“Drink some champagne and we’ll forgive you,” said Amberleigh.
“Just tea for Celeste and me, thank you,” said Beatrice.
“You writers are just as quick as artists to exploit your characters in ways you would never behave yourselves,” said Miss Finch. “Then you judge them harshly and cast them into the pit to the delight of your oh-so-respectable readers.”
“I think I am in about as dire a strait as any I have inflicted upon my characters,” said Amberleigh.
“It will blow over in time,” said Minnie. “And meanwhile your friends are glad to have you to ourselves in the country.”
“It appears we do not have as many friends as I thought, dear Minnie,” said Amberleigh, producing a note from her pocket and looking it over. “Agatha Kent writes to excuse herself from our afternoon tea. She is so busy with relieving the Belgians, she says, that she must deny herself the pleasure and also suffer the shame of being unable to reciprocate in the foreseeable future.”
“I had thought better of her,” said Minnie. Beatrice said nothing, but as she looked at Celeste, drinking tea in her bare feet, a small flicker of concern licked at the edges of her happiness. She would have come to tea at all cost, but now she wished she had made some excuse not to bring Celeste.
“It was Tillingham and Mrs. Kent who arranged for us to rent this house,” said Amberleigh. “I had hoped that meant I would find a welcome in their small town, but it appears the gates are barred.”
“It seems we are all refugees of one sort or another,” sighed Alice Finch, slumping into a chair and stretching out her legs in their thick boots. “Let’s drink to that.”
Beatrice opened her mouth to demur but upon further reflection decided to remain quiet. As the hot tea hit the back of her throat she wondered—if she was to be considered a refugee, then where was the home to which she might hope to be repatriated in due time? She coughed and hoped this would explain the sudden tears in her eyes.
“In honor of the creative friendships that matter,” said Amberleigh, scanning some pages from Beatrice’s small portfolio, “I will beg Miss Nash’s permission to read from her work.” Beatrice could not pretend to protest, and for the first time she enjoyed the thrill of hearing her own words spoken aloud for others to hear. To be advised on her story, to be asked to give her creative opinion on some of Alice’s photographs, and to have both Alice and Amberleigh listen carefully to her stumbling thoughts made her as dizzy as the champagne the older women drank. Amberleigh said she must come and write in the garden whenever she pleased, and so the afternoon drifted on, in a haze of sunlight dazzling on the water and warm conversation under the trees. It was only when Celeste, who had been busy making chains of daisies for the hissing cat, expressed a firm desire to walk home barefoot that Beatrice noticed the late hour. Horrified, she demanded that Celeste don her shoes like a respectable girl, and with the briefest of goodbyes, she hurried her home to cold plates of supper and more than a few pointed remarks from a highly suspicious Mrs. Turber.
Mr. Fothergill sent round a note asking Beatrice to visit his clerk at her convenience, and so she found herself once again in the thickly carpeted front parlor of his office, looking at the windows and wondering whether they were ever opened. There seemed more dust than oxygen in the room, and she longed to be released into the sunshine. After a few minutes, Mr. Poot emerged from the warren of back rooms, an eager smile of welcome on his face as if they were friends. A boy brought in a tray of tea, and Beatrice, who had always chafed at being chaperoned as a younger woman, rather wished she had brought someone with her now, so lingeringly did he shake her gloved hand, so close did he pull his chair to hers.
“It’s just a matter of some odd letters,” he said, when she had declined to have a cup of tea, refused a dish of sugared almonds, and been brief in reply to his comments upon the pleasantness of the weather.
“Excuse me?” she said, in as icy a tone as she could muster.
“I understand your trustees are waiting for you to return some rather valuable letters to the estate?” he asked.
“I assure you they are entitled to no such letters,” said Beatrice. “I have made it quite clear to my father’s publisher, and to my aunt’s family, that any letters in my possession are my own copies of correspondence and not part of my father’s archive.”
“Well, can’t you just make another copy?” asked Mr. Poot. “It seems a silly squabble.” It seemed impossible to explain to Mr. Poot the insult of her manuscript being given to Mr. Tillingham and her hard work being at once both dismissed and appropriated by others. She could only sigh.
