“You and the German nanny make quite a nest of terror,” said Hugh.
“Harry likes to egg him on by asking Fr?ulein to take all our letters to the Post Office,” said Eleanor. “He sends her right by the Major’s office window, and she does have a rather furtive way of clutching the post to her bosom.”
“No one could seriously doubt your loyalties,” said Beatrice. “The man must be a complete idiot.”
“Of course I would not be foolish enough to have anything of importance sent to or from my mother’s house,” said Eleanor. She spoke with no wink or other hint of guile, but as Beatrice caught Hugh’s eye she saw reflected her own consternation that perhaps Eleanor was foolish enough to believe the new restrictions on mail did not apply to her.
“Madame is married to a German?” asked Celeste in a small voice. Beatrice was surprised, as she had never heard Celeste make such an abrupt comment. She realized that in all the small talk of their tea visits, and sundry gatherings, there had never been an occasion to discuss Eleanor’s situation. The Wheaton family had quietly resumed referring to Eleanor as Miss Wheaton, and of course the baby was simply baby George. No one in the county seemed to dare gossip about them, one of the privileges of rank.
“Yes I am,” said Eleanor. “I am sorry for any pain that might cause you, but I assure you he is completely opposed to the horrid tactics of the Prussian hordes who overran your country.” There was an awkward pause. Celeste picked at a hop flower in her lap, Eleanor looked away to the river, and Beatrice dropped her eyes to the grass.
“I am sorry you and your baby cannot be with your husband,” said Celeste at last. “There are so many families who have been divided. It is a great suffering.”
“It is indeed,” said Eleanor. “You put it so gracefully, my dear.” They worked on in silence, save for the sound of hop flowers softly dropping onto the canvas at their feet.
Daniel and Craigmore came back from the river, each loaded down with sodden wicker baskets containing stoppered bottles of lemon cordial and barley water, which had been cooling in a pool under the shady riverbank. They were accompanied by a man and woman dressed in the flowing linens and broad straw hats of farm workers from some entirely different country. Possibly Italy or southern Spain, thought Beatrice, looking at the woman’s dark bodice laced loosely across a muslin blouse, the bright overskirt looped on one hip. The woman carried her hat, her thick auburn hair glowing in the sun as it threatened to escape from its tortoiseshell combs. The man, in his shapeless tunic and broad breeches tucked into tall, rough socks, carried a basket in one hand and a stack of cake boxes dangling from a string in the other. His forearms, sticking out from rolled sleeves, were as tightly muscled as a peasant’s, but his face, under his broad, fraying hat, was pale and smooth, as if he were seldom outdoors.
“We have found unexpected friends at the riverbank,” called Daniel, placing his baskets in the shade of Eleanor’s chair and popping open a bottle of cordial. “Eleanor, may I present Mr. and Mrs. Frith? They are great friends of Mr. Tillingham’s, and Mr. Frith has been a friend to many a young poet, including myself.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Eleanor. “May I introduce Miss Beatrice Nash, and this is Miss Celeste, our Belgian refugee friend.”
“Mr. Frith?” asked Beatrice as she shook hands. “Are you Algernon Frith?”
“Are you one of my creditors?” asked the wiry man with a serious face.
“No. I mean…” Beatrice stumbled. “Only if you are Algernon Frith, the writer, it might explain your romantic garb.”
“Great powers of observation,” said the man, shaking her hand. “I am indeed Algernon Frith, writer, newly returned from a long and financially prudent honeymoon in Andalusia. Hence the garments. I haven’t had time to ask my tailor for appropriate hopping attire.”
“Don’t listen to him,” said the woman. “He has an insatiable appetite for wearing costumes, and I assist his muse though it renders me ridiculous in company.”
“On the contrary,” said Eleanor. “You look most charming and romantic, Mrs. Frith.”
“Do call me Amberleigh,” said the woman.
“Mrs. Frith is better known as the writer A. A. de Witte,” said Daniel.
“I am a great admirer of your work,” said Beatrice, unsure by which name to address the author of several famous medieval novels so frank and sensational Beatrice had not thought they were written by a woman. Then the newspapers had shown a picture of A. A. de Witte as the cause of Algernon Frith’s marital troubles. “Though I must admit,” she continued, “it is the only work I have ever read without telling my father.”
“You are very kind,” said Amberleigh, laughing. “But I wouldn’t broadcast it about. It is more fashionable to never have read a word of mine.”
“My wife and I are grateful to hear any kind opinion these days,” said Frith. “I’m afraid I have not made her life easy these past two years.” The two lovers had fled to Europe, where Frith claimed to have been granted a divorce, and where they had married. Perhaps because of the reputation of her books, Amberleigh de Witte’s marriage was the subject of scurrilous whisperings.
“Mr. Frith has some twelve books in print and three volumes of poetry,” said Daniel to Eleanor. “He is one of our great voices.”
“The boy is very kind, but as Miss Nash will agree, my wife, Amberleigh, is the real writer in the family. Old Tillingham would tell you that I am a charming fellow and a complete hack. It’s one of Tillingham’s great qualities that he tells all his friends they are hacks and yet he manages to keep them.”
“He doesn’t tell me I’m a hack,” said Daniel. “He is being very strict but encouraging.”
“Beauty is his weakness, which is perhaps why he is also kind to my wife,” said Frith. “But his literary nature will savage you in the end.”
“Will you join us for the festivities this evening, Mrs. Frith?” asked Eleanor. “We have plenty of room at our table.”
“I think we are promised elsewhere,” said Amberleigh, a shade too quickly. “We are to meet Miss Finch, the photographer, and Miss Buttles.” She turned away as if to scan the field for her friends, and her hat, held as a shade against the sun, obscured her face.
“The more the merrier,” said Eleanor. “I wonder if Miss Finch might be persuaded to take our photograph.”
“My wife and I live largely in seclusion,” said Frith, dropping his voice to add, “We do not look for social invitations given the business about my divorce.”
“It has been suggested that I confine myself to a more secluded life because of my German husband, but I think we have to resist such nonsense, don’t you?” asked Eleanor, a note of ringing determination in her voice. “Besides,” she added, “it’s a picnic and we are dining with everyone from farmers to Gypsies. There can be no drawing room ceremony here.”
“You must join us, old man,” said Daniel. “You and Amberleigh will completely enliven the proceedings.” Frith looked to his wife, who lowered her hat and gave the briefest nod of her head.
“If you please, Baroness, we will be happy to accept your kind invitation,” said Frith.
“Good, we will be a thoroughly bohemian party,” she replied, with an air of satisfaction. “And do call me Eleanor. We needn’t stand on ceremony.”