“What if he fails?” Beatrice asked. “I must get to her.”
“My aunt is in grave trouble today because she thought only she could manage the world,” said Hugh. “Do you think perhaps you might let others help you sometimes?” His face was kind as he looked down at her. She breathed more deeply and leaned against him, thinking that she would like to drop her head to his shoulder and rest there. They stood together a long time and watched Daniel speaking, and Celeste making shy answers, but they could make out no words.
And then Celeste laughed. The sound carried, and it was as sweet to Beatrice’s ear as the larks flying over summer marshes. People who laughed did not shoot themselves with pistols or tumble into a cold river, she thought. People who laughed were surely saved.
“If she throws herself in the river now, my cousin will have some explaining to do,” said Hugh. “Shall we intervene before he inflicts more of his humor on her?”
—
They sought shelter in the tiny hut. In silence Hugh lit the potbellied stove, which the fisherman owner had left primed with kindling and coal. In minutes Beatrice was warm, and she sat with her arms around Celeste until she too stopped shivering and became rosy in the face from the stove’s heat. A reconnoitering of the tar-smelling hut produced a bottle of rum, sealed with a waxed cork. Daniel wasted no time in breaking the seal and urging Celeste to drink a tot, against the chill. They each drank, and with the heat from the stove and the heat from the rum burning its way into her belly, Beatrice felt that she might happily sit in this poor hut for ever. Hugh took a handkerchief doused in rum and gently cleaned her hands of blood and grit. She was sleepy from the late hour and the relief; she leaned against Hugh’s shoulder and her eyelids dropped in pleasant drowse.
“I suppose we should make our way home?” asked Hugh. “Many people are out in the dark searching for—for us.”
“I am ready to go home,” said Celeste. “I have to tell my father I am so sorry.”
“We were so worried,” said Beatrice. “Please tell me you will let us help you, Celeste. I could not bear it if you tried again to end your life.”
Celeste blushed like a penitent child and spoke very quietly. “I am so sorry to cause you pain,” she said. “But I could never take my life. It is a sin.”
“But the river?” said Beatrice. “And the pistol?”
“Our Miss Celeste had planned to be fiendishly clever,” said Daniel.
“I throw my dress in the river so perhaps for a little while I am thought dead,” she said. “And I leave to another town to take a train to London. In the big city, I can be a different refugee perhaps?”
“And the pistol?” asked Beatrice.
Celeste’s blush was one of pain and humiliation. “It is not a sin, Mrs. Turber says, to shoot yourself to protect from men,” she said. “Never again would I endure it.”
“Oh, Celeste, how could you imagine such a plan?” said Beatrice. She enveloped the younger girl in a fierce embrace. “If you must leave, I will leave with you,” she said. “I will not let you down again.”
“No need to be uprooting yourself, Miss Nash,” said Daniel. He took Celeste’s hand and kissed it. “Celeste and I are two friends, similarly besieged by scandal and difficulty. We will have no more of it and are firmly decided to rout our enemies with a single stroke of brilliance that is, I must confess, all of my own devising.”
“Whatever can you mean?” said Hugh. “The position is grave, and this is not the time for levity.”
“Hugh, Beatrice, congratulate us,” said Daniel. “Celeste has agreed to become my wife.”
“Your wife?” asked Hugh. “Are you quite mad?”
“On the contrary. We are both very clearheaded,” said Daniel. “There is nothing like contemplating death and exile, as two completely suitable options, to clear the mind.”
“Will Celeste be saved?” asked Beatrice. She felt only the beginnings of comprehension, but she hoped that Celeste, married to Daniel Bookham, would not be a person to be shunned but a woman to be congratulated.
“She saves me,” said Daniel. “I will walk into my hearing a newly married man with a beautiful young wife. All innuendo and slander will be conquered by the ancient institution of matrimony.”
“But you will be shackled to each other for life,” said Hugh. “And there is a child.”
“God willing, we may have a child next year,” said Daniel. “A little early, we imagine, but welcomed.”
