—
Beatrice had feared the box room might leave her dirty and covered with cobwebs, but the cleaning abilities of Smith’s wife had not been exaggerated, and from the spotless room she had selected a simple green bed and bureau, a small tea table and chairs, and the bookcases, which she felt were far too valuable but which Hugh insisted were just the thing.
“I allow plenty of room for sentimental attachments,” said Hugh. “But once something is consigned to the box room it is a matter of guilt, not love.” As she ran upstairs to wash her hands and deposit her hat in the third-best bedroom, to which Jenny directed her as if the room would now always be Beatrice’s, she smiled at the realization that Hugh Grange hid a dry sense of humor beneath his plain scientific demeanor. He was quieter than his dazzling cousin, she thought, but it seemed he was no less sharp-witted.
Beatrice came down to a drawing room lively with voices and the clink of glasses. She hesitated in the doorway, knowing she should be eager to meet her patron, Lady Emily, but instead fluttering with anticipation and scanning the room to see the great Mr. Tillingham. All the time in the box room, while she talked to Hugh about the boys and laughed over the fat ottomans and plant stands to which he tried to tempt her, she had been growing more and more nervous. To meet the man whose writing she admired above all others was delightful, yet she feared to seem too eager. She was almost glad that Agatha had forbidden her to mention her desire to be a writer; otherwise she might have blurted out some gauche declaration to the great man.
She noticed that Daniel had decided to be polite and was already present. He stood up briefly as she came in. Agatha, in a pale green dress adorned with a brooch of silver and peacock feathers and curly Arabian gold slippers, came forward, glass of Madeira in hand, to greet her.
“Miss Nash, why don’t you allow me to introduce you to our little school’s most important patron,” said Agatha. “Lady Emily, may I introduce to you Miss Beatrice Nash?” Lady Emily, despite the warm evening, wore severe, high-collared black silk. She was a study in gaunt angles, her limbs folded carefully onto the least comfortable chaise in the room, chin lifted as if she were about to have her portrait taken. As a concession to the informal dinner, to which she had all but invited herself at the last minute, she wore only a choker of fat pearls.
“Welcome to our little town,” said Lady Emily. “Agatha tells us we are lucky to have attracted a teacher of your credentials, and Lady Marbely has of course vouched for your character.”
“I am very grateful to Mrs. Kent and to you, Lady Emily,” said Beatrice. She knew what it must have cost her aunt to pen a few lines of praise in order to be rid of her and took great satisfaction in not repeating her aunt’s name, even though Lady Emily’s pursed lips suggested she was waiting for more communication. Beatrice merely offered her blandest and most demure smile.
“And may I introduce you to Mr. Tillingham,” said Agatha, sweeping a plump arm towards a heavy-jowled older man, who was struggling to rise from a deep chair. “Though I’m sure our most distinguished literary neighbor needs no introduction.”
At last the great man was in front of her. With a heave, he popped upright, swaying a little as the bulk of his torso sought equilibrium above two short legs and a pair of dainty feet. He considered Beatrice from hooded eyes under a broad forehead that continued up and over the back of a balding head. She thought at once of a large owl.
“No indeed,” she stammered. He was less impressive in person than in the photographs she had seen of him in the newspapers, but she was still struck with a childish blush as he took her hand.
“How do you do,” he said.
She struggled for a reply as she tried not to pour out an effusive gush of silly compliments about the beauty of his language, or the elliptical construction of his sentences. She settled on “My father, Joseph Nash, was a great admirer of your work.” At least her father’s name would signal that she was more than just the ladies’ latest educational experiment to be gaped at over dinner.
“Joseph Nash? Joseph Nash?” said Mr. Tillingham, his face politely blank as he grasped for some connection to the name.
“A Short History of Euripides?” she said. “You were kind enough to write to him about it.” It was the most successful of her father’s modest published works, and he had considered it his finest achievement, in some part because it had resulted in correspondence from Mr. Tillingham. Tillingham had written in praise, her father had responded in kind. Tillingham had written again to suggest that he concentrate exclusively on historical biography and to lament that so many threw away their talents on cheap journalism and low criticism. Her father had laughed and written to thank Tillingham for the advice. Neither had mentioned the journal to which her father contributed and in which he had roundly criticized one of Tillingham’s first plays. She still had Tillingham’s original letters, along with her copies of her father’s replies. They were wrapped in oilcloth and tied with a thin leather lace, in a tin box of her father’s papers, a box she had barely managed to smuggle from the Marbely home. She felt a rising anxiety as everyone wrinkled their brows as if searching for a collective memory.
“Well, I’m sure Mr. Tillingham must correspond with dozens of people,” said Agatha.
“What color are the boards?” asked Tillingham. “I have a good memory for color.”
“Green,” said Beatrice. “Rather slim, with a cream title.”
“Ah yes, I remember now,” said Tillingham. “A rare historical work that achieved its own promised brevity, and one or two moments of surprising clarity within the pages. I believe I was not unimpressed.”
“Thank you,” said Beatrice.
“I shall look it up in my library,” said Tillingham. “Perhaps it will remind me further of your father’s correspondence.” There was a slight easing of tension around the room, as if Mr. Tillingham’s recollection of her father’s book served as a password.
“Do sit down, Miss Nash,” said Agatha, indicating a place beside her on a comfortable sofa. “You must still be tired after your journey yesterday.”
“Just a little,” she said. “The stations in London were very hot and crowded.”
Hugh slipped into the room, his crooked bow tie and damp hair betraying his last-minute haste in dressing. No one seemed to notice him, and Beatrice was deeply aware that they were too busy examining her even as they pretended to look elsewhere.
“I never travel by train,” said Lady Emily, breaking an awkward pause. “All the soot and such a crush of vulgar humanity.”
“Yes, one may encounter the occasional vulgar person,” said Beatrice. She kept her face blank and did not look at Hugh, but she was satisfied to hear him rattle a decanter loudly.
“Anyone for more sherry?” he called. The maid, Jenny, stood by the decanters with a small silver tray to carry drinks.
“There’s no need to be abrupt, my dear,” said his aunt. “Do pour Miss Nash a small glass of sherry.”
“But, dear Lady Emily, if you never take a train, however do you get to Scotland?” asked Daniel, lolling in his chair with the carelessness of a child.
“Well, of course I do take a private sleeping car to Scotland,” she replied. “Even so, I have to send two of my maids to give it a thorough cleaning before I go aboard.”
“One would wish to bring one’s own linens, I imagine,” said Mr. Tillingham, tilting his head to one side and pursing his lips. Beatrice wondered if he was making notes for a future novel. “And perhaps a hamper or two?”