After the War Is Over: A Novel

by Jennifer Robson

  Head down, she rounded the corner onto Oriel Street and promptly collided with a young man in cricket flannels. Stumbling badly, she would have fallen but for the steadying arm he extended toward her.

  “So sorry—”

  “Beg your pardon—”

  He straightened up, collected his cricket bat from the ground, and disappeared around the corner. And Charlotte, her heart racing, continued on her way.

  A MESSAGE WAS sitting in her pigeonhole when she returned to Somerville an hour later, having allowed herself a restorative browse through Blackwell’s Bookshop. It wasn’t a letter as such—simply a sheet of paper, folded in four, with a few scribbled lines within.

  Dear Miss Brown,

  Sorry to have missed you earlier. Are you free tomorrow morning for a cup of tea at Boffin’s? Let me know and I’ll collect you from the Somerville lodge at ten o’clock.

  Regards,

  E. Ashford

  THE EVENING POST brought no offers of employment, nor did the first post of the following morning. There was nothing for it but to meet Lord Ashford and do her best to impress him. She wouldn’t have to stay on in the position for terribly long, really only until she received a more suitable offer of employment, and in the meantime she would be earning her way, living independently of her parents, and possibly even establishing some useful connections.

  It wasn’t ideal, but things could always be worse—she could be facing a future with nothing more exciting than a fiancé to recommend it.

  Arrayed in her best, just as she’d been the day before, she placed herself outside the front gate of Somerville at five minutes before the hour. At five minutes past ten o’clock she began to wonder if her reply to Lord Ashford had gone astray. At ten minutes past she was certain something was amiss.

  At a quarter past ten, she admitted defeat. Likely he had found someone else for the position, or perhaps—it hadn’t occurred to her before but it now seemed a likely explanation—it was a practical joke at her expense. She wouldn’t be the first female student to be so duped.

  She went back inside the college, stopping at the lodge for a moment to check her pigeonhole once more, and as she left, empty-handed, she came face-to-face with the same man she’d bumped into the day before, only this time he wore a wrinkled undergraduate’s gown on top of his coat. He was perspiring and out of breath, though no less handsome for it.

  Recognizing her, he smiled and moved out of her way. “My apologies once again. I’m very late to meet someone, I’m afraid.”

  Could it be? “You aren’t Lord Ashford, are you? Because I’m—”

  “Miss Brown,” he said, his smile widening. “I ought to have known. I do beg your pardon—I overslept, and for some reason my scout didn’t come to wake me early, as I’d asked. I shouldn’t be at all offended if you decided to walk away and wash your hands of me.”

  She couldn’t help but grin back at him. “I’m quite all right, Lord Ashford. Shall we walk down to Boffin’s now?”

  “Yes, please. I’ll need at least one enormous mug of coffee before I can speak intelligibly.”

  It was a fine morning, as was often the case in Oxford in late May, with a sky so clear and blue it made her eyes ache. They walked side by side, Lord Ashford matching his pace to hers, and after a few hundred yards he looked at her and asked, “What course are you taking?”

  “English. My finals are in a fortnight.”

  “Nervous?”

  “A little. I did well in Honor Mods, though, so if that’s any indication of what’s to come, I should be fine. What about you?”

  “I’m taking Greats. I sat my Honor Mods a few weeks back and scraped by, so I’m hoping they’ll let me continue on.”

  “Do you like classics?”

  “I do, oddly enough. Wasn’t at all keen when I began—more a case of taking the degree because I couldn’t think of what else to do—but I’ve warmed to it over the past two years. Though Greek still gives me nightmares,” he added, and shuddered theatrically.

  “Your notice said you were looking for a governess for your sister.”

  “Yes. Her name is Lilly. She’s thirteen. Very intelligent girl, but her previous tutors have been hopeless. My other sisters are thick as mud—unkind of me, but true—and they’d have been fine with nothing more than the bare essentials. But Lilly needs more.”

  They were at Carfax now. Crossing the High Street, they walked east to the Oxford Restaurant, known locally as Boffin’s, and found an empty table at the very back. Lord Ashford ordered them a plate of scones, a pot of tea for Charlotte, and a mug of coffee for himself, and then he continued to tell Charlotte about his sister.

  “As I said, Lilly is bright. My parents, though, are as antediluvian as Noah himself. Won’t allow her to go away to school, nor will they let her attend any of the good day schools for girls in London. I have managed to persuade them to take on a better class of tutor for her alone, and to let my sisters continue on with the idiot they have at present. That’s what the notice was about.”

  “Why aren’t your parents conducting the interviews, then?”

  “To be bald about it, I don’t think they care. I mean, they care about the final candidate, but they’re profoundly uninterested in the search itself. So I volunteered, which is for the best, really. Left to themselves, they’d surely dig up someone even worse than the woman teaching the girls now.”

  “Your sister is fortunate to have such a caring brother,” Charlotte said, deciding it was best to avoid any commentary on the relative idiocy of previous governesses.

  “Nonsense. I simply can’t stand the thought of her turning into a feather head like the other two.”

  “Would you like to see my references? I have one from my English tutor, as well as from Miss Penrose, our new principal at Somerville.”

