The House at Riverton aka The Shifting Fog

English Heritage Brochure

1999

Riverton Manor, Saffron Green, Essex

An early Elizabethan farmhouse designed by John Thorpe, Riverton Manor was ‘gentrified’ in the eighteenth century by the eighth Viscount of Ashbury who added two bays, transforming the house into a graceful manor. In the nineteenth century, when countryhouse weekends became popular, Riverton again underwent conversion at the hands of architect Thomas Cubitt: a third level was built to incorporate more guest accommodation; and, in keeping with the Victorian preference that servants remain invisible at all times, a rabbit warren of servants’ rooms was added to the attic, along with back stairs leading directly to the kitchen.

The magnificent ruins of this once great house are surrounded by glorious landscaped gardens, the work of Sir Joseph Paxton. The gardens include two huge stone fountains, the largest of which, representing Eros and Psyche, has just been restored. Though now powered by computerised electric pump, the fountain was originally motorised by its own steam engine and was described as making the ‘noise of an express train’ when it was fired, due to the 130 jets-hidden amongst giant ants, eagles, fire-breathing dragons, horrors of the underworld, cupids and gods-that shoot 100 feet into the air.

There is a second, smaller fountain, representing the fall of Icarus, at the end of the rear Long Walk. Beyond the Icarus fountain is the lake and the summer house, which was commissioned in 1923 by Riverton’s then owner, Mr Theodore Luxton, to replace the original boathouse. The lake has become infamous in this century as the site of poet Robert S Hunter’s suicide in 1924, on the eve of the annual Riverton midsummer’s night party.

The generations of Riverton residents were also instrumental in sculpting the garden. Lord Herbert’s Danish wife, Lady Gytha Ashbury, created the small topiary area lined with miniature yew hedges, still known as the Egeskov Garden, (named for the Danish castle which belonged to Lady Ashbury’s extended family), and Lady Violet, wife of the eleventh Lord Ashbury, added a rose garden on the rear lawn.

Following a devastating fire in 1938, Riverton Manor fell into long decline. The house was donated to English Heritage in 1974 and has undergone restoration since that time. The north and south gardens, including the Eros and Psyche fountain, have recently been restored as part of the Contemporary Heritage Garden Scheme run by English Heritage. The Icarus fountain and summer house, accessed via the Long Walk, are currently undergoing restoration.

The Riverton church, situated in a picturesque valley near the house, contains a tea room (not managed by English Heritage) which is open during the summer months, and Riverton Manor has a marvellous gift shop. Please call the site (01277 876857) for details of the fountain firing.

THE TWELFTH OF JULY

I am to be in the film. Well, not me, but a young girl pretending to be me. Regardless how peripheral one’s connection to calamity, it would appear that to live long enough is to be rendered an object of interest. I received the phone call two days ago: Ursula, the young film-maker with the slim figure and the long ashen hair, wondering whether I would be willing to meet the actress with the dubious honour of playing the role of ‘Housemaid 1’, now retitled, ‘Grace’.

They are coming here, to Heathview. It is not the most atmospheric place to rendezvous, but I have neither heart nor feet to journey far and can pretend otherwise for no one. So it is I am sitting in the chair in my room, waiting.

There comes a knock at the door. I look at the clock-half past nine. They are right on time. I realise I am holding my breath and wonder why.

Then they are in the room, my room. Sylvia and Ursula and the young girl charged with representing me.

‘Good morning, Grace,’ Ursula says, smiling at me from beneath her wheat-coloured fringe. She does something unexpected then, leans over and brushes a kiss on my cheek, warm lips on dry, dusty skin.

My voice sticks in my throat.

She sits on the blanket at the end of my bed-a presumptive action that I’m surprised to discover I don’t mind-and takes my hand. ‘Grace,’ she says, ‘this is Keira Parker.’ She turns to smile at the girl behind me. ‘She’ll be playing you in the film.’

The girl, Keira, steps from the shadow. She is seventeen, if a day, and I am struck by her symmetrical prettiness. Blonde hair to her shoulderblades pulled back in a ponytail. An oval face, a mouth with full lips coated in thick, shiny lip gloss; blue eyes beneath a blank brow. A face made to sell chocolates.

I clear my throat, remember my manners. ‘Sit down, won’t you?’ And I point to the brown vinyl chair Sylvia brought in earlier from the morning room.

Keira sits daintily, wraps her thin denim-clad legs, one around the other, and glances surreptitiously to her left, my dressing table. Her jeans are tattered, loose threads hanging from the pockets. Rags are no longer a sign of poverty, Sylvia has informed me; they are an emblem of style. Keira smiles impassively, letting her gaze turn over my possessions. ‘Thanks for seeing me, Grace,’ she remembers to say.

Her use of my first name rankles. But I am being unreasonable and admonish myself. If she had addressed me by title or surname, I would have insisted on the dispensation of such formality.

I am aware that Sylvia still lurks by the open door, wiping the dust from the jamb in a show of duty designed to disguise her curiosity. She is a great one for film actors and soccer stars. ‘Sylvia, dear,’ I say, ‘do you think we might have some tea?’

Sylvia looks up, her face a study in irreproachable devotion. ‘Tea?’

‘Perhaps some biscuits,’ I say.

‘Of course.’ Reluctantly, she pockets her cloth.

I nod toward Ursula.

‘Yes, please,’ she says. ‘White and one.’

Sylvia turns to Keira, ‘And you Ms Parker?’ Her voice is nervous, her cheeks disappear beneath a creeping crimson, and I realise the young actress must be known to her.

Keira yawns. ‘Green tea and lemon.’

‘Green tea,’ Sylvia says slowly, as if she has just learned the answer to the origins of the universe. ‘Lemon.’ She remains unmoving in the doorjamb.

‘Thank you, Sylvia,’ I say. ‘I’ll have my usual.’

‘Yes.’ Sylvia blinks, a spell is broken, and she finally pulls herself away. The door closes behind her and I am left alone with my two guests.

Immediately I regret sending Sylvia away. I am overwhelmed by a sudden and irrational sense that her presence warded off the past’s return.

But she is gone, and we remaining three share a moment’s silence. I sneak another glance at Keira, study her face, try to recognise my young self in her pretty features. Suddenly a burst of music, muffled and tinny, breaks the silence.

‘Sorry,’ says Ursula, fumbling in her bag. ‘I meant to turn the sound off.’ She withdraws a small black mobile phone and the volume crescendos, stops mid-bar when she presses a button. She smiles, embarrassed. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She glances at the screen and a cloud of consternation colours her face. ‘Will you excuse me a moment?’

Keira and I both nod as Ursula leaves the room, phone to her ear.

The door sighs shut and I turn to my young caller. ‘Well,’ I say, ‘I suppose we ought to begin.’

She nods, almost imperceptibly, and pulls a folder from her tote bag. She opens it and withdraws a wad of paper, held together with a bulldog clip. I can see from the layout that it is a script-bold words in capitals, followed by longer portions of regular font.

She flicks past a few pages and stops, presses her shiny lips together. ‘I was wondering,’ she says, ‘about your relationship with the Hartford family. With the girls.’

I nod. That much I had presumed.

‘My part isn’t one of the big ones,’ she says. ‘I haven’t many lines, but I’m in a lot of the earlier shots.’ She looks at me. ‘You know. Serving drinks, that sort of thing.’

I nod again.

‘Anyway, Ursula thought it would be a good idea for me to talk to you about the girls: what you thought of them. That way I’ll get some idea of my motivation.’ The final word she speaks pointedly, annunciating as if it were a foreign term with which I might not be familiar. She straightens her back and her expression takes on a varnish of fortification. ‘Mine isn’t the starring role, but it’s still important to give a strong performance. You never know who might be watching.’

‘Of course.’

‘Nicole Kidman only got Days of Thunder because Tom Cruise saw her in some Australian film.’

This fact and these names, I see, are supposed to resonate with me. I nod and she continues.

‘That’s why I need you to tell me how you felt. About your job and about the girls.’ She leans forward, her eyes the cold blue of Venetian glass. ‘It gives me an advantage, you see, you still being… I mean, the fact that you’re still…’

‘Alive,’ I say. ‘Yes, I see.’ I almost admire her candour. ‘What exactly would you like to know?’

She smiles; relieved, I imagine, that her faux pas has been swallowed quickly by the current of our conversation. ‘Well,’ she says, scanning the piece of paper resting on her knees. ‘I’ll get the dull questions out of the way first.’

My heart quickens. I have decided to answer honestly, no matter what she asks. A little game of roulette played for my own amusement.

‘Did you enjoy being a servant?’ she says.

I exhale: more an escaped breath than a sigh. ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘for a time.’

She looks doubtful. ‘Really? I can’t imagine enjoying waiting on people all day every day. What did you like about it?’

‘The others became like a family to me. I enjoyed the camaraderie.’

‘The others?’ Her eyes widen hungrily. ‘You mean Emmeline and Hannah?’

‘No. I mean the other staff.’

‘Oh.’ She is disappointed. No doubt she had glimpsed a larger role for herself, an amended script in which Grace the housemaid is no longer an outside observer, but a secret member of the Hartford sisters’ coterie. She is young, of course, and from a different world. She doesn’t conceive that certain lines should not be crossed. ‘That’s nice,’ she says. ‘But I don’t have scenes with the other actors playing servants, so it’s not much use to me.’ She runs her biro down the list of questions. ‘Was there anything you didn’t like about being a servant?’

Day after day of waking with the birds; the attic that was an oven in summer and an ice box in winter; hands red raw from laundering; a back that ached from cleaning; weariness that permeated to the centre of my bones. ‘It was tiring. The days were long and full. There was not much time for oneself.’

‘Yes,’ she says, ‘that’s how I’ve been playing it. I mostly don’t even have to pretend. After a day of rehearsal my arms are bruised from carrying the bloody tray around.’

‘It was my feet that hurt the most,’ I say. ‘But only in the beginning, and once when I turned sixteen and had my new shoes.’

She writes something on the back of her script, in round cursive strokes, nods. ‘Good,’ she says. ‘I can use that.’ She continues to scribble, finishing with a flourish of the pen. ‘Now for the interesting stuff. I want to know about Emmeline. That is, how you felt about her.’

I hesitate, wondering where to begin.

‘It’s just, we share a few scenes and I’m not sure what I should be thinking. Conveying.’

‘What kind of scenes?’ I say, curious.

‘Well, for instance, there’s the one where she first meets RS Hunter, down near the lake, and she slips and almost drowns and I have to-’

‘Near the lake?’ I am confused. ‘But that’s not where they met, it was the library, it was winter, they were-’

‘The library?’ she wrinkles her perfect nose. ‘No wonder the scriptwriters changed it. There’s nothing dynamic about a room full of old books. It works really well this way, the lake being where he killed himself and all. Kind of like the end of the story is in the beginning. It’s romantic, like that Baz Lurhmann film. Romeo + Juliet.’

I will have to take her word for it.

‘Anyway, I have to run back to the house for help and when I get back he’s already rescued her and revived her. The way the actress is playing it, she’s too busy looking up at him to even notice that we’ve all come to help her.’ She pauses, looks at me wide-eyed, as if she has made her meaning clear. ‘Well, don’t you think I should-Grace should-react a bit?’

I am slow to respond and she leaps ahead.

‘Oh, not obviously. Just a subtle reaction. You know the sort of thing.’ She sniffs slightly, tilts her head so that her nose is in the air, and sighs. I do not realise that this is an impromptu performance for my benefit until she drops the expression and replaces it with a wide-eyed gaze in my direction. ‘See?’

‘I see.’ I hesitate, choose my words judiciously. ‘It’s up to you, of course, how you play your character. How you play Grace. But if it were me, and it was 1915 again, I can’t imagine I would have reacted…’ I wave my hand at her, unable to put words to her performance.

She stares at me as though I’ve missed some vital nuance. ‘But don’t you think it’s a bit thoughtless not even to thank Grace for running for help? I feel stupid running off and then coming back just to stand there again like a zombie.’

I sigh. ‘Perhaps you’re right, but that was the nature of service in those days. It would have been unusual had she not been that way. Do you see?’

She looks dubious.

‘I didn’t expect her to be any other way.’

‘But you must have felt something?’

‘Of course.’ I am overcome with an unexpected distaste for discussing the dead. ‘I just didn’t show it.’

‘Never?’ She neither wants nor waits for an answer and I am glad for I don’t want to give it. She pouts. ‘The whole servant-mistress thing just seems so ridiculous. One person doing the bidding of the other.’

‘It was a different time,’ I say simply.

‘That’s what Ursula says, too.’ She sighs. ‘It doesn’t help me much though, does it? I mean, acting’s all about reacting. It’s a bit hard to create an interesting character when the stage direction is “don’t react”. I feel like a cardboard cut-out, just “yes miss-ing,” “no miss-ing,” “three bags full miss-ing”.’

I nod. ‘Must be difficult.’

‘I tried out for the part of Emmeline originally,’ she says confidingly. ‘Now that’s a dream role. Such an interesting character. And so glamorous, what with her being an actress and dying like she did in that car accident. You should see the costumes.’

I do not remind her that I saw the costumes first time around.

‘They wanted someone with more box-office pull.’ She rolls her eyes and inspects her fingernails. ‘They liked my audition well enough,’ she says. ‘Producer called me back twice. He said I look much more like Emmeline than Gwyneth Paltrow does.’ The other actress’s name she says with a sneer that robs her momentarily of her beauty. ‘Only thing she has over me is an Academy Award nomination, and everyone knows British actors have to work twice as hard for an Oscar nod. ’Specially when you get your start on the soaps.’

I can sense her disappointment and I do not blame her; I dare say there were many times I would have much preferred to be Emmeline than the housemaid.

‘Anyway,’ she says discontentedly, ‘I’m playing Grace and I have to make the best of it. Besides, Ursula promised they’d interview me specially for the DVD release, seeing as I’m the only one who gets to meet my character in real life.’

‘I’m glad to be of some use.’

‘Yes,’ she says, my irony lost on her.

‘Do you have any more questions?’

‘I’ll check.’ She turns a page, and something drops from its hiding spot, flutters to the ground like a mammoth grey moth, lands face down. When she reaches to pick it up I see that it is a photograph, a host of black and white figures with serious faces. Even from a distance the image is familiar to me. I remember it instantly, in the same way a film seen long ago, a dream, a painting, can be recalled through its merest shape.

‘May I see?’ I say, reaching out my hand.

She passes the photograph to me, lays it across my gnarled fingers. Our hands meet for an instant and she withdraws quickly, frightened she might catch something. Old age perhaps.

The photograph is a copy. Its surface smooth and cold and matt. I tilt the image toward the window so that it catches the light shining in off the heath. I squint through my glasses.

There we are. The Riverton household of summer 1916.

There was one like it for every year; Lady Violet used to insist on it. They were commissioned annually, a photographer brought in from a London studio, the auspicious day greeted with all due pomp and circumstance.

The resulting photograph, two rows of serious faces gazing unblinking at the black-hooded camera, would then be hand-delivered, displayed on the drawing-room mantle a while, then pasted in the appropriate page in the Hartford family scrapbook, along with invitations, menus and newspaper clippings.

Had it been the photograph from any other year, I may not have known its date. But this particular image is memorable for the events it immediately preceded.

Mr Frederick sits front and centre, his mother one side, Jemima the other. The latter is huddled, a black shawl draped about her shoulders to disguise her heavy pregnancy. Hannah and Emmeline sit at either ends, parentheses-one taller than the other-in matching black dresses. New dresses, but not of the kind imagined by Emmeline.

Standing behind Mr Frederick, centre of a shadow row, is Mr Hamilton, with Mrs Townsend and Myra beside. Katie and I stand behind the Hartford girls, with Mr Dawkins, the chauffeur, and Mr Dudley at the edges. The rows are distinct. Only Nanny occupies a place between, dozing in a cane chair from the conservatory, neither in front nor behind.

I look at my serious face, my severe hairstyle giving my head the appearance of a pin, accentuating my too-large ears. I stand directly behind Hannah, her pale hair, brushed into ripples, stark against the edges of my black dress.

We all wear grave expressions, a custom of the time, but particularly appropriate to this photograph. The servants are in black as always, but so is the family. For that summer they had joined the mourning that was general across England and across the world.

It was the twelfth day of July, 1916, the day after the joint funeral service for Lord Ashbury and the Major. The day Jemima’s baby arrived, and the day the question on all our lips was answered.

It was awfully hot that summer, the hottest anyone could remember. Gone were the grey days of winter, where night bled into day, and in their stead week after week of long days and clear blue skies. Day broke quickly, cleanly, brilliantly.

I woke earlier than usual that morning. The sun topped the birch trees that lined the lake and pierced the attic window so that a stream of hot light pointed across the bed, stroked my face. I didn’t mind. It was nice for a change to wake with the light rather than beginning work in the cold dark of the sleeping house. For a maid, the summer sun was a steadfast companion to the day’s activities.

The photographer had been booked for nine-thirty, and by the time we assembled on the front lawn the air was tight with shimmering heat. The family of swallows who considered Riverton their own sought refuge beneath the attic eaves, watching us curiously and quietly, robbed of their spirit for singing. Even the trees that lined the driveway were silent. Their leafy tops sat motionless, as if to conserve energy, until coerced by some slight breeze to emit a disgruntled rustle.

The photographer, his face spotted with perspiration, arranged us, one by one, the family seated, the surplus standing at back. There we remained, all in black, eyes on the camera box and thoughts in the churchyard valley.

Afterwards, in the comparative cool of the stone servants’ hall, Mr Hamilton had Katie pour lemonades while the rest of us sank listlessly onto chairs around the table.

‘It’s the end of an era, and that’s a fact,’ Mrs Townsend said, dabbing at her puffy eyes with a handkerchief. She had been crying for most of July, starting when news came of the Major’s death in France, pausing only to gain momentum when Lord Ashbury suffered a fatal stroke the following week. She no longer wept tears so much as her eyes had succumbed to a state of permanent seepage.

‘The end of an era,’ Mr Hamilton said, sitting opposite her. ‘That it is Mrs Townsend.’

‘When I think of His Lordship…’ Her words tapered off and she shook her head, planted her elbows on the table and buried her swollen face in her hands.

‘The stroke was sudden,’ Mr Hamilton said.

‘Stroke!’ Mrs Townsend said, lifting her face. ‘That may be what they’re calling it, but he died of a broken heart. You mark my words. Couldn’t bear losing his son like that.’

‘I dare say you’re right, Mrs Townsend,’ Myra said, tying her guard’s scarf around her neck. ‘They were tight, he and the Major.’

‘The Major!’ Mrs Townsend’s eyes brimmed anew and her bottom lip trembled. ‘That dear boy. To think of him going like that. On some God-awful mudflat in France.’

‘The Somme,’ I said, tasting the roundness of the word, its hum of foreboding. I thought of Alfred’s most recent letter, thin sheets of grubby paper that smelled of far away. It had arrived for me two days earlier, posted from France the week before. The letter had presented a light enough veneer, but there was something in its tone, the things that were not said, that left me uneasy. ‘Is that where Alfred is, Mr Hamilton? The Somme?’

‘I should say so, my girl. From what I’ve heard in the village, I’d say that’s where they’ve sent the Saffron Lads.’

Katie, who had arrived with a tray of lemonades, gasped. ‘Mr Hamilton, what if Alfred-’

‘Katie!’ Myra cut in sharply, glancing at me as Mrs Townsend’s hand leapt to her mouth. ‘Just you mind where you put that tray and keep your trap shut.’

Mr Hamilton’s lips pursed. ‘Now don’t you girls worry about Alfred. He’s in good spirits and good hands. Those in command will do what’s best. They wouldn’t send Alfred and his lads into battle if they weren’t confident of their abilities to defend King and country.’

‘That doesn’t mean he won’t get shot,’ Katie said, sulking. ‘The Major did, and he’s a hero.’

‘Katie!’ Mr Hamilton’s face turned the colour of stewed rhubarb as Mrs Townsend gasped. ‘Show some respect.’ He dropped his voice to a quivering whisper. ‘After all the family has had to endure these last weeks.’ He shook his head, straightened his glasses. ‘I can’t even look at you, girl. Get into the scullery and…’ He turned to Mrs Townsend for help.

Mrs Townsend lifted her puffy face from the table and said, between sobs, ‘And clean out every one of my baking pots and pans. Even the old ones left out for the pot man.’

We remained in silence as Katie crept off to the scullery. Silly Katie, with her talk of dying. Alfred knew how to take care of himself. He was always saying so in his letters, telling me not to get too used to his duties because he’d be back in no time to take them up again. Telling me to keep his place warm for him. I thought then of something else Alfred had said. Something that had me worried about all our places.

‘Mr Hamilton,’ I said quietly. ‘I don’t mean any disrespect by it, but I’ve been wondering what it all means for us? Who will be in charge now that Lord Ashbury…?’

‘Surely it will be Mr Frederick?’ said Myra. ‘He’s Lord Ashbury’s only other son.’

‘No,’ Mrs Townsend said, looking to Mr Hamilton. ‘It will be the Major’s son, won’t it? When he’s born. He’s next in line for the title.’

‘I’d say it all depends,’ Mr Hamilton said gravely.

‘On what?’ Myra said.

Mr Hamilton surveyed us all. ‘On whether it’s a son or a daughter Jemima’s carrying.’

Mention of her name was enough to start Mrs Townsend crying again. ‘That poor lamb,’ she said. ‘To lose her husband. And she about to have a wee baby. It just isn’t right.’

‘I imagine there’s others like her right across England,’ Myra said, shaking her head.

‘But it’s not the same, is it?’ Mrs Townsend said. ‘Not the same as when it happens to one of your own.’

The third bell along the bracket near the stairs rang and Mrs Townsend jumped. ‘Oh my,’ she said, hand fluttering to her ample bosom.

‘Front door.’ Mr Hamilton stood and pushed his chair neatly beneath the table. ‘Lord Gifford, no doubt. Here to read the will.’ He slipped his arms into his jacket coat and straightened the collar, looked at me over his glasses before he started up the stairs. ‘Lady Ashbury will ring for tea any minute, Grace. When you’ve done that, be sure and take a carafe of lemonade outside to Miss Hannah and Miss Emmeline.’

As he disappeared up the stairs, Mrs Townsend patted one hand rapidly across her heart. ‘My nerves aren’t what they were,’ she said sadly.

‘Not helped by this heat,’ Myra said. She glanced at the wall clock. ‘Look here, it’s only just now gone half ten. Lady Violet won’t ring for luncheon for another two hours. Why don’t you take your rest early today? Grace can manage the tea.’

I nodded, glad for something to do that would take my mind off the household’s grief. Off the war itself; off Alfred.

Mrs Townsend looked from Myra to me.

Myra’s expression became stern but her voice was softer than usual. ‘Come now, Mrs Townsend. You’ll feel better after a lie-down. I’ll make sure everything’s all right and proper before I leave for the station.’

The second bell rang, signalling the drawing room, and Mrs Townsend jumped again. She nodded, defeat mixed with relief. ‘All right then.’ She looked at me. ‘But you wake me if you need anything at all, you hear?’

I carried the tray up the darkened servants’ hall stairs and into the main hall. Was enveloped immediately by light and heat. While every curtain in the house had been drawn in accordance with Lady Ashbury’s insistence on strict Victorian mourning, there were none to cover the elliptical glass panel above the front door, and sunlight was left to penetrate without restraint. It made me think of the camera. The room was a flash of light and life in the centre of a shrouded black box.

I crossed to the drawing room and pushed open the door. The room was heavy with warm stale air that had drifted in with summer’s start and become trapped by the house’s grief. The huge French doors remained closed and both the heavy brocade curtains and the silk under-curtains had been drawn, hanging in an attitude of lethargy. I hesitated by the door. There was something about the room that made me loath to proceed, some difference that had nothing to do with the dark or the heat.

As my eyes readjusted, the room’s sombre tableau began to materialise. Lord Gifford, a man of later years and florid complexion, sat in the late Lord Ashbury’s armchair, a black leather folder open across his generous lap. He was reading aloud, enjoying his voice’s resonance in the dim room. On the table next to him, an elegant brass lamp with a floral shade cast a neat ring of soft light.

On the leather lounge opposite, Jemima sat beside Lady Violet. Widows both. The latter seemed to have diminished in size and stature even since the morning: a tiny figure in a black crepe dress, face obscured by a veil of dark lace. Jemima was also in black, her face an ashen contrast. Her hands, usually fleshy, now seemed small and frail as they caressed absently her swollen belly. Lady Clementine had retired to her bedroom but Fanny, still in ardent pursuit of Mr Frederick’s hand in marriage, had been permitted attendance and sat self-importantly on Lady Violet’s other side, an expression of practised sorrow on her face.

Atop the nearby table, flowers I had picked from the estate meadow only that morning, blooms of pink rhododendrons, creamy clematis and sprigs of jasmine, now wept from their vase in sad despondence. The fragrance of jasmine filled the closed room with a pungency that threatened suffocation.

On the other side of the table, Mr Frederick stood with his hand resting on the mantlepiece, his coat stiff on his tall frame. In the half-light his face was as still as a wax mannequin’s, his eyes unblinking, his expression stony. The lamp’s feeble glow threw a shadow across one eye. The other was dark, fixed, intent on its prey. As I watched him, I realised he was watching me.

He beckoned with the fingertips of the hand that braced the mantlepiece: a subtle gesture that I would have missed had not the rest of his body been so still. He wished me to bring the tray to him. I glanced toward Lady Violet, unsettled as much by this change in convention as I was by Mr Frederick’s unnerving attention. She did not look my way so I did as he proposed, careful to avoid his gaze. When I slid the tray onto the table he nodded again at the teapot, commanding me to pour, then returned his attention to Lord Gifford.

I had never poured tea before, not in the drawing room, not for the Mistress. I hesitated, unsure how to proceed, then picked up the milk jug, glad of the dark, as Lord Gifford continued to speak.

‘… in effect, aside from the exceptions already specified, Lord Ashbury’s entire estate, along with his title, was to pass to his eldest son and heir, Major James Hartford…’

Here he paused. Jemima stifled a sob, all the more wretched for its suffocation.

Above me, Frederick made a clicking sound in his throat. Impatience, I decided, sneaking a glance as I poured milk into the final cup. His chin was stiffly set, jutting out from his neck in an attitude of stern authority. He exhaled: a long and measured breath. His fingers drummed a quick tattoo on the mantlepiece and he said, ‘Go on, Lord Gifford.’

Lord Gifford shifted in Lord Ashbury’s seat, and the leather sighed, grieving for its departed master. He cleared his throat, raised his voice.

‘… given that no new arrangements were made after news of Major Hartford’s death, the estate will pass, in line with the ancient laws of primogeniture, to Major Hartford’s eldest male child.’ He looked over the rim of his glasses at Jemima’s belly and continued. ‘Should Major Hartford have no surviving male children, the estate and title pass instead to Lord Ashbury’s second son, Mr Frederick Hartford.’

