After the War Is Over (22 page)

“Some of the men at the hospital have talked about the rations. How horrid they are.”

“If we get one hot meal a day we’re lucky, though ‘hot’ is a subjective term. ‘Not
frozen solid’ is better. Most days it’s some kind of soup, always too thin, with bits
of meat floating about. Usually horse. They serve it up in great vats that I’m sure
they never wash. God-awful stuff. Sometimes there’s bread, which is just as bad. Moldy,
or crawling with weevils, or both. Always stale. They ran out of flour in the autumn,
you know. Sent us bread that was made out of dried turnips or swede or something equally
revolting. It gave every last man in my company the trots.”

“Is that all you have to eat? One meal a day? No wonder you’re so thin.”

“They send us tins of soup and bully beef, too. That’s my lunch and dinner most days.
I hack open the tin and eat its contents cold. Used to have a little Primus stove,
but I could never get fuel for it.”

“Where do you sleep?”

“In my dugout. Sometimes it has a bed, but most of the time I sleep rough. At least
I’m not out in the open.”

“So that’s your life?”

“That is my life. But only on the days we’re in the front lines. After about eight
days or so they cycle us back to the reserve lines, where things are a little better.
And we do spend some long stretches in relief, well back from the front. So it’s not
an unending saga of misery and woe. You mustn’t think that.”

“Where is your company now?”

“On relief. Billeted in a village near the coast. It seemed quite pleasant, the little
I saw of it before I came home.”

“Is that where you’ll go when you return to France?”

“Yes. We’ll have another week or so there, and then we’ll be given our marching orders.
Did you know the men sing as they march?

“‘This war will never end, never end, never end, this war will never end, till we’re
all dead and gone,’”
he sang, his voice a sweetly beautiful tenor.

“Is that what you believe?”

“Yes. If I believe in anything, I believe that.”

“A war that has no end?” she asked, incredulous at his certainty. “How can that be
possible? We’re all of us on our knees.”

“Yes, but a man on his knees can get up again. That’s why it won’t end until we’re
all dead. Or as close to dead as makes no difference.”

“But the papers say the Americans are sure to become our allies,” she protested.

“If the Americans have any sense they’ll find a way to remain well clear of this apocalypse.
Ah, here we are.”

She hadn’t been paying attention to their surroundings, so it came as a surprise to
see Lord Ashford’s chauffeur and motorcar at the gardens’ boundary only a few yards
distant.

“May I offer you a lift home? I really am in no great hurry.”

“That’s very kind. Thank you.”

The motorcar was warm and welcoming and about a thousand times more pleasant a conveyance
than the Underground train she’d have taken otherwise. It really was very thoughtful
of him to have offered—

“Aren’t you meant to be seeing Lady Helena now? You’ll be late if you take me all
the way up to Camden Town.”

“She’ll be fine.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“I can’t recall. Ages ago.” He looked out of the window, not seeming to focus on anything.

“Surely she’ll be waiting for you. It seems most unkind—”

“Would you like to know something?” he asked, turning to her. “All this year, before
every new and hopeless attack, I’d sit there in the dark, in those empty hours before
dawn, and tell myself that I ought to be thinking of Helena. Before Courcelette, Morval,
the Transloy Ridges, I’d sit there and try to make myself care. Her photograph was
in my tunic pocket, right over my heart, just where it was meant to be. And yet when
I closed my eyes I could never see her face. Never. Do you wish to know whose face
I saw?”

Charlotte, who was quite certain she did not wish to know, shook her head vehemently,
but he didn’t seem to notice.

“The face that filled my mind’s eye as I sat and waited to die, over and over again—it
was your face, Miss Brown. Yours.”

“You mustn’t say such things.”

“It’s the truth. And it isn’t likely we’ll see one another again. So why not be honest,
just this once? Because you are the woman I think of, and you are the woman whose
name will be on my lips when I die.”

He cradled her face in his right hand, swept away a traitorous tear from her cheek,
and smiled, a smile so forlorn and bleak that her broken heart was splintered anew.
She knew what he was going to do, knew with a certainty that astonished her, but rather
than pull away or protest she simply waited for him.

His mouth fitted perfectly against hers, so wonderfully warm and tender, a balm for
her fears, and for a moment, an instant, she was worthy of him, and he was devoted
to her alone, and
everything and everyone that had conspired to separate them simply fell away. She
was his, his alone, and he would survive. Though millions died, he would survive,
and he would come back to her.

His tongue pressed against the seam of her lips, urging them open, and the feel of
him inside her mouth, the scrape of his teeth against her own tongue, was so good
that her toes curled in her boots and her gloved hands scrabbled uselessly at his
shoulders.

He pulled away, gasping, but rather than set her aside he drew her tight against his
chest. His greatcoat was rough against her face, her back hurt from being twisted
almost sideways, and her hat had vanished. She didn’t care.

“We’re here,” he murmured against her hair. She turned her head a little, just enough
so she might see out the window, and realized they were stopped in front of her boardinghouse
on Georgiana Street.

“Don’t rail at me,” he said. “Simply say good-bye.”

How was she meant to speak after such a moment? She swallowed hard, sat up, found
her hat and her handbag.

How was she meant to go on?

“Good-bye, Lord Ashford.”

“Please—”

“Edward, then. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Charlotte. Adieu.”

