Daniel’s poem in The Times was of great satisfaction to Agatha, as proof, finally, of his true calling as a poet. It was also much remarked upon around the town of Rye as the newspaper was passed from hand to hand, and this was some compensation for the indignity of being eased from her committee by Bettina Fothergill.
In London, the poem was quoted and reprinted in other papers, to accompany the funeral photographs, and when John came down from town he reported that he had heard it set to a popular tune and sung at one of the music halls to great applause. It was not popular, however, with Lord North, and a stiff letter to The Times from the great man objected to the crass vulgarity of reporting his son’s death with photographs displayed without permission and with florid verses of a disgraceful nature. He did not bother to write to the lesser press, but perhaps his solicitors did, because several of the illustrated papers printed small apologetic retractions. The objections of the family seemed only to add life to the poem, and Agatha found herself congratulated all the more by neighbors whose interest in the literary form was piqued by the spicy hint of scandal. Even Emily Wheaton paused after church to congratulate her, and while Agatha was alarmed to see the effects of popular attention breaching even the reserve of the gentry, she was pleased that all heard their exchange and that it signaled to a scowling Bettina Fothergill that Agatha was perhaps no longer in disgrace.
Agatha had written to Daniel at his barracks, congratulating him on the poem’s publication in a muted way, so as not to sound too delighted about a success that had been contingent on a young man’s death. She was surprised to receive in return a telegram saying he was transferring from the Artists Rifles and would be coming home on the Friday evening train with Uncle John.
—
She was waiting at the station when the evening train from Ashford came in. Usually she would have just sent Smith with the car, or even left Daniel to walk up the hill on his own, but on receipt of his telegram that he was homebound, she had given Jenny and Cook a flurry of orders and told Smith that she would accompany him on the station run.
It had felt good to order the sheets aired, fires laid in the bedrooms, and hot water bottles filled. The large mutton joint she had been saving for Sunday was ordered to be dressed for the oven, and she and Cook had stood in the larder and debated between opening tins of salmon or smoked oysters and whether the occasion warranted a jar of white asparagus. Cook was of the opinion that the master of the house, and the young man, would both feel more fussed over if provided a steamed pudding, and Agatha agreed to the use of some of their dwindling reserves of sugar and a pot of cherry jam. Deviled eggs and some late lettuce would fill out the menu, and Cook promised custard for the pudding.
Such domestic logistics seemed a preferable response to the paralysis and fear that had overwhelmed her at the news of young Craigmore’s death. As if to prove the truth behind an old cliché, the blood had run cold in her veins; Agatha had felt it pumping through her extremities, as if it would escape, and her hands had gone numb. She was not sure how she had arrived home, but she seemed to remember Beatrice Nash supporting her arm to the inn door and John pressing her hand all the way home in the car. If the coldness and the fear were an excessive response for a young friend of Daniel’s whose pleasant face she had seen all too briefly, laughing in a hop field, she was not keen to probe further. But in the last few days, she kept thinking of him, and his loss reminded her of the day in early summer when she had seen a fat honeybee staggering in awkward patterns across the stones of the terrace. She had been bold and compassionate enough to scoop it up on a big blue, quilted hosta leaf and carry it to the lawn, but the bee had continued to struggle and buzz in the grass, like an angrily pressed doorbell, until its tiny threadlike legs crumpled and it died. Later the gardener told her that the hive had collapsed, all the bees dead inside their combs, and that there would be no more honey for the year.
The train arrived, comforting in its ordinary timetable and its progress along straight rails, the regularity of its taking in and disgorging of passengers at uniform brick stations, the hiss of the steam and the acrid smell of cinders. John and Daniel appeared, Daniel carrying his kit bag and still wearing his uniform. She waited as the stationmaster saluted, and Daniel and John shook hands with him and exchanged some pleasantries. Then they saw her waiting, and their smiles broke some reserve in her. She hurried down the platform like a schoolgirl and did her best to envelop both of them in a crushing embrace, crying and laughing all at once.
“Steady on,” said John, gently extricating himself in order to pick up the hat she had knocked to the ground. “Where’s my wife and her famous diplomatic reserve?”
“Life is too precious to waste it anymore with etiquette,” she said. “I shall now kiss you in public, John Kent.” As she did so she waited for Daniel to make some outrageous quip, but he was silent, and when she withdrew from her husband’s embrace she saw that her nephew’s smile could not hide a grim exhaustion. She kissed his cheek and tucked one hand under his arm, taking John’s hand with the other. “Shall we go home?” she asked.
“If you could drop me at Colonel Wheaton’s house first, I’m to report in right away,” said Daniel. “But don’t worry; I should be home in time for dinner.”
“Colonel Wheaton’s?” asked Agatha. Neither Daniel nor John seemed to want to meet her eye. She stopped with her hands on her hips. “What exactly does this mean?”
“I’ve requested a transfer to Colonel Wheaton’s outfit, effective immediately,” said Daniel. “Aunt Agatha, congratulate me. I’m going to France.”
—
After dinner, Agatha sat on the terrace in the gathering dark, wrapped in a coat against the late October chill, and contemplated how painful the last rays of a sunset could be to a sorrowing heart. John sat on a nearby bench, drinking his brandy as if nothing were happening. She did not speak to him. She could not speak to him. He had done only what he thought necessary to help Daniel, and yet she felt it as a deep and cutting wound, a betrayal. At the far edge of the lawn, Daniel was almost a shadow, a flat silhouette against the sunset sky, smoking a cigar and thinking his own thoughts.
“If there had been some better option, I would have steered him away,” said John. She could feel him looking at her. No doubt with the honest, open expression he used to such effect in the diplomatic world. She did not reply but only drank her tea and stared out at Daniel and the sky beyond. “I promise you it was for the best,” he added.
“He is going to France,” said Agatha, the words cold in her mouth. “You promised me he would never see France.”
“I promised to do my best to find him a safe berth,” said John. “But the circumstances changed, Agatha. He was to be discharged.”
“An honorable discharge,” said Agatha.
“Well, yes, of course they said so,” said John. “No one suggested there was any case to answer, but there would always have been a question hanging over the whole thing. Lord North’s interference made that clear.”
“He would have been safe,” said Agatha.
“At what price, my dear?” said John. “A life without honor is no life. And I guarantee you a discharge, however honorable, would have been taken as evidence that there was some truth to the wild complaints of Craigmore’s father.”
“To suggest that Daniel is a corrupting influence is ridiculous,” said Agatha. “To defame him simply because he is a poet?”
“Lord North is distraught to the point of madness, and to him I’m sure all bohemians are suspect,” said John. “A discreet assignment to Colonel Wheaton’s regiment was much the best option, and Wheaton was happy to oblige me, believing as he does that I had some hand in getting him and his territorials commissioned as regulars.”
“Did you?”
“I shall not say, so that you may preserve your faith in my powers of influence.”