“If my wife understood mathematics, maybe she’d keep tighter accounts and not be asking me for dress money every year,” said Mr. Pike.
“Perish the thought, man,” said Mr. Satchell. “I’d rather show my books to the excise man.”
—
Mr. Poot sat very stiff on the upright chair and fixed his gaze, carefully it seemed, on the Mayor’s moving lips.
“Not because he’s my nephew, of course,” the Mayor concluded after a long and enthusiastic summing-up of Mr. Poot’s career. In the Mayor’s telling, the man was something of a legend, thought Agatha. “But we would also be getting the benefit of his legal experience, and I believe he would be a figure our boys could look up to.”
“We have girls as well, Mr. Fothergill,” said Agatha.
“One or two, but they do not count in this case,” said the Mayor. “They cannot aspire to a legal career, whereas we may have several future clerks among our boys.”
“Mr. Poot, may we inquire further about your wish to exchange the law for teaching?” asked Lady Emily. “What propels you into academia?”
The young man swiveled his head towards her voice and opened his mouth to reply, but his head appeared to continue to revolve past her, and as slowly as in a dream, Mr. Poot toppled off his chair and lay in an inert heap on the carpet.
“Well, I imagine that had something to do with it,” said Agatha.
—
With neither the heart to hope nor the energy to repack her possessions, Beatrice Nash sat with a book open on her lap. She had, however, forgotten her reading and was instead engaged in the important task of staring at a small brown spider which was constructing a lopsided web in the lower corner of the cottage’s front window. The spider seemed to lose its footing often and would drop, hanging from its trailing silk and tangling the lines, like an old lady dropping stitches in her knitting. Beatrice wondered how far the world extended for the spider. Did it have a warm spot in the garden to soak up the sun, or was its life circumscribed by the rough oak window frame and a small, dark hole in the painted sill? If it were accidentally dropped into a trunk and transported by ship to the wilds of South America, would it notice or would it just find another sill, another hole, and would the flicking tongue of a predatory lizard be no more a threat than Abigail’s broom? Wishing to expand the spider’s options in life, she caught up a portion of web and spider on the edge of her book and opened the stiff iron catch of the window to shake him out onto the street.
Shouted calls and the scrape of a horse’s shoe on the cobbles made her lean out to look down the steep hill. A farm cart was coming up the narrow street, the straining horse coaxed not just by the farmer driving but by a boy walking at its head while other people pushed from behind. The cart contained a stack of objects wrapped and roped to such a dizzying height that it looked like some strange circus wagon. On top of the heap she could see Daniel, standing like a charioteer, whistling a jaunty martial tune and twirling a broad straw hat.
“You’re not actually helping” came a voice, the narrow houses amplifying and projecting the sound towards her. She saw it was Hugh pushing behind the nearside back wheel.
“I’m directing the triumphant approach,” said Daniel. “One more push up the middle there, sir.” The farmer gave a crack of his whip, and the cart lurched forward, the load shifting dangerously backward and left. Daniel whooped but grabbed for a rope to steady himself, and the boy at the horse’s head had to step nimbly aside as horse and wooden shafts thrust forward.
“Do be careful,” said Hugh. “I said we should have done it in two loads.”
“Where’s the triumph in that?” said Daniel. “This is an arrival!”
“This is a spectacle,” said Hugh, raising his hat to three ladies who had wedged themselves into a doorway in fear.
The spectacle was increased by the blast of a car horn as Agatha Kent’s car made the turn at the top of the lane and nosed down to the cottage. The horse gave a loud whinny and backed slightly before being wrestled to a stop. The car parked directly outside Beatrice’s window and revealed Agatha Kent, sitting amid a pile of brown paper parcels and a bouquet of roses. Jenny the maid was squashed into the rumble seat clutching a quantity of mops and brooms, and from his perch on the running board, an aproned shop boy sprang down to haul a huge basket from the front seat. Agatha waved as Smith ran around the car to open her door, and Beatrice experienced a momentary desire to slam the window and flee into the back alley as she realized the spectacle was coming to her door.
“We are come with all the spoils of victory,” said Agatha, speaking through the window. She waved Jenny and the shop boy towards the front door, adding, “Do let’s get inside before we disturb all the neighbors.”
“I don’t understand,” said Beatrice.
“The position is yours, my dear,” said Agatha.
“But I thought…” Beatrice began.
“A mere formality, as I had supposed,” said Agatha. “Now, Hugh, do have them take great care with those bookcases. They were my mother’s.”
Beatrice could only stand back, in shock, as the procession came into the tiny parlor: first Abigail carrying the shop basket; then Jenny and her mops; the farmer and his boy carrying a bookcase; and Agatha, ducking her hat under the doorframe and filling the room with the scent of pink roses.
“Is it true?” asked Beatrice. “I thought for sure Mr. Poot would be chosen.”
“Mr. Poot proved himself an—an unsteady candidate, shall we say,” said Daniel, coming into the crowded space carrying a stiff-backed chair.
“We shall not,” said Agatha in a reproving tone. “Do go through to the kitchen, Jenny, and get those few things put away. The bookcases either side of the fireplace, I think, don’t you, Miss Nash? Oh, and these are for you, from the garden. Do you have a vase?”
Her bicycle had reached a speed at which its wheels seemed to spin without effort. The dirt road thrummed beneath her, and a breeze of her own making refreshed her face and kept her cool even as she pumped her legs faster, boots pressed to the hard rubber pedals. Out here on the marsh, there seemed to be no other person in the world, only the flutter of white butterflies among the nodding meadowsweet and tall grasses that edged the green and weedy ditches. The very day seemed to dance within her, and Beatrice Nash hitched her blue serge skirts higher and let out a whoop of joy to have the whole day to herself.