“Well, yes, of course they said so,” said John. “No one suggested there was any case to answer, but there would always have been a question hanging over the whole thing. Lord North’s interference made that clear.”
“He would have been safe,” said Agatha.
“At what price, my dear?” said John. “A life without honor is no life. And I guarantee you a discharge, however honorable, would have been taken as evidence that there was some truth to the wild complaints of Craigmore’s father.”
“To suggest that Daniel is a corrupting influence is ridiculous,” said Agatha. “To defame him simply because he is a poet?”
“Lord North is distraught to the point of madness, and to him I’m sure all bohemians are suspect,” said John. “A discreet assignment to Colonel Wheaton’s regiment was much the best option, and Wheaton was happy to oblige me, believing as he does that I had some hand in getting him and his territorials commissioned as regulars.”
“Did you?”
“I shall not say, so that you may preserve your faith in my powers of influence.”
“Your influence has failed to protect Daniel, so I shall have no more faith in it,” said Agatha. “I will not let him go to France, John.”
“Agatha, we’ve talked about this before,” said John.
“Yes, yes, my boundaries as an aunt,” she said. “I held my tongue at Hugh’s enlistment because he is a doctor and will be well behind the lines. Daniel, however, is different. For God’s sake, John, Wheaton’s men are bound for the front line.”
“One step at a time,” said John. “They are still in training. No embarkation orders have been issued.”
“Young Craigmore is dead. The fishmonger’s boy is dead. I count five funerals to every wedding in this week’s social columns.” She could feel her voice crack as she spoke. She dropped her chin to hide the trembling of her mouth. She did not want to play the weak and weeping female, and yet when she thought of Daniel, waving from the window of a troop train, she felt a lifetime of strength and resilience evaporate, leaving her as hollow as a dry straw.
“You must bear up, my dear,” said John. “I will do what I can, but we must be subtle. Daniel is no less patriotic than the next young man and would be pained to find us against his going.”
“I would sooner go myself,” said Agatha.
“That would surely put the Germans to flight,” said John. “Unfortunately, they won’t have you.”
“Because I am a woman,” said Agatha.
“Because you are too stubborn and opinionated,” said her husband. “Imagine an army of Agatha Kents—all refusing to do as they are told.”
“You exaggerate,” she said. But though she knew her husband was deliberately diffusing her misery, she was comforted. It was their way. It had been so when he plucked her from the misery of her life after the death of her fiancé.
It was the uniforms that reminded her now. They had been in a hurry to marry because her fiancé’s regiment was posted unexpectedly to Suez, and she had been sitting in her wedding dress, waiting in the quiet afternoon for her father to come for her. There was a small munitions explosion at the railway station. A man in a captain’s uniform came to tell them. And then the long months in Gloucestershire, where they hoped her sister’s help would wake her from her dangerous lassitude. She could still smell the wilting jasmine in her bouquet. And she hated Gloucestershire, to which she had returned only once, for her sister’s funeral.
John had loved her in spite of her best efforts to rebuff him. He took her away to exotic foreign postings, where she became a stronger woman. Even when they knew they would have no children of their own, and she tore her hair and blamed herself, he held her sanity together with his small jokes and his kind words. She was always free to beat her fists on his chest and rail against the world, and he would calmly prevent her from her own undoing. She was ashamed to have been as surly tonight as if he had already failed her. She sighed. “I suppose I should leave all to you and just take pleasure, as I have always done, from each day that Daniel and Hugh can be with us.”
“In so doing I believe you have collected more maternal happiness than a mother of ten,” said John. “While I enjoy all the benefits of being an uncle without having to pay any of the expenses that accompany fatherhood. I believe we are both blessed.”
“Now who’s exaggerating?” said Agatha, who pretended to be unaware that John made modest contributions to the nephews’ educational expenses and slipped them substantial drafts at Christmas and on birthdays. While he enjoyed promoting frugality and hard work, he would, she knew, move heaven and earth for either boy. So she smiled and kissed his hand and did not show that she feared this time, with the earth shifting all over Europe, he might fail her.
—
In the days that followed, such rumors flew about impending embarkation orders for Colonel Wheaton’s troops that Agatha grew horribly anxious. While she had every confidence in her husband, he had sent no word, and what if his help came too late? Determined to set in motion a little scheme of her own to rescue Daniel from his foolish stubbornness, she arrived at the Wheaton residence one afternoon with her biggest smile, and a large basket of sausage rolls and cheese straws.
“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 bo
a, 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.
The Summer Before the War Page 39