The Summer Before the War (37 page)

“Will you still go on?” asked John.

“Yes, sir. At first light, sir.” He looked at Daniel, who could not lift his head from his knees. “In fact I have to go, sir. Catch the last train back.”

“Of course,” said John. He looked around and signaled to Harry Wheaton, who was standing with Eleanor in the doorway to the ballroom. All around them the nodding heads of the crowd made Beatrice feel sick. “I say, Wheaton, would you walk Craigmore's friend to the train?”

“Yes, sir,” said Wheaton, and there was no trace of his usual laconic smile in his grave face. “My honor.”

“Our car is outside,” said Eleanor, stepping forward. “Would you like to take Daniel home, Mr. Kent?” As John Kent accepted, he looked around for his wife, and Beatrice realized that Agatha was still gripping her hand. A helpful manager hurried forward with Agatha's wrap, and Eleanor came to assist Agatha out to the car. John and Hugh followed, Daniel stumbling between them, silent now.

Following them to the inn's door, Beatrice felt a presence at her elbow. It was the surgeon's daughter.

“It's a reminder of how fragile life is these days,” sighed Lucy Ramsey. “Did you know him?”

“I did,” said Beatrice. “He was Lord North's son and a close friend of Hugh's cousin.”

“Every day is precious, isn't it?” said Lucy. “Poor Hugh. I see now that it was wrong of me to make him wait.”

“Excuse me?” said Beatrice.

“I was content for our connection to remain secret, but now I think I must let him send the engagement notice right away.” She tucked a piece of fair hair behind her ear and smiled with just her lips. “How childlike of me to dwell on the form and ceremony of marriage and not the value of it to a man bound for the front lines,” she added. “We women must do our duty too.” She looked around and waved towards some unseen figure in the ballroom.

“I hope you'll be very happy,” said Beatrice. But the taste in her mouth was of ashes, and she struggled to keep her voice even. She told herself it was the shock of Craigmore's death, but the ache vibrating through her was of a more selfish nature.

“We've always known we would be,” said Lucy. She looked Beatrice square in the face, and there was nothing but steel in her blue eyes. “Lovely to meet you,” she murmured as she walked away.

The orchestra was still playing in the hot, festive ballroom; the shadows of dancing couples played against the windows and walls of the façades opposite and in the puddles from a light rain in the streets. No doubt the gossip still flowed with the wine and champagne. But as Beatrice stepped from the warm inn to the cold street outside, the night was already a faded dream.

Hugh was standing by the car, speaking to his uncle, and she shrank into the dark embrace of the doorway, for she did not know how to speak to him now. As she watched, a dark figure ran up and plucked his sleeve.

“Oh, Mr. Grange, you must come,” said a voice, and Beatrice recognized Abigail. The pinched face of the maid turned as she stepped from her hiding place. “You and Miss Beatrice must come. Miss Celeste is dying and I don't know what to do for her.” As Hugh hesitated, looking at Beatrice and then at the car, his uncle took him by the arm.

“Don't worry, I'll take care of them, Hugh,” he said. “You must see to your patient.”

It was hard for Beatrice to remain conscious, and she fought to slow her breathing and remain upright and of assistance. Her lungs hurt from running so wildly through the dark streets, and a stitch in her side required her to press a hand to her ribs. But it was the sight of Celeste writhing in pain, and the blood-smeared sheets, that threatened to make her faint. Celeste hardly saw them enter her little room; she was busy murmuring her final prayers and begging
le bon Dieu
to take her.

“It just keeps getting worse,” said Abigail, crying. “She's dying.”

“Bring some clean toweling, clean rags, whatever you have,” said Hugh. “And a basin of hot water.”

“Celeste, we are here,” said Beatrice. She knelt at the bedside to take Celeste's small white hand, and tried not to recoil from the smell of sweat and the streaks of blood.

“Leave me alone,” whispered Celeste. “God is punishing me.” She whimpered and drew up her knees in pain.

“I don't think you're dying,” said Hugh, his face slightly averted from the patient. “Not really my area of expertise, of course. I'll need to examine her.”

“No, no,” said Celeste. She shrank away and clutched at Beatrice's hand. “Make him go away and let me die.”

“It's just Hugh,” said Beatrice, urgently. “He is a good man and he is the only doctor we have right now. You must let him help.”

