The Summer Before the War (6 page)

“A very fine explanation, thank you,” said Beatrice, feeling slightly more optimistic that at least one boy showed real enthusiasm. She bent over the eyepiece of the large black microscope and squinted at a piece of yellow flesh as translucent as onion skin, swirled with complex black lines like fine calligraphy. “It's very beautiful,” she added.

“From where did you acquire such fortitude?” asked Hugh, setting all three boys to disinfecting the worktable with strong yellow soap.

“As unfashionable as it is to have a strong stomach, my father developed a fondness for pioneer history while we were in America,” said Beatrice. “He became convinced that education should not be divorced from basic skills and that it was weakness in the educated classes to affect delicate sensibilities.”

“I hate to think how one proves such a thing,” said Hugh.

“There was a harrowing visit to the university's kitchen yard, where I disgraced myself by running away with the chicken whose neck I was supposed to wring,” she said. She looked up from the microscope and added, “This is perhaps a more macabre hobby than insect wings?”

“It's not a hobby,” said Hugh. “It's part of my research. There's a lot to be learned from chicken brains.”

“Only if one is planning on specializing in the brains of clergymen and politicians, that is,” said a voice as his cousin Daniel sauntered into the room. “Are you coming to dinner smelling like a chemist's shop again?”

“I have plenty of time,” said Hugh.

“Given your perfunctory wardrobe style, I don't doubt it,” said Daniel. “Goodness me, you'll never make it while the place is still positively pustulating with the great unwashed.” The three boys, who were soaping their hands at a zinc basin in the corner, turned with lowering faces that suggested several blunt responses were being only barely quashed by respect for their superiors.

“If you're going to be rude, Daniel, perhaps you could do it in your own study,” said Hugh. “Boys, you are dismissed. I want your pages translated back into the Latin for next time.”

There were three sets of groans, made shorter by the boys' eagerness to escape from a room containing a strange woman and the rude poet with the fancy vocabulary.

“I look forward to seeing you at my home for your next lesson,” said Beatrice, hoping her voice projected more authority than she felt. “No dead chickens, I'm afraid, but lots of exciting stories and discussion.”

“Yes, miss. Thank you, miss.” With the briefest of mumbled answers and nods to Beatrice they were gone, clattering down the stairs and out across the sunshine of the drive.

“I made Mr. Grange late,” said Beatrice. “I'm sorry. I was so interested in the boys and the brains. I'm not sure I will be able to find some task half as compelling to keep their attention.” Though concerned, she was also eager to begin. To bring a true appreciation of Latin to such boys would honor her father. And she was ready to test her talents against the grubbiest and most stubborn, for if she could bring these three to heel, she had an idea the grammar school classroom would no longer fill her with dread.

“Oh, don't listen to Daniel,” said Hugh. “He's never on time to dinner parties, and when he's there he can't be trusted to be polite. He is to be ignored—on most occasions.”

“Oh, that hurts,” said Daniel, clutching at his chest. “But I know your anger merely distracts from the fact that you have finally lured a maiden to your lair.”

“Don't talk nonsense, Daniel,” said Hugh. “Miss Nash is a protégée of Aunt Agatha's and you are not to make her feel uncomfortable. Why don't you take her for a promenade in the garden while I clean up?”

“Actually, your aunt sent me to search the box room for spare furniture,” said Beatrice. “If you can just direct me to the key, I can amuse myself until dinner.”

“I think the hideous relics in the box room demand a knowledgeable guide,” said Daniel, “lest the great tower of Kent history topple on one's head.” He flopped into an armchair and took out from his pocket a cigar and a slim volume that looked like a poetry journal. “I would be a Virgil to your Dante, Miss Nash, but I fear I am not expert enough to steer you away from all the pieces Hugh might have used over the years to dissect or store his bits of animals.”

“Oh please, it was just the one bureau, and only one jar leaked,” said Hugh. “But by all means let me just wash my hands and I'll show you, Miss Nash. I know there are a couple of nice Georgian bookcases that Aunt Agatha wisely refused to let me have for rabbit hutches.”