“I thought I was the one against marriage,” said Beatrice. “For goodness’ sake, Hugh Grange, it fixes everything.”
“I want Daniel to be happy,” said Hugh.
“I want Celeste to be happy,” said Beatrice.
“Happiness may have a new and more urgent definition in these dark times,” said Daniel. “I can assure you I have been very frank in my language. I have offered her all the worldly advantage of marriage and all the protection of a brother. She will suffer no harm from me, and we will both live free from scrutiny.”
“It is an unconventional arrangement,” said Hugh, but his face began to brighten with a cautious relief.
“I believe we can forge a comfortable life together from the ashes in which the small-minded have buried us.”
“Do you want to do this, Celeste?” asked Beatrice. She did not know, from the worshipful smile on Celeste’s face, whether she understood exactly what Daniel proposed. Beatrice herself was not quite sure, but could find no suitable language in which to press for particulars.
“I am very happy,” said Celeste.
“Be assured, good Beatrice, I shall not fail my wife in any duty she asks of me, nor embarrass her by my actions in the world,” said Daniel. “Honor and discretion shall see us to our dotage.”
“She is to be married,” said Beatrice to Hugh. Against her will, and due to the rum and consternation, she burst into tears and buried her head in Hugh’s coat to cry.
Difficulties might have been expected from the tortuous bureaucratic preferences of both Town Hall and church, but as Beatrice and Celeste waited the next morning in the parlor, Daniel and Hugh arrived waving all necessary papers.
“It’s the war,” said Hugh. “The Vicar said better a marriage with no banns than a rash of unwed girls left behind.”
“As Celeste has been coming to services with you and Mrs. Turber, he put us both down as members of the parish and sent me to the Town Hall for a license,” said Daniel. “With two witnesses, and a contribution in the plate, he will marry us at three.”
“And home for tea,” added Hugh.
“Now all that remains is for me to ask your father’s blessing,” said Daniel.
“What if he will not give his permission?” asked Celeste. “The nuns, they come for me at noon.” She grasped Beatrice’s hand, her face fearful. “What if I have shamed him too much?”
“Be sensible, dear friend,” said Beatrice. “It is an excellent match. He must be pleased.”
“Come with me,” said Celeste. “Please come with me?”
“We will all go to Mr. Tillingham’s,” said Daniel. “That way, when I’m finished getting your father’s blessing, I will announce our happiness and we can all watch Mr. Tillingham’s face when he realizes he must break out his best champagne to toast such a happy occasion.”
“If I were a gambler, I would wager against you,” said Hugh, grinning.
—
It was a happy foursome that walked next door to Mr. Tillingham’s, where three of them waited anxiously in the front parlor as Daniel and the Professor spoke in Mr. Tillingham’s dining room. Only the base rumble of voices came through the thick walls, and Beatrice tried not to listen. Instead she tried to distract Celeste with a thank-you letter to Mr. Tillingham from the King, for his war work with refugees, which Mr. Tillingham had framed in heavy ebony and displayed between a lamp and a small globe on a side table.
“Oh, is that where the housekeeper put that old thing,” said Mr. Tillingham, sauntering in
to join them. “I told her to tuck it away out of sight.” Hugh explained, in brief, their mission, and Mr. Tillingham did indeed seem to wrestle a moment with a suitable response. To Beatrice’s surprise, he excused himself to go and ask the housekeeper to bring some cold champagne.
“You lose your wager,” she said to Hugh.
“I should know better than to bet against my cousin,” said Hugh.
At last the door to the dining room opened and footsteps approached the parlor door. It was Daniel, and his face was set in anger.
“He refuses,” said Daniel. “He claims Celeste is promised to the Catholic Church and that, despite the welcome they have received at St. Mary’s, he could never consider a marriage outside the Catholic faith.”
“All is lost,” said Celeste quietly.
“Now wait a minute, there must be some compromise,” said Hugh.