Lord Gifford looked up and the lamplight reflected in the glass of his spectacles. ‘It would appear we have a waiting game ahead.’

He paused and I took the opportunity to hand tea to the ladies. Jemima took hers automatically, without looking at me, and lowered it to her lap. Lady Violet waved me away. Only Fanny took the proffered cup and saucer with any appetite.

‘Lord Gifford,’ Mr Frederick said in a calm voice, ‘how do you take your tea?’

‘Milk but no sugar,’ Lord Gifford said, running his fingers along his collar, separating the cotton from his sticky neck.

I lifted the teapot carefully and began to pour, mindful of the steaming spout. I handed him the cup and saucer, which he took without seeing me. ‘Business is well, Frederick?’ he said, rubbing his pillowy lips together before sipping his tea.

From the corner of my eye I saw Mr Frederick nod. ‘Well enough, Lord Gifford,’ he said. ‘My men have made the transition from motor car to aeroplane production and there’s another contract with the war ministry up for tender.’

Lord Gifford raised a brow. ‘Better hope that chap Luxton doesn’t apply. One hears he’s made enough planes for every man, woman and child in Britain!’

‘I won’t argue he’s produced a lot of planes, Lord Gifford, but you wouldn’t catch me flying in one.’

‘No?’

‘Mass production,’ said Mr Frederick, by way of explanation. ‘People working too quickly, trying to keep up with conveyor belts, no time to make sure things are done properly.’

‘The ministry doesn’t seem to mind.’

‘The ministry can’t see past the bottom line,’ said Mr Frederick. ‘But they will. Once they see the quality we’re producing they won’t sign up for any more of Luxton’s tin cans.’ And then he laughed rather too loudly.

I glanced up, despite myself. It seemed to me that for a man who had lost his father and only brother within a matter of days, he was coping remarkably well. Too well, I thought, and I began to doubt Myra’s fond description of him, Hannah’s devotion, tallying him more with David’s characterisation of a petty and embittered man.

‘Any word from young David?’ Lord Gifford said.

As I handed Mr Frederick his tea, he shifted his arm abruptly, knocking the cup and its steaming contents onto the Bessarabian carpet.

‘Oh!’ I said, all feeling draining from my cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

He stared at me, read something in my face. He parted his lips to speak then changed his mind.

A sharp intake of breath from Jemima drew all eyes in synchronicity. She straightened, clutched at her side, walked flat hands across her tight belly.

‘What is it?’ Lady Violet said from beneath her lace veil.

Jemima did not respond, engaged, or so it seemed, in silent communication with her babe. She stared, unseeing, directly ahead, still prodding her belly.

‘Jemima?’ This was Lady Violet again, concern icing a voice already chilled by loss.

Jemima inclined her head as if to listen. She said, barely a whisper, ‘He stopped moving.’ Her breaths had become rapid. ‘He’s been active all the way through, but he’s stopped.’

‘You must go and rest,’ Lady Violet said. ‘It’s this blessed heat.’ She swallowed. ‘This blessed heat.’ She looked about, seeking corroboration. ‘That, and…’ She shook her head, tightened her lips, unwilling, unable perhaps, to speak the final clause. ‘That’s all it is.’ She drew up all her courage, straightened, and said firmly, ‘You must rest.’

‘No,’ Jemima said, bottom lip trembling. ‘I want to be here. For James. And for you.’

Lady Violet took Jemima’s hands, withdrew them gently from her stomach and cradled them within her own. ‘I know you do.’ She reached out, stroked tentatively Jemima’s mousy brown hair. It was a simple gesture but in its enactment I was reminded that Lady Violet was herself a mother. Without moving, she said, ‘Grace. Help Jemima upstairs so that she might rest. Leave all that. Hamilton will collect it later.’

‘Yes, my Lady.’ I curtseyed and came to Jemima’s side. I reached down and helped her stand, glad for the opportunity to leave the room and its misery.

On my way out, Jemima beside me, I realised what was different about the room, aside from the dark and the heat. The mantle clock, which usually marked each passing second with detached consistency, was silent. Its slender black hands frozen in arabesque, observing Lady Ashbury’s instructions to stop all the clocks at ten minutes before five, the moment of her husband’s passing.

THE FALL OF ICARUS

With Jemima settled in her room, I returned to the servants’ hall where Mr Hamilton was inspecting the pots and pans Katie had been scrubbing. He looked up from Mrs Townsend’s favourite sauté pan only to tell me that the Hartford sisters were down by the old boathouse and I was to take them refreshments along with the lemonade. He had not yet learned of the spilled tea and I was glad. I fetched a jug of lemonade from the ice room, loaded it onto a tray with two tall glasses and a platter of Mrs Townsend’s ribbon sandwiches, and left via the servants’ hall door.

I stood on the top step, blinking into the clear unbroken glare while my eyes adjusted. In a month without rain, colour had been bleached from the estate. The sun was midway across the sky and its direct light provided a final wash, giving the garden the hazy look of one of the watercolours that hung in Lady Violet’s boudoir. Although I wore my cap, the line down the centre of my head where I parted my hair remained exposed and was instantly scorched.

I crossed the Theatre Lawn, freshly mown and rich with the soporific scent of dry grass. Dudley crouched nearby, clipping the border hedges. The blades of his shears were smeared with green sap, patches of bare metal glistened.

He must have sensed me nearby because he turned and squinted. ‘She’s a hot one,’ he said, hand shielding his eyes.

‘Hot enough to cook eggs on the railway,’ said I, quoting Myra, wondering whether there was truth in the expression.

At lawn’s edge, a grand set of grey-stone stairs led into Lady Ashbury’s rose garden. Pink and white buds hugged the trellises, alive with the warm drone of diligent bees hovering about their yellow hearts.

I passed beneath the arbour, unlatched the kissing gate and started down the Long Walk: a stretch of grey cobblestones set amongst yellow and white stonecrops. Halfway along, tall hornbeam hedges gave way to the miniature yew that bordered the Egeskov Garden. I blinked as a couple of topiaries came to life, then smiled at myself and the pair of indignant ducks, mallards with green feathers, that had wandered up from the lake and now stood, regarding me with shiny black eyes.

At the end of the Egeskov Garden was the second kissing gate, the forgotten sister (for there is always a forgotten sister), victim of the wiry jasmine tendrils. On the other side lay the Icarus fountain, and beyond, at lake’s edge, the boathouse.

The gate’s clasp was beginning to rust and I had to lay down my load that I might unlatch it. I nestled the tray on a flat spot amongst a cluster of strawberry plants and used my fingers to prise open the latch. I pushed open the gate, picked up the lemonade and continued, through a cloud of jasmine perfume, toward the fountain.

Though Eros and Psyche sat vast and magnificent in the front lawn, a prologue to the grand house itself, there was something wonderful-a mysterious and melancholic aspect-about the smaller fountain, hidden within its sunny clearing at the bottom of the south garden.

The circular pool of stacked stone stood two-feet high, twenty-feet across at its widest point. It was lined with tiny glass tiles, azure blue like the necklace of Ceylonese sapphires Lord Ashbury had brought back for Lady Violet after serving in the Far East. From the centre emerged a huge craggy block of russet marble, the height of two men, thick at base but tapering to a peak. Midway up, creamy marble against the brown, the lifesize figure of Icarus had been carved in a position of recline. His wings, pale marble etched to give the impression of feathers, were strapped to his outspread arms and fell behind, weeping over the rock. Rising from the pool to tend the fallen figure were three nymphs, long hair looped and coiled about angelic faces: one held a small harp, one wore a coronet of woven ivy leaves, and one reached beneath Icarus’s torso, white hands on creamy skin, to pull him from the deep.

On that summer’s day a pair of purple martins, oblivious to the statue’s beauty, swooped overhead, alighting atop the marble rock, only to take flight again, skim the pond surface and fill their beaks with water. As I watched them, I was overcome with heat and a desire, strong and sudden, to plunge my hand into the cool water. I glanced back toward the distant house, far too intent upon its grief to notice if a housemaid, all the way at the bottom of the south park, paused a moment to cool herself.

I rested the tray on the rim of the pool and placed one tentative knee on the tiles, warm through my black stockings. I leaned forward, held out my hand, withdrew it again at the first touch of sun-kissed water. I rolled up my sleeve, reached out again, ready to submerge my arm.

There came a laugh, tinkling music in the summer stillness.

I froze, listened, inclined my head and peered beyond the statue.

I saw them then, Hannah and Emmeline, not at the boathouse after all, but perched along the rim on the other side of the fountain. My shock was compounded: they had removed their black mourning dresses and wore only petticoats, corset covers, and lace-trimmed drawers. Their boots, too, lay discarded on the white stone path that rounded the pool. Their long hair glistened in complicity with the sun. I glanced back to the house, wondering at their daring. Wondering whether my presence implicated me somehow. Wondering whether I feared or hoped it did.

Emmeline lay on her back: feet together, legs bent, knees, as white as her petticoat, saluting the clear blue sky. Her outer arm was arranged so that her head rested on her hand. The other arm-soft pale skin, a stranger to the sun-was extended straight over the pool, her wrist dancing a lazy figure eight so that alternate fingers pricked the pool’s surface. Tiny ripples lapped one another keenly.

Hannah sat beside, one leg curled beneath her, the other bent so her chin rested on her knee, her toes flirting carelessly with the water. Her arms were wrapped around her raised leg and from one hand dangled a piece of paper so thin as to be almost transparent beneath the sun’s glare.

I withdrew my arm, rolled down my sleeve, collected myself. With one last longing glance at the sparkling pool, I picked up the tray.

As I drew closer, I could hear them talking.

‘… I think he’s being awfully pig-headed,’ Emmeline said. They had accumulated a pile of strawberries between them, and she popped one in her mouth, tossed the stalk into the garden.

Hannah shrugged. ‘Pa’s always been stubborn.’

‘All the same,’ Emmeline said. ‘To flat out refuse is just silly. If David can be bothered to write to us all the way from France, the least Pa could do is read the thing.’

Hannah gazed toward the statue, inclined her head so that the pool’s reflected ripples shimmered, in ribbons, across her face. ‘David made a fool of Pa. He went behind his back, did the very thing Pa told him not to.’

‘Pooh. It’s been over a year.’

‘Pa doesn’t forgive easily. David knows that.’

‘But it’s such a funny letter. Read again the bit about the mess hall, the pudding.’

‘I’m not going to read it again. I shouldn’t have read it the first three times. It’s far too coarse for your young ears.’ She held out the letter. It cast a shadow across Emmeline’s face. ‘Here. Read it yourself. There’s an enlightening illustration on the second page.’ There was a warm breath of wind then and the paper fluttered so that I could see the black lines of a sketch in the top corner.

My footsteps crunched the white stones of the path and Emmeline looked up, saw me standing behind Hannah. ‘Ooh, lemonade,’ she said, withdrawing her arm from the pool, letter forgotten. ‘Good. I’m dying of thirst.’

Hannah turned, tucked the letter into her waistband. ‘Grace,’ she said, smiling.

‘We’re hiding from Old Grope-ford,’ Emmeline said, swinging to sit upright, her back to the fountain. ‘Ooh, that sun’s delicious. It’s gone straight to my head.’

‘And your cheeks,’ Hannah said.

Emmeline raised her face to the sun, closed her eyes. ‘I don’t mind. I wish it could be summer all year round.’

‘Has Lord Gifford been and gone, Grace?’ Hannah said.

‘I couldn’t say for sure, miss.’ I rested the tray on the fountain edge. ‘I should think so. He was in the drawing room when I served morning tea and Her Ladyship didn’t mention he was staying.’

‘I hope not,’ Hannah said. ‘There’s enough that’s unpleasant at the moment without him making excuses to look down my dress all afternoon.’

A small wrought-iron garden table was nestled by a cluster of pink and yellow honeysuckles and I carried it over to hold the refreshments. I planted its curled feet amongst the stones of the path and set the tray on top; started to pour the lemonades.

Between thumb and index finger, Hannah twirled a strawberry by its stalk. ‘You didn’t happen to hear any of what Lord Gifford was saying, did you, Grace?’

I hesitated. I wasn’t supposed to be listening when I served the tea.

‘About Grandfather’s estate,’ she said. ‘About Riverton.’ Her eyes wouldn’t meet mine, and I suspected she felt as uncomfortable asking as I did answering.

I swallowed, set down the jug. ‘I… I’m not sure, miss…’

‘She did!’ Emmeline exclaimed. ‘I can tell-she’s blushing. You did, didn’t you?’ She leaned forward, eyes wide. ‘Well then, tell us. What’s to happen? Is it to go to Pa? Are we to stay?’

‘I don’t know, miss,’ I said, shrinking, as I always did, when faced with Emmeline’s imperious attention. ‘Nobody knows.’

Emmeline took a glass of lemonade. ‘Someone must know,’ she said haughtily. ‘Lord Gifford, I’d have thought. Why else was he here today if not to talk over Grandfather’s will?’

‘What I mean, miss, is it depends.’

‘On what?’

Hannah spoke then. ‘On Aunt Jemima’s baby.’ Her eyes met mine. ‘That’s it, isn’t it, Grace?’

‘Yes miss,’ I said quietly. ‘At least I think that’s what they were saying.’

Emmeline said, ‘On Aunt Jemima’s baby?’

‘If it’s a boy,’ Hannah said thoughtfully, ‘then everything is rightly his. If not, Pa becomes Lord Ashbury.’

Emmeline, who had just popped a strawberry in her mouth, clapped her hand to her lips and laughed. ‘Imagine. Pa, lord of the manor. It’s too silly.’ The peach ribbon that threaded around the waistline of her petticoat had snagged on the pool rim and started to unravel. A long thread zigzagged down her leg. I would have to remember to mend it later. ‘Do you think he would want us to live here?’

Oh, yes, I thought hopefully. Riverton had been so quiet the year past. Nought to do but re-dust empty rooms and try not to worry too much about those still fighting.

‘I don’t know,’ Hannah said. ‘I certainly hope not. It’s bad enough being trapped here over summer. The days are twice as long in the country and there’s only half as much with which to fill them.’

‘I’ll bet he would.’

‘No,’ Hannah said resolutely. ‘Pa couldn’t bear the separation from his factory.’

‘I don’t know,’ Emmeline said. ‘If there’s one thing Pa loves better than his silly motors, it’s Riverton. It’s his favourite place in the whole world.’ She cast her eyes skyward. ‘Though why anyone would want to be stuck in the middle of nowhere with no one to talk to-’ She broke off, gasped. ‘Oh, Hannah, do you know what I’ve just thought of? If Pa becomes a lord, then that makes us Honourable, doesn’t it?’

‘I suppose it does,’ Hannah said. ‘For what that’s worth.’

Emmeline jumped up, rolled her eyes. ‘It’s worth a lot.’ She put her glass back on the table and climbed onto the rim of the pool. ‘The Honourable Emmeline Hartford of Riverton Manor. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?’ She turned and curtseyed to her reflection, batted her eyelids and presented her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, handsome sir. I’m the Honourable Emmeline Hartford.’ She laughed, delighted by her own skit, and began to skip along the tiled edge, arms out to the sides for balance, repeating the titled introduction between bursts of renewed laughter.

Hannah watched her for a moment, bemused. ‘Have you any sisters, Grace?’

‘No miss,’ I said. ‘Nor brothers neither.’

‘Really,’ she said, as if existence without siblings was something she hadn’t considered.

‘I was not so lucky, miss. It’s just Mother and me.’

She looked at me, squinted into the sun. ‘Your mother. She was in service here.’

It was a statement rather than a question. ‘Yes, miss. Until I was born, miss.’

‘You’re very like her. To look at, I mean.’

I was taken aback. ‘Miss?’

‘I saw her picture. In Grandmamma’s family scrapbook. One of the household photographs from last century.’ She must have felt my confusion, for she rushed on, ‘Not that I was looking for it, you mustn’t think that, Grace. I was trying to find a certain picture of my own mother when I came across it. The resemblance to you was striking. The same pretty face, same kind eyes.’

I had never seen a photograph of Mother-not from when she was younger-and Hannah’s description was so at odds with the Mother I knew that I was seized by a sudden and irrepressible longing to see it for myself. I knew where Lady Ashbury kept her scrapbook-the left-hand drawer of her writing desk. And there were times, many times now Myra was away, that I was left alone to clean the drawing room. If I made sure the household was busy elsewhere, and if I were very quick, it wouldn’t be difficult, surely, to glimpse it for myself? I wondered if I dared.

‘Why did she not come back to Riverton?’ Hannah was saying. ‘After you were born, I mean?’

‘It wasn’t possible, miss. Not with a babe.’

‘I’m sure Grandmamma’s had families on staff before.’ She smiled. ‘Just imagine: we might have known each other when we were children if she had.’ Hannah looked out over the water, frowned slightly. ‘Perhaps she was unhappy here, didn’t want to return?’

‘I don’t know, miss,’ I said, inexplicably discomforted to be discussing Mother with Hannah. ‘She doesn’t much talk about it.’

‘Is she in service somewhere else?’

‘She takes in stitching now, miss. In the village.’

‘She works for herself?’

‘Yes, miss.’ I had never thought of it in those terms.

Hannah nodded. ‘There must be some satisfaction in that.’

I looked at her, unsure whether she was teasing. Her face was serious, though. Thoughtful.

‘I don’t know, miss,’ I said, faltering. ‘I… I’m seeing her this afternoon. I could ask if you like?’

Her eyes had a cloudy look about them, as if her thoughts were far away. She glanced at me and the shadows fled. ‘No. It’s not important.’ She fingered the edge of David’s letter, still tucked into her petticoat. ‘Have you had news of Alfred?’

‘Yes, miss,’ I said, glad of the change of subject. Alfred was safer territory. He was a part of this world. ‘I had a letter this week past. He’ll be home on leave in September. That is, we hope he will.’

‘September,’ she said. ‘That’s not so long. You’ll be glad to see him.’

‘Oh yes, miss, I certainly will.’

Hannah smiled knowingly and I blushed. ‘What I mean, miss, is we’ll all be glad to see him downstairs.’

‘Of course you will, Grace. Alfred is a lovely fellow.’

My cheeks were tingling red. For Hannah had guessed correctly. While letters from Alfred still arrived for the collective staff, increasingly they were addressed solely to me. Their content was changing too. Talk of battle was being replaced with talk of home and other secret things. How much he missed me, cared for me. The future… I blinked. ‘And Master David, miss?’ I said. ‘Will he be home soon?’

‘He didn’t say.’ She ran her fingers over the etched surface of her locket, glanced at Emmeline and lowered her voice. ‘Sometimes I think he’ll never come back.’

‘Oh no, miss,’ I said quickly. ‘You mustn’t think like that. I’m sure nothing dreadful will-’

She confounded me by laughing. ‘I didn’t mean that, Grace. What I mean is, now that he’s escaped I don’t think he’ll ever come back here to live. With us. He’ll remain in London and he’ll study piano and become a grand musician. Lead a life rich with excitement and adventure, just like in the games we used to play…’ She looked beyond me in the direction of the house and her smile faded. She sighed then. A long, steady exhalation that made her shoulders deflate. ‘Sometimes…’

The word hung between us: languorous, heavy, full, and I waited for a conclusion that did not come. I could think of nothing to say, so I did what I did best. Remained silent and poured the last of the lemonade into her glass.

She looked up at me then. Held out her glass. ‘Here, Grace. You have this one.’

‘Oh no, miss. Thank you, miss. I’m all right.’

‘Nonsense,’ Hannah said. ‘Your cheeks are almost as red as Emmeline’s. Here.’ She thrust the glass toward me.

I glanced at Emmeline, setting pink and yellow honeysuckle flowers to float on the other side of the pool. ‘Really, miss, I-’

‘Grace,’ she said, mock sternly. ‘It’s hot and I insist.’

I sighed, took the glass. It was cool in my hand, tantalisingly cool. I lifted it to my lips, perhaps just a tiny sip…

An excited whoop from behind made Hannah swing around. I lifted my gaze, squinted into the light. The sun had begun its slide to the west and the air was hazy.

Emmeline was crouched midway up the statue on the ledge near Icarus. Her pale hair was loose and wavy, and she had threaded a cluster of white clematis behind one ear. The wet hem of her petticoat clung to her legs.

In the warm, white light she looked to be part of the statue. A fourth water nymph, come to life. She waved at us. At Hannah. ‘Come up here. You can see all the way to the lake.’

‘I’ve seen it,’ Hannah called back. ‘I showed you, remember?’

There was a drone, high in the sky, as a plane flew overhead. I wasn’t sure what kind it was. Alfred would have known.

Hannah watched it go, not looking away until it disappeared, a tiny speck, into the sun’s glare. She remained for a moment, gazing at the empty sky, the sun that continued blindly to shine no matter that war raged on the continents below. Then suddenly she stood, resolutely, and hurried to the garden seat that held their clothing. As she pulled on her black dress, I set down the lemonade and made to help her.

‘What are you doing?’ Emmeline asked her.

‘I’m getting dressed.’

‘Why?’

‘I have something to do at the house.’ Hannah paused as I straightened her bodice. ‘Some French verbs for Miss Prince.’

‘Since when?’ Emmeline wrinkled her nose suspiciously. ‘It’s the holidays.’

‘I asked for extra.’

‘You did not.’

‘I did.’

‘Well I’m coming too,’ Emmeline said, without moving.

‘Fine,’ Hannah said coolly. ‘And if you get bored, perhaps Lord Gifford will still be at the house to keep you company.’ She sat on the garden seat and started lacing up her boots.

‘Come on,’ Emmeline said, pouting. ‘Tell me what you’re doing. You know I can keep secrets.’

‘Thank goodness,’ Hannah said, looking at her with wide eyes. ‘I wouldn’t want anyone to find out I was doing extra French verbs.’

Emmeline sat for a moment, watching Hannah and drumming her legs against a marble wing. She inclined her head. ‘Do you promise that’s all you’re doing?’

‘I promise,’ Hannah said. ‘I’m going to the house to do some translations.’ She sneaked a glance at me then, and I realised the precise nature of her half-truth. She was going to work on translations, but they were in shorthand and not French. I lowered my eyes, disproportionately pleased at my casting as conspirator.

Emmeline shook her head slowly, narrowed her eyes. ‘It’s a mortal sin to lie, you know.’ She was clutching at straws.

‘Yes, oh pious one,’ Hannah said, laughing.

Emmeline crossed her arms. ‘Fine. Keep your silly secrets. I’m sure I don’t mind.’

‘Good,’ Hannah said. ‘Everybody’s happy.’ She smiled at me and I smiled back. ‘Thank you for the lemonade, Grace.’ And then she disappeared, through the kissing gate and into the Long Walk.

‘I’ll find out, you know,’ Emmeline called after her. ‘I always do.’

There came no response and I heard Emmeline huff. As I turned to face her, I saw the white clematis that had decorated her hair, spinning onto the stone below. She looked at me crossly. ‘Is that glass of lemonade for me? I’m parched.’

•

My visit to Mother that afternoon was brief and would not have been notable, had it not been for one thing.

Usually when I visited, Mother and I sat in the kitchen where the light was best for stitching and where we had spent most of our time together before I started at Riverton. That day, however, when she met me at the door, she led me to the tiny sitting room that opened off the kitchen. I was surprised, and wondered who else Mother was expecting, for the room was rarely used, had always been reserved for the visits of important folk like Doctor Arthur, or the church minister. I sat on a chair by the window and waited while she fetched tea.

Mother had made an effort to present the room at its best. I recognised the signs. A favoured vase that had once belonged to her own mother, white porcelain with tulips painted on the front, stood on the side table, clutching proudly a handful of tired daisies. And the cushion she usually rolled up and propped against her back when she worked had been beaten smooth and arranged in the middle of the sofa. It was a sly impostor, sitting there squarely, looking for all the world as if it served no other function than decoration.

The room was especially clean-years in service had given Mother exacting standards-yet it was smaller and plainer than I remembered. The yellow walls that had once seemed cheery were faded, seeming to sag inwards so that only the bare old sofa and chairs saved them from collapse. The pictures on the wall, scenes from the sea that had inspired many of my childhood fancies, had lost their magic and now looked only tired and poorly framed.

Mother brought the tea and sat opposite me. I watched as she poured. There were only two cups. It was to be just the two of us, after all. The room, the flowers, the cushion, were for me.

I took the cup she offered and noted silently the tiny chip on its rim. Mr Hamilton would never approve. There was no place for cracked teacups at Riverton, even in the servants’ hall.

Mother cupped her tea in two hands and I saw that the fingers of each hand had plaited stiffly, one over another. There was no way she’d be able to stitch in that condition; I wondered how long they’d been that bad, how she was affording to live. I had been forwarding her a portion of my own earnings each week, but surely it wasn’t enough. Warily, I broached the subject.

‘That’s none of your business,’ she said. ‘I’m managing.’

‘But Mother, you should have told me. I could have sent you more. I’ve nothing to spend it on.’

Her gaunt face vacillated between defensiveness and defeat. Finally, she sighed. ‘You’re a good girl, Grace. You’re doing your share. Your mother’s bad fortune’s not yours to worry about.’

‘Of course it is, Mother.’

‘You just be sure an’ don’t make the same mistakes.’

I steeled myself, dared to ask gently, ‘What mistakes, Mother?’

She looked away and I waited, heart beating quickly, as she chewed on her dry bottom lip. Wondering whether at last I was to be trusted with the secrets that had sat between us as long as I could remember…

‘Pish,’ she said finally, turning back to face me. And with that the subject’s door was slammed closed. She lifted her chin and asked about the house, the family, as she always did.

What had I expected? A sudden, magnificently uncharacteristic break from habit? An outpouring of past grievances that explained away my mother’s acrimony, enabled us to reach an understanding that had thus far eluded us?

You know, I think perhaps I had. I was young, and that is my only excuse.

But this is a history, not a fiction, thus it will not surprise you that such was not forthcoming. Instead, I swallowed the sour lump of disappointment and told her about the deaths, unable to prevent a guilty note of importance from creeping in as I recounted the family’s recent misfortune. First the Major-Mr Hamilton’s sombre receipt of the black-rimmed telegraph, Jemima’s fingers shaking so that she was unable at first to open it-and then Lord Ashbury, only days after.

She shook her head, slowly, an action that accentuated her long thin neck, and set down her tea. ‘I’d heard as much. I didn’t know how much to put down to gossip. You know as well as I how bad this village is for tittle-tattle.’

I nodded.

‘What was it took Lord Ashbury, then?’ she said.

‘Mr Hamilton said it was a mix. Partly a stroke and partly the heat.’

Mother continued to nod, chewing the inside of her cheek. ‘And what did Mrs Townsend say?’

‘She said it was none of those things. She said it was grief that killed him, plain and simple.’ I lowered my voice, adopting the same reverent tone that Mrs Townsend had used. ‘She said the Major’s death broke His Lordship’s heart. That when the Major was shot, all his father’s hopes and dreams bled with him into the soil of France.’

