Beatrice laughed, and Hugh heard an echo of the night’s music and had to quell an urge to sweep her into another spinning dance.
“Just as well,” she said. “I told Mrs. Turber we would be out, and there is no producing spontaneous nourishment in the Turber kitchen.”
—
Aunt Agatha was in her small upstairs porch, where she spent most mornings at her desk, in a loose wrapper and slippers, writing letters and reading magazines. Uncle John was smoking his pipe in the window seat and looking over last week’s racing papers. Hugh knocked at the open door and went in.
“Am I late?” asked Aunt Agatha. “I was just trying to finish a couple of notes before they arrive.”
“Celeste and Beatrice are here,” said Hugh. “But Celeste is deep in conversation with Daniel, and Beatrice was keen to tour the kitchen garden.”
“We had best be getting dressed, then,” said his uncle.
“Did you write a note of thanks to Lady Emily yet?” Hugh asked, affecting an air of nonchalance. From the sharp look on his aunt’s face, he knew he had overplayed his hand.
“I am writing it now,” she said, one eyebrow raised.
“Only it seems that the Countess left in a hurry for London this morning,” said Hugh. “Took Craigmore with her without so much as a word to anyone.”
“Seems a little abrupt?” said Uncle John.
“How upsetting for Daniel,” said Agatha. “He was so glad to have his friend here.”
Hugh did his best to meet her gaze with an expression of frankness. “Not really,” he said. “We were just hoping that it is not some family emergency. Perhaps Lady Emily might reassure us on that point?”
“It seems quite rude after all the trouble Lady Emily took to entertain them—but of course I shall be discreet and merely note our concern for Lady North’s family,” said Agatha.
“Harry and Eleanor are also apparently unavailable for luncheon,” said Hugh. “I’ve already spoken to Cook.”
When Hugh had left, Agatha took up her pen and, after some hesitation, composed a brief line offering an expression of concern for the Countess and sympathy for the disarrangement such a hasty departure must bring to any hostess.
While she was reading it over, John folded up his paper and took his pipe from his mouth. “To be expected, you know,” he said.
“What is?” asked Agatha.
“Son of an earl,” said John. “Not likely to be allowed to dabble in the arts when there is a war on.”
“I quite agree,” said Agatha. “Yet I hardly see the need to order the boy away.”
“Some things are best nipped in the bud,” said John. “Time for Daniel to see some sense too.”
“I am as concerned as you about Daniel’s future,” said Agatha. “Yet he does have more than a usual talent, John. Tillingham has said so.”
“Tillingham is an old sybarite with particular interests.”
“John!” said Agatha. “You are quite mistaken. I have had to comfort several ladies I know after Mr. Tillingham has been most rude about the talents of their sons. Some who are even more handsome than Daniel.”
“Ah, then you do admit to that possibility?” asked her husband.
“You are quite awful this morning,” said Agatha. “Do be serious for a moment, John. Do you not think Daniel should pursue his art? He could be the next Coleridge.”
“I think Mr. Kipling is more the fashion now,” said John. “Besides, Coleridge lived a life of poverty and had to be sustained by charitable friends.”
“Perhaps you think he should be a postman like Trollope?” said Agatha.
“You forget that it is not up to us,” said John, mildly, folding away the paper and tucking it in the back of a basket. He was quite pleased to read old copies over again and rotated them carefully so that while he might feel a familiarity in the stories he would be sure to have forgotten the specifics. Though it pained Agatha that he might appear frugal to the staff, he did it not to save money but because to read stories of races already won and horses long put out to stud was, he said, a welcome relaxation after the constant influx of new crises that dominated his working life. Since he had few other vices about which a reasonable wife could complain, she was obliged to find this habit endearing. She was not similarly inclined and spent too much of her household allowance on weekly copies of The Gentlewoman and Country Life, and, more recently, had begun to pick up the less vulgar of the illustrated papers.
“I believe Daniel will go his own way despite his father,” said Agatha. “Or even to spite him outright. I would like to think we might be a mediating influence.”
“You are to stay out of their business, Agatha,” said John. “We have been over this before. We agreed long ago on our proper roles as aunt and uncle to both Hugh and Daniel.”
“Yes but—”
“No ‘buts,’ my dear,” he said. His voice was still as mild as before, but she knew he would not be countermanded. “I have made Daniel’s father aware of the assistance I can provide, and not provide, in securing Daniel a spot in the civil or diplomatic service. I have no particular assistance to offer in the way of a literary career, so even if I did not know it to be against his father’s intentions, I could offer no help there.”
“He wants to start a poetry magazine.”
“If he wanted a military commission, I might be able to pull a few strings,” said John. “At least many people seem to think I can, judging by the dozens of requests I am getting.”
“No, don’t mention such a thing,” said Agatha. “Isn’t it bad enough that Hugh has enlisted?”
“Many of our finest young aristocrats are falling over themselves to get in on the action,” said her husband. “Careers and fortunes may be made in these next few months. I think Hugh was wise to follow his surgeon’s advice.”
“You are not to speak of it to Daniel,” said Agatha. “I should worry all the time.”
“Then I will not bring it up,” said her husband. “And you in turn will leave the boy and his father to discuss his future.”
“I must get this note over to Emily Wheaton,” said Agatha. “I’ll not wait for the post. I’ll send Smith instead.”
—
After the fresh sea air and green lawns of Sussex, all of London seemed breathless under the accumulated dust of a long summer. Having received only an elliptical note from Craigmore, saying he would be at home Tuesday morning but unable to visit Hugh’s hospital, the two cousins had decided to consider themselves invited to visit and had gained entrance through the formidable gates and courtyard of Lord North’s London mansion in part because Hugh was in uniform and a uniform seemed to create respect and open doors these days. They had been shown to a small antechamber, paneled in heavy oak. It contained only small, stiff settees, an empty fireplace with cast-iron mantel, and, between two large windows, an imposing, green malachite bust of Cromwell on a matching plinth so floridly carved with vines and flowers that Cromwell himself would surely have had it destroyed. Hugh was not familiar with any connection of the Earl North family to Cromwell. Perhaps, he thought, there was none and that was why the ugly heirloom had been consigned to oaken purgatory to intimidate unwanted guests. Daniel was pacing the four corners of the room as if to measure it for carpet. His hands clasped behind his back and his shoulders hunched, he looked as miserable as Cromwell and almost as green. Hugh hoped that his cousin would be able to preserve his dignity.
“It will not do to seem anxious,” he said quietly. “And remember, any mention of the journal on your part might seem to be about money rather than friendship.”
“I don’t give a damn about the journal or about money,” said Daniel.
“I know that,” said Hugh. “Just be silent and let Craigmore tell us what is happening.”