Beatrice was happily watching the swirl of the crowded dance floor and admiring the way the townsfolk looked in their unusual finery when she caught the sound of ladies whispering behind a large fern.
“I’m not saying it’s true,” said Mrs. Turber’s voice. “But did you see the way she fainted? Something is fishy, I tell you.”
“Not normal at all,” said another, “but they’re all highly emotional, aren’t they?”
Beatrice did not wish to hear more. Her cheeks blazed as she rose without speaking and moved away swiftly towards the salon into which Hugh had vanished. There were mostly gentlemen in the room, gathered at the large bar or fetching drinks to other rooms. Beatrice was turning to leave when she heard another familiar voice, that of Mr. Poot, saying, “Well, of course it’s all strictly confidential, but let me say—well, it would make your hair curl to hear what some of these young girls have suffered.”
“If it were my sister or daughter, I’d rather she died,” said another.
“Some of them beg to die,” said Poot. “Of course, I tell them it is the nature of war and they must bravely bear it.” He wandered away, and Beatrice found herself drifting to the dance floor. As she looked around the room, she seemed to see whispering everywhere, heads bent towards each other, eyes swiveling about the room.
“Smile,” said Eleanor Wheaton, appearing at her shoulder. “It makes them crazy when you appear to be happy.”
“Who?” asked Beatrice.
“All the gossips,” said Eleanor. “Look at them. Always whispering.” As she spoke, she frowned and touched her fingers to a small, diamond-studded gold locket suspended around her neck.
“Are they talking about you?” asked Beatrice.
“Well, it’s often about me, the German Baroness,” said Eleanor. “And of course they’re whispering about Amberleigh de Witte…”
“I haven’t seen Amberleigh or Mr. Frith,” said Beatrice.
“That’s because they were refused tickets,” said Eleanor. “Too disreputable for the polite society of Rye.”
“It’s just a public subscription dance,” said Beatrice.
“And let’s see, well, they like to chatter about Alice Finch, because she’s from London and so obviously odd. They gossip even as they take the photographs she’s donating.” Eleanor waved to several people in the room and seemed happy to see several more groups of people turn to stare at her.
“It’s horrible,” said Beatrice.
“And they should gossip about my brother, who deserves more criticism than he gets; but he’s a handsome young man, so they don’t berate him too badly.”
“What else do you hear?” asked Beatrice.
“My point, dear girl, is that it is pointless to ask,” said Eleanor. “Gossip is only corrosive to the spirit if one entertains it. Do as I do and let it roll off you like water off a duck’s back.”
“What did you hear, Eleanor?” said Beatrice.
“Oh, well, there may be some whispers about Celeste’s little fainting spell,” she said reluctantly. “Then there are rumors that you have your hooks into both of Agatha Kent’s nephews and Bettina Fothergill’s to boot.”
“Mr. Poot?” asked Beatrice. “Are they mad?”
“Exactly my point,” said Eleanor. “Quite mad. Possibly from the boredom of living here. Not to be taken any notice of. Oh good, here comes Hugh with champagne.” Hugh arrived bearing two lemonade cups.
“Ladies, your lemonade as Eleanor requested,” he said. Beatrice took a deep draft and found it was indeed champagne in the glass cup.
“I intercepted Hugh,” said Eleanor. “No reasonable man expects a lady to drink that awful sticky lemonade stuff.”
“You are a bad influence, Eleanor,” he said.
“And you, dear Hugh, are in dire need of a bit of bad influence,” she said. “I hope Miss Nash will see to it.” So saying, she waved and floated off into the thick of the crowd, sipping champagne and kissing cheeks as she went, the gossiping heads bending like stalks of reed in her wake.
“She lives in her own world,” said Hugh. “But she’s a kind girl.”
“We were talking about gossip,” said Beatrice.
“Let’s not talk,” said Hugh. “Let’s drink our champagne. And then may I have the honor of the entire next set?” Perhaps it was the champagne, but Beatrice felt herself blush like a girl in her first season as she fumbled for her dance card. Hugh had just taken the little silver pencil when a voice called to them from across the room and Beatrice saw a gloved hand waving a dance card and a white ostrich feather fan.
“Hullo, Hugh, surprise, surprise!” said the owner of the fan. A girl of no more than nineteen, decked in a teal blue ball gown and silver shoes, was smiling at him with complete confidence that her surprise was a joyous one. “I’ve come to surprise you.”
“Miss Nash,” said Hugh, looking distinctly flustered. “May I present Miss Lucy Ramsey, daughter of Sir Alex Ramsey, my surgeon?”
“How do you do,” said Beatrice, but the girl was busy hanging on Hugh’s arm and gazing up into his face.
“Oh, Hugh, isn’t it the most delightful surprise?” she asked. “I had no idea that the Hartleys’ weekend house was so near to Rye. We are in Bexhill, and my friend Jemima Hartley and I have been all day on the promenade selling flag pins; and we had to give the white feather to no fewer than three insolent fellows who insisted on proposing to us even though they were not in uniform.”
“Good grief,” said Hugh, eyeing her fan as if for holes. “I hope you don’t plan to start handing them out here.”
“Don’t worry, these are ostrich and much too valuable,” she said. “Anyway, as soon as I saw a handbill for your festivities, I just insisted that we drive over this evening to see you.”
“I am shocked,” said Hugh. “And delighted, of course. I must introduce you to my aunt and uncle.”
“I’m only sorry we did not arrive earlier,” said Lucy. “I do hope you haven’t committed yourself to every country damsel in the room?”
“I believe Mr. Grange is free of any obligations,” said Beatrice, smiling as wide as she could manage while she quelled an unexpected surge of disappointment. “I wish you both a very pleasant evening, Miss Ramsey.”
As she walked away, she heard Lucy Ramsey say, “Oh, Hugh, were you unwilling to dance in my absence? How romantic of you!”
—
Refusing to give in to an unhappiness to which she was not in any way entitled, Beatrice scratched Hugh’s name from her dance card and made sure to smilingly accept other partners. But when Mr. Dimbly took her out for the quadrille, she found herself scanning the room for Hugh’s face, and when Mr. Kent asked her to polka, she spent the entire dance asking him about Hugh and Daniel as small boys and remembering only the bits about Hugh. She found it difficult to make conversation while looking over her shoulder to see Hugh and Lucy whirling their way through a suite of country dances. The girl was pretty and flirtatious, and had a tinkling laugh that traveled, despite the loud orchestra and the roar of conversation. Beatrice could fault her for appearing less than intellectually gifted, but as she waspishly told herself, even men as educated as Hugh seemed to prefer their women that way.
Beatrice became so distracted that when Mr. Poot appeared at her side, to request her company in a Scottish reel, she could not come up with a suitable excuse and so had to gallop up and down the room with both her hands grasped tight in his sweating palms.
“Dancing is such good exercise, don’t you think?” he said. “While I would not go so far as to endorse such excesses as the tango, I do think it a most pleasant excuse for men and women to join hands in vigorous activity.”
“You make it sound quite excessive enough,” said Beatrice. “I am glad we are all wearing gloves.”
“Your sense of humor is as sharp as an arrow, Miss Nash,” said Mr. Poot as they made an arch for the procession of the other laughing dancers. “I myself am quite struck through the heart.”