Liz Pile
Click here to read my biography
There was a moment’s silence. The fire crackled in the grate. The lamps were not yet lit, and outside dusk was falling, painting the sky in shades of mauve and grey worthy of a Whistler.
‘And another thing, my dear. Are you sure it is wise to be dealing with any German material just at this moment? People might take it amiss.’
‘Why on earth would they?’
‘Miss Charlotte, need I spell it out? These writers are undermining the Church, the backbone of our glorious country. And they are German. We are at war with Germany. So to promote their ideas is risky. It could even be seen as treason. You really must be careful.’
Charlotte found this so ridiculous that she laughed out loud. ‘What, me, scarcely out of the schoolroom, as you would have it - waging a one-woman battle to destroy our country? Mr B, I think you’ve let those suffragettes go to your head!’
He looked hurt. She leaned over and patted him on the arm. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. But this isn’t some sinister propaganda campaign by the German state. It’s just a few theologians. Perfectly harmless, I assure you!’
‘They’re still German.’
‘Well if you put it like that, so is our illustrious royal family! This has nothing to do with being German. It’s about the truth – and the truth cuts right across national borders.’
‘What they say is not the truth. They question the word of God itself!’.
‘But sometimes it’s necessary to ask questions. We shouldn’t just believe things blindly: that’s the road to tyranny. We need to make decisions for ourselves, not be led like children. It’s the same with this war - we shouldn’t believe everything we are told.’ She paused. ‘ Perhaps in the end it’s not soldiers and battles, but questioning our own assumptions, that will end the fighting. And maybe that’s something theologians can help with. That’s why I agreed to do this work.’
Mr B gave a short laugh. ‘Theologians, end the war? My dear, war is driven by politics and greed, and self-defence, not religion. Religion has nothing to do with it.’
‘It depends how you define religion.’
Another silence.
‘Your reasons are very admirable, my dear. But I still don’t think you quite understand. You see, war changes people. It makes them afraid. And fearful people can do terrible things. Your intentions could be misconstrued.’
‘Who by? Most people won’t have a clue what it’s about.’
‘Well, Miss Charlotte, I have said what I think. To my mind, those ideas are dangerous, never more so than now, and for you to be involved is madness. I cannot forbid it; I am not your father. But if he were still alive, I am sure he would agree.’
Fortunately, at that moment Lady Dacre swept into the room. Charlotte herself was tall, but her great-aunt was taller, and never failed to make a grand entrance. Tonight she was swathed in aubergine silk, her silver-grey hair swept up on top of her head in the fashion of ten years ago, emphasising her dark brows and aquiline nose.
‘Charlotte, what on earth are you thinking of, sitting here in the dark – and the curtains wide open, wasting all this heat. There’s a war on, as if I need to tell you that! Good evening Reverend. No, don’t get up, there really is no need. Did you finish your sermon? Charlotte, ring Jacobs to light the candles, and could you ensure that Mrs Dashwood has checked the table. That new girl doesn’t know left from right. And could you tell both Mrs Dashwood and Merriment that there are