“I'll just stay here and have a moment to read and smoke in peace,” said Daniel. “Aunt Agatha has chased me even from the terrace.” He withdrew matches from his pocket, and Beatrice wondered if he meant to light his cigar right under her nose. However, he merely turned the box over between his fingers until Hugh, having soaped his hands at the basin and dried them with a rough towel hung from a nail, was ready to lead her downstairs. As they left, Daniel, without looking up from his book, added, “If I don't hear the guests, do come and fetch me, Hugh—but not until the soup is absolutely on the table.”

Beatrice had feared the box room might leave her dirty and covered with cobwebs, but the cleaning abilities of Smith's wife had not been exaggerated, and from the spotless room she had selected a simple green bed and bureau, a small tea table and chairs, and the bookcases, which she felt were far too valuable but which Hugh insisted were just the thing.

“I allow plenty of room for sentimental attachments,” said Hugh. “But once something is consigned to the box room it is a matter of guilt, not love.” As she ran upstairs to wash her hands and deposit her hat in the third-best bedroom, to which Jenny directed her as if the room would now always be Beatrice's, she smiled at the realization that Hugh Grange hid a dry sense of humor beneath his plain scientific demeanor. He was quieter than his dazzling cousin, she thought, but it seemed he was no less sharp-witted.

Beatrice came down to a drawing room lively with voices and the clink of glasses. She hesitated in the doorway, knowing she should be eager to meet her patron, Lady Emily, but instead fluttering with anticipation and scanning the room to see the great Mr. Tillingham. All the time in the box room, while she talked to Hugh about the boys and laughed over the fat ottomans and plant stands to which he tried to tempt her, she had been growing more and more nervous. To meet the man whose writing she admired above all others was delightful, yet she feared to seem too eager. She was almost glad that Agatha had forbidden her to mention her desire to be a writer; otherwise she might have blurted out some gauche declaration to the great man.

She noticed that Daniel had decided to be polite and was already present. He stood up briefly as she came in. Agatha, in a pale green dress adorned with a brooch of silver and peacock feathers and curly Arabian gold slippers, came forward, glass of Madeira in hand, to greet her.

“Miss Nash, why don't you allow me to introduce you to our little school's most important patron,” said Agatha. “Lady Emily, may I introduce to you Miss Beatrice Nash?” Lady Emily, despite the warm evening, wore severe, high-collared black silk. She was a study in gaunt angles, her limbs folded carefully onto the least comfortable chaise in the room, chin lifted as if she were about to have her portrait taken. As a concession to the informal dinner, to which she had all but invited herself at the last minute, she wore only a choker of fat pearls.

“Welcome to our little town,” said Lady Emily. “Agatha tells us we are lucky to have attracted a teacher of your credentials, and Lady Marbely has of course vouched for your character.”

“I am very grateful to Mrs. Kent and to you, Lady Emily,” said Beatrice. She knew what it must have cost her aunt to pen a few lines of praise in order to be rid of her and took great satisfaction in not repeating her aunt's name, even though Lady Emily's pursed lips suggested she was waiting for more communication. Beatrice merely offered her blandest and most demure smile.

“And may I introduce you to Mr. Tillingham,” said Agatha, sweeping a plump arm towards a heavy-jowled older man, who was struggling to rise from a deep chair. “Though I'm sure our most distinguished literary neighbor needs no introduction.”

At last the great man was in front of her. With a heave, he popped upright, swaying a little as the bulk of his torso sought equilibrium above two short legs and a pair of dainty feet. He considered Beatrice from hooded eyes under a broad forehead that continued up and over the back of a balding head. She thought at once of a large owl.

“No indeed,” she stammered. He was less impressive in person than in the photographs she had seen of him in the newspapers, but she was still struck with a childish blush as he took her hand.

“How do you do,” he said.

She struggled for a reply as she tried not to pour out an effusive gush of silly compliments about the beauty of his language, or the elliptical construction of his sentences. She settled on “My father, Joseph Nash, was a great admirer of your work.” At least her father's name would signal that she was more than just the ladies' latest educational experiment to be gaped at over dinner.

“Joseph Nash? Joseph Nash?” said Mr. Tillingham, his face politely blank as he grasped for some connection to the name.