“I see no reason to discuss it,” she said.
“They are threatening to halt your monthly allowance and the rest of the ten pounds,” he said, a frown of what appeared to be genuine worry appearing between his eyes. “I would hate to see you cut off, Miss Nash.”
“But the two things are not at all connected,” she said.
“And yet when the draft fails to come in, how will you pay your bills?” he asked. “It has already come to my uncle’s attention that just yesterday you ordered not one but two dresses from Pike Brothers’ fabric counter?”
“How would it come to his attention?” said Beatrice. She could not help but feel a blush rise into her cheeks. Not that Mr. Poot had mentioned the underclothes and stockings she had also purchased, but she had an idea both he and Mr. Fothergill had counted every ribbon and seam. “Is someone spying on me?”
Even as she asked, she remembered Mr. Poot had appeared, entering the shop as she was leaving. He had removed his hat and held the door, but his obsequious smile and his greeting—too familiar and projected for all the customers to hear—had made her flinch. She remembered she had offered only a curt nod and passed on as swiftly as possible. His face now betrayed no smirk of revenge, but his very impassiveness made her angry.
“My dear Miss Nash, it is not important how the information was acquired. I can assure you I was not aware,” he said. “But since he is now aware of this rather large order, coming so soon after our agreement as to your modest financial intentions, he thought it incumbent that you and I have a talk, just between us, to resolve this letter business to your trustees’ satisfaction…” He let the comment trail off and appeared to be waiting for an explanation, a coy smile inviting her confidence. She had the strongest sensation that a lowering of her lashes and a blushing appeal might move him to agree with any explanation she cared to fabricate. Instead she looked him full in the face.
“Mr. Poot, we agreed that your firm will receive a copy of my monthly accounts and that you would personally refrain from unwarranted parsing of individual expenses,” she said. “I see no reason for this intrusion.”
“I told him just the very same,” said Mr. Poot. “I told him I had all faith in your sensible nature. But he feels it incumbent on us to seek some assurance that you can pay your debts.”
“I can,” she said.
“I assure you I am your most humble ally,” he said, placing a hand on his chest as if to take a vow. “But let us not be coy with each other,” he added. “Such a large order might be considered profligate, and since the rest of your ten pounds has not come in, what is your source of funds?”
“You seek to insult me,” she said. “Do you accuse me of going to moneylenders?”
“I would not even think to suspect you of such a disrespectable option,” he said, looking down the length of his nose at her as if shocked at her knowledge of their existence. “Perhaps Mrs. Kent has loaned you money?”
“She has not,” said Beatrice. He shook his head with a slow and disappointed air. It occurred to Beatrice that she would like to rap the crown of his oiled head with the ebony handle of her sunshade. She seized it and stood up. “I will not be spied upon, Mr. Poot.”
“I assure you I am your friend in this matter,” he said. “I am only trying to deter my uncle from writing to your trustees over a matter which, I am certain, will only a
dd to their stubbornness.”
She paused, desperate to leave the room, which seemed to shrink as they consumed its stale air, but wishing to prevent any such communication with her trustees. She sat down again, but kept a hand on her sunshade.
“If you must know, I sold some books,” she said. “Mr. Evans in the high street had a buyer for a rare edition of Boswell’s Life of Johnson, and as I have always disliked Dr. Johnson, for his personal habits and his arrogance, and Mr. Boswell, for his uncritical worship, I decided it would serve them both right to be sold off to buy ladies’ dresses.”
“I confess myself somewhat shocked,” said Mr. Poot.
“You think it unladylike to sell one’s possessions for money?” she asked.
“I’m shocked that you can get two dresses and half a dozen ladies’ unmentionables for the price of a book!”
And yet you must mention them, she thought.
“They were morocco bound with gilding in three volumes,” she said. “They were a gift to my father from a lady, and he could never part with them, but I always thought both the books and the lady rather vulgar.”
