On a Cold Dark Sea(38)
In the course of our inquiries, we have not been able to locate an address or record of employment for Mr. Evers, and we believe it likely he changed his name or moved abroad. However, a Mrs. Evers also appeared on the survivors’ list, and we are writing to inquire if you are the wife of Mr. Reginald Evers or otherwise related to him. If so, would you please write at your earliest convenience? Any information that assists in our search would be a great comfort to Lady Upton.
Yours most sincerely,
Oswald Grainger
Charlotte hadn’t written back. How could she possibly tell Mr. Grainger what had happened to Georgie and Reg? But she hadn’t thrown the letter away, either. She told herself the St. Vaughns had nothing to do with her, and a stranger’s sorrow was none of her concern. Yet Charlotte couldn’t help but think of the poor woman, still mourning the son who had never come home. Now that she was preparing to confront her own past, it seemed unconscionably cruel to deny a grieving mother a simple act of kindness. Charlotte wasn’t prepared to admit everything; she didn’t owe Lady Upton the truth. But a few polite lies might be enough to assuage Charlotte’s guilt.
Charlotte had been to her share of house parties, so she no longer felt a flutter of nerves as she approached The Oaks, a mansion set at the end of an intimidatingly long drive. But her previous excursions had been jolly gatherings of bon vivants and socialites who greeted each other with kisses and shouts of “Splendid!” and “Darling!” This time, she had been summoned by a stranger, with no idea of what awaited her. The important thing was to stay calm, no matter what she might be asked. Lady Upton mustn’t suspect that Georgie was anything more than a casual shipboard acquaintance.
The chauffeur said nothing as he opened the car door and Charlotte stepped out. A butler done up in full prewar livery stood in the doorway, his face a portrait of grim resolve. He, too, was silent as Charlotte walked into the entry hall, a gloomy, wood-paneled cave in which Henry VIII would have felt right at home.
“Lady Upton will see you in the morning room,” the butler said, his back to Charlotte as he led the way.
Charlotte felt the disapproval coming off him like a strong cologne, and she bristled with self-righteous anger. It had been a long time since Charlotte had been subjected to such flagrant snobbery; the circles she traveled in welcomed working-class writers alongside aristocratic titles. If Lady Upton displayed the same contempt as her butler, it wouldn’t be a long visit.
The Oaks had the hush of a museum, or a memorial to the dead. The morning room, with its oversized fireplace, worn sofas, and family photographs, was much as Charlotte expected, but Lady Upton wasn’t. Charlotte had pictured her as an aristocratic archetype, with stiff shoulders and an even stiffer upper lip. The woman who rose to greet her, however, had the weathered face and pudgy, shapeless body of a nanny or farmwife, a woman who puts more effort into her work than her appearance. She was dressed in an old-fashioned frock that grazed her ankles, and her white hair was piled in a ramshackle heap held together with diamond pins.
“Mrs. Evers,” she said. “Thank you for coming.”
Charlotte’s initial reservations softened. “Lady Upton. A pleasure.”
Lady Upton wavered a moment, looking from the butler to Charlotte, then back. “We’ll take our tea,” she finally said, and as the butler walked away, she gestured toward the sofa. “Please.”
Charlotte began to feel more at ease. She’d been in this situation before, interviewing old women in rooms just like this, sitting on sofas just as faded. She knew how to look fascinated when they rambled and when to nod understandingly as they complained about the latest modern outrage. She prepared herself to begin the conversation with a few pleasantries and perhaps some benign tidbits of London gossip.
But Lady Upton surprised Charlotte again. Dispensing with polite chitchat, she spoke bluntly.
“Mrs. Evers, I have lost everything I loved.”
Charlotte’s eyes followed Lady Upton’s to the mantelpiece, where an array of silver frames had been precariously jumbled together. From one, she saw Georgie’s face looking back at her. It came as a physical shock. She hadn’t prepared herself for what it would be like to see him again. His eyes seemed to be staring directly at Charlotte, demanding an explanation she couldn’t give.
“I no longer receive guests,” Lady Upton said. “I no longer go out. I live here, alone, with memories as my only companions.”
Lady Upton stood and walked to the fireplace. She picked up the largest photograph and carried it back to Charlotte. Charlotte laid the bulky frame on her lap and looked at the figures of two boys in school uniforms, posing on The Oaks’ front drive.
“My George and my Tom,” Lady Upton said. “The dearest boys you could imagine.”
A maid arrived with the tea tray, and Charlotte, grateful for the interruption, put the photo aside. She had interviewed dozens of women who’d been scarred by the war, yet she had never been able to shield herself completely from their hurt. Every soldier who’d died had left an abyss of grief, spiraling out from those who loved him.
“I’m so very sorry,” Charlotte murmured. An empty gesture, but it was important to say something, to forestall the temptation of tears.
Lady Upton took the picture and set it tenderly on the cushion beside her, the same way she once might have settled her sons before reading them a story.