“In good conscience I cannot bind you to any promise in these dangerous times,” he said, in what he hoped was a kind but firm tone. “I would not want you to waste your youth and beauty in mourning.”
“I think I would make a most interesting widow,” said Lucy. She smoothed a wayward ringlet of hair behind her ear and smiled. “Not that one would wish such a state on anyone, but a sensible woman might use the gravity of the position to great authority in these times.”
Hugh was not sure of the correct conversational response to such an offer—if she had indeed just offered to be his widow. He was searching about for an answer when the train whistle blew and the porter leaned from the carriage behind him to call out, “All aboard!”
“I must go,” said Hugh. Lucy gave a sob and leaned on his shirtfront in an attitude that would allow him to take the liberty of a passionate kiss. Hugh hesitated above her porcelain face but moved her gently back and took her hand instead. He kissed it, and then kissed the hands of her friends, who seemed gratified to be thus brought into the small drama. As the engine let out a great cloud of steam, Hugh sprang into the carriage and closed the door. He waved from the window at the three weeping ladies and then was gratefully forced inside by a rush of soldiers all wanting to hang from the window and blow kisses and call out compliments and insults as a military band played out the departing train.
—
The atmosphere at dinner was so tense that every scrape of a fork on a plate sounded like a shot. Jenny the maid sensed the tension, and in trying to tiptoe through it, she became clumsy, clanking the water jug and spilling Hugh’s pea soup from the ladle onto the tablecloth. He covered the spreading pool of green with his napkin, and she threw him a grateful glance.
“How was the trip down?” asked Uncle John.
“Crowded,” said Hugh. Another vibrating silence pressed on his ears.
“When do you have to leave?” his uncle asked.
“Monday morning,” said Hugh. “First train out.” It was not a successful conversational direction because Aunt Agatha smothered a choked sob in her napkin, pushed back her chair with enough force to crack a leg, and fled the room.
“I don’t mean to upset her,” said Hugh. “I’m sure I’ll be quite safe.”
“It’s Daniel,” said his uncle.
“Of course it is,” said Hugh, sorry for the unavoidable tiny creep of annoyance in his tone. Even his own departure to the front was to be overshadowed. “He’ll be in the thick of things, I know, but does he have any orders yet?”
“I fear Lord North’s vendetta may have raised its ugly head again.”
“That’s grossly unfair,” said Hugh.
“Colonel Wheaton was not going to entertain Lord North’s ranting, but someone persuaded him to pressure Daniel into resigning.”
“Who pressured him? Who would do such a thing?” said Hugh. If the Colonel had planned to ignore the powerful Lord North, Hugh could not imagine who would have changed his mind.
“There’s the rub,” said John. “The Colonel let slip to Daniel that your Aunt Agatha forced his hand.”
“Aunt Agatha?” said Hugh. “That’s impossible.”
“Of course she had no idea what she was really doing. She had no concept of how dangerous Lord North’s accusations might be. She has no clear picture of the landscape of moral failings his petitions imply, and I confess I am too much the coward to draw a map and show her of what her nephew might be accused.”
“But it’s all rubbish anyway,” said Hugh, blushing. “I know my own cousin, and he would never…it’s just outrageous.”
“She thinks she knows best, but she has overstepped this time,” said John. “Daniel left, and we don’t know where he went. All we know is that he does not wish any further contact with us.”
“What is he going to do?”
“Your aunt hoped he would resign and accept a commission with the propaganda office in London,” said John. “Instead Daniel plans to fight it and has demanded a hearing.”
“Good for him,” said Hugh.
“It’s a terrible idea,” said John. “Mud will stick, regardless of the findings, and they may discharge him anyway.” Uncle John sighed. For the first time, Hugh saw an old man’s face before him. His vibrant uncle with the smooth diplomatic air was tired.
“It’s sometimes easier to manage a war than a wife,” John continued. “She knows she did something very wrong, and of course this makes her all the more adamant that she was right. She’s heartbroken.”
