The Summer Before the War

by Helen Simonson

  “Mr. and Mrs. Kent, how lovely to see you,” said Amberleigh de Witte. She smiled, but Agatha could see fear flit across her eyes. “Miss Wheaton was kind enough to include our party at her table.” Minnie was also rising from the table and looking anxiously around the field for Alice Finch.

  “Baroness, you are always most gracious,” said Agatha to Eleanor. “But it appears you were not informed that your mother and father will be arriving any moment with Lord North and his wife.”

  “Shall I find the footman and arrange more chairs?” asked Hugh.

  “I fear what we need is fewer chairs,” said Agatha. “Were Lord North not of the party, we could of course be perfectly comfortable…” She trailed off, smiling at Algernon and trying not to look at Amberleigh’s pressed lips.

  “Perhaps my wife and I may steal some of your guests away to join us at another table, Baroness?” said John. He gave the footman a discreet signal, and the footman began to look around for a table from which the occupants might be dislodged. Agatha could have kissed him in public for his smoothing of such an awkward moment. And since Bettina was not coming, Agatha felt she had no objection to sacrificing herself and being free to country-dance without the stultifying effect of being part of an earl’s retinue.

  “No, no, we will not break up your arriving party, my dear Mr. Kent,” said Algernon. “My wife and I were about to make our excuses anyway.” He gestured to indicate both all of those gathered and no one in particular. “You must excuse us. We are promised to visit neighbors at other tables.”

  “I will come with you and find Alice,” said Minnie. “She insisted on my sitting, but I should help her with her equipment.” Across the field Alice Finch could be seen setting down her heavy camera and directing two young Gypsy dancers to pose against the painted wheel of a caravan.

  “I would join you,” said Mr. Tillingham. “But Lord North has asked my particular opinion on one or two matters of national importance, and I must look after the Professor.”

  “Yes, it does not do to abandon one’s friends,” said Amberleigh, collecting her shawl and directing a cool look at Agatha. “I completely understand.”

  “I believe I would like to come with you,” said Beatrice, rising from the table. Agatha forgave her the angry look in her eyes. She did not expect Beatrice to understand, in the same way Amberleigh did, that she meant to save them all humiliation.

  “No, no,” said Daniel. “We must get ready to perform our tableau. We are to perform right after Harry and Craigmore’s hornpipe.”

  “It was lovely to meet you, Miss Nash,” said Amberleigh. “You must come and see me and bring me some of your work to read.” As she took her husband’s arm to leave, she added, “We women must stick together, must we not?”

  “Daniel has written an ode to the King of the Hops,” explained Hugh as Agatha watched the Friths departing. “Craigmore is to be king, and Miss Beatrice and Miss Celeste are handmaidens to the farmer’s daughter, who is to be queen.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” asked Agatha. “Lady Emily is not a fan of amateur theatricals.”

  “My dear aunt, poetry is not some low amateur folly,” said Daniel. “I have adapted my ‘Ode to the David’ just for the occasion.” He waved a sheaf of papers as he herded Beatrice and Celeste from the table. “Never fear, we will elevate the evening to new heights, which may be just in time.” As he spoke, a pennywhistle struck up a lively jig and two men in rolled-up trousers, with buckets on their heads and pitchforks in hand, strode to the stage.

  “Oh, I like the boy’s ode,” said Tillingham. “Quite visceral and raw.”

  “What do you mean, ‘visceral’?” asked Agatha, but she was already distracted as she realized the two men clowning a hornpipe, to much laughter and some thrown sausages, were Harry Wheaton and young Craigmore. Lord and Lady North and Colonel Wheaton and Lady Emily, now advancing over the grass towards the table, did not appear amused to see their sons making fools of themselves for the delight of bumpkins.

  “I need to sit down,” said Agatha. Hugh caught her arm and helped her to a chair. “And I think I need a large glass of that champagne.”

  “Why is it funny?” the Professor asked, as Craigmore and Harry swung pitchforks in dangerous proximity to limbs and minced over crossed rakes in an improvised sword dance.

  “They appreciate that the Colonel’s son makes himself ridiculous for them,” said John. “And this year he brings an earl’s son too.”

