“I must admit that the preparations have gone better than I could have hoped,” the countess said, to Rebecca’s amazement. She even allowed her a wintery smile. Rebecca curtsied her thanks. She knew that this little, from the countess, was praise indeed, and from the glance Georgiana gave her once the countess had turned away, she knew that she too appreciated it. Certainly the countess was in a good mood, she thought. But before she could glean any hint of the reason, Michael came up, Thomas following him, carrying the cream and strawberry cake.
“Rebecca,” Michael began warmly, “it was such a considerate thought of yours to have the cake. Really, at the grand old age of nineteen I thought I’d never get another.”
Rebecca curtsied again.
“It’s nothing, Master Templeton. Thomas tells me we have always had a birthday tea for members of the family, and it seems a shame to miss the tradition just because of the war.”
“I do agree,” Georgiana said. “The war shouldn’t stop us having fun.”
“But I wondered if you’d mind if I donate it to the cause?” Michael asked her. “It would be a wonderful guess-the-weight prize. I expect there are plenty of families who would be even gladder of it than I would be.”
“Not at all, sir, what a lovely idea!” Rebecca beamed. She had found her centerpiece for the table. Once Georgiana, Michael, and the countess had walked on, she helped clear a space for it and Thomas set it down carefully, cream glistening as it slipped over strawberries and sponge, on the crystal cake stand. Rebecca, her head to one side, wreathed white Somerton roses around its silver base.
“There,” she murmured. “Now, shouldn’t the jam jars be in a pyramid? Oh, I don’t know, perhaps it should all be on the other table after all—”
“I think you should leave well alone,” said Thomas, a smile in his eyes as he looked at her. “It looks perfect, Rebecca—er, Mrs. Freeman.”
“But don’t you think the sandwiches would be better by the apple juice? I do hope Annie remembered to strain it.”
“I said, I think it’s perfect. Now, look—the villagers are arriving.”
“Oh dear!” Rebecca jumped to attention. The first visitors were coming in through the arch of bunting, shy at entering the grounds of the great house, children clinging to their mothers’ skirts, fathers stiff in their best clothes. So few fathers, she noted. So much black—gloves, hat ribbons, the borders of the children’s aprons. The war cast its shadow still, she thought. VADs walked among the crowd, rattling their collection tins. She saw her mother and Davy, and smiled a welcome, but didn’t go over to greet them—she felt too much on duty for that.
She brushed down her dress. She was still self-conscious in the smart black gown that she was allowed to wear as housekeeper. A small pearl brooch, one of the few things she had been able to keep from her life before, was at her throat.
“I sometimes wish I was still in a maid’s uniform,” she found herself confiding in Thomas. “I always worry I might be taken for a lady, and that would be so embarrassing.”
“What do you mean, ‘taken for’?” he replied teasingly.
Rebecca looked at him reproachfully. “Please don’t laugh. I am not a lady; I’m a servant.”
“Nonsense, you’re a perfect lady. If you weren’t, do you think that the countess would have allowed your appointment for a moment?”
“Oh, but…” Rebecca faltered, remembering how strongly the countess had seemed to be against her.
“Her ladyship’s bark is worse than her bite,” Thomas whispered, just before the villagers thronged in, on a wave of happy laughter and conversation. “She wanted to see you prove yourself—and you have. By the way, I overheard her saying at dinner that she was very impressed with the way you managed to save her furs from moth. Now it’s time for you to enjoy yourself.”
He tucked a spray of rosebuds into the waistband of her skirt. Rebecca, blushing, couldn’t find words to protest. As the gardens filled with people, she walked among them, consciously checking that everything was going as planned, but in reality delighted and in awe at the event that she and Thomas had created together. Everything seemed to be running well; nothing had gone wrong. Mollie hadn’t put her thumb in the butter or spilled the tea down the bishop’s wife; everyone was mingling in the correct groups, happily without embarrassment. There was just enough juice—they’d used all last year’s apples and thinned it as much as possible with spring water—the biscuits made with the new margarine were not really dreadful, and most of all the sun was shining and the band was playing. Children lost their shyness and began playing hide-and-seek among the rhododendrons. Above it all, like a gracious hostess, the great house, Somerton Court, stood. Rebecca looked up at it, the elegant pillars, the wide windows. It was beautiful, she thought. She remembered her father without unhappiness for the first time, remembered how he had pored over drawings of grand houses, pointed out the golden mean—proportions—to her, explained how beauty was all a matter of substance, and balance. The right stone, the right ratio to the windows. He would have loved Somerton Court, she thought.
