“Well, it goes without saying,” said the voice.
“I’m sorry?” said Agatha. “What did you say?”
“Oh, I was just telling my mother it goes without saying that you would come together.”
“I’m not sure I can guarantee my husband’s presence given the situation,” said Agatha. “You know he’s very busy what with the war and such. I can always have one of the boys escort me if that would do?” There was more muffled conversation as Eleanor conveyed this to her mother. A series of clicks on the line reassured Agatha that the telephone operator and the one or two neighbors who had also put in telephones were listening in on the party line. “Yes, they simply cannot run the war without him,” she added, taking a mischievous delight in the opportunity to flaunt her husband’s importance in a way she would never do in person. She heard a muffled cough on the line and swallowed a guilty chuckle. So many people were concerned to announce evidence of their own status, but her husband preferred to keep his work a private matter, and it amused him when people assumed he was some insignificant government clerk. It was not as amusing to Agatha, who sometimes bit her tongue not to mention the Prime Minister, or boast of some national issue in which his work had been of vital importance.
“Sorry, what were you saying?” said Eleanor.
“Nothing,” said Agatha.
“Well, Mother assures me that you will not take it amiss if we say that it is really your husband whom she needs,” said Eleanor. “Lord North is touring all the local defenses, and we need people who can speak to the war. Your husband is vital to my mother’s plans.”
“I understand, and I shall do my very best to produce him,” said Agatha.
“My mother says you are simply the only person in Rye who would be so understanding,” said Eleanor. A muffled grunt indicated those on the line did not take the comment well. “You and Mr. Tillingham are the only ones Lord North would possibly want to meet.”
“I am delighted to be passable,” said Agatha.
“I think we have it all worked out now. It was a bit of a sticky question as to whether we invite Mr. Tillingham’s Belgians. And then of course the girl is staying with Miss Nash, and I adore Miss Nash but Mother thought she could not be invited, and then Lord North’s son is a friend of your Daniel and there were just too many young people.”
“It’s never easy to compose the right table,” said Agatha. Eleanor conveyed this message to her mother, and there was an excited murmuring again.
“My mother appreciates your sympathy,” said Eleanor. “But we solved the problem to everyone’s benefit. My brother and I are hosting all the young people to the last day of hopping at Long Meadow Farm, and then we shall enjoy a picnic in the fields and stay for the evening’s festival.”
“I’m sure the young people will be happy to be excused from dinner,” said Agatha. She would also have preferred the hop farm expedition and had been meaning to arrange such an outing. Now she would be stuffed into her tightest corset and seated according to rank in the Wheatons’ somber stone dining room while Daniel and Hugh would be helping to cut hops, drinking the local cider from warm stone flagons, and singing the wagons home on a starlit country road without her. Her favorite summer memories were not of events themselves, of picnics, sea bathing, tennis afternoons, and cricket matches, but of watching Hugh and Daniel enjoying them and locking into memory the delight in their faces and their open laughter. Hugh would be cutting hops one last time before going away to France, she realized, and the thought made her grip the telephone very hard.
“Let Hugh and Daniel know I am depending on them,” Eleanor said.
“I think your footman is just arriving,” said Agatha, hearing the back doorbell. “If you don’t mind, I won’t make him wait while I write an answer.”
“Of course, we heard you were very busy with preserving today,” said Eleanor. “Mother was just remembering that you make the most delectable peach jam.”
“Thank you,” said Agatha in a dry tone. She never failed to be surprised by the swiftness of gossip between houses. Over short distances, a word to the right housemaid was faster than sending a telegram. “We also put up some of Cook’s mustard pickles yesterday. Shall I send you some of both?”
“Wait—my mother wants to say something,” said Eleanor. There was a murmur and then a voice, shouting as if from across a ravine.
“You are too kind…couldn’t possibly…but much appreciated…”
“Did you hear?” asked Eleanor. “I can’t persuade her to come any closer.”
“Please thank your mother,” said Agatha, who was sure it was better to speak quietly on the telephone than to shout at it across a room, but who knew that social niceties often had an inverse relationship with rational thought. “I’ll send some of both.” She put down the telephone and went to make sure Cook gave Lady Emily’s footman two jars large enough to appear gracious but not so large as to suggest an abundant larder able to supply jars every time someone paid a compliment.
The offices of Fothergill and Son were housed in a brick-fronted Georgian house near the railway station. A suite of severe bottle-green horsehair furniture occupied the dark-paneled front room, and Beatrice tried not to slide about as she waited perched on the edge of a curlicued sofa. Heavy curtains disguised the elegance of the large windows and stopped the sun from penetrating. A thick Turkey rug in shades of purple and brown added a note of smug affluence. As she waited, she grew quite sick at the impending intimacy of negotiating financial matters with Mayor Fothergill, of all people. She wished she had the moral strength, or the funds, to decline her trust’s assistance altogether. At last a door opened in the paneling and the Mayor trod silently across the thick pile towards her.
“So very good of you, Miss Nash, to agree to visit my humble office,” he said. “I would have been glad to wait upon you at your home, but I thought we might be just a little more comfortable and discreet here.” His note, disclosing his appointment to act in the matter of her trust, had suggested such a convenience, referring to her cottage as “your rented room.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fothergill,” said Beatrice, trying not to feel the subtle sting of his condescension.
“Would you like some tea?”
“No, thank you,” she said, thinking of Persephone refusing to take food or drink from Hades. “I do not wish to take up any more of your time than is necessary. I came merely to hear the full details of my aunt’s proposition so that I might reply to her in all points.”
“We are delighted to have been asked to be of assistance,” he said. “As one of the oldest firms in the town, we may not be surprised at how far our name may travel but we are always humbled and grateful.” He did not seem at all humble as he put a pair of small round spectacles on his nose and seemed to be appraising her closely from over the top of them. “You are to be congratulated on your resources and your connections,” he went on. “It is understandable that you would wish to be modest about such matters. There are many who would seek to take advantage.” He dropped his eyes to a thick stack of papers in his hand and ran a fat finger down the top page.
“I have no intention of allowing anyone to take advantage,” said Beatrice, hoping he understood from her firm tone that she included him in that population.
“A woman whose trust is released, and only released, upon the instance of her marriage must be an attractive target to all manner of adventurers,” he continued in a low, conspiratorial voice. “Though your trustees indicate that your income would be more in the nature of a competency than any sort of riches, it is understandable that they would seek to retain close rein.”