After the War Is Over: A Novel

by Jennifer Robson

  “Good morning,” came Edward’s voice, still scratchy from sleep.

  “Good morning,” she answered happily—and then she remembered.

  She opened her eyes. She was in his bed. Covered only by a nightgown—oh, heavens, half covered by a nightgown, for her legs were bare, the blanket kicked aside during the night.

  She had suggested this. What on earth had possessed her? What sort of nurse simply climbed into the same bed in which her patient was sleeping?

  “Don’t go,” he whispered. “I’m still under my blankets. Nothing happened. I didn’t so much as peek.”

  “Peek? Peek at what?”

  He simply raised his eyebrows and smiled. She had already straightened the skirts of her nightgown, so what could it be? Then she looked down and saw. Her shawl had vanished and, worse, her bodice had come undone—not entirely so, not enough to bare her breasts, but it was a near thing. A half inch more and he’d have received an eyeful.

  She fumbled with the ribbons, unable to fasten them, so settled on holding the placket of her gown together. “Oh, my goodness. I do beg your pardon.”

  “Whatever for? I can’t imagine a lovelier sight.”

  “You said you didn’t peek.”

  “I’m a man, Charlotte. I’d have to be dead not to look.”

  “I really ought to get up. I never sleep this late.”

  “Stay. Let me look on you awhile.”

  “This isn’t—”

  “Your hair is so beautiful. I truly had no idea.” He reached out and let a skein of it curl around his fingers. “I’ve never seen it unbound.”

  “I put it in a plait before bed, but it seems to have come undone.”

  “How long is it?”

  “All the way down my back. I’ve thought of cutting it, but I’ve no idea how to manage short hair. It seems easier to keep it long.”

  “Don’t ever cut it. Promise me?”

  “Edward, I . . .”

  “Do you remember the Christmas of 1916?”

  “Yes.” She remembered everything about those hours with him. Everything.

  “I want to kiss you again.”

  No, she ought to say. No, because I am not yours to kiss and it is hopeless and what sort of decent woman acts in such a fashion? No, she would tell him.

  “Yes,” she said.

  He was a little lower on the bed, so he had to arch his head back, his throat straining, to reach her lips. He fitted his hand to the back of her head, his fingers slipping through her loosened plait, and urged her mouth ever closer, until his breath was hot against her face and she could see the little flecks of silver in his dark blue eyes.

  Surely he had kissed other women in the years since their embrace in the back of a motorcar, outside her boardinghouse, on the afternoon of Christmas Day in 1916. He would not remember it as she did. He would not have honed and polished its memory until it was as bright and pure as a pearl. He would have had many other kisses to compare it with.

  With aching slowness he closed the gap between their mouths. It was just as she remembered—the way their lips matched so perfectly, the drugging, velvety sweep of his tongue against hers, the almost frightening intensity with which he deepened and prolonged their embrace. It would be so easy to abandon the world that pressed in around them, to ignore how impossible any sort of shared future would be.

  She had forgotten about her nightgown and its traitorous ribbons, forgotten all about it until his hand left her hair, and, tracing a hypnotic line from her earlobe to her collarbone, delved beneath the worn linen of her bodice. He cupped her breast in his hand, weighed it, let her nipple grow tight against his palm.

  His lips left hers and began to follow the trail his fingers had drawn, kiss after delectable kiss. And then he was pressing his mouth to the swell of her breast, his sighs of delight hot against her shivering skin.

  “Has any woman ever been so beautiful?” he murmured. “Let me kiss you. Let me make love to you.”

  He pulled back the covers, all but tearing them off the bed in his desperation, and pulled her even closer, shockingly close, until nearly the whole of her body was pressed to his.

  Never, in all her life, had she known such pleasure. How had she lived without this? How had she survived without him? For so long she had wanted him, wanted this, and at last it was happening.

  “Charlotte?”

