“I beg your pardon, Miss Nash,” he said. “But I believe we may be of service to each other, and if you will give me a few moments of private conversation, it might be to your advantage.”
“You are mistaken, Mr. Poot,” she said. “I wish you a good day.” She turned away and moved down the railing, wishing that the garden had one or two other people within its walls, if only a lady artist at an easel to provide a watchful eye.
“How about if I say you owe me a minute of your time?” he said with a barely disguised sneer. “On account of your friends seeing to it that you took my teaching job.”
“I can’t imagine what you mean, Mr. Poot,” she said, tightening her grip on her sunshade. She turned to face him, her face carefully blank, as he stuffed away the handkerchief. She would not give him the satisfaction of asking what his employment troubles might have to do with her. “I must ask you to leave me alone,” she added.
Poot stared back at her a minute and then laughed, a short laugh like the bark of a dog.
“Oh, I suppose you didn’t know those nephews of the Kents, and that Wheaton fellow, tricked me into a tipple that morning?” he said. “Ruined my chances.”
“A man who is drunk must bear responsibility for the drinking,” said Beatrice.
“If a man spills rum on the back of your jacket, it may be enough that you smell of the tavern,” said Poot. “I ask you, is that fair, Miss Nash?”
“It is not, Mr. Poot,” she said, wondering whether he intended to complain and if her job might still be taken from her. Perhaps her face showed her consternation, because he laughed again.
“Oh, don’t worry, they did me a favor,” he said. “My uncle tried to arrange the teaching job so he wouldn’t have to take me into his office, but since it didn’t work out…well, here I am, clerking for him.”
“I assure you, I knew nothing, Mr. Poot,” she said. “I wished nothing but to be hired on my own merits.”
“As you were, Miss Nash,” he said with a slight bow. “And I wish only that you will hear me out a few minutes and judge me on my merits.”
“I will hear you, but if your uncle sent you, it is a waste of time,” she said. “I will starve rather than submit to unreasonable conditions from my trustees.” She looked away over the Channel so he might not see a flush of humiliation in her face. It was anathema to her to realize that he too must have been made privy to her trustees’ proposals.
“Those of us unfairly restrained by circumstance must often bear more than our share of humiliation,” he said. “I believe we should find ways to help each other.”
“How do you propose to help me?” she asked. She moved to a small iron table and sat down.
“By asking you to help me,” he said. Now very circumspect, he waited for her to ask him to sit, and she indicated with her hand that he should sit down. He settled himself slowly.
“I believe you and I might be of great assistance to our country and to each other,” he went on. “Are you interested in work that is perhaps more vital and intellectual than ladies’ committees and fundraising?”
“I am always ready to serve, Mr. Poot,” she said. “But the need for paid employment keeps me from some more important opportunities.” It was a sore matter to Beatrice that donating one’s service full-time to the cause seemed to have become the social currency of the town.
“In this we are alike,” he said. “Without the connections and fortune to lubricate the acquisition of a cozy command, I have had to watch the less competent be raised to positions for which I would willingly give my life.”
“We must all help as we can,” she said. “You know Hugh Grange has just joined the Medical Corps? A competent officer and a worthy endeavor, don’t you agree?”
“Indeed,” he said. “And I have been called, at last, to serve.” He held his hand to his heart. “I am to join a small cadre of legal minds to do a great service to the people of Belgium and to our country by collecting accounts of the horrors of the German invasion from every Belgian refugee in the area.”
“Mr. Poot, I think that is wonderful,” said Beatrice.
“The account, collected and collated, will be published as an official British Government Report, which, it is hoped, will weigh heavy on the scales of justice against the Kaiser.”
“And how may I help you in this endeavor?” asked Beatrice.
“Suffice it to say that in this effort to bear witness, no horror or brutality must go unnamed, no feelings must be spared, no compromise can be made for daintiness,” he said. “I made this quite clear to each of the Belgians whom I visited at the hostel, and yet I could gain no cooperation, and indeed all seemed to lose their ability to speak English as I pressed them.”
“Perhaps you overwhelmed them, Mr. Poot?” asked Beatrice. “They have been so bullied and tormented by the Germans they may be frightened of your obvious authority.”
“I told the commission that a military uniform would have cowed them in a way a bowler hat cannot,” he said. “But perhaps you are right, Miss Nash. I do sometimes forget my natural power of authority. It is important to know how to soften one’s approach, how to tease out the truth with suggestion and a little sympathetic coddling.”
“I’m sure when you ask them nicely…” began Beatrice.
“I believe you have established a rapport which might diffuse any defiance on their part,” he said.
“I have every faith in your powers of gentle persuasion, Mr. Poot,” she said.
“Also the fact is that they don’t all speak good English—after all, why would they?—and my French, while serviceable, is not, shall we say, nuanced?” From the ugly red flush on the tips of his ears, it appeared Mr. Poot knew full well that his French was rustier than the job required. “I just thank the good Lord they didn’t send us the Flemish ones.”
“I imagine a firm grasp of the language is required,” said Beatrice.
“You would serve your country by assisting me for just a few hours with this vital work,” he said. “But you see, I throw myself completely at your mercy in the asking and I would be for ever beholden.”
