“I was able to persuade the commanding officer to save some of the rarest volumes,” said the Professor. “But even he, an educated gentleman to whom I could beg for reason, he could not keep his troops from putting the buildings to the flame.” He produced a large handkerchief from his pocket and turned aside his face.
Hugh felt some doubt as to whether the burning of books should be counted a greater crime than forcing poor families from their homes at bayonet point. And the suffering he had witnessed on the docks had seemed to make no distinction between rich and poor. But he held his tongue. He did not think the present company would welcome a debate on such questions—for he had no doubt that spirited debate was the first casualty of any war.
—
For Beatrice the opening of Mr. Tillingham’s front door was the opening of the temple. Stepping in behind Agatha Kent and Celeste, she could already smell the books, even above the waxy note of wood polish and the hint of recently baked cakes from the unseen kitchen. Leather-bound books, old books with yellowed pages, new books with the sharp scent of printer’s ink and the promise of crisp, uncut pages awaiting the paper knife. Pamphlets and chapbooks in boxes, clean paper awaiting the typewriter or pen. She could feel a familiarity; and a tiny, tremulous awakening of a hope that she belonged in this tiled hall, these high-ceilinged parlors. Might Mr. Tillingham indeed invite her to use his library? Might not Mr. Tillingham’s secretary experience a sudden temporary illness and Beatrice be allowed to step in and assist as she had done so often for her father? Might the great man, in his gratitude, not then take an avuncular interest in her writings as he already did for Daniel? For a moment Beatrice allowed her mind to indulge in these happy thoughts and to feel a glow of possibility that she had not felt since losing her father.
Her reverie was interrupted by Celeste, whose grip upon her arm tightened. The girl trembled violently, and her face was once again pale. Beatrice was reminded sharply that the pleasures of at last reaching Mr. Tillingham’s inner sanctum were purchased on the back of much loss and distress, and that it was foolish of them all to subject the girl to a garden full of strangers.
“Courage, ma petite,” said Beatrice, patting Celeste’s hand. “We go to see your papa.”
—
At tea, the Professor and Mr. Tillingham held forth at length about conditions in Belgium. Beatrice gently refused a second cup of tea and was glad when Agatha whispered that she was welcome to slip away from the table to admire the gardens. She had stopped to peer at a blowsy purple clematis flower which spread its velvet petals against the old brick of the garden wall when Daniel, smoking a foul-smelling cigarillo, and Hugh came strolling along the narrow path.
“A more sentimental picture for the artist could hardly be imagined,” said Daniel, nodding his head across the lawn towards the Professor and his daughter. The Professor inhabited his chair like a wicker throne, thought Beatrice, and Celeste, seated on a low wicker stool at his side, her hand on his sleeve, her skirts pooling on the grass, her body twisted slightly to his, and her face tilted up, looked like a supplicating princess. The Professor, rendered perhaps more heroic by her air of adoration, was still lecturing, and Agatha Kent and Mr. Tillingham were settled in attitudes of the closest attention. “Perhaps to be titled ‘Respite from the Storm’? Or ‘The Grateful Guests’?” he added. “She does make a compelling case for an immediate call to arms.”
“Must you always be so mocking?” asked Hugh, looking grim. “They have lost their home, their country—everything. The desperation we witnessed at the port is beyond anything we have imagined.”
“At least they have each other,” said Beatrice. “Her father is everything to her.” Her own voice developed an unwanted tremor as she spoke.
“Somber thoughts for such a lovely afternoon,” said Hugh.
“I do not make light of their suffering,” said Daniel. “It is just human nature to be more interested in fighting to rescue beautiful young maidens. I am ready to run to the recruiter if only she will drop her handkerchief.”
“If she dropped a handkerchief, no doubt you would be too lazy to even pick it up,” said Hugh.
“You are right,” said Daniel, with a sigh. “But I may feel a poem coming on.”
“Miss Nash, it does you much credit to have taken in the young lady,” said Hugh. “I think they ask too much of you.”
“Aunt Agatha could take her,” said Daniel. “Then we would see her every day at breakfast, Hugh.”
“Forgive my cousin,” said Hugh. “He is only playing the fool.”
“Really?” asked Beatrice. “He is so convincing.”
“The balloon of my pride is thus pierced by the steel pin of your wit, Miss Nash,” said Daniel. “I shall deflate in a suitable chair.” He set off at a fast clip to make a second assault upon the cake stand.
“Not many ladies would be so ready to share their home,” said Hugh as they slowly followed Daniel back to the tea table. “You are to be admired.” Beatrice felt a small glow of pleasure at such a compliment from the serious Hugh, but when she turned her smile towards him, she saw he was absorbed in studying Celeste, and frowning at Daniel, who had pulled up a chair to engage her in conversation. Her pleasure died and she crushed her own injured feelings with a sharp response.
“It was quite selfish on my part,” she said. “Don’t you know that it is deeply fashionable to take in a refugee?”
“No one could ever suspect you of being fashionable,” said Hugh.
“Just what a woman wants to hear,” said Beatrice with a sigh.
Hugh stopped in his tracks to face her, his eyes anxious. “By which I mean only that no one…I mean, I do not mean…oh my goodness, Miss Nash…”
“I am teasing you, Mr. Grange,” said Beatrice, satisfied to have demanded his full attention but sorry to have succumbed to her own vanity. “I thank you for your faith in my altruism.” She was also painfully aware that she might not have been altogether altruistic in acceding to Mr. Tillingham’s request for help. However, she was now up to her neck in a responsibility both serious and of an indeterminate length, and therefore she was rather a saint whether she liked it or not.
“Hugh, please,” said Hugh.
“Hugh,” she replied.
“She seems calm,” said Hugh, looking again at Celeste. “Did she sleep?”
“Not well,” said Beatrice. “But I assume any nightmares will abate now she is safe?”
“These people have seen things no civilized person expects to see in their country town,” said Hugh. “I fear neurasthenia in some and ongoing nightmares even in the strongest of them.”
“What can we do?” asked Beatrice.
“Just observe her closely,” said Hugh. “Treat her as one might a recent invalid. Plenty of hot, sweet tea or beef broth, fresh air, rest—and call on Dr. Lawton if you need a sleeping draft for her.”
“Thank you,” said Beatrice. “And will you come and check on us?” He looked at her for a moment, and she could not read his face. “Was there some mention of cream tea?” she added, smiling.
“I haven’t told my aunt and cousin yet, but I may not be in Sussex for much longer,” said Hugh. He hesitated and then, lowering his voice, he added, “I am going to London tomorrow to enlist.”
“You can’t mean it?” Beatrice sat down abruptly on a small rustic bench under the garden wall. “I mean…I thought soldiering was for the Harry Wheatons of the world. You have so much important work to do.”
“I’ll be furthering that work,” said Hugh. “Just under the auspices of the Royal Army Medical Corps.”
“But what about your surgeon?” she asked. “Does he not count on you?”
“He is leading the charge,” said Hugh. “He offered me more patients and more experience to be had on the battlefield, and the chance to do my duty while furthering my own career.” His lip twisted in apparent distaste.
“An irresistible combination, I should think,” said Beatrice slowly.