“Mr. Puddlecombe never got up before noon on a Sunday,” said the girl. She shuffled her absurd boots, and her cheeks flushed an unflattering red.
“What’s your name?” asked Beatrice. The girl gave her a sideways glance and seemed to be gathering her courage to speak.
“I’m so sorry, miss. I’ll call out louder next time if you want,” she said. “But if you get up early, Mrs. Turber will make me go to church too, and then it’s very hard to get to all the polishing before lunch, and I get Sunday afternoon off but only if I’m all done, and my mum is poorly and needs me and…my name’s Abigail.”
“How old are you, Abigail?”
“Thirteen, miss. Or almost, but I’m strong for my age.”
“Well, Abigail, I prefer to go to later services anyway, and I’m not going today at all because I’m to be introduced at a garden party this afternoon and I’m being kept quite hidden from view until then.”
“I can bring your breakfast up if you like,” said Abigail. “It’s a hard-boiled egg and toast, some cold bacon and tomatoes.”
“I’d like them packed in a napkin,” said Beatrice. “I think I’ll take a ride on my bicycle and eat my breakfast on the beach.” Abigail seemed too surprised to reply, and Beatrice’s smile only served to make her look more alarmed. “Run along and pack them up for me,” added Beatrice. “I’ll be quite out of your way and you can polish silver all morning.”
“A bicycle, miss,” said Abigail. “That’s a grand thing.”
—
Sunday dinner, served promptly after the noon church service, was the one meal a week to be taken in Mrs. Turber’s own dining room.
“I won’t be in to tea, Mrs. Turber,” said Beatrice, pushing the gristle from a leathery slice of beef under a piece of cabbage and neatly setting her knife and fork down on the plate. She was sitting wedged between the heavy oak table and a large dark sideboard. The sideboard wore a crocheted doily, as did the backs of the dining chairs, a small curio cabinet, and several plant stands containing fat ferns and bulbous, rubbery plants for which Beatrice had no name. The table was also decked in a crocheted white tablecloth over a green baize square, which in turn protected a heavy red damask cloth that was never removed. The furniture was further protected by festoons of chintz and pleated muslin over the one small window, and the room was as airless as a vacuum. Beatrice sipped her glass of water and prayed for patience as the gilded parlor clock on the mantelpiece made a tocking sound at agonizingly slow intervals.
“Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t make the Victoria sponge this morning then,” said Mrs. Turber. “That would have been a waste.”
“I think Mrs. Kent told you that I’m required up at Lady Emily’s,” said Beatrice.
“I thank the good Lord that I’ve never been one for putting on airs,” said Mrs. Turber. “Some people about this town— Well, I don’t blame Lady Emily for being taken in.” She scowled, pressing her lips together over an undisclosed record of slights and ringing her little crystal bell for Abigail to come in and clear. The girl came in bearing a steaming jam pudding in a basin.
“Is Colonel Wheaton’s house very imposing?” asked Beatrice. She thought she might faint from the addition of steam to a room devoid of oxygen. Mrs. Turber got up with some difficulty and went to the sideboard to cut two slabs of pudding.
“I only went once, when the poor Captain was still alive,” she said. “A meeting of the aldermen. Lovely it was, and Lady Emily admired my hat very much.” She sighed. “Of course no one wants to invite a poor widow.”
“I think it’s mostly the governors of the school,” said Beatrice.
“Oh yes, it’s just the governors or just the aldermen or just the coursing club and their wives,” said Mrs. Turber. “I told Mr. Puddlecombe, it’s enough to make one consider marrying, just to make them come up with better excuses.”
Beatrice looked down at the tablecloth and closed her eyes against the image of Mrs. Turber offering such a suggestion to the departed former Latin master.
“I am not looking forward to it,” said Beatrice. “It will be awful to be stared at.”
“Well, to be grateful is to show proper humility,” said Mrs. Turber. “I hope you don’t want anything else, only it would be a shame to keep the girl from her afternoon off.”
—
In the warm afternoon, Beatrice again walked the road out of town, up the hill, to Agatha Kent’s house and reflected on how quickly it had become a familiar way, and how comfortable the small town already seemed. It was no doubt some effect of sunshine, and of the breeze, which always held a hint of salty marsh grass. She had told Mrs. Turber she did not relish the coming attention, but now, striding forth, she felt such energy to begin her new life and vocation that she could not wait to join the party. She found Mrs. Kent and her two nephews waiting for her in the cool hallway.
“We will watch for one or two carriages to go by and then stroll over at a leisurely pace to the party,” said Agatha, straightening her hat in the hall mirror. It was quietly new, of an expensive glossy dark straw with a moderate circumference and with a wide navy and white striped grosgrain ribbon finished with a neat rosette to one side. “Lady Emily has charged us to be early, but she cannot expect us to be premature.” She gave a last brush to her suit, which was not, to Beatrice’s eye, quite as new but was of thick linen, carefully pressed, and bearing fresh strips of ribbon around the cuffs to match the new hat. It was the kind of suit bought to be used for many years—its skirt let in or out, embellishments stitched on or carefully unpicked as fashions changed—and every autumn laid away in a trunk with a sachet of dried orange peel, lavender, and cloves to keep out the moths. Her own cotton dress felt insubstantial and girlish by comparison.
“A stuffy marquee and sticky lemonade is hardly the way to spend such a glorious afternoon,” said Daniel. “I hope we’ll be able to creep away.”
“If you attempt to flee, I will be forced to tell your Uncle John that in his absence you proposed the flipping of a coin to decide who should escort us,” said Agatha, pulling on white lace gloves.
“But, Aunt Agatha, that’s what you keep Hugh around for,” said Daniel. “You know he has the better manners.”
“You are such a child,” said Hugh. “You always complain about going and then you, and Harry Wheaton, are always the last to be dragged away from the champagne tent.”
“I assure you, Miss Nash, that Lady Emily’s garden party is always quite lovely and is considered one of the highlights of the summer,” said Agatha. “And the garden, while impossibly French, offers wonderful coastal views.”
“I hope, Miss Nash, that my aunt has some time allotted for garden viewing and lemonade,” added Hugh. “Though I fear Lady Emily and she plan to keep you busy with a campaign of introductions.”
“You must each keep one eye on us, boys,” said their aunt. “When I raise a brow you must come and rescue poor Miss Nash.”
“I’m very fond of garden parties,” said Beatrice. “People are usually so pleasant out of doors.” The two young men seemed to find this statement amusing. Even Agatha Kent smiled at her.
“The worthies of Rye are much more pleasant out of doors—chiefly because one has more room to maneuver away from them,” said Daniel. “If I were you, I would keep the gates in view at all times and be prepared to run.”
“Well, now that you have demolished any hope Miss Nash might have had of a pleasant afternoon, shall we be getting along?” asked Hugh. “May I?” He offered Beatrice his arm and they followed Daniel and Agatha out from the cool hall and into the sun-dappled afternoon.