Grainger

  Charlotte hadn’t written back. How could she possibly tell Mr. Grainger what had happened to Georgie and Reg? But she hadn’t thrown the letter away, either. She told herself the St. Vaughns had nothing to do with her, and a stranger’s sorrow was none of her concern. Yet Charlotte couldn’t help but think of the poor woman, still mourning the son who had never come home. Now that she was preparing to confront her own past, it seemed unconscionably cruel to deny a grieving mother a simple act of kindness. Charlotte wasn’t prepared to admit everything; she didn’t owe Lady Upton the truth. But a few polite lies might be enough to assuage Charlotte’s guilt.

  Charlotte had been to her share of house parties, so she no longer felt a flutter of nerves as she approached The Oaks, a mansion set at the end of an intimidatingly long drive. But her previous excursions had been jolly gatherings of bon vivants and socialites who greeted each other with kisses and shouts of “Splendid!” and “Darling!” This time, she had been summoned by a stranger, with no idea of what awaited her. The important thing was to stay calm, no matter what she might be asked. Lady Upton mustn’t suspect that Georgie was anything more than a casual shipboard acquaintance.

  The chauffeur said nothing as he opened the car door and Charlotte stepped out. A butler done up in full prewar livery stood in the doorway, his face a portrait of grim resolve. He, too, was silent as Charlotte walked into the entry hall, a gloomy, wood-paneled cave in which Henry VIII would have felt right at home.

  “Lady Upton will see you in the morning room,” the butler said, his back to Charlotte as he led the way.

  Charlotte felt the disapproval coming off him like a strong cologne, and she bristled with self-righteous anger. It had been a long time since Charlotte had been subjected to such flagrant snobbery; the circles she traveled in welcomed working-class writers alongside aristocratic titles. If Lady Upton displayed the same contempt as her butler, it wouldn’t be a long visit.

  The Oaks had the hush of a museum, or a memorial to the dead. The morning room, with its oversized fireplace, worn sofas, and family photographs, was much as Charlotte expected, but Lady Upton wasn’t. Charlotte had pictured her as an aristocratic archetype, with stiff shoulders and an even stiffer upper lip. The woman who rose to greet her, however, had the weathered face and pudgy, shapeless body of a nanny or farmwife, a woman who puts more effort into her work than her appearance. She was dressed in an old-fashioned frock that grazed her ankles, and her white hair was piled in a ramshackle heap held together with diamond pins.

  “Mrs. Evers,” she said. “Thank you for coming.”

  Charlotte’s initial reservations softened. “Lady Upton. A pleasure.”

  Lady Upton wavered a moment, looking from the butler to Charlotte, then back. “We’ll take our tea,” she finally said, and as the butler walked away, she gestured toward the sofa. “Please.”

  Charlotte began to feel more at ea
se. She’d been in this situation before, interviewing old women in rooms just like this, sitting on sofas just as faded. She knew how to look fascinated when they rambled and when to nod understandingly as they complained about the latest modern outrage. She prepared herself to begin the conversation with a few pleasantries and perhaps some benign tidbits of London gossip.

  But Lady Upton surprised Charlotte again. Dispensing with polite chitchat, she spoke bluntly.

  “Mrs. Evers, I have lost everything I loved.”

  Charlotte’s eyes followed Lady Upton’s to the mantelpiece, where an array of silver frames had been precariously jumbled together. From one, she saw Georgie’s face looking back at her. It came as a physical shock. She hadn’t prepared herself for what it would be like to see him again. His eyes seemed to be staring directly at Charlotte, demanding an explanation she couldn’t give.

  “I no longer receive guests,” Lady Upton said. “I no longer go out. I live here, alone, with memories as my only companions.”

  Lady Upton stood and walked to the fireplace. She picked up the largest photograph and carried it back to Charlotte. Charlotte laid the bulky frame on her lap and looked at the figures of two boys in school uniforms, posing on The Oaks’ front drive.

