Mrs. Turber, wearing a hat like a cabbage, was crushed into the back row of the Town Hall’s council chamber amid a crowd of similar hats while Mr. Tillingham sat up front, wearing brown tweeds as if they were a general’s uniform. Every one of the small leaded windows in the vaulted chamber had been opened to the evening air, but this merely allowed in the dust of the street and the raucous sound of the town brass band playing down on the cobbles below. Beatrice, who was torn between her moral duty to attend and a healthy fear of being cornered by any number of officious-looking ladies, had almost decided to slip away when Agatha Kent waved her over to a spare seat.
“If the war could be won by the wearing of red, white, and blue ribbons on one’s hat,” said Beatrice, sitting down behind a lady with a particularly large and festooned example, “perhaps it would already be over.” She thought her father would have been appalled at the abundance of frivolous ornament detracting from the seriousness of the times.
“I assume that the good burghers of small German towns are at this very moment holding similar hot and crowded meetings,” said Agatha, fanning herself vigorously with a copy of the printed agenda. “Apparently, we must attempt to create more committees and official titles than the enemy.”
“You are alone?” asked Beatrice. She could not ask directly after Agatha’s nephews, but she had not seen them in a few days, and while she would never admit such a thought publicly, her independence did not preclude a lively interest in the young men.
“Hugh has been busy helping Dr. Lawton out at the encampment, and Daniel has gone walking the Downs with some disreputable-looking poet friends,” said Agatha. “So I’m quite alone.”
“Where is Lady Emily?” said Beatrice. “I expected you both to be in charge.”
“Emily Wheaton is preoccupied with turning a wing of her house into an officers’ hospital,” said Agatha.
“That’s admirably patriotic,” said Beatrice.
“She hinted that it might forestall the army from taking the whole house and allowing all ranks to run amok in her flower beds,” said Agatha.
“Patriotic and practical then,” said Beatrice.
“Quite,” said Agatha.
On the dais, the Mayor, in full regalia, gaveled the meeting to order. Colonel Wheaton, whose local territorials, it was rumored, were about to be given official standing as a regiment in Kitchener’s new volunteer army, sat to his left. To his right he was flanked by Mrs. Fothergill, dressed in full uniform of the Voluntary Aid Detachment with an extra sash of blue and white satin pinned with red roses.
The coming of war had given prominence to anyone of official status and in uniform, and so the front rows of the room contained those who had managed to drum up some sort of insignia. They were currently engaged in the tedious process of standing one by one to add their ceremonial notices of support to the afternoon’s proceedings.
“The Sporting and Working Dog Association wishes to record its unconditional support of His Majesty’s Government,” said Farmer Bowen, wearing the green sash of the Association Grand Marshal. The Boy Scouts, the Fire Brigade, and the Merchants Guild followed suit. Beatrice tried not to feel the dribble of sweat collecting along her spine as Agatha continued to fan energetically and the room cheered and applauded, leaving each speaker pink-faced and very pleased. As the flow of speakers diminished, Mrs. Fothergill rose in a great rustling of starched linen and waited, stern-faced, for quiet in the room.
“The Voluntary Aid Detachment of East Sussex, Rye Chapter, offers its colors to our sovereign,” she intoned. At her words an entire row of similarly dressed ladies stood up from their chairs and processed up the center aisle carrying an array of crutches, boxes of medical supplies, and flags of the nation and the association attached to stretcher poles. Farmer Bowen looked quite put out, as if he suddenly wished he had thought to bring dogs wearing rosettes.
“Are we all done?” the Mayor asked, as the ladies processed back to their seats. A tall woman in a severe black linen suit and a small hat rose from her chair. She wore only a single lapel button of office and carried a stack of newsletters.
“Who is that?” asked Beatrice.
“That’s Alice Finch, a friend of Minnie Buttles, the Vicar’s daughter,” whispered Agatha. “They have recently come from London and opened a small photography studio in a converted stable at the lower end of the high street.” She peered closely at Miss Finch and added, “I must say that to speak at a public meeting seems a little forward for such a newcomer.” Beatrice smiled to find that Agatha Kent was not entirely immune to the provincial suspicion of outsiders. The smaller the town, the more decades one was likely to be viewed as a newcomer; though in a town like Rye, newcomer was considered a step up from being a summer visitor and totally disregarded by all.
“The Women’s National Suffrage Union, East Sussex Chapter, echoes the official statement of its national headquarters in suspending all suffrage campaigning and declares its sacred duty and intention to support all national war efforts,” said Miss Finch. Her voice was hoarse, as if she were recovering from a bad cold. “We have more information here if anyone would like a copy of our national directive.” The woman next to her, whose wispy curls and ruffled blouse gave her the look of a wind-tousled chick, stood with a hesitant smile and waved a pamphlet. Beatrice assumed she must be Minnie Buttles. The clapping was distinctly muted and mingled with some low chuckles and whispers. The severe woman looked tight-lipped, while her companion blushed.
“Suffragettes!” whispered Agatha as if communicating a great scandal. “I’m quite sure invitations to tea are being quietly withdrawn all over the room.” Beatrice, who had some intellectual interest in the question of emancipation, had never met a suffragette in person. She tried to disguise her quickening interest, for it would not do to show any such enthusiasm.
The Mayor banged his gavel. “The town thanks the ladies for their sensible response,” he said. “I’m sure my wife, Mrs. Fothergill, could use your members’ help with her sock-knitting drive.” Mrs. Fothergill and the severe woman each looked distinctly alarmed at such a prospect, and Beatrice noticed that Agatha hid a smile behind her printed agenda.
“I intend to offer our services to the Territorial Army in the form of a bicycle-and motorcycle-based messenger service,” said Miss Finch, her tone as severe as her manner.
“Quite so,” said the Mayor. “All plans will be submitted during tea; ladies’ organizations to Mrs. Fothergill at the tea table and gentlemen to Colonel Wheaton and myself at the desk down here on the right.”
The Mayor was then induced by Colonel Wheaton to accept nomination as Chairman of the War Relief Committee and proceeded to read a slate of other committee candidates: the local butcher, Mr. DeVere, to manage food supplies; Mr. Satchell, the shipowner, to coordinate maritime security; the Vicar to manage issues of morale and pastoral care; and Dr. Lawton to coordinate medical services and programs.
“That is a pretty neat coup d’état,” said Beatrice. “Aren’t you going to object? Don’t you wish to be appointed?”
“I would never presume to interfere in the gentlemen’s sphere,” said Agatha, folding her hands in her lap and assuming a neutral face. “I will wait with all feminine patience to learn where I am needed.”
“Really?” asked Beatrice.
“No, of course not,” said Agatha. “But the easiest way is always to work through a suitable man. You see, I already have Dr. Lawton in place, which quite puts Mrs. Fothergill and her volunteers where I want them. Now there is just the question of the Belgians.”
“As you all know,” said the Mayor, “the advancing scourge of the German army has been laying waste to poor little Belgium with a ferocity unprecedented in Europe in these many centuries.”
“Well, if you don’t count the Turks,” said Colonel Wheaton.
“Precisely,” said the Mayor. “Such savagery has no place in the civilized countries of Europe or in civilized warfare, and we are called upon to bring relief and succor to the tens of thousands of our poor, innocent Belgian brethren fleeing these atrocities.”
“How many?” asked Farmer Bowen in consternation.