Beatrice had the sudden thought that perhaps Celeste understood more English, and spoke it more fluently, than she professed. If so, she would not blame Celeste for choosing to protect herself behind the mask of foreign inscrutability. Beatrice had done the same in certain awkward situations abroad and once, to her shame, at home, fending off the advances of an incomprehensible and aged friend of Lady Marbely at a local hunt ball by looking the poor man in the face and saying quite clearly “I’m afraid I do not speak English” before retiring to the other end of the ballroom.
After a cold luncheon of bread and cheese, Beatrice left Celeste next door, where Mr. Tillingham had made his garden studio available as a club for Belgian refugees, and slipped into Mr. Tillingham’s library, where she did not linger, for she hoped to maintain her privileges by being undetectable to the great man. With a new book in hand, she turned her steps to the graveled paths of the churchyard and a sheltered corner of a stone buttress which had become a favorite place to sit and read under the dappled shade of ancient trees.
The gravestones were mossy and weathered amid the cool grass, so that it appeared as if no one had died in at least a century. Thinking that she might like to write a small observation on the incongruity of immutable gravestones recording the fragile brevity of life, Beatrice reached in her satchel for a pencil and notebook but instead pulled out her letter from Mr. Caraway. She was reading it for a second time, as if the act of reading might change the words on the page, when a shadow fell across the paper. She looked up to see a young officer in stiff khaki. It took Beatrice a moment to recognize Hugh Grange, for he was thinner, and altered by the uniform and more severely clipped hair, though pleasantly familiar in his blunt chin and frank smile.
“Miss Beatrice, how do you do,” he said, removing his cap. She was much happier to see him than she could have expected and thought perhaps that the shock of the uniform inspired its own empathy.
“Just Beatrice,” she said firmly. “Formality, like many things, seems so silly these days.”
“I am honored,” he said. “I hope my uniform did not startle you?”
“There are so many men in uniform I did not expect it to feel so strange to see you,” she said. “Was your aunt very shocked?”
“I fear I have caused her the sort of palpitations she despises in other women,” said Hugh. “My arrival yesterday was impossible for us both, even though my Uncle John had prepared the way. Daniel could not stop making humorous remarks in the worst possible taste, and my aunt said nothing. I found myself wishing you were at dinner just to break the tension.”
“One longs to be invited where one is useful,” she said, but she smiled to soften her teasing because he was clearly too worried to have guarded his words and even now did not realize that he should have perhaps mentioned another young woman instead. She invited him to sit down.
“I have mostly been hiding in my workshop today, and at last I escaped through a hedge, at great risk to the new uniform, to take a walk.” He examined his sleeves as if for possible leaf stains and ran a hand through his hair. A slight strain was visible on his face, and Beatrice imagined Agatha’s face pale and lined with worry. “I’ve only been in training for a couple of weeks,” he added. “I suppose the more one wears it the less of an impostor one will feel?”
Beatrice wished she could say something of comfort to him.
“Your aunt is the most sensible woman I know,” she said at last. “Her distress shows deep affection and conceals great pride. I am sure she will come around more swiftly if you stop hiding away.”
“You are the second most sensible woman I know,” he said. “May I ask why you are hiding away in the churchyard?”
“I am pretending to read, but really I am here to wallow in self-pity because my father’s publisher declines my talents,” she said. “Such concerns are set in their insignificant place by your arrival.” She handed him the letter, which had remained crumpled in her hand, and added, “At least my father’s letters are to be presented to the world in grand style.”
Hugh read the letter with a serious face.
“This is deplorable,” he said. “Your aunt has no business betraying your interests in this manner.”
“I’m not sure she has done so deliberately,” said Beatrice. “But even if she has, I should thank her for doing my father’s legacy such a service.”
“It is a betrayal,” he said.
“It is perhaps I who sought to betray my father,” she said. “My efforts might have limited the project and thereby limited his legacy for the purposes of my own literary start.”
“Anyone can toss off an introduction,” said Hugh. “No one could match the close insight you would bring.”
“Of course, you don’t even know if I can write,” she said, his frown making her somehow much more cheerful. “After all, I am merely a woman.”
“I take you at your word and assume a basic competence is open to both sexes,” said Hugh.
“Your casual assumption is heresy to most,” said Beatrice. “As I say, it now seems much less important in the grand scheme of the times. I will of course help as I can, and my father’s legacy will no doubt be assured.”
“Who do you think they have asked?” said Hugh, still frowning at the letter.
“I can’t imagine,” said Beatrice. “My aunt only reads sermons. I think the great John Wesley is dead, so I can’t think who else they know. When I wrote to Aunt Marbely I had to explain to her who Mr. Tillingham was.” Even as she said the words, a great cold feeling of dread crept up her throat. She turned slowly to look at Hugh, and she could feel her eyes grow wide with a consternation she could not disguise.
“You don’t think—?” he asked.
“Do you think—?” she replied.
“Surely Tillingham would have consulted you if he had been approached on such a project,” said Hugh.
“Why would he?” asked Beatrice, her voice bitter. “I am invisible to him, especially when it comes to writing.”
“We are merely being fanciful,” said Hugh. “It is impossible that Mr. Tillingham would agree to such a project when he barely remembered your father.”
“That is true,” said Beatrice. “How incongruous that a moment of literary invisibility might turn out to be a saving grace.”
“Mr. Tillingham is as ambitious as he is proud, and your father is hardly the sort of celebrated literary name with which he might look to gild his reputation. Quite beneath Tillingham’s notice, I should think.”
“I believe my father to be quietly respected in the literary and historical communities,” she said, blinking away the sharp sting of a tear and trying to laugh.
Hugh must have noticed, she thought, because he coughed and added, “I’m not the biggest acolyte of our Mr. Tillingham. I speak only of his faults, not of your father’s achievements.”
“You speak the truth,” she said. “But my father was pleased with the modesty of his contributions and content to live the quiet life of a scholar.”
“And such a life and work would have been well served by your own efforts,” said Hugh. “It makes me angry to see you pushed aside. We must think what is to be done.”
“It makes me happy to have friends who would feel that way,” she said. “You cannot know what it means to me.” In the kind expression of his gray eyes, she felt as strong a sense of comfort as if he had put an arm around her shoulders.
“One does not like to see injustice,” he said, patting her hand. His palm was warm and heavy on her skin. “You must not give up.”
“I will not,” said Beatrice. A confusing warmth of feeling caused her to withdraw her hand. She stood up and retrieved her satchel. With some effort she met his eyes again and smiled. “But right now I must make my fortune tutoring certain boys whose previous tutor seems to have spent more time on science experiments than Latin translation.”
“I trust they are not making your life too difficult?” he said.
“I did not expect young Snout to have such an understanding of Virgil,” she said. “Of course he would rather die than display his interest in front of the others, so all three sigh through the lesson as if they were saints being martyred.”