The Summer Before the War

  “Oh, very well,” said Agatha. “But if the entire afternoon falls apart it will be your fault for distracting me.”

  Having nibbled at the less stale center of her sandwich and drunk her lemonade, Agatha accompanied John to the far edge of the field, where the municipal grass had been torn up and the dark smell of fresh earth drew them to the model trenches. There was only room to walk single file on freshly cut duckboards and Agatha had to be content to watch her nephew’s blushes above the heads of three talkative flag girls, who giggled behind him as he tried to explain the construction advancements his trench displayed.

  “And you can see that by placing each sandbag perpendicular, as in the Flemish brick pattern, we get a stronger wall,” said Daniel, patting the eight-foot-high stack of bags that made the trench cool and muted the sounds of the fete outside.

  Agatha took her turn peeping in at the snug dugout with its folding cot and table, oil lamp, and a willow shelf containing three poetry books. Two or three poems had been pinned to the walls, where they fluttered like moths. The doorway to the dugout could be closed with a hanging blanket, now tied back with a long plaited straw, and in a small window in the sandbags, framed and divided with whittled alder branches, sat a small earthenware vase containing a handful of corn and wild poppies. Further down the trench itself, a small alcove contained a rustic bench woven from willow, and on this bench a fellow officer of the Rifles sat smoking a large pipe and painting on a small handheld watercolor pad.

  “It’s like the darlingest little cottage, isn’t it,” said one of the girls.

  “A cottage made for two,” said another, and they giggled some more as they wandered away.

  “I’m not sure what we were thinking asking girls to hawk flags like peddlers,” said Agatha. “We have created monsters of forwardness, it seems.”

  “Very well built, Second Lieutenant,” said John to Daniel.

  “The trench or the girls, sir?” asked Daniel.

  “Daniel!” said Agatha.

  “Aunt Agatha, may I introduce my friend Worthington? He’s a painter from Norfolk. Had a piece accepted to the academy last year.”

  “Your work is lovely,” said Agatha, looking at the seascape brushed quickly but with confidence on the thick paper.

  “Watercolor is not really my thing, madam,” said the officer, rising from his bench and giving an awkward sort of salute encumbered as he was in both hands by his tools. “But we wanted to give a little artists’ atmosphere, you know, and oil paint is awfully smelly in confined spaces.”

  “The entire effect is very well done,” said Agatha. “Will it be very hard to keep clean in all the action?”

  “We’ve made a whisk broom of local straw,” said Daniel, “but I expect it will get pretty muddy underfoot with twelve of us in an area this big.”

  “What, will you sleep one at a time?” asked Agatha.

  “Dugout is for the ranking officer and maybe signals,” said Worthington. “Rest of the men won’t get any sleep until they get back behind the lines.”

  “That’s why we need poetry, singing, daubing pictures on the walls with clay,” said Daniel. “Keeps up the spirits in battle.”

  “Perhaps the vase is a little much,” said Agatha. “I’m not sure flower arranging will keep up the martial spirit.”

  “Quite right,” said Daniel. “We were a little competitive and eager to show off in front of Colonel Wheaton’s lot. Their trench is no more than a big ditch.”

  “But they have beer in it,” said Worthington. “Quite against regulations, but they are getting more visitors than we are.”

  Agatha was slowly becoming aware of a buzzing mechanical sound growing louder above the excited voices outside. “What on earth is that sound?” she said.

  “That is my big surprise for you, dearest Aunt Agatha,” said Daniel, planting a hearty kiss on her cheek. “A big surprise for your fete, for which you shall have all the credit.”

  “Sounds like a broken steam engine,” said Agatha. “Whatever have you done now, Daniel?”

  “Just come and see,” said Daniel, catching up her hand. While she was alarmed at what he might be up to, Agatha was absurdly happy as he pulled her along. Not since he was a small boy had Daniel wanted to be hugged or lavished with affection, and for her, a clasp of the hand was surprise enough.