“I desire to make no one beholden to me,” said Beatrice. “I know too well how it feels.”
“It is of the utmost importance to my aunt and uncle that I perform well in this commission,” he said. “It has been suggested that those who produce the most compelling findings may be offered a more permanent government position.” His face betrayed a naked eagerness for such advancement.
Beatrice considered him carefully.
“Your uncle’s proposal to monitor my funds is unacceptable,” she said. It was an abrupt comment, and she wondered if she had made herself too vulnerable. “You must understand my position?”
“To be denied access to sufficient funds and treated as a child is demeaning,” he said. “If I had your proxy to act, I would insist to my uncle that a simple written tally of accounts, submitted once a month, was more than adequate?”
“He wished to make me accountable to Mrs. Fothergill,” she said.
“No, no, this is a simple clerk’s job, nothing more,” he said. “I would take on the responsibility myself, and you can imagine I would be most strict about not prying into the detail of any expenses but merely reporting that they are of a reasonable size.”
“Why would he agree, Mr. Poot?” she asked.
“My uncle is very flattered to be approached by such august London solicitors,” he said. “He was quite downcast at your refusal but considers your stubbornness insurmountable. Were I to return with your agreement to our arrangement, I believe he would be amenable.”
“I will help you, Mr. Poot,” she said. “It is only right that we help our country and that our Belgian guests have the opportunity to expose the evils they have endured.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“And I will agree to your oversight of my accounts on a trial basis for one quarter,” she said.
“I will be happy to be of service and you can rely on m
y absolute discretion,” he said.
“I do not wish our arrangements to be taken as making either of us in the least beholden to the other, Mr. Poot,” she said.
“Your bluntness is admirable, Miss Nash,” he said. “Let me say in return that I hope for no ties but, perhaps, the bonds of friendship.”
“Unfortunately, our legal business must render any friendship moot,” she said. “But we are not really acquainted, so it will be no loss to either of us to maintain a strictly business relationship.”
“Of course,” he said. He did not look entirely happy, but relief at her acceptance of his plans must have outweighed any desire to protest.
“May I expect your office to deliver the promised draft for ten pounds to my lodging by close of day tomorrow?” she asked, rising to leave.
“I do believe your trustees will approve our arrangements, but you must understand it will take some time for the final papers to be drawn up, and given the times, our local bank may be slow to release any draft they receive,” he said. “I think I can get you two pounds?”
“Thank you, Mr. Poot,” she said. “Two pounds will be most satisfactory and I shall preserve myself in all patience for the rest.” Trying to leave the gardens with an appearance of dignity she did not feel, Beatrice felt a brief pang for her old life, in which she and her father would never have lowered their integrity to haggle for coinage. The world seemed a little less black-and-white than it had been in the sheltering presence of her father. But perhaps, she thought, it had always been gray, and she merely naïve?
She walked along the high street, towards the ancient stone gate at the eastern edge of the town, where the shops gave way to a pleasant stretch of cliff-top promenade high above the town Salts, with the river below and the sweep of marshes beyond. Here, Beatrice was surprised to see Mr. Tillingham standing at the black iron railings. He stood so immobile that he seemed to slow the feet of those who passed, and yet his stillness discouraged the usual friendly tipping of hats and nodding pleasantries; he did not so much as move his head as the people of Rye stepped around his bulk and went on their way. Beatrice would not have spoken to him, but his fixed stare, and his hand gripping an iron finial as if for more support than his silver-tipped walking stick could provide, caused her a rush of concern. She stepped forward and placed a hand on his arm.
“Mr. Tillingham, are you all right?” she asked. He started and then turned as if from sleep and blinked his hooded eyes at her. “Are you quite well?” she added.
“They do not know what is to come,” he said in a slow voice, as if committing the words to memory as he spoke. “The enchantment of this fixed and ancient land, this town, is but a fragile scrim.”
“Do you need to sit down?” There was a wooden bench nearby, sheltered under a large potted tree, and Beatrice gestured. “May we sit a moment, Mr. Tillingham?”
“Do forgive me,” he said, giving his head a slow shake, as a large dog might toss its ears upon waking. He offered her his arm and led her to the bench. “I was composing a few lines for an essay and I became completely lost in my thoughts. I am quite rude when I’m thinking.” Beatrice bit her lip to keep from smiling and sat down, shading her eyes with her hand to gaze out over the marsh as Mr. Tillingham had been doing.
“It is a lovely view,” she said. “The sea’s retreat through time cleanly measured and recorded in the cutting of dykes.”
“Well observed, Miss Nash,” he said. He fumbled his fingers along his watch chain as if counting rosary beads. “Yet I think there is a danger of complacency under the illusion of our ever-expanding green buffer. Perhaps we are like King Canute watching the tide go out and thinking we have triumphed over nature.”
“You are a pessimist today, Mr. Tillingham,” she said.
“I have been remembering the great American conflict of my youth,” he said. “Not a hundred years from gaining our independence, we tore each other apart—brother against brother, patriot against patriot—the wheat fields dressed in the blood of young farm boys, towns burned to the ground by neighbors.” He took out a large silk handkerchief and pressed it to his forehead. “Most of all I remember that what begins with drums and fife, flags and bunting, becomes too swiftly a long and gray winter of the spirit.”