Cumbria, England

September 1919

E
venings were her favorite time of day. After supper, Edward would stretch out on the
sofa in the sitting room, and she would curl up in the ratty old armchair, and by
the light of the fire and a few kerosene lanterns they would read to each other, exchange
reminiscences of Oxford, and generally keep each other amused.

Some nights, when his head was hurting and he couldn’t read, and was too irritable
by his own estimation to listen to any sort of narrative, he would ask her to sing.
She had a fine memory for hymns, thanks to her childhood in the shadow of one of Christendom’s
great cathedrals, and as the cottage had no gramophone or piano or any other way to
make music, her rather feeble contralto would have to do. But he never complained
or ragged her about it, and in fact seemed to rather enjoy her slightly off-key renditions
of such old chestnuts as “All Things Bright and Beautiful” and “Christ Is Made the
Sure Foundation.”

They never spoke of the war, not after his confession the
week before, and they studiously avoided the subject of what would occur at the end
of her month’s leave. She had less than a week to go, really only four days left if
she didn’t count her day of departure, and they really ought to speak of it. For what
would he do once she returned to Liverpool? Would he stay on at Cawdale Cottage, either
alone or with a servant to keep him company? Or would he return to London, where he
had been so unhappy, and be thrust again into its glittering carousel whirl?

She very much hoped he would stay on in Cumbria, if only for another few months, for
he was still fragile, still in danger of a relapse as far as his symptoms of concussion
were concerned. Even worse, she feared he might turn to drink if—when—it all became
too much for him.

She had done all she could; he alone would chart the path his life would take. And
so she resolved to remind him that she was leaving, and that he would have to find
someone else to take her place. She would tell him in the morning.

They said good night at the top of the stairs, in front of their respective doors,
as they did every night. She listened, as she always did, as he undressed and got
into bed. She listened until he lay quiet, and only then did she allow herself to
sleep. They’d had a good day. She hoped very much that he would sleep well.

His screams woke her. Hoarse, pitiful wails that trailed away into sobs, only to be
renewed with each indrawn breath. It was worse tonight, worse than it had ever been.
Should she defy his wishes and go to him?

She might be able to wake him, be able to break through the terror. Allow him to sleep
again. So she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and crossed the landing to his
door. “Edward? Can you hear me? Are you all right?”

But still his cries continued, rising and falling, his panic and desperation so acute
that it pained her to listen. He was so alone. He ought not to be alone.

Charlotte went into his room and stood by his bed. He had left the curtains open,
and a ragged patch of moonlight fell across his face, laying bare his struggle against
unseen captors and remembered agony. It felt deeply wrong to stand by and watch him,
but she was wary of waking him too suddenly. The men in her hospital had often had
nightmares, and she had learned not to startle them out of their sleep, else risk
a blackened eye.

“Edward, it’s Charlotte. Can you open your eyes? I’m here now. I’m at your bedside
and I’m here.”

“No no nonononono . . . mustn’t . . . mustn’t do it. Why won’t you listen . . . no,
God no . . . don’t do it!”

“Listen to me, Edward. I am here and you are safe. Open your eyes, now, and look at
me. Listen to me.”

“Oh, God . . . don’t do it . . . mustn’t . . . please let me go. Let me die.”

He did open his eyes for a moment, but he was somewhere else, and if he saw Charlotte
it was as another person entirely.

Still she hesitated, fearful to approach him when he was so agitated. It was a terrible
thing, watching him like this. He would be very unhappy once he awoke and discovered
that she had been a witness to his distress.

She sat on the edge of his bed and, holding her breath, touched his right forearm.
When he didn’t flinch or otherwise react, she took his hand in hers and squeezed it
tight.

“Edward, look at me. It’s Charlotte. We are at the cottage and you are safe. You need
to wake up. Open your eyes and look at me. You need to wake up.”

Again and again she explained where they were, that she was at his side, that he was
safe. Minutes passed, perhaps a quarter hour or more, and finally, just as she was
losing hope, he grew calm, and his breathing slowed. And then he squeezed her hand,
opened his eyes, and looked directly at her.

“I thought I asked you never to come in while I was like this,” he said accusingly.

“I know. I’m sorry. It’s only that you were so upset, and you’d been calling out for
so long. I couldn’t
not
come in.”

“I might have hurt you. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, not in the slightest. As soon as I took hold of your hand you began to calm.”

“All the same, Charlotte . . . don’t do it again.”

“You’re shivering. Shall I bring you another blanket?”

“Won’t help. The cold goes bone-deep. Only thing that works is time. Will you stay
awhile?”

“Of course.”

She sat on the bed and held his hand, but he couldn’t stop shaking, not even after
she’d spread another two blankets over him.

“If I were to lie next to you, on top of the blankets, would that help to warm you?”
A month ago she would never have made such a suggestion, but she was desperate to
go back to sleep, and for him to rest as well. “Your bedclothes would still be between
us,” she added.

“You’re very kind to offer. Are you certain? I do promise not to pounce on you. If
only because I’m as weak as a kitten.”

She stretched out next to him, making sure her legs were well covered by her nightgown,
and tucked another blanket over them both. “Does that seem to be helping?” she whispered.

“I think so. You’re like a furnace.”

“Good. Go to sleep.”

“Promise not to leave.”

“I won’t leave. Sleep, now.”

T
HE LIGHT WAS
all wrong. Her window was to the right of her bed, but the first whispers of dawn
were coming from the other side of the room. Her bed felt wrong, too, bigger and softer
than she remembered. And ever so warm. It was heavenly to feel so warm.

“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.