The Summer Before the War (26 page)

“Nonsense, it's only us,” said Lady Emily. She signaled to the butler. “Would you telephone the farm and let them know we're coming after dinner? Please mention we intend to be very informal so everyone should proceed as if we were not there at all.”

“The farms of Sussex have the telephone?” said Lord North.

“Mine do,” said Colonel Wheaton. “Put one in every farm kitchen, and now all my farmers know I may telephone at any hour. Keeps them up to the mark, I can tell you.”

“Terrible thing, the telephone,” said Lady Emily. “I refuse to be a slave to it.”

“All our embassies are now connected, of course,” said John. “But it's not much use for diplomacy what with all the party lines and operators listening in.”

“You might get a funny skit for one of your plays out of that, Mr. Tillingham,” said the Mayor. “The Kaiser's got a crossed line and the Russians keep calling for vodka. That sort of thing.”

“I don't do ‘skits,' Mr. Fothergill,” said Tillingham, his lips pinched to the point of disappearing. “You have me confused with the music halls.”

“Nothing like a bit of humor to liven up a play,” said the Mayor. “Why, your next play might be as popular as Gilbert and Sullivan.”

Mr. Tillingham looked as if he might succumb to apoplexy.

“I'm afraid we are not dressed for the fields,” Bettina pointed out, smoothing her golden gown.

“Indeed on no account should you risk the ruin of so stunning a dress,” said Lady Emily. “We will release you and your dear husband from all obligations, dear Bettina. Our chauffeur shall run you home while the rest of us disperse to find our boots.”

“Well, I'm sure we don't care to break up your party, Lady Emily,” said the Mayor, looking at his wife, whose face was quivering.

“Oh, you do us a service, dear Mayor Fothergill,” said Lady Emily. “There would not be room for you in the cars.” She smiled in a way that brooked no further discussion and added, “Shall we go in to dinner?”

The light was all but drained from the sky and, in the orange glare of a large bonfire, boisterous country dancing was well under way as Agatha and John led the Professor and Mr. Tillingham across the cleared hop field. The Wheatons were a few minutes behind, Emily Wheaton having whispered to Agatha her hope that all would be found in order for the appropriate reception of Lord and Lady North.

“I'm not sure how Emily expects such an event to be anything other than it is,” said Agatha to John as the bonfire made the long shadows dance. Around the field, rough trestles were crammed with hoppers, the Londoners and the locals keeping to their own tables but mingling happily in the dancing. In addition to their own foods, platters of sausages were being heaped hot from coal braziers and baked potatoes plucked from the fire with long iron tongs.

“A pagan revel to its core,” agreed John, sniffing appreciatively after a passing platter. “But it will do Lord North good to be reminded that this is England the ancient and that we fight for her as much as for the prim town and the glittering city.”

“I'm not sure he will appreciate your historical view,” said Agatha as a man slipped to the ground at a table where revelers were making very free with the farmer's jugs of cider.

In a prime spot, the farmer and his family occupied a long trestle decorated with hay bales and bunting, and to one side Agatha spied Eleanor's party of young people.

“I see that the attempt to mingle with the people has its limits,” said John as they approached Eleanor's table, which was distinguished by a linen cloth, silver candlesticks, and a footman hovering with several wine bottles.

“I doubt any of us would enjoy sitting on a rough plank and eating with our fingers,” said Mr. Tillingham. “I for one would appreciate a cold glass of champagne.”

Agatha caught Hugh's eye, and as she waved her handkerchief at him, a look of consternation crossed his face.

“What are you doing here, Aunt?” he asked, hurrying forward to greet them.

“Didn't you get the message we were coming?” she asked. “Lady Emily gave explicit instructions to telephone the farmhouse.”

“I don't think anyone remains indoors to answer,” said Hugh.

“Is my mother coming too?” asked Eleanor as they approached. “I would have set another table.”

“Quite another table, I imagine,” said Mr. Tillingham. Agatha followed the direction of his eye to see with horror that Algernon Frith and Amberleigh de Witte were seated at the table with Minnie Buttles. Tillingham gave them a short bow but did not introduce the Professor. Agatha pressed John on the arm, a small alarm signal.