  They left the trench and, with the flowing crowd, climbed up the dyke to the open path that ran between the town Salts and the river. Hugh and two of his men waved as they pushed through the crowd to join them. The splutter and buzz of multiple engines grew even more raucous, coming from the west, and then a line of four biplanes, each cabled like a box kite, with a bulbous engine in the front, like the head of a fly, came into focus, flying single file towards them across the marshes from the west.

  “How can this be happening?” asked Agatha.

  “It’s Craigmore and his platoon,” said Daniel, kissing her cheek. “They are on their way to Folkestone, and I asked him to come and buzz the fete for you.”

  “I can’t believe it,” said Agatha. “They are so beautiful.”

  “What brings them to Folkestone?” asked Hugh, shading his eyes as the small craft came closer to the gathering crowd and each pilot rolled his craft upside down and back again, sending herds of sheep scattering in the fields.

  “They are embarking for France, and Craigmore wrote to say he could not go without saying goodbye,” said Daniel. “He is catching a train here just as soon as they land.”

  “What a surprise,” said Hugh. “I am so happy for you.”

  “Bettina Fothergill will be beside herself with envy,” said Agatha. “Let’s wave.” John Kent stood watching intently, his eyes shaded, while Agatha joined Daniel, Hugh, and the rest of the crowd clapping and cheering like the children among them. They waved handkerchiefs and fans and hats, and gasped and ducked as the planes buzzed lower over their very heads. The band struck up a jolly march as high over the church spire they soared, round and down again, dipping towards the river like a flock of geese. Then up and over the crowd once more. After several such loops in the sky, the band segued into its fifteenth rendition of “Land of Hope and Glory” as the planes flew off across the marsh. The last pilot peeled away from the disappearing line to execute his own finale, a long, slow pass, parallel to river and fete, the plane so low and close that they could see the pilot push back his helmet and goggles to wave wildly at the crowd. It was young Craigmore with his golden hair streaming and a big grin on his face. Agatha could see his face etched as clearly as if he were standing on the other riverbank.

  “Craigmore!” screamed Daniel, waving. “I’m here, I’m here!” Craigmore waved once more and gave a brief salute, but Agatha doubted he had seen any of them individually, not with the air rushing into his eyes.

  “Three cheers for the Royal Flying Corps,” shouted John, and the crowd took up the loudest of hoorays as Craigmore’s craft sped away to catch up to his flock. Daniel watched until the last tail of smoke disappeared against the blue sky, and they waited with him, even as the crowd flowed away, back to the fete’s other amusements.

  “However did you keep such a secret?” asked Agatha, when Daniel finally stopped looking and turned around. She took advantage of his obvious happiness to kiss both his cheeks and squeeze his hand one more time. “It was superb, my darling boy.”

  “Young Craigmore is off to the front already?” asked John. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “He assures me he begged for the opportunity,” said Daniel. His face grew wistful. “I would argue the case, but he asked to see me before he leaves, and I must not risk our fragile reunion by urging him to stay. His father must win that argument for now.”

  “Your aunt and I are proud of you,” said John, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Your maturity is showing, my boy.”

  “Youth’s lost companion may be the measured friend of old age, I hope,” said Daniel. “I may write a poem on the subject.”

 
“Dear God, it sounds more like a cross-stitched pillow than a poem,” said Hugh.

  “Says the old man of my youth,” said Daniel. “He of the ancient wisdom and sour face.”

  “Well, I for one am ready for a ride on the roundabout,” said Agatha. “Let’s make sure we see Bettina on the way so she can congratulate me on the day’s complete triumph.”

  When Hugh knocked at Mrs. Turber’s front door promptly at seven o’clock, he found himself more anxious than expected. Offering to escort a lady neighbor to a dance was hardly a cause for jitters, but his cousin Daniel, who was at his side, was in such an irrepressible good humor that he had not been able to restrain himself from teasing Hugh all the way down the hill to town and up the hill to Mrs. Turber’s house.

  “You really should have obtained a hansom cab, don’t you think,” he whispered into Hugh’s ear. “So gauche to make a lady walk.”

  “The ball is a few hundred yards away at the inn,” said Hugh. “All the people in carriages will be waiting in a jam while we are already at supper.”

