Emeralds & Ashes

by Leila Rasheed

  “It is more important than you think,” said Hannah. She glanced around at her office. “The only reason I have been able to establish myself here in the legal profession is because of my late father’s will. He intended the sum as a large dowry, but I have used it to support myself in business. I cannot expect to earn as much as a man would, so I am lucky to have independent wealth.”

  Ada sat in silence for a moment. She had, in fact, not quite grasped the implications of her father’s will. There had been too many other things to think about. Now, she thought of all the things she would like to spend money on. An office like this. A trust to help other women into university and the professions. A charity to relieve poverty-stricken women. With money, one could do anything. Even, it appeared, get rid of William’s threats.

  “I will do it, of course. Please, draft the letter to William’s solicitor.”

  Hannah did not move immediately. Connor looked at her. “Are you sure, Ada?” His voice was soft. “I was too hasty and unfeeling in the way I spoke; I was thinking as a lawyer faced with a problem, and not considering that it is, after all, your money.”

  “Quite sure,” Ada said. “Thank you, but…Somerton is very important to me. My family is very important to me.” She swallowed, remembering Ravi again, and closed her eyes briefly to stop the tears coming.

  Hannah rang the bell.

  “Miss Evesham, please take dictation,” she said when the secretary entered.

  Once the letter was done and signed, Kearney stepped through the door into the outer office. Ada hung back, and turned to Hannah. “Thank you so much, Miss Darford. You have been so helpful.”

  “Not at all.” Hannah hesitated, then went on, sounding almost embarrassed. “I wonder if I might speak to you…on an entirely different matter?”

  Ada nodded, wondering what it could be.

  “Have you heard anything from Mr. Sebastian Templeton?”

  Ada shook her head.

  “Nothing, and we are all so worried. But why do you ask?”

  “The truth is, my brother Daniel is very anxious to know what has happened to him.”

  “Daniel…?”

  “Oh, excuse me. You would have known him as Oliver. You may not have heard, but my brother is a…very close friend of your stepbrother, Sebastian Templeton.”

  Ada hesitated. She had heard dim rumors of something between Sebastian and Oliver—but she had never heard the full truth. “If I could tell you anything,” she said, “I would. But I am afraid we know as little as you do. If I do hear something, I will be sure to contact you.”

  Hannah nodded heavily. “Thank you.”

  They walked out into the outer office. Miss Evesham gave them her wintery smile and they stepped down into the street.

  They continued in silence for some time. Ada could hear the sound of a distant military band. She was deep in thought when Connor spoke. “It was very courageous of you to give up so much of your money,” he said, glancing at her sideways. “I hope you didn’t feel that you were pressured into doing so. I would not have thought less of you, nor would Miss Darford, if you had chosen to keep it.”

  “Perhaps I should have.” Ada sighed. “It is so hard to know what is right. I could have benefitted other people with it.”

  “And better enabled yourself to practice as Hannah does.”

  “Yes.” Ada swallowed. “But no, I know I have done the right thing. I do owe my father this, and more, I owe it to Georgiana. I owe it to Somerton.”

  “I believe you are right.”

  They walked on in silence for a moment. Then Connor, who had seemed deep in thought, spoke. “You have heard of the new reform bill?”

  “The Bill for the Representation of the People? Of course I have. It would give all men, even the working class, the right to vote. And also women over thirty—if they own property, of course.”

  “Well, once the war is over, I assure you that nothing will be able to keep it from passing into law—and taking you, Lady Ada, one step closer to your goal of legal and societal equality with men.”

  “You think so?” Ada felt a flutter of hope.

  “I do.”

  “But there is so much opposition to it in both houses of Parliament.”

  “There is, but the fact remains that the vast majority of the men fighting and dying abroad for their country at this moment are currently not allowed to vote. Imagine their feelings! The need of the whole country to work together during this emergency means that there will be no rebellion against this injustice until the war is over, but once it finally is over, it will be impossible to deny them their obvious right. It will certainly pass, and it will carry women with it. There would be revolution if it did not.”

  A passing nursemaid, hearing the word revolution, looked startled and speeded up. Ada smiled. “You give me hope,” she said.

  “It’s justified hope. I believe that equality will come to pass in our lifetime. That may or may not happen, but I do believe, Ada, that I will be there to shake your hand on the day you cast your first vote.”

  “Anything is possible,” she said, the color high in her cheeks. And despite losing Ravi, despite everything, she felt a flutter in her heart at the thought of the future.

  France

  “How wonderful it is to be away from the front!” Charlotte exclaimed, throwing back her head to smell the fresh air as they walked along the path that led to the dunes. They had just arrived at St. Malo, and she almost could not believe that no last-minute emergency had arrived to ruin the holiday. She felt revived already.

  “Yes, and to have time off for once!” said Portia. “Can you believe it? It seems so long ago when we had nothing to do all day but dress and answer letters, and maybe lunch or play tennis—”

  “It is like another life.” Charlotte shook her head, disbelieving. “And we never appreciated it, and always yawned! If I had a day like that again, I should fill it with the most wonderful things. I’d ride, and have a wonderful bath, then I would walk down Oxford Street all alone, and go to the pictures—”

  “Shocking!” Portia teased her.