Mother smiled, but it was not a happy gesture. She shook her head slowly, looked at the wall before her with its pictures of the distant sea. ‘Poor, poor Frederick,’ she said. This surprised me and at first I thought I must have misheard, or that she had made a mistake, uttered the wrong name accidentally, for it made little sense. Poor Lord Ashbury. Poor Lady Violet. Poor Jemima. But Frederick?

‘You needn’t worry about him,’ I said. ‘He’s as like to inherit the house.’

‘There’s more to happiness than riches, girl.’

I didn’t like it when Mother spoke of happiness. The sentiment was hollowed by its speaker. Mother, with her pinched eyes and her empty house was the last person fit to offer such advice. I felt chastened somehow. Reprimanded for an offence I couldn’t name. I answered sulkily. ‘Try telling that to Fanny.’

Mother frowned, and I realised the name was unknown to her.

‘Oh,’ I said, inexplicably cheered. ‘I forgot. You wouldn’t know her. She’s Lady Clementine’s charge. She hopes to marry Mr Frederick.’

Mother looked at me, disbelieving. ‘Marry? Frederick?’

I nodded. ‘Fanny’s been working on him all year.’

‘He’s not asked her, though?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘But it’s only a matter of time.’

‘Who told you so? Mrs Townsend?’

I shook my head. ‘Myra.’

Mother recovered somewhat, managed a thin smile. ‘She’s mistaken then, this Myra of yours. Frederick wouldn’t marry again. Not after Penelope.’

‘Myra doesn’t make mistakes.’

Mother crossed her arms. ‘On this, she’s wrong.’

Her certainty grated me, as if she would know better than I the goings on up at the house. ‘Even Mrs Townsend agrees,’ I said. ‘She says Lady Violet approves the match and that, though Mr Frederick mightn’t appear to mind what his mother says, he’s never gone against her when it counted.’

‘No,’ said Mother, her smile flickering then fading. ‘No, I don’t suppose he has.’ She turned to stare through the open window. The grey-stone wall of the house next door. ‘I never thought he would remarry.’

Her voice had lost all resolution and I felt badly. Ashamed of my desire to put her in her place. Mother had been fond of this Penelope, of Hannah and Emmeline’s mother. She must’ve been. What else explained her reluctance to see Mr Frederick replace his late wife? Her dejection when I insisted it was true? I put my hand on hers. ‘You’re right, Mother. I was speaking out of turn. We don’t know anything for sure.’

She didn’t answer.

I leaned close. ‘And certainly there’s none could accuse Mr Frederick of genuine feeling for Fanny. He looks more lovingly at his riding crop.’

My joke was an attempt to cajole her, and I was pleased when she turned to face me. I was surprised, too, for in that moment, as the afternoon sunlight brushed her cheek and teased green from her brown eyes, Mother almost looked pretty. It was a term I’d never thought would suit her. Clean and neat, perhaps, but never pretty.

I thought of Hannah’s words, her talk of Mother’s photograph, and I was even more resolved to see it for myself. To glimpse the type of person Mother might have been. The girl Hannah called pretty and Mrs Townsend remembered so fondly.

‘He was always a great one for riding,’ she said, setting her teacup on the window ledge. She surprised me then, took my hand between hers and rubbed at the chapped patches on my palm. ‘Tell me about your new duties. Looks of these, they’ve been keeping you awful busy up there.’

‘It’s not so bad,’ I said, moved by her rare affection. ‘There’s not much to recommend the cleaning and the laundering, but there’s other duties I don’t mind so much.’

‘Oh?’ She inclined her head.

‘Myra’s been so busy at the station that I’ve been doing a lot more of the upstairs work.’

‘You like that do you, my girl?’ Her voice was quiet. ‘Being upstairs in the grand house?’

I nodded.

‘And what do you like about it?’

Being amongst fine rooms with delicate porcelains and paintings and tapestries. Listening to Hannah and Emmeline joke and tease and dream. I remembered Mother’s earlier sentiment and suddenly knew a way to please her. ‘It makes me happy,’ I said. And I confessed something then that I hadn’t even owned myself. ‘One day I hope to become a proper lady’s maid.’

She looked at me, the tremors of a frown plucking at her brow. ‘There’s future enough as a lady’s maid, my girl,’ she said, voice strained thin. ‘But happiness… happiness grows at our own firesides,’ she said. ‘It is not to be picked in strangers’ gardens.’

I was still turning Mother’s comment over as I walked home to Riverton late that afternoon. She was telling me not to forget my place, of course; I’d received that lecture more than once before. She wanted me to remember that my happiness would only be found in the coals of the servants’ hall fireplace, not in the delicate pearls of a lady’s boudoir. But the Hartfords were not strangers. And if I took some happiness from working near them, listening to their conversations, minding their beautiful dresses, then what harm was there in that?

It struck me then that she was jealous. She envied me my place at the grand house. Clearly she had cared for Penelope, the girls’ mother, for what else could explain her reaction to my talk of Mr Frederick remarrying? And now, seeing me in the position she once enjoyed reminded her of the world she’d been forced to give away. And yet she hadn’t been forced, had she? Hannah said that Lady Violet had employed families before. And if Mother were jealous that I had taken her place, why had she been so insistent I go into service at Riverton?

I kicked angrily at a clump of dirt dislodged earlier by a horse’s hoof. It was impossible. I would never untangle the knots and secrets Mother had tied between us. And if she didn’t see fit to explain herself, offering only cryptic homilies about bad fortune and remembering one’s place, then how could I be expected to answer to her?

I exhaled deeply. I wouldn’t. Mother had left me little option but to make my own way and that was what I intended to do. And if that meant aspiring to climb another service rung, then so be it.

I emerged from the tree-lined drive, pausing for a moment to observe the house. The sun had shifted and Riverton was in shadow. A huge black beetle on the hill, hunkering down against the heat and its own sorrow. And yet, as I stood there, I was filled with a warm sense of certitude. For the first time in my life I felt solid; somewhere between the village and Riverton I had lost the sense that if I didn’t hold on tightly I would be blown away.

I entered the dark servants’ hall and headed down the dim corridor. My footsteps echoed on the cool stone floor. When I reached the kitchen, all was still. The lingering smell of beef stew clung to the walls, but there was no one else about. Behind me, in the dining room, the clock ticked loudly. I peered around the door. That room was also empty. One lone teacup sat on its saucer on the table, but its drinker was nowhere to be seen. I removed my hat, draped it over a hook on the wall and smoothed my skirt. I sighed and the noise lapped against the silent walls. I smiled slightly. I had never had the downstairs all to myself before.

I glanced at the clock. There was still a half-hour until I was expected back. I would have a cup of tea. The one at Mother’s house had left a bitter taste in my mouth.

The teapot on the kitchen bench was still warm, shrouded in its woollen cosy. I was laying out a teacup when Myra fairly flew around the corner, her eyes widening when she saw me.

‘It’s Jemima,’ she said. ‘The baby’s coming.’

‘But it’s not due till September,’ I said.

‘Well it doesn’t know that, does it,’ she said, throwing a small square towel at me. ‘Here, take that and a bowl of warm water upstairs. I can’t find any of the others, and someone has to call for the doctor.’

‘But I’m not in uniform-’

‘I don’t think mother or child is going to mind,’ said Myra, disappearing into Mr Hamilton’s pantry to use the telephone.

‘But what will I say?’ This I directed to the empty room, to myself, to the cloth in my hand. ‘What will I do?’

Myra’s head appeared around the door. ‘Well I don’t know, do I? You’ll think of something.’ She waved an arm in the air. ‘Just tell her everything’s all right. God willing, it will be.’

I draped the towel over my shoulder, filled a bowl with warm water, and started upstairs as Myra had said to. My hands were shaking a little and some of the water slopped over onto the corridor carpet runner leaving dark vermillion spots.

When I reached Jemima’s room I hesitated. From behind the solid door came a muffled groan. I took a deep breath, knocked and went inside.

The room was dark, with the exception of a single bold sliver where the curtains coyly parted. The ribbon of dusky light was flecked with listless dust. The four-poster maple bed was a shadowy mass in the centre of the room. Jemima lay very still, her breathing laboured.

I crept to the bed and crouched tentatively beside. I put the bowl on the small reading table.

Jemima moaned and I bit my lip, unsure how to proceed. ‘There now,’ I said softly, the way Mother had tended me when I was sick with the scarlet fever. ‘There now.’

She shuddered, made three quick gasps for air. She clenched her eyes shut.

‘Everything’s all right,’ I said. I soaked the towel in the water and folded it in four, draping it across her forehead.

‘James…’ she said. ‘James…’ His name on her lips was beautiful.

There was nought I could say to that and so I remained in silence.

There came more groans, more whimpers. She writhed, moaning into the pillow. Her fingers chased elusive comfort across the empty sheet beside her.

Then the still returned. Her breathing slowed.

I lifted the cloth from her forehead. It had warmed against her skin and I dipped it again in the bowl of water. I wrung it out, folded it and reached to lay it back across her head.

Her eyes opened, blinked, searched my face in the dim. ‘Hannah,’ she said through a sigh. I was startled by her mistake. And pleased beyond measure. I opened my mouth to correct her, but stopped when she reached out and took my hand. ‘I’m so glad it’s you.’ She squeezed my fingers together. ‘I’m so frightened,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t feel anything.’

‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘The baby’s resting.’

This seemed to calm her a little. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s always so, right before they come. I just didn’t… It’s too soon.’ She turned her head away. When she spoke again, her voice was so low I had to strain to hear. ‘Everybody wants a boy for me, but I can’t. I can’t lose another one.’

‘You won’t,’ I said, hoping it was so.

‘There’s a curse upon my family,’ she said, face still hidden. ‘My mother told me so but I didn’t believe her.’

She has lost her sense, I thought. Grief has overtaken her and she has given into superstition. ‘There’s no such thing as curses,’ I said softly.

She made a noise, a cross between a laugh and a sob. ‘Oh yes. It’s the same that robbed our dear late Queen of her son. The bleeders’ curse.’ She went quiet then, ran her hand over her stomach and shifted so that she faced me. Her voice was little more than a whisper. ‘But girls… it passes girls over.’

The door flew open and Myra was there. Behind her was a thin man of middle years and a permanently censorious expression, who I took to be the doctor, though he wasn’t Doctor Arthur from the village. Pillows were plumped, Jemima was positioned, and a lamp was lit. At some point I realised my hand was once more my own, and I was pushed aside, ferried from the room.

As afternoon became evening, evening became night, I waited and wondered and hoped. Time lagged even though there were plenty of chores with which to fill it. There was dinner to serve, beds to be turned down, laundry to be gathered for the next day, yet all the while my mind remained with Jemima.

Finally, as through the kitchen window the final shimmer of the sun’s corona slipped behind the west heath, Myra clattered down the stairs, bowl and cloth in hand.

We had just finished our dinner and were still sat around the table.

‘Well?’ Mrs Townsend said, handkerchief clutched anxiously to her heart.

‘Well,’ Myra said, setting the bowl and cloth on the kitchen bench. She turned to face us all, unable to keep the smile from her lips. ‘Mother was delivered of her baby at twenty-six minutes after eight. Small but healthy.’

I waited nervously.

‘Can’t help but feel a little sorry for her, though,’ Myra said, raising her eyebrows. ‘It’s a girl.’

It was ten o’clock when I returned from collecting Jemima’s supper tray. She had fallen asleep, little Gytha swaddled and in her arms. Before I switched off the bedside lamp, I paused a moment to gaze at the tiny girl: puckered lips, a scrap of strawberry-blonde hair, eyes screwed tightly shut. Not an heir, then, but a baby, who would live and grow and love. One day, perhaps, have babies of her own.

I tiptoed from the room, tray in hand. My lamp cast the only light in the dark corridor, throwing my shadow across the row of portraits hanging along the wall. While the newest family member slept soundly behind the closed door, a line of Hartfords past carried on a silent vigil, gazing silently across the entrance hall they once possessed.

When I reached the main hall I noticed a thin strip of soft light seeping beneath the drawing-room door. In all the evening’s drama, Mr Hamilton had forgotten to turn off the lamp. I thanked God I had been the one to see. Despite the blessing of a new grandchild, Lady Violet would have been furious to discover her mourning conditions flouted.

I pushed open the door and stopped dead.

There, in his father’s seat, sat Mr Frederick. The new Lord Ashbury.

His long legs were crossed one over the other, his head bowed onto one hand so that his face was concealed.

Hanging from his left hand, recognisable for its distinguishing black sketch, was the letter from David. The letter Hannah had read by the fountain which had made Emmeline giggle so.

Mr Frederick’s back was shaking and at first I thought he was laughing too.

Then came the sound I have never forgotten. Will never forget. A gasp. Guttural, involuntary, hollow. Wretched with regret.

I stood for a moment longer, unable to move, then backed away. Pulled the door behind me so I was no longer a hidden party to his sorrow.

A knock at the door and I am returned. It is 1999 and I am in my room at Heathview, the photograph, our grave unknowing faces, still in my fingers. The young actress sits in the brown chair, scrutinising the ends of her long hair. How long have I been away? I glance at my clock. It is a little after ten. Is it possible? Is it possible the floors of memory have dissolved, ancient scenes and ghosts have come to life, and yet no time has passed at all?

The door is open and Ursula is back in the room, Sylvia directly behind balancing three teacups on a silver tray. Rather more fancy than the usual plastic one.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Ursula says, resuming her position on the end of my bed. ‘I don’t usually do that. It was urgent.’

I am unsure at first as to what she means; then I see the mobile phone in her hand.

Sylvia passes me a cup of tea, walks around my chair to present a steaming cup to Keira.

‘I hope you started the interview without me,’ Ursula says.

Keira smiles, shrugs. ‘We’ve pretty much finished.’

‘Really?’ Ursula says, eyes wide beneath her heavy fringe. ‘I can’t believe I missed the entire interview. I was so looking forward to hearing Grace’s memories.’

Sylvia places a hand across my forehead. ‘You’re looking a little peaky. Do you need some analgesic?’

‘I’m perfectly fine,’ I say, my voice croaky.

Sylvia raises an eyebrow.

‘I’m fine,’ I say with all the firmness I can muster.

Sylvia humphs. Then she shakes her head and I know she is washing her hands of me. For now. Have it your way, I can see her thinking. I can deny it all I like, but there’s no doubt in her mind I’ll be ringing for pain relief before my guests reach the Heathview car park. She’s probably right.

Keira takes a sip of green tea then rests the cup and saucer on my dressing table. ‘Is there a loo?’

I can feel Sylvia’s eyes burning holes in me. ‘Sylvia,’ I say. ‘Would you show Keira the washroom in the hall?’

Sylvia is barely able to contain herself. ‘Certainly,’ she says, and although I cannot see her, I know that she is preening. ‘It’s this way, Ms Parker.’

Ursula smiles at me as the door closes. ‘I appreciate you seeing Keira,’ she says. ‘She’s the daughter of one of the producer’s friends so I’m obliged to take a special interest.’ She looks to the door and lowers her voice, chooses her words carefully. ‘She’s not a bad kid, but she can be a little… tactless.’

‘I hadn’t noticed.’

Ursula laughs. ‘It comes of having industry parents,’ she says. ‘These kids see their parents receiving accolades for being rich, famous and beautiful-who can blame them for wanting the same?’

‘It’s quite all right.’

‘Still,’ says Ursula. ‘I meant to be here. To play chaperone…’

‘If you don’t stop apologising, you’re going to convince me you’ve done something wrong,’ I say. ‘You remind me of my grandson.’ She looks abashed and I realise there is something new within those dark eyes. A shadow I hadn’t noticed earlier. ‘Did you sort out your problems?’ I say. ‘On the telephone?’

She sighs, nods. ‘Yes.’

She pauses and I remain silent, wait for her to continue. I learned long ago that silence invites all manner of confidences.

‘I have a son,’ she says. ‘Finn.’ The name leaves a sad-happy smile on her lips. ‘He was three last Saturday.’ Her gaze leaves my face for an instant, alights on the rim of her teacup, with which she fidgets. ‘His father… he and I were never…’ She taps her nail twice against her cup, looks at me again. ‘It’s just Finn and me. That was my mother on the phone. She’s minding Finn while the film’s shooting. He had a fall.’

‘Is he all right?’

‘Yes. He sprained his wrist. The doctor wrapped it for him. He’s fine.’ She is smiling but her eyes fill with tears. ‘I’m sorry… goodness me… he’s fine, I don’t know why I’m crying.’

‘You’re worried,’ I say, watching her. ‘And relieved.’

‘Yes,’ she says, suddenly very young and fragile. ‘And guilty.’

‘Guilty?’

‘Yes,’ she says, but doesn’t elaborate. She takes a tissue from her bag and wipes her eyes. ‘You’re easy to talk to. You remind me of my grandmother.’

‘She sounds a lovely woman.’

Ursula laughs. ‘Yes.’ She sniffs into a tissue. ‘Goodness, look at me. I’m sorry for off-loading all this on you, Grace.’

‘You’re apologising again. I insist you stop.’

There are footsteps in the hall. Ursula glances at the door, blows her nose. ‘Then at least let me thank you. For seeing us. For talking to Keira. Listening to me.’

‘I’ve enjoyed it,’ I say, and surprise myself by meaning it. ‘I don’t have many callers these days.’

The door opens and she stands. Leans over and kisses my cheek. ‘I’ll come again soon,’ she says, gently squeezing my wrist.

And I am unaccountably glad.

Film Script

Final draft, November 1998, pp. 43-54

THE SHIFTING FOG

Written and directed by Ursula Ryan ©1998

SUBTITLE: Near Passchendaele, Belgium. October 1917.

45. INT. DESERTED FARMHOUSE-EVENING

Night falls, along with heavy rain. Three young soldiers in dirty uniforms seek refuge in the ruins of a Belgian farmhouse. They have walked all day after becoming separated from their division in a frantic retreat from the front line. They are tired and demoralised. The farmhouse in which they shelter is the same they were billeted in thirty days earlier on their way to the front. The Duchesne family have since fled as the wave of hostility swept through the village.

A single candle flickers on the bare timber floor, tossing long, jagged shadows onto the walls of the abandoned kitchen. Echoes of the house’s past life remain: a saucepan by the sink, a thin rope strung before the stove, heavy with abandoned laundry, a child’s wooden toy.

One soldier-an Australian infantryman called FRED-crouches by the hole in the wall where a door once stood. He hugs his shotgun to his side. In the distance, the sound of sporadic shell fire. Angry rain pelts the already muddy ground, filling ditches to overflowing. A rat appears and sniffs a large dark patch on the soldier’s uniform. It is blood, black and rotten with age.

Inside the kitchen, an officer sits on the floor, propped against a table leg. DAVID HARTFORD holds a letter: its flimsy, stained appearance suggests it has been read numerous times. Asleep beside his outstretched leg is the skinny dog that has followed them all day.

The third man, ROBBIE HUNTER, appears from one of the rooms. He carries a gramophone, blankets and a handful of dusty records. He places his load on the kitchen table and begins searching the cupboards. In the back of the pantry he finds something. He turns and we draw slowly closer. He is thinner than before. World-weariness has sobered his features. There are dark shadows beneath his eyes, and the weather and the walking have tangled his hair. A cigarette hangs from between his lips.

DAVID (without turning)

Find anything?

ROBBIE

Bread-hard as a rock, but still bread.

DAVID

Anything else? Anything to drink?

ROBBIE (pausing)

Music. I found music.

DAVID turns, sees the gramophone. His expression is difficult to read: a combination of pleasure and sadness. Our view shifts, trailing from his face, down his arm to his hands. The fingers of one are wrapped in a dirty makeshift bandage.

DAVID

Well then… What are you waiting for?

ROBBIE sets a record on the gramophone and the crackly song begins to play.

MUSIC: Debussy’s Claire de Lune.

ROBBIE makes his way to DAVID, carrying the blankets and bread. He goes carefully, easing himself onto the floor: the trench collapse has left him with more injuries than he lets on. DAVID’S eyes are closed.

ROBBIE takes a pocket knife from his bag and begins the difficult task of breaking the stale bread into portions. The task achieved, he places one on the floor near DAVID. He throws another to FRED at the door. FRED tries hungrily to bite it.

ROBBIE, still smoking his cigarette, offers a portion of bread to the dog. The dog sniffs the bread, looks at Robbie, turns away. Robbie takes off his shoes, peels back wet socks. His feet are muddy and blistered.

There is a sudden eruption of gunfire. DAVID’S eyes flash open. We see, through the doorway, the fireworks of battle on the horizon. The noise is terrific. The ragged explosions a contrast to Debussy’s music.

Looking back into the farmhouse, we see the faces of the three men, eyes wide, reflections exploding across their cheeks.

Finally, the guns fall silent and the bright light dies. Their faces are in shadow again. The record ceases playing.

FRED (still watching the distant battle field)

Poor buggers.

DAVID

They’ll be crawling over no-man’s-land now. Those that are left. Collecting the bodies.

FRED (shuddering)

Makes a man feel guilty. Not being there to help. And glad.

ROBBIE stands, walks to the doorway.

ROBBIE

I’ll take over. You’re tired.

FRED

No more or less than you. Can’t think you’ve slept in days; not since he (indicating DAVID) pulled you out of that trench. Still don’t know how you got out of there ali-

ROBBIE (quickly)

I’m fine.

FRED (shrugging)

All yours, mate.

FRED moves and sits by DAVID on the floor. He arranges one of the blankets over his legs, still hugging his gun to his chest. DAVID pulls a deck of cards from his bag.

DAVID

Come on, Fred. Quick game before you turn in?

FRED

Never could say no to a game. Keeps a fellow’s mind off things.

DAVID hands the deck to FRED. Indicates his own bandaged hand.

DAVID

Deal us up then.

FRED

What about him?

DAVID

Robbie doesn’t play. Doesn’t want to land the ace of spades.

FRED

What’s he got against the ace of spades?

DAVID (plainly)

Death card.

FRED begins to laugh, the trauma of the past weeks manifesting as a sort of hysteria.

FRED

Superstitious bastard! What’s he got against death?

All the world’s dead. God’s dead. Only him below left now. And the three of us.

ROBBIE is sitting in the doorway, looking out toward the front. The dog has crept over to lie by him.

ROBBIE (to himself, quoting William Blake)

We’re of the Devil’s party without knowing it.

FRED (overhearing)

We know it all right! A fellow only need set foot on this Godforsaken land to know the Devil’s running the show.

As DAVID and FRED continue to play cards, ROBBIE lights another cigarette and pulls a small notebook and pen from his pocket. As he writes, we see his memories of battle.

ROBBIE (VOICE-OVER)

The world has gone mad. Horror has become ordinary. Men, women, children daily slaughtered. Left where they remain, or vaporised so that nothing remains. Not a hair, or a bone, or the button from a shirt… Civilisation is surely dead. For how can it now exist?

The sound of snoring. ROBBIE stops writing. The dog has moved his head onto ROBBIE’S leg and is fast asleep, eyelids quivering as he dreams.

We see ROBBIE’S face, lit by candle, as he watches the dog. Slowly, cautiously, ROBBIE extends a hand, lays it gently on the dog’s side. ROBBIE’S hand is trembling. He smiles faintly.

ROBBIE (VOICE-OVER)

And yet, amid the horror, the innocent still find solace in sleep.

EXT. DESERTED FARMHOUSE-MORNING

It is morning. Weak sunlight breaks through the clouds. The night’s rain clings in drops to the surrounding trees and the ground is thick with new mud. The birds have emerged from hiding and call to one another. The three SOLDIERS stand outside the farmhouse, kits on their backs.

DAVID holds a compass in the hand that is not bandaged. He looks up, points in the direction of the shellfire from the night before.

DAVID

Due east. Must be Passchendaele.

ROBBIE nods grimly. Squints toward the horizon.

ROBBIE

Then we head east.

They set off. The dog hurries after them.

OCTOBER 1917

Dear Lord Ashbury,

It is my dreadful duty to inform you of the sad news of the death of your son, David. I understand that in such circumstances words do little to temper your sorrow and grief, but as your son’s immediate superior officer, and as one who knew and admired him, I want to extend to you my sincere sympathy for your tremendous loss.

I thought, also, to inform you of the brave circumstances of your son’s death, in the hopes that it might bring you and your family some consolation to know that he lived and died like a gentleman and a soldier. On the night he was killed, he commanded a group of men on a particularly vital piece of reconnaissance to locate the enemy.

I have been informed by the men who accompanied your son that between three and four o’clock, on the morning of 12 October, as they were returning from their mission, they came under heavy fire. It was during this attack that they were shocked by the sudden taking away of Capt. David Hartford. He was killed instantly by gunfire, and our only consolation is that he suffered absolutely no pain.

He was buried at first light in the northern part of the village of Passchendaele, a name, Lord Ashbury, that will long be remembered in the glorious history of our British armies. It will gladden you to know that through the excellent leadership of your son on his final mission, we were able to complete a critical objective.

If there is anything I can do for you, please do not hesitate to ask me.

I have the honour to remain, yours very sincerely,

Lieutenant Colonel Lloyd Auden Thomas.

THE PHOTOGRAPH

It is a beautiful March morning. The pink gillyflowers beneath my window are in bloom, filling the room with their sweet and heady scent. If I lean close to the windowsill and peer down at the garden bed, I can see the outermost petals, bright with sun. The peach blossom will be next, then the jasmine. Each year it is the same; will continue to be the same for years to come. Long after I am here to enjoy them. Eternally fresh, eternally hopeful, always ingenuous.

I have been thinking about Mother. About the photograph in Lady Violet’s scrapbook. For I saw it, you know. A few months after Hannah first mentioned it, that summer’s day by the fountain.

It was September of 1916. Mr Frederick had inherited his father’s estate, Lady Violet (in an impeccable show of etiquette, said Myra) had vacated Riverton and taken up residence in the London townhouse, and the Hartford girls had been dispatched indefinitely to help her settle.

We were a tiny staff at that time-Myra was busier than ever in the village and Alfred, whose leave I’d so anticipated, had been unable at the last to return. It confused us at the time: he was in Britain, sure enough, his letters assured us he wasn’t injured, yet he was to spend his leave at a military hospital. Even Mr Hamilton was unsure what to make of this. He thought long and hard, sat in his pantry pondering Alfred’s letter, until one night he emerged, rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses and made his announcement. The only explanation was Alfred’s involvement in a secret war mission of which he was unable to speak. It seemed a reasonable suggestion; for what else explained the hospital accommodation of a man with no injuries?

And so the matter was closed. Little more was said about it, and in the early autumn of 1916, as leaves dropped and the ground outside began to harden, steeling itself for the freeze to come, I found myself alone in the Riverton drawing room.