  “My George and my Tom,” Lady Upton said. “The dearest boys you could imagine.”

  A maid arrived with the tea tray, and Charlotte, grateful for the interruption, put the photo aside. She had interviewed dozens of women who’d been scarred by the war, yet she had never been able to shield herself completely from their hurt. Every soldier who’d died had left an abyss of grief, spiraling out from those who loved him.

  “I’m so very sorry,” Charlotte murmured. An empty gesture, but it was important to say something, to forestall the temptation of tears.

  Lady Upton took the picture and set it tenderly on the cushion beside her, the same way she once might have settled her sons before reading them a story.

  “Sugar?” Lady Upton asked.

  Charlotte nodded, and Lady Upton poured. She offered Charlotte a plate of biscuits, and Charlotte took two, though she hardly felt like eating. The sooner she got to the heart of what Lady Upton wanted, the sooner she could leave, and already she was worried that if this meeting dragged on long enough, she’d be asked to stay for supper.

  “Your son Tom,” Charlotte said. “Was he lost in the war?”

  Lady Upton nodded. “At Ypres. Only a month after he joined up.”

  “What a terrible loss,” Charlotte said, wishing there was something more she could say, knowing there wasn’t. She hadn’t seen a photograph of a man in uniform on the mantel, but she was sure the family would have commissioned a portrait of Thomas St. Vaughn in his military finery before he went off to the front. Most likely it was by Lady Upton’s bedside, to be sobbed over each night.

  “I invited a group of his school friends here a year or so after the Armistice,” Lady Upton said. “The ones who’d survived. One fellow lost both legs at the Somme, which must have been dreadful, but he put on a good show. They all did, for my sake. It was so lovely to talk about Tom. People don’t want you to speak of the dead once they’re gone. It makes them uncomfortable. But how can you ask a mother to pretend her children never existed? The only scraps of happiness I’ve felt in ages are when I’ve been able to share memories of my boys.”

  Charlotte nodded, thinking she never should have come. She’d expected a brief, formal conversation, not this wrenchingly honest confession.

  “I grieved terribly for Tom. Of course I did. But I was prepared to lose him, from the day he left. I even expected it, though I didn’t dare say so at the time. My heart was already broken, you see, by George’s death. To lose my sweet, darling boy with no warning, and not even have a body to bury . . . it ruined me.”

  Charlotte told herself Lady Upton’s grief had nothing to do with her. But she felt the woman’s anguish leak through her armor, infecting her with guilt. “He was a delightful young man,” she said.

  Lady Upton’s face lit up. “Wasn’t he, though?”

  If Lady Upton was so keen to talk about her son, why not indulge her? It was better than watching her cry.

  “As you know, he was an acquaintance of my husband, Mr. Evers,” Charlotte continued. She had no idea how much Lady Upton knew about Reg and Georgie. Best to be circumspect. “I hadn’t met him before we sailed, but Reginald introduced us on board. I remember thinking he was one of the most handsome men I’d ever seen, but he wasn’t at all vain about his looks. Right off, he said he hoped we’d be friends.”

  In a queasy wave of remembrance, it all came back: Georgie’s puppy-dog eyes, hungry for Charlotte’s approval. His constant hovering. She’d been awful, barely able to look him in the face without scowling. But Lady Upton didn’t need to know that. Charlotte sifted through her memories, choosing the bits that presented her and Georgie in the best light, describing strolls on deck and friendly conversations over meals. Lady Upton listened raptly, as if Charlotte’s banal vignettes were a thrilling tale of suspense, for these were stories Lady Upton hadn’t worn smooth with repeated recall. They allowed her to imagine that Georgie was still making his way across the Atlantic, unseen but not yet lost.

  Charlotte even managed to make Lady Upton laugh. “I can’t believe he told you about my sister’s horse!” she said, with a disconcertingly childish giggle. “Poor Prancer. He was such a naughty one.” Then the sadness swept back in, like clouds dimming a midnight moon. “He had to be put down in the end.”