There were more steps in the hall, and the Professor appeared in the doorway. He gave a short bow and spoke to his daughter. “You must gather yourself,” he said. “The sisters will be here soon. I trust you know your duty and are ready to do as I ask?”
“I say, this is all rather high-handed,” said Hugh. “After all the kindness that has been extended, Professor, I think my cousin deserves better from you.”
“Our gratitude knows no bounds,” said the Professor. “But my daughter is already promised, and I must be free to make the best choice for her life.”
“But this marriage wipes her reputation clean,” said Beatrice. “It seals all lips and means she can stay here, with you.”
“I cannot convey to you the importance and mysteries of our Catholic faith, dear lady,” said the Professor. “But please believe a father knows what is best for his daughter.” All the sunlight seemed to bleed from the room, whether from a passing cloud or from sheer despair, Beatrice could not say.
“My marriage may stop the gossip, but he will still know the truth,” said Celeste at last. “He sends me away because he cannot bear to look at me.”
“It is not true,” said the Professor, but his face said otherwise.
“This is why I went away to the river, Father,” said Celeste. “So you would not have to look at me and see my shame become more visible every day.”
“There is nothing more to discuss,” said the Professor. “I have made my decision.”
“If I am to leave for the cloister,” said Celeste, “then I will make my confession before I go. I will ask Beatrice to fetch Mr. Poot, and I will give him my public testimony.”
“You will do no such thing,” said the Professor, growing very red. “You will be quiet.”
“I will tell him how the Germans came,” she said. “How you had me put on my newest dress, heavy with the finest lace, and had the maid put up my hair. And how you pinched my cheeks to make them flush and gave me my mother’s gold crucifix to hang on my bosom.”
“You will stop now,” said the Professor. “You all should leave, please.”
“I do think you might allow me the privilege of dismissing my own guests from my house, Professor,” said Mr. Tillingham, who had come up unnoticed behind him. “Personally, I am riveted by the young lady’s narrative.”
“You picked sweet-smelling white roses from the garden, and the maid put one over my ear,” said Celeste. “And tucked one in the very front lace of my bodice…” She stood up from her chair and faced her father squarely. He could not hold her gaze and dropped his eyes, shuffling his feet on the carpet.
“You ordered the best china and a bottle of champagne you were keeping for a celebration. Was it champagne for my wedding, Father? You had champagne and brandy served with tea, and I sat in the parlor and waited while the maid urged me to flee. All the servants fled, but you went out to the front door and asked the officer in to tea.”
“I had an obligation to the library,” said the Professor. He looked around the room, appealing for support. “We had nothing to fear from the Germans. They are civilized people, and we were not some frightened peasants. We stayed to protect the books.”
“And so we drank tea and he made me many compliments and you did not send me from the room but rather you agreed with him and talked of my mother’s beauty and of how my sheltered life had made me so fresh and simple.”
“He had sisters at home,” said the Professor. “He understood the value of my vigilance.”
“I will testify you spoke of your vigilance,” said Celeste. “But, Papa, why were you not vigilant that day? When we smelled the smoke, when the library was burning, you told me to stay and then you left me.”
“It was to save the books,” said her father. “The officer gave me men to help carry them to safety.” He paused and added, “We had a Gutenberg and a book of hours reputed to belong to Eleanor of Aquitaine. We had many priceless rare manuscripts that I saved that day. We carried them to the chapel and stored them in a dry crypt.”
“He gave you men to save your books, but when I rose to go with you, he asked me for more tea and you told me to stay with the officer and entertain him,” she said. “He put his lips on my ear, Father, and he whispered things so vile I could not breathe.”
Her voice grew dreamy now, as if she were moving away from what she saw in her mind. “Il m’a enfoncée sur le canapé, et il a arraché à mes jupons et à mon corset. Il m’a fait si mal…” She looked at her father and seemed to collect herself, speaking again in English. “I cried out for you, but you didn’t come for me, Father. I watched the hands on the china clock creep so slowly around the dial; and maman, she watched me from her painted frame, and her face was so sad. And still you did not come.”
