“I expect she has many clients,” Charlotte said. “She is so busy nowadays.”
“Nevertheless!”
Charlotte could see her mother was preparing to be offended with Céline, and her heart sank; it would be disagreeable to have to smooth over her temper when the couturier finally appeared.
“I wonder how many of these women have sons in France,” she said in a low voice, half trying to change the subject and half trying to remind her mother that they were in a situation where many things were more important than being first for Céline’s attentions.
“A good deal, which is exactly why we must move quickly, before they are all gone,” her mother replied in the same low voice. Charlotte did not reply, but she was struck by how different their thoughts were. However, she was glad that the trick had worked and her mother was distracted, looking avidly around for gossip and badly dressed women to mock.
“Mrs. Verulam is quite wrong if she thinks that turban suits her,” murmured her mother. “Oh look, there is the Duchess of Devonshire. I heard the most scandalous story…”
Charlotte cleared her throat warningly. Céline was approaching, dressed in a deep purple silk gown so glossy it appeared black. Her face was as fresh and young as when she had been a lady’s maid in their house.
“Lady Westlake, and Miss Templeton—I am honored,” she said. The countess frowned, but Céline went on at once. “I do apologize for keeping you waiting. Her Majesty has just left.”
“Oh, in that case…” The countess thawed visibly, and Charlotte smiled. She knew Céline was telling a clever, charming fib—she knew her mother could only bear to be passed over for royalty. She wondered how many other little untruths Céline told, every day, to flatter the egos of her customers—just as she employed subtle techniques and tricks in her dressmaking to flatter their figures.
“We are looking for an autumn wardrobe for Miss Templeton,” her mother began. “I do admire these luxurious fur capes.” She lifted the arm of one that an obliging mannequin was wearing. “The military styling is so very of the moment, is it not?”
“Yes, I have taken my inspiration from the Russians,” Céline replied. “The capes will wear beautifully, and make an impression that is instantly modern.”
The two women continued to discuss house gowns and evening gowns, capes and hats. Charlotte felt her attention slipping—then a bright, familiar voice pierced her like a needle.
“My dear Charlotte!”
Charlotte turned reluctantly to face Lady Emily. At her shoulder was Vivian Osborne—a little plumper and more luxuriant of mustache than she had seen him last. He wore the uniform of the Horse Guards. “What a charming surprise; have you been in town long?” she began.
“We are just here to see dear Vivian off on his tour of duty,” Lady Emily said. She added with a simper, “I expect you saw the notice in the Times.”
“Congratulations,” said Charlotte, managing to sound sincere. She added with more warmth, “I am sorry that you have to part so soon after your wedding.”
Vivian opened his mouth but Emily spoke over him; from the resigned look on Vivian’s face Charlotte imagined it was a regular occurrence. “Oh, not at all, it’s simply wonderful to think of him doing his duty. If anyone will be a hero, my Vivian will. And he has given me this dear little locket to remember him by.” A length of gold chain flashed between Emily’s fingers, and Charlotte saw something dazzlingly jeweled spinning at the end of it. Hardly “little,” but almost certainly “dear,” she thought. Emily steadied the pendant and showed it to her. Across the front was the insignia of the Horse Guards, picked out in emeralds, and on the reverse was inscribed the familiar quotation I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not honor more. The whole confection struck Charlotte as impeccably tasteless. She couldn’t say so, of course, but thankfully Vivian seized the chance to get a word in edgewise.
“Jolly good show, this war. Looking forward to having a bash at the Boche,” he announced.
“Of course you are,” Charlotte murmured.
“Charlotte.” She heard her mother’s clear, sharp tones. She looked around and saw that she was being summoned to try on a gown. She turned back to Emily. “It was so delightful to see you, and once again I offer my congratulations—”
“I expect you know Laurence’s news?” Emily interrupted. Charlotte hesitated, aware of the malice in her voice, the desire to wound. She and Emily’s brother, Lord Fintan, had been very close. What was Laurence’s news? she wondered. Was he married? Engaged? In love? She searched for pain in her heart, and was surprised to not find any. She turned back to Emily, amused as she noted Emily’s confusion at her lack of curiosity.
