The Summer Before the War

by Helen Simonson

  “I will write to Craigmore at his father’s in London,” said Daniel.

  “I think not,” said Hugh. “Aunt Agatha will surely be writing a note of thanks to Lady Emily this morning. We’ll ask her to make casual inquiries.”

  “What if Lady Emily knows nothing?” said Daniel. “I can still catch the noon post.”

  “If matters stand as you fear, your letter may be intercepted,” said Hugh. “I will write to Craigmore myself—but by late-afternoon post at the earliest.”

  “Why the delay?” asked Daniel.

  “Craigmore seemed very interested in our hospital laboratories,” said Hugh. “As I’m expected in London on Tuesday, it will probably occur to me, by midafternoon at the earliest, to send him a casual invitation to tour. All very indifferent, you see?”

  Daniel groaned. “I can’t wait until Tuesday.”

  “I hope it will prompt him to send me a reply that might shed light on the situation,” said Hugh. “But meanwhile, Daniel, you simply must recover your composure. No good can come from physical or emotional dishevelment.”

  A sound of voices in the stable below was followed by a light knocking on the stairwell wall and Beatrice Nash’s voice saying, “Hello, is anyone at home?”

  “I’m not sure I can face anyone,” said Daniel urgently. Hugh noticed that he did have a strange, pale look about the gills, but perhaps, he thought, this was the properly deserved effect of too much rough cider and champagne.

  “For goodness’ sake, it’s only Beatrice and Celeste,” he said. “You and Miss Celeste can look pale and interesting together. Of course, she’s come from a war zone. Perhaps her situation will help your sense of perspective.”

  “Your sarcasm lacks the delicacy that would render it amusing,” said Daniel. He caught Hugh by the sleeve. “But I thank you for your help. What would I do without you to bail me out of scrapes?”

  “One day you’ll have to take care of yourself,” said Hugh. “Now smile for our guests.”

  “You sound just like Uncle John sometimes,” said Daniel. “Hello, ladies, do come up. It’s mercifully clear of blood and guts today.”

  Beatrice and Celeste came up the stairs, and Hugh was glad to note that he was not mistaken; Beatrice did smell of roses and lime blossom. Celeste carried the faintest perfume of soap and talcum powder, and neither lady seemed to wear any hint of the previous night’s festivities.

  “Welcome,” he said. “How did you find us?”

  “I asked Jenny not to stand on ceremony but to direct us to where you were,” said Beatrice. “We are a trifle early, and I hoped you would be up here so I might show Celeste your lair.”

  “Welcome, Miss Celeste,” said Hugh. “My humble workroom is at your disposal.”

  “It is a privilege,” said Celeste. “I want to see the dead chickens.” Daniel laughed, and Hugh hoped the presence of the ladies might make him sensible. But Daniel could not keep such anguish contained.

  “Craigmore has gone,” he blurted out. “My friend vanished before breakfast.”

  “Well, that is sad for our lunch party,” said Beatrice. “But I do hope it was not bad news in the family?”

  “I am sure everything is fine,” said Hugh, pleased at how exactly her response mirrored his own. “I’m going to ask my Aunt Agatha to inquire as much of Lady Emily, just to reassure us.”

  “But this is terrible,” said Celeste to Daniel. “How could your friend leave without a word?”

  “My thought exactly,” said Daniel. “I am in an agony of uncertainty. L’angoisse du doute.”

  “It is not right to leave no word in these days,” said Celeste. “Anything could have happened, n’est-ce pas?”

  “At last someone understands,” said Daniel, shooting Hugh a look. Hugh could only roll his eyes as Daniel and Celeste drifted to the two wing chairs, where they sat and continued, for some minutes, to turn over the circumstances of Craigmore’s departure in a low and urgent mix of English and French.

  “I’m sure there is a simple explanation,” said Beatrice to Hugh. “Perhaps we had better excuse ourselves and relieve your aunt of the need to entertain us?”

  “Do not leave me to lunch alone with Daniel in his current agonies,” said Hugh. “I shall get indigestion.”

  Beatrice laughed, and Hugh heard an echo of the night’s music and had to quell an urge to sweep her into another spinning dance.

