“We should get out of this rain,” said Hugh. The carriages had long passed and the street was empty now.
“Give me a moment,” said Daniel. Waiting for a lone omnibus to pass, he walked into the road to retrieve a single purple ostrich feather fallen from one of the horses. It was muddy and bedraggled, but he shook it briefly and pressed it inside his jacket, to dry against his shirtfront. Then he allowed Hugh to take his arm and together they walked home in the rain.
It was a long three days before Agatha Kent made a loud and public arrival at the cottage at teatime, bearing an assortment of foods for the invalid and a gift for Mrs. Turber.
“It is so hard to have influenza in the house, Mrs. Turber,” she said, on the doorstep, where the neighbors might hear her. She presented the landlady with a large, beribboned box of dainty marzipan confections. “My husband sent these especially for you from London.” Mrs. Turber could only open her mouth silently, like a carp, for surely in accepting the box, she must in all politeness swallow the grand lie with which it was offered.
“Dr. Lawton says she is doing much better,” said Beatrice as Agatha swept in at the door. “She usually sleeps in the afternoon, but I can go and wake her?”
“Lady Emily says they all miss Celeste’s piano playing at the hospital, but of course she is to concentrate on getting better,” said Agatha, still pursuing Mrs. Turber’s complete domination. “Don’t disturb the patient on my account,” she added. “I just need a word with Miss Nash on one or two matters.”
Shutting the parlor door on Mrs. Turber, Agatha moved to the window and stood, slowly stripping off her driving gloves. Her broad driving hat, with its thick veil, was cast aside on the window seat. She seemed gloomy.
“I began to doubt you would come,” said Beatrice. “I’m sorry, but so many ladies would wash their hands of the matter, and then I didn’t hear from you…”
“I hope I never pretended to be somehow above the other ladies of this town,” said Agatha. “That would be the height of hubris on my part.” She settled on the window seat and tossed the gloves aside onto the hat. “I fear I am as small-minded as the next woman. The trick is to know it,” she added.
“I am also shocked,” Beatrice admitted slowly. For the last few days she had found it hard to stay in the cottage with Celeste. The long hours in her room scribbling, with little faith and fewer ideas; her desire to breakfast and be off to school so early that the groundskeeper had to let her in at the side door—excuses so that she would not have to smell Celeste’s fresh-soaped skin, or look at her body blooming under her dressing gown, or watch her face lit by the dying embers of the fire and witness the loneliness of her melancholy. She had shrunk from Celeste as if her misfortune was sin burned on her flesh. Agatha was silent and picked at a loose thread on her gloves. “But in my heart I know it is my duty as a woman to fight my own weakness and stand against injustice,” added Beatrice.
“Women will always bear the shame of Eve, it seems,” said Agatha. “It was the same in my youth, and I fear it will be the same long after we are gone.” She stared out of the window for a long moment as if seeing down the years. “War only makes it worse,” she added. “A soldier dies, and a girl who considered herself promised is left with shattered dreams and a child. This time, the Vicar tells me, he is twisting every rule to get young couples married off in the space between orders and embarkation.”
“What are we to do?” asked Beatrice.
“I have just come from Amberleigh de Witte’s house,” said Agatha. “I went to her to seek sanctuary for our poor refugee. A few months of rest after her ‘influenza’ and the child placed with an accommodating farmer’s wife—sometimes such arrangements are made locally.”
“I knew you had not forsaken us,” said Beatrice. “Miss de Witte is the perfect solution. She does not go about in society, and Celeste already knows her cottage. Why did I not think of her?”
“It does us no good,” said Agatha. “Amberleigh declines to help.”
“But why?” asked Beatrice. “Surely she knows what it is to be shunned?”
“Exactly,” said Agatha. “Miss de Witte told me quite cogently what I could do with my request for her help. As she pointed out, with several mortifying examples, I have made no effort to open my doors to her.”
“You have not?” asked Beatrice.
“Miss Nash, I hope I am a sensible woman, but I am not a revolutionary,” she said. “Their marriage cannot stand scrutiny, and Miss de Witte must bear the stigma of it. I may not invite her to tea.”
“I thought they preferred their solitude,” said Beatrice. “They have each other.”
“Few marriages can survive such solitude,” said Agatha. “The woman will pine for company and she will surely push her husband from her arms by a surfeit of domestic attention.”
“They have their work, their writing,” said Beatrice. “Surely it sustains them?”
“Have you met many writers, Miss Nash?” asked Agatha. “I find them to be the greediest for social attention. I fear Mr. Tillingham may never publish again, given that he is always gallivanting and so rarely confined to his desk.”
“Will you decline to ask Celeste to tea?” asked Beatrice, hearing Abigail’s footsteps and the rattle of the tea tray in the hall. Agatha did not reply immediately but waited in silence for Abigail to place the large tray and set out the cups.
“Thank you, Abigail. That will be all,” Beatrice said. “I can pour for us.” When the maid was gone, she waited for an answer.
“You cannot know how much compassion I feel for Celeste,” said Agatha. “But while I might continue to ask her to tea as a charitable act, I would not ask her if other guests were expected, and I could never invite her to dinner.” Beatrice’s hand shook as she poured the tea, and some of the Earl Grey slopped into the saucer. “I tell you a truth so unflattering to me because we should understand our limits, my dear.”
“What should we do?” asked Beatrice.
“I have also written to my late sister’s midwife in Gloucestershire,” said Agatha. “She was always a woman of great discretion. But if all fails, we must look to preserve your reputation.”
“I don’t care about me,” said Beatrice.
“It is also unflattering not to be truthful,” said Agatha. “We are all social creatures, my dear. I do not think you wish to lose your home or your position, do you?”
Beatrice shook her head. “But I had thought you more progressive, Mrs. Kent,” she said stiffly. “Celeste is after all an innocent in the matter.”
“You think me unenlightened, but now it is you who are being blind,” said Agatha, interrupting. “There is a reason they call it a fate worse than death. Should such rumor spread, then even if there were no child, I fear no man would consider her for a wife or even a mistress, and no women would receive her.” She drank her tea and gathered her gloves. “I believe this particular taint will endure long after your suffragettes have achieved every dream of emancipation, my dear.”
“It is horrible,” said Beatrice, but she flushed at the truth of Agatha’s words.
“You must be wary of contagion,” said Agatha. “Sometime soon Celeste’s condition will become obvious, and then she cannot stay here with you.”
“I fear Celeste is exhausted with despair,” said Beatrice. “We must take pity on her.”
“Bettina Fothergill will smell pity a mile away and will take delight in burying all of us,” said Agatha. “Please, understand that cultivating a convincing level of disinterest is the only way to help.”