“No, I am afraid I’ve not been honored with his confidence,” she said with a brilliant smile. “And now you really must excuse me.”
She sailed away without a backward glance, her heart lighter than it had been for a long time. Emily was quite too naïve, she thought contemptuously. Even if she had been wounded, did she imagine that she would betray her feelings in public? She would as soon wear that gaudy pendant.
As she joined her mother, she noticed a slight confusion at the door of the workshop. A tired-looking girl in a ragged dress glanced in, then as quickly shut the door. Céline appeared to have seen it too. She whispered in French to one of her assistants, and the girl at once went after the intruder.
“Who was that?” Charlotte inquired. The look of haunted exhaustion on the girl’s face had struck her. She wondered if Céline had abandoned her principles and begun using sweatshop girls like so many of the other couturiers.
Céline seemed hesitant, but she responded to Charlotte’s questioning look. “She is a Belgian refugee. She is the only one left of her family; she was separated from her mother and sisters when Antwerp fell, and arrived here alone and penniless.”
“Oh, the poor girl!” Charlotte exclaimed.
“There are many like her, sadly. I am providing as many of them as I can with a place to stay, and work if they can manage it. Others will be sent to the countryside—some kind people have offered to take them in.”
“How very good of them—and of you.” Charlotte looked at Céline with new respect. One didn’t imagine common people, even very talented ones such as Céline, having personal lives. But she saw that they did, and that they appeared able to accomplish quite remarkable things in them.
“Not at all.” Céline’s voice was quiet. “My own parents are here, in as bad a state as you can imagine. My brother was shot by the Germans, and our family home was burned down. They had nowhere to go except to me. Our house in France was directly in the path of the German advance. Many of our neighbors are in the same position.”
“I am so sorry,” Charlotte said. “Of course, I have seen the pictures of the refugees, but I didn’t know—I didn’t think—”
“Yes, very sad,” the countess interrupted her. “But to return to business, I want to have another look at those capes. The war has changed the fashions completely, and we must be up-to-date.”
“Of course, madame.” In an instant, Céline’s professional demeanor was back. She briskly began to discuss material and trimmings.
Charlotte watched Céline in fascination, admiring her ability to conceal her personal feelings beneath strict professionalism. If Céline could be useful, could help people, could be needed, then why couldn’t she? Did she have to be as useless as her mother thought she should be?
Her mother was still talking about dresses. “Yes, I think we will have the silver lining for the military coat, and an edging of mink. As for the day dress, what do you think? Heliotrope, magnolia, lavender, perhaps?”
“Black Chantilly lace,” Céline suggested.
“Oh no, no. Black? There is nothing so aging.”
Céline’s next words were spoken quietly, without sensation. Yet for the rest of the day Charlotte could not get them out of her mind. “You must bear in mind, madame, that there are, unfortunately, likely to
be very many occasions in the near future when mourning will be necessary.”
When Charlotte reached her room after dinner—an interminable event, at which her mother had seemed intent on recommending her to a baronet of at least sixty—she went straight to her wardrobe. At a glance she could see dress after dress that she would never wear again. Silk, satin, ruched velvet, sequins and beads glowing with color, crystals scattered on hems like dewdrops, rich embroidery, mother-of-pearl buttons gleaming, the soft kid of handmade shoes, fans like iridescent butterfly wings, gloves in delicate pastels worn only once. Here they hung—useless in this new world of war. As useless as their owner, she thought bitterly.
“MacIvor,” she said when her maid came in to help her undress, “how much do you think I could get for these? I mean the ball dresses, and as many of the others as I can spare.”
MacIvor studied the dresses with a professional eye.