  She suddenly realized that Edward had stopped kissing her. “What is it? Did I do something wrong?”

  “No, not at all. But we have to stop. I should never . . . I’m not a particularly decent man, but I won’t dishonor you. Not if I can help it.”

  He was right, though it was agony to admit it. “I understand. It is better that we stop. Only . . . would you mind holding me? Just a little longer?”

  Edward kissed her one last time, tenderly, regretfully, and then, rolling to his side, drew her into the shelter of his arms. Their eyes met, and in his gaze she saw every hour of hopeless longing, every barren day of aching loneliness that he had endured.

  “I never thought any woman would ever want me again.”

  “You? The handsomest man I’ve ever known?”

  “No man can be handsome when he’s missing half a leg.”

  “You are. Yet you could be the ugliest man alive and I should still desire you.”

  He said nothing, only pressed his face against her hair and silently wept out his pain and grief for the loss of the man he’d once been.

  They held each other as the last of the stars faded away and day began to bloom, and she knew this was the only time she would ever watch the sunrise with him. She knew it, as did he.

  “I wish we could hope for more,” he whispered. Had he read her thoughts? Or had she spoken aloud?

  “I know.”

  “I broke with Helena because I didn’t love her, certainly not as she deserves to be loved. I think she was relieved. In fact I’m certain she was.”

  “So what will you do now?”

  He pulled away, just a little, just enough to look in her eyes. “There is a very large gap between what I want to do, and what I must force myself to do.”

  She nodded, and even tried to smile a little.

  “What I want is to be with you, to stay with you for the rest of my life. I don’t think I’ve ever known such perfect happiness before. There have been moments, over the past few weeks, when I was almost able to believe it might be possible.”

  “But it’s not,” she whispered, unable to blink away her tears.

  “It isn’t. And not because I think you unworthy, in any way, of becoming my wife. You must know that. If I could allow myself to marry for sentiment alone, you would be my first choice. My only choice.”

  “I know.”

  “The terrible thing is that you’ve always been at me to grow up, to act like a man, to shoulder my responsibilities. And now the only way I can do so is to marry a woman who is rich enough, or has a father who is rich enough, to pay off my family’s debts. I wish . . . I wish I were strong enough to walk away.”

  “You are strong. Strong enough to face your problems head-on. I’m proud of you, Edward.”

  She’d read of heartache, but had never understood it before now. It wasn’t her own pain that wounded her so, but his. To see him suffer, to watch him endure his anguish so bravely, was torment distilled into the purest poison. If only she might drink down his share as well as her own.

  “All this year, watching my sister and Robbie together, I’ve been so envious of them,” he admitted wretchedly. “Only now do I understand. Now I know what it’s like to love someone so fully that my heart is closed to anyone else. How shall I bear it?”

  One day she would be able to think of this moment, of his profession of love, without her heart shriveling within her chest, but not today. Not yet.

  “You will find happiness. I promise you will. You’ll find a jolly, friendly American girl who will fall madly in love with you. And you will be happy with her. Swear you
will, Edward. You must swear it.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Does it help you to know that I love you, too? Likely since the day I answered your advertisement for a governess.”

  “As long as that?”

  “I will be happy. I will continue in Miss Rathbone’s footsteps. I will be married to my work, and I will be an aunt to Lilly’s children, and yours, too, if you’ll let me.” Her voice broke at this admission, but she struggled on. “And we will both live worthwhile lives. No, don’t look away. Our lives will be full of peace and good deeds and joy. I don’t doubt it, my darling. Not for a moment do I doubt it.”

  It was her turn to weep, so she cried until her eyes were dry and aching, until there were no tears left to shed. He held her and kissed her tenderly and teased her, just a little, when she began to hiccup, and he was so sweetly comforting that she feared she would die from the pain of it.

  “We ought to get up. John Pringle will be by anytime now.”

  “Will you be all right?” he asked.

  “Yes. Will you?”

  “I will.”

