The Summer Before the War (42 page)

“A gift for the convalescents' tea,” she said to Major Frank, who met her in the front hall. The hall was bare of paintings, and its statues had been draped with tarpaulins, whether to protect them from damage or to protect the soldiers from their bronze and marble nudity, Agatha could not be sure. A desk was staffed by a young corporal, and a large corkboard for messages was wired to the staircase banister. A drugget runner covered the marble floors.

“Thank you, Mrs. Kent,” said the Major. “They appreciate a bit of the homemade at tea.”

“How are things running?” she asked.

“I'm having some trouble accommodating all the ladies willing to play the piano and sing in the afternoons,” he said. “Between those who can't hold a note, those who keep weeping over the ‘poor dear men,' and those in search of a lightly wounded future husband, many of our patients are asking to take tea in their wards.”

“And my dear friend Lady Emily?” asked Agatha. “Are you and she getting along?”

“We have our arrangement,” he said. “Confidentially, my staff and I agree to all her plans and send to headquarters for immediate approval. Approval takes an appropriate amount of time, and so we go on nicely.”

“You sound just like my husband, Major,” she said. “Confidentially, there are one or two cabinet ministers with whom a similar arrangement keeps the work running smoothly.”

“Would you care for a tour of the place?” he asked. “It's almost teatime and I can offer you a strong cup of tea in the ballroom?”

“Actually, I was hoping to see Colonel Wheaton if he is home,” said Agatha. “I didn't want to go out to the camp and bother him on duty.”

“The family has retreated to the east wing,” said the Major. “But the Colonel usually strolls through at teatime to cheer up the patients. May I take you to him?”

The Colonel finished his round of the ballroom and came to sit with Agatha and the Major. The ever-discreet Major Frank made some excuse to leave, and Agatha thought the low hum of conversation and the rather clumsy but enthusiastic piano playing of Minnie Buttles provided enough privacy for her to make her plea.

“Not the most refined tea in the world. I think the army buys what they deem strong enough to take the fur from one's tongue,” said the Colonel, drinking from his substantial green cup and saucer.

“I'm sure it does your officers no harm,” said Agatha. As she looked around the room, her heart sank at the sight of so many cheerful army officers, drinking tea, reading the newspaper, pretending to ignore a bandaged head, missing limb, or hard, racking cough. At the next table, a young captain with no visible injury tried to manage a tremble in his hands that clattered his teacup against its saucer and slopped tea on the tablecloth. As Agatha looked away, a nurse brought him a mug from the kitchen.

“They are terribly brave, aren't they?” added Agatha.

“They are the lucky ones,” said Colonel Wheaton. “Alive and in Blighty—but likely not fit to serve again. For most of these men, their war is over.”

“I wish it were over for all of us,” said Agatha.

“Give me a chance to get in the thing first!” said the Colonel. “My lot is expecting orders any day now, you know. We want our crack at the Hun.”

“I know you do, Colonel, and I know it is very important to you and to your son to serve,” she said.

“More important to him than to me,” said the Colonel. “I'm an old dog brought out of the home. I'm happy to have another crack in the field, but Harry—he's got a bright future. This war will be the making of many a young man's career, and Harry has a real chance to advance if he can just get in the thick of things.”

“My nephew Daniel is not a career soldier,” said Agatha. “He's a very fine poet. Perhaps you saw his poem in
The Times
?”

“We won't hold that against him,” said the Colonel. “He's doing very well drilling the men. Very promising officer, I'd say.”

“He is a very sensitive soul,” said Agatha.

“You are not to worry,” said the Colonel. He leaned in and patted her hand. “I know how to measure a man's character, and believe me we have one or two about whom I am very doubtful. But your nephew is not one of them. He is passionate to get in the fight. This poetry thing is not to keep a man from serving his country, and I will be writing to Brigadier Lord North to say exactly that.”

“Lord North?”

“Yes, the old duffer wrote me some obscure note suggesting I should turn your Daniel out. Something to do with that poem of his. But as I said to Lady Emily, after the man's rudeness in leaving our home without so much as a thank-you, I think him quite soft in the head and I shall pay him no attention. Who does he think he is? He might be a brigadier now, but he is not in charge of me.” The Colonel banged his fist on the table for emphasis, which rattled all the cups and made the pianist stumble. Agatha lowered her voice as heads turned.

