The Summer Before the War (38 page)

“I'll thank you not to sully my husband's name by speaking it,” said Mrs. Turber. “A poor widow and to be insulted in the streets!”

“I will beg your pardon, madam,” said Mrs. Stokes. “I would never wish to insult the widow of the late Captain Turber, nor offer her any words but blessings.”

“He was a much respected man,” said Mrs. Turber. She seemed somewhat mollified to hear her husband spoken of in such a respectful manner.

“I know my old age, and probably yours, Mrs. Turber, is protected thanks to certain barrels that might have come in by the beach and not under the excise man's nose,” said Mrs. Stokes. “A very good man, the late Captain.”

“I don't have any idea to what you are referring,” said Mrs. Turber. She seemed close to tears. She put a hand to her eyes as if dizzy, and Hugh reached his hand under her elbow.

“I think perhaps the air was warm in the ballroom and you are exhausted, Mrs. Turber,” he said. “May I assist you to your door?”

“Thank you, Mr. Grange, I am quite tired, I think,” she said. She seemed almost asleep, slurring her words as the effects of her long evening at the ball took their toll. Hugh assisted the three steps to her larger front door, and Abigail dodged through the passage to open it.

“Here you are, Mrs. Turber, safe and sound,” he said.

“Such a shame about that angelic girl,” she said to Hugh as Abigail helped her in at the door. Inside she could be heard speaking loudly to Abigail. “The Captain never went to sea but he bade me again to mind the pistol he gave me. One bullet to save me, he said, and I still sleep with it under my pillow.”

“Give her the tea twice a day and we're off at the apple picking if you need me again,” said Mrs. Stokes to Hugh. She extended her hand to Beatrice, and when Beatrice reached to shake it, she found her palm turned upright and Mrs. Stokes squinting at it in the moonlight. “Children in your future, I see,” she said. “Best get yourself married off before they come, dearie.” She chuckled with laughter all the way down the hill. Beatrice rubbed her palm as if to wipe away an ink stain, and Hugh looked as embarrassed as at any time in the evening.

“She makes it all up,” he said. “She's a good healer but a terrible fortune-teller.”

“I will not be superstitious,” said Beatrice. She put her hands at her sides and looked at Hugh.

“I need to go home and see to my cousin and my poor aunt,” he said. “I am so sorry to leave you.”

“Of course you must go to them,” said Beatrice. “I hope you will let me know how they are, and I will watch over Celeste.”

“She is so very lucky to have you.” He pressed her hand in both of his. “You are exceptional, Beatrice.”

“But what can I do for her, Hugh?” asked Beatrice, and they both knew it was not just the current illness to which she referred. “What is to be done?”

“I will speak to my aunt,” said Hugh. “But let's wait a few days.”

As he turned to leave, Beatrice could not help but speak. “Will you see Miss Ramsey on your way home?” she asked.

“Miss Ramsey?” said Hugh, his face confused at first and then looking quite shocked. “Good God, I had completely forgotten!”

There had been no
word for Beatrice from Hugh after the ball, and none of the Kent family attended church service on Sunday. While she understood the busy nature of grief, she felt very alone. Celeste did not awaken until after lunch and kept to her bed, staring at the window with a glazed and listless air. There was no question of discussing the previous evening's events, though they hung over the little cottage like an invisible cloud. Beatrice knew it was cowardly to avoid the little nook above the stairs, but she let Abigail give up her Sunday afternoon to come in and nurse Celeste while she spent the day reading in her parlor and looking up at every noise outside her window.

In the early hours of Monday morning, a quiet knock disturbed her breakfast, and she went quickly to the door, hoping Mrs. Turber would not hear.

“I can't come in,” said Hugh. “I'm leaving for London by train with my cousin. He wants to go to Craigmore's family.”

“How is he?” she asked.

“Holding up quite well after a day of rest,” said Hugh. He seemed to redden as he spoke, as if he knew, as well as she, that by such rote conversational rituals they would stave off any real and painful conversation. “How is our patient?” he added with excess cheeriness.

“She rested all day,” said Beatrice. Unable to speak of the bleeding, she added, “Her symptoms seem to have subsided.”

“Not that one knows what to wish for in such circumstances,” said Hugh. He shuffled his feet and looked down the hill as if he might see the steam of the train arriving. “I've left a detailed message for Dr. Lawton,” he added. “And I have confided in my aunt, who asks that you let her know, by note, how things progress.”