  “I will look at them at one point, thank you. Right now I’d rather talk about you. Where did you grow up?”

  “In Somerset. In Wells, that is.”

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “No, it’s only me. I was, ah . . . I was adopted. So it’s only the three of us.”

  What had just come over her? She could so easily have said she was an only child, and left it at that. Her closest friends knew the truth, of course, though she’d never discussed the precise circumstances of her adoption with anyone other than her parents. Some stories were simply not meant to be shared.

  “And what does your father do?”

  “He’s a prebendary at Wells Cathedral.”

  “That sounds ecclesiastical.”

  “It is. He’s one of the canons there.”

  “Why not stay in Wells? Find some charming young cleric to marry?”

  “I—I . . .” she stammered, taken aback by the directness of his question.

  “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “No, it’s a sound enough question. I went to quite a good school in Bath, and Father tutored me as well. When my headmistress suggested I sit the entrance exams for Somerville, we were all rather surprised. But once I had the idea in my head, I couldn’t let go of it.”

  “Have you liked being here?”

  “I’ve loved it.”

  “So why apply for this position? Surely you can aspire to something higher. Be honest—I won’t fault you for it.”

  She folded and refolded her napkin and tried to think of how to respond. “I . . . well, I can’t find anything else, to be perfectly honest. I’ve been looking for a position for months now.”

  “Would you mind working as a clerk or typist? Surely you could find a position of that sort without too much difficulty.”

  “I wouldn’t, but it seems rather a waste. I had hoped to, well, to do something with my education. Silly as it may sound, I thought I could help to right wrongs. To make a better world.”

  “That doesn’t seem especially silly to me. Do you honestly think teaching a thirteen-year-old girl is something you’ll enjoy?”

&nb
sp; “I do. Would I make the sort of governess she wants to have?”

  “You would. Likely because you’re the sort of woman she hopes to become.”

  “You don’t need to flatter—”

  “Not a bit of it. You’re intelligent, educated, and independent. That’s what she wants for herself. And that’s what I’d like to show her she can become, providing of course you decide to take on the position.”

  “Are you offering it to me?”

  He looked her straight in the eye, surprising her with the strength of will she glimpsed behind his cheerful-Charlie good looks. “Yes,” he said.

  “How many other women have you interviewed?”

  “None. You were the first to apply, and I can’t imagine for a moment that anyone could surpass you. When can you begin?”

  He seemed so certain of himself—of her. “I don’t . . . I mean, I hadn’t thought of it,” she said.

  “Why don’t we say the beginning of July? That will give you time to finish up here and pay a visit to your mother and father.”

  “What about your parents? Won’t they need to meet me first?”

  “Leave them to me.”

  He beckoned the waitress, settled their account, and steered Charlotte outside. “Do you mind if I leave you here? I’m late for my Greek tutorial.”

  “That’s quite all right, but—”

  “Let me know how you get on in finals. I’ll send you your train ticket to Penrith—that’s where we’ll be in July, at my father’s house in Cumbria—and I’ll also advance the first quarter of your salary to help with your traveling costs. I thought eighty pounds a year? Ninety? Yes, ninety seems right.”

  “But that’s at least double what I’d thought to be earning. Are you quite certain, Lord Ashford?”

  “Enough with the ‘Lord Ashford.’ Call me Edward. May I call you Charlotte?”

  “I don’t think that’s advisable, given that I’ll be under your employ.”

  At that his eyes brightened. “So you’ll do it? Splendid. I must go, but I’ll send everything along soon. Good luck with your finals, Charlotte.”

  He shook her hand and set off at a run, east along the High Street and, presumably, back to Merton, his gown billowing behind him in a quite comical manner. If only the rest of their encounter had been something she could laugh away.

  Somehow, without precisely agreeing to do so, she had become the governess to a sister of Lord Edward Ashford—and that, apart from his sister’s name, was all she knew of him and his family. In little more than a month, she would begin work as a governess.

  A servant. Despite her own upper-middle-class upbringing, her superior academic qualifications, the outrageous salary she would receive, and the compliments Lord Ashford had attached to his offer, she would be a servant, living with strangers, employed by aristocrats who were sure to deplore a modern woman such as herself.

  It was not the grand and noble future she had once envisioned for herself.

  Charlotte stood on the pavement outside Boffin’s a minute longer, trying and failing to take everything in, and then set off for Blackwell’s. She might as well begin her new future by looking up Lord Edward Ashford in Debrett’s Peerage.

  Chapter 7

  Liverpool, England

  April 1919

  Charlotte was at her desk, trying to make sense of her notes from the Pensions Committee meeting of the evening before—why, oh why had she never thought to take a course in shorthand?—when Miss Margison stomped past. The woman didn’t seem capable of simply walking; no, she telegraphed her every footstep throughout the constituency office, no matter if her mood was good or bad, no matter if she was wearing court shoes or galoshes. This morning her mood was vile, for reasons that Charlotte had yet to deduce and, frankly, had no interest in exploring.