  Death and more death. Charlotte desperately tried to think of a story that would distract Lady Upton, something amusing to keep the mood light. She’d already embellished the truth beyond recognition. She was close to inventing a conversation, when Lady Upton asked with disconcerting directness, “Do you know what happened to George? At the end?”

  Finally, the question Charlotte had been dreading. She shook her head. “I left in a lifeboat, before the ship sank.”

  “With your husband?”

  “No.”

  “But he survived,” Lady Upton said.

  This is wrong, Charlotte thought. I shouldn’t mislead this poor woman. But she’d made a promise, and she feared the repercussions of breaking it.

  “He was rescued later,” Charlotte said, “by another boat.”

  “Did he tell you what happened to George?”

  Again, Charlotte shook her head, more forcefully than before. “We didn’t talk about the sinking. It was all such a shock.”

  “I understand. You mustn’t feel bad on my account. It was such a muddle for us, as well. At first, we were told George had been saved. The next day, his name was on a list in the paper, of passengers lost. It wasn’t until the rescue ship arrived in New York that we received a telegram . . .” She paused to take a shaky breath. “Even then, I kept hoping. I thought George might walk through the door and tell me it had all been the most dreadful mistake.”

  She was smiling and crying, all at once, and Charlotte felt leaden with shame. She hadn’t expected to like Lady Upton so much. It would have been so much easier if Lady Upton had been condescending and awful. Then Charlotte could have walked away knowing there was a good reason for her lies. Now, she wasn’t so sure.

  “I saw Mr. Evers’s name on the survivors list, and I wanted to write to him,” Lady Upton said. Her voice was steady, though her eyes were shiny with tears. “But my husband wouldn’t hear of it. I was allowed a month of mourning, and that was that. My husband cleared out all George’s things, and I was forbidden to speak of him, as if he’d never existed. I thought it might be for the best. That I’d recover if I didn’t brood. Then we lost Tom, and I barely cried at all. By then, I had no feelings left.

  “My husband was not an easy man to live with, but I knew my place. He made the decisions, and I did as he wished. Since his death, I’ve found myself rather adrift. I walk through this enormous house, alone, thinking of my children when they were small, rushing down the steps o
r begging me to join them for tea in the nursery. My husband would have found it all terribly self-indulgent, but it makes me happy.” Lady Upton managed a crooked smile. “Does that sound mad?”

  “No,” Charlotte said, wondering if Lady Upton was, in fact, deranged by grief.

  “I’m so glad you understand.” Lady Upton looked momentarily happy. “It’s such a consolation to be able to talk about my boys. It feels as if they’ve been returned to me, in some small way.”

  What a sorry life, Charlotte thought. Kept under the thumb of a domineering husband and forbidden from mourning her own sons. Not for the first time, Charlotte congratulated herself for never marrying.

  “The only thing that continues to trouble me is the thought of George’s final hours,” Lady Upton continued. “Not knowing how he died. I remembered about Mr. Evers and thought I’d try to find him. I directed our family solicitor to make inquiries, but Mr. Evers seems to have disappeared.” Lady Upton’s face dropped. “Oh dear, I didn’t even think to ask. Is he . . . ?”

  Charlotte’s mind raced. What should she say? It would be easiest to tell Lady Upton that Reg was dead. The conversation would be over, and Charlotte could be on her way. Instead, Charlotte found herself shrugging.

  “He’s alive, as far as I know. We’ve been estranged for some time.”

  “I hate to trouble you, it’s only—I can’t stop myself wondering what happened. We all heard such terrible stories about people freezing to death or being trapped in their staterooms, and it would be such a blessing to know he didn’t suffer. And seeing that he and Mr. Evers were particular friends . . .”

  Lady Upton gave Charlotte a quick, meaningful glance. With that one look, she told Charlotte that she knew the truth about her son and Reg. A truth she would never openly acknowledge.