I had cleaned and reset the fire and was finishing up dusting. I ran the cloth across the top of the writing desk, traced its rim, then started on the drawer handles, bringing the brass to a gleam. It was a regular duty, performed each second morning as sure as day followed night, and I cannot say what set that day apart. Why that morning as my fingers reached the left-hand drawer they slowed, stopped, refused to recommence their cleaning. As if they glimpsed before I did the furtive purpose that fluttered on the edges of my thoughts.

I sat a moment, perplexed, unable to move. And I became aware of the sounds around me. The wind outside, leaves hitting the windowpanes. The mantle clock ticking insistently, counting away the seconds. My breaths, grown quick with expectation.

Fingers trembling, I began to slide it open.

Only then did I realise what it was I intended to do.

Slowly, carefully, acting and observing myself in equal measure. The drawer reached halfway and tilted on its tracks, the contents sliding to the front.

I paused. Listened. Satisfied myself I was still alone. Then I peered inside.

There beneath a pen set and a pair of gloves: Lady Violet’s scrapbook.

No time for hesitation, the incriminating drawer already open, heartbeat pulsing against the bones of my inner ears, I slid the book from the drawer and laid it on the floor.

Flicked through the pages-photographs, invitations, menus, diary entries-scanning for dates. 1896, 1897, 1898…

There it was: the household photograph of 1899, its shape familiar but its proportions different. Two long rows of straight-faced servants complementing the front line of family. Lord and Lady Ashbury, the Major in his uniform, Mr Frederick-all so much younger and less tattered-Jemima, and an unknown woman I took to be Penelope, Mr Frederick’s late wife, both with swollen stomachs. One of those bulges was Hannah, I realised; the other, an ill-fated boy whose blood would one day fail him. A lone child stood at the end of the row near Nanny (ancient even then). A small blond boy: David. Full of life and light; blissfully unaware of all the future had in store.

I let my gaze shift from his face and onto the rows of staff behind. Mr Hamilton, Mrs Townsend, Myra…

My breath caught. I stared into the gaze of a young serving maid. There was no mistaking her. Not because she resembled Mother-far from it. Rather, she resembled me. The hair and eyes were darker, but the likeness was uncanny. The same long neck, chin tapered to a dimpled point, brows curved to give a permanent impression of deliberation.

Most surprising of all though, far more so than our resemblance: Mother was smiling. Oh, not so as you’d realise unless you knew her well. It wasn’t a smile of mirth or social greeting. It was slight, little more than a muscular tremor, easily excused as a trick of the light by those who didn’t know her. But I could see. Mother was smiling to herself. Smiling like someone with a secret-

– I apologise, Marcus, for the interruption, but I have had an unexpected caller. I was sitting here, admiring the gillyflowers, telling you of Mother, when a knock came at the door. I expected Sylvia, come to tell me about her male friend, or complain about one of the other residents, but it wasn’t. Rather it was Ursula, the film-maker. I’ve mentioned her before, surely?

‘I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ she said.

‘No,’ I said, setting aside my walkman.

‘I won’t stay long. I was in the neighbourhood and it seemed silly to head back to London without popping in.’

‘You’ve been at the house.’

She nodded. ‘We were shooting a scene in the gardens, the light was just perfect.’

I asked her about the scene, curious as to which part of their story had been reconstructed today.

‘It was a scene of courtship,’ she said, ‘a romantic scene. It’s actually one of my favourites.’ She blushed, shook her head so that her fringe swung like a curtain. ‘It’s silly. I wrote the lines, I knew them when they were mere black marks on white paper-scratched them out and rewrote them a hundred times-yet I was still so moved to hear them spoken today.’

‘You’re a romantic,’ I said.

‘I suppose I am.’ She tilted her head to the side. ‘Ridiculous, isn’t it. I didn’t know the real Robbie Hunter at all; I’ve created a version of him from his poetry, from what other people wrote about him. Yet I find…’ She paused, raised her eyebrows self-deprecatingly. ‘I fear I’m in love with a figure of my own creation.’

‘And what is your Robbie like?’

‘He’s passionate. Creative. Devoted.’ She leaned her chin on her hand as she considered. ‘But I think what I admire most about him is his hope. Such brittle hope. People say he was a poet of disillusionment, but I’m not so sure. I’ve always found something positive in his poems. The way he found possibility amid the horrors he experienced.’ She shook her head, empathy narrowed her eyes. ‘It must have been unspeakably difficult. A sensitive young man thrust into such a devastating conflict. It’s a wonder any of them were ever able to resume their lives, pick up where they left off. Love again.’

‘I was once loved by a young man like that,’ I said. ‘He went to war and we exchanged letters. It was through those letters I realised how I felt about him. And he about me.’

‘Was he changed when he came back?’

‘Oh yes,’ I said softly. ‘There were none that came back unchanged.’

Her voice was gentle. ‘When did you lose him? Your husband?’

It took me a moment to realise what she meant. ‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘He wasn’t my husband. Alfred and I were never married.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I thought…’ She motioned toward the wedding picture on my dressing table.

I shook my head. ‘That’s not Alfred, that’s John: Ruth’s father. He and I were married sure enough. Lord knows we shouldn’t have been.’

She raised her eyebrows in query.

‘John was a terrific waltzer and a terrific lover, but not much of a husband. I dare say I wasn’t much of a wife either. I’d never intended to marry, you see. I wasn’t at all prepared.’

Ursula stood, picked up the photograph. Traced her thumb absently along the top. ‘He was handsome.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That was the attraction, I expect.’

‘Was he an archaeologist too?’

‘Heavens, no. John was a public servant.’

‘Oh,’ she set the photograph down. Turned to me. ‘I thought you might have met through work. Or at university.’

I shook my head. In 1938, when John and I met, I’d have called a doctor for anyone who suggested I might some day attend university. Become an archaeologist. I was working in a restaurant-the Lyons’ Corner House in the Strand-serving unending fried fish to the unending dining public. Mrs Havers, who ran the place, liked the idea of someone who’d been in service. She was fond of telling anyone who’d listen there was none knew how to polish cutlery quite like the girls from service.

‘John and I met quite by accident,’ I said. ‘At a dance club.’

I had agreed, grudgingly, to meet a girl from work. Another waitress. Nancy Everidge: a name I’ve never forgotten. Strange. She was nothing to me. Someone I worked with, avoided where I could, though that was easier said than done. She was one of those women who couldn’t let well enough alone. A busybody, I suppose. Had to know everyone else’s business. Was only too ready to interfere. Nancy must’ve taken it into her head I didn’t socialise enough, didn’t join in with the other girls on Monday mornings when they cackled about the weekend, for she started on at me about coming dancing, wouldn’t let up until I’d agreed to meet her at Marshall’s Club on Friday night.

I sighed. ‘The girl I was supposed to meet didn’t show up.’

‘But John did?’ Ursula said.

‘Yes,’ I said, remembering the smoky air, the stool in the corner where I perched uncomfortably, scanning the crowd for Nancy. Oh, she was full of excuses and apologies when I saw her next, but it was too late then. What was done was done. ‘I met John instead.’

‘And you fell in love?’

‘I fell pregnant.’

Ursula’s mouth formed an ‘o’ of realisation.

‘I realised four months after we met. We were married a month later. That’s the way things were done back then.’ I shifted so that my lower back was resting on a pillow. ‘Lucky for us war intervened and we were spared the charade.’

‘He went to war?’

‘We both did. John enlisted and I went to work in a field hospital in France.’

She looked confused. ‘What about Ruth?’

‘She was evacuated to an elderly Anglican minister and his wife. Spent the war years there.’

‘All of them?’ Ursula said, shocked. ‘How did you bear it?’

‘Oh, I visited on leave, and I received regular letters: gossip from the village and bosh from the pulpit; rather grim descriptions of the local children.’

She was shaking her head, brows drawn together in dismay. ‘I can’t imagine… Four years away from your child.’

I was unsure how to answer, how to explain. How does one begin to confess that mothering didn’t come naturally? That from the first Ruth had seemed a stranger? That the fond feeling of inevitable connectedness, of which books are written and myths are fashioned, was never mine?

My empathy had been used up, I suppose. On Hannah, and the others at Riverton. Oh, I was fine with strangers, was able to tend them, reassure them, even ease them into death. I just found it difficult to let myself get close again. I preferred casual acquaintances. Was hopelessly underprepared for the emotional demands of parenthood.

Ursula saved me from having to answer. ‘I suppose there was a war on,’ she said sadly. ‘Sacrifices had to be made.’ She reached out to squeeze my hand.

I smiled, tried not to feel false. Wondered what she would think if she knew that far from regretting my decision to send Ruth away, I’d relished the escape. That after a decade of drifting, through tedious jobs and hollow relationships, unable to put the events of Riverton behind me, in war I found my thread of purpose.

‘So it was after the war you decided to become an archaeologist.’

‘Yes,’ I said, my voice hoarse. ‘After the war.’

‘Why archaeology?’

The answer to that question is so complicated I could only say simply: ‘I had an epiphany.’

She was delighted. ‘Really? During the war?’

‘There was so much death. So much destruction. Things became clearer somehow.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I can imagine that.’

‘I found myself wondering at the impermanence of things. One day, I thought, people will have forgotten any of this happened. This war, these deaths, this demolition. Oh not for some time, hundreds, perhaps thousands of years, but eventually it will fade. Take its place amongst the layers of the past. Its savagery and horrors replaced in popular imagination by others still to come.’

Ursula shook her head. ‘Hard to imagine.’

‘But certain to happen. The Punic Wars at Carthage, the Peloponnesian War, the Battle of Artemisium. All reduced to chapters in history books.’ I paused. Vehemence had tired me, robbed me of breath. I am not used to speaking so many words in quick succession. My voice when I spoke was reedy. ‘I became obsessed with discovering the past. Facing the past.’

Ursula smiled, her dark eyes shining. ‘I know exactly what you mean. That’s why I make historical films. You uncover the past, and I try to recreate it.’

‘Yes,’ I said. I hadn’t thought of it like that.

Ursula shook her head. ‘I admire you, Grace. You’ve done so much with your life.’

‘Temporal illusion,’ I said, shrugging. ‘Give someone more time and they’ll appear to have done more with it.’

She laughed. ‘You’re being modest. It can’t have been easy. A woman in the fifties-a mother-trying to get a tertiary education. Was your husband supportive?’

‘I was on my own by then.’

Her eyes widened. ‘But how did you manage?’

‘I studied part time for a long time. Ruth was at school in the days and I had a very good neighbour, Mrs Finbar, who used to sit with her some evenings when I worked.’ I hesitated. ‘I was just fortunate the educational expenses were taken care of.’

‘A scholarship?’

‘In a sense. I’d come into some money, unexpectedly.’

‘Your husband,’ said Ursula, brows knitting in sympathy. ‘He was killed at war?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘No, he wasn’t. But our marriage was.’

Her gaze drifted once more to my wedding photo.

‘We divorced when he returned to London. Times had changed by then. Everyone had seen and done so much. It seemed rather pointless to remain joined to a spouse one didn’t care for. He moved to America and married the sister of a GI he’d met in France. Poor fellow; he was killed soon after in a road accident.’

She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry…’

‘Don’t be. Not on my account. It was so long ago. I barely remember him, you know. Odd snatches of memory, more like dreams. It’s Ruth who misses him. She’s never forgiven me.’

‘She wishes you’d stayed together.’

I nodded. Lord knows my failure to provide her a father figure is one of the old grievances that colour our relationship.

Ursula sighed. ‘I wonder whether Finn will feel that way one day.’

‘You and his father…?’

She shook her head. ‘It wouldn’t have worked.’ She said it so firmly I knew better than to probe. ‘Finn and I are better this way.’

‘Where is he today?’ I said. ‘Finn?’

‘My mother’s minding him. They were at the park for ice-cream last I heard.’ She rolled her watch around her wrist to read the time. ‘Goodness! I hadn’t realised it was getting so late. I’d better be going, give her some relief.’

‘I’m sure she doesn’t need relieving. It’s special, grandparents and grandchildren. So much simpler.’

Is it always so, I wonder? I think perhaps it is. While one’s child takes a part of one’s heart to use and misuse as they please, a grandchild is different. Gone are the bonds of guilt and responsibility that burden the maternal relationship. The way to love is free.

When you were born, Marcus, I was knocked sideways. What a wonderful surprise those feelings were. Parts of me that had shut down decades before, that I’d grown used to doing without, were suddenly awakened. I treasured you. Recognised you. Loved you with a power almost painful.

As you grew, you became my little friend. Followed me about my house, claimed your own space in my study and set about exploring the maps and drawings I’d collected on my travels. Questions, so many questions, that I never tired of answering. Indeed, it is a conceit I allow myself that I am responsible, in some part, for the fine, accomplished man you have become…

‘They must be in here somewhere,’ said Ursula, searching her bag for car keys, preparing to leave.

I was beset by a sudden impulse to make her stay. ‘I have a grandson, you know. Marcus. He’s a writer of mysteries.’

‘I know,’ she said, smiling as she stopped fossicking. ‘I’ve read his books.’

‘Have you?’ Pleased as I always am.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘They’re very good.’

‘Can you keep a secret?’ I said.

She nodded eagerly, leaned close.

‘I haven’t read them,’ I whispered. ‘Not right the way through.’

She laughed. ‘I promise not to tell.’

‘I’m so proud of him, and I’ve tried, I really have. I begin each with strong resolve, but no matter how much I’m enjoying them, I only ever get halfway. I adore a good mystery-Agatha Christie and the like-but I’m afraid I’m rather weak-stomached. I’m not one for all that bloody description they go on with these days.’

‘And you worked in a field hospital!’

‘Yes, but war is one thing, murder quite another.’

‘Maybe his next book…’

‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘Though I don’t know when that will be.’

‘He’s not writing?’

‘He suffered a loss recently.’

‘I read about his wife,’ Ursula said. ‘I’m very sorry. An aneurism, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes. Terribly sudden.’

Ursula nodded. ‘My father died the same way. I was fourteen. Away at school camp.’ She exhaled. ‘They didn’t tell me until I got back to school.’

‘Dreadful,’ I said, shaking my head.

‘I fought with him before I left. Something ridiculous. I can’t even remember now. I slammed the door of the car and didn’t look back.’

‘You were young. All the young are like that.’

‘I still think of him every day.’ She pressed her eyes shut, then opened them again. Shook the memories away. ‘How about Marcus? How is he?’

‘He took it badly,’ I said. ‘He blames himself.’

She nodded, didn’t look surprised. Seemed to understand guilt and its peculiarities.

‘I don’t know where he is,’ I said then.

Ursula looked at me. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s missing. Neither Ruth nor I know where he is. He’s been gone the better part of a year.’

She was perplexed. ‘But… is he okay? You’ve heard from him?’ Her eyes were trying to read mine. ‘A phone call? A letter?’

‘Postcards,’ I said. ‘He’s sent a few postcards. But no return address. I fear he doesn’t want to be found.’

‘Oh, Grace,’ she said, kind eyes meeting mine. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘So am I,’ I said. And it was then I told her about the tapes. About how much I need to find you. That it’s all I can think to do.

‘It’s the perfect thing to do,’ she said emphatically. ‘Where do you send them?’

‘I have an address in California. A friend of his from years ago. I send them there, but as for whether he receives them…’

‘I bet he does,’ she said.

They were mere words, well-meant assurances, yet I needed to hear more. ‘Do you think so?’ I said.

‘Yes,’ she said firmly, full of youthful certainty. ‘I do. And I know he’ll come back. He just needs space and time to realise it wasn’t his fault. That there was nothing he could have done to change it.’ She stood up and leaned across my bed. Picked up my walkman and placed it gently on my lap. ‘Keep talking to him, Grace,’ she said, and then she leaned toward me and kissed my cheek. ‘He’ll come home. You’ll see.’

There now. I have forgotten my purpose. Have been telling you things you already know. Sheer self-indulgence on my part: Lord knows I don’t have time for such distraction. Now where was I? 1915? No, 1916. War was consuming the fields of Flanders, the Major and Lord Ashbury were yet warm in their graves, and two long years of slaughter were still to come. So much devastation. Young men from the furthest reaches of the earth choreographed in a bloody waltz of death. The Major, then David…

No. I have neither stomach nor inclination to relive them. It is enough to say that they occurred. Instead, I will draw breath and say, ‘It was November 1918,’ and, as if by magic, it will be so.

We will return to Riverton. Hannah and Emmeline, who have spent the last two years of the war in London at Lady Violet’s townhouse, have just arrived to take up residence with their father. But they are changed: they have grown since last we spoke. Hannah is eighteen, about to make her society debut. Emmeline, fourteen, teeters on the edge of an adult world she is impatient to embrace. Gone are the games of yesteryear. Gone, since David’s death, is The Game. (Rule number three: only three may play. No more, no less.)

One of the first things Hannah does on return to Riverton is recover the Chinese box from the attic. I see her do it, though she does not know it. I follow her as she puts it carefully into a fabric bag and takes it with her to the lake.

I hide where the path between the Icarus fountain and the lake narrows and watch as she takes her bag across the lake bank to the old boathouse. She stands for a moment, looks around, and I duck lower behind the bushes so she doesn’t see me.

She goes to the edge of the escarpment, stands with her back to its ridge, then lines up her feet so the heel of one boot touches the toe of the other. She proceeds toward the lake, counting three steps before stopping.

She repeats this three times, then kneels on the ground and opens her bag. Pulls from it a small spade. She must have taken it when Dudley wasn’t looking.

Hannah digs. It is difficult at first, due to the pebbles that coat the lake bank, but in time she reaches the dirt beneath and is able to scoop more at a time. She doesn’t stop until the pile beside her is a foot high.

She removes the Chinese box from her bag then, and lays it deep within the hole. She is about to scoop the dirt on top when she hesitates. She retrieves the box, opens it, takes one of the tiny books from inside. She opens the locket around her neck and conceals it within, then returns the box to the hole and resumes burying it.

I leave her then, alone on the lake bank; Mr Hamilton will miss me if I’m away much longer and he is not in any mood to be trifled with. Downstairs, the Riverton kitchen is abuzz with excitement. Preparations are underway for the first dinner party since war broke out, and Mr Hamilton has impressed upon us that tonight’s guests, business investors, are Very Important to the Family’s Future.

And they were. Just how important, we could never have imagined.

NEW

‘New money,’ Mrs Townsend said knowingly, looking from Myra to Mr Hamilton to me. She was leaning against the pine table using her marble rolling pin to quash resistance from a knot of sweaty dough. She stopped and wiped her forehead, leaving a trail of flour clinging to her eyebrows. ‘Americans at that,’ she said, to no one in particular.

‘Now, Mrs Townsend,’ Mr Hamilton said, scrutinising the silver salt and pepper dishes for tarnish. ‘While it’s true Mrs Luxton is one of the New York Stevensons, I think you’ll find Mr Luxton is as English as you or I. He hails from the north according to The Times.’ Mr Hamilton peered over his half-rimmed glasses. ‘A self-made man, you know.’

Mrs Townsend snorted. ‘Self-made man indeed. Can’t have hurt marrying her family’s fortune.’

‘Mr Luxton may have married a wealthy family,’ Mr Hamilton said primly, ‘but he’s certainly done his bit to increase the fortune. He’s a very successful businessman by anyone’s standards. Textiles, manufacturing, pharmaceuticals. There’s not much he doesn’t have a hand in running. Especially since the war.’

Mrs Townsend humphed. ‘I don’t care if he owns half of England. It don’t change the fact he’s new money.’ She pointed her rolling pin at each of us in turn. ‘New money on the lookout for old class.’

‘At least they have money,’ Myra said. ‘That’ll make a welcome change around here if you ask me.’

Mr Hamilton straightened and shot me a stern look, though I had not been the one to speak. As the war had progressed and Myra had spent more time working on the outside, she had changed. In her duties she remained efficient as ever, but when we sat around the servants’ table and spoke of the world, she was more comfortable in voicing opposition, more likely to question the way things were done. I, on the other hand, had not yet been corrupted by external forces and, like a shepherd who decides ’tis better to forsake one lost sheep than risk the flock through inattention, Mr Hamilton had determined to keep both eyes on me. ‘I’m surprised at you, Myra,’ he said, looking at me. ‘You know the Master’s business affairs are not ours to query.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Hamilton,’ Myra said, in a voice without contrition. ‘All I know is that ever since Mr Frederick came to Riverton, he’s been closing rooms faster than I can say. Not to mention the furniture that’s been sold from the west wing. The mahogany writing bureau, Lady Ashbury’s Danish four-poster.’ She eyed me over her polishing cloth. ‘Dudley says most of the horses are going too.’

‘His Lordship is simply being prudent,’ Mr Hamilton said, turning to Myra to better argue his case. ‘The west rooms were closed because, with your railway work and Alfred being away, there was far too much cleaning for young Grace to manage on her own. As for the stables, what need does His Lordship have for so many horses with all his fine motor cars?’

The question, once launched, he let linger in the cool winter’s air. He removed his glasses, huffed on their lenses and wiped them clean with a triumphant theatricality.

‘If you must know,’ he said, stage business complete, glasses restored to his nose’s end, ‘the stables are to be converted into a brand-new garage. The largest in all of Essex.’

Myra was nonplussed. ‘All the same,’ she said, lowering her voice, ‘I’ve heard whispers in the village-’

‘Nonsense,’ Mr Hamilton said.

‘What kind of whispers?’ Mrs Townsend said, bosom heaving with each roll of her pin. ‘News about the Master’s business?’

At the stairs, the shadows shifted and a slim woman of middle years stepped into the light.

‘Miss Starling…’ Mr Hamilton faltered. ‘I didn’t see you there. Come on in and Grace will make you a cup of tea.’ He turned to me, mouth tight as the top of a coin purse. ‘Go on then, Grace,’ he said, motioning toward the stove. ‘A cup of tea for Miss Starling.’

Miss Starling cleared her throat before stepping away from the stairwell. She tiptoed toward the nearest chair, little typewriting machine clamped beneath a freckled arm.

Lucy Starling was Mr Frederick’s secretary, employed, originally, for the factory in Ipswich. When the war ended and the family moved permanently to Riverton, she started coming from the village, twice a week, to work in Mr Frederick’s study. She was perfectly ordinary to look at. Medium brown hair tucked beneath a prudent straw hat, skirts in dull shades of brown and olive, a plain white blouse. Her only accessory, a small cream cameo at her collar, seemed to sense its own ordinariness, wilting sadly forward to reveal its simple silver clasp.

She had lost her fiancé on the Ypres Salient and wore her mourning, like her clothing, with enduring plainness, her grief too reasonable ever to excite great sympathy. Myra, who knew such things, said it was a great shame she had gone and lost a man prepared to marry her, for lightning did not strike twice and with her looks and at her age she would almost certainly end up an old maid. What’s more, Myra added sagely, we were as well to pay particular attention that nothing go missing from upstairs, as Miss Starling was as likely as not to be looking toward her old age.

Myra’s were not the only suspicions aroused by Miss Starling. The arrival of this quiet, unassuming and, by all accounts, conscientious woman, created a stir downstairs that now seems unimaginable.

It was her place that caused such uncertainty. It wasn’t right, Mrs Townsend said, for a young lady of the middle class to be taking liberties in the main house, seating herself in the Master’s study, gadding about with airs and graces out of step with her position. And, though it was doubtful that Miss Starling with her sensible mouse-brown hair, home-stitched clothing and cautious smile could ever be accused of airs and graces, I understood Mrs Townsend’s bother. The lines between upstairs and down had once been clearly and comfortably drawn, but with Miss Starling’s arrival old certainties had begun to shift.

For while she was not one of Them, neither was she one of Us.

Her presence downstairs that afternoon brought a cerise glow to Mr Hamilton’s cheeks and a nervous animation to his fingertips, which now hovered busily about his lapel. The curious matter of station perplexed Mr Hamilton specially, for in the poor, unsuspecting typist he perceived an adversary. Though as butler he was the senior servant, responsible for overseeing the house’s management, as personal secretary she was privy to the shimmering secrets of the family’s business affairs.

Mr Hamilton plucked his gold fob watch from his pocket and made a show of comparing its time with that on the wall clock. The watch had been a gift from the former Lord Ashbury and of it Mr Hamilton was immeasurably proud. It never failed to deliver him stillness, to help retain authority in instances of stress or bother. He ran a pale, steady thumb across its face. ‘Where is Alfred?’ he said, finally.

‘Laying table, Mr Hamilton,’ I said, relieved that the taut balloon of silence had finally been pricked.

‘Still?’ Mr Hamilton snapped closed the watch, his agitation finding welcome focus. ‘It’s been almost a quarter-hour since I sent him with the brandy balloons. Honestly. That boy. I’d like to know what they’ve been teaching him in the military. Ever since he got back he’s been flighty as a feather.’

I flinched as if the criticism had been levelled at me.

‘It’s common with them that’s come home,’ Myra said. ‘Some of them that arrive at the train station are quite strange-’ She stopped polishing wine glasses as she fished about for the right words. ‘Nervous and a bit jumpy.’

‘Jumpy, indeed,’ Mrs Townsend said, shaking her head. ‘He just needs a few good feeds. You’d be jumpy too if you’d been living on army rations. I mean to say. Tins? Of beef?’

Miss Starling cleared her throat and said, in a voice leavened with careful elocution: ‘They’re calling it shell shock, I believe.’ She looked about timidly as the room fell silent. ‘At least, that’s what I’ve read. Many of the men are struck by it. It doesn’t do to be too hard on Alfred.’

In the kitchen my hand slipped and black tea leaves rained over the pine table.

Mrs Townsend lay down her rolling pin and pushed her floury sleeves up over her elbows. Blood had rushed to her cheeks. ‘Now just you listen here,’ she said, with an unqualified authority usually the preserve of policemen and mothers. ‘I will not hear talk of that in my kitchen. There’s nothing wrong with Alfred that a few of my dinners won’t fix.’

‘Of course not, Mrs Townsend,’ I said, eyeing Miss Starling. ‘Alfred will be right as rain once he’s had some of your good home cooking.’

‘They’re not a patch on my old dinners, of course, what with the U-boats and now the shortages.’ Mrs Townsend looked at Miss Starling and her voice caught a waver. ‘But I do know what young Alfred likes.’

‘Of course,’ Miss Starling said, traitorous freckles materialising as her cheeks paled. ‘I didn’t mean to suggest…’ Her mouth continued to move around the words she couldn’t find to say. Her lips straightened into a wan smile. ‘You know Alfred best, of course.’

Mrs Townsend nodded tersely, punctuating the fact with renewed attack on the pie dough. The thick air thinned some, and Mr Hamilton turned to me, the afternoon’s strain evident on his face. ‘Hurry up then, girl,’ he said wearily. ‘And when you’re finished, you can make yourself useful upstairs. Help the young ladies dress for dinner. Don’t be too long, mind. The table cards still need placing, and the flowers have to be arranged.’