Beatrice felt a stab of disappointment. She realized how much she had hoped Agatha Kent would come running up to the cottage, with a basket of beef tea and her matronly cheer, to relieve Beatrice of such a heavy duty.

“I do hope Miss Ramsey was not inconvenienced by events?” asked Beatrice, trying to keep any hint of bitterness from her voice.

“She was all concern,” said Hugh. “Of course I said nothing of our patient.”

“One would want to protect her from such coarseness,” said Beatrice.

“Nothing to do with delicacy,” he said, stumbling over his words. “I looked to protect Celeste, and you. Miss Ramsey is a wonderful girl but not burdened with discretion.”

“Please forgive me,” said Beatrice. “The times are dark, but that is no excuse for me to give offense to you or Miss Ramsey.”

“I wish I did not have to hurry away and leave you with this burden.” He took her hand and pressed it. “If I did not have to run for my train I would tell you, at greater length, the many ways in which you are to be admired, Miss Nash.”

“Then you might be the one to offend Miss Ramsey,” she said, and though she smiled she found it difficult to look at his face without betraying her pain.

“She is a wonderful girl,” he said again, in the firm tone of a man who hopes repetition will reinforce truth. Perhaps she betrayed her surprise, for he flushed and looked as if he might have more to say to her. But the train's whistle could be heard, out on the marsh, announcing its imminent arrival at the level crossing, and the moment was lost.

“Please know I will be thinking of you and Daniel,” she said. Her heart was a tumult of confusion, and it was a sharp satisfaction not to include Miss Ramsey. But no sooner had Hugh left than she regretted her pettiness. It was not becoming, she thought, and promised that her thoughts in the days ahead would be all for the two cousins and the terrible loss of their friend.

Still thinking of Hugh Grange on Monday, and trying not to dwell on what might have been spoken had the tyranny of the railway schedules not interfered, Beatrice arrived at school to find all in chaos and excitement. Mr. Dimbly had enlisted. With no notice to the school, he had followed the call from Colonel Wheaton and signed up right at the fete. He now appeared in his uniform to let the Headmaster know that he would not be conducting classes today but was reporting to the camp on the next train. Miss Clauvert had collapsed in paroxysms of grief in the staff room, and while Miss Devon vainly attempted to minister to her by dabbing eau de cologne on her temples, children ran amok in the hallways and shrieked in the classrooms. The Headmaster tried to restore order by bellowing in various directions, making menacing moves with his stick as children skipped past the staff room door.

“Miss Nash, thank goodness you have arrived,” said the Headmaster. “Please help Mr. Dobbins to gather the pupils for an immediate assembly to bid farewell to our erstwhile colleague. Such an unnecessary disruption.” He disappeared in the direction of the library, and Beatrice looked from the distraught Miss Clauvert to the shamefaced Mr. Dimbly and took charge.

“Mr. Dimbly, since you are here, let us assemble the children so they may give you a proper send-off,” she said. “If you'll take your form and Miss Devon's, I'll bring Miss Clauvert's room and my own.”

“Of course, Miss Nash. Good idea,” he said, relieved to move beyond the awkward announcement and female tears. He held the door open for her, and as they passed into the hallway, which was, for one moment, free of grubby schoolchildren, he added, “I was wondering, Miss Nash, if I might ask you to write to me?”

“To write, Mr. Dimbly?” she asked.

“At the front,” he said. “In the midst of all the danger, it would be a comfort, you see, to have letters to keep close to my heart.” He gazed at her in what she could only assume was a meaningful manner. He seemed very red about the ears and almost cross-eyed in his earnest stare.

“You might do better to keep them dry and secure in your barracks, Mr. Dimbly,” she said. “I imagine conditions may become very wet and muddy.”

“I could wrap them in oilcloth,” he said. He seemed confused, as if the conversation were not going as he had hoped. “I'm not sure what one is supposed to do.”

“If you let me know where to send correspondence, I would be honored to write you a line now and then,” she said, taking pity on him. “I am sure I can find a few amusing stories about our little school to pass on to you, if you would find such stories welcome?”

“Thank you, Miss Nash,” he said. He grabbed her hand and kissed it. “It stiffens the resolve of any soldier to know he has loving thoughts coming to him from home.” He hurried off down the hallway before she could object to such a characterization. Shaking her head, she dismissed Mr. Dimbly from her mind and went to her classroom to begin the herding of her flock.