“I am satisfied as to the source of funds,” he said. “Though I would counsel you, from bitter personal experience, that the disposition of one’s belongings is not a long-term solution to one’s expenses.” He sighed and polished his spectacles. For a moment he was honest, and she could feel again some sympathy for a young man of straitened circumstance. She was in no position to judge a cheap shirtfront so harshly.
“Ahem…I worry also that white silk is not the most serviceable purchase for a woman in your situation,” he added, ruining any flicker of compassion.
“Your aunt was persuaded to ask me, at this late date, to appear on her parade float, but she specifies white silk for all who ride with Britannia,” said Beatrice. “I feel I must bear my own expenses to further the cause of Belgian Relief and to ensure Mrs. Fothergill’s triumph in the parade.” What she had felt was a fierce humiliation during the weekly committee meeting when Mrs. Fothergill made her offer at the prompting of Lady Emily, but let her obvious reluctance show through her smile. Agatha Kent was not at the meeting to deflect or smooth the awkwardness as Mrs. Fothergill had indicated, with a simper, that Beatrice might decline should she be unable to defray the cost of a silk dress. Beatrice had rashly accepted, not just to restore comfort to the rest of the committee, who had lowered their eyes to their agendas in sympathetic avoidance, but to see Mrs. Fothergill’s smug expression collapse into chagrin. She could only hope the shop assistant was right that the silk could later be dyed a serviceable navy blue.
“Well, I…well that is all right then,” said Mr. Poot, working his lips to find a graceful compliment.
“These are my first purchases since I have come out of mourning,” she said. “My only good dress is black, and I feared it a bad omen to wear it.”
“Your sensibility does you much credit,” said Mr. Poot. “Any man would be happy to know a woman with such a level head.” He seemed inclined to pat her hand, and she moved it quickly to rearrange an invisible strand of hair.
“Thank you, Mr. Poot,” she said. She stood up, straightening her gloves and inching from behind the low table towards the door.
“And levelheaded as you are,” he continued, “I should urge you to accommodate your trustees with their demands,” he said.
“I will write to them at once,” she said, though she knew her letter would be quite different in content than he imagined. “May I count on your support?”
“You may,” he said. “I will settle my uncle’s mind, and I hope you and I will grow to understand each other better. I would welcome your trust, Miss Nash.”
“Of course, Mr. Poot,” she said, and she offered him as coy a smile as she could manage and did not flinch when he raised her hand to his lips. In the street, she released her anger by decapitating several dandelions growing in the cracks of the pavements. Each ruined golden head, exploded by the steel tip of her sunshade, was a tiny head of Mr. Poot or a tiny Aunt Marbely, to be ground discreetly beneath her heel.
—
The walk up the hill to Agatha Kent’s home did much to restore Beatrice to good humor. Mrs. Kent had not been seen about town much the past few days and it was rumored she was under the weather, which was of great surprise and interest to the town, where she was declared to be usually “stout as a horse” and “strong as a dreadnought” and other such phrases, filled with goodwill if not flowering with femininity. Beatrice had volunteered to take the minutes at the Belgian Relief Committee in Agatha’s absence, and now that she had transcribed and edited them into a neat report, she planned to deliver it to Agatha’s home. With the start of a new term looming next week, she hoped that Agatha would ask her to stay to tea so she might acquire some last-minute advice and reassurance on navigating the treacherous waters of school life.
The maid, Jenny, opened the door and looked relieved to see Beatrice. It was not the look usually offered an unannounced visitor and led her to ask: “Is everything all right, Jenny?”
“I’m glad you’ve come, miss,” said the girl, stepping back to welcome her into the front hall. “Mrs. Kent hasn’t been home to any visitors at all these past few days. But she likes you.”
“I don’t want to intrude,” said Beatrice. “I just needed to deliver some papers.”
“No, no, come in, come in,” said Jenny. “Cook and I are at our wit’s end how to cheer her up. Cook will tell you herself.” She beckoned, and Mrs. Kent’s cook slipped from behind the door to the back kitchen and came hurrying up the hall, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Glad to see you, miss,” said the cook.
“I heard Mrs. Kent is sick?” asked Beatrice.