When the war ended and Mr Frederick and the girls took up permanent residence at Riverton, Hannah and Emmeline had chosen new rooms in the east wing. They were residents now rather than guests, and it was only fitting, said Myra, that they take new rooms to demonstrate the point. Emmeline’s room overlooked Eros and Psyche on the front lawn, while Hannah preferred the smaller one with a view to the rose garden and the lake beyond. The two bedrooms were adjoined by a small sitting area which was always referred to as the burgundy room, though I never could think why as the walls were a pale shade of duck-egg blue and the curtains a William Morris floral in blues and pinks.

The burgundy room bore little evidence of its recent reoccupation, retaining the hallmarks of whichever erstwhile inhabitant had overseen its original decoration. It was comfortably appointed, with a pink chaise longue beneath one window and a burr walnut writing desk beneath the other. An armchair sat stately by the door to the hall. Atop a small mahogany table, its red petals in coy half-bloom, the sole addition posed: a gramophone, whose very novelty seemed to bring a blush to the prudent old furnishings.

As I made my way along the dim corridor, wistful strains of a familiar song seeped beneath the closed door, mingling with the cold, stale air that hugged the skirting boards. If you were the only girl in the world, And I were the only boy…

It was Emmeline’s current favourite, on permanent rotation since they’d arrived from London. We were all singing it in the servants’ hall. Even Mr Hamilton had been heard whistling to himself in his pantry.

I knocked once and entered, crossed the once-proud carpet and busied myself sorting the mound of silks and satins that smothered the armchair. I was glad for the occupation. Though I had longed since they left for the girls’ return, in the intervening two years the familiarity I’d felt when last I served them had evaporated. A quiet revolution had taken place and the two girls with pinafores and too-small walking suits had been replaced by young women. I felt shy of them again.

And there was something else, something vague and unnerving. They were two now where they had been three. David’s death had dismantled the triangle, and an enclosed space was now open. Two points are unreliable; with nothing to anchor them there is nothing to stop them drifting in opposite directions. If it is string that binds, it will eventually snap and the points will separate; if elastic, they will continue to part, further and further, until the strain reaches its limit, and they are pulled back with such speed that they cannot help but collide with devastating force.

Hannah was lying on the chaise, book in hand, a faint frown of focus on her brow. Her free hand was pressed against one ear in a vain attempt to block the record’s crackly fervency.

The book was the new James Joyce: The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. I could tell by its spine, though I hardly had to look. It had kept her in its thrall since they’d arrived.

Emmeline stood in the middle of the room before a full-length mirror dragged in from one of the bedrooms. Against her middle she hugged a dress that I had not yet seen: pink taffeta with ruffles along the hemline. Another of Grandmamma’s gifts, I guessed, purchased with dour conviction that the current shortage of marriageable men would render all but the most attractive prospects superfluous.

The final shimmer of wintry sun reached through the French window and hovered winsomely before turning Emmeline’s long ringlets to gold, and landing, exhausted, in a series of pale squares at her feet. Emmeline, on whom such subtleties were wasted, swayed back and forth, pink taffeta rustling, as she hummed along with the record in a pretty voice coloured by its owner’s longing for romance. When the final note dissolved with the sun’s last light, the record continued to spin and bump beneath its needle. Emmeline tossed the dress onto the empty armchair and twirled across the floor. She drew back the needle arm and set about realigning it on the record’s rim.

Hannah looked up from her book. Her long hair had disappeared in London-along with any lingering trace of childhood-now brushing her shoulderblades in soft, golden waves. ‘Not again, Emmeline,’ she said, frowning. ‘Play something else. Anything else.’

‘But it’s my favourite.’

‘This week,’ Hannah said.

Emmeline pouted theatrically. ‘How do you think poor Stephen would feel if he knew you wouldn’t listen to his record? It was a gift. The least you could do is enjoy it.’

‘We’ve enjoyed it quite enough,’ Hannah said. She noticed me then. ‘Don’t you agree, Grace?’

I curtseyed and felt my face flush, unsure how to answer. I avoided having to by lighting the gas lamp.

‘If I had an admirer like Stephen Hardcastle,’ Emmeline said dreamily, ‘I should listen to his record a hundred times each day.’

‘Stephen Hardcastle is not an admirer,’ Hannah said, the very suggestion seeming to appal her. ‘We’ve known him forever. He’s a pal. He’s Lady Clem’s godson.’

‘Godson or not, I don’t think he called at Kensington Place every day when he was on leave out of ghoulish desire to hear of Lady Clem’s latest ailment. Do you?’

Hannah bristled slightly. ‘How should I know? They’re very close.’

‘Oh Hannah,’ Emmeline said. ‘For all your reading you can be so dense. Even Fanny could see.’ She wound the gramophone handle and dropped the needle arm so that the record started once more to spin. As the music began its sentimental swell, she turned and said, ‘Stephen was hoping you’d make him a promise.’

Hannah folded down the corner of her current page then unfolded it again, running her finger along the crease.

‘You know,’ Emmeline said eagerly. ‘A promise of marriage.’

I held my breath; it was the first I’d learned of Hannah receiving a proposal.

‘I’m not an idiot,’ Hannah said, eyes still on the triangular ear beneath her finger. ‘I know what he wanted.’

‘Then why didn’t you-?’

‘I wasn’t going to make a promise I couldn’t keep,’ Hannah said quickly.

‘You can be such a stick-in-the-mud. What harm would there have been in laughing at his jokes, letting him whisper silly sweet things in your ear? You were the one always droning on about helping the war effort. If you weren’t so mulish you could have given him a lovely memory to take with him to the front.’

Hannah draped a fabric bookmark across the page of her book, and placed it beside her on the chaise. ‘And what would I have done when he returned? Told him I didn’t really mean it?’

Emmeline’s conviction slipped momentarily then resurrected itself. ‘But that’s the point,’ she said. ‘Stephen Hardcastle hasn’t returned.’

‘He still might.’

It was Emmeline’s turn to shrug. ‘Anything’s possible, I suppose. But if he does I imagine he’ll be too busy counting his lucky stars to worry about you.’

A stubborn silence settled between them. The room itself seemed to take sides: the walls and curtains retreating into Hannah’s corner, the gramophone offering obsequious support to Emmeline.

Emmeline pulled her long ringleted ponytail over one shoulder and fingered the ends. She picked up her hairbrush from the floor beneath the mirror and dragged it through in long, even strokes. The bristles whooshed conspicuously. She was observed for a moment by Hannah, whose face clouded with an expression I couldn’t read-exasperation perhaps, or incredulity-before returning its attention to Joyce.

I picked up the pink taffeta dress from the chair. ‘Is this the one you’ll be wearing tonight, miss?’ I said softly.

Emmeline jumped. ‘Oh! You mustn’t sneak up like that. You frightened me half to death.’

‘Sorry, miss.’ I could feel my cheeks growing hot and tingly. I shot a glance at Hannah who appeared not to have heard. ‘Is this the dress you’d like, miss?’

‘Yes. That’s it.’ Emmeline chewed gently on her bottom lip. ‘At least, I think so.’ She pondered the dress, reached out and flicked the ruffled trim. ‘Hannah, which do you think? Blue or pink?’

‘Blue.’

‘Really?’ Emmeline turned to Hannah, surprised. ‘I thought pink.’

‘Pink then.’

‘You’re not even looking.’

Hannah looked up reluctantly. ‘Either. Neither.’ A frustrated sigh. ‘They’re both fine.’

Emmeline sighed peevishly. ‘You’d better fetch the blue dress. I’ll need to have another look.’

I curtseyed and disappeared around the corner into the bedroom. As I reached the wardrobe, I heard Emmeline say, ‘It’s important, Hannah. Tonight is my first proper dinner party and I want to look sophisticated. You should too. The Luxtons are American.’

‘So?’

‘You don’t want them thinking us unrefined.’

‘I don’t much care what they think.’

‘You should. They’re very important to Pa’s business.’ Emmeline lowered her voice and I had to stand very still, cheek pressed close against the dresses, to make out what she was saying. ‘I overheard Pa talking with Grandmamma-’

‘Eavesdropped, more like,’ Hannah said. ‘And Grandmamma thinks I’m the wicked one!’

‘Fine then,’ said Emmeline, and in her voice I heard the careless shrug of her shoulders. ‘I’ll keep it to myself.’

‘You couldn’t if you tried. I can see it in your face, you’re bursting to tell me what you heard.’

Emmeline paused a moment to savour her ill-gotten gains. ‘Oh… all right,’ she said eagerly, ‘I’ll tell you if you insist.’ She cleared her throat importantly. ‘It all started because Grandmamma was saying what a tragedy the war had been for this family. That the Germans had robbed the Ashbury line of its future and that Grandfather would turn in his grave if he knew the state of things. Pa tried to tell her that it wasn’t as desperate as all that, but Grandmamma was having none of it. She said she was old enough to see clearly and how else could the situation be described but desperate, when Pa was last in line with no heirs to follow? Grandmamma said it was a shame that Pa hadn’t done the right thing and married Fanny when he had the chance!

‘Pa turned snippy then and said that while he had lost his heir, he still had his factory, and Grandmamma could stop worrying for he would take care of things. Grandmamma didn’t stop worrying though. She said the lawyers were starting to ask questions.

‘Then Pa was quiet for a little while and I began to worry, thinking that he had stood up and was on his way to the door and I was to be discovered. I almost laughed with relief when he spoke again and I could hear that he was still in his chair.’

‘Yes, yes, and what did he say?’

Emmeline continued, the cautiously optimistic manner of an actor nearing the end of a complicated passage. ‘Pa said that while it was true things had been tight during the war, he’d given up the aeroplanes and was back making motor cars now. The damned lawyers-his words, not mine-the damned lawyers were going to get their money. He said some fellow who’d made war planes had offered to invest and was going to help him make the factory more profitable. The fellow, Mr Simion Luxton, has connections, Pa said, in business and in the government.’ Emmeline sighed triumphantly, monologue successfully delivered. ‘And that was the end of it, or near enough. Pa sounded ever so embarrassed when Grandmamma mentioned the lawyers. I decided then and there that I’d do anything I could to help make a good impression with Mr Luxton, to help Pa keep his business.’

‘I didn’t know you took such keen interest.’

‘Of course I do,’ Emmeline said primly. ‘And you needn’t be angry with me just because I know more about it than you this time.’

A pause, then Hannah: ‘I don’t suppose your sudden, ardent devotion to Pa’s business has anything to do with that fellow, the son, whose photo Fanny was mooning over in the newspaper?’

‘Theodore Luxton? Is he going to be at dinner? I had no idea,’ Emmeline said, but a smile had crept into her voice.

‘You’re far too young. He’s at least thirty.’

‘I’m almost fifteen and everyone says I look mature for my age. Besides, Fanny said some men prefer brides younger than eighteen.’

‘Yes, odd men who would sooner be married to a child than a grown woman.’

‘I’m not too young to be in love, you know,’ Emmeline said. ‘Juliet was only fourteen.’

‘And look what happened to her.’

‘That was just a misunderstanding. If she and Romeo had been married and their silly old parents had stopped giving them such trouble, I’m sure they’d have lived happily ever after.’ She sighed. ‘I can’t wait to be married.’

‘Marriage isn’t just about having a handsome man to dance with,’ said Hannah. ‘There are… other things, you know.’

The gramophone song had stopped playing, but the record continued to spin beneath the needle.

‘What other things?’

Against the cold silk of Emmeline’s dresses, my cheeks grew warm.

‘Private things,’ Hannah said. ‘Intimacies.’

‘Oh,’ Emmeline said, almost inaudible. ‘Intimacies. Poor Fanny.’

There was a silence in which we all pondered Poor Fanny’s misfortune. Newly married and trapped, on honeymoon, with a Strange Man.

I was no longer entirely inexperienced in such terrors, myself. A few months before, in the village, Rufus, the butcher’s half-witted son, had followed me into an alley and pressed me against the wall, his meaty fingers, nails rimmed in cow’s blood, pawing at my skirts. I had been startled at first, but then, remembering the leg of lamb in my string bag, had lifted it high and walloped him over the head. I was released, but not before his fingers had burrowed their way into my private flesh. The echoes made me shudder all the way home and it was some days before I could close my eyes without reliving the experience, wondering what might have happened had I not taken action.

‘Hannah,’ Emmeline said. ‘What are intimacies, exactly?’

‘I… well… They’re expressions of love,’ Hannah said breezily. ‘Quite pleasant, I believe, with a man with whom you’re passionately in love; unthinkably distasteful with anyone else.’

‘Yes, yes. But what are they? Exactly?’

Another silence.

‘You don’t know either,’ Emmeline said. ‘I can tell by your face.’

‘Well, not exactly-’

‘I’ll ask Fanny when she gets back,’ Emmeline said. ‘She ought to know by then.’

I ran my fingertips along the row of pretty fabrics in Emmeline’s wardrobe, looking for the blue dress, wondered whether what Hannah said was true. Whether the same attentions Rufus had tried to foist on me might ever be considered pleasant from another fellow. I thought about the few times Alfred had stood very near me in the servants’ hall, the strange but not unwelcome feeling that had overcome me…

‘Anyway, I didn’t say I wanted to marry immediately.’ This was Emmeline. ‘All I meant is that Theodore Luxton is very handsome.’

‘Very wealthy, you mean,’ Hannah said.

‘Same thing, really.’

‘You’re just lucky that Pa’s decided to let you dine downstairs at all,’ Hannah said. ‘I should never have been allowed when I was fourteen.’

‘Almost fifteen.’

‘I suppose he had to make up numbers somehow.’

‘Yes. Thank goodness Fanny agreed to marry that terrible bore, and thank goodness he decided they should honeymoon in Italy. If they’d been home, I’m sure I’d have been left to dine with Nanny in the nursery instead.’

‘I should prefer Nanny’s company to that of Pa’s Americans any day.’

‘Rubbish,’ Emmeline said.

‘I should be just as happy to read my book.’

‘Liar,’ Emmeline said. ‘You’ve set your ivory satin dress aside, the one Fanny was so determined you shouldn’t wear when we met her old bore. You wouldn’t wear that one unless you were as excited as I am.’

There was a silence.

‘Ha!’ Emmeline said. ‘I’m right! You’re smiling!’

‘All right, I am looking forward to it,’ Hannah said. ‘But not,’ she added quickly, ‘because I want the good opinion of some rich Americans I’ve never met.’

‘Oh no?’

‘No.’

The floorboards creaked as one of the girls trod across the room, and the spent gramophone record, still spinning drunkenly, was halted.

‘Well?’ This was Emmeline. ‘It certainly can’t be Mrs Townsend’s ration menu that’s got you excited.’

‘Poor old Mrs Townsend. She does try,’ Hannah said. There was a pause, during which I held very still, waiting, listening. Hannah’s voice, when finally she spoke, was calm, but a slim thread of excitement ran through it. ‘Tonight,’ she said, ‘I’m going to ask Pa whether I might return to London.’

Deep within the closet, I gasped. They had only just arrived; that Hannah might leave again so soon was unthinkable.

‘To Grandmamma?’ said Emmeline.

‘No. To live by myself. In a flat.’

‘A flat? Why on earth would you want to live in a flat?’

‘You’ll laugh… I want to take work in an office.’

Emmeline did not laugh. ‘What sort of work?’

‘Office work. Typing, filing, shorthand.’

‘But you don’t know how to do short-’ Emmeline broke off, sighed with realisation. ‘You do know shorthand. Those papers I found the other week: they weren’t really Egyptian hieroglyph…’

‘No.’

‘You’ve been learning shorthand. In secret.’ Emmeline’s voice took on a note of indignation. ‘From Miss Prince?’

‘Lord, no. Miss Prince teach something so useful? Never.’

‘Then where?’

‘The secretarial school in the village.’

‘When?’

‘I started ages ago, just after the war began. I felt so useless and it seemed as good a way as any to help with the war effort. I thought when we went to stay with Grandmamma I’d be able to get work-there are so many offices in London-but… it didn’t work out like that. When I finally got away from Grandmamma long enough to enquire, they wouldn’t take me. Said I was too young. But now that I’m eighteen, I should walk into a job. I’ve done so much practice and I’m really very quick.’

‘Who else knows?’

‘No one. Except you.’

Veiled amongst the dresses, as Hannah continued to extol the virtues of her training, I lost something. A small confidence, long cherished, was released. I felt it slip away, float down amid the silks and satins, until it landed amongst the flecks of silent dust on the dark wardrobe floor and I could see it no more.

‘Well?’ Hannah was saying. ‘Don’t you think it’s exciting?’

Emmeline huffed. ‘I think it’s sneaky. That’s what I think. And silly. And so will Pa. War work is one thing, but this… It’s ridiculous, and you may as well get it out of your mind. Pa will never allow it.’

‘That’s why I’m going to tell him at dinner. It’s the perfect opportunity. He’ll have to say yes if there are other people around. Especially Americans with all their modern ideas.’

‘I can’t believe even you would do this.’ Emmeline’s voice was gathering fury.

‘I don’t know why you’re so upset.’

‘Because… it isn’t… it doesn’t…’ Emmeline cast about for adequate defence. ‘Because you’re supposed to be the hostess tonight and instead of making sure things run smoothly, you’re going to embarrass Pa. You’re going to create a scene in front of the Luxtons.’

‘I’m not going to create a scene.’

‘You always say that and then you always do. Why can’t you just be-’

‘Normal?’

‘You’ve gone completely mad. Who would want to work in an office?’

‘I want to see the world. Travel.’

‘To London?’

‘It’s a first step,’ Hannah said. ‘I want to be independent. To meet interesting people.’

‘More interesting than me, you mean.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Hannah said. ‘I just mean new people with clever things to say. Things I’ve never heard before. I want to be free, Emme. Open to whatever adventure comes along and sweeps me off my feet.’

I glanced at the clock on Emmeline’s wall. Four o’clock. Mr Hamilton would be on the warpath if I wasn’t downstairs soon. And yet I had to hear more, to learn the precise nature of these adventures Hannah was so intent upon. Torn between the two, I compromised. Closed the wardrobe, draped the blue dress over my arm and hesitated by the doorway.

Emmeline was still sitting on the floor, brush in hand. ‘Why don’t you go and stay with friends of Pa’s somewhere? I could come too,’ she said. ‘The Rothermeres, in Paris-’

‘And have Lady Rothermere enquire after my every move? Or worse, saddle me with that ghastly daughter of hers?’ Hannah’s face was a study in disdain. ‘That’s hardly independence.’

‘Neither is working in an office.’

‘Perhaps not, but I’m going to need money from somewhere. I’m not going to beg or steal, and I can’t think of anyone from whom I could borrow.’

‘What about Pa?’

‘You heard Grandmamma. Some people may have made money from the war, but Pa was not amongst them.’

‘Well I think it’s a terrible idea,’ Emmeline said. ‘It… it just isn’t proper. Pa would never allow it… and Grandmamma…’ Emmeline drew breath. Exhaled deeply so that her shoulders deflated. When she spoke again her voice was young and pale. ‘I don’t want you to leave me.’ Her gaze sought Hannah’s. ‘First David, and now you.’

Her brother’s name was a physical blow for Hannah. It was no secret that she had mourned his death especially. The family had still been in London when the dreaded black-rimmed letter arrived, but news travelled surely across the servants’ halls of England in those days, and we had all learned of Miss Hannah’s alarming loss of spirits. Her refusal to eat was the cause of much concern, and had Mrs Townsend intent upon baking raspberry tartlets, Hannah’s favourite since a girl, to send to London.

Whether oblivious to the effect her invocation of David had caused, or entirely aware, Emmeline continued. ‘What will I do, all alone in this great big house?’

‘You won’t be alone,’ Hannah said quietly. ‘Pa will be here for company.’

‘That’s little comfort. You know Pa doesn’t care for me.’

‘Pa cares a great deal for you, Emme,’ said Hannah firmly. ‘For all of us.’

Emmeline glanced over her shoulder and I pressed myself against the doorframe. ‘But he doesn’t really like me,’ she said. ‘Not as a person. Not as he does you.’

Hannah opened her mouth to argue but Emmeline hurried on.

‘You don’t have to pretend. I’ve seen the way he looks at me when he thinks I can’t see. Like he’s puzzled, like he’s not sure exactly who I am.’ Her eyes glazed but she did not cry. Her voice was a whisper. ‘It’s because he blames me for Mother.’

‘That’s not true.’ Hannah’s cheeks had turned pink. ‘Don’t even say such things. No one blames you for Mother.’

‘Pa does.’

‘He doesn’t.’

‘I heard Grandmamma tell Lady Clem that Pa was never the same after the dreadful business with Mother.’ Emmeline spoke then with a firmness that surprised me. ‘I don’t want you to leave me.’ She rose from the floor and sat by Hannah, clasped her hand. An uncharacteristic gesture which seemed to shock Hannah as much as it did me. ‘Please.’ And then she began to cry.

The two sat side by side upon the chaise, Emmeline sobbing, her final word between them. Hannah’s expression bore the stubborn set that was so singularly hers, but behind the strong cheekbones, the wilful mouth, I noticed something else. A new aspect, not so easily articulated as the natural consequence of reaching adulthood…

And then I realised. She was eldest now and had inherited the vague, relentless, unsolicited responsibility such familial rank demanded.

Hannah turned to Emmeline and gave an appearance of brightness. ‘Cheer up,’ she said, patting Emmeline’s hand, ‘You don’t want red eyes at dinner.’

I glanced at the clock again. Quarter after four. Mr Hamilton would be fuming. There was nothing for it…

I re-entered the room, blue dress draped over one arm. ‘Your dress, miss?’ I said to Emmeline.

She did not respond. I pretended not to notice that her cheeks were wet with tears. Focused on the dress instead, brushed flat a piece of lace trim.

‘Wear the pink one, Emme,’ Hannah said gently. ‘It suits you best.’

Emmeline remained unmoved.

I looked at Hannah for clarification. She nodded. ‘The pink.’

‘And you, miss?’ I said.

She chose the ivory satin, just as Emmeline had said she would.

‘Will you be there tonight, Grace?’ Hannah said as I fetched the beautiful satin gown and corset from her wardrobe.

‘I shouldn’t think so, miss,’ I said. ‘Alfred has been demobbed. He’ll be helping Mr Hamilton and Myra at table.’

‘Oh,’ Hannah said. ‘Yes.’ She picked up her book, opened it, closed it, ran her fingers lightly along the spine. Her voice, when she spoke, was cautious. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask, Grace. How is Alfred?’

‘He’s well, miss. He had a small cold when he returned but Mrs Townsend fixed him up with some lemon and barley and he’s been right since then.’

‘She doesn’t mean how is he physically,’ Emmeline said unexpectedly. ‘She means how is he in the head.’

‘In the head, miss?’ I looked at Hannah, who was frowning faintly at Emmeline.

‘Well you did.’ Emmeline turned to me, her eyes red-rimmed. ‘When he served tea yesterday afternoon he behaved most peculiarly. He was offering the tray of sweets, just as usual, when suddenly the tray started quivering back and forth.’ She laughed: a hollow, unnatural sound. ‘His whole arm was shaking, and I waited for him to steady it so I could take a lemon tart, but it was as if he couldn’t make it stop. Then, sure enough, the tray slipped and sent an avalanche of Victoria sponges all over my prettiest dress. At first I was quite cross-it was really too careless; the dress could have been ruined-but then, as he continued to stand there with the strangest look on his face, I became frightened. I was sure he’d gone quite mad.’ She shrugged. ‘He snapped out of it eventually and cleaned the mess. But still, the damage was done. He was just lucky that I was the one to suffer. Pa wouldn’t have been so forgiving. He’d be ever so dark if it happened again tonight.’ She looked directly at me, blue eyes cold. ‘You don’t think it’s likely, do you?’

‘I couldn’t say, miss.’ I was taken aback. This was the first I’d heard of the event. ‘I mean, I shouldn’t think so, miss. I’m sure Alfred is all right.’

‘Of course he is,’ Hannah said quickly. ‘It was an accident, nothing more. Returning home must take some adjustment after being away so long. And those salvers look awfully heavy, especially the way Mrs Townsend loads them. I’m sure she’s on a quest to fatten us all up.’ She smiled but the echo of a frown still creased her brow.

‘Yes miss,’ I said.

Hannah nodded, the matter closed. ‘Now let’s get these dresses on so we can play dutiful daughters for Pa’s Americans and be done with it.’

THE DINNER

All along the corridor and down the stairs I replayed Emmeline’s reportage. But no matter which way I twisted it, I arrived at the same conclusion. Something was amiss. It was not like Alfred to be clumsy. In all the time I had been at Riverton I could think of only a couple of occasions when he had faulted in his duties. Once, in a hurry, he had used the drinks salver to deliver the mail; another time he had tripped up the service stairs on account of he was getting the flu. But this was different. To spill an entire tray? It was almost impossible to imagine.

And yet, the episode was surely not a fabrication-what reason, after all, had Emmeline to invent such a thing? No, it must have occurred, and the reason must be as Hannah suggested. An accident: a moment of distraction as the dying sun caught the windowpane, a slight cramp of the wrist, a slippery tray. No one was immune to such occurrence, particularly, as Hannah pointed out, someone who had been away some years and was out of practice.

But though I wished to believe this simple explanation, I could not. For in a small pocket of my mind a collection of motley incidents-no, not so much as that-a collection of motley observations was forming. Misinterpretations of benign queries after his health, overreactions to perceived criticisms, frowns where once he would have laughed. Indeed, a general air of confused irritability applied itself to everything he did.

If I were honest, I had perceived it from the evening of his return. We had planned a little party: Mrs Townsend had baked a special supper and Mr Hamilton had received permission to open a bottle of the Master’s wine. We had spent much of the afternoon laying out the servants’ hall table, laughing as we arranged and rearranged items so that they might best please Alfred. We were all a little drunk, I think, on gladness that evening, though none more so than I.

When the expected hour arrived we positioned ourselves in a tableau of poorly pretended casualness. Expectant glances met one another as we continued to wait, ears registering every noise outside. Finally, the crunch of grave, low voices, a car door closing. Footsteps drawing near. Mr Hamilton stood, smoothed his jacket, and took up position by the door. A moment of eager silence as we awaited Alfred’s knock, and then the door was open and we were upon him.

It was nothing dramatic: Alfred didn’t rant or rave or cower. He let me take his hat and then he stood, uncomfortably, in the doorjamb as if afraid to enter. Schooled his lips into a smile. Mrs Townsend threw her arms around him, dragging him across the threshold as one might a resistant roll of carpet. She led him to his seat, guest of honour to Mr Hamilton’s right, and we all spoke at once, laughing, exclaiming, recounting events of the past two years. All except Alfred, that is. Oh, he made a stab at it. Nodded when required, provided answers to questions, even managed another strangled smile or two. But they were the responses of an outsider, of one of Lady Violet’s Belgians, contriving to please an audience set on including them.

