“Perhaps you heard all about it at the window?” asked Beatrice, barely controlling a spitting rage in her voice. Mrs. Turber tried to hide a flush by screwing her eyes into a scowl.
“Turber?” said Mrs. Stokes, and Beatrice saw a crafty look come into her eye. “Would that be the widow of old Captain Turber as had the schooner Toreador and shipped the sherry from Spain twice a year?”
“I’ll thank you not to sully my husband’s name by speaking it,” said Mrs. Turber. “A poor widow and to be insulted in the streets!”
“I will beg your pardon, madam,” said Mrs. Stokes. “I would never wish to insult the widow of the late Captain Turber, nor offer her any words but blessings.”
“He was a much respected man,” said Mrs. Turber. She seemed somewhat mollified to hear her husband spoken of in such a respectful manner.
“I know my old age, and probably yours, Mrs. Turber, is protected thanks to certain barrels that might have come in by the beach and not under the excise man’s nose,” said Mrs. Stokes. “A very good man, the late Captain.”
“I don’t have any idea to what you are referring,” said Mrs. Turber. She seemed close to tears. She put a hand to her eyes as if dizzy, and Hugh reached his hand under her elbow.
“I think perhaps the air was warm in the ballroom and you are exhausted, Mrs. Turber,” he said. “May I assist you to your door?”
“Thank you, Mr. Grange, I am quite tired, I think,” she said. She seemed almost asleep, slurring her words as the effects of her long evening at the ball took their toll. Hugh assisted the three steps to her larger front door, and Abigail dodged through the passage to open it.
“Here you are, Mrs. Turber, safe and sound,” he said.
“Such a shame about that angelic girl,” she said to Hugh as Abigail helped her in at the door. Inside she could be heard speaking loudly to Abigail. “The Captain never went to sea but he bade me again to mind the pistol he gave me. One bullet to save me, he said, and I still sleep with it under my pillow.”
“Give her the tea twice a day and we’re off at the apple picking if you need me again,” said Mrs. Stokes to Hugh. She extended her hand to Beatrice, and when Beatrice reached to shake it, she found her palm turned upright and Mrs. Stokes squinting at it in the moonlight. “Children in your future, I see,” she said. “Best get yourself married off before they come, dearie.” She chuckled with laughter all the way down the hill. Beatrice rubbed her palm as if to wipe away an ink stain, and Hugh looked as embarrassed as at any time in the evening.
“She makes it all up,” he said. “She’s a good healer but a terrible fortune-teller.”
“I will not be superstitious,” said Beatrice. She put her hands at her sides and looked at Hugh.
“I need to go home and see to my cousin and my poor aunt,” he said. “I am so sorry to leave you.”
“Of course you must go to them,” said Beatrice. “I hope you will let me know how they are, and I will watch over Celeste.”
“She is so very lucky to have you.” He pressed her hand in both of his. “You are exceptional, Beatrice.”
“But what can I do for her, Hugh?” asked Beatrice, and they both knew it was not just the current illness to which she referred. “What is to be done?”
“I will speak to my aunt,” said Hugh. “But let’s wait a few days.”
As he turned to leave, Beatrice could not help but speak. “Will you see Miss Ramsey on your way home?” she asked.
“Miss Ramsey?” said Hugh, his face confused at first and then looking quite shocked. “Good God, I had completely forgotten!”
There had been no word for Beatrice from Hugh after the ball, and none of the Kent family attended church service on Sunday. While she understood the busy nature of grief, she felt very alone. Celeste did not awaken until after lunch and kept to her bed, staring at the window with a glazed and listless air. There was no question of discussing the previous evening’s events, though they hung over the little cottage like an invisible cloud. Beatrice knew it was cowardly to avoid the little nook above the stairs, but she let Abigail give up her Sunday afternoon to come in and nurse Celeste while she spent the day reading in her parlor and looking up at every noise outside her window.
In the early hours of Monday morning, a quiet knock disturbed her breakfast, and she went quickly to the door, hoping Mrs. Turber would not hear.
“I can’t come in,” said Hugh. “I’m leaving for London by train with my cousin. He wants to go to Craigmore’s family.”
“How is he?” she asked.
“Holding up quite well after a day of rest,” said Hugh. He seemed to redden as he spoke, as if he knew, as well as she, that by such rote conversational rituals they would stave off any real and painful conversation. “How is our patient?” he added with excess cheeriness.
“She rested all day,” said Beatrice. Unable to speak of the bleeding, she added, “Her symptoms seem to have subsided.”
“Not that one knows what to wish for in such circumstances,” said Hugh. He shuffled his feet and looked down the hill as if he might see the steam of the train arriving. “I’ve left a detailed message for Dr. Lawton,” he added. “And I have confided in my aunt, who asks that you let her know, by note, how things progress.”
Beatrice felt a stab of disappointment. She realized how much she had hoped Agatha Kent would come running up to the cottage, with a basket of beef tea and her matronly cheer, to relieve Beatrice of such a heavy duty.
“I do hope Miss Ramsey was not inconvenienced by events?” asked Beatrice, trying to keep any hint of bitterness from her voice.
“She was all concern,” said Hugh. “Of course I said nothing of our patient.”
“One would want to protect her from such coarseness,” said Beatrice.
“Nothing to do with delicacy,” he said, stumbling over his words. “I looked to protect Celeste, and you. Miss Ramsey is a wonderful girl but not burdened with discretion.”
“Please forgive me,” said Beatrice. “The times are dark, but that is no excuse for me to give offense to you or Miss Ramsey.”
“I wish I did not have to hurry away and leave you with this burden.” He took her hand and pressed it. “If I did not have to run for my train I would tell you, at greater length, the many ways in which you are to be admired, Miss Nash.”
“Then you might be the one to offend Miss Ramsey,” she said, and though she smiled she found it difficult to look at his face without betraying her pain.
“She is a wonderful girl,” he said again, in the firm tone of a man who hopes repetition will reinforce truth. Perhaps she betrayed her surprise, for he flushed and looked as if he might have more to say to her. But the train’s whistle could be heard, out on the marsh, announcing its imminent arrival at the level crossing, and the moment was lost.
“Please know I will be thinking of you and Daniel,” she said. Her heart was a tumult of confusion, and it was a sharp satisfaction not to include Miss Ramsey. But no sooner had Hugh left than she regretted her pettiness. It was not becoming, she thought, and promised that her thoughts in the days ahead would be all for the two cousins and the terrible loss of their friend.
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