  She went into her room and got dressed, brushed her hair and pinned it back with shaking hands. In the kitchen, she pumped some cold water into a basin and bathed her eyes until they didn’t feel quite so hot and tight, and then she set about making their breakfast.

  Edward came into the kitchen not long after. He sat at the table and watched her, his expression wistful, as she set the tea to brewing and fried some eggs and sliced up the heel of yesterday’s bread. They ate in silence, but companionably so, and though she came close to tears once or twice, she somehow held on to her composure.

  “I told Miss Rathbone I would return by the thirtieth,” she said.

  “I think you must. I’ll get on all right here.”

  “On your own? How will you feed yourself?”

  “Poorly, I’m sure. Perhaps I can ask Andrews to come up from London. He can cook, after a fashion.”

  “Between that and Mrs. Pringle’s soups you won’t starve.”

  “See? That’s all managed nicely.”

  “Shall I write to Lilly and let her know?”

  “Not just yet. Otherwise she and Robbie will drive through the night to get here. I promise I will be fine. I won’t take to drink and I won’t start smoking again. I swear I won’t.”

  She nodded, relieved that he seemed so confident, but deflated all the same. Only four more days and she would be gone.

  “I had better clear up the dishes,” she said, and turned away so he wouldn’t see that she had succumbed to tears yet again.

  She would survive, of course she would, and she would always have the consolation of knowing that he had loved her. It was less than she deserved, but more than she had ever expected.

  It would have to be enough.

  PART THREE

  Have you forgotten yet? . . .

  For the world’s events have rumbled on since those gagged days,

  Like traffic checked while at the crossing of city-ways:

  And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow

  Like clouds in the lit heaven of life; and you’re a man reprieved to go,

  Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare.

  But the past is just the same—and War’s a bloody game . . .

  Have you forgotten yet? . . .

  Look down, and swear by the slain of the War

  that you’ll never forget.

  —Siegfried Sassoon, “Aftermath” (1917)

  Chapter 24

  Liverpool, England

  November 1919

  As Charlotte took her place at the breakfast table, she was relieved to see the other women had chosen similarly somber clothes for Armistice Day. All of them, except for Rosie in her nurse’s uniform, were dressed in unrelieved black.

  “Aren’t you a cheery lot,” Rosie commented.

  Charlotte accepted her bowl of porridge from Janie and began to eat. “I wish I had a better idea of what we’re to do. The notice in the newspapers only said there would be two minutes of silence at eleven o’clock this morning. Apart from that it all seems rather vague.”

  “I don’t think anyone knows what to do. I imagine we’ll simply stop what we’re doing for the two minutes. It’s not as if there’s any place we might gather,” said Rosie.

  “True enough. At least not until the war memorial is built. Have they even chosen a site?”

  “Not as I know. Miss Margaret and Miss Mary, what are you going to do?”

  “We thought we’d go to church. Seems the best place for such a moment.”

  Charlotte finished off her porridge, downed the rest of her tea, and took her dishes to the sink in the scullery. “I’d best be off. Good day, everyone.”

  She ought to have said something to Meg, who hadn’t spoken at all during breakfast. The poor woman was likely beset by thoughts of her late husband; occasions such as this had a way of bringing the past crashing down on one’s shoulders. When there was time, after work, she would make a point of seeking Meg out, just to let her know that she was concerned. Was thinking of her.

  Dressed in her warmest coat, her muffler wrapped high around her face, Charlotte set off for work. It was positively arctic outside, the temperature not far north of freezing, and a misty rain was falling. Too light to warrant an umbrella, it was persistent enough to soak deeply into her coat and hat, and set her shivering after only a few minutes. Even worse, one of her galoshes had sprung a leak, and was slowly but inexorably becoming sodden with water.