I was not the only one to notice. I saw the tremors of unease pulling at Mr Hamilton’s brow, an unwelcome knowledge arranging itself on Myra’s. But we never spoke of it, never came closer than the day the Luxtons came to dinner, the day Miss Starling offered her ill-received opinions. That evening, and the other observations I made since his arrival, were left to lie dormant. We all picked up the slack and remained complicit in an unspoken pact not to notice things had changed. Times had changed and Alfred had changed.

‘Grace!’ Mr Hamilton looked up from the bench as I reached the bottom of the stairs. ‘It’s half-four and there’s not a place card to be seen on the dining table. How do you imagine the Master’s important guests would fare without place cards?’

I imagined they’d find themselves a place much more to their liking than the one they’d been assigned. But I was not Myra, had not yet learned the art of standing up for myself, so said, ‘Not very well, Mr Hamilton.’

‘Not very well indeed.’ He thrust a stack of place cards and a folded table plan into my hands. ‘And Grace,’ he said as I turned to leave, ‘if you happen to see Alfred, do ask him if he’d be so kind as to find his way back downstairs. He hasn’t even started on the coffee pot.’

In the absence of a suitable hostess, Hannah, much to her amused vexation, had been given the duty of assigning places. Her plan was hastily sketched on a sheet of lined notepaper, jagged along the edges where it had been torn from a book of similar sheets.

The place cards themselves were lettered plainly: black on white, the Ashbury crest embossed on the upper left corner. They lacked the flair of the Dowager Lady Ashbury’s cards but would serve the purpose well enough, matching the comparatively austere table setting favoured by Mr Frederick. Indeed, to Mr Hamilton’s eternal chagrin, Mr Frederick had elected to dine en famille (rather than in the formal à la Russe style to which we were accustomed) and would be carving the pheasant himself. Though Mrs Townsend was aghast, Myra, fresh from her stint outside the house, quietly approved the choice, noting that the Master’s decision was surely calculated to suit the tastes of his American guests.

It was not my place to say, but I preferred the table in its more modern manner. Without the tree-like epergnes, pregnant with their overloaded salvers of sweetmeats and tizzy fruit displays, the table had a simple refinement that pleased me. The stark white of the cloth, starched at each corner, the silver lines of cutlery and sparkling clusters of stemware.

I peered closer. A large thumbprint blotted the rim of Mr Frederick’s champagne flute. I puffed a hot breath onto the offending mark and rubbed at it quickly with a bunched corner of my apron.

So intent was I on the task that I jumped when the door from the hall swung forcefully inwards.

‘Alfred!’ I said. ‘You frightened me! I almost dropped a glass!’

‘You shouldn’t be touching them,’ Alfred said, a familiar frown settled on his forehead. ‘Glasses are my duty.’

‘There was a print,’ I said. ‘You know what Mr Hamilton’s like. He’d have your guts for garters if he saw. And Mr Hamilton in garters is something I hope never to see!’

An attempt at humour destined for failure before it was made. Somewhere in the trenches of France Alfred’s laughter had died, and he could only grimace. ‘I was going to polish them later.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘now you won’t have to.’

‘You needn’t keep doing that.’ His tone was measured.

‘Doing what?’

‘Checking up on me. Following me around like a second shadow.’

‘I’m not. I was just laying the place cards and I saw a fingerprint.’

‘And I told you, I was going to do it later.’

‘All right,’ I said quietly, setting the glass back in place. ‘I’ll leave it.’

Alfred grunted his gruff satisfaction and pulled a cloth from his pocket.

I fiddled with the place cards though they were already straight, and pretended not to watch him.

His shoulders were hunched, the right raised stiffly so that his body turned from me. It was an entreaty for solitude, yet the cursed bells of good intentions rang loudly in my ears. Maybe if I drew him out, learned what was bothering him, I could help? Who better than me? For surely I had not imagined the closeness that had grown between us while he was away? I knew I had not: he had said as much in his letters. I cleared my throat to speak, proceeded softly to say: ‘I know what happened yesterday.’

He gave no appearance of having heard, remained focused on the glass he was polishing.

A little louder: ‘I know what happened yesterday. In the drawing room.’

He stopped, glass in hand. Stood very still. The offending words hung like fog between us and I was struck by an overwhelming wish to retract the utterance.

His voice was deathly quiet. ‘Little miss been telling tales, has she?’

‘No-’

‘Bet she had a good laugh about it.’

‘Oh no,’ I said quickly. ‘It wasn’t like that. She was worried about you.’ I swallowed, dared to say: ‘I’m worried about you.’

He looked up sharply from beneath the lock of hair his glass-shuffling had worked loose. His mouth was etched with tiny angry lines. ‘Worried about me?’

His strange, brittle tone made me wary, yet I was seized by an uncontrollable urge to make things right. ‘It’s just, it’s not like you to drop a tray, and then you didn’t mention it… I thought you might be frightened of Mr Hamilton finding out. But he wouldn’t be angry, Alfred. I’m sure of it. Everyone makes mistakes sometimes in their duties.’

He looked at me, and for a moment I thought he might laugh. Instead, his features were contorted by a sneer. ‘You silly little girl,’ he said. ‘You think I care about a few cakes ending up on the floor?’

‘Alfred-’

‘You think I don’t know about duty? After where I’ve been?’

‘I didn’t say that-’

‘It’s what you’re thinking though, isn’t it? I can feel you all looking at me, watching me, waiting for me to make a mistake. Well, you can stop waiting and you can keep your worrying. There’s nothing wrong with me, you hear? Nothing!’

My eyes were smarting, his bitter tone made my skin prickle. I whispered, ‘I just wanted to help-’

‘To help?’ He laughed bitterly. ‘And what makes you think you can help me?’

‘Why, Alfred,’ I said tentatively, wondering what he could possibly mean. ‘You and I… we’re… It’s like you said… in your letters-’

‘Forget what I said.’

‘But Alfred-’

‘Stay away from me, Grace,’ he said coldly, returning his attention to the glasses. ‘I never asked for your help. I don’t need it and I don’t want it. Go on, get out of here and let me get on with my work.’

My cheeks burned: with disillusionment, with the feverish afterglow of confrontation, but most hotly with embarrassment. I had perceived a closeness where none existed. God help me, in my most private moments I had even begun to imagine a future for Alfred and me. Courtship, marriage, maybe even a family of our own. And now, to realise I had mistaken absence for greater feeling…

I spent the early evening downstairs. If Mrs Townsend wondered where my sudden dedication to the finer points of pheasant roasting came from, she knew better than to ask. I basted and boned, and even helped with stuffing. Anything to avoid being sent back upstairs where Alfred was serving.

My course of avoidance was on good track until Mr Hamilton thrust a cocktail salver into my hands.

‘But Mr Hamilton,’ I said disconsolately. ‘I’m helping Mrs Townsend with the meals.’

Mr Hamilton, eyeballs glistening behind his glasses at the perceived challenge, replied, ‘And I am telling you to take the cocktails.’

‘But Alfred-’

‘Alfred is busy fixing the dining room,’ Mr Hamilton said. ‘Quickly now, girl. Don’t keep the Master waiting.’

It was a small party, six in all, and yet the room gave the impression of being overfull. Thick with loud voices and inordinate heat. Mr Frederick, eager to make a good impression, had insisted on extra heating and Mr Hamilton had risen to the challenge, hiring two oil stoves. A particularly strident female perfume had flourished in the hothouse conditions and now threatened to overwhelm the room and its occupants.

I saw Mr Frederick first, dressed in his black dinner suit, looking almost as fine as the Major had once done, though thinner and somehow less starched. He stood by the mahogany bureau, talking to a puffy man with salt and pepper hair that perched like a wreath around his shiny pate.

The puffy man pointed toward a porcelain vase on the bureau. ‘I saw one of those at Sotheby’s,’ he said in an accent of gentrified northern English mixed with something else. ‘Identical.’ He leaned closer. ‘It’s worth a pretty penny, old boy.’

Mr Frederick replied vaguely. ‘I wouldn’t know, Great-grandfather brought that back from the Far East. It’s sat there ever since.’

‘You hear that, Estella?’ Simion Luxton called across the room to his doughy wife, seated between Emmeline and Hannah on the sofa. ‘Frederick said it’s been in the family for generations. He’s been using it as a paperweight.’

Estella Luxton smiled tolerantly at her husband and between them passed a type of unspoken communication borne of years of joint existence. In that moment’s glance I perceived their marriage as one of practical endurance. A symbiotic relationship whose usefulness had long outlived its passion.

Duty to her husband fulfilled, Estella returned her attention to Emmeline, in whom she had discovered a fellow high-society enthusiast. For what her husband lacked in hair, Estella more than made up. Hers, the colour of pewter, was wound into a sleek and impressive chignon, curiously American in its construction. It reminded me of a photograph Mr Hamilton had pinned on the noticeboard downstairs, a New York skyscraper covered in scaffolding: complex and impressive without ever being properly attractive. She smiled at something Emmeline said and I was stunned by her unusually white teeth.

I skirted the room, laid the cocktail tray on the dumb waiter beneath the window and curtseyed routinely. The young Mr Luxton was seated in the armchair, half listening as Emmeline and Estella discussed the upcoming country season in rapturous tones.

Theodore-Teddy as we came to think of him-was handsome in the way all wealthy men were handsome in those days. Basic good looks enhanced with confidence created a façade of wit and charm, put a knowing gleam in the eyes and gave glisten to the hair. Swiftly put paid to any suggestion of middling intelligence.

He had dark hair, almost as black as his well-pressed dinner suit, and he wore a distinguished moustache which made him look like a screen actor. Like Douglas Fairbanks, I thought suddenly, and felt my cheeks flush. When he smiled it was broad and free, his teeth whiter even than his mother’s. There must be something in the American water, I decided, for all of their teeth were as white as the strand of pearls Hannah wore at her neck, over the gold chain of her photograph locket.

As Estella commenced a detailed description of Lady Hamilton’s most recent ball, in a metallic accent I had never heard before, Teddy’s gaze began to wander the room. Noticing his guest’s lack of occupation, Mr Frederick motioned tensely to Hannah who cleared her throat and said, half-heartedly, ‘Your crossing was pleasant, I trust?’

‘Very pleasant,’ he said with an easy smile. ‘Though Mother and Father would answer differently, I’m sure. Neither have sea legs. Each was as sick as the other from the moment we left New York until we reached Bristol.’

Hannah took a sip from her cocktail then submitted another stiff sample of polite conversation. ‘How long will you be staying in England?’

‘Just a short visit for me, I’m afraid. I’m off to the continent next week. Egypt.’

‘Egypt,’ Hannah said, eyes widening.

Teddy laughed. ‘Yes. I have business there.’

‘You’re going to see the pyramids of Egypt?’

‘Not this time, I’m afraid. Just a few days in Cairo and then on to Florence.’

‘God-awful place,’ Simion said loudly, sitting in the second armchair. ‘Full of pigeons and wogs. Give me good old England any day.’

Mr Hamilton motioned toward Simion’s glass, nearly empty despite having recently been filled. I took my cocktail bottle to his side.

I could feel Simion’s eyes on me as I topped up his glass. ‘There are certain pleasures,’ he said, ‘unique to this country.’ He leaned slightly and his warm arm brushed my thigh. ‘Try as I might, I haven’t found them anywhere else.’

I had to concentrate to keep a blank expression on my face, and not to pour too quickly. An eternity passed before the glass was finally full and I could leave his side. As I rounded the lounge, I saw Hannah frowning at the place where I had been.

‘My husband does love England,’ Estella said rather pointlessly.

‘Hunting, shooting and golf,’ Simion said. ‘No one does them better than the British.’ He took a swig of cocktail and leaned back in the armchair. ‘Best thing of all, though, is the English mind-set,’ Simion said. ‘There are two types of people in England. Those born to give orders.’ His gaze found mine across the room. ‘And those born to take them.’

Hannah’s frown deepened.

‘It keeps things running well,’ Simion continued. ‘Not so in America, I’m afraid. The fellow who shines your shoes on the street corner is as like as not to be dreaming of owning his own company. There’s little to make a man so damnably nervous as an entire population of labourers puffed up with unreasonable…’ he rolled the distasteful word around his mouth a moment and spat it out, ‘ambitions.’

‘Imagine,’ Hannah said, ‘a working man who expects more from life than the stench of other men’s feet.’

‘Abominable!’ Simion said, blind to Hannah’s irony.

‘One would think they’d realise,’ she said, voice rising a semitone, ‘that only the fortunate have a right to concern themselves with ambition.’

Mr Frederick shot her a warning glance.

‘They’d save us all a lot of bother if they did,’ Simion said with a nod. ‘You only have to look at the Bolsheviks to realise how dangerous these people can be when they get ideas above their station.’

‘A man shouldn’t seek to improve himself?’ Hannah said.

The younger Mr Luxton, Teddy, continued to look at Hannah, a slight smile making his lips twitch beneath his moustache. ‘Oh, Father approves of self-improvement, don’t you, Father? As a boy I heard of little else.’

‘My grandfather pulled himself out of the mines with sheer determination,’ Simion said. ‘Now look at the Luxton family.’

‘An admirable transformation.’ Hannah smiled. ‘Just not to be attempted by everyone, Mr Luxton?’

‘Just so,’ he said. ‘Just so.’

Mr Frederick, eager to leave precarious waters, cleared his throat impatiently and looked toward Mr Hamilton.

Mr Hamilton nodded imperceptibly and leaned near to Hannah. ‘Dinner is served, miss.’ He looked at me and signalled that I should return downstairs.

‘Well,’ Hannah said as I slipped from the room. ‘Shall we dine?’

Fish followed green pea soup, pheasant followed fish and by all accounts things were going well. Myra made occasional appearances downstairs, providing welcome reports of the evening’s progress. Though working at a frantic pace, Mrs Townsend was never too busy for an update on Hannah’s performance as hostess. She nodded when Myra announced that though Miss Hannah was doing well, her manner was not yet so charming as her grandmother’s.

‘Of course not,’ Mrs Townsend said, sweat beading at her hairline. ‘It’s natural with Lady Violet. She couldn’t host a party that wasn’t perfect if she tried. Miss Hannah will improve with practice. She may never be a perfect hostess, but she’ll certainly be a good one. It’s in the blood.’

‘You’re probably right, Mrs Townsend,’ Myra said. She straightened the trim of her apron and lowered her voice. ‘So long as she doesn’t get swept up with… modern notions.’

‘What sort of modern notions?’ I said.

‘Aye. She always was an intelligent child,’ Mrs Townsend said regrettably. ‘All those books are bound to put ideas in a girl’s head.’

‘What sort of modern notions?’

‘Marriage will cure her, though. You mark my words,’ Mrs Townsend said to Myra.

‘I’m sure you’re right, Mrs Townsend.’

‘What sort of modern notions?’ I said impatiently.

‘There’s some young ladies just don’t know what they need until they find themselves a suitable husband,’ Mrs Townsend said.

I could stand it no longer. ‘Miss Hannah’s not going to get married,’ I said. ‘Never. I heard her say so herself. She’s going to travel the world and live a life of adventure.’

Myra gasped and Mrs Townsend stared at me. ‘What are you talking about, you silly girl,’ Mrs Townsend said, pressing a hand firmly against my forehead. ‘You’ve gone mad talking nonsense like that. You sound like Katie. Of course Miss Hannah’s going to get married. It’s every debutante’s wish: to be married briskly and brilliantly. What’s more, it’s her duty now that poor Master David-’

‘Myra,’ Mr Hamilton said, hurrying down the stairs. ‘Where is that champagne?’

‘I’ve got it, Mr Hamilton.’ Katie’s voice preceded her loping form. She emerged from the ice room, bottles clutched awkwardly under both arms, smiling broadly. ‘The others were too busy arguing, but I’ve got it.’

‘Well hurry up then, girl,’ Mr Hamilton said. ‘The Master’s guests will be going thirsty.’ He turned toward the kitchen and peered down his nose. ‘I must say it’s not like you to dawdle over your duties, Myra.’

‘Here you are, Mr Hamilton,’ said Katie.

‘Up you go, Myra,’ he said disparagingly. ‘Now that I’m here I might as well bring them myself.’

Myra glared at me and disappeared up the stairs.

‘Really, Mrs Townsend,’ Mr Hamilton said. ‘Keeping Myra here arguing. You know we need all hands on deck tonight. May I enquire as to what was so important that it required your urgent discussion?’

‘It was nothing, Mr Hamilton,’ Mrs Townsend said, refusing to meet my eyes. ‘Not an argument at all, just a little matter between Myra and Grace and me.’

‘They were talking about Miss Hannah,’ Katie said. ‘I heard them-’

‘Silence, Katie,’ Mr Hamilton said.

‘But I-’

‘Katie!’ Mrs Townsend said. ‘That’s enough! And for goodness sake, put those bottles down so Mr Hamilton can get them up for the Master.’

Katie released the bottles onto the kitchen table.

Mr Hamilton, reminded of the task at hand, abandoned his inquiries and began to open the first bottle. Despite his expertise, the cork was stubborn, refusing to emerge until its handler least expected and-

Bang!

It shot from the bottle, exploded a lamp globe into a hundred pieces, and landed in Mrs Townsend’s pot of butterscotch sauce. The liberated champagne showered Mr Hamilton’s face and hair with triumphant effervescence.

‘Katie, you silly girl!’ Mrs Townsend exclaimed. ‘You’ve gone and shaken the bottles!’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Townsend,’ Katie said, beginning to giggle as she was wont to do in moments of bother. ‘I was just trying to hurry, like Mr Hamilton said.’

‘More haste, less speed, Katie,’ Mr Hamilton said, the slick of champagne on his face detracting from the seriousness of his admonition.

‘Here, Mr Hamilton.’ Mrs Townsend clutched the corner of her apron to wipe his shiny nose. ‘Let me get you cleaned up.’

‘Oh, Mrs Townsend,’ Katie giggled. ‘You’ve gone and put flour all over his face!’

‘Katie!’ Mr Hamilton snapped, swiping at his face with a handkerchief that had materialised amid the confusion. ‘You are a silly girl. Not an ounce of sense to show for any of your years here. Sometimes I really do wonder why we keep you…’

I heard Alfred before I saw him.

Over the din of Mr Hamilton’s scolding, Mrs Townsend’s fussing and Katie’s protestations, the rasping rise and fall of breath.

He later told me he had come downstairs to find what was keeping Mr Hamilton, but now he stood at bottom, so still and so pale, a marble statue of himself, or else a ghost…

As my eyes found his, a spell was broken and he turned on his heel, disappeared down the corridor, footsteps echoing on stone, through the back door and into the dark.

Everyone watched, silent. Mr Hamilton’s body twitched as if he thought to follow, but duty was ever his master. He ran his handkerchief across his face one last time and turned to us, lips pressed together so they sketched one pale line of dutiful resignation.

‘Grace,’ he said as I prepared to chase Alfred. ‘Put on your good apron. You’re needed upstairs.’

•

In the dining room I took my place between the chiffonier and the Louis XIV chair. On the opposite wall Myra raised her eyebrows. Powerless to convey all that had happened downstairs, unsure what such an explanation would contain, I lifted my shoulders slightly and looked away. Wondered where Alfred was and whether he would ever be himself again.

They were finishing the pheasant course and the air quivered with the polite tinkle of cutlery on fine china.

‘Well,’ Estella said, ‘that was,’ imperceptible pause, ‘just lovely.’ I watched her profile, watched the way her jaw worked as she chewed each word, wringing from it all life and vitality before pushing it out through broad, crimson lips. I remember her lips especially, as she was the only person wearing makeup. Much to Emmeline’s eternal sorrow, Mr Frederick had rather definite ideas on makeup and its wearers.

Estella cleared a valley between the leftover mounds of solidifying pheasant and laid down her cutlery. She kissed cherry splotches onto a white linen napkin I would have to scrub later. ‘Such unusual flavours.’ She smiled at Mr Frederick sympathetically. ‘It must be difficult with the shortages.’

Myra raised her eyebrows. For a guest to comment directly on the meal was almost unheard of. Indeed, such blatant respects verged on discourtesy, all too easily interpreted as evidence of surprise or, worse, relief. We would have to be cautious when recounting to Mrs Townsend.

Mr Frederick, as astonished as we, launched an uneasy oratory on Mrs Townsend’s unparalleled skill as a ration cook, under which veil Estella took opportunity to peruse the room. Her gaze alighted first on the ornate plaster cornices marrying wall to ceiling, slid south to the William Morris frieze on the dado rail, before resting, finally, on the wall-mounted Ashbury crest. Taking stock, or so it seemed, as all the while her tongue darted methodically beneath her cheek, working some stubborn and distasteful morsel from between her gleaming teeth.

Small sociable chat was not Mr Frederick’s metier in life, and his narration, once started, became a desolate conversational island from which there seemed no escape. He began to flounder. He cast about with his eyes but Estella, Simion, Teddy and Emmeline had all found discrete occupation elsewhere. He had almost surrendered to his fate when finally, in Hannah, he found an ally. They exchanged a glance, and while he allowed his desultory description of Mrs Townsend’s butterless scones to wilt, she cleared her throat.

‘You mentioned a daughter, Mrs Luxton,’ Hannah said. ‘She isn’t with you on this trip?’

‘No,’ Estella said quickly, her attention returned to her tablemates. ‘No, she isn’t.’

Simion looked up from his pheasant and grunted. ‘Deborah hasn’t accompanied us in some time,’ he said. ‘She has commitments at home. Work commitments,’ he said ominously.

Hannah showed a resurrection of genuine interest. ‘She works?’

‘Something in publishing.’ Simion swallowed a forkful of pheasant. ‘Don’t know the details.’

‘Deborah is the fashion columnist on Women’s Style,’ Estella said. ‘She writes a little report each month.’

‘Ridiculous-’ Simion’s body shook, capturing a hiccough before it became a burp, ‘-tripe about shoes and dresses and other extravagances.’

‘Now Father,’ Teddy said with a slow smile. ‘Deb’s column is very popular. She’s been influential in shaping the way New York’s society ladies dress.’

‘Guff! You’re fortunate your daughters don’t put you through such things, Frederick.’ Simion pushed his gravy-smeared plate aside. ‘Work indeed. You British girls are much more sensible.’

It was the perfect opportunity and Hannah knew it. I held my breath, wondering whether her desire for adventure would win out. Hoping it wouldn’t. That she would honour Emmeline’s entreaty and stay here at Riverton. With Alfred as he was, I couldn’t bear to think that Hannah might also disappear.

She and Emmeline exchanged a glance, and before Hannah had chance to speak, Emmeline said quickly, in the clear musical voice young ladies were advised to cultivate for use in company, ‘I certainly never would. Working is hardly respectable, is it Pa?’

‘I’d sooner tear out my own heart than see either of my daughters working,’ Mr Frederick said matter-of-factly.

Hannah’s lips tightened.

‘Damn near broke my heart,’ Simion said. He looked at Emmeline. ‘If only my Deborah had your sense.’

Emmeline smiled, her face blooming with a precocious ripeness of beauty I was almost embarrassed to observe.

‘Now, Simion,’ Estella placated. ‘You know Deborah wouldn’t have accepted the position if you hadn’t granted your permission.’ She smiled, too broadly, at the others. ‘He never could say no to her.’

Simion humphed but did not disagree.

‘Mother’s right, Father,’ Teddy said. ‘Taking a little job is quite the thing amongst the New York smart set. Deborah is young and she’s not yet married. She’ll settle down when the time comes.’

‘I’ve always preferred correctness to smartness,’ Simion said. ‘But that’s modern society for you. They all want to be considered smart. I blame the war.’ He tucked his thumbs beneath the tight rim of his pants, concealed from all but my view, and provided his stomach some welcome breathing space. ‘My only consolation is that she earns good money.’ Reminded of his favourite topic, he cheered somewhat. ‘I say, Frederick. What do you think of the penalties they’re talking of imposing on poor old Germany?’

As conversation swept along, Emmeline looked sideways beneath her eyelids at Hannah. Hannah kept her chin up, eyes following conversation, face a model of calm, and I wondered whether she had been going to ask at all. Perhaps Emmeline’s earlier appeal had changed her mind. Perhaps I imagined her light shudder as opportunity disappeared in a sudden draught up the chimney.

‘One does feel rather sorry for the Germans,’ Simion said. ‘There’s a lot to be admired in their people. Excellent employees, eh Frederick?’

‘I don’t employ Germans in my factory,’ Frederick said.

‘There’s your first mistake. You won’t find a more diligent race. Humourless, I’ll grant you, but meticulous.’

‘I’m quite happy with my local men.’

‘Your nationalism is admirable, Frederick. But not, surely, at the expense of business?’

‘My son was killed by a German bullet,’ Mr Frederick said, fingers spread, light but taut, on the table rim.

The remark was a vacuum into which all bonhomie was drawn. Mr Hamilton caught my gaze and motioned Myra and me to create a diversion by collecting the main plates. We were halfway around the table when Teddy cleared his throat and said, ‘Our deepest sympathies, Lord Ashbury. We had heard about your son. About David. Word at White’s, he was a good man.’

‘Boy.’

‘What’s that?’

‘My son was a boy.’

‘Yes,’ Teddy corrected himself. ‘A fine boy.’

Estella reached a plump hand across the table, rested it limply on Mr Frederick’s wrist. ‘I don’t know how you bear it, Frederick. I can’t think what I’d do if I lost my Teddy. I thank God every day he decided to fight the war from home. He and his political friends.’

Her helpless gaze flitted to her husband who had the decency to look at least a little discomfited. ‘We’re in their debt,’ he said. ‘Young men like your David made the ultimate sacrifice. It’s up to us to prove they didn’t die in vain. To thrive in business and return this great land to her rightful standing.’

Mr Frederick’s pale eyes fixed on Simion and for the first time I perceived a flicker of distaste. ‘Indeed.’

I loaded the plates into the dumb waiter and pulled the rope to send them down, then leaned into the cavity, listening to see whether Alfred’s voice was amongst the distant strains below. Hoping he was back from wherever it was he’d run to in such a hurry. Through the shaft came the distant jiggling of removal, the drone of Katie and reprimand of Mrs Townsend. Finally, with a jerk, the ropes began to move and the dumb waiter returned, loaded with fruit, blancmange and butterscotch sauce, sans cork.

Conversation had remained on business. I was surprised. According to Myra, ‘shop talk’ was always off limits at table, reserved for the men, if they must, to discuss after dinner. Simion, however, was not one to loosen his grip on a topic he wished to pursue.

‘Business today,’ he said, straightening authoritatively, ‘is all about economies of scale. The more you produce, the more you can afford to produce.’

Mr Frederick nodded. If the flouting of convention disturbed him, it was quickly overshadowed by his habitual eagerness to discuss his factory. ‘I’ve got some fine workers. Indeed, they’re fine men. If we train the others-’

‘Waste of time. Waste of money.’ Simion thumped an open hand on the table with a vehemence that made me jump, almost spilling the butterscotch sauce I was ladling into his bowl. ‘Motorisation! That’s the way of the future.’