“No, I will die of the shame,” she said. “Please, please make him go away.”

“What shall we do?” asked Beatrice, looking at Hugh, who seemed rather relieved to be ordered away. Abigail came running up the stairs with an armful of linen and a jug of warm water. Hugh hesitated for a moment, thinking.

“I can't call my aunt…” he began. Then his face lit up. “I say, Abigail, Mrs. Stokes was camped on the Salts telling fortunes all day. Is she still there?”

“I couldn't say,” said Abigail, her face wearing a frown that said she was ready neither to acknowledge her great-grandmother nor to be responsible for her whereabouts.

“We need her,” said Hugh. “I know Dr. Lawton sometimes calls on her to help with—with some of the women.”

“Happen she might be there,” said Abigail.

“Then run and fetch her fast as you can,” said Hugh. “I believe she will know exactly what to do.”

At Hugh's direction, from where he stood as far away as possible from the bed, Beatrice tucked a clean old sheet around Celeste and used some warm water and soap to at least wipe the sweat from her brow. As Beatrice pushed back her matted hair, Celeste seemed to quiet under her touch. Her breath became more regular even as she continued to grimace through stabs of pain.

“What is happening to her?” whispered Beatrice as she took the jug to fetch more warm water from the kitchen stove.

“I'd rather not speculate until Mrs. Stokes gets here,” said Hugh. “Complicated matter to get wrong.”

“We should fetch her father,” said Beatrice.

“Why don't we wait for Mrs. Stokes?” Hugh said. “Some things are best left until we know for sure.”

After many interminable minutes, in which Hugh frowned over the patient's pulse several times and Beatrice stroked her hair and tried not to faint from the iron smell of her sweat, Mrs. Stokes stumped up the stairs, bringing the welcome scents of bonfire smoke and hair oil. She wore a thick, much embroidered dress and a velvet sash adorned with several rows of gold coins. Her hair was braided and coiled under a bright red kerchief, and she had jingling gold bracelets on her arms. Before approaching the bed, she removed the bracelets and tucked them in a large canvas bag, which she carried on her shoulder.

“Celeste, Mrs. Stokes is here to help you,” said Beatrice. Celeste opened her eyes, and they grew very round at the sight of the old woman. “Don't be frightened.”

“No reason to be frightened o' me,” said Mrs. Stokes. “I birthed six children o' my own and no counting the others,” she said. “I seen every woman's problem from gout to the stuff a husband gives 'em from consorting with the Lord knows who, and then he tells her it's just her imagination.” She pulled a clean rag from the pile Abigail had brought and tied it around her waist as an apron.

“I'm here with you,” said Beatrice, smoothing Celeste's hair.

“You'll be leaving us now, miss,” said Mrs. Stokes. “Abigail and me'll see to her.”

“But…”

“Last thing she wants is you seeing all that ails her,” said Mrs. Stokes. “Out, out. Let me do what you'll be paying me to do.”

“We'll be right downstairs, Mrs. Stokes,” said Hugh. “Do call on me if you need me.”

“Put some water on to boil,” she said. “We'll all be wanting tea.”

For twenty minutes, Hugh and Beatrice sat in silence on the parlor settee, listening to the creak of floors, the stamping of feet, and the muffled commands of Mrs. Stokes. Beatrice trimmed the lamp once, and Hugh got up several times to poke the fire into leaping flames or to rattle the tongs around in the scuttle for extra coals. Abigail hurried down twice to fetch more water, and the second time she carried down a handful of dried plants and made a foul-smelling tea for the patient. Beatrice trembled with a deep anxiety for Celeste that was rapidly becoming a physical headache. She was conscious of some satisfaction that Hugh and she were bound together in this emergency and that it had brought them here in the low lamplight. But while she took comfort in his steadying presence next to her, she was aware of a new sense of loss that came from the news of his pending engagement. With some surprise she realized that a small flame of jealousy burned in her that Lucy Ramsey was to take him away and that his marriage must change what had become an easy friendship.

At last Mrs. Stokes came slowly, one heavy step at a time, down the stairs. She carried a bundle of knotted-up linen, which she set by the door.

“It's late for these old bones to be running up hills and climbing stairs,” she said. “If you have any cake, or maybe a meat sandwich, I'd be grateful for a mouthful of sustenance.”

