“I see no reason to discuss it,” she said.
“They are threatening to halt your monthly allowance and the rest of the ten pounds,” he said, a frown of what appeared to be genuine worry appearing between his eyes. “I would hate to see you cut off, Miss Nash.”
“But the two things are not at all connected,” she said.
“And yet when the draft fails to come in, how will you pay your bills?” he asked. “It has already come to my uncle’s attention that just yesterday you ordered not one but two dresses from Pike Brothers’ fabric counter?”
“How would it come to his attention?” said Beatrice. She could not help but feel a blush rise into her cheeks. Not that Mr. Poot had mentioned the underclothes and stockings she had also purchased, but she had an idea both he and Mr. Fothergill had counted every ribbon and seam. “Is someone spying on me?”
Even as she asked, she remembered Mr. Poot had appeared, entering the shop as she was leaving. He had removed his hat and held the door, but his obsequious smile and his greeting—too familiar and projected for all the customers to hear—had made her flinch. She remembered she had offered only a curt nod and passed on as swiftly as possible. His face now betrayed no smirk of revenge, but his very impassiveness made her angry.
“My dear Miss Nash, it is not important how the information was acquired. I can assure you I was not aware,” he said. “But since he is now aware of this rather large order, coming so soon after our agreement as to your modest financial intentions, he thought it incumbent that you and I have a talk, just between us, to resolve this letter business to your trustees’ satisfaction…” He let the comment trail off and appeared to be waiting for an explanation, a coy smile inviting her confidence. She had the strongest sensation that a lowering of her lashes and a blushing appeal might move him to agree with any explanation she cared to fabricate. Instead she looked him full in the face.
“Mr. Poot, we agreed that your firm will receive a copy of my monthly accounts and that you would personally refrain from unwarranted parsing of individual expenses,” she said. “I see no reason for this intrusion.”
“I told him just the very same,” said Mr. Poot. “I told him I had all faith in your sensible nature. But he feels it incumbent on us to seek some assurance that you can pay your debts.”
“I can,” she said.
“I assure you I am your most humble ally,” he said, placing a hand on his chest as if to take a vow. “But let us not be coy with each other,” he added. “Such a large order might be considered profligate, and since the rest of your ten pounds has not come in, what is your source of funds?”
“You seek to insult me,” she said. “Do you accuse me of going to moneylenders?”
“I would not even think to suspect you of such a disrespectable option,” he said, looking down the length of his nose at her as if shocked at her knowledge of their existence. “Perhaps Mrs. Kent has loaned you money?”
“She has not,” said Beatrice. He shook his head with a slow and disappointed air. It occurred to Beatrice that she would like to rap the crown of his oiled head with the ebony handle of her sunshade. She seized it and stood up. “I will not be spied upon, Mr. Poot.”
“I assure you I am your friend in this matter,” he said. “I am only trying to deter my uncle from writing to your trustees over a matter which, I am certain, will only add to their stubbornness.”
She paused, desperate to leave the room, which seemed to shrink as they consumed its stale air, but wishing to prevent any such communication with her trustees. She sat down again, but kept a hand on her sunshade.
“If you must know, I sold some books,” she said. “Mr. Evans in the high street had a buyer for a rare edition of Boswell’s Life of Johnson, and as I have always disliked Dr. Johnson, for his personal habits and his arrogance, and Mr. Boswell, for his uncritical worship, I decided it would serve them both right to be sold off to buy ladies’ dresses.”
“I confess myself somewhat shocked,” said Mr. Poot.
“You think it unladylike to sell one’s possessions for money?” she asked.
“I’m shocked that you can get two dresses and half a dozen ladies’ unmentionables for the price of a book!”
And yet you must mention them, she thought.
“They were morocco bound with gilding in three volumes,” she said. “They were a gift to my father from a lady, and he could never part with them, but I always thought both the books and the lady rather vulgar.”
“I am satisfied as to the source of funds,” he said. “Though I would counsel you, from bitter personal experience, that the disposition of one’s belongings is not a long-term solution to one’s expenses.” He sighed and polished his spectacles. For a moment he was honest, and she could feel again some sympathy for a young man of straitened circumstance. She was in no position to judge a cheap shirtfront so harshly.
“Ahem…I worry also that white silk is not the most serviceable purchase for a woman in your situation,” he added, ruining any flicker of compassion.
“Your aunt was persuaded to ask me, at this late date, to appear on her parade float, but she specifies white silk for all who ride with Britannia,” said Beatrice. “I feel I must bear my own expenses to further the cause of Belgian Relief and to ensure Mrs. Fothergill’s triumph in the parade.” What she had felt was a fierce humiliation during the weekly committee meeting when Mrs. Fothergill made her offer at the prompting of Lady Emily, but let her obvious reluctance show through her smile. Agatha Kent was not at the meeting to deflect or smooth the awkwardness as Mrs. Fothergill had indicated, with a simper, that Beatrice might decline should she be unable to defray the cost of a silk dress. Beatrice had rashly accepted, not just to restore comfort to the rest of the committee, who had lowered their eyes to their agendas in sympathetic avoidance, but to see Mrs. Fothergill’s smug expression collapse into chagrin. She could only hope the shop assistant was right that the silk could later be dyed a serviceable navy blue.
“Well, I…well that is all right then,” said Mr. Poot, working his lips to find a graceful compliment.
“These are my first purchases since I have come out of mourning,” she said. “My only good dress is black, and I feared it a bad omen to wear it.”
“Your sensibility does you much credit,” said Mr. Poot. “Any man would be happy to know a woman with such a level head.” He seemed inclined to pat her hand, and she moved it quickly to rearrange an invisible strand of hair.
“Thank you, Mr. Poot,” she said. She stood up, straightening her gloves and inching from behind the low table towards the door.
“And levelheaded as you are,” he continued, “I should urge you to accommodate your trustees with their demands,” he said.
“I will write to them at once,” she said, though she knew her letter would be quite different in content than he imagined. “May I count on your support?”
“You may,” he said. “I will settle my uncle’s mind, and I hope you and I will grow to understand each other better. I would welcome your trust, Miss Nash.”
“Of course, Mr. Poot,” she said, and she offered him as coy a smile as she could manage and did not flinch when he raised her hand to his lips. In the street, she released her anger by decapitating several dandelions growing in the cracks of the pavements. Each ruined golden head, exploded by the steel tip of her sunshade, was a tiny head of Mr. Poot or a tiny Aunt Marbely, to be ground discreetly beneath her heel.