“We’ll be using just about all our sugar and salt if we’re to fill all these jars,” said Cook.
“When Smith comes back from the mill, we’ll send him to the grocer’s again and see if there are any new supplies to be had,” said Agatha. Smith had been dispatched in the hopes of purchasing larger bags of flour than were available in the town shops and to pursue any information about rumors of the government buying up future corn crops for the army. It was not Agatha’s intention to indulge in hoarding, but to refrain from such practices called for credible information that food would continue to be in adequate supply. She was not above doing her own information gathering to supplement her husband’s assurances.
“We could maybe keep a pig or two if we dug up a bit o’ grass,” said Cook. She was not content with Agatha’s carefully manicured vegetable garden and had been upset when she got rid of the chicken coop on account of the smell and an obnoxious rooster, who woke up houseguests. Cook did not hold with large areas of grass just lying there, mowed, for playing croquet or walking about.
“I think we’ll keep patronizing the butcher as long as possible,” said Agatha. “The poor man is so embarrassed at how little he has in stock.”
“Tongue was all he had yesterday,” said Cook. “So many I had a sudden vision of a whole field of silent cows. Quite a nasty turn it gave me.”
“I had no idea you were so imaginative,” said Agatha. As she looked up from forcing the last half of a fat peach into a jar, she saw that Cook had lost all the ruddy color from her face. “Are you all right?” she added.
“I’m sorry, madam,” said Cook, sitting down too fast on a chair, a large carrot forgotten in each hand. “Only my daughter’s husband has up and gone to the army, and her with the little girl to take care of.”
“I believe there are special allowances to wives and children,” said Agatha gently.
“Oh, he says it’s more money and a bit of adventure, like,” said Cook. “But what if he comes home maimed or dead? What if he takes up with some camp follower and doesn’t come home at all?” She shook her head and wiped away a tear. “He’s never been happy to have a cripple for a daughter.” Agatha did not know what to say. An unworthy concern flickered through her mind that Cook might now take to being absent without warning, burning gravy because of tiredness, bringing her granddaughter with her to get underfoot in the kitchen. Agatha was forced to consider whether her sympathetic interest in her staff’s families might have more to do with appearing generous than with any willingness to be inconvenienced by their actual problems.
“I’m sure everything will be fine,” she said, wincing at her own weakness.
“You’re very kind, ma’am,” said Cook. “I always tell my daughter, not a kinder lady in Rye than my Mrs. Kent.”
The telephone could be heard ringing in its little room under the front stairs, and Agatha was grateful when Jenny came in to inform her that she was wanted by Lady Emily.
“Lady Emily on the telephone?” asked Agatha, who was well aware of Lady Emily’s opinion of the instrument as impossibly vulgar. She had installed one, but had it placed in her husband’s library, hidden in a wooden box so that it often went unanswered because no one could hear it ringing.
“I think it’s her daughter, ma’am,” said Jenny. “But she said Lady Emily for Mrs. Kent.”
“Tell her I’m coming right away,” said Agatha, washing peach juice from her hands at the big iron sink.
As she hurried down the hall, she took off the mobcap, which she knew could not be seen on the telephone but which she removed as a nod to the importance of maintaining standards.
“This is Agatha Kent,” she said into the heavy black telephone, trying not to raise her voice as so many did, as if they could thus force their voices down the copper wiring.
“Hello, this is Eleanor Wheaton, here with my mother,” said the caller. There was a muffled conversation in the background. “My mother apologizes for not coming to the telephone herself, but you can’t be too careful about the germs.”
“I know she hates the telephone,” said Agatha. “She usually just sends a message.”
“She has,” said Eleanor. “But she was becoming anxious before the footman left the house, so I offered to just ring you up and say that my mother simply must have you and Mr. Kent for dinner on Saturday. Earl North is coming.”
“Earl Who?”
“Well, it goes without saying,” said the voice.
“I’m sorry?” said Agatha. “What did you say?”
“Oh, I was just telling my mother it goes without saying that you would come together.”
“I’m not sure I can guarantee my husband’s presence given the situation,” said Agatha. “You know he’s very busy what with the war and such. I can always have one of the boys escort me if that would do?” There was more muffled conversation as Eleanor conveyed this to her mother. A series of clicks on the line reassured Agatha that the telephone operator and the one or two neighbors who had also put in telephones were listening in on the party line. “Yes, they simply cannot run the war without him,” she added, taking a mischievous delight in the opportunity to flaunt her husband’s importance in a way she would never do in person. She heard a muffled cough on the line and swallowed a guilty chuckle. So many people were concerned to announce evidence of their own status, but her husband preferred to keep his work a private matter, and it amused him when people assumed he was some insignificant government clerk. It was not as amusing to Agatha, who sometimes bit her tongue not to mention the Prime Minister, or boast of some national issue in which his work had been of vital importance.
“Sorry, what were you saying?” said Eleanor.
“Nothing,” said Agatha.
“Well, Mother assures me that you will not take it amiss if we say that it is really your husband whom she needs,” said Eleanor. “Lord North is touring all the local defenses, and we need people who can speak to the war. Your husband is vital to my mother’s plans.”