“Abigail, will you see to it?” asked Beatrice.

“How is the patient, Mrs. Stokes?” said Hugh. “I am anxious to hear your diagnosis.”

“The patient wasn't too happy to hear it, believe me,” said Mrs. Stokes. “Always a surprise and a bluster with them young girls.”

“Would you both please tell me what is happening?” said Beatrice. “I must tell her father.”

“He's the doctor,” said Mrs. Stokes, nodding at Hugh. “He knows.” Abigail brought a hunk of meat between two thick slabs of bread. Mrs. Stokes sniffed at the plate and then wrapped the sandwich in a clean handkerchief and put it in her bag.

“Heavy cramping and some bleeding?” said Hugh, who had grown red about the face. “Did she lose it?”

“No, not as far as I can make out,” said the old woman. “I gave her some of my viburnum tea and she'll be needing to stay in bed awhile; that is, assuming you wish to keep away the cramps?” She spoke in the matter-of-fact way of one medical expert to another. Hugh did not respond but only grew redder, and opened and closed his mouth several times. “Abigail knows what to do for her,” Mrs. Stokes added, accepting a cup of tea.

“Yes, Gran,” said Abigail.

“There is a child,” said Beatrice, sitting down slowly. The breath seemed to leave her body. “Surely it's not possible.”

“She is with child, missy,” said Mrs. Stokes. “Pregnant, and by a man unless the angel Gabriel has come among us again.”

“How?” asked Beatrice. “She's a sheltered girl.”

“I'm an old woman now,” said Mrs. Stokes. She sighed. “Time was I thought all girls went unknowing and pure to their marriage beds. Now I know better. There's a thousand stories how and none of them any the wiser as to what happened.”

“I believe she is a casualty of war,” said Hugh. “As such she must be held blameless.”

“Do you mean to imply a violation?” Beatrice felt the nausea rising and covered her face with her hands. “Oh, please, please, God, let it not be.”

“Else she had some shepherd boy playing his pipe in her fields.” Mrs. Stokes chuckled. “Will ye be paying my fee now or will I be asking her father for it?”

“We thank you for coming,” said Hugh, his face stern. He rifled his pockets for coins and held out a palm to Mrs. Stokes. “Please take what you will, and Dr. Lawton assures me we can rely on your discretion?”

Mrs. Stokes squinted at the coins in his hand and swept all into her own palm. “If she was forced, don't think the town will hold her innocent,” she said. She picked up the linen bundle, and Abigail ran to open the little door for her. “I'll burn the linen for free to get rid of the bad luck.”

Just outside the door, Mrs. Turber jumped back as if startled by its opening and gave a little shriek.

“Who's that?” said Mrs. Stokes, jingling her bangles as she waved a hand in Mrs. Turber's face. “Who shrieks in the street and smells of liquor?”

“Gypsies!” shrieked Mrs. Turber. “Gypsies in my house and stealing from me? Help, someone help!”

“Mrs. Turber, don't scream so,” said Beatrice, pushing past Abigail into the street. “It's just Mrs. Stokes come to help us. Miss Celeste was taken gravely ill.”

“She's stealing from me,” said Mrs. Turber. “I know my own linen, thank you.” She pointed a bony finger at the bundle and tried to grab for it.

“The linen must be burned unless you want the seven years of bad fortune to visit your house?” said Mrs. Stokes. “And I'll thank 'ee to remember there's a special curse for those who thwart a traveler in the doing of a blessing.”

“How dare you invite a Gypsy into my house?” said Mrs. Turber to Beatrice. “I'll wager there's half my silver in that bundle.”

“I'll guarantee there is not, Mrs. Turber,” said Hugh, coming out behind Beatrice and stepping between the two older ladies. “I asked Mrs. Stokes to help in Dr. Lawton's absence, and I'll guarantee her good faith or replace your silver myself.”

“A dirty old Gypsy?” said Mrs. Turber. “She's a party to some shame, I'll be bound.”

“Perhaps you heard all about it at the window?” asked Beatrice, barely controlling a spitting rage in her voice. Mrs. Turber tried to hide a flush by screwing her eyes into a scowl.

“Turber?” said Mrs. Stokes, and Beatrice saw a crafty look come into her eye. “Would that be the widow of old Captain Turber as had the schooner
Toreador
and shipped the sherry from Spain twice a year?”