She looked down, and saw a man and woman who could only be Jenny’s parents; they stood aside, and from the grim expressions on their faces, she guessed that they feared being ostracized for their daughter’s actions. She saw the father looking around, scowling in case he caught gossip or curious glances. But then she saw Lady Georgiana making her way toward them. The expression on Jenny’s father’s face changed, comically, as he realized that Lady Georgiana was going to actually speak to them. Jenny’s mother curtsied clumsily, looking half scared, half defiant.
Rebecca longed to be able to hear what was said, but what she saw was enough to reassure her. Lady Georgiana spoke quietly, she smiled, and she took Jenny’s mother’s hand and pressed it. Jenny’s father’s expression softened into surprise. Jenny’s mother seemed inclined to start crying, but Jenny’s father silenced her with a gentle touch on the shoulder. Rebecca could tell, from Lady Georgiana’s expression, that she was offering support and help.
Good old Lady Georgiana, she thought. I knew she would do what she could.
She turned as she heard the band fall silent and the vicar call for silence. The countess had climbed onto the bandstand and stood there, shaded from the sun, looking out like a captain over an unruly sea. Everyone fell silent and turned to face her.
“I am delighted to welcome you all to this garden party in aid of the Red Cross,” the countess began, her voice carrying without difficulty across the lawn. “We must not forget the men whose benefit this is all ultimately for…”
Rebecca’s attention wandered; she watched the crowd, wondering how they would react to the news they were about to hear.
“…We have taken a good deal of thought before we made our decision to hold this party,” the countess went on. “But we feel that this is what my dear husband, the earl, would have wanted. We have decided to turn Somerton Court into a hospital. From next month, we will be receiving cases for rehabilitation.”
There was silence, and then solemn applause.
Georgiana watched as the fete went on. The villagers were enjoying themselves, and the friends of her father whom she had invited were spending money, especially on the raffle where the first prize was signed first editions of Mrs. Cliffe’s latest novel. All was going well, and yet she could not be happy. It was strange, she thought, how everything managed to continue without her father. She could not have imagined a day like this a few months ago. She still could not really understand what had happened. At times the mourning that she woke up to every day seemed like a dream; at other times she hated it, and felt guilty for hating it.
“You look sad,” Michael said, at her shoulder. She looked up, startled.
“I am just thinking about my father,” she said, managing a smile. “Oh, I am sorry—I shouldn’t be so downcast on your birthday.”
“I wish you never had to be downcast at all,” he said seriously.
“How can we h
elp it?” Georgiana said sadly. She did not say the other thought that was on her mind: that sooner or later Michael would be off to the front. She could not hold him here, now that he was nineteen.
Michael had begun walking, and she followed him, almost unconsciously, into the maze of white rosebushes. They had not been properly cared for since the gardener left, and the long sprays of roses had grown out of control.
“Have you seen that the Times reported the arrest of Connor Kearney?” she said. “It seems that Hannah and Ada have prepared a good defense for Mr. Miller to present.”
“Yes, it’s all trumped up slander against the poor man,” Michael agreed. “I am proud of Ada. In this feverish atmosphere it would be easy for a wrong judgment to be brought.”
“The Times calls Mr. Kearney a conscientious objector. I should like to be one of those—but being a woman, one is not even allowed to serve, let alone refuse to serve.”
“You begin to sound like Ada.”
