The dance floor could barely contain the crush of so many waltzing couples, and the crowd squeezed them out to dance on a quiet colonnade. When they realized they were dancing alone, it seemed only respectable to sit out the rest of the dance on a small sofa in a flowered alcove. Unlike being penned into a window nook with Mr. Poot, it was entirely satisfying, thought Beatrice, to sit together quietly with Hugh and to feel the comfort of mutual friendship. It could not be more, and yet something seemed to hang between them, and she tried not to feel giddy.
“I would like to say that I think you are very brave,” said Hugh. “To have set up house and to work all alone and to live from the fruits of your own labor—I admire your perseverance, especially in the face of obstacles such as Mr. Poot.”
“I do only what is needed to keep body and soul together,” she said. “I have done so little for any cause beyond my own.”
“You have taken in another girl in distress,” he said.
“Her beauty and youth have made me much more popular,” Beatrice said with a laugh. “A dozen ladies would kill to take her off my hands.”
“You will deflect all praise, so I shall merely admire you in silence,” said Hugh.
As they sat together, the world seemed far away, and so she was confused and not quite sure who called for Hugh, or how Agatha was by her side, gripping her hand. Somehow they were no longer in the colonnade but in the inn’s lobby, and a young man in a Royal Flying Corps uniform was speaking to Daniel, and Daniel slumped to his knees and Hugh grabbed to support him with both arms. When Daniel gave a howl of pain, Beatrice finally snapped out of her reverie.
“We just saw you all,” said John Kent. “How did it happen?”
“The landing was windy, sir. Hard gusts off the sea and he just clipped a tree on the way in and spiraled right onto the field.”
“Did he suffer?” asked John.
“Died on impact, sir,” said the young officer. “Aeroplane went up like a bomb. We’re all pretty cut up about it.” He wiped his eyes, and John signaled to someone from the inn and asked for brandy.
Daniel was rocking in Hugh’s arms and moaning like a mortally wounded animal. Hugh spoke to him quietly, but his cousin only seemed to sink lower to the ground, as if he would lean over and whisper his grief to the rough carpet. Hugh looked to his uncle, and John Kent and the young officer went to help him drag Daniel to a bench. The brandy came, and they forced some between his lips. The young officer took a glass too and sat quietly on a chair, his cap on his knees.
“It was good of you to come,” said John. “I am sure you wanted to be with your men.”
“He was so keen to come up this evening,” said the officer. “He wanted to see his friend before we pushed off tomorrow.”
“Will you still go on?” asked John.
“Yes, sir. At first light, sir.” He looked at Daniel, who could not lift his head from his knees. “In fact I have to go, sir. Catch the last train back.”
“Of course,” said John. He looked around and signaled to Harry Wheaton, who was standing with Eleanor in the doorway to the ballroom. All around them the nodding heads of the crowd made Beatrice feel sick. “I say, Wheaton, would you walk Craigmore’s friend to the train?”
“Yes, sir,” said Wheaton, and there was no trace of his usual laconic smile in his grave face. “My honor.”
“Our car is outside,” said Eleanor, stepping forward. “Would you like to take Daniel home, Mr. Kent?” As John Kent accepted, he looked around for his wife, and Beatrice realized that Agatha was still gripping her hand. A helpful manager hurried forward with Agatha’s wrap, and Eleanor came to assist Agatha out to the car. John and Hugh followed, Daniel stumbling between them, silent now.
Following them to the inn’s door, Beatrice felt a presence at her elbow. It was the surgeon’s daughter.
“It’s a reminder of how fragile life is these days,” sighed Lucy Ramsey. “Did you know him?”
“I did,” said Beatrice. “He was Lord North’s son and a close friend of Hugh’s cousin.”
“Every day is precious, isn’t it?” said Lucy. “Poor Hugh. I see now that it was wrong of me to make him wait.”
“Excuse me?” said Beatrice.
“I was content for our connection to remain secret, but now I think I must let him send the engagement notice right away.” She tucked a piece of fair hair behind her ear and smiled with just her lips. “How childlike of me to dwell on the form and ceremony of marriage and not the value of it to a man bound for the front lines,” she added. “We women must do our duty too.” She looked around and waved towards some unseen figure in the ballroom.
“I hope you’ll be very happy,” said Beatrice. But the taste in her mouth was of ashes, and she struggled to keep her voice even. She told herself it was the shock of Craigmore’s death, but the ache vibrating through her was of a more selfish nature.
“We’ve always known we would be,” said Lucy. She looked Beatrice square in the face, and there was nothing but steel in her blue eyes. “Lovely to meet you,” she murmured as she walked away.
The orchestra was still playing in the hot, festive ballroom; the shadows of dancing couples played against the windows and walls of the fa?ades opposite and in the puddles from a light rain in the streets. No doubt the gossip still flowed with the wine and champagne. But as Beatrice stepped from the warm inn to the cold street outside, the night was already a faded dream.
Hugh was standing by the car, speaking to his uncle, and she shrank into the dark embrace of the doorway, for she did not know how to speak to him now. As she watched, a dark figure ran up and plucked his sleeve.
“Oh, Mr. Grange, you must come,” said a voice, and Beatrice recognized Abigail. The pinched face of the maid turned as she stepped from her hiding place. “You and Miss Beatrice must come. Miss Celeste is dying and I don’t know what to do for her.” As Hugh hesitated, looking at Beatrice and then at the car, his uncle took him by the arm.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of them, Hugh,” he said. “You must see to your patient.”
—
It was hard for Beatrice to remain conscious, and she fought to slow her breathing and remain upright and of assistance. Her lungs hurt from running so wildly through the dark streets, and a stitch in her side required her to press a hand to her ribs. But it was the sight of Celeste writhing in pain, and the blood-smeared sheets, that threatened to make her faint. Celeste hardly saw them enter her little room; she was busy murmuring her final prayers and begging le bon Dieu to take her.
“It just keeps getting worse,” said Abigail, crying. “She’s dying.”
“Bring some clean toweling, clean rags, whatever you have,” said Hugh. “And a basin of hot water.”
“Celeste, we are here,” said Beatrice. She knelt at the bedside to take Celeste’s small white hand, and tried not to recoil from the smell of sweat and the streaks of blood.
“Leave me alone,” whispered Celeste. “God is punishing me.” She whimpered and drew up her knees in pain.
“I don’t think you’re dying,” said Hugh, his face slightly averted from the patient. “Not really my area of expertise, of course. I’ll need to examine her.”
“No, no,” said Celeste. She shrank away and clutched at Beatrice’s hand. “Make him go away and let me die.”
“It’s just Hugh,” said Beatrice, urgently. “He is a good man and he is the only doctor we have right now. You must let him help.”
“No, I will die of the shame,” she said. “Please, please make him go away.”
“What shall we do?” asked Beatrice, looking at Hugh, who seemed rather relieved to be ordered away. Abigail came running up the stairs with an armful of linen and a jug of warm water. Hugh hesitated for a moment, thinking.
“I can’t call my aunt…” he began. Then his face lit up. “I say, Abigail, Mrs. Stokes was camped on the Salts telling fortunes all day. Is she still there?”
“I couldn’t say,” said Abigail, her face wearing a frown that said she was ready neither to acknowledge her great-grandmother nor to be responsible for her whereabouts.
“We need her,” said Hugh. “I know Dr. Lawton sometimes calls on her to help with—with some of the women.”
“Happen she might be there,” said Abigail.
“Then run and fetch her fast as you can,” said Hugh. “I believe she will know exactly what to do.”