  She’d worked alongside the woman since 1911, excepting of course the interval during the war when she’d been in London, and in all that time they had never become friendly. Miss Margison didn’t appear to have friends, or if she did she kept them well hidden. She never sat with the other women in the office during their break for tea, never went to the pictures after work with any of them, never in Charlotte’s recollection had so much as asked after their families or beaux. At the end of the day, the woman seemed to vanish, and as no one had any notion of where she lived, or with whom, they had nothing to chat with her about the following morning.

  A voice rang out from Miss Rathbone’s office. “Miss Brown! Could I trouble you to come here for a minute? Miss Margison has a question for you.”

  Charlotte stifled a groan and got to her feet. What could it be this time? She approached Miss Rathbone’s desk, studiously ignoring the third woman in the room.

  “Yes, Miss Rathbone?” she said, her voice beautifully calm.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you, my dear, but Miss Margison had some concerns about the invitations for the annual general meeting of the National Union. I gather the approved proofs were to have been returned to the printers last week?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I put them in the outgoing post myself.”

  “I see. The difficulty, I’m afraid, is that Miss Margison has only now had a call from the printer, saying he didn’t receive the proofs.”

  Not again. This was the third time an item had been pinched from the outgoing post and the finger of blame pointed at her by none other than Miss Margison.

  “I assure you, ma’am, I did place them in the outgoing post.” And from today onward, she vowed to herself, she would personally place every item of post that left her desk directly in the pillar-box down the road.

  “I quite believe you. There you have it, Miss Margison. Now, I believe we still have a copy of the invitation at hand? Very well. Since you are at loose ends this morning, would you be so kind as to take it over to the printers? It shouldn’t take you above an hour to travel there and back on the tram.”

  “But, Miss Rathbone—” Miss Margison protested.

  “I am so glad that is settled, ladies,” Miss Rathbone finished, her attention already turning to the papers on her desk. “Oh—Miss Margison?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Before you leave, if you could fetch me a cup of tea? Thank you.”

  Charlotte returned to her office, acutely aware of Miss Margison’s disbelieving stare, wondering yet again what she had ever done to deserve the other woman’s dislike. She knew herself to be a decent person, a friendly person, and yet for entirely mysterious reasons she had earned the enmity of another.

  Before the war, she would have forced a confrontation and cleared the air with the woman, just like that, but something held her back. Everyone had their reasons for behaving as they did, and one day she would surely figure out what made her odd and unpleasant colleague behave as she did.

  ALL THROUGH SUPPER that evening, Norma entertained them with stories of her day at work. Most seemed to revolve around customers who were so enthralled by her face and figure that they abandoned their brains at the door. It would have been worrying if Norma hadn’t been so funny at the retelling.

  “So he said to me, ‘Dearie, why don’t you come round that counter and show me all those darns in your stockings,’ and I said, ‘Not if I was on a sinking ship and you was the only lifeboat on the sea.’”

  “Oh, Norma. You mustn’t say such things, especially to a stranger. What if he had taken offense?” chided Miss Margaret.

  “Then Joe and Daniel and the rest of the men from the warehouse out back would have had a talk with him. They don’t let anyone give me guff.”

  “Miss Margaret’s right,” Rosie said. “You can’t know what sort of men you’re talking to, and if one of them gets it in his head that you offended him, and the men from the back aren’t around—”

  “Fine, fine. But you wouldn’t believe the sort of things some of them say to me.”

  “I would. Trust me, I would. The men I deal with are lying flat on their backs in hospital beds but they still talk a load
of rubbish. Best thing to do is ignore it.”

  “I suppose. Say—now that we’ve all finished our tea, does anyone feel like playing a round of cribbage in the sitting room? Rosie? Charlotte?”

  “No, thank you, Norma. I’m feeling rather tired tonight. I think I’ll just read in my room, if you don’t mind.”

  All through supper Charlotte had scarcely said a word, longing only for the meal to be over so she might crawl into bed, read something comforting, and let the weight of her long and dispiriting day slide from her shoulders.

  After helping Janie clear the table—it was Charlotte’s task to shake out the tablecloth and fold it away in its drawer—the Misses Macleod and their boarders, all except Charlotte, moved to the sitting room. It was just across the hall from her bedroom, and even with both doors shut she could easily hear the conversation and laughter from where she sat, in her chair by the window, trying to concentrate on her new book. She had been keen as mustard to read The Return of the Soldier, but tonight, and the night before, too, she hadn’t been able to follow the narrative for more than a page before losing steam.

  She shut her book carefully, using a braided paper bookmark that Lilly had made for her years ago, and set it aside. Standing, she went to her bureau, intent on fetching a fresh nightgown.

  A knock at her door, then a whispered voice she recognized as Rosie’s. “Charlotte? Are you in bed?”

  “No, not yet. Do come in.”

  Rosie shut the door behind her and sat in the chair that Charlotte had just vacated. “Are you all right?”

  “Hard day, that’s all. Ann Margison was at me again.”

  “What did she do now? Sprinkle arsenic in your tea?”

  “At least that would be cut-and-dried. No, it was her trick with the outbound post again. This time it was proofs that were meant to go back to the printer. I know I’ve said it before, but now I mean it—from now on, no matter how busy I am, I’m to walk down the street to the pillar-box and put my post in directly.”