“It would depend how soon you would like the money, miss. There are people who will dispose of them quickly and quietly, for ladies who have pressing debts, but of course you would receive less—”
“No, I want to get as much as possible.” Charlotte thought for a second. “In fact, I have a better idea. I want to write a short note to Céline, the couturier. Will you see that it gets to her tomorrow?”
MacIvor curtsied an acknowledgment as Charlotte sat and wrote:
Dear Madame:
I am sending you several of my dresses, which I would like disposed of, to raise as much money as possible in aid of the Belgian refugees. I believe you are the best person to apply to in this matter, and will know how to manage it. Of course I would like my donation treated in the strictest confidence—if anyone asks, “a lady” is sufficient identification.
She signed it, folded it, and handed it to MacIvor. Then she began taking dresses out of her wardrobe.
“Miss, you can’t mean to get rid of all these!” MacIvor exclaimed, as the pile mounted.
“I do indeed.”
“But what—” MacIvor fell silent, clearly remembering her place.
“What will my mother say?” Charlotte gave a humorless laugh. “I don’t see what she can say—after all, it’s for the war.”
She threw herself into discarding the dresses with as much savagery as if she were hacking through a jungle. Armful after armful went onto the bed, until her arms were aching with the weight of them.
“There,” she said, trembling slightly. “Please send these to Céline, with my kind regards.”
MacIvor, clearly a little frightened by her mood, curtsied and withdrew.
Sebastian paced back and forth in the shadows of the lamp-lit alley, his eyes fixed on the bright facade of Claridge’s. From here he could hear the music and the laughter. Top hats passed before the light in silhouette; starched shirtfronts gleamed. Just a few months ago he would have been in there himself. Now he was barred, his name kicked about like a muddy football, and all because of that damned photograph.
Hannah Darford had been right; it had been a mistake to publicly embrace Oliver—as he continued to call him, for he could not bring himself to think of him as Daniel Hammerman, and knew that Oliver too preferred to forget the name that reminded him of his father. Sebastian admitted it to himself, as he watched for Oliver to come out. He had been foolish. Just his luck to be caught in a photograph, though at least it had not shown Oliver’s face and had thus spared him the same fate. He glanced at his watch. Oliver was late—again. It was ridiculous, he raged inside himself; it was shameful to have to skulk and hide out here. He was not ashamed of who he was. But the whole world thought he should be.
“What the hell is he doing in there?” he muttered to himself. Oliver should be more understanding—after all, weren’t they committed to each other? Whatever that meant, in a world that would never acknowledge it.
He waited another weary hour before finally he saw Oliver emerge from the hotel and the doorman summon a cab. Oliver was laughing at a joke that Christopher Carrington was making, and he turned back to shake the man’s hand. Christopher’s cigar spilled smoke into the air; his undone white tie suggested heat and laughter inside. The two held hands perhaps a moment longer than was necessary.
Oliver let go—or was it Christopher who let go first?—and stepped into the cab. Sebastian hurried, freezing even in his fur coat, to the other end of the alley. The whole thing was a bloody farce. Everything that was degrading about his position came back to him—waiting in the cold, in a stinking byway, for Oliver to finally grace him with his company. After he had talked to everyone else, of course.
The cab drew up, and under the alley’s cover Sebastian opened the door and stepped in. Oliver smiled at him. He smelled of wine and cigar smoke. “You’re here, finally. I’ve been waiting for hours,” Sebastian greeted him.
“You mean to say you have been skulking about here all evening?” Oliver said disapprovingly. “Why didn’t you go somewhere else while I was inside?”
“Where else?” Sebastian snapped, rapping with his cane on the partition to tell the cab to drive on. “You know as well as I that I am barred from every establishment.”
“Well, you missed a fine night.”
“I can see that. Where were you? You said midnight. It is nearly two!” Sebastian spoke quietly, leaning toward Oliver, though the noise of the wheels on the cobblestones and the glass partition were enough to shield their words.
