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LOUISE
JULY 18
“Well,” Frederick said, frowning at the crowd, “you were right about everyone in town being here.”
“I am not prone to exaggeration.” Louise looked out at the bustle and tried to see it the way a newcomer would instead of someone who had attended the festival every year for the past few decades. Derby, its population swelled by summer visitors, was out in force for the Fire Muster, looking their best in gingham dresses and boater hats. “Ever since we got that garish ladder truck, it’s become a county-wide event.”
She pointed, as if he could miss the bright red behemoth blocking half the street in front of city hall. It had been their mayor’s campaign platform for years, and he lost no chance to show it off to constituents.
Locals knew it was best to pray nothing caught fire on the day of the Fire Muster. The volunteers that comprised the crew would never be able to get to the scene on time without running over half of the crowd, including many children who mobbed around for a closer look.
“Still,” Louise said, trying to inject some enthusiasm into her voice, “it’s very festive, isn’t it?”
Frederick nodded morosely. He’d dressed in his military uniform despite the heat of the day, but he looked more like hewas being dragged to an execution than a mere presentation on gardening techniques. It was almost enough to make her feel sorry that she’d signed him up for this.
Almost. But duty must be done. Anything for the war effort.
Booths lined Main Street, some selling food or streamers on poles, all proceeds to benefit the fire department, others calling out to recruit participants to the various competitions: a bucket brigade, hose rolling, ladder climbing. They always targeted the young, brash men, those sure they could win back the entry fee and cocky enough to risk making a fool of themselves in front of a crowd.
Except, Louise realized, surveying the crowds, there weren’t many available this year. Odd how it took occasions like this to really notice how enlistment had affected the population. Even the firemen, sweltering in their uniforms as they waved proudly at the crowd, were of an older set than usual, averaging in their forties and fifties.
“No more dawdling,” she said crisply, walking with the sort of authority that made crowds part around her. “Your presentation will begin shortly.”
A quick glance backward revealed Frederick’s grimace. “How could I forget?”
My, he really was nervous, wasn’t he? It didn’t seem possible for someone as confident and charming as her young gardener. Louise knew she was rubbish at inspirational speeches, but as this was her fault, perhaps she could try. “You’ll do just fine. All you have to do is share what you know.”
He managed an admirable attempt at a smile, though not entirely sincere. Still, once the boy got up on stage, the nerves would fade away. After all, his family had tended a garden all his life, back in New Hampshire.
As they approached the platform, Elvira Buckwold was easily made visible by her hat, a sentinel bedecked with fiery red ribbons for the occasion. Rows of benches flanked her on eitherside, many already filled, and two other women, her daughter and Frances Jefferson, clustered near the platform steps next to her. Louise wondered if she’d have to grip Frederick’s arm to keep him from bolting, but he followed obediently behind her, resigned to his fate.
They wove through the gathering audience, and Louise was about to call Elvira’s name when she heard Avis’s and paused.
“...haven’t seen her anywhere today, have you?” Lillian was saying.
“No,” Frances said. “She’s probably locked up in that library, and no wonder. Seems to me, she’s really let herself go, starting even before her husband left.”
Elvira, her back still to Louise, fanned herself with one of the flyers they’d used to promote the event and leaned in to the others. “I’ve heard—and don’t ask me who from—that he might not come back. Or that he’s not involved in defense at all. A group of yachters chasing Nazi subs? It’s too absurd.”
“No!” Lillian’s gasp was full of scandal. “She wouldn’t make up something like that.”
“You don’t know the lengths a woman will go to—”
“Say now,” Frederick said, stepping up, and the women turned at his irritated voice, faces representing various degrees of guilt.
Louise held up a hand and glared a warning at him, and he scurried off to the podium, notes in hand. Her message had been clear:Leave this to me.
Before any of the other women could get a word in, Louise stepped closer. “Good day, ladies. As you can see, we have arrived.” She made her voice as frosty as an ocean plunge in December. “I’m sorry that our delay gave you time for idle gossip.”
She paused purposefully, prompting nervous laughter from Frances, but Elvira simply fumed.
“Never mind that,” Lillian stammered, edging toward theplatform to make her escape. “If I could just have a word with Mr. Keats before he begins. I’m introducing him, you see....”
“One moment, if you please.” She pitched the phrase like the genteel threat it was. The women stared at her, held in place, waiting. “I would like to make it clear that I don’t approve of gossip of any kind. Criticisms and corrections are sometimes worth speaking, but they accomplish nothing unless said to the person’s face. Don’t you think?”
To call it a question would be generous, and the Buckwolds clearly knew it, murmuring a halfhearted agreement.
“Oh, but we would never tell Avis—” Frances said, breaking off in a cough.
