“Everything is very dear these days,” she said, counting out her coins.
“And everyone complaining and accusing me of making a tidy profit,” he said. “No one asks me what I’m being charged up and down.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“And how I’m to keep the shop stocked and make a living when there’s nothing being delivered,” he added, shaking his head. “I shall be forced to close my doors if things go on this way.”
“It must be very hard,” said Beatrice, noting that his wife, knitting green socks in the corner of the shop, looked very well fed and that she had a large slice of fruitcake at her elbow. “I am so sorry for your troubles,” she said to the lady.
“Try us tomorrow—might have a crate of tinned pilchards coming in, and also some French soap,” said the wife, in a cheerful tone.
“That’s right,” said the grocer. He laid a finger against his nose to signal the pilchards were a secret. “But better be early. Be twice the price by afternoon.”
Beatrice did not go in the butcher’s shop, but she could see the marble slab in the window was empty save for some dried sausage and a large gray piece of liver. The haberdashery was doing a brisk business, as if people feared a sudden shortage of rickrack ribbon and polka-dotted Swiss muslin by the yard. Beatrice bought the last two yards of some dove-gray grosgrain ribbon to lighten a black mourning dress that had too much wear left to discard. Only the tiny bookshop seemed full of merchandise, and the bookseller stood in his doorway watching the bustle of the high street pass him by. Beatrice would have dearly loved to go in and buy a book, if only to cheer him up, but the increase of prices and the lack of cash in the streets and banks made it prudent to hold on to her dwindling purse. She merely smiled as she passed, and he raised his hat in acknowledgment.
At Mr. Samuels’s, purveyor of fine wines and liqueurs, an assistant took the last two bottles of Spanish sherry from the window. Through the open door, Beatrice saw Harry Wheaton, in the uniform of his father’s reserves. He was lounging against the counter with his cap askew and collar loosened, as if he were wearing boating flannels. As the assistant wrapped the bottles for him, she heard him ask, “I assume my father’s account is in good standing in this crisis?”
“On any stock we have, sir,” said the assistant. “But if you were able to pay in advance, in gold sovereigns, my guvnor, Mr. Samuels, may be able to procure you some Bordeaux or even some cognac.”
“Please make some specific inquiries and send me a note if you can,” said Wheaton. Beatrice walked on so she would not have to meet him, but before she could reach the street corner, he called to her loudly. Though her ears burned to be so hailed in the public street, she stopped and turned back to greet him.
“Miss Nash, you look the picture of domesticity with your little basket,” he said, straightening his cap and mimicking a formal bow. “I hope you have been more successful than I in our meager shops?”
“People with money seem to be enjoying the scramble to stock their cellars and pantries against the end of the world,” she said. “But I’m afraid the empty shops and high price of bread and meat will be a hardship for many.”
“It’s hardship all right,” said Wheaton. “Not a decent bottle of wine to be had in the county. I took two bottles of sherry but not sure why. Overpriced and I never drink the stuff anyway.”
Beatrice laughed at him. “If you don’t drink it, you have paid too much, Mr. Wheaton,” she said.
“You are right, Miss Nash,” he said with a wry grin. “But if I give it as a gift, in these sparse times, it will be worth more than its price?”
“Very true,” she said.
“So please allow me to tuck one of these bottles in your little basket. I know ladies enjoy a spot of sherry now and then.” He made to tuck a bottle next to the bag of biscuits.
“I couldn’t possibly,” said Beatrice. But in rescuing the biscuits from imminent crushing, she created just the room he needed to slip in the bottle and step back laughing.
“Now, Miss Nash, I will have to ask my sister to bring me with her when she comes to tea, and you can offer us sherry with our scones.”
“Which I assume you will refuse?” she asked.
“In times like these you should only offer your food and wine to guests you are sure will refuse,” he said. “My own mother is currently offering all callers gooseberry jam hoping they will leave hungry.”
“Since to refuse your gift would mean further public tussle in the street,” said Beatrice, “I shall accept with all proper thanks.”
“Good,” he said. “I will tell my sister I have made further amends. My sister has been doing nothing but talk of your little cottage. She seems enamored of playing shepherdess, like Marie Antoinette.”
“I am honored to receive her,” said Beatrice. “She has been most generous.” In addition to inviting her to tennis games and luncheons, Eleanor had come to tea at the cottage twice, each time bringing some household items of her own to give. A heavy linen shawl embroidered with crewelwork cabbage roses, a quantity of French tulle left over from dressmaking, and a silver chocolate pot were among the gifts.
“My old nanny made me the shawl,” Eleanor had said. “I could never find a decent excuse to part with it, but I’m sure it’s much too country cottage for my husband’s family.” Beatrice had merely smiled and thanked her, caught between a genuine gratitude at Eleanor’s attention and the small creep of humiliation at being treated, however gently, as a charity case.
“Now if I give the other bottle to the German nanny, she might forgive me for dropping the baby on the lawn yesterday,” said Harry Wheaton, stroking an imaginary beard. “And on the other hand, I am in the middle of pursuing a rather fetching young lady whose widowed mother might think well of a gentleman bearing such a gift.”
“You are a disgrace, Mr. Wheaton,” said Beatrice firmly.
“Unless some upstanding paragon of a woman undertakes my reform, I fear I shall remain incorrigible,” he said. “Will you not save me, Miss Nash?”
“I shall not,” she said. “Good day, Mr. Wheaton.” He raised his hat and went away laughing. Beatrice, looking around, saw two old ladies frowning and whispering about her in a doorway. She straightened her back and walked away at a dignified pace, resisting the urge to scurry.
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