“I understand, and I shall do my very best to produce him,” said Agatha.
“My mother says you are simply the only person in Rye who would be so understanding,” said Eleanor. A muffled grunt indicated those on the line did not take the comment well. “You and Mr. Tillingham are the only ones Lord North would possibly want to meet.”
“I am delighted to be passable,” said Agatha.
“I think we have it all worked out now. It was a bit of a sticky question as to whether we invite Mr. Tillingham’s Belgians. And then of course the girl is staying with Miss Nash, and I adore Miss Nash but Mother thought she could not be invited, and then Lord North’s son is a friend of your Daniel and there were just too many young people.”
“It’s never easy to compose the right table,” said Agatha. Eleanor conveyed this message to her mother, and there was an excited murmuring again.
“My mother appreciates your sympathy,” said Eleanor. “But we solved the problem to everyone’s benefit. My brother and I are hosting all the young people to the last day of hopping at Long Meadow Farm, and then we shall enjoy a picnic in the fields and stay for the evening’s festival.”
“I’m sure the young people will be happy to be excused from dinner,” said Agatha. She would also have preferred the hop farm expedition and had been meaning to arrange such an outing. Now she would be stuffed into her tightest corset and seated according to rank in the Wheatons’ somber stone dining room while Daniel and Hugh would be helping to cut hops, drinking the local cider from warm stone flagons, and singing the wagons home on a starlit country road without her. Her favorite summer memories were not of events themselves, of picnics, sea bathing, tennis afternoons, and cricket matches, but of watching Hugh and Daniel enjoying them and locking into memory the delight in their faces and their open laughter. Hugh would be cutting hops one last time before going away to France, she realized, and the thought made her grip the telephone very hard.
“Let Hugh and Daniel know I
am depending on them,” Eleanor said.
“I think your footman is just arriving,” said Agatha, hearing the back doorbell. “If you don’t mind, I won’t make him wait while I write an answer.”
“Of course, we heard you were very busy with preserving today,” said Eleanor. “Mother was just remembering that you make the most delectable peach jam.”
“Thank you,” said Agatha in a dry tone. She never failed to be surprised by the swiftness of gossip between houses. Over short distances, a word to the right housemaid was faster than sending a telegram. “We also put up some of Cook’s mustard pickles yesterday. Shall I send you some of both?”
“Wait—my mother wants to say something,” said Eleanor. There was a murmur and then a voice, shouting as if from across a ravine.
“You are too kind…couldn’t possibly…but much appreciated…”
“Did you hear?” asked Eleanor. “I can’t persuade her to come any closer.”
“Please thank your mother,” said Agatha, who was sure it was better to speak quietly on the telephone than to shout at it across a room, but who knew that social niceties often had an inverse relationship with rational thought. “I’ll send some of both.” She put down the telephone and went to make sure Cook gave Lady Emily’s footman two jars large enough to appear gracious but not so large as to suggest an abundant larder able to supply jars every time someone paid a compliment.
The offices of Fothergill and Son were housed in a brick-fronted Georgian house near the railway station. A suite of severe bottle-green horsehair furniture occupied the dark-paneled front room, and Beatrice tried not to slide about as she waited perched on the edge of a curlicued sofa. Heavy curtains disguised the elegance of the large windows and stopped the sun from penetrating. A thick Turkey rug in shades of purple and brown added a note of smug affluence. As she waited, she grew quite sick at the impending intimacy of negotiating financial matters with Mayor Fothergill, of all people. She wished she had the moral strength, or the funds, to decline her trust’s assistance altogether. At last a door opened in the paneling and the Mayor trod silently across the thick pile towards her.
“So very good of you, Miss Nash, to agree to visit my humble office,” he said. “I would have been glad to wait upon you at your home, but I thought we might be just a little more comfortable and discreet here.” His note, disclosing his appointment to act in the matter of her trust, had suggested such a convenience, referring to her cottage as “your rented room.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fothergill,” said Beatrice, trying not to feel the subtle sting of his condescension.
“Would you like some tea?”
“No, thank you,” she said, thinking of Persephone refusing to take food or drink from Hades. “I do not wish to take up any more of your time than is necessary. I came merely to hear the full details of my aunt’s proposition so that I might reply to her in all points.”
“We are delighted to have been asked to be of assistance,” he said. “As one of the oldest firms in the town, we may not be surprised at how far our name may travel but we are always humbled and grateful.” He did not seem at all humble as he put a pair of small round spectacles on his nose and seemed to be appraising her closely from over the top of them. “You are to be congratulated on your resources and your connections,” he went on. “It is understandable that you would wish to be modest about such matters. There are many who would seek to take advantage.” He dropped his eyes to a thick stack of papers in his hand and ran a fat finger down the top page.
“I have no intention of allowing anyone to take advantage,” said Beatrice, hoping he understood from her firm tone that she included him in that population.
“A woman whose trust is released, and only released, upon the instance of her marriage must be an attractive target to all manner of adventurers,” he continued in a low, conspiratorial voice. “Though your trustees indicate that your income would be more in the nature of a competency than any sort of riches, it is understandable that they would seek to retain close rein.”
