“And how is Eleanor?” said Agatha. “One feels for her.”
“She is worried for Otto, of course, but we have assured her that no one will think this nonsense was the fault of such old German families as his.”
“Quite so,” said Agatha, trying to quell a smile. “Here is Beatrice with tea. Will you have some?”
“Where is Mr. Tillingham?” asked Lady Emily, taking a cup and saucer from Beatrice and dropping two sugar cubes into her tea.
“Perhaps Mr. Tillingham is still writing,” said Beatrice. “I know from my own father that it is often difficult to keep track of time in the midst of the creative flow.”
“We must give the great man the benefit of the doubt,” said Lady Emily. “Though I fail to see why art should not exist in harmony with good manners.”
Mr. Tillingham made his entrance just after his housekeeper arrived with a platter of fresh sandwiches.
“So good of you to come. I have rushed from my labors, as you see.” He wore a loose scarlet and blue cravat with his suit, flourished a large linen handkerchief, and displayed his hands as if they were stained with the ink of his profession. Since he dictated all his work to his lady secretary, his hands were clean and pink and the handkerchief was freshly starched and not at all wrung with a poet’s agonies. Still, the ladies pressed about him with eager faces as Mr. Tillingham graced them with a summary of his work in London in the national cause of Belgian Relief, for which he had received from their limited coffers several large stipends before Agatha had put her foot down and reminded them of their duty to their local refugees. It was with some difficulty that she called the committee to order.
—
The Belgian Relief Committee’s fundraising plans for a Grand Fete and Parade had grown into an undertaking not unlike a small war of its own. The town Salts and cricket ground had been secured for the day’s events, which were to feature, in addition to the usual stalls, games, pony rides, and food, an entire military encampment. Two squads of Colonel Wheaton’s newest recruits were to display their skills at trenching and infantry drills, the Royal Army Medical Corps was sending a model field ambulance under Hugh’s command, and the local Boy Scouts were planning a display of camp skills as well as being in charge of the largest group of latrines ever assembled for one event in Rye. Agatha had taken the calculated risk of asking Bettina Fothergill to be in charge of the big parade. As the wife of the Mayor she would already have demanded a prime place in the procession, and putting her in charge had ensured permission from the council for everything from digging holes to serving beer and champagne in the tents.
“And so after the town brass band, the scouts, and the horse-drawn steam engine, we envision long lines of schoolgirls all in white dresses and bare feet, wearing wreaths of white chrysanthemums in their free-flowing hair,” said Bettina.
“Wouldn’t the schoolgirls prefer to march ahead of the horses if they’re going to be in bare feet?” asked Alice Finch, grinning.
“Well, if you’re not going to take this seriously,” said Bettina.
“Mrs. Fothergill can always adjust the order later,” said Agatha. “Or perhaps add Wellington boots?” Beatrice appeared to choke into a handkerchief, and Agatha gave her a severe look as she added, “I fear horses are not to be altogether avoided.”
“Then we feature our dignitaries in motorcars, only I’m not sure whether they should play characters or just appear as themselves,” said Bettina. “Do you see yourself as Shakespeare, Mr. Tillingham?”
Mr. Tillingham, whose attention had wandered, was completely put out of countenance by the question. “Well, it would not be fitting…I mean it is for others, not the mere writer…”
“In the parade, Mr. Tillingham,” said Agatha, patting his hand. “Do you want to wear a ruff and tights in the parade?”
“Good heavens no,” said Tillingham.
“Then we have Boadicea, Queen Elizabeth with Sir Walter Raleigh, and Nelson all driven in pony traps decorated with laurel,” continued Bettina.
“Perhaps I could wear the ruff and tights as Sir Walter,” said Alice, still grinning at Bettina’s earnest presentation. “Minnie has the hair to play the Faerie Queen.”
“No doubt you would play Sir Walter as usually depicted, with full beard and moustache,” said Bettina sweetly. “I only fear the Vicar would not wish to see his daughter associated with such strange irregularity.”
“It’s a costume parade, is it not?” Alice’s eyes narrowed, and Minnie placed a gentle hand on her arm.
“Personally, I think all costumes and theatricals are designed expressly to allow people to cavort in indecent attire without being ostracized,” said Lady Emily. “I hardly think you need single out Miss Finch’s suggestion as odd, dear Bettina.” The room became very quiet.
“No indeed, Lady Emily,” said Bettina. “But I assure you all our costumes will be most tastefully done and completely respectable.”
“Good. If we can just get to the end of the parade?” said Lady Emily.
With a chastened air, Bettina Fothergill took a large drawing block from behind her chair and displayed an elaborate pen and ink sketch.
“Britannia herself, on a golden throne, surrounded by representatives from England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales; and sheltering in her skirts the innocent handmaid of Belgium.”
There was a general pause at the scale of both the idea and the sketch. Bettina grew red at the silence.
“Where will we get a cart that big?” asked Alice slowly. “Not that I am criticizing, not at all.”
“I like the six white horses,” said Lady Emily. “But I am not aware of any such matched set for hire in the county. The army has already commandeered so many.”
Bettina looked hurt. Her long face seemed to stretch, her eyes assuming a sad slant, like those of a bloodhound. From the corner of her eye, Agatha saw Beatrice’s lips begin to twitch.
“Do tell us who shall play your Britannia and handmaidens?” asked Minnie Buttles, cautiously adding her sweet compassion to the discussion. “Miss Nash would make a lovely red rose of England against the snow white of Miss Celeste’s Belgium?”
“Miss Nash will have her hands full with the procession of her Latin scholars,” snapped Bettina. Agatha sighed to see compassion wither again on that stony bosom. “I will be selecting the maidens on the basis of their utmost respectability and their ability to purchase their own white silk,” she continued. “We must have only the best to represent our country’s finest act of patriotism.”
Agatha admired the way Beatrice Nash refused to flinch at the slight. Several stinging set-downs hovered on her lips, but she did not utter them. She could only hope Beatrice would understand that the strategic advantage lay in encouraging Bettina in her absurdity. The grandiosity of the finale was a perfect opportunity to keep Bettina busy; and if it failed, so much the better for her thorough defeat.
“Well, I think it’s a triumph,” said Agatha. There was a satisfying silence around the chairs. “I have complete faith that Mrs. Fothergill will pull off this Herculean task all by herself.”
“Thank you,” said Bettina.
“And we hope, dear Bettina, that you, yourself, will grace us as Britannia?” added Agatha.
Bettina looked so absurdly grateful that Agatha thought it almost unfair.
“Well, I was going to suggest asking Ellen Terry,” said the Mayoress. “But if you insist?”
“We do!” said Agatha, feeling the thrill of victory as she led them in a small round of applause. Bettina Fothergill blushed like a girl.