‘Assembly lines?’

Simion winked. ‘Speed up the slow men, slow down the fast.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t sell enough to warrant assembly lines,’ Mr Frederick said. ‘There are only so many people in Britain can afford my cars.’

‘Precisely my point,’ Simion said. Enthusiasm and liquor had combined to bring a crimson sheen to his face. ‘Assembly lines lower prices. You’ll sell more.’

‘Assembly lines won’t lower the price of parts,’ Mr Frederick said.

‘Use different parts.’

‘I use the best.’

Mr Luxton erupted into a fit of laughter from which it seemed he wouldn’t emerge. ‘I like you, Frederick,’ he said finally. ‘You’re an idealist. A perfectionist.’ The latter was spoken with the exultant self-gratification of a foreigner who had correctly plucked an unfamiliar word from memory. ‘But Frederick,’ he leaned forward seriously, elbows on the table, and pointed a fat finger at his host, ‘do you want to make cars, or do you want to make money?’

Mr Frederick blinked. ‘I’m not sure I-’

‘I believe my father is suggesting you have a choice,’ came Teddy’s measured interruption. He had heretofore been following the exchange with reserved interest but now said, almost apologetically, ‘There are two markets for your automobiles. The discerning few who can afford the best-’

‘Or the seething sprawl of aspirational middle-class consumers out there,’ Simion broke in. ‘Your factory; your decision. We’re just a minority interest.’ He leaned back, loosened a button on his dinner jacket, exhaled gladly. ‘But I know which I’d be aiming for.’

‘The middle class,’ Mr Frederick said, frowning faintly, as if realising for the first time that such a group existed outside doctrines of social theory.

‘The middle class,’ Simion said. ‘They’re untapped, and God help us their ranks are growing. If we don’t find ways to take their money from them, they’ll find ways to take ours from us.’ He shook his head. ‘As if the workers weren’t problem enough.’

Frederick frowned, unsure.

‘Unions,’ Simion said with a snarl. ‘Murderers of business. They won’t rest until they’ve seized the means of production and put us all out of action. Especially small businesses like yours.’

‘Father paints a vivid picture,’ Teddy said with a diffident smile.

‘I call things as I see them,’ Simion said.

‘And you?’ Frederick said to Teddy. ‘You don’t see unions as a threat?’

‘I believe they can be accommodated.’

‘Rubbish.’ Simion rolled a swig of dessert wine round his mouth, swallowed. ‘Teddy’s a moderate,’ he said dismissively.

‘Father please, I’m a Tory-’

‘With funny ideas.’

‘I merely propose we listen to all sides-’

‘He’ll learn in time,’ said Simion, shaking his head at Mr Frederick. ‘Once he’s had his fingers bitten by those he’s fool enough to feed.’

He set down his glass and resumed the lecture. ‘I don’t think you realise how vulnerable you are, Frederick. If something unforeseen should happen. I was talking with Ford the other day, Henry Ford-’ He broke off, whether for ethical or oratorical reasons, I couldn’t tell, and motioned me to bring an ashtray. ‘Let’s just say, in this economic climate you need to steer your business into profitable waters. And fast.’ His eyes flickered. ‘Now I know you say you don’t want to sell me a larger share, but if things should go the way of Russia-and there are certain indications-only a healthy profit margin will protect you.’ He took a cigar from the silver box offered him by Mr Hamilton. ‘And you’ve got to have yourself protected, don’t you? You and your lovely girls. If you don’t look after them, who will?’ He smiled at Hannah and Emmeline then added, as if an afterthought, ‘Not to mention this grand house of yours. How long did you say it had been in the family?’

‘I didn’t,’ Mr Frederick said, and if his voice contained a note of misgiving, he managed quickly to dissolve it. ‘Three hundred years.’

‘Well,’ Estella purred on cue, ‘isn’t that something? I adore the history in England. You old families are so intriguing. It’s one of my favourite pastimes, reading about you all.’

Intriguing. Like a painting, I thought. Or a dusty old book. Valuable as a curiosity, but without real function.

‘I wonder if we girls might retire to the drawing room while the men continue their talk of business,’ Estella said. ‘You can tell me all about the history of the Ashbury line.’

Hannah coached her expression into one of polite acquiescence, but not before I saw her impatience. She was at the mercy of her warring selves, longing to stay and hear more, yet recognising her duty as hostess to retire the ladies to the drawing room and await the men.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘of course. Though I’m afraid there’s not much we can tell that you won’t find in Debrett.’

The men stood. Simion took Hannah’s hand as Mr Frederick assisted Estella. Simion registered Hannah’s youthful figure, his face unable to conceal its coarse approval. He kissed the top of her hand with wet lips. To her credit she concealed her distaste. She followed Estella and Emmeline to the door and, as she neared the door, her gaze swept sideways and met mine. In an instant, her grown-up façade dissolved as she poked her tongue out at me and rolled her eyes, before disappearing from the room.

As the men retook their seats and resumed their talk of business, Mr Hamilton appeared at my shoulder.

‘You may go now, Grace,’ he whispered. ‘Myra and I will finish up here.’ He looked at me. ‘And do find Alfred. We can’t have one of the Master’s guests look out the window and see a servant roaming the grounds.’

Standing on the stone platform at the top of the rear stairs, I scanned the dark beyond. The moon cast a white glow, painting the grass silver and making skeletons of the briars that clung to the arbour. The scattered rosebushes, glorious by day, revealed themselves by night an awkward collection of lonely, bony old ladies.

Finally, on the far stone staircase, I saw a dark shape that couldn’t be accounted for by any of the garden’s vegetation.

I steeled myself and slipped into the night.

With each step, the wind blew colder, meaner.

I reached the top step and stood for a moment beside him, but Alfred gave no sign that he was aware of my presence.

‘Mr Hamilton sent me,’ I said cautiously. ‘You needn’t think I’m following you.’

There was no answer.

‘And you needn’t ignore me. If you don’t want to come in just tell me and I’ll go.’

He continued to gaze into the tall trees of the Long Walk.

‘Alfred!’ My voice cracked with the cold.

‘You all think I’m the same Alfred as went away,’ he said softly. ‘Folks seem to recognise me so I must look close enough to the same, but in every other respect I am a different chap, Gracie.’

I was taken aback. I had been prepared for another attack, angry entreaties to leave him alone. His voice dropped to a whisper and I had to crouch right by to hear. His bottom lip trembled, whether from the cold or something other, I wasn’t sure. ‘I see them, Grace. Not so bad in the day, but all the night, I see them and I hear them. In the drawing room, the kitchen, the village street. They call my name. But when I turn around… they’re not… they’re all…’

I sat down. The frosty night had turned the grey-stone steps to ice and through my skirt and drawers my legs grew numb.

‘It’s so cold,’ I said. ‘Come inside and I’ll make you a cup of cocoa.’

He gave no acknowledgement, continued to stare into the darkness.

‘Alfred?’ My fingertips brushed his hand and on impulse I spread my fingers over his.

‘Don’t.’ He recoiled as if struck and I knotted my hands together on my lap. My cold cheeks burned as if they’d been slapped.

‘Don’t,’ he whispered.

His eyes were clenched shut and I watched his face, wondered what it was he saw on his blackened eyeballs that made them race so frantically beneath his moon-bleached lids.

Then he turned to face me and I drew breath. It was a trick of the night, surely, but his eyes were as none I had ever looked into. Deep, dark holes that were somehow empty. He stared at me with his unseeing eyes and it seemed that he looked for something. An answer to a question he had not asked. His voice was low. ‘I thought that once I got back…’ His words floated into the night unfinished. ‘I so wanted to see you… The doctors said if I kept busy…’ There was a tight sound in his throat. A click.

The armour of his face collapsed, crumbled like a paper bag, and he began to cry. Both hands leapt to his face in a futile attempt at obfuscation. ‘No, oh no… Don’t look… please Gracie, please…’ He cried into his hands. ‘I’m such a coward-’

‘You’re not a coward,’ I said firmly.

‘Why can’t I get it out of my head? I just want it out of my head.’ He hit his palms against his temples with a ferocity that alarmed me.

‘Alfred! Stop it.’ I tried to grab his hands but he wouldn’t let them leave his face. I waited; watching as his body shook, cursing my ineptitude. Finally, he seemed to calm some. ‘Tell me what it is you see,’ I said.

He turned to me but he did not speak, and I glimpsed for a moment how I must appear to him. The yawning gulf between his experience and mine. And I knew then that there would be no telling me what he saw. I understood somehow that certain images, certain sounds, could not be shared and could not be lost. Would play out on the one man’s mind until, little by little, they recessed deeper into the folds of memory and could, for a time, be forgotten.

So I didn’t ask again. I laid my hand on the far side of his face and gently guided his head to my shoulder. Sat very still as his body shuddered next to mine.

And like that, together, we sat on the stair.

A SUITABLE HUSBAND

Hannah and Teddy were married on the first Saturday of March, 1919. It was a pretty wedding at the little church on the Riverton estate. The Luxtons would have preferred London so that more of the very important people they knew from business could have come, but Mr Frederick was insistent and he’d suffered so many blows in the months preceding that no one had much spirit for arguing. So it was. She was married from the small church in the valley, just as her grandparents and her parents had been before her.

It rained-many children, said Mrs Townsend; weeping past lovers, whispered Myra-and the wedding photographs were stained with black umbrellas. Later, when Hannah and Teddy were living in the townhouse in Grosvenor Square, a photograph sat upon the morning-room writing desk. The six of them in a line: Hannah and Teddy at centre, Simion and Estella beaming on one side, Mr Frederick and Emmeline blank-faced on the other.

You are surprised. For how could such a thing have come to pass? Hannah was so set against marriage, so full of other ambitions. And Teddy: sensible, kindly even, but certainly not the man to sweep a young woman like Hannah off her feet…

But it was not so complicated really. Such things rarely are. It was a simple case of stars aligning. Those that didn’t being nudged into place.

The morning after the dinner party, the Luxtons left for London. They had business engagements, and we all presumed-if indeed we gave it any thought at all-that it was the last we would ever see of them.

Our focus, you see, had shifted already to the next grand event. For over the coming week, a cluster of indomitable women descended upon Riverton, charged with the weighty duty of overseeing Hannah’s entrance into society. January was the zenith of country balls and the mortification of leaving things too late, being forced to share the date with another, larger ball, was unthinkable. Thus, the date had been picked-20 January-and invitations long since sent.

One morning in the early new year, I served tea to Lady Clementine and the Dowager Lady Ashbury. They were in the drawing room, side by side on the lounge, diaries open on their laps.

‘Fifty ought to do well,’ Lady Violet said. ‘There’s nothing worse than a thin dance.’

‘Except a crowded one,’ Lady Clementine said with distaste. ‘Not that it’s a problem these days.’

Lady Violet surveyed her guest list, a thread of dissatisfaction pulling her lips to pout. ‘My dear,’ she said, ‘whatever are we to do about the shortages?’

‘Mrs Townsend will rise to the occasion,’ Lady Clementine said. ‘She always does.’

‘Not the food, Clem, the men. Wherever shall we find more men?’

Lady Clementine leaned to observe the guest list. She shook her head crossly. ‘It’s an absolute crime. That’s what it is. A dreadful inconvenience. England’s best seed left to rot on godforsaken French fields, while her young ladies are left high and dry, nary a dance partner between them. It’s a plot, I tell you. A German plot.’ Her eyes widened at the possibility. ‘To prevent England’s elite from breeding!’

‘But surely you know someone we could ask, Clem? You’ve proven yourself quite the matchmaker.’

‘I counted myself lucky to find that fool of Fanny’s,’ Lady Clementine said, rubbing the powdery rolls of neck beneath her chin. ‘It’s a great shame Frederick never took an interest. Things would have been a lot simpler. Instead, I had to scrape the barrel’s bottom.’

‘My granddaughter is not to have a husband from the barrel’s bottom,’ Lady Violet said. ‘This family’s future depends upon her match.’ She gave a distressed sigh which became a cough, shuddering through her thin frame.

‘Hannah will do better than poor simple Fanny,’ Lady Clementine said assuredly. ‘Unlike my charge, your granddaughter is blessed with wit, beauty and charm.’

‘And no inclination to use them,’ Lady Violet said. ‘Frederick has indulged those children. They’ve known too much freedom and not enough instruction. Hannah in particular. That girl is full of outrageous notions of independence.’

‘Independence…’ Lady Clementine said with distaste.

‘Oh, she’s in no hurry to be married. Told me as much when she was in London.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Looked me straight in the eyes, maddeningly courteous, and told me she didn’t mind a bit if it was too much trouble to launch her into society.’

‘Impudence!’

‘She said a ball would likely be wasted on her as she had no intention of going into society even when she was of an age. She said she finds society…’ Lady Violet closed her eyes. ‘She finds society dull and pointless.’

Lady Clementine gasped. ‘She didn’t.’

‘She did.’

‘But what does she propose to do instead? Stay here in her father’s home and become an old maid?’

That there could be another option was beyond their ability to conceive. Lady Violet shook her head, despair bringing a sag to her shoulders.

Lady Clementine, perceiving that some amelioration of spirits was called for, straightened and patted Violet’s hand. ‘There, there,’ she said. ‘Your granddaughter is still young, Violet dear. There’s plenty of time for her to change her mind.’ She tilted her head to the side. ‘I seem to remember you had a touch of the free spirit at her age. You grew out of it. Hannah will too.’

‘She must,’ Lady Violet said gravely.

Lady Clementine caught the whiff of desperation. ‘There’s no particular reason she need make a match so soon…’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Is there?’

Lady Violet sighed.

‘There is!’ Lady Clementine said, eyes widening.

‘It’s Frederick. His confounded motor cars. The lawyers sent me a letter this week. He’s borrowed more money.’

‘Without discussion?’ Lady Clementine said hungrily. ‘Dear, dear.’

‘I dare say he knew better than to ask,’ Lady Violet said. ‘He knows how I feel. These are uncertain times. I’m afeared he’s going to mortgage all our futures for the sake of his factory. He’s already sold the residence in Yorkshire to pay the death duties on his inheritance.’

Lady Clementine tut-tutted.

‘Would that he’d sold that factory instead. It’s not like he hasn’t had offers, you know. That business partner of his, Mr Luxton, is keen to increase his share. Talk of independent notions: Frederick’s worse than Hannah. He doesn’t seem to realise the duties of his position.’ Lady Violet shook her head. Sighed. ‘I can hardly blame him. The position was never meant to be his.’ Then came the familiar lament. ‘If only James were here.’

‘Now, now,’ Lady Clem said. ‘Frederick’s sure to make a success of it. Motor cars are quite the thing these days. Every man and his dog is out driving them. I was almost flattened the other day as I crossed the road outside Kensington Place.’

‘Clem-! Were you injured?’

‘Not this time,’ Lady Clementine said matter-of-factly. ‘I’m sure I won’t be so fortunate the next.’ She raised one eyebrow. ‘A most gruesome death, I can assure you. I spoke to Dr Carmichael at great length regarding the types of injuries one might sustain.’

‘Terrible,’ Lady Violet said, shaking her head distractedly. She sighed. ‘I wouldn’t mind so much about Hannah if Frederick would only marry again.’

‘Is it likely?’ Lady Clementine said.

‘Hardly. As you know, he’s shown little interest in taking another wife. He didn’t show nearly enough interest in his first wife if you ask me. He was far too busy with-’ She glanced at me and I busied myself straightening the tea cloth. ‘With that other despicable business.’ She shook her head and tightened her lips. ‘No. There’ll be no more sons and it’s no use hoping otherwise.’

‘Which leaves us with Hannah.’ Lady Clementine took a sip of tea.

‘Yes.’ Lady Violet sighed irritably and smoothed the lime satin of her skirt. ‘I’m sorry Clem. It’s this cold I’ve got. It’s put me in quite a mood.’ She shook her head. ‘I just can’t seem to shake the ill feeling I’ve been carrying of late. I’m not a superstitious person-you know that-but I’ve the oddest sense…’ She glanced at Lady Clementine. ‘You’ll laugh, but I’ve the oddest sense of impending doom.’

‘Oh?’ It was Lady Clementine’s favourite subject.

‘It’s nothing specific. Just a feeling.’ She gathered her shawl about her shoulders and I noticed how frail she had become. ‘Nonetheless, I will not sit back and watch this family disintegrate. I will see Hannah engaged-and engaged well-if it’s the last thing I do. Preferably before I accompany Jemima to America.’

‘New York. I’d forgotten you were going. Good of Jemima’s brother to take them.’

‘Yes,’ Lady Violet said. ‘Though I shall miss them. Little Gytha is so like James.’

‘I’ve never been much for babies,’ Lady Clementine sniffed. ‘All that mewling and puking.’ She shuddered so that her second and third chins quivered, then smoothed her diary page and tapped a pen on its blank surface. ‘How long does that leave us then, to find a suitable husband?’

‘One month. We sail on the fourth of February.’

Lady Clementine wrote the date on her journal page then sat up with a start. ‘Oh…! Oh, Violet. I’ve had rather a good idea,’ she said. ‘You say Hannah’s determined to be independent?’

The word itself brought a flutter to Lady Violet’s eyelids. ‘Yes.’

‘So if someone were to give her a little kindly instruction…? Make her see marriage as the way to independence…?’

‘She’s as stubborn as her father,’ Lady Violet said. ‘I’m afraid she wouldn’t listen.’

‘Not to you or me, perhaps. But I know someone to whom she might.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Yes… With a little coaching even she should be able to manage this.’

Some days later, her husband happily ensconced in a tour of Mr Frederick’s garage, Fanny joined Hannah and Emmeline in the burgundy room. Emmeline, swept up in the excitement of the upcoming ball, had persuaded Fanny to help her practise dancing. A waltz was playing on the gramophone and the two were triple-stepping about the room, laughing and teasing as they went. I had to be careful to avoid them while I dusted and made up the rooms.

Hannah sat at the writing desk scribbling in her notebook, oblivious to the merriment behind her. After dinner with the Luxtons, when it had become clear that her dreams of finding work were contingent on fraternal permission that wouldn’t be forthcoming, she had entered a state of quiet preoccupation. While the currents of ball preparation swirled excitedly about her, she remained outside its flow.

After a week of brooding, she entered an opposing phase. She returned to her shorthand practice, translating furiously from whichever book was close to hand, obscuring her work cagily if someone should come close enough to notice. These periods of occupation, too fierce to be sustained, were always followed by a relapse into apathy. She would toss her pen aside, push her books away with a sigh, and sit inert, waiting until such time as a meal might be served, a letter arrive, or it was time again to dress.

Of course, her mind, as she sat, was not immobile. She looked as though she were trying to solve the conundrum of her life. She longed for independence and adventure, yet she was a prisoner-a comfortable, well-tended prisoner, but a prisoner nonetheless. Independence required money. Her father hadn’t money to give her and she wasn’t permitted to work.

Why didn’t she defy his wishes? Leave home, run away, join a travelling circus? Quite simply, there were rules and rules were followed. Ten years later-even two years later-things had changed. Conventions had collapsed beneath the weight of dancing feet. But at that time she was trapped. And so she sat, like Andersen’s nightingale, locked in her gilded cage, too listless to sing. Gripped by a cloud of ennui until the next tide of feverish activity should come to claim her.

That morning, in the burgundy room, she was a victim of the latter. She sat at the writing desk, back turned to Fanny and Emmeline, translating the Encyclopaedia Britannica into shorthand. So concentrated was she on the task that she didn’t so much as flinch when Fanny shrieked, ‘Ow! You elephant!’

Fanny limped to the armchair as Emmeline collapsed with laughter onto the chaise. She slipped off her shoe and leaned to inspect her stockinged toe. ‘I dare say it’s going to swell,’ she said petulantly.

Emmeline continued to laugh.

‘I probably won’t be able to fit into any of my prettiest shoes for the ball!’

Each protest only served to plunge Emmeline into deeper glee.

‘Well,’ Fanny said indignantly. ‘You’ve ruined my toe. The least you could do is apologise.’

Emmeline tried to arrest her amusement. ‘I… I’m sorry,’ she said. She bit her lip, laughter threatening again. ‘But it’s hardly my fault that you continue to put your feet in the way of mine. Perhaps if they weren’t so big…’ And she collapsed again.

‘I’ll have you know,’ Fanny said, chin trembling with pique, ‘that Mr Collier at Harrods says I have beautiful feet.’

‘He would. He probably charges twice as much to make your shoes as he does for other ladies.’

‘Oh…! You ungrateful little-’

‘Come on, Fanny,’ Emmeline said, sobering. ‘I’m only joking. Of course I’m sorry to have stepped on your toe.’

Fanny humphed.

‘Let’s try the waltz again. I promise to pay better attention this time.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Fanny said, pouting. ‘I need to rest my toe. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s broken.’

‘Surely it’s not as serious as that. I barely trod on it. Here. Let me take a look.’

Fanny curled her leg beneath her on the sofa, obscuring the foot from Emmeline’s view. ‘I think you’ve done more than enough already.’

Emmeline drummed her fingers on the chair’s arm. ‘Well how am I to practise my dance steps?’

‘You needn’t bother; Great Uncle Bernard’s too blind to notice, and second-cousin Jeremy will be too busy boring you with interminable talk of war to care.’

‘Pooh. I don’t intend to dance with the great-uncles,’ Emmeline said.

‘I’m afraid you’ll have little choice,’ said Fanny.

Emmeline raised her eyebrows smugly. ‘We’ll see.’

‘Why?’ Fanny said, eyebrows narrowing. ‘What do you mean?’

Emmeline smiled broadly. ‘Grandmamma’s convinced Pa to invite Theodore Luxton-’

‘Theodore Luxton?’ Fanny flushed. ‘Coming here?’

‘Isn’t it thrilling?’ Emmeline clutched Fanny’s hands. ‘Pa didn’t think it was proper to invite business acquaintances to Hannah’s ball, but Grandmamma insisted.’

‘My,’ said Fanny, pink and flustered. ‘That is exciting. Some sophisticated company for a change.’ She giggled, patted each warm cheek in turn. ‘Theodore Luxton indeed.’

‘Now you see why I have to learn to dance.’

‘You should have thought of that before you crushed my foot.’

Emmeline frowned. ‘If only Pa had let us take proper lessons. No one will dance with me if I can’t do the right steps.’

Fanny’s lips thinned into an almost-smile. ‘You’re certainly not blessed as a dancer, Emmeline,’ she said. ‘But you needn’t worry. You won’t want for partners at the ball.’

‘Oh?’ Emmeline said, with the ersatz artlessness of one accustomed to compliments.

Fanny rubbed her stockinged toe. ‘All the gentlemen present are expected to ask the daughters of the house to dance. Even the elephants.’

Emmeline scowled.

Buoyed by her small victory, Fanny continued. ‘I remember my coming-out dance like it was yesterday,’ she said, with the fond nostalgia of a woman twice her age.

‘I suppose with your grace and charm,’ Emmeline said, rolling her eyes, ‘you had more than your fair share of handsome young gentlemen lined up to dance with you.’

‘Hardly. I’d never seen so many old men waiting to step on my toes so they could return to their old wives and catch some sleep. I was ever so disappointed. All the best men were busy with the war. Thank goodness Godfrey’s bronchitis kept him out else we might never have met.’

‘Was it love at first sight?’

Fanny screwed up her nose. ‘Certainly not! Godfrey took violently ill and spent most of the night in the bathroom. We only danced once that I remember. It was the quenelle; he became greener and greener with each turn until midway through he took his leave and disappeared. I was really rather cross at the time. I was completely stranded and very embarrassed. I didn’t see him again for months. Even then it took us a year before we were married.’ She sighed and shook her head. ‘The longest year of my life.’

‘Why?’

Fanny considered this. ‘Somehow I imagined that after my coming-out dance life would be different.’

‘Wasn’t it?’ Emmeline said.

‘Yes, but not the way I thought. It was dreadful. Officially I was grown up, yet I was still unable to go anywhere or do anything without Lady Clementine or some other dusty old lady minding my business. I was never so happy in all my life as when Godfrey proposed. It was the answer to my prayers.’

Emmeline, having difficulty figuring Godfrey Vickers-bloated, balding and habitually unwell-as the answer to anybody’s prayers, wrinkled her nose. ‘Really?’

Fanny looked pointedly at Hannah’s back. ‘People treat one differently when one’s married. I only have to be introduced as “Mrs” Vickers and people realise I’m not a silly girl, but a married woman capable of adult considerations.’

Hannah, apparently unmoved, continued her fierce translation.

‘Have I told you about my honeymoon?’ Fanny said, returning her attention to Emmeline.

‘Only a thousand times.’

Fanny was undeterred. ‘Florence is the most romantic foreign city I’ve ever seen.’

‘It’s the only foreign city you’ve seen.’

‘Every evening, after we dined, Godfrey and I strolled along the River Arno. He bought me the most beautiful necklace at a quaint little shop on the Ponte Vecchio. I felt quite a different person in Italy. Transformed. One day we climbed the Forte di Belvedere and looked out all over Tuscany. It was so beautiful, I could have wept. And the art galleries! There was simply too much to see. Godfrey’s promised to take me back again as soon as we can.’ Her eyes flickered toward the desk, where Hannah continued to write. ‘And the people one meets when travelling; quite fascinating really. One fellow on the boat over was en route to Cairo. You’ll never guess what he was going to do there. Dig for buried treasures! I couldn’t quite believe it when he told us. Apparently the ancients used to be buried with their jewels. I can’t think why. Seems an awful waste. Dr Humphreys said it was something to do with religion. He told us the most exciting stories, even invited us to visit the dig if we found ourselves out that way!’ Hannah had stopped writing. Fanny stifled a small smile of accomplishment. ‘Godfrey was a little suspicious-thought the fellow was pulling our legs-but I found him awfully interesting.’

‘Was he handsome?’ Emmeline said.

‘Oh yes,’ Fanny gushed, ‘he…’ She stopped, remembered herself and returned to the script. ‘I’ve had more excitement in the two months I’ve been married than in the rest of my life.’ She eyed Hannah beneath her eyelashes and delivered the trump card. ‘It’s funny. Before I was married, I used to imagine that having a husband one would lose oneself. Now I find it’s quite the opposite. I’ve never felt so… so independent. One is attributed with so much more sense. No one blinks if I determine to take myself out for a walk. Indeed, I’ll probably be asked to chaperone you and Hannah until such time as you are married yourselves.’ She sniffed imperiously. ‘You’re lucky to have someone like me, instead of being saddled with someone old and dull.’

Emmeline raised her eyebrows but Fanny did not see. She was watching Hannah, whose pen now lay by her book.

Fanny’s eyes flickered with self-satisfaction. ‘Well,’ she said, easing her shoe over her injured toe, ‘much as I’ve enjoyed your spirited company, I’ll take my leave. My husband will be back from his walk by now and I find myself thirsting for some… adult conversation.’