“
A Short History of Euripides
?” she said. “You were kind enough to write to him about it.” It was the most successful of her father's modest published works, and he had considered it his finest achievement, in some part because it had resulted in correspondence from Mr. Tillingham. Tillingham had written in praise, her father had responded in kind. Tillingham had written again to suggest that he concentrate exclusively on historical biography and to lament that so many threw away their talents on cheap journalism and low criticism. Her father had laughed and written to thank Tillingham for the advice. Neither had mentioned the journal to which her father contributed and in which he had roundly criticized one of Tillingham's first plays. She still had Tillingham's original letters, along with her copies of her father's replies. They were wrapped in oilcloth and tied with a thin leather lace, in a tin box of her father's papers, a box she had barely managed to smuggle from the Marbely home. She felt a rising anxiety as everyone wrinkled their brows as if searching for a collective memory.

“Well, I'm sure Mr. Tillingham must correspond with dozens of people,” said Agatha.

“What color are the boards?” asked Tillingham. “I have a good memory for color.”

“Green,” said Beatrice. “Rather slim, with a cream title.”

“Ah yes, I remember now,” said Tillingham. “A rare historical work that achieved its own promised brevity, and one or two moments of surprising clarity within the pages. I believe I was not unimpressed.”

“Thank you,” said Beatrice.

“I shall look it up in my library,” said Tillingham. “Perhaps it will remind me further of your father's correspondence.” There was a slight easing of tension around the room, as if Mr. Tillingham's recollection of her father's book served as a password.

“Do sit down, Miss Nash,” said Agatha, indicating a place beside her on a comfortable sofa. “You must still be tired after your journey yesterday.”

“Just a little,” she said. “The stations in London were very hot and crowded.”

Hugh slipped into the room, his crooked bow tie and damp hair betraying his last-minute haste in dressing. No one seemed to notice him, and Beatrice was deeply aware that they were too busy examining her even as they pretended to look elsewhere.

“I never travel by train,” said Lady Emily, breaking an awkward pause. “All the soot and such a crush of vulgar humanity.”

“Yes, one may encounter the occasional vulgar person,” said Beatrice. She kept her face blank and did not look at Hugh, but she was satisfied to hear him rattle a decanter loudly.

“Anyone for more sherry?” he called. The maid, Jenny, stood by the decanters with a small silver tray to carry drinks.

“There's no need to be abrupt, my dear,” said his aunt. “Do pour Miss Nash a small glass of sherry.”

“But, dear Lady Emily, if you never take a train, however do you get to Scotland?” asked Daniel, lolling in his chair with the carelessness of a child.

“Well, of course I do take a private sleeping car to Scotland,” she replied. “Even so, I have to send two of my maids to give it a thorough cleaning before I go aboard.”

“One would wish to bring one's own linens, I imagine,” said Mr. Tillingham, tilting his head to one side and pursing his lips. Beatrice wondered if he was making notes for a future novel. “And perhaps a hamper or two?”

“Naturally,” said Lady Emily. “And of course, special cushions for the babies. They used to roll around on the floor and were terribly uncomfortable.” Beatrice lost her firm grasp of the conversational thread at this image and was unable to repress a raised eyebrow.

“Lady Emily raises the most adorable dachshunds,” explained Agatha.

“They travel with me everywhere,” said Lady Emily. “Except here when you dreadful boys are home.” She shook her fan at Daniel, who broke into laughter, and at Hugh, who looked appalled.

“I say, Lady Emily, that was a long time ago,” said Hugh. “I assure you your tiny canines would be quite safe.”

“What on earth did you do, you young scallywags, to upset Lady Emily's dachshunds?” asked Mr. Tillingham, leaning in conspiratorial manner towards Daniel.

“Well, one time we made a circus and used them as clowns,” said Daniel, in a stage whisper. “And once Hugh decided we should take them ratting in the woods and one of Lady Emily's beasts caught a sizable vole.”

“I don't think we need to air our youthful delinquencies, Daniel,” said Hugh, and Beatrice was delighted to see from his blush that Hugh Grange had once been less than perfectly responsible. She liked him the better for it.