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

us.”
    “Very good, madam.”
    The tea arrived in short order, in a stout Brown Betty teapot with a chipped spout. Lilly poured hers immediately, but when she went to fill Robbie’s mug, he shook his head.
    “Thanks, but I’ll wait a minute or two. A legacy from my days as a resident at the London. We’d drink our tea so strong you could stand a spoon in it.
    “So tell me,” he continued, determined to stick to neutral topics, “about your work as a clippie. How long has it been since you started?”
    “A little more than six months. It’s certainly an improvement over being a painter, I can tell you that.” She smiled, her eyes bright with mischief. “Mr. Burns, the man who supervised our crew, was forever shouting at me. I got drips of paint everywhere, I never cleaned the brushes properly, and I was ever so slow compared to the other girls. He suggested I apply for the training course for bus conductors. It was kind of him. Certainly it would have been easier to sack me.”
    “You don’t say much about your work in your letters.”
    “There’s not much to tell. I stand on the back of the bus, find out where people are going, tell them how much for their fare, make change, and give them their ticket. The only difficult part is the maths.”
    “How do people react to seeing a woman doing what is usually a man’s job?”
    “Most are lovely about it. Tell me I’m a good girl, am doing my part for King and Country, that sort of thing. But some clearly can’t abide the sight of me. You’d think I was dressed for the Dance of the Seven Veils, the way they stare.”
    Then they’re swine, he wanted to say, but thought better of it. “You’re not wearing your uniform today.”
    “We aren’t supposed to when we’re off duty. I think they’re worried we might be seen drinking in public houses or kicking up our heels in dance halls. I don’t mind. I’m happy to wear something else on my day off.”
    “You look lovely.”
    The compliment seemed to fluster her. “Thank you. You too. I mean, you look very fine in your uniform. Very impressive.”
    At this his sense of amour propre flickered to life. So she liked the way he looked? Could that mean . . . ? No, now was definitely not the time to be exploring such thoughts. Best to steer the conversation in another direction.
    “Have you heard from your parents? From any of your people?”
    She blanched at his words; he’d been too successful. “Only Edward. I assume my sisters are siding with Mama. And George is away at school. Likely he has no idea of what has happened.”
    “What about Quentin?” he asked without thinking.
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Quentin . . . I’m sorry, I can’t remember his surname. I thought you and he had an understanding.”
    “Oh, no. No, Robbie. I mean, I do know a Quentin. Quentin Brooke-Stapleton. But I haven’t seen or spoken to him in . . . oh, it must be two years. Likely longer. Certainly not since the war began. And he was never more than an acquaintance.”
    “I beg your pardon. I spoke out of turn.”
    He was an idiot not to have realized straightaway. Of course her mother had concocted the fiancé, just as she had censored his correspondence with Lilly. Anything to keep her daughter well away from the street urchin, as she no doubt regarded him.
    Robbie wasn’t a man given to anger, or indeed to acts of violence. But at that moment he could have strangled Lady Cumberland and taken grim pleasure in the act.
    “Is everything all right?”
    “Yes, of course. I was woolgathering just now,” he answered, struggling to regain a measure of composure.
    “I understand. You must be very tired.”
    “Not at all. I’ve been on holiday for a week now.”
    “A very short holiday, if you ask me.”
    “It’s better than nothing. Have you had any holidays?”
    “A few days, here and there. But I’d rather be working,” she said with a smile.
    “Forgive me for asking, but have you been able to, ah,