“Papa, you are here!” said Celeste, running from the table with rosy cheeks and a giddy laugh to envelop her father in a hug from which he visibly flinched. The girl was flushed from more than the mere excitement of dancing, and Agatha's grip on her husband tightened.

“Evening, Tillingham, old boy,” said Algernon Frith. “You find us all quite rustic and comfortable this evening.”

“I hope there is adequate champagne,” said Daniel. “The cider is as rough as salt water and quite without poetry.”

“Are you well, my child?” said the Professor, holding his daughter away from him and peering at the bright spots of her cheeks. “Your color is quite high.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Kent, how lovely to see you,” said Amberleigh de Witte. She smiled, but Agatha could see fear flit across her eyes. “Miss Wheaton was kind enough to include our party at her table.” Minnie was also rising from the table and looking anxiously around the field for Alice Finch.

“Baroness, you are always most gracious,” said Agatha to Eleanor. “But it appears you were not informed that your mother and father will be arriving any moment with Lord North and his wife.”

“Shall I find the footman and arrange more chairs?” asked Hugh.

“I fear what we need is fewer chairs,” said Agatha. “Were Lord North not of the party, we could of course be perfectly comfortable…” She trailed off, smiling at Algernon and trying not to look at Amberleigh's pressed lips.

“Perhaps my wife and I may steal some of your guests away to join us at another table, Baroness?” said John. He gave the footman a discreet signal, and the footman began to look around for a table from which the occupants might be dislodged. Agatha could have kissed him in public for his smoothing of such an awkward moment. And since Bettina was not coming, Agatha felt she had no objection to sacrificing herself and being free to country-dance without the stultifying effect of being part of an earl's retinue.

“No, no, we will not break up your arriving party, my dear Mr. Kent,” said Algernon. “My wife and I were about to make our excuses anyway.” He gestured to indicate both all of those gathered and no one in particular. “You must excuse us. We are promised to visit neighbors at other tables.”

“I will come with you and find Alice,” said Minnie. “She insisted on my sitting, but I should help her with her equipment.” Across the field Alice Finch could be seen setting down her heavy camera and directing two young Gypsy dancers to pose against the painted wheel of a caravan.

“I would join you,” said Mr. Tillingham. “But Lord North has asked my particular opinion on one or two matters of national importance, and I must look after the Professor.”

“Yes, it does not do to abandon one's friends,” said Amberleigh, collecting her shawl and directing a cool look at Agatha. “I completely understand.”

“I believe I would like to come with you,” said Beatrice, rising from the table. Agatha forgave her the angry look in her eyes. She did not expect Beatrice to understand, in the same way Amberleigh did, that she meant to save them all humiliation.

“No, no,” said Daniel. “We must get ready to perform our tableau. We are to perform right after Harry and Craigmore's hornpipe.”

“It was lovely to meet you, Miss Nash,” said Amberleigh. “You must come and see me and bring me some of your work to read.” As she took her husband's arm to leave, she added, “We women must stick together, must we not?”

“Daniel has written an ode to the King of the Hops,” explained Hugh as Agatha watched the Friths departing. “Craigmore is to be king, and Miss Beatrice and Miss Celeste are handmaidens to the farmer's daughter, who is to be queen.”

“Are you sure that's a good idea?” asked Agatha. “Lady Emily is not a fan of amateur theatricals.”

“My dear aunt, poetry is not some low amateur folly,” said Daniel. “I have adapted my ‘Ode to the David' just for the occasion.” He waved a sheaf of papers as he herded Beatrice and Celeste from the table. “Never fear, we will elevate the evening to new heights, which may be just in time.” As he spoke, a pennywhistle struck up a lively jig and two men in rolled-up trousers, with buckets on their heads and pitchforks in hand, strode to the stage.

“Oh, I like the boy's ode,” said Tillingham. “Quite visceral and raw.”

“What do you mean, ‘visceral'?” asked Agatha, but she was already distracted as she realized the two men clowning a hornpipe, to much laughter and some thrown sausages, were Harry Wheaton and young Craigmore. Lord and Lady North and Colonel Wheaton and Lady Emily, now advancing over the grass towards the table, did not appear amused to see their sons making fools of themselves for the delight of bumpkins.

