On a Cold Dark Sea(37)
Life as a newspaperwoman wasn’t so very different from life as a thief. Though Charlotte no longer created characters with made-up names and histories, she still played roles, shifting her words and mannerisms to lure her subjects into trusting her. When she was talking to a cook suspected of poisoning her drunken employer, she was Lottie, the south London scrapper-made-good. When she toured the Chelsea Flower Show, she was Mrs. Evers, a respectable middle-class wife. Charlotte’s stories may have been confined to the women’s pages, where reporters worked without bylines, but public recognition was never her goal. What mattered to Charlotte were her own, more personal successes: convincing a reluctant subject to give her an exclusive interview, furnishing her own bedsit near Hyde Park, juggling suitors with the expertise of a circus performer so that none ever knew the others existed.
Charlotte may not have been a real widow, but she lived as one, knowing the “Mrs.” gave her a social standing she’d never have as a “Miss.” Her sham marriage came in especially helpful during the war, when she interviewed other women who’d lost their husbands and occasionally joined in their tears. Charlotte wrote far too many stories of young men snatched from their families too soon, as she desperately tried to conjure heroics from youthful promise and the Flemish mud where the young soldiers had died. In time, she suffered her own loss, a young officer who left for the front before her usual disillusionment set in. She knew she was mourning the idea of him more than the man himself, who would have inevitably disappointed or bored her. But that didn’t make her sorrow any less real.
Teddy, somewhat unexpectedly, made a name for himself as a fearless war correspondent, a reputation that led to his appointment as the Record’s editor in 1925. He gave Charlotte her own column and a substantial raise, and suddenly “Mrs. Evers Reports” became required daily reading for anyone who wanted to vicariously savor—while outwardly condemning—the outrageous behavior of the so-called bright young things. Scandalous divorces, young heirs fighting over Grandpapa’s fortune, secret love children and paid-off mistresses—Charlotte wrote about them all with witty panache. The disillusioned youth of the 1920s were a never-ending source of material.
Charlotte transformed herself with the times, the fustiness of her Edwardian youth giving way to Art Deco sleekness. Her curly, once-tempestuous hair was subdued into sleek marcel waves, her lace-trimmed shirtwaists and petticoats abandoned in favor of sharp wool suits. As she passed through her thirties into her early forties, Charlotte lost her appetite for shape-shifting. She bought a flat in Belgravia, cultivated a circle of artistic friends, and settled into her role as the Record’s tartly amusing social columnist. No one ever asked about Mr. Evers. Like Charlotte, her companions had turned resolutely away from the past.
It was impossible to escape that past completely, of course, not when one’s job depended on keeping up with the news of the day. From time to time, Charlotte would read about one of her fellow lifeboat passengers: Mr. Wells, the surly fireman, who was killed in the Battle of Jutland in 1916; or the old woman, Mrs. Dunning, who died not long after the Armistice. But Charlotte never made an effort to find out what happened to the others. Of all the people in the lifeboat, the only one she ever gave any thought to was Mr. Healy. During her first years at the Record, as she was zealously plunging into her new life, he lingered in her memory, the way an abandoned book tantalizes with its unknown ending. She’d never met another man with whom she’d felt such instant rapport. It wasn’t just his looks, though his classically handsome features had made him a favorite with the female spectators at the hearings. It was something about the man himself, a deep-rooted sense of honor that offered a ballast to Charlotte’s wayward soul. She’d find herself wondering what he was doing and whether he was still at sea. If he ever thought about the awful reckoning they’d faced on the lifeboat. Charlotte imagined Mr. Healy appearing on her doorstep and inviting her to tea, and the thought of seeing him again brought her a peaceful sort of satisfaction.
It was wishful thinking, in any case, because Mr. Healy never did trouble himself to find her. Charlotte could have sought him out, if she wished; the White Star Line would have records on his family and his last known address. But if she did write, what would she say? All she had were memories of emotions from years before, emotions he might not welcome or share. And so, as with all well-intentioned but potentially humiliating impulses, it was easier to do nothing.
The meeting that Charlotte had been dreading was arranged for Saturday, two days before her departure for America. The chauffeur arrived at two o’clock sharp, and Charlotte settled into the Rolls Royce’s luxuriously tranquil interior for the hour-long drive to the country. In her handbag was a letter dated November 23, 1930, typed on the engraved stationery of Grainger & Sons, Solicitors. For nearly two years, it had been lying under a pile of correspondence in the bottom drawer of her desk, its silent accusation pricking at her conscience.
Dear Mrs. Evers,
I am writing on behalf of my client, Lady Upton, wife of the late Frederick St. Vaughn, Lord Upton. In addition to her most recent bereavement, Lady Upton suffered the loss of her youngest son, George St. Vaughn, on the Titanic. For some time, she has wished to locate a Mr. Reginald Evers, an acquaintance of her son whose name appeared on a list of British citizens who survived the sinking. It is her hope that Mr. Evers can provide an account of Mr. St. Vaughn’s last hours.