The Summer Before the War

by Helen Simonson

  “Thirteen, miss. Or almost, but I’m strong for my age.”

  “Well, Abigail, I prefer to go to later services anyway, and I’m not going today at all because I’m to be introduced at a garden party this afternoon and I’m being kept quite hidden from view until then.”

  “I can bring your breakfast up if you like,” said Abigail. “It’s a hard-boiled egg and toast, some cold bacon and tomatoes.”

  “I’d like them packed in a napkin,” said Beatrice. “I think I’ll take a ride on my bicycle and eat my breakfast on the beach.” Abigail seemed too surprised to reply, and Beatrice’s smile only served to make her look more alarmed. “Run along and pack them up for me,” added Beatrice. “I’ll be quite out of your way and you can polish silver all morning.”

  “A bicycle, miss,” said Abigail. “That’s a grand thing.”

  —

  Sunday dinner, served promptly after the noon church service, was the one meal a week to be taken in Mrs. Turber’s own dining room.

  “I won’t be in to tea, Mrs. Turber,” said Beatrice, pushing the gristle from a leathery slice of beef under a piece of cabbage and neatly setting her knife and fork down on the plate. She was sitting wedged between the heavy oak table and a large dark sideboard. The sideboard wore a crocheted doily, as did the backs of the dining chairs, a small curio cabinet, and several plant stands containing fat ferns and bulbous, rubbery plants for which Beatrice had no name. The table was also decked in a crocheted white tablecloth over a green baize square, which in turn protected a heavy red damask cloth that was never removed. The furniture was further protected by festoons of chintz and pleated muslin over the one small window, and the room was as airless as a vacuum. Beatrice sipped her glass of water and prayed for patience as the gilded parlor clock on the mantelpiece made a tocking sound at agonizingly slow intervals.

  “Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t make the Victoria sponge this morning then,” said Mrs. Turber. “That would have been a waste.”

  “I think Mrs. Kent told you that I’m required up at Lady Emily’s,” said Beatrice.

  “I thank the good Lord that I’ve never been one for putting on airs,” said Mrs. Turber. “Some people about this town— Well, I don’t blame Lady Emily for being taken in.” She scowled, pressing her lips together over an undisclosed record of slights and ringing her little crystal bell for Abigail to come in and clear. The girl came in bearing a steaming jam pudding in a basin.

  “Is Colonel Wheaton’s house very imposing?” asked Beatrice. She thought she might faint from the addition of steam to a room devoid of oxygen. Mrs. Turber got up with some difficulty and went to the sideboard to cut two slabs of pudding.

  “I only went once, when the poor Captain was still alive,” she said. “A meeting of the aldermen. Lovely it was, and Lady Emily admired my hat very much.” She sighed. “Of course no one wants to invite a poor widow.”

  “I think it’s mostly the governors of the school,” said Beatrice.

  “Oh yes, it’s just the governors or just the aldermen or just the coursing club and their wives,” said Mrs. Turber. “I told Mr. Puddlecombe, it’s enough to make one consider marrying, just to make them come up with better excuses.”

  Beatrice looked down at the tablecloth and closed her eyes against the image of Mrs. Turber offering such a suggestion to the departed former Latin master.

  “I am not looking forward to it,” said Beatrice. “It will be awful to be stared at.”

  “Well, to be grateful is to show proper humility,” said Mrs. Turber. “I hope you don’t want anything else, only it would be a shame to keep the girl from her afternoon off.”

  —

  In the warm afternoon, Beatrice again walked the road out of town, up the hill, to Agatha Kent’s house and reflected on how quickly it had become a familiar way, and how comfortable the small town already seemed. It was no doubt some effect of sunshine, and of the breeze, which always held a hint of salty marsh grass. She had told Mrs. Turber she did not relish the coming attention, but now, striding forth, she felt such energy to begin her new life and vocation that she could not wait to join the party. She found Mrs. Kent and her two nephews waiting for her in the cool hallway.

