moment, onlysix months earlier, when he had come through the door of her and Lilly’s boardinghouse
in Camden Town, and she had seen with her own eyes that, by virtue of some unknowable
miracle, he was not dead. That he had not vanished into the mud and muck and horror
of the war.
She let herself remember the joy she had felt in that moment, at the sight of his
dear, sad face, and with it she remembered all that he had suffered. If only she could
take back her unkind words.
She regarded their linked hands for a moment, and then, another apology on her lips,
she looked up and met his gaze. He looked almost like the old Edward, the boy she
had first met at Oxford, so charming and carefree and sure of his place in the world.
But that boy was dead and gone, and in his place was a man who had seen things she
would never be able to know, let alone imagine. A man who was infinitely more complicated,
and dangerous, than the boy he had once been.
“Do you feel up to returning to the reception?” he asked softly.
“I do. I wouldn’t want Lilly to worry. I don’t look too disheveled, do I?”
“You look perfect,” he said, taking her arm.
As quickly as it had erupted, her anger had melted away, but wasn’t that what always
happened when she was around Edward? No matter what he did, no matter how he behaved,
she always forgave him.
He carried such burdens, admittedly some of them of his own making, and there were
so few people he could trust. Robbie, Lilly, and herself. Perhaps one or two friends,
although she’d met some of his friends before and had not cared for them one whit.
Even his engagement was a sham.
She felt sorry for him; that was all. He was unwell, unhappy, nearly friendless, and
crippled by obligations that would have taxed the energies of even the fittest man.
He needed her friendship, not her censure.
“It will all work out in the end,” she said as they walked up the terrace steps. “I’m
certain it will.”
“If I were still the sort of man who believed in such things, I would agree with you.
As it is . . .”
“Yes?”
“I’ll soldier on.”
Chapter 10
Cumbria, England
July 1907
T here was no reason at all to be nervous. Not yet, at least. Lord Ashford had been
perfectly clear in his last letter: John Pringle, one of the family’s coachmen, would
meet her at the train station in Penrith and bring her to Cumbermere Hall. Only once
she’d had a chance to settle in would she be introduced to the family.
Charlotte had been traveling since dawn, for her journey had begun at home in Somerset,
where she’d gone after the end of term. Although her parents hadn’t criticized her
decision to take on the post of governess to Lady Elizabeth, neither had they been
especially pleased. Her mother had been particularly fretful. “After all your hard
work at university . . . I don’t know. It seems like a step back for you to go and
work as a servant in someone else’s home.”
Charlotte had tried to persuade her that she wouldn’t be a servant, not precisely;
she would be teaching a young lady, not waiting on her hand and foot. But her mother,
who herself had been taught by a governess at home, was unconvinced.
Her father had said little, and on their afternoon walks together they had both avoided
the subject of her new position. Unlike some men, he wore the mantle of paterfamilias
lightly, rarely imposing his wishes on his wife or daughter. If he’d had grave concerns,
of course, he’d have voiced them, but in their absence he was content enough to stand
back and allow Charlotte to chart her own course. In this she was fortunate, and she
knew it. Every blessing in her life had come from her parents. Without them, what
would have become of her? How might her life have turned out?
That morning, both Mother and Father had said good-bye and waved her off with smiles
on their faces and repeated assurances that they
in Camden Town, and she had seen with her own eyes that, by virtue of some unknowable
miracle, he was not dead. That he had not vanished into the mud and muck and horror
of the war.
She let herself remember the joy she had felt in that moment, at the sight of his
dear, sad face, and with it she remembered all that he had suffered. If only she could
take back her unkind words.
She regarded their linked hands for a moment, and then, another apology on her lips,
she looked up and met his gaze. He looked almost like the old Edward, the boy she
had first met at Oxford, so charming and carefree and sure of his place in the world.
But that boy was dead and gone, and in his place was a man who had seen things she
would never be able to know, let alone imagine. A man who was infinitely more complicated,
and dangerous, than the boy he had once been.
“Do you feel up to returning to the reception?” he asked softly.
“I do. I wouldn’t want Lilly to worry. I don’t look too disheveled, do I?”
“You look perfect,” he said, taking her arm.
As quickly as it had erupted, her anger had melted away, but wasn’t that what always
happened when she was around Edward? No matter what he did, no matter how he behaved,
she always forgave him.
He carried such burdens, admittedly some of them of his own making, and there were
so few people he could trust. Robbie, Lilly, and herself. Perhaps one or two friends,
although she’d met some of his friends before and had not cared for them one whit.
Even his engagement was a sham.
She felt sorry for him; that was all. He was unwell, unhappy, nearly friendless, and
crippled by obligations that would have taxed the energies of even the fittest man.
He needed her friendship, not her censure.
“It will all work out in the end,” she said as they walked up the terrace steps. “I’m
certain it will.”
“If I were still the sort of man who believed in such things, I would agree with you.
As it is . . .”
“Yes?”
“I’ll soldier on.”
Chapter 10
Cumbria, England
July 1907
T here was no reason at all to be nervous. Not yet, at least. Lord Ashford had been
perfectly clear in his last letter: John Pringle, one of the family’s coachmen, would
meet her at the train station in Penrith and bring her to Cumbermere Hall. Only once
she’d had a chance to settle in would she be introduced to the family.
Charlotte had been traveling since dawn, for her journey had begun at home in Somerset,
where she’d gone after the end of term. Although her parents hadn’t criticized her
decision to take on the post of governess to Lady Elizabeth, neither had they been
especially pleased. Her mother had been particularly fretful. “After all your hard
work at university . . . I don’t know. It seems like a step back for you to go and
work as a servant in someone else’s home.”
Charlotte had tried to persuade her that she wouldn’t be a servant, not precisely;
she would be teaching a young lady, not waiting on her hand and foot. But her mother,
who herself had been taught by a governess at home, was unconvinced.
Her father had said little, and on their afternoon walks together they had both avoided
the subject of her new position. Unlike some men, he wore the mantle of paterfamilias
lightly, rarely imposing his wishes on his wife or daughter. If he’d had grave concerns,
of course, he’d have voiced them, but in their absence he was content enough to stand
back and allow Charlotte to chart her own course. In this she was fortunate, and she
knew it. Every blessing in her life had come from her parents. Without them, what
would have become of her? How might her life have turned out?
That morning, both Mother and Father had said good-bye and waved her off with smiles
on their faces and repeated assurances that they
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