Somewhere in France: A Novel of the Great War by Jennifer Robson

her round little figure puffing up like a startled pigeon.
    Charlotte stepped in front of Lilly, as if to protect her from the onslaught to come. “I’m so dreadfully sorry, Mrs. Collins. I had meant to ask you. And then, I must confess, I quite forgot.”
    “Forgot what?”
    “To ask if my friend might stay with me. Only for a few days. She’s a lovely girl, Mrs. Collins. Just your sort of person. And so quiet.”
    “Is she now?”
    “Of course I insist on covering any additional costs you may incur.”
    “How long’s she staying?”
    “Oh, not long. Isn’t that correct, Lilly?”
    “Yes, not long at all. Just until . . .”
    “You see, Mrs. Collins? And I swear she won’t be any trouble at all.”
    The landlady’s expression brightened fractionally. “Stay if you must, then, but keep the noise down. Your friend can sleep on the settee in your room. I’ll fetch sheets and a blanket now.” She grumped off down the hall, her retreating figure the very picture of indignation.
    “Charlotte, I—”
    “Hush, now. Wait until we’re upstairs.”
    Charlotte’s room, which faced the street, was much larger than Lilly had expected. At one time it must have been the sitting room for the house, and was graced with tall windows and a prettily tiled fireplace. It was sparsely furnished with a single bed against one wall, a narrow settee on the opposite wall, and a sturdy table and two wooden chairs in the center of the room. A Morris chair, its tapestry upholstery faded and slightly threadbare, had been drawn up to the hearth.
    Charlotte shut the door decisively, hung up Lilly’s coat and hat, and guided her to the seat by the fire. “Perch here while I get the kettle going. I think we’re both going to need a cup of tea.”
    She lit the flame of the spirit kettle that sat on the table, measured a spoonful of tea leaves into a waiting teapot, then carried one of the chairs across the room so she could sit next to Lilly.
    Lilly took one look at her beloved friend, who was regarding her owlishly through the gold-rimmed spectacles she hardly ever took off, and had to blink hard to hold back a rush of tears.
    “There, there,” Charlotte murmured. “You’ll have time for that in a bit. First tell me what happened.”
    “Mama has been intercepting my post for weeks now. Possibly longer. She admitted to taking Captain Fraser’s letters, and I suspect yours as well.”
    “I was wondering why I hadn’t heard from you. Did you only just return from Cumbria?”
    “Yes, today. And that’s the worst part. You know how John Pringle had been teaching me to drive?”
    “Yes, and I couldn’t be more pleased. It’s exactly the sort of thing you should be doing.”
    “I’d been making such progress. But then, the other day, our vicar saw me driving the estate lorry.”
    “Not good. If it’s the same vicar I remember.”
    “Yes, still Mr. Burgess. He wrote to my parents. Mama was so incensed, you’d have thought they’d caught me planning an elopement with the gamekeeper’s son.”
    “Or a dustman’s son—”
    “Charlotte! This is serious. They’re going to sack John Pringle. Turn him and his parents out of their cottage.”
    “My God.”
    “We argued. I said the restrictions she and Papa were placing on me were unfair, and unbearable. And that blaming John Pringle was terribly wrong. They disagreed, of course.”
    “And so?”
    “I left. I went upstairs and packed my bags. And then I came here.”
    “Oh, Lilly.”
    “I’m so sorry to be inconveniencing you like this.”
    Charlotte waved off her apology. “Nonsense. I’d have been very hurt if you’d gone to anyone else.”
    “But your landlady—”
    “Isn’t bad at all, once you get to know her. You’ll have her wrapped around your little finger before you know it.”
    The kettle was singing, so Charlotte hurried to turn down the flame and fill the teapot. “I shall sort things out with Mrs. Collins. The room down the hall has been empty