  “We will watch for one or two carriages to go by and then stroll over at a leisurely pace to the party,” said Agatha, straightening her hat in the hall mirror. It was quietly new, of an expensive glossy dark straw with a moderate circumference and with a wide navy and white striped grosgrain ribbon finished with a neat rosette to one side. “Lady Emily has charged us to be early, but she cannot expect us to be premature.” She gave a last brush to her suit, which was not, to Beatrice’s eye, quite as new but was of thick linen, carefully pressed, and bearing fresh strips of ribbon around the cuffs to match the new hat. It was the kind of suit bought to be used for many years—its skirt let in or out, embellishments stitched on or carefully unpicked as fashions changed—and every autumn laid away in a trunk with a sachet of dried orange peel, lavender, and cloves to keep out the moths. Her own cotton dress felt insubstantial and girlish by comparison.

  “A stuffy marquee and sticky lemonade is hardly the way to spend such a glorious afternoon,” said Daniel. “I hope we’ll be able to creep away.”

  “If you attempt to flee, I will be forced to tell your Uncle John that in his absence you proposed the flipping of a coin to decide who should escort us,” said Agatha, pulling on white lace gloves.

  “But, Aunt Agatha, that’s what you keep Hugh around for,” said Daniel. “You know he has the better manners.”

  “You are such a child,” said Hugh. “You always complain about going and then you, and Harry Wheaton, are always the last to be dragged away from the champagne tent.”

  “I assure you, Miss Nash, that Lady Emily’s garden party is always quite lovely and is considered one of the highlights of the summer,” said Agatha. “And the garden, while impossibly French, offers wonderful coastal views.”

  “I hope, Miss Nash, that my aunt has some time allotted for garden viewing and lemonade,” added Hugh. “Though I fear Lady Emily and she plan to keep you busy with a campaign of introductions.”

  “You must each keep one eye on us, boys,” said their aunt. “When I raise a brow you must come and rescue poor Miss Nash.”

  “I’m very fond of garden parties,” said Beatrice. “People are usually so pleasant out of doors.” The two young men seemed to find this statement amusing. Even Agatha Kent smiled at her.

  “The worthies of Rye are much more pleasant out of doors—chiefly because one has more room to maneuver away from them,” said Daniel. “If I were you, I would keep the gates in view at all times and be prepared to run.”

  “Well, now that you have demolished any hope Miss Nash might have had of a pleasant afternoon, shall we be getting along?” asked Hugh. “May I?” He offered Beatrice his arm and they followed Daniel and Agatha out from the cool hall and into the sun-dappled afternoon.

  —

  The home of Colonel Wheaton and Lady Emily was not the weathered country seat that Beatrice had expected. Walking through elaborate iron gates, she was presented with an abruptness of red brick: a tall edifice of a house with its edges and principal features all piped, like cake icing, with elaborate white stonework. Two footmen in buttoned jackets and two maids in crisp caps and starched aprons stood sentinel on a smoothly raked gravel forecourt. The forecourt in turn was edged in symmetrical box beds, each clipped to geometric perfection and carpeted with a bright pattern of bedding plants. Severely pollarded lime trees stood in rows along the perimeters of the property.

  “What do you think of the Wheaton country cottage?” asked Hugh.

  “It is very grand,” said Beatrice, trying to be noncommittal.

  “The Colonel has extensive interests in the French brandy business,” said Agatha. “The house is designed in a thoroughly French style.”

  “Heaven forbid that the lines of its beauty be softened and blurred under the
pressures of English rain or herbaceous fecundity,” said Daniel.

  “There’s no need to be droll, Daniel,” said his aunt. “Lady Emily is allowed her taste.”

  But from the way she smiled, Beatrice thought that Agatha Kent was enjoying an unworthy moment of satisfaction that Lady Emily’s money and position did not mean she had superiority of taste.

  The Wheatons’ garden could not be anything but a felicitous scene: the emerald of the lawn, the tightly pitched white marquee made festive with strings of pale blue pennants, the hats, like the heads of summer flowers, nodding above the ladies’ linen and cotton dresses. The uniformed servants, a small navy, ferried trays of sandwiches and buckets of ice across a green sea, and the entire scene was sharply outlined by afternoon sun and teasingly ruffled by a light breeze. Beatrice’s heart lifted, and she allowed her jaw to let go its determined clench as she smiled.

  Some couples were strolling about the stone-walled perimeter of the lawn, but many of the assembled guests had gathered under the slightly steamy heat of the marquee. It was a human condition, Beatrice had often noticed, to hurry under any roof or protective wall, even when the weather was perfect and no danger threatened.