  “Just as well,” she said. “I told Mrs. Turber we would be out, and there is no producing spontaneous nourishment in the Turber kitchen.”

  —

  Aunt Agatha was in her small upstairs porch, where she spent most mornings at her desk, in a loose wrapper and slippers, writing letters and reading magazines. Uncle John was smoking his pipe in the window seat and looking over last week’s racing papers. Hugh knocked at the open door and went in.

  “Am I late?” asked Aunt Agatha. “I was just trying to finish a couple of notes before they arrive.”

  “Celeste and Beatrice are here,” said Hugh. “But Celeste is deep in conversation with Daniel, and Beatrice was keen to tour the kitchen garden.”

  “We had best be getting dressed, then,” said his uncle.

  “Did you write a note of thanks to Lady Emily yet?” Hugh asked, affecting an air of nonchalance. From the sharp look on his aunt’s face, he knew he had overplayed his hand.

  “I am writing it now,” she said, one eyebrow raised.

  “Only it seems that the Countess left in a hurry for London this morning,” said Hugh. “Took Craigmore with her without so much as a word to anyone.”

  “Seems a little abrupt?” said Uncle John.

  “How upsetting for Daniel,” said Agatha. “He was so glad to have his friend here.”

  Hugh did his best to meet her gaze with an expression of frankness. “Not really,” he said. “We were just hoping that it is not some family emergency. Perhaps Lady Emily might reassure us on that point?”

  “It seems quite rude after all the trouble Lady Emily took to entertain them—but of course I shall be discreet and merely note our concern for Lady North’s family,” said Agatha.

  “Harry and Eleanor are also apparently unavailable for luncheon,” said Hugh. “I’ve already spoken to Cook.”

  When Hugh had left, Agatha took up her pen and, after some hesitation, composed a brief line offering an expression of concern for the Countess and sympathy for the disarrangement such a hasty departure must bring to any hostess.

  While she was reading it over, John folded up his paper and took his pipe from his mouth. “To be expected, you know,” he said.

  “What is?” asked Agatha.

  “Son of an earl,” said John. “Not likely to be allowed to dabble in the arts when there is a war on.”

  “I quite agree,” said Agatha. “Yet I hardly see the need to order the boy away.”

  “Some things are best nipped in the bud,” said John. “Time for Daniel to see some sense too.”

  “I am as concerned as you about Daniel’s future,” said Agatha. “Yet he does have more than a usual talent, John. Tillingham has said so.”

  “Tillingham is an old sybarite with particular interests.”

  “John!” said Agatha. “You are quite mistaken. I have had to comfort several ladies I know after Mr. Tillingham has been most rude about the talents of their sons. Some who are even more handsome than Daniel.”

  “Ah, then you do admit to that possibility?” asked her husband.

  “You are quite awful this morning,” said Agatha. “Do be serious for a moment, John. Do you not think Daniel should pursue his art? He could be the next Coleridge.”

  “I think Mr. Kipling is more the fashion now,” said John. “Besides, Coleridge lived a life of poverty and had to be sustained by charitable friends.”

  “Perhaps you think he should be a postman like Trollope?” said Agatha.

  “You forget that it is not up to us,” said John, mildly, folding away the paper and tucking it in the b
ack of a basket. He was quite pleased to read old copies over again and rotated them carefully so that while he might feel a familiarity in the stories he would be sure to have forgotten the specifics. Though it pained Agatha that he might appear frugal to the staff, he did it not to save money but because to read stories of races already won and horses long put out to stud was, he said, a welcome relaxation after the constant influx of new crises that dominated his working life. Since he had few other vices about which a reasonable wife could complain, she was obliged to find this habit endearing. She was not similarly inclined and spent too much of her household allowance on weekly copies of The Gentlewoman and Country Life, and, more recently, had begun to pick up the less vulgar of the illustrated papers.

  “I believe Daniel will go his own way despite his father,” said Agatha. “Or even to spite him outright. I would like to think we might be a mediating influence.”

  “You are to stay out of their business, Agatha,” said John. “We have been over this before. We agreed long ago on our proper roles as aunt and uncle to both Hugh and Daniel.”