“It is hard to imagine war on such a glorious day,” said Beatrice.
“Yet it is ablaze just beyond the rim of the horizon there,” said Mr. Tillingham, gesturing with his stick. “I am asked to compose a rousing essay to urge America to our glorious cause.”
She was cautious in choosing her words, eager not to disturb the rare opportunity to hear the writer’s expression of his thoughts. “What will you tell them?”
“I do not have my thoughts around the words just yet,” said Mr. Tillingham. “I fear my premonition—that England, dreaming under summer skies and wrapped in her mantle of marshes and calm channel waters, is to face a long darkness of the soul—will not be enough to inspire action.” He fiddled with his watch chain and moved his great jaw as if chewing on his own thoughts. “Some argument must be made as to whether America, if it stands by while all that is fine and ancient in the civilized world is put to the sword, can still hope to build its own shining city.”
“Perhaps a less philosophical approach?” asked Beatrice, fearing that Mr. Tillingham’s fondness for lengthy sentences, and multiple ellipses, might not serve a call to war. “The newspapers are full of stories of bayoneted infants and murdered peasants.”
“We cannot win by meeting the German bloodlust and savagery with cheap propaganda,” he said. “We must be strong in our convictions and girded about with reason, else we will lose honor even in winning the action. I must make my case for protecting innocent Belgium and ancient England as the crucible of all settled civilization.”
“A noble vision,” said Beatrice. “I think it very fine.”
Mr. Tillingham peered at her as if she had just offered him a veiled insult. “Always tricky to be embraced by the ladies,” he said. “The risk of dismissal by serious minds. The label of romantic chivalry. One strives for a sterner reading.”
“We are not all just flighty readers of English novels,” said Beatrice.
“And on the other hand, it is the ladies who seem able to whip up a frenzy for some idea,” he mused. “One would prefer to make one’s main idea simple enough for the female eye to catch it up and make it the talk of the town.”
“Surely we can all embrace this particular cause?” asked Beatrice.
“And I’m sure all will just as soon as I do some more fleshing out,” said Mr. Tillingham. He thought for a moment and added, to himself, “I must ask young Daniel to dinner and get the younger generation’s view.”
Beatrice could only look away over the marsh to hide a flush of disappointment. His thoughtlessness evaporated her previous sense of concern, and she decided to ask him about the matter of her father’s letters.
“Work of such importance must take up all your time, Mr. Tillingham,” she said. “Do you regret having to set aside your own writing to serve?”
“We are all called upon to sacrifice,” he said. “I have one or two small projects, just enough to keep body and soul together, though I have never subscribed to the idea that austerity of the body is good for the soul, or for the muse.”
“I had hoped to publish a small book of my own,” said Beatrice. “Letters of my father’s with my own introduction.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Tillingham, and he peered with great concentration at a sailing barge, negotiating the river below.
“My father’s publisher has asked another writer to undertake the project instead,” she said.
“Have they indeed?” he said. The barge was very low in the waterline under a heavy cargo of coal and seemed to require Mr. Tillingham’s absolute focus to make the turn under the bridge.
“They have kept my manuscript,” she added. “But I am expected to make no further contribution.”
“Impossible to share t
he writing of books, you know,” he said. “I tried it once or twice with friends, quite popular published writers in their own right, but it was injurious to our friendship.”
They sat in silence for a moment, and then Mr. Tillingham gave a big sigh. “Look here, it may be that I am the writer in question,” he admitted.
“What a strange coincidence,” she said. “I’m sure you would have mentioned it to me, had you not been so busy?”
“It slipped my mind,” he said. “I was approached about just such a project, and now I recollect your father’s name may have been attached. Yes, I would normally not have considered it, but you had led me to pull out that little book of his, and so I must have been in a sympathetic place when the publisher wrote to me.”
“It should be my book to write, Mr. Tillingham,” she said. “They had no right to ask another writer.”
“Another writer, you say, Miss Nash?” He raised an eyebrow, and she felt the crush of his sarcasm.
“I do not pretend to aspire to the heights you occupy, Mr. Tillingham,” she said. “But I believe I am in a unique position to edit my father’s work.”
“I would not wish to squabble over a small book of letters for which the audience will be respectable at best, even with my name on the boards,” he said. “Against the scale of this international calamity, for which we are all making such sacrifice of blood and tears, I know you will share my distaste for petty argument.” He turned to look at her, lowering his heavy eyelids in an approximation of the self-effacing stare of a saint.
“You are right,” she said. “In such a tragic time, I should be grateful that my father’s name is not just to be considered irrelevant.”
“We must all suffer from such anxiety,” he said in what seemed a moment of unguarded honesty. “In war, age may be swept aside by vigor and art crushed by mere sensationalism. In our careful stewardship of your father’s work, we may strike a blow for both.”
“I assume you mean to invoke an authorial plural pronoun,” said Beatrice. “People keep saying ‘we,’ but I find they rarely mean to include me.”