Scrubbed and tidy, in a gray cotton dress with a tucked bodice and a wide belt fastened with bone buttons, Beatrice left her traveling bag closed and ready by the bedroom door and descended in search of breakfast. The polished hall was quiet and empty, as were the drawing room and a dining room across the way. Some faint sounds came from behind the stairs, but Beatrice hesitated to penetrate further into the house before being invited. The drawing room’s French windows stood open to the breeze, and so, anxious not to be seen hovering, she slipped out onto the terrace beyond.
The stone terrace already looked older than the house, softened to a pleasant mossy gray under the relentless dripping of English rain, its stone balusters pressed by fat shrubs and draped in twisting vines of honeysuckle, wisteria, and the teacup-sized pale green flowers of a clematis. White roses climbed up the house from beds filled with brilliant blue agapanthus. Beatrice stooped to cup in her hands a waxy blue flower head as large as a hat and to wonder if plants ever sensed how far they were from home: this African lily carried on ships to England in the time of Henry VIII, rhododendrons dug from the rippled flanks of Chinese mountains, the passionflower twining about itself in air so much drier than the South American rain forest. Beyond the terrace, a croquet lawn fell away on its farthest edge to a lower terrace of rolling grass, hedged above the steep escarpment of the ridge. Below, the stacked red roofs of Rye poked up from its flat skirt of marshes, and beyond, the sea formed a broad, glittering swath under the wide blue bowl of the sky. On the left, the terrace ended in a thick wall of pine trees that separated the house from its nearest neighbor, but to the right it extended further, beckoning Beatrice along the flank of flower and kitchen gardens to a door in a hedge and old woodland beyond.
Agatha Kent was dozing on the folds of a white cotton robe, on an intensely blue bench, perched on a smooth green lawn—entirely naked. If Beatrice had processed her pinkness as flesh a moment earlier, if she had only registered the rolling expanse of skin instead of the blue paint of the bench, she might have withdrawn before Mrs. Kent’s eyes snapped open. Instead she froze. She was aware of Mrs. Kent, a plump woman, flailing like a landed fish as she tried to collect her limbs, and then the edges of her robe, and attempt an awkward draping of her ample form. Beatrice felt her face flush hot as she cast her eyes around for some other place to focus. The lawn turned blurry under her stare.
“I am so sorry,” she managed. “So very sorry.” The vast pink landscape still danced before her eyes.
“You weren’t to know…” said Agatha, puffing out her cheeks as she sought to breathe and tie ribbons at the same time. “Everyone knows not to disturb me.”
“So sorry,” repeated Beatrice, wondering if she should pick up her bag and head for the station now. “I didn’t mean to spy.”
“I always meant to put a lock on that gate,” said Agatha. “Only it looks so funny in a garden and—”
“I’m always up too early,” said Beatrice. “I don’t sleep very deeply.”
“I was bathing in the sun,” said Agatha, her breath slowing and her voice assuming a more authoritative air. “It is prescribed as a vital part of my exercise program.”
“Of course.”
“You should try it yourself,” said Agatha. “No girl your age should look quite as drawn about the face.”
“I’m not a girl,” said Beatrice. “And I wouldn’t look so pale if it didn’t rain here all the time.”
“All the more reason we have to drink in the sun when we can,” said Agatha. “Why don’t you come and give it a try right now?”
“I shouldn’t intrude.”
“Oh, don’t worry; we’re not going to cavort like wood nymphs. Just come and sit by me. I’ll turn this way and we can both get a little sun, if not the whole bath.” With this she moved to the far end of the bench and shrugged her gown down from her shoulders, using a hand to keep it drawn above her large bosom. Beatrice moved swiftly to the near end of the bench and sat down. She unbuttoned the collar of her dress and turned its stiff edges down. She rolled up her cuffs to the elbow.
“You’re going to have to shrug that dress right down to get any benefit,” said Agatha, turning her chin up into the sun and closing her eyes. Beatrice undid more buttons and pulled the dress from her shoulders. The breeze breathed across her collarbones and ruffled the edges of her light chemise. The sun felt like a warm hand on her shoulder. It began to heat the smooth rise of her chest and the fragile skin inside her elbows. She felt her nervous breath slow and relax. As she tipped up her face to the sun, she felt the strangest urge to take off her shoes and walk barefoot on the grass.
—
Hugh was pretending to enjoy a quiet breakfast, with one of last week’s London newspapers spread carelessly in front of him, but he was listening for noises in the hall which might mean the ladies coming to breakfast. He was aware of a pleasant sense of anticipation at the chance to see the young schoolteacher again this morning and had already run a few opening conversational gambits through his head. A desire for new conversation and companions his own age sparked his eager mood.
A rustling in the hall and a murmur of voices caused him to wipe his hands on his napkin and tweak his collar straight. He did not have time to fold the newspaper before the door was opened by the maid.
“Thank you, Jenny,” said Beatrice, coming into the room.
“I’ll just bring some fresh tea for the pot and some hot toast,” said Jenny, whisking the large silver teapot from the sideboard. Hugh could not remember her ever offering to bring him a fresh pot of tea.
“Good morning,” he said. “I do hope you don’t mind an informal breakfast? You are welcome to ask Jenny to bring you something else.” He was pleased at his own cheerful manner and wondered if his newly discovered affection for Lucy Ramsey was already making him easier in the company of all women.
“I am very happy,” said Beatrice, looking at the fruit platter and lifting the lids of the chafing dishes to inspect scrambled eggs, sausages and bacon, warm raisin cakes, and kedgeree. The kedgeree was on its second visit from the kitchen, and Hugh wondered if he should mention that it had become more pungent since yesterday, a fact not disguised by Cook’s addition of generous amounts of chopped parsley. He decided it was not his place to notice.
“Only we all like to keep our own schedules in the summer,” he added, aware that domestic arrangements did not qualify as scintillating conversation. “I’m afraid I haven’t seen any sign of my aunt yet.”
Beatrice spooned a small mound of raspberries into a dish and added a large dollop of fresh cream from its pitcher. She placed a sausage on a second small plate and brought both to the table.
“Your aunt has already given me a tour of the garden this morning,” she said. “After breakfast, we are to walk around the town, and then she has kindly offered to introduce me to my new landlady.”
“I should warn you that my aunt knows everybody,” said Hugh. “She is not in the least stuffy about stopping in the street to talk to them, and so any walk with my aunt is more a series of energetic starts with much lingering about, trying not to shuffle one’s feet too much.”
“Oh dear,” said Beatrice. “I shall have to summon my best attempt at patience.”
“And with waiting to hear if my uncle is coming from London, I’m sure she won’t get away from the house until late,” added Hugh.
“What am I to do?” asked Beatrice. She spoke in a lighthearted tone, but Hugh noticed that she stabbed her sausage quite emphatically with her fork. “The plan was your aunt’s, and yet my willing acceptance of her direction has made me a dreadful inconvenience.”
“Oh, not at all,” said Hugh. “I was only thinking you must be impatient to see the town and…” He trailed off as his own vague plan became clearer in his mind and the enormity of suggesting it crushed his recent sense of ease.
“Perhaps she can spare a maid or someone to show me the way,” said Beatrice. “Though the town seems small enough for me to do very well by myself.”
“My aunt wouldn’t like that,” said Hugh. He took a deep breath and plunged in. “I don’t believe I have any definite plans this morning, or at least I could try to change them.”