“It will blow over,” said Hugh, but he felt a cold sinking in his stomach at the unimaginable idea of a breach in the family. Aunt Agatha was like a fixed point in the universe, around which they might find one another at all times. It was inconceivable that Daniel might cease to lounge around with his feet on the living room sofas, or bother Cook for cake at breakfast.
“Some terrible words were exchanged,” said his uncle.
“I’m sure Daniel regrets his part already,” said Hugh. “If you have any idea where he might be, let me go and talk to him.”
“I fear talk is too late,” said his uncle. “There’s a hearing set for Sunday.”
—
Daniel was in Mr. Tillingham’s study, seated by the fire with his head in his hands. Hugh had been shown up to see them after waiting an anxious few minutes in the hall below, from where he had a good view of the Professor, enjoying a solitary go at the port and some aromatic cheese in the dining room.
“Come in, my boy,” said Mr. Tillingham, who looked relieved to see him. “I fear my meager capabilities in the realm of advice-giving are all but depleted, and we could use some reinforcements.”
“Hugh does not need to burden himself with my sordid problems,” said Daniel. “He is leaving for the front, Mr. Tillingham, and is not to be distracted by the petty indignities I must suffer.”
“Stop sipping the proverbial hemlock, Daniel,” said Hugh. “This is no time for exaggerated gestures.”
“What gestures befit my aunt’s betrayal?” asked Daniel. “Is she done washing my blood from her hands?”
“She meant to save you from going to the front,” said Hugh. “While it is shameful to try to keep someone you love at home while others go in his place, you must see she operated out of love, not malice.”
“She meddled once too often,” said Daniel. “She has no idea what I am facing.”
“It’s not too late to resign,” said Hugh. “Uncle John is pretty sure he can get you in at the propaganda office.”
Daniel stood up and went to stand by the fire, hands in his pockets, boot on the fender. He turned his face to the light of the flames and was silent a moment.
“Going to France was important to Craigmore,” he said. “I didn’t hear him when he talked about serving his country. I was too busy talking myself.” He turned and gave a small, strained smile. “I am going to the front to honor Craigmore, to finish what he started and to serve as he so much wanted to do.”
“Craigmore is dead,” said Hugh. “What you do in the war won’t change that. No amount of vengeance will bring him back.”
“It’s not vengeance,” said Daniel. “It’s duty. Craigmore believed in doing his duty, and I will not shirk mine sitting in some London office, writing recruiting posters.”
“If the hearing goes badly, you could be drummed out,” said Hugh. “I don’t think you realize just how much trouble you are in, Daniel.”
“I fear your cousin is right, my young friend,” said Mr. Tillingham. “Some twenty years ago, I remember another young man who chose to make such a stand. His stubbornness led to the greatest scandal of the day.”
“You cannot seek to compare Daniel to that playwright,” said Hugh, horrified. He felt sick as the full implications of the comparison sank in. He found he could not look directly at his cousin. “Why, the man was a— He was a flagrant degenerate.”
Daniel looked at his shoes, and Mr. Tillingham considered the silver top of his walking stick and rubb
ed at a spot of tarnish.
“Hubris or nobility—whatever his motives, the fool earned himself jail and a pauper’s death,” said Tillingham in a mild tone of reproof, whether for the playwright or for Hugh, Hugh could not say. His eyes looked more tired and hooded than usual as he gazed into the fire. “The scandal and fear sent many an artist and writer scurrying for the Continent or a house in the country.”
“Not that he wasn’t a good writer,” said Hugh, hurrying to soften his high-handed dismissal. He did not wish to play the moral absolutist in the face of Daniel’s brooding silence. “I mean, it was before my time,” he finished.
“Craigmore’s father is doing his best to smear our friendship with such shame, and that is precisely why I cannot just slink away and let his insinuations stand,” said Daniel slowly. “But it is not at all the same, I assure you. They have nothing with which to impeach me.”
“A few letters, a couple of poems—nothing but the effusive exaggerations of the poet in youthful flood,” said Mr. Tillingham. “I have written more effusive and more outrageous letters in my time. They don’t mean anything.”
