“Naturally,” said Lady Emily. “And of course, special cushions for the babies. They used to roll around on the floor and were terribly uncomfortable.” Beatrice lost her firm grasp of the conversational thread at this image and was unable to repress a raised eyebrow.
“Lady Emily raises the most adorable dachshunds,” explained Agatha.
“They travel with me everywhere,” said Lady Emily. “Except here when you dreadful boys are home.” She shook her fan at Daniel, who broke into laughter, and at Hugh, who looked appalled.
“I say, Lady Emily, that was a long time ago,” said Hugh. “I assure you your tiny canines would be quite safe.”
“What on earth did you do, you young scallywags, to upset Lady Emily’s dachshunds?” asked Mr. Tillingham, leaning in conspiratorial manner towards Daniel.
“Well, one time we made a circus and used them as clowns,” said Daniel, in a stage whisper. “And once Hugh decided we should take them ratting in the woods and one of Lady Emily’s beasts caught a sizable vole.”
“I don’t think we need to air our youthful delinquencies, Daniel,” said Hugh, and Beatrice was delighted to see from his blush that Hugh Grange had once been less than perfectly responsible. She liked him the better for it.
“Of course, it is long forgotten,” said Lady Emily. “Though I was sorry to give that one away.”
“You gave him away?” said Daniel. “The ratter king?”
“Heartbreaking, but I could no longer feel quite comfortable looking at his little teeth nibbling bacon from my breakfast plate,” she said. “One has to be so careful about disease.”
“Quite understandable,” said Daniel. While he struggled to hide his amusement, Beatrice noticed that his cousin Hugh looked pained.
“Colonel Wheaton likes to complain that we employ half a footman just to brush away the hair,” said Lady Emily. “But then I find him in his study, reading the newspaper, with a dog under each arm. It takes days to get the smell of his cigar out of their coats.”
“I often think I should get some sort of little dog,” said Mr. Tillingham. “An aggressive terrier, perhaps, to keep away all the unwanted visitors who interrupt my work.”
“I can’t abide people who dislike dogs,” said Lady Emily. “I am especially suspicious of those who prefer cats.” She peered as if Beatrice might be guilty. “There is something too malleable about them, don’t you think?”
“I believe our Mayoress, Mrs. Fothergill, has two rather elegant long-haired Siamese,” said Daniel.
“A very pushing sort of woman,” said Lady Emily. “However, I will hold my tongue tomorrow in order to secure Miss Nash’s position.”
“Not that your position in the school is not secure,” added Agatha. “But Lady Emily hosts an annual tea, with the school governors, the Headmaster and staff, and some of our other dignitaries. We thought it would be a lovely Sunday afternoon introduction to ensure your welcome to the community.”
“Of course, we did not expect you to be so young,” said Lady Emily. Beatrice felt a flush spread across her neck and cheeks as the question of her age, which would not, of course, be asked, hung in the air.
“I am twenty-three,” she said, looking directly at Lady Emily. “I hope I am therefore sufficiently advanced into spinsterhood?”
“I am sure there is no question that you are,” said Agatha.
“Positively ancient,” said Daniel. “Don’t you agree, Hugh?”
“That isn’t what I meant at all,” said Agatha.
“A more wrinkled physiognomy and gray hair might have been expected,” said Hugh. “But I’m sure a few weeks of our local grammar pupils will achieve the desired appearance.”
“I believe the real problem is that Lady Emily and Mrs. Kent present such figures of youth that anyone your age must appear a mere slip of a girl,” said Mr. Tillingham.
“You are being absurd, dear friend,” said Lady Emily, but she looked a little pinker in the face.
“He is being a writer,” said Daniel. “All writers must tell truth to beauty.”
“Obviously poets are compelled to produce excesses of hyperbole,” said Hugh. “I imagine writers merely exaggerate?”
Daniel laughed, and Beatrice saw Mr. Tillingham’s face flicker with annoyance before he too relaxed into a chuckle.
“And thus, with a blunt saw, we are crudely and cruelly dissected by the medical man,” said Mr. Tillingham.
“Well, regardless of age, I am sure Miss Nash will present herself as a modest, dignified woman and show that we have made the right decision,” said Agatha.
“I shall be sure to wear my ugliest dress,” said Beatrice.
“Plain will do,” said Lady Emily, in a severe tone. “We just don’t need another spectacle like our French mistress and her preposterous silk dresses.”
“To be fair, Miss Clauvert is not an Englishwoman,” said Agatha. “It is our good fortune to have a real Frenchwoman.”
“True,” said Lady Emily. “But I’m thankful Miss Nash’s family is of impeccable English lineage.”
“Actually, my mother was American,” said Beatrice, before she could stop herself. She clamped her lips closed in order to resist adding that her father had been disowned by the Marbelys and had disowned them in return for as long as possible.
“An American?” said Lady Emily, in a tone of horrified surprise.
“How delightful,” said Daniel. “Lady Emily is a great admirer of all things American, is she not, Mr. Tillingham?”
“Of course,” said Tillingham. He did not look terribly happy at being reminded of his own citizenship. Beatrice now recognized that his careful articulation bore deliberately little trace of any accent.
“My father is English,” she said. “Though after my mother died, he could never seem to be happy here.”
“Ah, the mysteries of the human heart,” said Mr. Tillingham. He raised a hand into the air, as if about to conduct an unseen orchestra, and everyone paused, as probably he intended, thought Beatrice, in order to await a bon mot from the great mind. “For I long ago found a home and a safe harbor in this tiny corner of England and I can never seem to be happy anywhere else.”
“And we consider you quite one of us, Mr. Tillingham,” said Lady Emily. “I assure you I no longer even think of you as American.”
“Mr. Tillingham is in great demand among the local hostesses,” said Agatha to Beatrice. “He is quite pestered with invitations.”
“I must be ruthless in declining or I would never dine by my own comfortable fireside,” said Mr. Tillingham. “The public acknowledgment of one’s literary contributions is of course gratifying, but the burden of reputation can be heavy at times.”
“Good thing you don’t have to suffer under such a burden with your poetry, Daniel,” said Hugh. “I shall pray for you to remain unpublished.”
“I have broad shoulders,” said Daniel. “Bring on the fame and the laurels.”
“You may joke, boys,” said Mr. Tillingham. “But wait until yet another local squire leans across the dinner table to ask you loudly whether he might have read anything you’ve written.”
“I know something of what you mean,” said Beatrice. “My father was often asked to explain who he was and what kind of things he wrote. He was always patient.” There was a polite pause, and Beatrice froze, realizing with horror that they thought she was referring to Mr. Tillingham’s earlier failure to recollect her father’s name.
“I, alas, am not as patient perhaps as your father,” said Mr. Tillingham and gave her a smile that eliminated any tension. Beatrice could have kissed him for his unexpected graciousness. “I like to respond that I do not write for the Farmers’ Almanac and so cannot dare to hope that the gentleman has read any of my meager oeuvre.”
“It is far more polite to admit that one doesn’t read,” said Lady Emily. “Who has the time? Of course we have all of Mr. Tillingham’s works in our library. I always give your latest volume pride of place next to my drawing room chair, Mr. Tillingham. I have a special gold bookmark with a Fortuny silk tassel.”