  “There you are. We were about to send a search party,” called Lady Emily, who was waving her sunshade from her spot at the edge of the marquee. “We are all waiting to meet Miss Nash.” With these words, Beatrice felt herself subjected to the bald scrutiny of dozens of faces, all turning in her direction. The buzz of conversation fell a note and then rose in intensity, and she concentrated on trying to keep the fleeting sense of lightness, breathing more slowly, in and out, trying to rise above a small wave of panic that threatened to make her falter. A hand steadied her elbow, and Hugh Grange, frowning, steered her discreetly behind Agatha and Daniel so that they might traverse the swath of grass between terrace and tent in the protective cover of Agatha’s broad back and large, plain sunshade.

  “They are not a bad lot,” said Hugh. “I think you’ll like the Headmaster. He always lent me books from his library in the summers. He understands boys very well, and he collects moths.”

  “Thank you,” said Beatrice, her throat dry.

  “The usual prominent families,” he added. “I’m afraid they can be quite long-winded about the old family history if you give them the slightest opening.”

  “Hugh, we should have a bet as to who manages to communicate the most dazzling ancient connections to Miss Nash,” said Daniel, over his shoulder.

  “Daniel, do behave,” said Agatha Kent, moving forward and attempting to embrace Lady Emily without disturbing either of their hats. “So lovely of you to invite us, dear Emily.”

  “Bettina Fothergill is up to something,” said Lady Emily in her abrupt way. “I don’t know what it is yet, but she’s cooing like a dove.” She glared across the marquee, and Beatrice tried to follow her glance as unobtrusively as possible.

  It was not hard to spot the portly figure of the town’s Mayor, who had chosen to wear his chain of office with garden party flannels. Beatrice assumed the thin woman on his arm must be the much-discussed Mrs. Fothergill. She was dressed in a narrow mustard linen suit and was using her free hand to steady an enormous green straw hat covered in red velvet cherries. When she caught sight of Lady Emily and Agatha Kent staring, she let go of the hat momentarily to offer a smile and a wave that was more a wriggle of the fingers.

  “Good heavens, she came as a tree,” said Agatha, waving back.

  “Oh, I think she was going for the whole orchard,” said Daniel.

  “She brought some nephew or nephew of a cousin with her,” said Lady Emily. They all contemplated the young man in a tight striped blazer who was leaning in to listen to the Mayor speak, an action which seemed unnecessary given the prominent size of the young man’s ears. “Some sort of law clerk, I didn’t really pay attention.”

  “That is much the best policy,” said Agatha. “Let’s ignore her as long as possible. I really want to introduce Miss Nash to one or two people.”

  “Well, here comes our dear Headmaster,” said Lady Emily. “He is in a hurry to make sure you are just as ordered.” A kind-faced man in crumpled beige linen was carving a determined path between the guests.

  “Or maybe he’s just after that book with the color plates that you failed to return to him last summer,” said Daniel, digging Hugh in the ribs.

  “Good heavens, you’re right,” said Hugh. “I entirely forgot.”

  “If you ladies will excuse us,” said Daniel. “I had better take my cousin out of harm’s way and leave you to your introductions.”

  “Headmaster, how delightful to see you in holiday dress,” said Agatha. The Headmaster wore a slightly crushed straw fedora and a cravat tucked into his shirt. He looked, thought Beatrice, exactly like a headmaster on a summer tour of Europe’s antiquities. He shifted his shoulders as if feeling the phantom weight of missing academic robes. “May I introduce Miss Nash?”

  “Wonderful of Lady Emily to have arranged for us all to meet in such relaxed circumstances, Miss Nash,” he said, shaking Beatrice’s hand. “One is more at ease outside one’s formal setting.”

  “I am grateful to you for giving me this opportunity,” said Beatrice. “I hope to justify your faith in me.”

  “Have you met our staff?” asked the Headmaster. He waved a hand towards a small group hovering on the edge of the crowd. A young woman with a lace sunshade and a ruffled silk dress of pink and green panels was chatting to a woman of more indeterminate age, who wore a dark, narrow hat and had added a stiff white collar and cuffs to a dark blouse. An older man in a dusty black jacket was holding forth to a hearty man with a large moustache and striped flannels, strained at the shoulders from a muscular build. “Mr. Dobbins, our most senior master, is mathematics,” said the Headmaster, pointing. “Mr. Dimbly is gymnastics and science, Miss Clauvert is French, and Miss Devon is English, history, and sewing.”