  “I fear Lady North is not laughing,” said Agatha. The visit already seemed a terrible mistake. But she could only continue to smile while Hugh and the footman attempted to arrange a forest of excess chairs.

  —

  Hugh was glad to see the hornpipe conclude as the cheering and whistles from the crowd did not seem to improve the slightly grim faces of Lord North and his wife. As the country dance caller stepped forward to announce the poetic recitation, Hugh felt a sudden hollowing of his breath.

  “I do hope Daniel hasn’t overreached in what the audience is expecting,” he heard his Aunt Agatha whisper to Uncle John, his own anxiety reflected in her voice.

  “Let’s pray for brevity,” said Uncle John. “But resign ourselves to an epic.” As the crowd clapped, Hugh whispered to the footman to make sure the champagne glasses were refilled at every opportunity.

  Two boys with flaming torches marched to stand at either side of the stage, and a single fiddler began a slow version of an old minuet as the players processed from behind the stage and around the grass in a circle. Everyone but Daniel wore a spreading crown of hops, and on the ladies, long bud-filled vines, caught in ribbons and pinned over one shoulder, trailed on the ground like the trains of ball gowns. Craigmore, moving at a king’s slow pace, carried willow sticks lashed together in the manner of an ancient Roman scepter and led the farmer’s daughter, who cradled an armful of wildflowers as pink as her flushed cheeks. Beatrice held apples in a basket at her waist and Celeste a jug of cider on one shoulder, in the manner of a nymph on a Greek vase. Wearing a scarlet scarf tied in dashing style around his neck and carrying a large leather portfolio, Daniel brought up the rear.

  “It’s not a tableau if they’re moving,” said Mr. Tillingham, his voice made louder than he imagined by a tankard of cider.

  “No, but what a lovely effect,” said Aunt Agatha. Hugh had to admit that in the waning, horizontal light of evening, with the flicker of the torches and bonfire, trees darkening all around and the colorful crowd pressing forward from their tables to see, the procession held a strange power.

  As the music paused, the players moved into a square formation, ready to dance. There was some clapping from the crowd, and small children wriggled forward under their mothers’ skirts to better see the show.

  “ ‘The Crowning of the Hop King,’ ” announced Daniel, reading from a paper plucked from his opened portfolio and then allowing it to flutter to the ground.

  “Being a special adaptation of the poem ‘To the David of Florence’ by Daniel Bookham, reimagined as homage to the last day of our harvest…”

  “Perhaps the last harvest?” he added and dropped the second page as the fiddler scrambled through a brief musical fanfare.

  “I do hope it rhymes,” said Lady Emily. “It’s not proper poetry if it isn’t in iambic pentameter.”

  “Your marble thigh so sinewed, whitely,

  Would that my hand might press to warm

  Life to the veins, set sap to running—

  And harvest the shepherd home to the farm.”

  As Daniel paused, the fiddle, joined by a pennywhistle, began the same minuet again, in a minor key, and Beatrice and Celeste laid their gifts at the farm girl’s feet and entwined their arms for the first figure of the dance.

  “King of your own flesh, Prince of your own eyes,

  None has dominion higher than the pure.

  I touch like a priest but the rope of your sandal,

  Pledge you all honor, and faith t
hat endures.”

  Craigmore and the farmer’s daughter took their turn at the figure. Hugh could not be sure at such a distance, but he thought Beatrice’s shoulders might be shuddering with suppressed laughter. All four dancers began a stately circle, hands aloft.

  “Boy, man, and king, thy reign o’erpowers me,

  Renders my lyre faint like unto death.

  King of the hop fields, kiss but my forehead,

  Wake me, your giant, and let flower all the earth.”

  The last pages fluttered from Daniel’s grasp as he lowered himself to one knee. The dancers came to a stop, the Hop King bowing to his Queen, the handmaidens in low curtsies, arms raised to the sky. As the players stilled in final tableau, three small girls ran from behind the stage with baskets and began to pelt the dancers with flowers. Agatha saw Beatrice take a large dahlia to the cheek but remain still, albeit blinking. The music finished with a long last note.