  “Yes but—”

  “No ‘buts,’ my dear,” he said. His voice was still as mild as before, but she knew he would not be countermanded. “I have made Daniel’s father aware of the assistance I can provide, and not provide, in securing Daniel a spot in the civil or diplomatic service. I have no particular assistance to offer in the way of a literary career, so even if I did not know it to be against his father’s intentions, I could offer no help there.”

  “He wants to start a poetry magazine.”

  “If he wanted a military commission, I might be able to pull a few strings,” said John. “At least many people seem to think I can, judging by the dozens of requests I am getting.”

  “No, don’t mention such a thing,” said Agatha. “Isn’t it bad enough that Hugh has enlisted?”

  “Many of our finest young aristocrats are falling over themselves to get in on the action,” said her husband. “Careers and fortunes may be made in these next few months. I think Hugh was wise to follow his surgeon’s advice.”

  “You are not to speak of it to Daniel,” said Agatha. “I should worry all the time.”

  “Then I will not bring it up,” said her husband. “And you in turn will leave the boy and his father to discuss his future.”

  “I must get this note over to Emily Wheaton,” said Agatha. “I’ll not wait for the post. I’ll send Smith instead.”

  —

  After the fresh sea air and green lawns of Sussex, all of London seemed breathless under the accumulated dust of a long summer. Having received only an elliptical note from Craigmore, saying he would be at home Tuesday morning but unable to visit Hugh’s hospital, the two cousins had decided to consider themselves invited to visit and had gained entrance through the formidable gates and courtyard of Lord North’s London mansion in part because Hugh was in uniform and a uniform seemed to create respect and open doors these days. They had been shown to a small antechamber, paneled in heavy oak. It contained only small, stiff settees, an empty fireplace with cast-iron mantel, and, between two large windows, an imposing, green malachite bust of Cromwell on a matching plinth so floridly carved with vines and flowers that Cromwell himself would surely have had it destroyed. Hugh was not familiar with any connection of the Earl North family to Cromwell. Perhaps, he thought, there was none and that was why the ugly heirloom had been consigned to oaken purgatory to intimidate unwanted guests. Daniel was pacing the four corners of the room as if to measure it for carpet. His hands clasped behind his back and his shoulders hunched, he looked as miserable as Cromwell and almost as green. Hugh hoped that his cousin would be able to preserve his dignity.

  “It will not do to seem anxious,” he said quietly. “And remember, any mention of the journal on your part might seem to be about money rather than friendship.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the journal or about money,” said Daniel.

  “I know that,” said Hugh. “Just be silent and let Craigmore tell us what is happening.”

  Daniel came over and clasped Hugh’s hand. “Thank you, Cousin,” he said. “Your permanent frown always brings me to my senses.”

  “I do not have a permanent frown,” said Hugh. He took a brief look into the pier glass over the mantel and consciously adjusted his features to a half smile, smoothing out the deep lines between his eyes. He adjusted his cap a little higher under his arm. “Or at least I would not have such a frown were you to cause me less concern.”

  “I can manage my own affairs, you know,” said Daniel, a note of schoolboy petulance in his tone.

  “You came to the railway station this morning with no money,” said Hugh.

  “Very good of you to advance me the ticket,” said Daniel. “I don’t think we would have gained seats at all if you were not on orders.”

  “Let’s hope you are allowed to travel home,” said Hugh. “Troop priority seems to have overwhelmed the railways.”

  “I remember now I was using some notes as bookmarks. Think I rushed out and left all my money tucked into my Longfellow.” Daniel’s humor seemed to improve in consideration of his own foolishness. “All poets should be assigned a Hugh to watch over them.”

  “Thank you,” said Hugh, turning his head to the sound of footsteps in the hall. “I’ve always wanted to be a valet.”

  The door to the room swung open, pushed by a footman, and Craigmore advanced with an air of stiff dignity, an ambassador asked to receive a party of minor colonial dignitaries. With chin high and lips pursed, his stiff demeanor was accented by the thick wool of a dull blue uniform so new even the elbows had not creased. He wore polished boots, walking slowly as if they pinched in several places, and carried a blue cap with shiny black brim under his arm. In only two days, his upper lip had acquired the solid underpinnings of a blunt moustache, and only his golden hair, trimmed short but still insistent on its curl, disturbed his military air.

