—
Beatrice could not deny that she was enjoying herself. Her new dress fell in becoming folds about her golden sandals; her hair had cooperated and was pinned up in soft rolls under a circlet of laurel. She felt an unusual happiness and understood that it came from feeling young and pretty, or at least remembering what it had felt like to feel young and pretty, before the more recent years of her father’s decline had rendered such feelings pointless. Seated on a carpet-covered box at the right hand of Britannia’s flower-covered throne, she carried a shield decorated with the St. George’s Cross. As she waved to the crowd, she reserved her friendliest smiles for the delighted children, who sat openmouthed on their fathers’ shoulders, clutching little flags and sticky lollipops and wondering at the pageant unfolding before them. She knew the children thought it was all real and did not recognize even Mrs. Fothergill, whose painted face had acquired a regal air under her laurel crown and who waved with all the restraint of a true monarch. Celeste, as Belgium, sat on a lower box at Britannia’s feet, wearing her own white dress, its lace hastily attached all down the front of the skirt, a simple white cotton cap with strings, and a small shawl knitted in the colors of the Belgian flag. She carried a posy of wildflowers in a basket. On boxes of different heights, all covered in green baize to suggest the land’s undulating landscape, the young ladies of Scotland, Wales, and Ireland stood to the rear of the throne. Ahead, a small section of a military band from Kent played patriotic songs and hymns, and the crowd sang snatches of the words and waved their hats as the float passed so that even Beatrice felt her eyes grow wet with sentimental tears. It was impossible that the hardest of hearts not be moved by the sunny day and the fervor of the country crowd’s simple patriotism.
As the float approached the viewing stand, Beatrice felt a flutter of nerves that had little to do with being reviewed by Colonel Wheaton, Lady Emily, and the other dignitaries, and more to do with whether Hugh and Daniel would keep their promise to double back to see her and Celeste’s triumphal arrival. Even Celeste put a hand to a stray tendril of hair, and Beatrice understood that she too was not immune to such flattery. Beatrice sat a little taller on her box but refused to pat her own hair and tried not to look around for familiar faces. As the float slowed to a stop, Mrs. Fothergill rose to her feet to the rousing applause of the reviewing stands and, after a dignified nod of acknowledgment, unsheathed the sword that hung so decoratively from a tapestry girdle around her waist.
“Women of Britain, prepare to defend Belgium,” she said in ringing tones.
“What are we doing?” whispered Beatrice. “I thought this was a silent tableau.”
“The element of surprise, dear,” said Mrs. Fothergill. “Be ready!” Before she could say more a roar went up from behind both stands and a pack of men, dressed in blue uniform jackets and sporting the distinctive spiked brass helmet preferred by Germanic regiments, burst forth waving swords, shotguns, and farm implements, and rushed the float with bloodcurdling oaths. The band struck up a rousing march as Mrs. Fothergill began to swing her sword left and right over her head and shriek like a banshee. Scotland and Ireland leveled their javelins and began to poke away at the men below, giggling all the time, while Wales crouched behind her shield and called for them to stop.
“You come one step near me and my father will have you up to the magistrate, Ernie Phillips,” she could be heard to say. “And you, Arthur Day, can stop waving that pitchfork like a lunatic.”
“We shall defend Belgium to our last breath,” shouted Mrs. Fothergill as Beatrice stood and parried a rather too enthusiastic poke from a bayonet that, close up, could be seen to be of the blunt-ended, theatrical type.
“Really, Mrs. Fothergill,” said Beatrice. “You arranged German hordes?” But her words were drowned out as Celeste, who had become frozen still on her box, began to scream, a slowly rising scream that suggested she had been dealt a mortal wound or was being stretched on a medieval rack. It went on and on, so that the band stopped their instruments one by one and the German hordes froze in their spots.
“Celeste, are you hurt?” Beatrice flung away her shield and knelt to cradle Celeste in her arms. The girl struggled and thrashed as if Beatrice were the enemy, and Beatrice looked around wildly for help. She saw a commotion in the street, and then Hugh was pushing his way through to vault onto the float.
“She’s beside herself,” said Beatrice. Celeste’s keening scream went suddenly quiet, the silence almost as deafening, and small flecks of spittle frothed around her mouth as her eyes rolled back in her head.
“She’s in a dead faint,” said Hugh. “Some sort of seizure, I fear.”
“I am trained for first aid,” said Mrs. Fothergill. “Perhaps I should assist?”
“I think you’ve done enough,” said Beatrice, without thinking. “Perhaps you can all clear the area and give her some air.” The crowd, which had pressed forward to view the distress, began to step back, and Beatrice tried to move her own body to shield Celeste as Hugh picked her up and carried her down from the float.
“Well, I do not think I deserve to be spoken to in such a manner,” she heard Bettina Fothergill say, but Beatrice was prevented from making some further hasty answer by the reasonable tones of Agatha Kent.
“Mrs. Fothergill, the Mayor needs you to open the flower tent. I think all is covered here and my nephew is a doctor.”
“May I help you down, Mrs. Fothergill?” added John. “Here is a step for you.”
“I cannot imagine what distressed the poor child,” Mrs. Fothergill said, her voice carrying even as she allowed herself to be led away. “In Bexhill, they staged just such a small skirmish and doubled their donations.”
“Did Bexhill stage their attack on a real Belgian?” asked John.
“Well no, that’s precisely where we were to have improved upon their efforts” came the faint reply as he led Mrs. Fothergill away.
“Do you want smelling salts?” asked Agatha.
“Best to get her home,” said Hugh, holding Celeste in his arms while Beatrice waved the tiny brown bottle under her nose. Celeste groaned and turned her head away to curl into Hugh’s shoulder like a child.
“I’ll send for her father,” said Agatha. “And the Headmaster will have to manage your Latin performers.”
Beatrice thanked her and then, gathering up the many folds of her gown in her hands, she hurried to follow Hugh up the steps towards the high street. She remembered being a child in her own father’s arms, the sensation of flying above the ground, the safety of strong arms, the warm, familiar smell of him against the new smells of street or woods. She had to quell a sudden wish that she, not Celeste, had fainted. It was a stupid thought, not worthy of the current crisis, and as she rebuked herself silently, she was much larger and heavier than Celeste and would no doubt have been unceremoniously dumped into a wheelbarrow.
Reaching the cottage, Hugh carried Celeste up to her little alcove, which now contained Agatha’s second spare wooden bed, a small dresser, and a floor-length tapestry curtain to screen the nook from the stair. Laying her on the bed, he took her pulse with his pocket watch in his hand. His face showed frowning concern.
“Her pulse is steady,” he said. “Did she eat breakfast?”