  “I would, all alone!” Charlotte’s laughter faded. “Although I don’t suppose they are doing much of anything fun in England now.”

  “No, I suppose not.” Portia’s sigh was as tired as the lines round her eyes. “Oh, do you remember the balls, though, and how we’d dance till daylight? I wonder if we will ever dance like that again.”

  They walked on in silence. Charlotte felt the heaviness of war pressing down on her, as it always did if she wasn’t actively trying to keep her spirits up. She almost wished she were back on the ward; at least Flint kept her laughing. There was a single last dune before them, between them and the sea, and tired as she was, she broke into a run. “Race you to the top!” she shouted.

  Laughing and protesting, Portia struggled after her. When she finally reached the ridge, her legs aching, Charlotte was glad she had run. The broad sand swept down to crashing waves, seagulls danced above the water like needles stitching an invisible tapestry, and the wind slapped her in the face until the tears came. She was grateful; she needed an excuse to have tears in her eyes.

  She slid down the dune, and Portia came breathless after her. “Charlotte, you are quite shocking!” she told her as they reached the bottom. “What will they say at the tea shop when we arrive looking so bedraggled?”

  Charlotte shrugged and laughed, brushing sand from her skirt. “They’ll think I have been rolling in the sand dunes with a handsome officer.”

  “You are naughty!” Portia brushed sand off herself too. “I think it’s frightful, the things that go on. Some of the VADs have no shame.”

  “I can’t blame them for having fun while they can. Everyone is so afraid.”

  “Even you? You always seem so capable,” Portia said, as they walked on toward the little tea shop that had opened in one of the wooden huts.

  “Of course,” said Charlotte. She didn’t say, though, tha
t what she was most afraid of was not the war, the bombs, the wounds. What frightened her was the thought of what might happen after the war. She had no idea. She could not imagine it.

  They went into the tearoom. A couple of off-duty medical officers were sitting talking at a table. Portia and Charlotte sat down; Portia picked up the menu and began studying it.

  Charlotte sat, and looked out of the window at the sea and the wind-whipped dunes. Inside she felt hollow. She wished she were back on the ward. There were dressings to be changed, work to be done, sad memories to be pushed away.

  “Pity about MacAllister,” she heard, almost at the same moment. “He’s an excellent chap.”

  It was the medical officers. They were chatting as they drank their tea. Neither of them noticed Charlotte’s sudden, still attention.

  “Indeed. One of the best.”

  “Yes, and a good pilot by all accounts.”

  “Makes it all the worse.”

  “You think there’s no hope, then?”

  “Not a chance. The break’s a nasty one, and he didn’t have it set soon enough. I blame the delay at the front. Dr. Field at Hidoux has been trying his best, but there’s no way he’ll be going back to flying.”

  “No way of steering a plane with an arm like that.”

  “I’m afraid not. The nerves are gone in three fingers, entirely.”

  Charlotte sat, silent, cold as if ice had poured over her. She thought of the conversations she had had with Flint, the tales he’d told her about growing up motherless, with a drunken father on a ranch. How he’d loved horses, found his solace in them, until he found his one true passion: flying. How he dreamed of starting his own aerobatic show, how he longed for the day when he’d be up in the air again—“above all this,” he’d said, gesturing with his free hand, a gesture that seemed like a bird taking flight.

  And they were saying he would never fly again.

  Portia looked up from the menu. “Is everything all right?” she sounded concerned. “You look pale.”

  Charlotte managed to nod. How could she tell him? She didn’t know. But she knew she would not let anyone else break the news to him.

  Oxford

  Ada came down the creaking, wooden stairs from her room in Oriel College. The principal’s door was ajar, and she hesitated, hearing the sound of voices from within. Hannah, and Connor Kearney. She was nervous. She knew that William’s solicitor had replied, but she did not know what the details were.

  She went in to find the parlormaid laying tea and the principal talking warmly to Hannah while Connor, unusually restless, examined the books. He turned at once as soon as he heard the door swing open.

  “I am so sorry to keep you waiting,” Ada greeted Hannah and Connor, and took the seat the principal offered her.

  “Hannah and I were just discussing old times,” the principal said with a smile.

  There was an awkward pause. No one was willing to begin discussing the Averleys’ private business before the principal, and yet she was expected to be present to chaperone Ada. If only she knew, thought Ada with some contempt, that there is no need for that anymore—it is quite too late for my chastity!

  Luckily, the principal was a reasonable woman. She stood up and said, “I understand you have private business to discuss. I shall retire to the conservatory. I am sure that Miss Darford is unexceptionable company.”

  They watched her go; then Ada, unable to contain her curiosity, turned to Hannah. “You have had a reply? What did he say?”

  “I am sorry; the news is not good.” Hannah passed the letter to Ada. Ada read it, her heart sinking as she did so. The words were clear and cold, obviously written by the lawyer and not dictated by William. The sum is too small. It is insulting. The earl has the intention of traveling with his family to America and wishes to invest in the oil fields there.