“I will never marry,” she said. “I intend to live modestly on my own income, and I have requested only such small funds as the terms of the trust might allow, in order to maintain my person in an appropriately genteel manner.”
Mr. Fothergill peered at her closely as if looking for signs of madness.
Beatrice’s aunt had looked at her the same way when Beatrice had asked her to cease presenting a certain favorite curate as a suitor. That a rational woman would reject the chance to secure a husband and thereby inherit an annual income of several thousand pounds had been inconceivable to Aunt Marbely. Beatrice had been unable to convince her that the curate’s willingness to take her, despite, as he said, her age and excessive education, was an indignity to which she would never surrender. She would rather starve. In her anger, Aunt Marbely had made it painfully clear that Beatrice’s father had been persuaded both to the trust and to the curate, and that it was his dying wish to see his daughter safe in the embrace of a suitable husband. Having survived the livid-white face and scalding insults of her thwarted aunt, and sworn to never give her satisfaction, she now faced the frowning Mr. Fothergill with equanimity.
“I see no need for supervision or approval of such small amounts?” she added, pressing her advantage.
“I can assure you I have little interest in poring in detail over the expenses of a sober spinster life,” said Mr. Fothergill. Still looking slightly confused, he held up an imperious hand and shuffled some papers as he cast about for his next line of attack. “But within the bounds of the agreement suggested, I hope I may propose a solution that will seem as easy to you as it would be for me.”
“What do you propose?” said Beatrice.
“What if I propose merely that you supply a monthly list of all expenses, along with copies of all tradesmen’s bills, and that I ask dear Mrs. Fothergill, my wife, to review and approve them? Not only can she advise me but she can be a great help to you, alone as you are and without female guidance.”
“I could not possibly burden your wife with such a task,” said Beatrice, horrified.
“She would welcome the opportunity,” said Mr. Fothergill. “I have already sounded her most discreetly on the prospect, and her noble head bent at once in agreement.”
“My affairs are not to be so discussed,” said Beatrice.
“I assure you my wife is the soul of discretion and that I mentioned neither name nor financial detail—merely spoke of a poor young spinster with no woman’s hand to guide her. We have no daughter of our own, you know…”
“Mrs. Kent and Lady Emily have both been very kind to me,” said Beatrice.
“Well, that is my point exactly,” said the Mayor. “Very great women in their way, of course, but Lady Emily must not be imposed upon.” He gave her a solemn look as if she had been caught making daily supplications for advice and financial support at Lady Emily’s great oak door. “And as for Mrs. Kent”—he went on, leaning forward now as conspiratorially as his ample stomach would allow—“she and my wife were girls together, you know, and while their long friendship must prevent me from speaking, my fiduciary responsibility must urge me to caution you.” He placed a finger alongside his nose.
“I cannot imagine what you mean,” said Beatrice. “I believe her husband is an important Whitehall official.”
“Unfortunate to expose one’s wife to so many years abroad, where the minor laxities of character might be encouraged,” he said. “Now my own dear wife has never left the bounds of Southern England and will not set foot in London unless I command. Propriety is everything it should be to her.”
Beatrice got to her feet and collected her sunshade and her composure.
“With the greatest respect, I think we are finished, Mr. Fothergill,” she said. “I am appalled that my trustees would ask a solicitor of your stature to oversee such a tiny matter, and you should write immediately to decline to act.” She drew on her gloves with a calm that hid a
furious desire to rage at him. “I will not say anything to them, of course. They are a firm of the highest order of correctness, and I am afraid they might look askance at your proposal, however well meaning and delightful.”
“They can be stiff, these London chaps,” said Mr. Fothergill. He frowned, and she could see she had nicely confused him. “But then again I am certain they mean to impose such conditions.” He looked again at the papers, and Beatrice was sure he was regretting the loss of such fees as might be allowed. “They are offering you an immediate ten pounds,” he added.
“You and I, Mr. Fothergill, we scoff at their ten pounds,” she said. “Our integrity cannot be bought so inexpensively.”
“No, I do usually deal in larger transactions,” he said, but she was already saying “Good day” and sweeping from the room with as much of her aunt’s haughty attitude as she could imitate under the duress.
In the street she feared she might weep with frustration. Not sure of privacy in her own cottage, she strode very fast uphill, towards the old tower that overlooked the marsh, hoping to stand at the railing and cool her hot face in a breeze from the sea until she could regain her calm. She was only vaguely aware of the sound of footsteps behind her, but as she gained the garden entrance, she heard a “hulloo” and was appalled to see Mr. Poot, Fothergill’s nephew, panting up the street behind her, waving his hat and looking distinctly uncomfortable and hot in his woolen three-piece suit. She had some faint hope that he was waving his crushed hat at someone else, but as he made his way across the lawn, wiping his face with a large handkerchief, it was plain that he had followed her from the Fothergill offices and meant to talk to her.
“Miss Nash,” he said, “I beg a word with you.”
“Mr. Poot, I believe we have only barely been introduced,” she said. “I do not wish to be rude, but it is not quite nice for you to accost me in the street.”