“Would you come and say that at my hearing?” asked Daniel.
“My dear boy, you know there is nothing I would not do for you,” said Mr. Tillingham. Hugh saw an expression of horror quickly suppressed. “But to expose myself to such a topic would surely put at risk my important national war work?” When Daniel did not immediately reply, he continued, as if he might build up excuses like a legal brief and so be excused. “I am an old bohemian myself,” he wheedled. “The respectability I have earned is a thin and crusty garment with which I shield my nakedness from public humiliation and scorn.”
“I understand,” said Daniel. “I would never put you in such an awkward spot.”
“Besides, a couple of my letters meant exactly what they said, and I can’t absolutely rely on the recipients not to produce them should my name become mentioned in such a scandal,” added Tillingham, looking frightened.
“I beg you to resign, Daniel, and not endanger your reputation,” said Hugh. “But if you insist on going forward, I will be a character witness.” He went to clasp him by the hand. “I’ve known you since childhood, Cousin, and I will swear on a Bible that your conduct and morals are both unimpeachable.”
“That is very sweet, Hugh,” said Daniel.
“It’s not perjury if he believes it,” said Mr. Tillingham.
“Mr. Tillingham!” Hugh felt himself spluttering, but Daniel and Tillingham only smiled at each other in the manner of people who understand more than they say.
A knock on the door interrupted them, and the housekeeper came in to say that Miss Nash was downstairs with the Professor and that she understood there was an emergency. In the dining room, Beatrice Nash looked alarmed and the Professor looked as anxious as a man can manage after a large dinner, pudding, cheese, and half a bottle of vintage port.
Hugh had much he wished to say to Beatrice and wished that he might smile at her. But her demeanor demanded as serious a face as the discussion in the study.
“Celeste is missing,” said Beatrice. “She said she was coming here to visit her father, and when she did not return I came to find her, but the Professor tells me he has not seen her.”
“I have not,” said the Professor. “Mr. Tillingham and I have been here all evening, having dinner.”
“As this is her last night before she leaves, I thought nothing of her visiting you, Professor,” said Beatrice, her tone sharp.
The Professor looked away and polished his spectacles. “I thought it best to be quiet,” he said. “To say our farewell in the morning is enough, no?”
“Perhaps not, Professor,” said Beatrice. “She is very unhappy, and now she has run away or worse.”
“Did she take anything with her?” asked Hugh.
“I don’t know,” said Beatrice. “I’ll go at once and look.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Hugh. “Meanwhile, perhaps, Mr. Tillingham, you can telephone to my uncle to start searching the roads by car.”
“Daniel, would you operate the telephone for me?” said Mr. Tillingham. “I live in abject fear of the woman at the exchange.”
“Please be careful what you say,” said Beatrice.
“Yes, we don’t need to add any more scandals,” said Hugh. “For once let’s hope all the neighbors are not listening in on the party line.”
At the cottage, Beatrice ran upstairs to search among Celeste’s clothes and check under her bed.
“They’ll have to dredge the river,” said Mrs. Turber, calling up from the bottom of the stairs with her arms folded.
“The only thing missing is her white dress with the lace,” said Beatrice coming back down to the parlor. “I didn’t think she was wearing it, but I can’t be sure.”
“Is anything else gone?” asked Hugh. “I hate to ask, but was there money in the house she might have taken?”
“Good heavens, my money box!” said Mrs. Turber, hurrying off. A few moments later a shriek went up, and soon Abigail came running to the parlor.
“Please, miss, the money is there, but Mrs. Turber’s little pistol is missing. The one the Captain give her.”
“Oh no,” said Beatrice. She felt sick and helpless. How could she not have noticed? What kind of friend was she that she let Celeste slip from the house carrying a pistol in her bundle? Did she hear no tremor in the girl’s farewell? Did she notice no fear, no set jaw of determination?
“Beatrice, pay attention,” said Hugh. She felt him shake her by the arm, and her head cleared. “Let us not speculate, let us look for her in a logical way,” he added.
