“Better a working man than a sot, my dad says,” said Jack, putting the book away on a shelf as if it was all agreed that he was finished with his Latin. Arty’s face went dark at the apparent insult, and Hugh intervened.
“Now, now, boys. Let’s behave like gentlemen in the presence of Miss Nash.”
“I don’t want to be no gentleman and I doubt a bit o’ Latin is going to make ’em let us join anyway,” said Jack.
“I want to be a gentleman,” said Snout, handling his knife with the ease of experience as he sliced the last of his heads paper-thin. “You don’t get laughed at for reading books, you don’t have to let no one on your land, and you can kill all the rabbits you want and no one calls the coppers.”
“He’s a poacher, miss,” said Jack.
“Say it again and I’ll ’ave you,” said Snout, balling up his fists and screwing up his face so much Beatrice began to see the origin of his nickname.
“Come now, Snout, you must not rise to the bait,” said Hugh. “And, Jack, perhaps you should spend less time insulting Snout and more time learning from his superior Latin talents?” This did not seem to be welcomed by either boy. They both glared, and Beatrice was glad she had been educated privately and not in their schoolroom, where, she began to understand, talent might bring as much ridicule as respect.
“Latin is not just the language of the Caesars but also the language of the science you are studying,” she said. “And it underpins all medicine, law, and religion, so it’s the key that unlocks many fields.” She stopped as they looked at her with suspicion. Her calling to teach was partly inspired by her father’s view that education in general, and Latin in particular, should not be kept for the few, that it was wrong to divide the world and keep all success and distinction in the hands of a small elite. But perhaps his leanings towards such new ideas, and his wish to spread classical education to the people, would not be popular in the rural setting of Rye, she thought.
“There you are, boys,” said Hugh. “Miss Nash intends to make you as erudite and as wealthy as the ancients.”
“May I see what’s under the microscope?” said Beatrice, hiding her blushes as she changed the subject. “I assume it is brain matter?”
“See, boys, Miss Nash really is not squeamish,” said Hugh, and Beatrice felt a flicker of satisfaction at her own stoicism. “Do come and look. It’s a slice across the medulla.”
“Medulla from the Latin meaning ‘pith,’ miss,” said Snout. “The black stain shows the paths where the brain sends messages to breathe and things.” He seemed to have forgotten to be shy, and his eyes, now raised to hers, reflected a sharp intelligence. “Silver chromate, they call it. Very poisonous, but the chicken was already dead, miss.”
“A very fine explanation, thank you,” said Beatrice, feeling slightly more optimistic that at least one boy showed real enthusiasm. She bent over the eyepiece of the large black microscope and squinted at a piece of yellow flesh as translucent as onion skin, swirled with complex black lines like fine calligraphy. “It’s very beautiful,” she added.
“From where did you acquire such fortitude?” asked Hugh, setting all three boys to disinfecting the worktable with strong yellow soap.
“As unfashionable as it is to have a strong stomach, my father developed a fondness for pioneer history while we were in America,” said Beatrice. “He became convinced that education should not be divorced from basic skills and that it was weakness in the educated classes to affect delicate sensibilities.”
“I hate to think how one proves such a thing,” said Hugh.
“There was a harrowing visit to the university’s kitchen yard, where I disgraced myself by running away with the chicken whose neck I was supposed to wring,” she said. She looked up from the microscope and added, “This is perhaps a more macabre hobby than insect wings?”
“It’s not a hobby,” said Hugh. “It’s part of my research. There’s a lot to be learned from chicken brains.”
“Only if one is planning on specializing in the brains of clergymen and politicians, that is,” said a voice as his cousin Daniel sauntered into the room. “Are you coming to dinner smelling like a chemist’s shop again?”
“I have plenty of time,” said Hugh.
“Given your perfunctory wardrobe style, I don’t doubt it,” said Daniel. “Goodness me, you’ll never make it while the place is still positively pustulating with the great unwashed.” The three boys, who were soaping their hands at a zinc basin in the corner, turned with lowering faces that suggested several blunt responses were being only barely quashed by respect for their superiors.
“If you’re going to be rude, Daniel, perhaps you could do it in your own study,” said Hugh. “Boys, you are dismissed. I want your pages translated back into the Latin for next time.”
There were three sets of groans, made shorter by the boys’ eagerness to escape from a room containing a strange woman and the rude poet with the fancy vocabulary.
“I look forward to seeing you at my home for your next lesson,” said Beatrice, hoping her voice projected more authority than she felt. “No dead chickens, I’m afraid, but lots of exciting stories and discussion.”
“Yes, miss. Thank you, miss.” With the briefest of mumbled answers and nods to Beatrice they were gone, clattering down the stairs and out across the sunshine of the drive.
“I made Mr. Grange late,” said Beatrice. “I’m sorry. I was so interested in the boys and the brains. I’m not sure I will be able to find some task half as compelling to keep their attention.” Though concerned, she was also eager to begin. To bring a true appreciation of Latin to such boys would honor her father. And she was ready to test her talents against the grubbiest and most stubborn, for if she could bring these three to heel, she had an idea the grammar school classroom would no longer fill her with dread.
“Oh, don’t listen to Daniel,” said Hugh. “He’s never on time to dinner parties, and when he’s there he can’t be trusted to be polite. He is to be ignored—on most occasions.”
“Oh, that hurts,” said Daniel, clutching at his chest. “But I know your anger merely distracts from the fact that you have finally lured a maiden to your lair.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Daniel,” said Hugh. “Miss Nash is a protégée of Aunt Agatha’s and you are not to make her feel uncomfortable. Why don’t you take her for a promenade in the garden while I clean up?”
“Actually, your aunt sent me to search the box room for spare furniture,” said Beatrice. “If you can just direct me to the key, I can amuse myself until dinner.”
“I think the hideous relics in the box room demand a knowledgeable guide,” said Daniel, “lest the great tower of Kent history topple on one’s head.” He flopped into an armchair and took out from his pocket a cigar and a slim volume that looked like a poetry journal. “I would be a Virgil to your Dante, Miss Nash, but I fear I am not expert enough to steer you away from all the pieces Hugh might have used over the years to dissect or store his bits of animals.”
“Oh please, it was just the one bureau, and only one jar leaked,” said Hugh. “But by all means let me just wash my hands and I’ll show you, Miss Nash. I know there are a couple of nice Georgian bookcases that Aunt Agatha wisely refused to let me have for rabbit hutches.”
“I’ll just stay here and have a moment to read and smoke in peace,” said Daniel. “Aunt Agatha has chased me even from the terrace.” He withdrew matches from his pocket, and Beatrice wondered if he meant to light his cigar right under her nose. However, he merely turned the box over between his fingers until Hugh, having soaped his hands at the basin and dried them with a rough towel hung from a nail, was ready to lead her downstairs. As they left, Daniel, without looking up from his book, added, “If I don’t hear the guests, do come and fetch me, Hugh—but not until the soup is absolutely on the table.”