“Do you mean he sought my nephew's discharge?” she asked.

“Yes. Quite absurd. Seemed to think the poetry was some appalling decadence.”

“He is ridiculous,” said Agatha. “But I must admit I do fear for a young poet in the heat of battle. You and your son are bred to arms, dear Colonel. Anyone can see you are forged from England's warrior class and never happier than deep in the fray…”

“I thank you for your faith, dear lady,” said the Colonel, looking inordinately pleased.

“But I feel my Daniel would serve his country so much the better were he assigned perhaps to an information post. My husband is looking for just such a posting, where Daniel can use his artistic skills to as great an effect as your martial ones, my dear Colonel.”

“I understand your feeling, Mrs. Kent,” said the Colonel. “But your nephew came to me with an impassioned plea to join the first contingent going out. He seemed adamant that he must go and fight.”

“He is a passionate boy,” she said. She could feel her breath coming faster as anxiety closed, like an iron band, around her chest. “He is not the best judge of his own actions.”

“I tell you he will not accept such a transfer, Mrs. Kent,” he said. “If you and your husband would talk him into a different frame of mind, I would not stand in his way. I have the greatest respect for Mr. Kent, and I would send the boy wherever he wishes. But I tell you he won't go.”

“Then you must discharge him, Colonel Wheaton,” said Agatha. “Not on Lord North's order, but for my sake. I beg you.”

“Mrs. Kent, I think you had better reconsider your words,” said the Colonel. He was looking around now, as if he hoped his wife, or Major Frank, might interrupt the conversation. “He was already threatened with discharge once. Mr. Kent asked me, as a special favor, to take the boy on.”

“I didn't mean you should actually discharge him,” said Agatha. “The threat alone will be enough. Tell him you are put in an impossible position with Lord North.”

“Madam, Lord North insinuates a pattern of moral decadence,” said the Colonel. “Your husband cannot wish me to threaten him with such vile information.”

“Sometimes, we must guide our young people to the right path,” said Agatha. “I hope I was helpful to your daughter at the fete ball when I advised her to put away her new locket? Some busybody might have inquired how she came to receive it, with the photograph of her husband in his new uniform inside, when all communication with Germany is banned.” There was a long silence between them. Agatha stood up from the tea table and collected her gloves and bag. The Colonel seemed to have developed a small tic in his moustache. “Now I merely ask you to help my nephew to see reason, Colonel,” she said in parting. “We have been friends for such a long time that I know we can trust each other.”

Receiving his embarkation orders,
and three days' leave to put his affairs in order, Hugh decided to begin his war by playing the coward; he would take his three days in the country and then join his troop in Folkestone for the crossing to France. In so doing, he told himself, he hoped to avoid marching with all the conspicuous fuss of brass band and bunting to the train. Such elaborate and ritual departures seemed ripe occasions for irrevocable promises, and the truth he avoided was that while his commitment to Sir Alex was clear, he had developed a mild disinclination to resolve anything with Lucy Ramsey.

After her appearance at the dance in Rye, Lucy had become open about a desire to be officially engaged. But every advance she made towards him caused him to retreat. He seemed to stand these days always on his back foot, tipping away from the conversation, excusing himself from the room, leaving Lucy's pretty face puzzled and hurt. His ambivalence was not resolved by the appearance of his orders, and so he had said goodbye casually, at the end of a tea with her father, and left them both with a hearty handshake and without any opportunity for tearful embraces.

The train from London was crowded with troops, and Hugh squeezed into the corner of a carriage filled with Scotsmen, who had already made their goodbyes to family in Aberdeen and were now engaged in a raucous and lewd critique of the farewells taking place on the platform below.

“Aye, he's grabbing a handful there. Go to it, laddie!”

“Look a' the poor bugger there with the wife and three babbies hanging off him. The Hun'll be a bit of a holiday for him.”

“That one's so ugly she'd drive a Quaker to sign up. Could he nae have kissed her at home and saved our eyeballs the searing?”

“Don't be disrespecting the poor London lasses,” said another. “They're no' as ugly as your own wife.”

“He doesn't have a wife; that were his mother!”

The squashing together of so many kilted backsides above thick, veiny legs, and the good-hearted pushing and shoving as the men jostled to thrust their broad shoulders out the window, made Hugh feel awkward. He would have liked them to be less rowdy, and yet he did not wish to be the sort of stiff and ridiculous officer who would ask.