  “I’m just saying you might look frugal,” said Daniel.

  “I’ll punch you if you don’t behave,” said Hugh. “I’m merely doing a good turn here. Poor Miss Nash didn’t get to enjoy any of the afternoon, so I thought it’s the least we could do to offer her an arm down to the party.”

  “Spinsters aren’t supposed to enjoy themselves,” said Daniel. “I think they live to be useful.”

  The door opened, and Abigail the maid grinned at them in a most familiar way. “You do know we can hear everything you’re saying through the window?” she asked.

  “One day I’ll die of shame because of you, Daniel,” said Hugh, hurrying into the cottage after his cousin.

  In the front parlor, Beatrice stood at the fireplace, wearing a white silk dress. Hugh supposed it to be the same dress as she had worn in the parade, but some Grecian draperies must have been removed and the sweep of a low neckline and the snug neatness of the waist were revealed. Her dark hair was piled up, bound with a single dahlia of a deep pink color, and around her neck an old cameo hung from a dark crimson velvet ribbon. She wore no other jewelry, and though she attempted a frown of mock severity, Hugh thought her beautiful.

  “Miss Nash, you look wonderful,” said Daniel. “You are a high priestess of the temple.”

  “That is just another word for spinster, is it?” said Beatrice, pulling on long gloves.

  “Beatrice, you must excuse my cousin,” said Hugh. “He would insist on coming when he is obviously not in his right mind.” Hugh would have liked to add his own compliment, but he could not be sure his cousin would not ridicule his efforts.

  “I am a little giddy, Miss Nash,” said Daniel. “My dear friend Craigmore is coming to see me and we shall all dance until dawn.”

  “I am happy for you,” said Beatrice. “I hope all the young ladies of Rye have brought their stoutest dancing slippers.”

  “How is Celeste?” asked Hugh.

  “She ate an egg and drank several cups of lukewarm tea,” said Beatrice. “She is still a little feverish, but she is resting calmly and Abigail will stay with her.”

  “Then let us away to our merry masque,” said Daniel. “I am as dizzy as if the champagne was already flowing.”

  Hugh opened the diminutive front door and handed Beatrice out into the street while Daniel fell in behind them. Hugh was very aware of the curve of her neck, the smell of the flower in her hair, and her slim figure as she slipped past him. Her hair seemed made for unpinning, and on the back of her dress, tightly laced with ribbon, a single knotted bow made him suddenly dazed with the desire to tug on it. He took in a sharp breath of evening air and reminded himself that he was promised to another woman; and that to overstep in his friendship with Beatrice might render life in Rye very complicated. He offered her his arm with a stiff bow.

  “Miss Nash?”

  “Mr. Grange.”

  She took his arm, and as they walked to the coaching inn, the pressure of her hand on his sleeve made him flush so hard, he did not dare to look at her.

  —

  The inn was ablaze with light and thick with banks of peppery-scented dahlias and chrysanthemums. Beatrice had not seen such a party since her return to England, and she had forgotten how just the anticipation could fill one with pleasure. The orchestra was playing on the small stage in the ballroom, and three adjoining lounges had been thrown open for supper and for sitting. The rooms were already full with laughter. In the foyer, Alice Finch beckoned them to a flowered arbor, where she set the three of them about a mossy tree trunk draped in a velvet shawl, and photographed them with a burst of her upraised flash.

  In the ballroom itself the chandeliers were newly electrified.

  “My God, the light is so good all the women risk looking their age,” said Daniel.

  “You are horrible,” said Beatrice.

  “Be careful,” he said. “Schoolgirls are not allowed out this late.” She laughed and slapped at him with her dance card.

  “May I ask for one of your dances?” said Hugh. He looked rather serious, and Beatrice was about to tease him when she decided instead that she would like to dance and so she handed over the little book with its silver pencil.

  “Oh, do allow me some too,” said Daniel. “So much better than some marriageable girl with a pushing mother.”

  “Daniel!” said Hugh.