  “Oh my God, are you playing in H.M.S. Pinafore?” Daniel asked with a laugh. His face was wreathed in smiles, and his anxiety seemed to have evaporated now his friend was in the room. “What have they done to you?”

  “Hugh, Daniel, good of you both to come,” said Craigmore. “I’m afraid I don’t have much time. My mother is giving a luncheon.” He shook hands with Hugh and then with Daniel, who grasped his hand with two hands.

  “I am beyond measure glad to see you,” said Daniel.

  Craigmore withdrew his hand gently and placed it behind his back. His cheeks reddened and he rocked slightly on his heels, as if considering his next words with care. As he spoke, he waved to the settees, and Hugh followed his lead and sat down. Daniel remained standing.

  “I wanted to apologize for the hurried nature of our departure from Sussex,” said Craigmore. “It was unpardonably rude, and yet we had not a moment to write. We had an early-morning telegram, and my mother and I simply dashed for the train.”

  “We were glad to hear from Lady Emily that no tragedy had occurred,” said Hugh, offering it somewhere between a statement and a question.

  “No, rather an opportunity to be seized,” said Craigmore slowly. “An old friend of my father’s offered to provide me an advantage, but he was only in London briefly so we were forced to hurry to town.”

  “Not a word to your friends?” asked Daniel. He stood behind Hugh, and Hugh could sense that he was gripping the wooden frame of the settee.

  “I confess,” said Craigmore, “that even had I a moment I would not have known what to write.” He took a slow breath and looked Daniel directly in the face. “My good fortune was to overturn all our deepest held ambitions, my friend, and I could not, in all honor, convey such news in a letter.”

  “It appears you have secured a military commission?” said Hugh, moving cautiously to the obvious and hoping his tone would prevent any violent outburst from Daniel, who let go the settee and came to slump beside him. He did not want to look at his cousin’s face. He an
d Craigmore talked as if Daniel were not in the room.

  “I knew you had joined the Medical Corps, of course,” said Craigmore to Hugh. “Are you already on orders?”

  “Six weeks or so of training,” said Hugh. “Mostly the military aspects. They’ve rushed us through our final exams already.”

  “Royal Flying Corps,” said Craigmore. “Uniform is still a bit up in the air—if you’ll excuse the pun. Of course we’ll have more suitable flying gear for daily use. Leathers and so forth. I’m off to Burberry’s later today to get a greatcoat, and they do a very good aviator helmet with goggles, the best hand-ground lenses.”

  “I didn’t know you flew,” said Hugh.

  “Yes, been doing a bit this last year. Took Daniel up a couple of times over Florence this summer,” said Craigmore. “Damned good fun. Dozens of chaps looking for commissions, of course, so when my father arranged for me to meet the Commodore—well, I can tell you I had no interest in enlisting in an ordinary war, but the Flying Corps—this is the newest thing.” He reddened some more and added, “Damned good fun!”

  “What about art?” asked Daniel, his voice low and miserable.

  “I was never as good a painter as Daniel thought,” said Craigmore, still talking to Hugh. “I knew it even if he didn’t.” He fidgeted up from the settee and went to put his boot on the fireplace fender, one arm on the mantel. “I was always going to be the one tolerated for his money and connections.”

  “I never thought of you that way,” said Daniel quietly.

  “I know that, I know,” said Craigmore hurriedly, risking a quick glance in his direction. “I accuse you only of being perhaps blinded by—by friendship.”

  “And what of such a friendship?” asked Daniel. “Is it to be tossed aside as a casual convenience?”

  “My father says the time calls for men, not for sensitive boys,” said Craigmore. “Many friendships will be changed by the events of the coming days.”

  “Since when have we listened to our fathers?” asked Daniel. “Do we not share the deepest aversion to their calculated hypocrisies?”

  “Café chatter and schoolboy manifestos,” said Craigmore. “It is time we grew up, Daniel.”