“I don’t think I will ever be as forceful as she is. I don’t have the intelligence, and I daresay I care too much about dancing and dresses and so on to be a real suffragette. But I do find it hard to have no say whatsoever in what is happening—when so many people I love are being taken from me.” She stopped as she found herself face to face with a very overgrown patch. “Oh, I don’t think we can get through here. If only we still had a gardener, he would have kept the path clear.”
“Well, let’s find a new path. Don’t you remember when you used to scramble through hedges? It wasn’t so long ago.” Michael ducked under the roses and turned back with a tempting grin.
“My dress…” Georgiana hung back, but she couldn’t repress a smile.
“Come—I’ll help you.” Michael reached out to her, and, giggling despite her sadness, she ducked under the roses.
“That was quite exciting,” she said, glancing back at the offending foliage. “I don’t know why, perhaps just because I wish every obstacle in life were so easy to overcome.”
“Things will not always be so gray, dear Georgie,” said Michael gently.
“But when will they change? I suppose this war can’t go on forever, but what if it does? I can’t imagine the future, and that makes me sad and afraid.”
“Would you rather I did not apply for my commission?” he said abruptly.
Georgiana hesitated. The sudden question had thrown her; she did not know what to reply. Of course she would rather he not, but she had seen enough of the pressures upon him to know that would not be an easy choice. He would be choosing to be scorned by everyone; he would be embarrassed to meet women in mourning and men in uniform. Most terrible of all, he would feel that he was not doing his duty.
“I…” Her voice faltered. Could she really be so selfish as to ask him to remain at home? “I would rather not lose someone else dear to me, so soon after losing Father.”
“I might survive, you know,” he said teasingly.
“Don’t,” she said, her voice choking in her throat. She caught his lapel, and he held on to her. They stood close, in silence, in a green thorny embrace, heavy with the scent of roses. Georgiana knew that he understood there was too much to say. Too many fears. Too much knowledge. A few months ago, they had not known what war meant. Now they did. Now they knew how likely death was, how they did not dare cling to the painful chance of life, in case the heartbreak that was almost certain to come crushed them utterly. All this, and the feelings she had for him, that she could not properly find words for…
“I’ll wait,” murmured Michael after what seemed like a long time. “I shan’t apply at once.”
Georgiana rested her head against his chest. She could find no words to express her gratitude. At least one fear was gone, and her heart felt lighter already.
Walking back toward the sound of music, she searched for a subject that would not bring the war back to them. “Do you think Ada might marry him?” she said. “I wonder; they certainly seem to be close.”
“Mr. Kearney? I don’t believe he is the marrying kind,” said Michael.
“And I don’t believe Ada is, either. Yet she deserves to be happy.”
As they came out of the maze, the band was playing and Georgiana was struck by the strange light, the long dark shadows and the intense golden sunshine, as if a storm were about to break. Against the gray clouds, birds shone white as they glided on the wind. Couples were dancing to the band’s music.
Captain Wyndham came to meet them. “Will you dance, Lady Georgiana?” he said.
“Oh, I…” Georgiana blushed. He was certainly very handsome. She hesitated, then smiled. “Why not?”
He swept her off across the grass. Georgiana allowed herself to be carried away, to imagine herself for a moment in a ballroom. Captain Wyndham was the most wonderful dancer. Michael, she had to admit, had never been as sure-footed. There was still something boyish and awkward about him, whereas there was no doubt that Captain Wyndham was a man, and a most elegant and sophisticated one at that.
“You must love your home very much,” he said as they danced.
“I do,” Georgiana said, looking about them at the beautiful gardens. “I wish I never had to leave it.”
A moment later she regretted what she had said; it was tactless to bring up the inheritance. She had not been thinking about it; it had simply been the truth.
Captain Wyndham leaned close to her ear. A faint, masculine scent, full of the mystery and glamor of the ballrooms of her dreams, lingered on his collar. “If I have my way,” he murmured, his warm breath caressing her neck, “you will never have to.”
Georgiana looked at him, startled. There was a wealth of implication in the words. She found herself blushing as she looked into his dark, velvety eyes. Was it her imagination, or was there tenderness there?