“Second Lieutenant Grange, Hugh Grange?” said a porter, sticking his head in the compartment.

“I'm Hugh Grange.” He tried to speak quietly, but as he looked at the porter, he knew his companions were already rolling their eyes, and he could hear muttering in their thick, unintelligible brogue.

“Someone come to see you off,” said the porter. “ 'Scuse me, gents.” He pushed roughly through the Scotsmen and stuck his own head from the window to call out, “Over here, miss.” Then he and the rest of the compartment made a conspicuous effort to push one another aside to allow Hugh to the window. Hugh approached with reluctance and a dreadful sense of being watched by rolling eyes and acerbic tongues.

“Hugh, Hugh, I'm here,” said Lucy Ramsey. She was dressed in a somber gray coat, purple boots, and a black feather boa, looking for all the world as if she were in mourning. She was accompanied by two other young ladies, who were already sniffing into their handkerchiefs at the promise of a touching scene.

“You shouldn't have come,” said Hugh. “It's such a crush on the platforms.”

“I couldn't let you leave without saying a proper goodbye,” she said.

“Go on down to her, sir,” said one of the Scotsmen, and another must have unlatched the lock because Hugh was half propelled from the carriage by the swinging of the door. He stumbled down the step to the platform and into Lucy's open embrace.

“I don't think I can bear to let you leave,” she said, pulling back to tip up her face and to gaze at him with deep yearning.

“But if I stayed you would hand me a feather,” said Hugh, trying to remain jocular. He smiled at the other young ladies and tried to ignore the urge to wriggle from Lucy's arms. The soldiers leaned from the carriage and watched with much interest.

“Of course I expect you to go, Hugh,” said Lucy. “But what am I to do while you are gone? Every day will be an agony of not knowing if you live or die.” A tear trickled down her pretty cheek, and she bravely let it fall unchecked. Hugh knew he should feel for her distress, but instead the thought came to him that Beatrice Nash would not dream of subjecting him to such a ridiculous scene.

“I assure you I shall be quite safe,” he said, gently disengaging her arms. He immediately felt guilty at his churlishness; she was young, and her distress was not to be so lightly cast aside. He took her hands in his and added, “The clearing stations and hospitals are some way behind the lines.”

“If only we had some definite hope to which we might cling,” said Lucy. “I know I made you wait in the most horrible manner, Hugh, but won't you please let me send a notice to
The Times
? It would warm our darkest moments of fear.”

“Give 'er something to hold on to,” said a rough voice, and several of the men laughed and sniggered in a way Hugh might have rebuked had he not wished to avoid enlarging the scene.

“In good conscience I cannot bind you to any promise in these dangerous times,” he said, in what he hoped was a kind but firm tone. “I would not want you to waste your youth and beauty in mourning.”

“I think I would make a most interesting widow,” said Lucy. She smoothed a wayward ringlet of hair behind her ear and smiled. “Not that one would wish such a state on anyone, but a sensible woman might use the gravity of the position to great authority in these times.”

Hugh was not sure of the correct conversational response to such an offer—if she had indeed just offered to be his widow. He was searching about for an answer when the train whistle blew and the porter leaned from the carriage behind him to call out, “All aboard!”

“I must go,” said Hugh. Lucy gave a sob and leaned on his shirtfront in an attitude that would allow him to take the liberty of a passionate kiss. Hugh hesitated above her porcelain face but moved her gently back and took her hand instead. He kissed it, and then kissed the hands of her friends, who seemed gratified to be thus brought into the small drama. As the engine let out a great cloud of steam, Hugh sprang into the carriage and closed the door. He waved from the window at the three weeping ladies and then was gratefully forced inside by a rush of soldiers all wanting to hang from the window and blow kisses and call out compliments and insults as a military band played out the departing train.

The atmosphere at dinner was so tense that every scrape of a fork on a plate sounded like a shot. Jenny the maid sensed the tension, and in trying to tiptoe through it, she became clumsy, clanking the water jug and spilling Hugh's pea soup from the ladle onto the tablecloth. He covered the spreading pool of green with his napkin, and she threw him a grateful glance.

“How was the trip down?” asked Uncle John.

“Crowded,” said Hugh. Another vibrating silence pressed on his ears.

“When do you have to leave?” his uncle asked.