  The crowd erupted in applause and laughter and loud discussions up and down the tables.

  “Bravo, bravo,” said Mr. Tillingham, clapping from his chair. “Poet, poet!”

  Daniel rose slowly, removing the red scarf from his neck and using it to lead the players in a sweeping bow. As he stepped back into the line, Craigmore dropped the hand of the farmer’s daughter and caught Daniel round the neck in a friendly hold. Daniel squirmed and grinned but made no effort to free himself until Craigmore let go to offer him a slap on the back and to grab his hand as all the players linked arms for another set of bows. The applause was louder and more sustained than Hugh thought warranted as Craigmore led the farmer’s daughter to her father and the others returned to their table. Hugh leaned towards his aunt to say, “Daniel will be impossibly smug in the morning.”

  “It was well done though,” said his aunt.

  “You young ladies performed beautifully,” said Lady Emily. “Bettina Fothergill must secure all three of you at once for her grand float in the parade. So far she has suggested only girls so homely I fear she means to be sure Britannia is not outshone by her handmaidens.”

  Hugh noticed Lord North, who was not clapping but stood with his hands clasped behind him, whisper something to his wife. He then pursed his lips and frowned. To Colonel Wheaton’s asking him how he enjoyed the performance, he responded with a nod. “I enjoyed the musical background. Partial to the violin.”

  “Your son is a good sport to jump in and help with our amateur entertainments,” said Agatha to the Countess. “It’s nice to bring the people more wholesome fare than music-hall numbers and dancing girls.”

  “Though there may be hidden decadence in poetry dedicated to spirits and such,” said Lady North. “We must be always on our guard against the slippery attractions of false idols.”

  “That we must,” said Lord North.

  “Of course we must,” said Agatha and then turned to roll her eyes at Hugh and Beatrice.

  “I think we’ve seen enough,” said Lord North, turning to Colonel Wheaton. “We are expected early at Dover for the review at the castle, and I know my wife tires easily.”

  “Will you not be dancing?” asked Agatha. “The band will play for hours.”

  “I regret our duties must come first,” said Lord North. “It has been a pleasure to meet you and your husband, Mrs. Kent.”

  “Are you leaving too, Aunt?” asked Hugh in a low voice as Colonel Wheaton and Lady Emily gathered themselves to leave.

  “I certainly am not,” said Agatha. “Why, they are just calling for the Gay Gordons, and I may possibly dance the Sir Roger de Coverley if the digestion of my dinner allows.” She leaned closer to Hugh and Beatrice to whisper, “If Mr. Tillingham wants to leave he can commandeer a farm cart.”

  “Good for you, Mrs. Kent,” said Beatrice as Agatha allowed her husband to lead her away to the forming dance sets.

  “Do you dance, Mademoiselle Celeste?” asked Daniel. Upon her assent, he begged the privilege, and she gave him her hand with the sort of trusting smile that only Daniel could draw from young ladies. Hugh felt a sharp envy at his cousin’s easy, open manner and found it harder than usual to compose both his face and his thoughts to make his own awkward overture.

  “Will you dance, Miss Nash?” he asked. “Only I must warn you my country-dancing experience is largely theoretical.”

  “I would be happy to, Mr. Grange,” said Beatrice. “Fortunately for you, in my schoolgirl dancing class, I was always one of the tallest and so I am used to leading.” He would have bantered again, finding some self-deprecation with which to puncture the awkwardness of conversation. But her hand was warm from her exertions, and she seemed to glow under her crown of hops. In the flicker from the bonfire and the swell of the music, Hugh found her transformed, and he did not want to speak but only to lead her whirling and laughing into the dance.

  The following morning, Hugh was settled in a wing chair in his workroom, nominally enthralled by a new book on the composition of monkey brains, an advance copy sent by a leading German researcher to Hugh’s surgeon just before war was declared. But in reality, after the weeks of sleepless nights cramming for examinations while drilling all day, and shivering through the finals in a chilly mess hall that seemed to breathe failure, he was enjoying dozing in a slab of sunlight, feeling the pleasant aftereffects of a good breakfast. He did wonder idly whether the German scientist would be able to keep his monkeys through the war, whether monkeys learned German commands as easily as English, and whether human language had a hierarchy and where English should be considered on such a hierarchy against, say, French or Latin.