  “I am eager to meet them and to visit the school,” said Beatrice.

  “Well, we must arrange something,” said the Headmaster, but he made no move to lead her over to make introductions, and Beatrice found she was not at all in a hurry to join her ill-at-ease colleagues. “Of course, right now we are in the process of our annual fumigation,” he added.

  “What a fine excuse for any circumstance,” said Agatha. “Headmaster, you are quite the wit this afternoon.”

  —

  Under the tent, Beatrice felt a headache tightening its iron band around her brow. She had been introduced to so many people that they had all blurred together. She was asking a servant about the relative merits of the lemonade and the fruit punch, hoping for a brief moment in which no one would ask her another penetrating question about her family or her qualifications.

  “I recommend the lemonade,” said a voice, and she turned to find Hugh Grange at her elbow. “You must be tired of introductions?” he added.

  “Everyone has been very kind,” she said. “But it is a lot of people to remember.”

  “How did you find the Headmaster?” asked Hugh.

  “We talked about exterminating vermin,” said Beatrice. “He assured me that they fumigate the school after every term to keep the infestations to an acceptable minimum.”

  “I expect that was of great comfort,” said Hugh.

  “Not really,” said Beatrice. “He said Miss Devon would show me how to sew little bags of sulfur into my hems to deter lice.”

  “Ah, the realities of modern education,” said Hugh.

  “Your cousin was right about the importance of family history in the town,” said Beatrice. “Some of your neighbors managed to slip in several centuries of family deeds.”

  “And did you meet Mrs. Fothergill?” he said.

  “Mrs. Fothergill I will not soon forget,” said Beatrice. “She quoted Latin at me and then appeared very surprised when I replied. She seems to think I was hired to teach a language I don’t know.”

  “My understanding
is that, after Mr. Puddlecombe, the upper-grades Latin teacher, left, quite suddenly, the gymnastics teacher, Mr. Dimbly, had to fill in, and he’s a great chap for football and rope climbing, but I believe he couldn’t write a word and will be relieved to have the classics taken away from him.”

  “Mrs. Fothergill’s nephew, a Mr. Poot, also speaks Latin, but at least he had the manners not to do so,” she said. “Mrs. Fothergill was at pains to tell Lady Emily how fortunate it will be for both her nephew and Harry Wheaton to have suitable companionship in the neighborhood.”

  “I can’t wait to tell Daniel,” said Hugh. “He will be delighted to know that Bettina Fothergill thinks us delinquent.”

  “She is quite the least pleasant woman I have met today,” said Beatrice. “Despite the fact that she could not seem to keep from smiling.”

  “Did you meet Lady Emily’s daughter, Eleanor, yet?” asked Hugh. He pointed to where a young woman with a pale, oval face and coils of shimmering, fair hair had retired to a wicker chaise under a large tree. She was elaborately attired in a blinding white ensemble of cotton lawn and a tulle-covered hat the size of a cart wheel. Behind her, in deep and cool-looking shade, a severely attired nanny rocked a perambulator so enormous that Beatrice would not have been surprised to find it required a small horse to move it. “She is married to a German baron,” added Hugh.

  “Perhaps you would introduce us,” said Beatrice. “She is such a confection that I suppose I am a bit unsure of myself. Is she as grand as she is beautiful?”

  “If she tries to be, just ask her about the time Daniel and I had to fish her out of the canal as a child,” said Hugh. “She was always a great scamp, and we make it a point not to let her play the baroness around us.”

  —

  The afternoon was going just as planned, but Agatha Kent was beginning to crave one of the large French éclairs that were arranged on an ornate three-tiered stand in the middle of the snowy table piled with silver trays of delicacies. Shiny chocolate glaze dewed with moisture suggesting the chilled cream within, fleshy crusts barely tinted by their brief turn in the oven—Agatha wondered if she might allow herself just one in celebration of how smoothly Miss Nash’s introductions had unfolded. It was a satisfaction, as the wife of an important civil servant, to prove one’s subtle skills of influence. In a mood of gracious victory, she looked about her for an empty chair at one of the many small wrought-iron tables, and, seeing only one, she gathered her skirts with one hand and made her way over to where Bettina Fothergill was seated with her nephew.