The Summer Before the War (27 page)

The last pages fluttered from Daniel's grasp as he lowered himself to one knee. The dancers came to a stop, the Hop King bowing to his Queen, the handmaidens in low curtsies, arms raised to the sky. As the players stilled in final tableau, three small girls ran from behind the stage with baskets and began to pelt the dancers with flowers. Agatha saw Beatrice take a large dahlia to the cheek but remain still, albeit blinking. The music finished with a long last note.

The crowd erupted in applause and laughter and loud discussions up and down the tables.

“Bravo, bravo,” said Mr. Tillingham, clapping from his chair. “Poet, poet!”

Daniel rose slowly, removing the red scarf from his neck and using it to lead the players in a sweeping bow. As he stepped back into the line, Craigmore dropped the hand of the farmer's daughter and caught Daniel round the neck in a friendly hold. Daniel squirmed and grinned but made no effort to free himself until Craigmore let go to offer him a slap on the back and to grab his hand as all the players linked arms for another set of bows. The applause was louder and more sustained than Hugh thought warranted as Craigmore led the farmer's daughter to her father and the others returned to their table. Hugh leaned towards his aunt to say, “Daniel will be impossibly smug in the morning.”

“It was well done though,” said his aunt.

“You young ladies performed beautifully,” said Lady Emily. “Bettina Fothergill must secure all three of you at once for her grand float in the parade. So far she has suggested only girls so homely I fear she means to be sure Britannia is not outshone by her handmaidens.”

Hugh noticed Lord North, who was not clapping but stood with his hands clasped behind him, whisper something to his wife. He then pursed his lips and frowned. To Colonel Wheaton's asking him how he enjoyed the performance, he responded with a nod. “I enjoyed the musical background. Partial to the violin.”

“Your son is a good sport to jump in and help with our amateur entertainments,” said Agatha to the Countess. “It's nice to bring the people more wholesome fare than music-hall numbers and dancing girls.”

“Though there may be hidden decadence in poetry dedicated to spirits and such,” said Lady North. “We must be always on our guard against the slippery attractions of false idols.”

“That we must,” said Lord North.

“Of course we must,” said Agatha and then turned to roll her eyes at Hugh and Beatrice.

“I think we've seen enough,” said Lord North, turning to Colonel Wheaton. “We are expected early at Dover for the review at the castle, and I know my wife tires easily.”

“Will you not be dancing?” asked Agatha. “The band will play for hours.”

“I regret our duties must come first,” said Lord North. “It has been a pleasure to meet you and your husband, Mrs. Kent.”

“Are you leaving too, Aunt?” asked Hugh in a low voice as Colonel Wheaton and Lady Emily gathered themselves to leave.

“I certainly am not,” said Agatha. “Why, they are just calling for the Gay Gordons, and I may possibly dance the Sir Roger de Coverley if the digestion of my dinner allows.” She leaned closer to Hugh and Beatrice to whisper, “If Mr. Tillingham wants to leave he can commandeer a farm cart.”

“Good for you, Mrs. Kent,” said Beatrice as Agatha allowed her husband to lead her away to the forming dance sets.

“Do you dance, Mademoiselle Celeste?” asked Daniel. Upon her assent, he begged the privilege, and she gave him her hand with the sort of trusting smile that only Daniel could draw from young ladies. Hugh felt a sharp envy at his cousin's easy, open manner and found it harder than usual to compose both his face and his thoughts to make his own awkward overture.

“Will you dance, Miss Nash?” he asked. “Only I must warn you my country-dancing experience is largely theoretical.”

“I would be happy to, Mr. Grange,” said Beatrice. “Fortunately for you, in my schoolgirl dancing class, I was always one of the tallest and so I am used to leading.” He would have bantered again, finding some self-deprecation with which to puncture the awkwardness of conversation. But her hand was warm from her exertions, and she seemed to glow under her crown of hops. In the flicker from the bonfire and the swell of the music, Hugh found her transformed, and he did not want to speak but only to lead her whirling and laughing into the dance.

The following morning, Hugh
was settled in a wing chair in his workroom, nominally enthralled by a new book on the composition of monkey brains, an advance copy sent by a leading German researcher to Hugh's surgeon just before war was declared. But in reality, after the weeks of sleepless nights cramming for examinations while drilling all day, and shivering through the finals in a chilly mess hall that seemed to breathe failure, he was enjoying dozing in a slab of sunlight, feeling the pleasant aftereffects of a good breakfast. He did wonder idly whether the German scientist would be able to keep his monkeys through the war, whether monkeys learned German commands as easily as English, and whether human language had a hierarchy and where English should be considered on such a hierarchy against, say, French or Latin.