A sudden commotion at the edge of the crowd drew her attention. Children scattered, squealing. Georgiana saw Thomas heading over to the source of the confusion—then the crowd stirred as if it were the surface of a lake changed by something moving beneath it.
“An entertainer!” cried someone.
“Did we engage an entertainer?” Georgiana said to Captain Wyndham, perplexed. But then she saw what was causing the excitement. Two women, one dressed in flowing Arabic robes, a baby in her arms, the other in a stained traveling dress, stood under the arched entrance to the fete. Georgiana stopped, transfixed for a second—it could not be—and then she heard the Englishwoman’s voice, exhausted but so familiar that it sent a thrill of recognition down her spine.
“Excuse me—I am looking for the Earl of Westlake. Please, is there anyone from the family here?”
She turned toward Georgiana as she spoke, and Georgiana’s mouth opened in wordless shock and delight. The dark brown hair, the lily-like head, so graceful, and the Averley chin—
“Rose!” she shrieked, with a complete lack of all dignity. She left Captain Wyndham’s arms and ran toward her sister, her hat lost as she went. She flung herself into her arms, into a confusion of strange, incense-like scents, familiar warmth, and heard Rose’s happy laughter, bordering on tears.
“Oh, dear Georgie! I can’t wait to tell you—we’ve had such an incredible journey!”
France
Charlotte’s shift was nearly over. Outside, the sun was setting. She moved wearily around the ward, tidying up and making sure that the men all had water, and were comfortable for the night. Outside, the last train to carry the wounded back to the general hospital rattled toward them.
She had almost made up her mind to transfer back to England. She was exhausted in mind and in body. With Flint gone, she did not even have the energy that his presence always gave her. As much as she wanted to help, the war was wearing her down. Even her mother would be a relief.
Back in the mess room, she looked at once at her shelf, where letters were placed when they came in. Nothing. She tried not to feel hurt. There were many reasons he might not have written immediately. But, she thought as she w
ent to make herself the inevitable, endless Bovril, he might also have discovered that his feelings had changed. War was not the real world, and perhaps everything looked different from England.
“Oh, Charlotte.” Portia came in, and Charlotte’s eyes went at once to the envelopes she held. “Two for you just came with the last train. From home.”
Charlotte’s heart leapt as she took the letters; it fell as she saw the postmark and heard Portia’s words. Both were from Palesbury, and she recognized her mother’s handwriting on the first.
“Bad news?” said Portia sympathetically.
Charlotte glanced up at her with an ironic smile. “From my mother, so almost certainly.”
Portia smiled understandingly, and Charlotte opened the letter. It wasn’t pleasant to face another telling-off; she was sure that her mother would want to know what had happened to her, why she had not replied to her last letter. She was right.
Dear Charlotte,
Did you receive my last letter? I can only assume it has gone astray. I must insist that you return at once. The situation is quite critical. Rose has arrived after the most extraordinary journey, looking quite shocking, and bringing an unspeakable Arab woman with her, who is nursemaid to her baby son, Edward. Yes, Rose has a son. You will instantly recognize the significance of this. She will be expecting him to have the house and land, as my husband specified in the will. But as the estate is entailed, he will certainly be set aside in favor of Earl of Westlake’s more valid claim. I write this simply so that you are forewarned, I don’t expect real opposition from her—she is too concerned with writing to Alexander, who is serving somewhere on the eastern front, to pursue her son’s interests herself. No, the real danger comes from Georgiana. Captain Wyndham has been paying particular attentions to her. I am sure that you will know how to detach him from her, but it is essential that you give up this sulk and come back to Somerton. Do not delay. Come immediately, and wire your arrival time from London. While in London, you should also collect some new dresses, which I have ordered for you, at L’atelier. Everything may depend on the next few days. If it will persuade you, I will even allow you to continue with your nursing while you are here, since the house is to be converted into a hospital—in fact, it might be a good idea, as these things do impress the men. At any rate you must get out of France before you are absolutely unsexed. Think how terrible it will be to be a spinster. Dear Charlotte, do be reasonable and come home at once.
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