  This naturally led to his considering what Miss Beatrice Nash, who was coming to luncheon with Celeste and the younger set from the Wheaton house, would have to say on the poetry of competing languages. As his mind wandered into this thought, he was aware of the scent of a late-blooming climbing rose coming in the stable window on a puff of air and he noted that the scent might have prompted the thought and he wondered if monkeys associated smells with people in the same way as humans did; whether Smith would still be Smith if he smelled of bay rum instead of diesel and boot polish, and whether Miss Nash, who smelled of roses and lime blossom to him, was even now putting on her bonnet to come for an alfresco afternoon on the terrace…

  A swift clatter of boots on the stairs heralded his cousin Daniel’s arrival, and he closed the book, not without relief, for it was a dense tome, printed in close-set type, as if the printer had struggled to squeeze its impossible length into some manageable slab of pages.

  “Craigmore’s gone,” said Daniel. His face was constricted into a mask of distress, and his tone threatened to compromise his preferred demeanor of bored indifference.

  “Gone where?” asked Hugh.

  “Urgent family business, they say,” said Daniel. He tugged at his crumpled shirt collar, and Hugh could see he was warm with sweat about the neck, as if he had run all the way home. “The Wheatons’ butler said he couldn’t say where, just that Craigmore left with his mother on the early train.”

  “What did Harry and Eleanor say?”

  “Didn’t see them. Eleanor sent word she is not feeling well, and Harry was apparently out riding and not expected back until nightfall.” Daniel slumped in the other wing chair and covered his face with one arm.

  “Well, that’s certainly a blow to Aunt Agatha’s plans,” said Hugh, keeping his tone light in the hope that his cousin would follow his lead and calm down. “I do hope it’s not anything serious with Craigmore’s family.”

  “Don’t be an idiot, Hugh, it’s nothing to do with family business,” said Daniel from under his sleeve. “It’s Lord North.” He groaned and added, “My life is over.”

  “Do try and string together rational sentences, Daniel,” said Hugh.

  “Don’t you see?” said Daniel. “Craigmore must have told his father about the journal, about our plans. He’s been sent away.”

  “You’re being a bit dramatic,” said Hugh. “You can’t know that.” Even
as Hugh spoke he felt the hypocrisy of offering comfort instead of truth. But what truth would he speak to his cousin? Remembering the whispered conversation between Lord North and his wife after Daniel’s recitation, Hugh knew, with a sinking feeling, that it was not the journal to which he objected.

  “Craigmore would never have left without leaving me a note,” said Daniel. “I always thought his father might try to make things sticky.”

  “Well, it’s unfortunate that our luncheon party has been substantially reduced,” said Hugh. “We had better inform Cook.”

  “How can you talk of luncheons?” groaned Daniel, hanging his head so that his face was hidden beneath the fall of his hair. “You have no idea what it is to lose such a friendship as that which Craigmore and I share.”

  “Pull yourself together, Cousin,” said Hugh. He stood and tugged the edges of his jacket down as if to reinforce his words. “It will not serve to allow the entire household to hear such agitation. Craigmore would not wish a conspicuous fuss, I’m sure.” There was a pause, and Hugh gazed out of the window to allow his cousin time to compose himself. While he envied his cousin’s free and easy, passionate nature, and his capacity for intense friendships, he felt squeamish in the face of Daniel’s occasional displays of emotion.

  “You are right, of course,” said Daniel at last. He pulled a large silk handkerchief from a pocket and blew his nose with abandon. “You are lucky to be made of more rational stuff, Hugh. You will never be carried away by your emotions.”

  “Thank you,” said Hugh, fully aware that Daniel did not altogether mean it as a compliment. It was hardly fair that Daniel should provoke him into a purse-lipped rigidity and then insult him for it, but Hugh’s first concern was to protect his cousin from his own self-indulgence. “Now why don’t we make a suitable plan?” he added. “Beginning with some appearance of indifference to their sudden departure.”