“I need to sit down,” said Agatha. Hugh caught her arm and helped her to a chair. “And I think I need a large glass of that champagne.”

“Why is it funny?” the Professor asked, as Craigmore and Harry swung pitchforks in dangerous proximity to limbs and minced over crossed rakes in an improvised sword dance.

“They appreciate that the Colonel's son makes himself ridiculous for them,” said John. “And this year he brings an earl's son too.”

“I fear Lady North is not laughing,” said Agatha. The visit already seemed a terrible mistake. But she could only continue to smile while Hugh and the footman attempted to arrange a forest of excess chairs.

Hugh was glad to see the hornpipe conclude as the cheering and whistles from the crowd did not seem to improve the slightly grim faces of Lord North and his wife. As the country dance caller stepped forward to announce the poetic recitation, Hugh felt a sudden hollowing of his breath.

“I do hope Daniel hasn't overreached in what the audience is expecting,” he heard his Aunt Agatha whisper to Uncle John, his own anxiety reflected in her voice.

“Let's pray for brevity,” said Uncle John. “But resign ourselves to an epic.” As the crowd clapped, Hugh whispered to the footman to make sure the champagne glasses were refilled at every opportunity.

Two boys with flaming torches marched to stand at either side of the stage, and a single fiddler began a slow version of an old minuet as the players processed from behind the stage and around the grass in a circle. Everyone but Daniel wore a spreading crown of hops, and on the ladies, long bud-filled vines, caught in ribbons and pinned over one shoulder, trailed on the ground like the trains of ball gowns. Craigmore, moving at a king's slow pace, carried willow sticks lashed together in the manner of an ancient Roman scepter and led the farmer's daughter, who cradled an armful of wildflowers as pink as her flushed cheeks. Beatrice held apples in a basket at her waist and Celeste a jug of cider on one shoulder, in the manner of a nymph on a Greek vase. Wearing a scarlet scarf tied in dashing style around his neck and carrying a large leather portfolio, Daniel brought up the rear.

“It's not a tableau if they're moving,” said Mr. Tillingham, his voice made louder than he imagined by a tankard of cider.

“No, but what a lovely effect,” said Aunt Agatha. Hugh had to admit that in the waning, horizontal light of evening, with the flicker of the torches and bonfire, trees darkening all around and the colorful crowd pressing forward from their tables to see, the procession held a strange power.

As the music paused, the players moved into a square formation, ready to dance. There was some clapping from the crowd, and small children wriggled forward under their mothers' skirts to better see the show.

“ ‘The Crowning of the Hop King,' ”
announced Daniel, reading from a paper plucked from his opened portfolio and then allowing it to flutter to the ground.

“Being a special adaptation of the poem ‘To the David of Florence' by Daniel Bookham, reimagined as homage to the last day of our harvest…”

“Perhaps the last harvest?” he added and dropped the second page as the fiddler scrambled through a brief musical fanfare.

“I do hope it rhymes,” said Lady Emily. “It's not proper poetry if it isn't in iambic pentameter.”

“Your marble thigh so sinewed, whitely,

Would that my hand might press to warm

Life to the veins, set sap to running—

And harvest the shepherd home to the farm.”

As Daniel paused, the fiddle, joined by a pennywhistle, began the same minuet again, in a minor key, and Beatrice and Celeste laid their gifts at the farm girl's feet and entwined their arms for the first figure of the dance.

“King of your own flesh, Prince of your own eyes,

None has dominion higher than the pure.

I touch like a priest but the rope of your sandal,

Pledge you all honor, and faith that endures.”

Craigmore and the farmer's daughter took their turn at the figure. Hugh could not be sure at such a distance, but he thought Beatrice's shoulders might be shuddering with suppressed laughter. All four dancers began a stately circle, hands aloft.

“Boy, man, and king, thy reign o'erpowers me,

Renders my lyre faint like unto death.

King of the hop fields, kiss but my forehead,

Wake me, your giant, and let flower all the earth.”