Good luck with your finals, Charlotte.”
He shook her hand and set off at a run, east along the High Street and, presumably,
back to Merton, his gown billowing behind him in a quite comical manner. If only the
rest of their encounter had been something she could laugh away.
Somehow, without precisely agreeing to do so, she had become the governess to a sister
of Lord Edward Ashford—and that, apart from his sister’s name, was all she knew of
him and his family. In little more than a month, she would begin work as a governess.
A servant. Despite her own upper-middle-class upbringing, her superior academic qualifications,
the outrageous salary she would receive, and the compliments Lord Ashford had attached
to his offer, she would be a servant, living with strangers, employed by aristocrats
who were sure to deplore a modern woman such as herself.
It was not the grand and noble future she had once envisioned for herself.
Charlotte stood on the pavement outside Boffin’s a minute longer, trying and failing
to take everything in, and then set off for Blackwell’s. She might as well begin her
new future by looking up Lord Edward Ashford in Debrett’s Peerage .
Chapter 7
Liverpool, England
April 1919
C harlotte was at her desk, trying to make sense of her notes from the Pensions Committee
meeting of the evening before—why, oh why had she never thought to take a course in
shorthand?—when Miss Margison stomped past. The woman didn’t seem capable of simply
walking; no, she telegraphed her every footstep throughout the constituency office,
no matter if her mood was good or bad, no matter if she was wearing court shoes or
galoshes. This morning her mood was vile, for reasons that Charlotte had yet to deduce
and, frankly, had no interest in exploring.
She’d worked alongside the woman since 1911, excepting of course the interval during
the war when she’d been in London, and in all that time they had never become friendly.
Miss Margison didn’t appear to have friends, or if she did she kept them well hidden.
She never sat with the other women in the office during their break for tea, never
went to the pictures after work with any of them, never in Charlotte’s recollection
had so much as asked after their families or beaux. At the endof the day, the woman seemed to vanish, and as no one had any notion of where she
lived, or with whom, they had nothing to chat with her about the following morning.
A voice rang out from Miss Rathbone’s office. “Miss Brown! Could I trouble you to
come here for a minute? Miss Margison has a question for you.”
Charlotte stifled a groan and got to her feet. What could it be this time? She approached
Miss Rathbone’s desk, studiously ignoring the third woman in the room.
“Yes, Miss Rathbone?” she said, her voice beautifully calm.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, my dear, but Miss Margison had some concerns about the
invitations for the annual general meeting of the National Union. I gather the approved
proofs were to have been returned to the printers last week?”
“Yes, ma’am. I put them in the outgoing post myself.”
“I see. The difficulty, I’m afraid, is that Miss Margison has only now had a call
from the printer, saying he didn’t receive the proofs.”
Not again. This was the third time an item had been pinched from the outgoing post
and the finger of blame pointed at her by none other than Miss Margison.
“I assure you, ma’am, I did place them in the outgoing post.” And from today onward,
she vowed to herself, she would personally place every item of post that left her
desk directly in the pillar-box down the road.
“I quite believe you. There you have it, Miss Margison. Now, I believe we still have
a copy of the invitation at hand? Very well. Since you are at loose ends this morning,
would you be so kind as to take it over to the printers? It shouldn’t take you above
an hour to
He shook her hand and set off at a run, east along the High Street and, presumably,
back to Merton, his gown billowing behind him in a quite comical manner. If only the
rest of their encounter had been something she could laugh away.
Somehow, without precisely agreeing to do so, she had become the governess to a sister
of Lord Edward Ashford—and that, apart from his sister’s name, was all she knew of
him and his family. In little more than a month, she would begin work as a governess.
A servant. Despite her own upper-middle-class upbringing, her superior academic qualifications,
the outrageous salary she would receive, and the compliments Lord Ashford had attached
to his offer, she would be a servant, living with strangers, employed by aristocrats
who were sure to deplore a modern woman such as herself.
It was not the grand and noble future she had once envisioned for herself.
Charlotte stood on the pavement outside Boffin’s a minute longer, trying and failing
to take everything in, and then set off for Blackwell’s. She might as well begin her
new future by looking up Lord Edward Ashford in Debrett’s Peerage .
Chapter 7
Liverpool, England
April 1919
C harlotte was at her desk, trying to make sense of her notes from the Pensions Committee
meeting of the evening before—why, oh why had she never thought to take a course in
shorthand?—when Miss Margison stomped past. The woman didn’t seem capable of simply
walking; no, she telegraphed her every footstep throughout the constituency office,
no matter if her mood was good or bad, no matter if she was wearing court shoes or
galoshes. This morning her mood was vile, for reasons that Charlotte had yet to deduce
and, frankly, had no interest in exploring.
She’d worked alongside the woman since 1911, excepting of course the interval during
the war when she’d been in London, and in all that time they had never become friendly.
Miss Margison didn’t appear to have friends, or if she did she kept them well hidden.
She never sat with the other women in the office during their break for tea, never
went to the pictures after work with any of them, never in Charlotte’s recollection
had so much as asked after their families or beaux. At the endof the day, the woman seemed to vanish, and as no one had any notion of where she
lived, or with whom, they had nothing to chat with her about the following morning.
A voice rang out from Miss Rathbone’s office. “Miss Brown! Could I trouble you to
come here for a minute? Miss Margison has a question for you.”
Charlotte stifled a groan and got to her feet. What could it be this time? She approached
Miss Rathbone’s desk, studiously ignoring the third woman in the room.
“Yes, Miss Rathbone?” she said, her voice beautifully calm.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, my dear, but Miss Margison had some concerns about the
invitations for the annual general meeting of the National Union. I gather the approved
proofs were to have been returned to the printers last week?”
“Yes, ma’am. I put them in the outgoing post myself.”
“I see. The difficulty, I’m afraid, is that Miss Margison has only now had a call
from the printer, saying he didn’t receive the proofs.”
Not again. This was the third time an item had been pinched from the outgoing post
and the finger of blame pointed at her by none other than Miss Margison.
“I assure you, ma’am, I did place them in the outgoing post.” And from today onward,
she vowed to herself, she would personally place every item of post that left her
desk directly in the pillar-box down the road.
“I quite believe you. There you have it, Miss Margison. Now, I believe we still have
a copy of the invitation at hand? Very well. Since you are at loose ends this morning,
would you be so kind as to take it over to the printers? It shouldn’t take you above
an hour to
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