“Not so as you’d call the doctor, I don’t think,” said Jenny. “But she keeps to her room and such. Doesn’t really get dressed.”
“Yesterday she had all her meals on a tray and hardly touched the steak pudding,” whispered Cook. “Imagine that! Mrs. Kent turning up her nose at my steak pudding? You know she’s not herself.”
“I wondered if we should telephone to Mr. Kent,” said Jenny. “But we didn’t like to call him, seeing as how he’s so busy.”
“What with the war and everything,” added Cook.
“And the young gentlemen are both away,” said Jenny.
“You show Miss Nash up to her study, direct like, and I’ll bring the tea tray right on up behind you,” said Cook to Jenny. “That way she can’t say no to the visit.”
“I don’t like to intrude,” said Beatrice again.
“Nonsense,” said Cook. “You’ll be a sight for sore eyes. Now just make sure you make her take a sandwich or two, miss.”
Upstairs at the study door, Jenny and Cook gave their mistress no chance to demur. After the briefest of knocks, Jenny announced Beatrice in a cheerful tone, as if she were expected, and Cook almost pushed Beatrice into the small windowed sunporch off Agatha’s bedroom, elbowing her from behind with the heavy tea tray.
“I’ll just put the tea right here, madam,” said Cook, not phrasing it as a question. She dumped the loaded tray with a clatter on a low table without regard for the papers and magazines strewn across the surface. “Now you be sure and try the blackberry tarts, miss, they just come out of the oven.” With that both servants bustled loudly from the room and Beatrice was left alone to face her reluctant hostess.
Agatha was tucked among pillows on the window seat of her porch, wearing the wrapper she had once loaned to Beatrice. Her hair was casually pulled into a loose braid and her legs were bare, her feet tucked into a pair of soft embroidered slippers. Periodicals and newspapers lay on the seat and had slipped or been tossed onto the floor. A pair of stockings on a chair back and a comb left on the table suggested an incongruous air of carelessness. Agatha raised a quizzical eyebrow, but her face stayed slack and she could not seem to find the energy to speak.
“I’m so sorry to intrude,” said Beatrice. “
I came to bring you the committee minutes and your staff seemed to think you might be in need of cheerful company?”
“Cheerful company is as welcome to melancholy as lemon juice on a burn,” said Agatha. “But if you promise not to smile and prattle at me, you may stay and pour the tea. I fear I have not even the energy to lift the teapot this afternoon.”
“Are you unwell?” asked Beatrice, pouring tea. “You seem”—she looked around the room again—“not quite yourself?”
“You’ll forgive my appearance, I hope,” said Agatha, smoothing her hair. “I was not aware I was entertaining.” She accepted a cup of tea and leaned to close her eyes and inhale the fragrant steam of the cup. “I am indeed not myself these days. But who can be in these dreadful times?”
“We missed you at the committee meeting,” said Beatrice. “Lady Emily cannot control her disdain for Mrs. Fothergill in your absence.”
“I had the vague sort of hope that if I curled up in here, it all might stop,” said Agatha, “as if it were a bad dream.”
“Did you mean to will Mrs. Fothergill out of existence?” asked Beatrice. “I would have enjoyed seeing her disappear from the committee room in a puff of smoke.”
“I mean the war, of course,” said Agatha. “It is a bad dream, is it not? We are all so caught up in the work of it and the excitement and the urge to do important things, and we have not stopped to see the true nature of it.”
“Celeste and I enjoyed a lovely tea at Amberleigh de Witte’s cottage,” said Beatrice, hoping to shock Agatha Kent into some rebuke. Agatha was a compass by which Beatrice had set her course, and this pale, lethargic creature with the strange ideas seemed to have stolen her mind.
“I have been reading over my periodicals,” said Agatha, not appearing to hear her. She balanced her saucer on the bench beside her and picked up a copy of the weekly Gentlewoman. “I had not noticed, you see, how the war has slipped into our lives.” She began to turn the pages slowly in her lap. “I always liked the social column, the engagements and marriages, such cheerful news of our brightest young things starting their lives…”