After the War Is Over by Jennifer Robson Page B

shyly smiling Lady Helena.
     “Please do. I was only reacquainting myself with the Rembrandts.”
    “Such a shame they’re hidden away here.” Lady Helena peered at the portrait of the
     man, tilting her head as she took it in at one angle, then another. “The varnish has
     darkened quite badly. See here?” She pointed at the burgher’s robe. “This would have
     been a bright blue originally, but now it’s almost black.”
    “Yes. Yes, I can see that now.”
    “Do you know what I love best about Rembrandt’s portraits, Miss Brown? It’s the hands.
     Look how tightly hers are clutched together. I think she was nervous. Her husband—see
     how relaxed his posture is compared to hers?—had insisted on portraits of both of
     them, and she wanted to look her best, wanted to know she was worthy of the honor.
     But still she doubted . . . and Rembrandt captures that in the hands alone.”
    “Yes, of course,” Charlotte agreed calmly, though she was quite taken aback by Lady
     Helena’s remarks. What had happened to the young, bland cipher?
    “I beg your pardon. I ought not to have spoken in such a forthright manner.”
    “Please don’t apologize,” Charlotte insisted. “You speak so knowledgeably on the subject.
     Are you an artist yourself?”
    Lady Helena shook her head, her face flushing a little. “Not really. Not properly.
     I dabble, that’s all.”
    “Isn’t that how most of us begin? By discovering what we like, what we wish to do,
     and then learning as and when we can?”
    “You’re very kind. Particularly in light of your own accomplishments. I’d have loved
     to become a nurse, like you, but my parents were concerned that Lord and Lady Cumberland
     might disapprove.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that.”
    “I still tried to do my part, but it was nothing compared to what you did. Lilly,
     too. Just some hospital visiting. That sort of thing.”
    “I’m sure the men were most grateful to you.”
    “I like to think they were. Most of the time I did little sketches, just pen-and-ink
     portraits for them to put in their letters home. Sometimes I brought my camera. That
     sort of thing. Nothing terribly brave, I’m afraid.”
    Charlotte set her hand on Lady Helena’s arm, hoping she wouldn’t find the gesture
     impertinent. “I disagree. It is very brave indeed to go into a ward full of injured
     men, not knowing how they may react, or how they will be wounded, and offer to help
     them. You did a great deal of good. I’m certain of it.”
    “I felt I had to do something, that’s all. After Edward . . . well, there were all
     those months of not knowing, and I had to occupy myself. But of course that’s all
     over now. I’ll be busy with a home, soon, and Edward will need me at his side, so
     . . .”
    “I’m sure you will be very happy together.”
    Lady Helena smiled bravely, though she wasn’t quite able to erase the sadness from
     her eyes. “I’m sure we will. Oh, look—Lilly is beckoning us. It must be time for the
     pictures.”
    The photographer was slow in his work, fussing endlessly over the arrangements for
     his portraits of the bridal couple and their families. When it came time for Charlotte
     and Lilly to have their picture taken together, he experienced some difficulty with
     his flash apparatus, and it took an age for him to sort out the problem and finish.
    Returning to the music room, Charlotte walked its perimeter, intent on talking to
     Edward. While the photographs were being taken, his merry demeanor had flattened into
     a weary stillness, and she was concerned that he was feeling overwhelmed by the festivities.
     When she couldn’t find him she approached one of the footmen and, after asking if
     Lord Cumberland had retired for the afternoon, learned that he had stepped outside
     for some fresh air.
    Edward hadn’t gone far, halting at the third of the formal parterres beyond the terrace.
     It was planted with roses, a jumble of color and scent quite at odds