“Monday morning,” said Hugh. “First train out.” It was not a successful conversational direction because Aunt Agatha smothered a choked sob in her napkin, pushed back her chair with enough force to crack a leg, and fled the room.

“I don't mean to upset her,” said Hugh. “I'm sure I'll be quite safe.”

“It's Daniel,” said his uncle.

“Of course it is,” said Hugh, sorry for the unavoidable tiny creep of annoyance in his tone. Even his own departure to the front was to be overshadowed. “He'll be in the thick of things, I know, but does he have any orders yet?”

“I fear Lord North's vendetta may have raised its ugly head again.”

“That's grossly unfair,” said Hugh.

“Colonel Wheaton was not going to entertain Lord North's ranting, but someone persuaded him to pressure Daniel into resigning.”

“Who pressured him? Who would do such a thing?” said Hugh. If the Colonel had planned to ignore the powerful Lord North, Hugh could not imagine who would have changed his mind.

“There's the rub,” said John. “The Colonel let slip to Daniel that your Aunt Agatha forced his hand.”

“Aunt Agatha?” said Hugh. “That's impossible.”

“Of course she had no idea what she was really doing. She had no concept of how dangerous Lord North's accusations might be. She has no clear picture of the landscape of moral failings his petitions imply, and I confess I am too much the coward to draw a map and show her of what her nephew might be accused.”

“But it's all rubbish anyway,” said Hugh, blushing. “I know my own cousin, and he would never…it's just outrageous.”

“She thinks she knows best, but she has overstepped this time,” said John. “Daniel left, and we don't know where he went. All we know is that he does not wish any further contact with us.”

“What is he going to do?”

“Your aunt hoped he would resign and accept a commission with the propaganda office in London,” said John. “Instead Daniel plans to fight it and has demanded a hearing.”

“Good for him,” said Hugh.

“It's a terrible idea,” said John. “Mud will stick, regardless of the findings, and they may discharge him anyway.” Uncle John sighed. For the first time, Hugh saw an old man's face before him. His vibrant uncle with the smooth diplomatic air was tired.

“It's sometimes easier to manage a war than a wife,” John continued. “She knows she did something very wrong, and of course this makes her all the more adamant that she was right. She's heartbroken.”

“It will blow over,” said Hugh, but he felt a cold sinking in his stomach at the unimaginable idea of a breach in the family. Aunt Agatha was like a fixed point in the universe, around which they might find one another at all times. It was inconceivable that Daniel might cease to lounge around with his feet on the living room sofas, or bother Cook for cake at breakfast.

“Some terrible words were exchanged,” said his uncle.

“I'm sure Daniel regrets his part already,” said Hugh. “If you have any idea where he might be, let me go and talk to him.”

“I fear talk is too late,” said his uncle. “There's a hearing set for Sunday.”

Daniel was in Mr. Tillingham's study, seated by the fire with his head in his hands. Hugh had been shown up to see them after waiting an anxious few minutes in the hall below, from where he had a good view of the Professor, enjoying a solitary go at the port and some aromatic cheese in the dining room.

“Come in, my boy,” said Mr. Tillingham, who looked relieved to see him. “I fear my meager capabilities in the realm of advice-giving are all but depleted, and we could use some reinforcements.”

“Hugh does not need to burden himself with my sordid problems,” said Daniel. “He is leaving for the front, Mr. Tillingham, and is not to be distracted by the petty indignities I must suffer.”

“Stop sipping the proverbial hemlock, Daniel,” said Hugh. “This is no time for exaggerated gestures.”

“What gestures befit my aunt's betrayal?” asked Daniel. “Is she done washing my blood from her hands?”

“She meant to save you from going to the front,” said Hugh. “While it is shameful to try to keep someone you love at home while others go in his place, you must see she operated out of love, not malice.”

“She meddled once too often,” said Daniel. “She has no idea what I am facing.”

“It's not too late to resign,” said Hugh. “Uncle John is pretty sure he can get you in at the propaganda office.”

Daniel stood up and went to stand by the fire, hands in his pockets, boot on the fender. He turned his face to the light of the flames and was silent a moment.

“Going to France was important to Craigmore,” he said. “I didn't hear him when he talked about serving his country. I was too busy talking myself.” He turned and gave a small, strained smile. “I am going to the front to honor Craigmore, to finish what he started and to serve as he so much wanted to do.”