  Miss Rathbone, quite properly, was disinclined to waste money on the heating of her constituency office, not when such money could be better spent on her constituents. Charlotte’s office was so chilly that her breath rose in ghostly plumes before her, and even after putting on her warmest cardigan, and drinking a cup of near-boiling tea, she couldn’t shake the chill that had crept into her bones.

  The clerk typists were gathered around the fire in the reception area, merrily neglecting their work as they warmed themselves, and as she listened to their easy banter it was hard not to feel just a little envious of them. Her little office, with its desk and bookcases and two chairs for guests, was normally something that filled her with pride. How many women had an office all to themselves? A room of their own in which to work? Today, though, its appeal was rather diminished.

  The morning wore on, leavened by nothing more heartening than the occasional mug of warming tea, until the clock at All Saints chimed the quarter hour before eleven o’clock. The Great Silence, as the government had mandated the two minutes of silence be called, would be signaled by ships’ guns in the Mersey, and, for those farther away, whichever church bells were closest.

  Charlotte went into the hall and saw that the others, Miss Rathbone included, were putting on their coats.

  “Where is everyone going?”

  “Ah, Miss Brown. I was just going to call you. I thought we’d stand outside. Better to mark the silence in the open air.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll fetch my coat.”

  It did make a strange sort of sense. There was nowhere, as yet, for everyone to gather at such a moment, yet it seemed somehow wrong to be isolated from one’s fellow citizens.

  They stood outside and waited. Up and down the street, in front of houses and shops and even the mechanic’s across the way, people set aside their work and stood, heads bowed, waiting for the chime of bells. Even the tram that ran up and down Princes Avenue had stopped, and its driver and passengers had alighted to stand at the curb. A motorcar turned the corner, continued on for a few yards, and then stopped. Its driver climbed out, looking a trifle abashed, pulled his hat from his head, and waited. They all waited.

  The chime that marked the hour rang out, its bells faintly discordant, and then a single bell sounded, slow and ponderous, counting down the hours. It rang eleven times, its peals echoed by the distant boom of a warship’s guns.

  Where
were one’s thoughts meant to go at such a time? Should she silently recite a prayer? Or would it be fitting to let herself dwell on the faces of the lost, the maimed, the broken?

  Charlotte thought of a young Scots captain, left mute by the horrors he had seen, his eyes so full of agony and inexpressible torment that she’d had to steel herself each time she tended to him. His wife had come to visit, only the once, for she’d been unable to recognize the changed man she found. He had once been so merry, she told Charlotte and the other nurses. Once, long ago, he had never stopped smiling.

  She thought of the lieutenant colonel, an Australian, whose battalion had been annihilated at the Somme. He’d been able to converse normally enough, though his hands shook so badly he needed help to feed himself, and for a while she’d hoped he would recover. He had, but a week after his release, she later learned, he had hanged himself. There had been no note. The events of July 1916 had been explanation enough.

  If she tried, she could recall almost all their faces, if not their names, the hundreds of men she had nursed and soothed and even, before she had lost the habit entirely, prayed for on her knees before bed each night.

  On either side, in every direction, people began to cry, and not the polite sort of tears one shed at a funeral, but rather the great, racking sobs of acute, disbelieving grief. The end of the Great Silence must have passed, had certainly passed, but still they stood in the street, the motorcars and trams stopped in their tracks, as men and women alike wept out their sorrow for all that had been lost.

  And then, although she hadn’t cried since the end of September, since the morning she had wept out her despair and grief in Edward’s arms, tears welled up in Charlotte’s eyes. Whether they were propelled by thoughts of the war and all that had been lost, or of her own, more recent sorrows, she couldn’t tell.

  When she had said farewell to Edward, she had been dry-eyed, determined not to upset him any further. On the train home, she’d been surrounded by other passengers, so she had again stanched her tears. And then, alone in her bedroom at home, it had seemed wrong to cry. Self-indulgent, somehow. She had done what she knew was right. She had let him go, as she knew she must, and her life would go on. What was the point in crying about it?