This naturally led to his considering what Miss Beatrice Nash, who was coming to luncheon with Celeste and the younger set from the Wheaton house, would have to say on the poetry of competing languages. As his mind wandered into this thought, he was aware of the scent of a late-blooming climbing rose coming in the stable window on a puff of air and he noted that the scent might have prompted the thought and he wondered if monkeys associated smells with people in the same way as humans did; whether Smith would still be Smith if he smelled of bay rum instead of diesel and boot polish, and whether Miss Nash, who smelled of roses and lime blossom to him, was even now putting on her bonnet to come for an alfresco afternoon on the terrace…

A swift clatter of boots on the stairs heralded his cousin Daniel's arrival, and he closed the book, not without relief, for it was a dense tome, printed in close-set type, as if the printer had struggled to squeeze its impossible length into some manageable slab of pages.

“Craigmore's gone,” said Daniel. His face was constricted into a mask of distress, and his tone threatened to compromise his preferred demeanor of bored indifference.

“Gone where?” asked Hugh.

“Urgent family business, they say,” said Daniel. He tugged at his crumpled shirt collar, and Hugh could see he was warm with sweat about the neck, as if he had run all the way home. “The Wheatons' butler said he couldn't say where, just that Craigmore left with his mother on the early train.”

“What did Harry and Eleanor say?”

“Didn't see them. Eleanor sent word she is not feeling well, and Harry was apparently out riding and not expected back until nightfall.” Daniel slumped in the other wing chair and covered his face with one arm.

“Well, that's certainly a blow to Aunt Agatha's plans,” said Hugh, keeping his tone light in the hope that his cousin would follow his lead and calm down. “I do hope it's not anything serious with Craigmore's family.”

“Don't be an idiot, Hugh, it's nothing to do with family business,” said Daniel from under his sleeve. “It's Lord North.” He groaned and added, “My life is over.”

“Do try and string together rational sentences, Daniel,” said Hugh.

“Don't you see?” said Daniel. “Craigmore must have told his father about the journal, about our plans. He's been sent away.”

“You're being a bit dramatic,” said Hugh. “You can't know that.” Even as Hugh spoke he felt the hypocrisy of offering comfort instead of truth. But what truth would he speak to his cousin? Remembering the whispered conversation between Lord North and his wife after Daniel's recitation, Hugh knew, with a sinking feeling, that it was not the journal to which he objected.

“Craigmore would never have left without leaving me a note,” said Daniel. “I always thought his father might try to make things sticky.”

“Well, it's unfortunate that our luncheon party has been substantially reduced,” said Hugh. “We had better inform Cook.”

“How can you talk of luncheons?” groaned Daniel, hanging his head so that his face was hidden beneath the fall of his hair. “You have no idea what it is to lose such a friendship as that which Craigmore and I share.”

“Pull yourself together, Cousin,” said Hugh. He stood and tugged the edges of his jacket down as if to reinforce his words. “It will not serve to allow the entire household to hear such agitation. Craigmore would not wish a conspicuous fuss, I'm sure.” There was a pause, and Hugh gazed out of the window to allow his cousin time to compose himself. While he envied his cousin's free and easy, passionate nature, and his capacity for intense friendships, he felt squeamish in the face of Daniel's occasional displays of emotion.

“You are right, of course,” said Daniel at last. He pulled a large silk handkerchief from a pocket and blew his nose with abandon. “You are lucky to be made of more rational stuff, Hugh. You will never be carried away by your emotions.”

“Thank you,” said Hugh, fully aware that Daniel did not altogether mean it as a compliment. It was hardly fair that Daniel should provoke him into a purse-lipped rigidity and then insult him for it, but Hugh's first concern was to protect his cousin from his own self-indulgence. “Now why don't we make a suitable plan?” he added. “Beginning with some appearance of indifference to their sudden departure.”

“I will write to Craigmore at his father's in London,” said Daniel.

“I think not,” said Hugh. “Aunt Agatha will surely be writing a note of thanks to Lady Emily this morning. We'll ask her to make casual inquiries.”

“What if Lady Emily knows nothing?” said Daniel. “I can still catch the noon post.”

“If matters stand as you fear, your letter may be intercepted,” said Hugh. “I will write to Craigmore myself—but by late-afternoon post at the earliest.”

“Why the delay?” asked Daniel.

“Craigmore seemed very interested in our hospital laboratories,” said Hugh. “As I'm expected in London on Tuesday, it will probably occur to me, by midafternoon at the earliest, to send him a casual invitation to tour. All very indifferent, you see?”

Daniel groaned. “I can't wait until Tuesday.”

“I hope it will prompt him to send me a reply that might shed light on the situation,” said Hugh. “But meanwhile, Daniel, you simply must recover your composure. No good can come from physical or emotional dishevelment.”

A sound of voices in the stable below was followed by a light knocking on the stairwell wall and Beatrice Nash's voice saying, “Hello, is anyone at home?”

“I'm not sure I can face anyone,” said Daniel urgently. Hugh noticed that he did have a strange, pale look about the gills, but perhaps, he thought, this was the properly deserved effect of too much rough cider and champagne.