“They’ll find her in the river,” repeated Mrs. Turber.
“If they do, may it be on your conscience, Mrs. Turber.” Beatrice would have liked to scratch at the smug face of her landlady.
“Well I never,” said Mrs. Turber.
“You stay here,” said Hugh. “Daniel and I will search the riverbank while Mr. Tillingham and the Professor walk the upper town. My Uncle John and his chauffeur are searching all the main roads for ten miles around.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Beatrice. “I can’t stay here and do nothing.”
“The reserves and the Boy Scouts patrol the canal at night,” said Abigail. “I can run down to the scoutmaster and see if they can keep an eye out for her?”
“I don’t think we can,” said Beatrice. She felt the agony of indecision between having more eyes to search and the knowledge that further scandal might be impossible to overcome. She looked at Hugh and saw that he immediately understood.
“I’m sure it won’t be necessary,” he said. “We should not alarm more people than we need. I’m sure we will find her ourselves, in short order.”
“You’ll all be shot walking the marshes at night,” said Mrs. Turber. “Mark my words.”
Hurrying to the dark wharf, Hugh, Daniel, and Beatrice began to search among the fishing boats and the sailing barges. A night watchman had seen no woman passing, but a cabin boy thought he might have seen a figure slip by on the opposite bank of the river. For a few coins he shimmied up a tall mast to look out across the dark marsh, and he reported a flicker of white that might be a woman’s dress, far downriver along the raised dyke.
“Could be nowt but an old sail dryin’ on a fence,” said the night watchman. “A man sees what he’s paid to see.”
They took no notice and hurried across the bridge to take the grassy path towards the sea. The houses gave way immediately to scrubby trees and then fields of low, salty grass tussocks, fit only for sheep and goats.
“If she has a pistol, why would she need to go to the river?” asked Hugh, ever practical.
“Because she has a pistol, the river is more likely than the train,” said Daniel. “The train—you wouldn’t need a pistol, but it’s messy.”
“You seem pretty sure?” said Hugh.
“Every poet imagines death,” said Daniel. “The ri
ver is the romantic choice. I imagine the pistol is just for insurance.”
“To apply a logical explanation to an irrational act is madness itself,” said Beatrice. “Do stop talking and hurry.”
The riverbank passed a small hamlet of fishing cottages, and then the river turned one last time and ran straight to the sea. The land was pebbled scrub now, harder to run across, and the riverbank was higher from the water, edged with thick walls of wooden piles and boards. A single hut, black with tar and roofed in old tin, crouched in the darkness. From the shadow of the hut, a lone figure, a woman, stepped to the edge of the river, and as they watched, she flung a white bundle into the water.
“Celeste!” screamed Beatrice. It was hard to shout, all her breath used for running, and she could feel her heart pounding in her chest. As Celeste turned towards them, and the moonlight gleamed on a small pistol in her hand, Beatrice’s foot slipped on a clump of weeds amid the pebbles and she fell heavily. She rammed her knees and then her wrists on the pebbles as she tried to break her fall. She bit her lip and tasted blood.
“I’ve got her,” she heard Hugh say, and then his arms were around her, helping her to her knees. “You go on, Daniel.”
“I have to get to her,” she said, struggling to rise. “Help me up, help me, Hugh.”
“Slowly now, let’s make sure you are not hurt,” said Hugh. “Probably best we don’t all run at her at once.” It was difficult to stand; her knees were on fire and her breath was hard to catch. The taste of blood in her mouth made her gag.
“I can stand,” she said. Her hands and wrists hurt, and she held them against her chest gingerly.
“Let me help you,” said Hugh. “With your permission?” He put an arm around her, and with his help, Beatrice began to walk a few stiff steps towards where Daniel stood talking to Celeste.
“Faster,” she said. “I have to save her.”
“Daniel seems to be doing a good job,” said Hugh. As she looked, Celeste moved away from the very edge of the river to sit down on a low post used for mooring the larger ships that docked in the river mouth. Daniel took a similar perch, at a respectable distance. “Young girls like Daniel.”