Mr. Dimbly was sent off to war with several loud hymns and a little speech from the Headmaster that managed to telegraph his disapproval to the staff while prompting rousing cheers from the pupils. It was only after all the excitement, when Beatrice finally managed to quell the chatter in her class, that she realized there was another absence.

“Where is Snout—I mean Master Sidley?” she asked Upper Latin. There was an awkward silence and some nudging among the desks, and then Jack got to his feet, with great reluctance.

“He went and enlisted,” he said. “Didn't want us to say nothing until it was all set, miss.”

“Enlisted? Fifteen is not old enough to enlist,” said Beatrice. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped her desk and struggled to keep her voice even.

“Happen his dad signed for him as giving his permission,” said Jack.

“Jack's dad wouldn't give his permission,” said Arty. “On account of Jack having to do the important war work of managing sheep.” A chorus of
baa
sounds and laughter echoed around the classroom as Jack turned very red.

“At least I tried,” he said, his voice a hard sneer. “Some people are too much the coward to even try.”

“Are you calling me a coward?” asked Arty, jumping to his feet. “I'll have you know I'm in the scouts, patrolling every night while you sleep safe in your bed like a little girl.”

“Who you calling a girl?” asked Jack, balling up his fists.

“Sit down before I knock both of your heads together,” said Beatrice, her voice fierce. She strode to Arty's desk and stood over him. “Is this a joke to you, this war?”

“No, miss,” said Arty, sullen as he sat down.

“Both of you, all of you—do you think it makes you some kind of patriot to goad and bully others about enlisting?”

“No, miss,” chorused the class.

“Is this how you honor those like Mr. Dimbly who are even now preparing for the front?”

“No, miss,” came the chorus, quieter and more sullen. One of the girls, Jane, started to cry.

“What we must do to support our soldiers is to do the work set before us and to help each other as best we can,” she said. “It is time to put aside your childish name-calling and your silly games.” There were more than a few sniffles now. Beatrice went to the tall windows and looked out onto the sunny day without seeing it.

“I'm really sorry, miss,” came a voice. It was Arty.

“Me too, miss,” said Jack. “Me and Arty didn't mean nothing, miss.”

“Did Snout really enlist, Jack?” she asked quietly.

“Yes, miss. Off to big adventures in France and three square meals a day, he said, miss.”

“He's never been beyond Hastings, miss,” said Arty. “Not as how many of us have.”

“War is a very hard duty, and people die doing it,” said Beatrice. “I hope you will all listen when I say it is not some schoolboy adventure story.” She went to the blackboard to write the day's quotation with squeaking chalk:
Nulla dies umquam memori vos eximet aevo.

But today she could not see the glory in the quote's famous promise to dead warriors that time would remember them. All she could see were two young Trojan boys, filled with bravado and youthful foolishness, going together to their slaughter. She remained at the blackboard a moment as she struggled to compose her face, and when she looked around, all the heads were lowered, the sniffling quiet. The excitement of the day had dribbled from the room.

“Who wants to begin translating our Virgil this morning?” she said in as gentle a voice as possible.

After school, Beatrice made her way to the western edge of the town, where businesses and workmen's cottages crowded towards the riverside wharf. The forge was a low, ramshackle building fronted by open stable doors. It was loud with hammering and the smell of horses, and the glow of the fire made the rest of the inside inky black. The small cottage home of the Sidleys was attached to one side, with a low door, painted the kind of brown that suggests leftover paint, and a single polished window with a worn curtain on the narrow ground floor. In a window box some marigolds struggled for existence. Beatrice knocked with the iron door knocker and noted that the step was freshly washed and limed.

“Who is it?” asked a thin voice, and the sound of coughing came slowly to the door.

“Beatrice Nash, from the grammar school,” said Beatrice. There was some hesitation behind the door and then a slow turning of the lock, as if it were a stiff and heavy task. The door opened a little, and a woman, Snout's mother, clung to the frame, breathing hard.

“Sorry,” she said. “I can't catch my breath too well these days. Won't you come in?” She did not wait for an answer but turned back into the house, and Beatrice followed her into the narrow parlor. It was smaller than her cottage, one room deep with a narrow scullery across the back. It was dark, and though the hearth was newly blackened and laid, and the rag rug on the boards clean, the room smelled faintly of soot. There were no settees, just a few wooden chairs set around the edge and a wicker chaise by the fire, to which Mrs. Sidley returned.

“I came to ask you about your son,” said Beatrice, perching on a chair. “They said at school that he enlisted, but he's far too young, isn't he?”