“For goodness' sake, it's only Beatrice and Celeste,” he said. “You and Miss Celeste can look pale and interesting together. Of course, she's come from a war zone. Perhaps her situation will help your sense of perspective.”

“Your sarcasm lacks the delicacy that would render it amusing,” said Daniel. He caught Hugh by the sleeve. “But I thank you for your help. What would I do without you to bail me out of scrapes?”

“One day you'll have to take care of yourself,” said Hugh. “Now smile for our guests.”

“You sound just like Uncle John sometimes,” said Daniel. “Hello, ladies, do come up. It's mercifully clear of blood and guts today.”

Beatrice and Celeste came up the stairs, and Hugh was glad to note that he was not mistaken; Beatrice did smell of roses and lime blossom. Celeste carried the faintest perfume of soap and talcum powder, and neither lady seemed to wear any hint of the previous night's festivities.

“Welcome,” he said. “How did you find us?”

“I asked Jenny not to stand on ceremony but to direct us to where you were,” said Beatrice. “We are a trifle early, and I hoped you would be up here so I might show Celeste your lair.”

“Welcome, Miss Celeste,” said Hugh. “My humble workroom is at your disposal.”

“It is a privilege,” said Celeste. “I want to see the dead chickens.” Daniel laughed, and Hugh hoped the presence of the ladies might make him sensible. But Daniel could not keep such anguish contained.

“Craigmore has gone,” he blurted out. “My friend vanished before breakfast.”

“Well, that is sad for our lunch party,” said Beatrice. “But I do hope it was not bad news in the family?”

“I am sure everything is fine,” said Hugh, pleased at how exactly her response mirrored his own. “I'm going to ask my Aunt Agatha to inquire as much of Lady Emily, just to reassure us.”

“But this is terrible,” said Celeste to Daniel. “How could your friend leave without a word?”

“My thought exactly,” said Daniel. “I am in an agony of uncertainty.
L'angoisse du doute.
”

“It is not right to leave no word in these days,” said Celeste. “Anything could have happened,
n'est-ce pas?
”

“At last someone understands,” said Daniel, shooting Hugh a look. Hugh could only roll his eyes as Daniel and Celeste drifted to the two wing chairs, where they sat and continued, for some minutes, to turn over the circumstances of Craigmore's departure in a low and urgent mix of English and French.

“I'm sure there is a simple explanation,” said Beatrice to Hugh. “Perhaps we had better excuse ourselves and relieve your aunt of the need to entertain us?”

“Do not leave me to lunch alone with Daniel in his current agonies,” said Hugh. “I shall get indigestion.”

Beatrice laughed, and Hugh heard an echo of the night's music and had to quell an urge to sweep her into another spinning dance.

“Just as well,” she said. “I told Mrs. Turber we would be out, and there is no producing spontaneous nourishment in the Turber kitchen.”

Aunt Agatha was in her small upstairs porch, where she spent most mornings at her desk, in a loose wrapper and slippers, writing letters and reading magazines. Uncle John was smoking his pipe in the window seat and looking over last week's racing papers. Hugh knocked at the open door and went in.

“Am I late?” asked Aunt Agatha. “I was just trying to finish a couple of notes before they arrive.”

“Celeste and Beatrice are here,” said Hugh. “But Celeste is deep in conversation with Daniel, and Beatrice was keen to tour the kitchen garden.”

“We had best be getting dressed, then,” said his uncle.

“Did you write a note of thanks to Lady Emily yet?” Hugh asked, affecting an air of nonchalance. From the sharp look on his aunt's face, he knew he had overplayed his hand.

“I am writing it now,” she said, one eyebrow raised.

“Only it seems that the Countess left in a hurry for London this morning,” said Hugh. “Took Craigmore with her without so much as a word to anyone.”

“Seems a little abrupt?” said Uncle John.

“How upsetting for Daniel,” said Agatha. “He was so glad to have his friend here.”

Hugh did his best to meet her gaze with an expression of frankness. “Not really,” he said. “We were just hoping that it is not some family emergency. Perhaps Lady Emily might reassure us on that point?”

“It seems quite rude after all the trouble Lady Emily took to entertain them—but of course I shall be discreet and merely note our concern for Lady North's family,” said Agatha.

“Harry and Eleanor are also apparently unavailable for luncheon,” said Hugh. “I've already spoken to Cook.”

When Hugh had left, Agatha took up her pen and, after some hesitation, composed a brief line offering an expression of concern for the Countess and sympathy for the disarrangement such a hasty departure must bring to any hostess.

While she was reading it over, John folded up his paper and took his pipe from his mouth. “To be expected, you know,” he said.

“What is?” asked Agatha.

“Son of an earl,” said John. “Not likely to be allowed to dabble in the arts when there is a war on.”

“I quite agree,” said Agatha. “Yet I hardly see the need to order the boy away.”