She did not ask him for anything in return. She begged no letters or poems. She did not include phrases that hoped to hear from him, or longed to see his face. She simply sent him her small, carefully described miniatures of his home in hopes he would be cheered by the portraits; and she kept private her secret hope that he would not wince to see her figure wandering in the scenes she described.
Agatha had stopped looking at the newspapers and the illustrated periodicals, the ladies’ journals with their sideways glances at the war. Every recipe for meatless pie or economical carrot Christmas pudding, every instruction for sock knitting or notice of a bandage drive, was a little stab in the heart, more painful than the daily bulletins of fact. She set them all aside and lived beyond the comfort of stoking and nursing and picking at her fear. The constant and patient performance of her duties was her new ritual, her book of hours. The writing of the letter in the morning, the visiting hours, the careful dressing for dinner, even when the dinner was meatless and she and Celeste sat at a card table in the drawing room to save lighting the dining room fire. The winding of the clocks, the ordering of winter feed for the horse, the continued care for refugees, and the inspection of boots to send to the cobbler. She invested each with her full attention and left no room in her mind for the luxury of pain.
Christmas had come and gone with subdued warmth. Beatrice Nash and Mr. Tillingham came to dinner. Agatha gave Mr. Tillingham a small book of old Latin poems picked out at an antiquarian book dealer John favored, just off the Charing Cross Road. Beatrice gave him an ivory bookmark that had been her father’s, and Celeste made him an exquisite lace cloth for his spectacles. With some flourish, Mr. Tillingham presented each lady with the same faux shagreen glove box he had given his secretary. His frugality was expected, but his lack of concern to differentiate in any way among the ladies had been of obvious hurt to Beatrice. Agatha hoped her gift to Beatrice, of an old calfskin-bound copy of Chaucer with color illustrations, would offer some compensation. She and John had a letter from Hugh, stiff in the boy’s formal way, and filled with positive tales of his lodgings and the efficiency of the hospital. He did not complain of conditions or tell what horrors he might have seen; for this Agatha was grateful. She read the letter aloud after Christmas dinner, and Celeste produced a postcard, all embroidered wool flowers and a printed sentiment, on which Daniel had scrawled brief Christmas wishes to all at home. The card was passed around, and Agatha took it greedily in her hands and traced the signature with her finger as if it might summon Daniel to the room.
The card rested on the mantel in Celeste’s green room, and Agatha sometimes slipped in to pick it up again and look at the loop of the penmanship. If Jenny or Celeste came in unexpectedly, she would wipe a finger along the mantel and blow away imaginary dust before ordering a second dusting, or shake out the curtains and wonder aloud if they needed retrimming.
Today she wrote that the March winds had died down, and with the days growing lighter and the nights shrinking back from their winter dominance, the snowdrops and early daffodils were defying the frost to bloom in the south-facing beds. She did not draw any conclusion or hopes from these facts, she merely let them blossom across her thin letter paper in the loops of her pen. Despite the bare elm tapping on the glass of her study windows, and the frigid cold radiating through the glass, she could almost imagine spring in the sharp blue sky and the small sparrows fluffing out their wings and sharpening their beaks on the branches.
The telephone rang in the bowels of the house, and she blocked the sound from her mind. She was not to be disturbed during this particular hour, and Jenny would let the caller know she was not yet about. A tap on the door violated her careful arrangement and caused her pen to drop a blot on the page.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said Jenny. “But it’s Mr. Kent on the phone, and he insists.”
The jolt of fear, the deep breath, the suppression of any visible trembling; Agatha rose slowly, blotted her letter on the mat, and placed her pen in its holder.
“Tell Mr. Kent I’ll be right there,” she said, letting the maid hurry down while she took off her gloves, and the woolly blanket she used as a shawl, and proceeded in a dignified glide through the upper hall and down the polished stairs. No point in running and perhaps slipping, twisting an ankle. No point in assuming her husband was calling from London with some emergency. Better to keep to one’s carefully constructed life of patience…
“I got a coded telegram from Hugh’s surgeon,” said John. “Grange, Wheaton, Bookham, Sidley STOP Blighty bound STOP HS Folkestone 18:00 STOP.”
“Oh my God, they’re hurt,” said Agatha.
“I telephoned Major Frank at the hospital, and he’s sending his ambulance. They’re coming home, Agatha.”
“I must get to Folkestone,” she said.
“I’m taking a train in an hour,” said her husband. “Let me handle this, Agatha. We don’t know what we’ll find.”
“I’m coming,” said Agatha. “No force on earth will keep me from those docks.” She put the telephone back in its cradle and called wildly for Celeste, Jenny, Cook, and Smith. The household came running.
—
Beatrice was leaving school to go home for her midday dinner when Agatha Kent all but overtook her on the street with no greeting.
“Mrs. Kent? Agatha?” called Beatrice.
“I can’t stop,” said Agatha. “I have to get to Folkestone and of course the car was taken weeks ago and all the trains are hopeless these days so I have to find anyone with a car or a lorry.” Most of the private cars had been acquired by the army for war service, and the trains were so slow and full of troops that travel had become difficult.
“A pair of horses might get you there in a few hours,” said Beatrice. It was over thirty miles to Folkestone, but a horse might do the trip in four or five hours at a trot.
“But they would be spent and lame from the effort and I would not get home again.” She stopped and took a deep breath. “The boys are on a hospital ship with Harry Wheaton and young Sidley,” she added, looking stricken. “They may all be badly injured. We just don’t know.”
“Alice Finch,” said Beatrice. “We must find Alice Finch.” Alice had managed to get her motorbike grudgingly exempted as part of her beloved motorbike and bicycle messenger corps. The corps included certain stalwart ladies, some scouts, and assorted amateur male cyclists too old or young for military service, who enjoyed the thrill of cycling through the dark, carrying messages between shoreline sentry posts.
“A motorbike?” asked Agatha. “I don’t know.”
“Nonsense,” said Beatrice. “I only hope she can take both of us because I’m coming with you.” She gave no thought to her afternoon classes. An image of Hugh, bleeding and pale on a stretcher, was before her eyes as they hurried up the hill to Alice’s cottage and rousted her and Minnie Buttles from their luncheon. Alice agreed at once to take them, and Minnie ran to find them goggles and a pair of motorcycle breeches for Beatrice, who would have to ride astride. The motorbike was dragged from the shed, and Agatha pushed and shoved into the sidecar, an extra can of petrol under her feet. Then Beatrice tucked the unfamiliar breeches firmly into her belt and climbed behind Alice. A running start, pushed from behind by Minnie, and the engine roared to life. Alice opened the throttle, and in a sight that brought shopkeepers to their doors and made the dogs bark, three ladies flew down the high street and away across the marsh, hair and hat ribbons flying in the wind.