“Damn it, Sebastian, I can’t simply walk out like that. Questions would be asked.”
“And hearts broken.”
Oliver frowned. “You’re becoming very possessive of late.”
“And I have no right to be, I suppose.”
“That’s not what I mean. I have suffered prison for your sake. I have only just been able to enjoy the privileges that are mine by birth, now that my father is dead. I think you might be more understanding.”
“I do understand.” Sebastian made an effort to keep his temper. “But, Oliver, can you see that it is hard for me to see you go about like this, as if—as if we were not together.”
“We are together.” Oliver leaned toward him and kissed him. Sebastian wished he did not still smell Christopher’s cigar. “But you know as well as I do: we can never be like married people.”
“Why not, though?” Sebastian said eagerly.
“Oh, do be reasonable. How? Where?”
“We could find somewhere. We could live in retirement.”
“You in retirement!” Oliver laughed, and Sebastian heard a note of bitterness. “What we do is illegal, Sebastian, that’s the truth of it. There is nowhere retired enough to escape censure. Especially not now, with everyone looking for spies.”
“Well, we cannot go on like this.”
“What do you suggest we do instead?”
Sebastian was silent. He knew Oliver was right. And when he thought about it, how many men of his sort had what he dreamed of—a life together with the person they loved? It was impossible. Normal men could get married, did not have to hide what they did from the world. But he was not what the world called normal.
“I am your mistress, not your wife,” Oliver said, as if reading his thoughts. “That’s all the world will allow us. Do you think I like that feeling? It isn’t pleasant to be a mistress: one can always be abandoned; there is never any certainty.”
“But you won’t agree to step away from all this, to come and live with me quietly somewhere—”
“Sebastian, I repeat: Where?”
The cab rolled to a halt. Sebastian looked out of the window to see they had arrived at his Knightsbridge lodgings. He hesitated. Usually Oliver would come in with him. But he saw at once that there was someone waiting outside. A journalist, he guessed, from the looks of the man.
“Damn it,” he muttered.
“One of them?”
He nodded.
“Good night, then.”
Sebastian got slowly down. He felt that Oliver should have come in with him anyway. It
was madness, he knew it, and yet he wanted Oliver to show that he wasn’t ashamed of him. That he believed in them. But of course it was unreasonable to ask him to expose himself. The thought made him angry, angry because he was powerless. He slammed the cab door behind him without replying.
Charlotte opened her eyes to London sunshine. She yawned as the maid went quietly about, opening the curtains and preparing her dressing table. She felt unexpectedly calm, and wondered why. Sitting up, she saw her wardrobe. A faint smile touched her lips. Purging her past had been strangely cathartic.
Her post was by her bed, on the usual silver tray. She glanced at a couple of uninteresting invitations, but the third letter made her start.
The handwriting was instantly familiar. She had read it on a hundred illicit messages, and even now it called up a faint blush to her cheeks. How strange that when she should try to get rid of her past, one stubborn element from it should turn up like this—twice in two days. She opened the letter and read.
Dear Charlotte,
I hope you will excuse this, it must come out of the blue. The fact is I hardly know why I’m writing myself, only that I am off to France tomorrow and it seems I should say farewell, given the occasion, to those people about whom I care. I think that includes you. I don’t expect that you care for me any longer, and I understand that, but I’d like you to know that I am going, at least. I am glad to do my bit and hope I shall do credit to the old school and my king and country, of course. Nevertheless, the stories one hears do put the wind up one a bit. That’s the truth of it—I am afraid.
I suppose that’s why I’m writing to you, really. I don’t know anyone else I could admit it to. Mother and Father and Emily just want to hear the usual heroics, and sometimes it gets too sickening to have to keep up the pretense of being quite happy to leave all this behind for the front line. We’ve kept each other’s secrets before. I hope it’s not too terribly selfish to ask you to keep one more for me, for old times’ sake.
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