“My nephew Daniel is not a career soldier,” said Agatha. “He’s a very fine poet. Perhaps you saw his poem in The Times?”
“We won’t hold that against him,” said the Colonel. “He’s doing very well drilling the men. Very promising officer, I’d say.”
“He is a very sensitive soul,” said Agatha.
“You are not to worry,” said the Colonel. He leaned in and patted her hand. “I know how to measure a man’s character, and believe me we have one or two about whom I am very doubtful. But your nephew is not one of them. He is passionate to get in the fight. This poetry thing is not to keep a man from serving his country, and I will be writing to Brigadier Lord North to say exactly that.”
“Lord North?”
“Yes, the old duffer wrote me some obscure note suggesting I should turn your Daniel out. Something to do with that poem of his. But as I said to Lady Emily, after the man’s rudeness in leaving our home without so much as a thank-you, I think him quite soft in the head and I shall pay him no attention. Who does he think he is? He might be a brigadier now, but he is not in charge of me.” The Colonel banged his fist on the table for emphasis, which rattled all the cups and made the pianist stumble. Agatha lowered her voice as heads turned.
“Do you mean he sought my nephew’s discharge?” she asked.
“Yes. Quite absurd. Seemed to think the poetry was some appalling decadence.”
“He is ridiculous,” said Agatha. “But I must admit I do fear for a young poet in the heat of battle. You and your son are bred to arms, dear Colonel. Anyone can see you are forged from England’s warrior class and never happier than deep in the fray…”
“I thank you for your faith, dear lady,” said the Colonel, looking inordinately pleased.
“But I feel my Daniel would serve his country so much the better were he assigned perhaps to an information post. My husband is looking for just such a posting, where Daniel can use his artistic skills to as great an effect as your martial ones, my dear Colonel.”
“I understand your feeling, Mrs. Kent,” said the Colonel. “But your nephew came to me with an impassioned plea to join the first contingent going out. He seemed adamant that he must go and fight.”
“He is a passionate boy,” she said. She could feel her breath coming faster as anxiety closed, like an iron band, around her chest. “He is not the best judge of his own actions.”
“I tell you he will not accept such a transfer, Mrs. Kent,” he said. “If you and your husband would talk him into a different frame of mind, I would not stand in his way. I have the greatest respect for Mr. Kent, and I would send the boy wherever he wishes. But I tell you he won’t go.”
“Then you must discharge him, Colonel Wheaton,” said Agatha. “Not on Lord North’s order, but for my sake. I beg you.”
“Mrs. Kent, I think you had better reconsider your words,” said the Colonel. He was looking around now, as if he hoped his wife, or Major Frank, might interrupt the conversation. “He was already threatened with discharge once. Mr. Kent asked me, as a special favor, to take the boy on.”
“I didn’t mean you should actually discharge him,” said Agatha. “The threat alone will be enough. Tell him you are put in an impossible position with Lord North.”
“Madam, Lord North insinuates a pattern of moral decadence,” said the Colonel. “Your husband cannot wish me to threaten him with such vile information.”
“Sometimes, we must guide our young people to the right path,” said Agatha. “I hope I was helpful to your daughter at the fete ball when I advised her to put away her new locket? Some busybody might have inquired how she came to receive it, with the photograph of her husband in his new uniform inside, when all communication with Germany is banned.” There was a long silence between them. Agatha stood up from the tea table and collected her gloves and bag. The Colonel seemed to have developed a small tic in his moustache. “Now I merely ask you to help my nephew to see reason, Colonel,” she said in parting. “We have been friends for such a long time that I know we can trust each other.”
Receiving his embarkation orders, and three days’ leave to put his affairs in order, Hugh decided to begin his war by playing the coward; he would take his three days in the country and then join his troop in Folkestone for the crossing to France. In so doing, he told himself, he hoped to avoid marching with all the conspicuous fuss of brass band and bunting to the train. Such elaborate and ritual departures seemed ripe occasions for irrevocable promises, and the truth he avoided was that while his commitment to Sir Alex was clear, he had developed a mild disinclination to resolve anything with Lucy Ramsey.
After her appearance at the dance in Rye, Lucy had become open about a desire to be officially engaged. But every advance she made towards him caused him to retreat. He seemed to stand these days always on his back foot, tipping away from the conversation, excusing himself from the room, leaving Lucy’s pretty face puzzled and hurt. His ambivalence was not resolved by the appearance of his orders, and so he had said goodbye casually, at the end of a tea with her father, and left them both with a hearty handshake and without any opportunity for tearful embraces.
The train from London was crowded with troops, and Hugh squeezed into the corner of a carriage filled with Scotsmen, who had already made their goodbyes to family in Aberdeen and were now engaged in a raucous and lewd critique of the farewells taking place on the platform below.
“Aye, he’s grabbing a handful there. Go to it, laddie!”
“Look a’ the poor bugger there with the wife and three babbies hanging off him. The Hun’ll be a bit of a holiday for him.”
“That one’s so ugly she’d drive a Quaker to sign up. Could he nae have kissed her at home and saved our eyeballs the searing?”
“Don’t be disrespecting the poor London lasses,” said another. “They’re no’ as ugly as your own wife.”
“He doesn’t have a wife; that were his mother!”
The squashing together of so many kilted backsides above thick, veiny legs, and the good-hearted pushing and shoving as the men jostled to thrust their broad shoulders out the window, made Hugh feel awkward. He would have liked them to be less rowdy, and yet he did not wish to be the sort of stiff and ridiculous officer who would ask.
“Second Lieutenant Grange, Hugh Grange?” said a porter, sticking his head in the compartment.
“I’m Hugh Grange.” He tried to speak quietly, but as he looked at the porter, he knew his companions were already rolling their eyes, and he could hear muttering in their thick, unintelligible brogue.
“Someone come to see you off,” said the porter. “?’Scuse me, gents.” He pushed roughly through the Scotsmen and stuck his own head from the window to call out, “Over here, miss.” Then he and the rest of the compartment made a conspicuous effort to push one another aside to allow Hugh to the window. Hugh approached with reluctance and a dreadful sense of being watched by rolling eyes and acerbic tongues.
“Hugh, Hugh, I’m here,” said Lucy Ramsey. She was dressed in a somber gray coat, purple boots, and a black feather boa, looking for all the world as if she were in mourning. She was accompanied by two other young ladies, who were already sniffing into their handkerchiefs at the promise of a touching scene.
“You shouldn’t have come,” said Hugh. “It’s such a crush on the platforms.”
“I couldn’t let you leave without saying a proper goodbye,” she said.
“Go on down to her, sir,” said one of the Scotsmen, and another must have unlatched the lock because Hugh was half propelled from the carriage by the swinging of the door. He stumbled down the step to the platform and into Lucy’s open embrace.