“I did not know,” said her father. “I could never have imagined…”
“What is the point of sheltering a daughter if you cannot imagine the monsters from which you should protect her?” asked Beatrice.
“I think he knew,” said Mr. Tillingham. “From a purely literary point of view that is the way I would write about it.”
“It is the greater tragedy,” agreed Daniel. “The larger betrayal: treasure over honor, the value of a daughter weighed and found wanting.”
“What are you talking about?” said the Professor. “This is not some topic for your interminable literary dinner conversations.”
“Oh, but it is, my dear Professor,” said Mr. Tillingham. “With your daughter safely cloistered away, we shall be free to explore this theme in our work without risking her further embarrassment.”
“Of course one would change the names,” said Beatrice. “I would change the names.”
“But that veil of mystery may only serve to inflame speculation,” said Mr. Tillingham. “One can’t control the public’s fever for salacious information.”
“You would not dare to write such slander,” said the Professor. He shuffled to a chair and slumped down, defeated. “No decent man would seek to bring such shame on another man’s name, on the name of a great university.”
“I would never trespass on the good name of my wife’s father,” said Daniel. “I would protect their reputation, and the reputation of my heirs, at all cost.” Daniel was looking at Mr. Tillingham as he spoke, and Mr. Tillingham frowned; no doubt, thought Beatrice, he was reluctant to forswear such a story.
“Oh, very well,” said Tillingham. “But it always hurts to come across a rich vein and not be allowed to mine it. I shall grow dyspeptic.”
“Perhaps you need some champagne,” said Hugh.
“Will you give me your daughter, Professor?” said Daniel. “I vow she shall never be hurt by my hand. I will acknowledge the child as my own, and our doors will always be open to you.”
“Very well,” said the Professor. He made an effort and raised his eyes to look his daughter in the face. “I will withdraw my objection to the marriage, and if she wishes, for the sake of decorum, I will walk her down the aisle.” He continued to look severe, but his beard trembled as he spoke.
“I would be very happy,” said Celeste. She stretched a
hand towards her father but then seemed to think better of it and covered her mouth as she turned away to look out the window.
“Time for champagne,” said Mr. Tillingham, masking the awkward pause by taking a bottle from his housekeeper and discreetly shooing her away with a second. “I think one bottle should be ample.”
As he passed around glasses of champagne, he took Beatrice’s arm and drew her aside to a corner of the room.
“Thank you, Mr. Tillingham,” she said. “You have tipped the balance here today and changed lives for the better.”
“Oh, none of my doing, I assure you,” he replied. “I am much too selfish to spend my time on other people. You should be warned, my dear, that selfishness is a hazard of living alone.”
“I shall be sure to watch for such an affliction,” she said.
“It is only an affliction if one becomes cruel,” he added. He peered at the Professor as he spoke, and Beatrice saw in his eyes some flash of the piercing judgment that suffused his writings. “Bettina Fothergill saw fit to approach me regarding your position on our committee and, in complete confidence, your position at the school.”
Perhaps it was exhaustion from a sleepless night, or an accumulation of the recent days of anxiety, but Beatrice felt all the fight leave her. She sank slowly onto a hard chair and set her glass on the neighboring side table.
“I believe I will be asked to leave at the end of the term,” she said. She could not look at him, and so she looked at a white marble bust on the table and noted, with some residual flicker of humor, that it was of Mr. Tillingham himself.
“No, no, your leaving is out of the question,” he said. “I see now I must visit dear Bettina today and impress upon her how much it would inconvenience me were you to leave the town just as you and I are in the absolute thick of things with our book on your father.”
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“It’s quite simple, my dear,” said Mr. Tillingham. “I have decided I am much too lazy to begin the project again all by myself. It is much more efficient to use your excellent introduction as a basis for one of my own. You will provide a small afterword—purely personal reflections from a loving daughter; nothing of the academic—and we will put our heads together and discuss one or two changes to the letters we include?”