  “Miss Nash knows I’m only teasing her like a sister,” said Daniel. “No need to look all pugnacious, Hugh.” Hugh realized he was frowning as he hesitated between penciling in his name for the waltz or the less visible commitment of the following mazurka.

  “I may give you one of the country dances, Mr. Bookham,” said Beatrice equably. “But I shall be sure to trip you up.” Hugh laughed aloud at her swift put-down of his cousin and decided to match her boldness by demanding the waltz.

  —

  Agatha was waltzing with her husband, and though her feet ached after such a long day, she rested in the shelter of his arms and allowed herself to enjoy the ball in a simple way. The day had been a success, the funds raised had exceeded all their expectations, and even the minor fiasco with Bettina’s Germans seemed to have done no lasting harm.

  “Are you happy, my dear?” said John, swinging her with aplomb past two very lumbering couples in one corner. “You look a little preoccupied for one whose day was such a triumph.”

  “I am happy,” she said, giving him the smile he wanted. “I am dancing with you, both our nephews are here with us, and I’m not going to think about committees or about war for the rest of the evening.”

  “I think Hugh looks very happy to be dancing with Miss Nash,” said John. Agatha, who always had to look at a fixed point in order not to get dizzy with the spinning about, risked a peek at Hugh and lost her footing.

  “You are just being provocative,” she said, doing an awkward skip and shuffle to catch up. “You know he is as good as engaged to Lucy Ramsey.”

  “Well, she is not here and he does not seem to be pining,” said her husband. “And Miss Nash is such an intelligent woman.”

  “Compounding lack of funds with intelligence, she makes herself unmarriageable,” said Agatha. “I adore Beatrice, but she would not advance Hugh’s prospects, and he is too sensible to throw away a surgeon’s practice for a penniless teacher.”

  “My parents told me to marry for money,” said her husband. “But I chose the love of a strong woman.”

  “And look what trouble I turned out to be,” she said.

  —

  Beatrice found it hard to concentrate on her steps with Hugh holding her waist. Hugh remained silent, though he seemed at times to want to speak and many expressions chased across his face. When the dance ended, he handed her to an empty chair at his aunt’s table and offered to fetch her some lemonade.

  “I would be pleased to drink some lemonade,” she said graciously. “But I hope we are friends enough that you will not feel any obli
gation to hover about when you should be mingling.”

  “I shall try not to take that as a dismissal,” said Hugh. “I shall return with lemonade.”

  Beatrice was happily watching the swirl of the crowded dance floor and admiring the way the townsfolk looked in their unusual finery when she caught the sound of ladies whispering behind a large fern.

  “I’m not saying it’s true,” said Mrs. Turber’s voice. “But did you see the way she fainted? Something is fishy, I tell you.”

  “Not normal at all,” said another, “but they’re all highly emotional, aren’t they?”

  Beatrice did not wish to hear more. Her cheeks blazed as she rose without speaking and moved away swiftly towards the salon into which Hugh had vanished. There were mostly gentlemen in the room, gathered at the large bar or fetching drinks to other rooms. Beatrice was turning to leave when she heard another familiar voice, that of Mr. Poot, saying, “Well, of course it’s all strictly confidential, but let me say—well, it would make your hair curl to hear what some of these young girls have suffered.”

  “If it were my sister or daughter, I’d rather she died,” said another.

  “Some of them beg to die,” said Poot. “Of course, I tell them it is the nature of war and they must bravely bear it.” He wandered away, and Beatrice found herself drifting to the dance floor. As she looked around the room, she seemed to see whispering everywhere, heads bent towards each other, eyes swiveling about the room.

  “Smile,” said Eleanor Wheaton, appearing at her shoulder. “It makes them crazy when you appear to be happy.”

  “Who?” asked Beatrice.

  “All the gossips,” said Eleanor. “Look at them. Always whispering.” As she spoke, she frowned and touched her fingers to a small, diamond-studded gold locket suspended around her neck.

  “Are they talking about you?” asked Beatrice.

  “Well, it’s often about me, the German Baroness,” said Eleanor. “And of course they’re whispering about Amberleigh de Witte…”