  “I don’t understand,” she said, feeling cold inside. “Why is he saying that he wants to go abroad?”

  “Because the cad wants more money,” Connor said.

  “Well, how much does he want?” Ada exclaimed.

  Connor and Hannah exchanged troubled looks.

  Hannah said. “I am afraid he will not settle for less than ten thousand. And that will leave you very little for yourself.”

  “But that doesn’t matter. Surely we must get rid of these threats at all costs.”

  “Lady Ada, with respect, I don’t think you’ve been much used to thinking about money,” Connor said. “Your share of the inheritance is hardly over ten thousand pounds in its entirety—leaving aside the small sum that your father left to provide for you while you were in education. That will support you very well for the rest of your life, and enable you to do whatever you like—to practice law, to help others—but if you give it away, you will be forced to either earn your living in whatever way possible, or to marry for money. It isn’t an easy decision.”

  Ada was silent for a moment. “Forgive me, but I think it is,” she said finally. “I cannot accept this threat hanging over Somerton. It is my home, it is…” She stopped, not trusting herself to even hint at all she had already given up for Somerton, for her family. “The money seems a very little thing in comparison with other things. Did you not say that the bill will pass? Well, I trust that once we have the vote, no one will be able to keep us out of professional life. I believe that you are right. The bill will pass, and I will be awarded my degree one day, and then I will be able to honorably earn my own money.”

  “Your faith in the future is admirable,” Connor said, his eyes shining.

  “Be that as it may, it is a big decision,” Hannah said.

  “The decision is made. Give him the ten thousand.” Ada stood up. “Please, just let me write to my banker now, and you can take the letter for me.”

  She went upstairs and wrote the letter. Folding it and placing it in the envelope, she did not pause to ask herself if she was doing the right thing. She knew she was.

  When she came back down, the principal was in the room again and was talking to Hannah. Connor opened the door for her. She wondered if he had done it so they would have a moment to speak quietly.

  “You are quite sure?” he said, as she handed him the letter. They were hidden by the door and the shadow, and she was keenly aware of how close together they were, how intimate this moment was.

  “Yes, I am.”

  There was an almost eager, boyish look on his face as he looked at her. “You are noble, Lady Ada, in the truest way.”

  Ada was surprised to find herself blushing.

  France

  Sebastian lit a cigarette and, as the first dawn light touched the skyline, drew the smoke into his cold, aching body. He had never been a smoker, had never enjoyed the taste or the smell. But things were different here. When all around you was mud and rain, rats and human remains trodden deep into the earth, a cigarette was something that was warm, at least, a small star to focus on. It filled his belly and gave him something to concentrate on. More than anything, it stopped his hands shaking. He knew there were many others who smoked for the same reason.

  A shadowy shape passed him in the trench, with a muttered “Good luck, Corp.”

  “Good luck, pal,” he replied. The light was slowly draining into the sky, and he could see the silhouettes of the barbed wire, the guns, the German dead end they had been facing for days. It was hard to imagine that in just over an hour—no, less than an hour now, it would be over, for good or ill.

  This was it. He thought of Oliver. Those days seemed so far away, the sun-bathed days before the war. If they could see each other again, could he explain? Was he the same person he had been then? He wished he could have said something, could have written. But every time he had sat down and tried to place his feelings on paper, in the muddy dugout, there hadn’t been the time, or the words hadn’t flowed, or someone had been shot, or a message had come from staff, asking him to count the iron rations remaining—some such make-work nonsense. He’d never written,
and now, as the scene before him brightened inexorably, he knew he never would.

  He could see the face of his watch, the luminous numbers glowing faintly. Time to call the lieutenant.

  He left his post and went back to the dugout. All along the trench, he passed men leaning on the fire step, silent and watching, rifles at the ready.

  “Good luck,” he murmured as he passed each one. The words seemed so frail, so useless. He was surprised they didn’t laugh at him. But instead they echoed them back to him as if they truly meant something. Just last night, Joe had said to him, “We can only trust in God now, sir.” He hadn’t known what to reply, but in the end all there was to do was agree.

  He knocked on the door of the dugout and pushed it open.

  The lieutenant sat at the table, his hands out in front of him. He was looking at the door, silent and still. His face was shadowed, a silhouette.

  He should have been invalided out, thought Sebastian. His nerves were clearly destroyed. Too late now.

  “It’s time, sir,” he said.

  The officer took his time replying. Sebastian watched him nervously. He began to sense that all was not well. He was sitting very still.

  “Sir?” he said. He didn’t want to think of what would happen if the man refused to go. He would have to force him out at gunpoint.

  He took a step closer. Then he saw the razor.

  Sebastian stood still for a second, taking in the dark pools of liquid on the table, on the floor, the drip-drip of something that was not the rain through the leaky roof. There was notepaper in front of the officer; there was a pen. If he had written anything on the paper, it had long been blotted out by the blood.

  “Corp?” A nervous voice at the door. It was Joe. Sebastian turned around and went for the door, to stop him coming in. The shock of what he had seen made him tremble. The man had killed himself rather than face what was waiting for them over the top.

  “What’s up, Corp? Where’s the lieutenant?” Joe was nervous.