She smiled sweetly and left the room, head high. The posture was undermined somewhat by a slight limp.

While Emmeline started another record and triple-stepped herself around the room, Hannah remained at the desk, back still turned. Her hands were clasped, forming a bridge on which her chin rested, and she was staring out the windows across the never-ending fields. As I dusted the cornice behind her, I could see by the glass’s faint reflection that she was in deep thought.

The following week the house party arrived. As was custom, its members set about immediately enjoying the activities their hosts had undertaken to provide. Some rambled across the estate, others played bridge in the library, and the more energetic took to fencing in the gymnasium.

After her herculean effort of organisation, Lady Violet’s health took a sudden turn for the worse and she was confined to bed. Lady Clementine sought company elsewhere. Lured by the glinting and grating blades, she took up bulky occupation in a leather armchair in view of the fencing. When I served afternoon tea she was engaged in a cosy tête-à-tête with Simion Luxton.

‘Your son fences well,’ Lady Clementine said, indicating one of the masked swordsmen. ‘For an American.’

‘He may talk like an American, Lady Clementine, but I assure you, he’s an Englishman through and through.’

‘Indeed,’ Lady Clementine said.

‘He fences like an Englishman,’ Simion said vociferously. ‘Deceptively simple. Same style that’ll see him into Parliament in the coming elections.’

‘I did hear of his nomination,’ Lady Clementine said. ‘You must be very pleased.’

Simion was even more puffed up than usual. ‘My son has an excellent future.’

‘Certainly he represents almost everything we conservatives look for in a parliamentarian. At my most recent Conservative Women’s tea, we were discussing the lack of good, solid men to manage the likes of Lloyd George.’ Her gaze of appraisal returned to Teddy. ‘Your son may be just the thing, and I’ll be more than happy to endorse him if I find him so.’ She took a sip of tea. ‘Of course, there is the small matter of his wife.’

‘No matter there,’ Simion said dismissively. ‘Teddy doesn’t have a wife.’

‘Precisely my point, Mr Luxton.’

Simion frowned.

‘Some of the other ladies are not so liberal as I,’ Lady Clementine said. ‘They see it as a mark of weak character. Family values are so important to us. A man of certain years without a wife… people start to wonder.’

‘He just hasn’t met the right girl.’

‘Of course, Mr Luxton. You and I both know that. But the other ladies… They look at your son and see a fine good-looking fellow with so much to offer, yet left wanting a wife. You can’t blame them that they start to wonder why. Start to wonder whether perhaps he hasn’t an eye for the ladies?’ She raised her eyebrows pointedly.

Simion’s cheeks turned red. ‘My son is not… No Luxton man has ever been accused of…’

‘Of course not, Mr Luxton,’ Lady Clementine said smoothly, ‘and these are not my opinions, you understand. I’m just passing on the thoughts of some of our ladies. They like to know a man is a man. Not an aesthete.’ She smiled thinly and repositioned her spectacles. ‘Whatever the case, it’s a small matter and there’s plenty of time. He’s still young. Twenty-five, is he?’

‘Thirty-one,’ Simion said.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Not so young then. Never matter.’ Lady Clementine knew when to let silence speak for her. She returned her attention to the jousting.

‘You may rest assured, Lady Clementine. There’s nothing wrong with Teddy,’ said Simion. ‘He’s very popular with the ladies. He’ll have his pick of brides when he’s ready.’

‘Glad to hear it, Mr Luxton.’ Lady Clementine continued to watch the fencing. She took a sip of tea. ‘I just hope for his sake that time comes soon. And that he chooses the right sort of girl.’

Simion raised a querying brow.

‘We English are a nationalistic lot. Your son has much to recommend him, but some people, particularly in the Conservative Party, may think him a little new. I do hope when he takes a wife she brings more to the marriage than her honourable self.’

‘What could be more important than a bride’s honour, Lady Clementine?’

‘Her name, her family, her breeding.’ Lady Clementine looked on as Teddy’s opponent landed a strike and won the match. ‘Overlooked as they may be in the new world, here in England these things are very important.’

‘Alongside the girl’s purity, of course,’ said Simion.

‘Of course.’

‘And deference.’

‘Certainly,’ said Lady Clementine with less conviction.

‘None of these modern women for my son, Lady Clementine,’ said Simion, licking his lips. ‘We Luxton men like our ladies to know who’s boss.’

‘I understand, Mr Luxton,’ said Lady Clementine.

Simion applauded the close of game. ‘If only one knew where to find such a suitable young lady.’

Lady Clementine kept her eyes on the court. ‘Don’t you find, Mr Luxton, that often the very things one seeks can be found right under one’s own nose?’

‘I do, Lady Clementine,’ said Simion with a close-lipped smile. ‘I most certainly do.’

I wasn’t required at dinner and saw neither Teddy nor his father for the rest of Friday. Myra reported that the two were engaged in heated discussion in the upstairs corridor late Friday night; however, if indeed they argued, by Saturday morning Teddy was his usual cheery self.

When I came to check the drawing-room fire, he sat in the armchair reading the morning newspaper, concealing his amusement as Lady Clementine bemoaned the floral arrangements. They had just arrived from Braintree, resplendent with roses where Lady Clementine had been promised dahlias. She was not happy.

‘You,’ she said to me, flicking a rose stem, ‘find Miss Hartford. She’ll need to see them for herself.’

‘I believe Miss Hartford is preparing to take her horse out this morning, Lady Clementine,’ I said.

‘I don’t care if she’s planning on riding in the Grand National. The arrangements need her attention.’

Thus, while the other young ladies ate breakfast in bed, pondering the night ahead, Hannah was summoned to the drawing room. I had helped her into her riding costume half an hour earlier, and she had the look of a cornered fox, anxious to escape. While Lady Clementine raged, Hannah, with little opinion as to whether dahlias were preferable to roses, could only nod in bemusement and sneak occasional, longing glances at the ship’s clock.

‘But whatever will we do?’ Lady Clementine reached her argument’s end. ‘It’s too late to order more.’

Hannah rubbed her lips together, blinked herself back into the moment. ‘I suppose we shall have to make do with what we have,’ she said with mock fortitude.

‘But can you bear it?’

Hannah feigned resignation. ‘If I must, I shall.’ She waited a requisite few seconds and said, brightly, ‘Now, if that’s all-’

‘Come on upstairs,’ Lady Clementine interrupted. ‘I’ll show you how dreadful they look in the ballroom. You won’t believe…’

As Lady Clementine continued to deride the rose arrangements, Hannah withered on the spot. The mere suggestion of further floral debate brought a glaze to her eyes.

In the armchair, Teddy cleared his throat, folded the paper and placed it on the table beside him. ‘It’s such a lovely winter’s day,’ he said to nobody in particular. ‘I’ve a good mind to take a ride. See more of the estate.’

Lady Clementine drew breath mid-sentence and the light of higher purpose seemed to flicker in her eyes. ‘A ride,’ she said without missing a beat. ‘What a lovely idea, Mr Luxton. Hannah, isn’t that a lovely idea?’

Hannah looked up with surprise as Teddy smiled conspiratorially at her. ‘You’re welcome to join me.’

Before she could answer, Lady Clementine said, ‘Yes… splendid. We’d be happy to join you, Mr Luxton. If you don’t mind of course?’

Teddy didn’t miss a beat. ‘I’d count myself lucky to have two such lovely tour guides.’

Lady Clementine turned to me, her expression one of trepidation. ‘You, girl, have Mrs Townsend send up a packed tea.’ She turned back to Teddy and said, through a thin-lipped smile, ‘I do so love to ride.’

They made an odd procession as they set off for the stables, even odder, Dudley said, once all were on horseback. He had fallen about laughing, he said, watching as they disappeared across the west glade, Lady Clementine paired with Mr Frederick’s ancient mare whose girth exceeded even her rider’s.

They were gone two hours, and when they returned for lunch Teddy was soaking wet, Hannah was awfully quiet and Lady Clementine as smug as a cat with a bowl of cream. What happened on their ride, Hannah told me herself, though not for many months.

From the stable they crossed the west glade then followed the river, walking the horses beneath the row of mighty beeches that lined the reedy bank. The meadows either side of the river wore stark winter coats and there was no sign of the deer that spent the summer grazing on them.

They rode for some way in silence: Hannah up front, Teddy close behind and Lady Clementine bringing up the rear. Wintry twigs snapped under the horses’ feet, the river tripped and burbled on its way to join the Thames, and a distant cyclist pedalled toward the village, spokes whizzing.

Finally, Teddy brought his horse up beside Hannah and said, in a jolly voice, ‘It’s certainly a pleasure to be here, Miss Hartford. I must thank you for your kind invitation.’

Hannah, who had been enjoying the silence, said, ‘It’s my grandmother you’ll have to thank, Mr Luxton. For I had little to do with the whole affair.’

‘Ah…’ Teddy said. ‘I see. I shall have to remember to thank her.’

Pitying Teddy, who, after all, had just been making conversation, Hannah said, ‘What is it you do for a living, Mr Luxton?’

He was quick to answer, relieved perhaps. ‘I’m a collector.’

‘What do you collect?’

‘Objects of beauty.’

‘I thought perhaps you worked with your father.’

Teddy shrugged away a birch leaf that had fallen onto his shoulder. ‘My father and I do not see eye to eye on matters of business, Miss Hartford,’ he said. ‘He sees little of worth in anything not directly related to the gathering of wealth.’

‘And you, Mr Luxton?’

‘I seek wealth of a different sort. A wealth of new experiences. The century is young and so am I. There are too many things to see and do to become bogged down in business.’

Hannah looked at him. ‘Pa said that you were entering politics. Surely that will curtail your plans?’

He shook his head. ‘Politics gives me more reason to broaden my horizons. The best leaders are those who bring perspective to their position, wouldn’t you say?’

They rode on for some time, all the way to the back meadows, stopping every so often that the stragglers might catch up. When finally they reached a clearing, Lady Clementine and her mare were equally relieved to rest their beaten flanks. Teddy helped her to the ground and set out the picnic blanket and travel seats while Hannah arranged the tea.

When they had finished the cucumber sandwiches and sponge fingers, Hannah said, ‘I think I shall take a walk to the bridge.’

‘Bridge?’ Teddy said.

‘Over there beyond the trees,’ Hannah said, standing, ‘where the lake thins and joins the stream.’

‘Would you mind company?’ Teddy said.

‘Not at all,’ Hannah said, but she did.

Lady Clementine, torn between her duty as chaperone and her duty to her aching buttocks, said finally, ‘I’ll stay here and mind the horses. Don’t be too long, now. I shall start to worry. There are many dangers in the woods, you know.’

Hannah smiled slightly at Teddy and headed off in the direction of the bridge. Teddy followed, caught her up and walked beside at a polite distance.

‘I am sorry, Mr Luxton, that Lady Clementine has forced our company on you this morning.’

‘Not at all,’ Teddy said. ‘I’ve enjoyed the company.’ He glanced at her. ‘Some more than others.’

Hannah continued to look directly ahead. ‘When I was younger,’ she said quickly, ‘my brother and sister and I would come down to the lake to play. In the boathouse and on the bridge.’ She sneaked a sidelong glance at him. ‘It’s a magical bridge, you know.’

‘A magical bridge?’ Teddy raised an eyebrow.

‘You’ll understand when you see it,’ Hannah said.

‘And what did you used to play on this magical bridge of yours?’

‘We used to take turns running across.’ She looked at him. ‘Sounds simple enough, I know. But this isn’t any ordinary magical bridge. This one’s governed by a particularly nasty and vengeful lake-demon.’

‘Indeed,’ said Teddy, smiling.

‘Most times we would make it across all right, but every so often one of us would wake him.’

‘What would happen then?’

‘Why then there’d be a duel to the death.’ She smiled at him. ‘His death, of course. We were all excellent swordsmen. Luckily he was immortal or there wouldn’t have been much of a game in it.’

They turned the corner and the rickety bridge was before them, perched astride a narrow reach of the stream.

‘There,’ said Hannah breathlessly.

The bridge, which had long ago fallen into disuse, usurped by a larger one closer to town that motor cars could cross, had lost all but a few flakes of paint and was grown over with moss. The reedy river banks sloped gently toward the water’s edge where wild flowers bloomed in summer.

‘I wonder if the lake-demon’s in today,’ said Teddy.

Hannah smiled. ‘Don’t worry. If he shows up, I have his measure.’

‘You’ve waged your share of battles.’

‘Waged and won,’ said Hannah. ‘We used to play down here whenever we could. We didn’t always fight the lake-demon, though. Sometimes we used to write letters. Make them into boats and throw them over,’ Hannah said.

‘Why?’

‘So they would take our wishes to London.’

‘Of course.’ Teddy smiled. ‘To whom did you write?’

Hannah smoothed the grass with her foot. ‘You’ll think it silly.’

‘Try me.’

She looked up at him, bit back a smile. ‘I wrote to Jane Digby. Every time.’

Teddy frowned.

‘You know,’ Hannah said. ‘Lady Jane, who ran away to Arabia, lived a life of exploration and conquest.’

‘Ah,’ Teddy said, memory dawning. ‘The infamous absconder. Whatever did you have to say to her?’

‘I used to ask her to come and rescue me. I offered her my services as a devoted slave on condition that she took me on her next adventure.’

‘But surely, when you were young, she was already-’

‘Dead? Yes. Of course, she was. Long dead. I didn’t know that then.’ Hannah looked sideways at him. ‘Of course, if she’d been alive, the plan would have been foolproof.’

‘Undoubtedly,’ he said with arch seriousness. ‘She’d have come right down and taken you with her to Arabia.’

‘Disguised as a Bedouin sheikh, I always thought.’

‘Your father wouldn’t have minded a bit.’

Hannah laughed. ‘I’m afraid he would. And did.’

Teddy raised an eyebrow. ‘Did?’

‘One of the tenant farmers found a letter once and returned it to Pa. The farmer couldn’t read it himself, but I’d drawn the family crest and he thought it must have been important. I dare say he expected a reward for his efforts.’

‘I’m guessing he didn’t get one.’

‘He certainly did not. Pa was livid. I was never sure whether it was my desire to join such scandalous company or the impertinence of my letter that he objected to more. I suspect his main concern was that Grandmamma might find out. She always thought me an imprudent child.’

‘What some would call imprudent,’ Teddy said, ‘others might call spirited.’ He looked at her seriously. With intent, Hannah thought, though of what kind she wasn’t sure. She felt herself blush and turned away. Her fingers sought animation in the clump of long, thin reeds that grew about the river bank. She pulled one from its shaft and, seized suddenly by a strange energy, ran onto the bridge. She tossed the reed over one side, into the rushing river below, then hurried to the other side to witness its re-emergence.

‘Take my wishes to London,’ she called after it as it disappeared around the bend.

‘What did you wish for?’ Teddy asked.

She smiled at him and leaned forward, and in that moment fate intervened. The clasp of her locket, weak with wear, relinquished its hold on her chain, slipped around her pale neck and dropped below. Hannah felt the loss of weight but realised its cause too late. The next she saw it, the locket was little more than a glimmer disappearing beneath the water’s surface.

She gasped, ran back across the bridge and clambered through the reeds to the river’s edge.

‘What is it?’ Teddy said, bewildered.

‘My locket,’ Hannah said. ‘It slipped…’ She began to unlace her shoes. ‘My brother…’

‘Did you see where it went?’

‘Right out in the middle,’ Hannah said. She began treading through the slippery moss to the water’s edge, the hem of her skirt becoming wet with mud.

‘Wait,’ Teddy said, shaking off his jacket, tossing it onto the river’s bank, and pulling off his boots. Though narrow at that point, the river was deep and he was soon up to his thighs.

Lady Clementine meanwhile had reconsidered her duties and clambered to her feet, stepping gingerly across the uneven ground to find her two young companions. She caught sight of them just as Teddy dived beneath.

‘I say,’ called Lady Clementine. ‘Whatever’s going on? It’s far too cold to swim.’ A glimmer of alarmed excitement coloured her voice. ‘You’ll catch your death.’

Hannah, deaf with panic, did not answer. She ran back atop the bridge, desperately seeking a glimpse of the locket that she could guide Teddy to it.

He rose and dove, and rose and dove, as she scanned the water, and just as she was giving up hope he reappeared, the locket glimmering between his clenched fingers.

Such a fine heroic deed. So unlike Teddy, a man given more to prudence than gallantry, despite his best intentions. Over the years, as the story of their engagement was deployed at social gatherings, it took on a mythical quality, even in Teddy’s accounts. As if he, as much as his smiling guests, was unable quite to believe that it really happened. But happen it did. And at the precise moment, and before the precise person, upon whom it would have the fateful effect.

When she told me of it, Hannah said that as he stood before her, dripping wet, clutching her locket in his large hand, she was suddenly and overwhelmingly conscious of his physicality. His wet skin, the way his shirt clung to his arms, his dark eyes focused triumphantly on hers. She had never felt such a thing before-how could she have, and for whom? She longed for him to grab hold of her, as tightly as he held the locket.

Of course he did nothing of the sort, rather smiled quite proudly then handed her the locket. She took it gratefully and turned away as he began the ungraceful task of layering dry clothes over wet.

But by then the seed was sown.

THE BALL AND AFTER

Hannah’s ball went off without a hitch. The musicians and champagne arrived as ordered, and Dudley transferred all the pot plants from the estate to augment the unsatisfactory floral arrangements. The fires were stoked at each end of the room, making good on the promise of winter warmth.

The room itself was all brilliance and dazzle. Crystal chandeliers glistened, black and white tiles shone, guests sparkled. Clustered in the centre were twenty-five giggling young ladies, self-conscious in their delicate dresses and white kid gloves, self-important in their family’s ancient and elaborate jewels. At their centre was Emmeline. Though at sixteen she was younger than most of the attendees, Lady Clementine had granted her special dispensation to attend, with the understanding she wasn’t to monopolise the marriageable men and ruin the chances of the other girls. A battalion of fur-draped chaperones lined the walls, perched on gold chairs with hot-water bottles under their lap rugs. Veterans were recognisable for the reading and knitting they had sensibly brought to wile away the wee hours.

The men were a rather more motley collection, a home guard of dependable sorts, answering diligently the call to service. The handful who could rightly be labelled ‘young’ comprised a set of rather ruddy Welsh brothers, recruited to the ranks by Lady Violet’s second cousin, and a local lord’s prematurely balding son whose tastes, it soon became clear, did not extend to the feminine. Beside this ham-fisted assembly of provincial gentry, Teddy, with his black hair, film-star’s moustache and American suit, seemed immeasurably suave.

As the smell of crackling fires filled the room and Irish air gave way to Viennese waltz, the old men got down to business squiring the young girls around the room. Some with grace, others with gusto, most with neither. With Lady Violet confined to her bed, fever raging, Lady Clementine took up the mantle of chaperonage and looked on as one of the young Scots with spotty cheeks rushed to request Hannah’s hand.

Teddy, who had also been making his approach, turned his broad, white smile to Emmeline. Her face was radiant as she accepted. Ignoring Lady Clementine’s reproving scowl, she curtseyed, letting her eyelids flicker closed momentarily, before opening them widely-too widely-as she rose to full height. Dance she could not, but the tuition money Mr Frederick had been induced to pay for private curtsey lessons had been well spent. As they took the floor, I noticed the way she held Teddy very close, hung on every word he spoke, laughed too broadly when he joked.

The night swirled on, and dance by dance the room grew hotter. The faint tang of perspiration blended with smoke from a green log, and by the time Mrs Townsend sent me up with the cups of consommé, elegant hairstyles had begun to crumble and cheeks were uniformly flushed. By all accounts, the guests were enjoying themselves, with the notable exception of Fanny’s husband for whom the festivity had been too much, and who had retired to bed citing migraine.

When Myra bid me tell Dudley we’d need more logs, it was a welcome relief to escape the ballroom’s nauseating heat. Along the hall and down the stairs small groups of girls giggled together, whispering over their cups of soup. I took the back door and was halfway along the garden walk when I noticed a lone figure standing in the dark.

It was Hannah, still as a statue, gazing up toward the night sky. Her bare shoulders, pale and fine beneath the moonlight, were indistinguishable from the white slipper satin of her gown, the silk of her draping stole. Her blonde hair, almost silver in that instant, crowned her head, curls escaping to hug the nape of her neck. Her hands encased by white kid gloves were by her side.

But surely she was cold, standing out in the middle of the wintry night with only a silk stole for warmth? She needed a jacket-at the very least a cup of soup. I resolved to fetch her both, but before I could move, another figure appeared from the dark. At first I thought it was Mr Frederick but when he emerged from shadow I saw that it was Teddy. He reached her side and said something I could not hear. She turned. Moonlight stroked her face, caressed lips that were parted in repose.

She shivered lightly and for a moment I thought that Teddy would take off his jacket and drape it around her shoulders the way heroes did in the romantic novels Emmeline liked to read. He did not, rather said something else, something that caused her to look again toward the sky. He reached gently for her hand, hanging lightly by her side, and she stiffened slightly as his fingers grazed her own. He turned her hand so that he could gaze upon her pale forearm then lifted it, ever so slowly, toward his own mouth, bending his head so that his lips met the cool band of skin between her gloves and stole.

She watched his dark head bow to deliver its kiss, but she did not pull her arm away. I could see her chest, rising and falling as her breath quickened.

I shivered then, wondering whether his lips were warm, his moustache prickly.

After a long moment, he stood and looked at her, still holding her hand. He said something to which she nodded slightly.

And then he walked away.

She watched him go. Only when he had disappeared did her free hand move to stroke the other.

In the wee hours of the morning, the ball officially over, I prepared Hannah for bed. Emmeline was already asleep, dreaming of silk and satin and swirling dancers, but Hannah sat silently before the vanity as I removed her gloves, button by button. Her body temperature had loosened them and I was able to remove them with my fingers rather than with the special contraption I had needed to put them on. As I reached the pearls at her wrist, she pulled away her hand and said, ‘I want to tell you something, Grace.’

‘Yes, miss?’

‘I haven’t told anybody else.’ She hesitated, glanced toward the closed door and lowered her voice. ‘You have to promise not to tell. Not Myra, nor Alfred, nor anyone.’

‘I can keep a secret, miss.’

‘Of course you can. You have kept my secrets before.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Mr Luxton has asked me to marry him.’ She glanced at me uncertainly. ‘He says that he’s in love with me.’

I was unsure how to answer. To feign surprise felt disingenuous. Again, I took her hand in mine. This time there was no resistance and I resumed my task. ‘Very good, miss.’

‘Yes,’ she said, chewing the inside of her cheek. ‘I suppose it is.’

Her eyes met mine and I had the distinct feeling I had failed some sort of test. I looked away, slipped the first glove off her hand like a discarded second skin and began on the other. Silently, she watched my fingers. A nerve flickered beneath the skin of her wrist. ‘I haven’t given him an answer yet.’

She continued to look at me, waiting, and still I refused to meet her eyes. ‘Yes, miss,’ I said.

She met her own gaze in the mirror as I slipped off her glove.

‘He says he loves me. Can you imagine that?’ She regarded herself as if for the first time, as if trying to learn her own features for fear that next time she looked they may be changed.

Why didn’t I tell her then, all that I had heard? The machinations leading to what she imagined was a spontaneous declaration? I suppose I didn’t think she was giving serious thought to his proposal. She was flattered by his attentions-that was understandable, he was a handsome and successful man. But marriage? She had made her feelings about marriage clear.

And perhaps I was right. Perhaps at that time she had no intention of accepting. Was merely savouring the thrill of having been chosen. It is hard to say. Whatever the case, it hardly matters. For later that night something happened to change everything.

Just before dawn, far across the plains of England, Frederick’s factory caught fire. It was swift and spectacular and utterly devastating. According to the newspapers, the building was completely destroyed, stripped so that only a shell remained. Mrs Townsend’s cousin who lived on the road to Ipswich, wrote that the motor cars inside were like carcasses, charred black and covered by soot. Her letter said the smell of burning rubber hung about the village long after the last ember stopped glowing.

The fire brigade was called but by the time the engines arrived it was too late. The men could only stand and shake their heads and say what a pity it was, and how unusual for a factory to burn like that in the middle of winter. Not like summer, when the sun made metal hot and all it took was a piece of overheated machinery to ignite the timber frame and send the whole building up. No, an inferno in the middle of winter was damn near unheard of. And then the police were called.

There were whispers in the local village. About Mr Frederick and the troubles he’d been having making payments to his staff. His foreman, Jack Bridges, had waited a month for his last cheque and-as he told Mrs Bridges, who in turn told the ladies of her church group, one of whom was Mrs Townsend’s cousin-if Lord Ashbury hadn’t been such a good man he’d have told him to stick his job, would’ve gone back to working at the steel factory in the next town which had a strong union and where employees were paid above the award.

Of course, none of these details were known to us at Riverton for a week or two. The fire happened on the Sunday and the house party continued through to Monday. The house was full of guests who had come a long way in the middle of winter and were determined to have a good time. Thus, we continued our duties, serving tea, making up rooms and delivering meals.

Mr Frederick, however, had no such compunction to carry on as normal and, while his guests made themselves at home, eating his food, reading his books and tut-tutting about his factory, he remained sequestered in his study. Only when the last car pulled away did he emerge and begin the roaming that was to be habit with him until his last days: noiseless, ghost-like, his facial nerves tightening and knotting with the sums and scenarios that must have tormented him.

The lawyers began to make regular visits and Miss Starling was called from the village to locate official letters from the filing system. There were whisperings about unpaid insurance bills, but Mr Hamilton dismissed them and said we were not to listen to idle gossip. The Master was not the sort to be lax where business was concerned and it was bound to be a mix-up of some kind. Mr Hamilton’s gaze would then be cast in Miss Starling’s direction, hungry for a confirmation that was never forthcoming. Day in, day out she was required in Mr Frederick’s study, emerging hours later, clothes sombre, face wan, to lunch downstairs with us. We were impressed and annoyed in equal measure by the way she kept to herself, never divulging so much as a word of what went on behind the closed door.

Lady Violet, still sick in bed, was to be spared the news. The doctor said there was nothing he could do for her now and if we valued our lives we were to keep away. For it was no ordinary head cold that had her in its grips, but a particularly virulent influenza, said to have come all the way from Spain. It was God’s cruel show of attrition, the doctor mused, that for millions of good people who survived four years of war, death was to be a caller at the dawn of peace.

Faced with the dire state of her friend, Lady Clementine’s ghoulish taste for disaster and death was tempered somewhat, as was her fear. She ignored the doctor’s warning, arranging herself in an armchair next to Lady Violet and chatting blithely of life outside the warm, dark bedroom. She spoke of the ball’s success, the hideous dress worn by Lady Pamela Wroth, and then she declared that she had every reason to believe Hannah would soon be engaged to Mr Theodore Luxton, heir to his family’s massive fortune.

Whether Lady Clementine knew more than she let on, or merely plied her friend with hope in her hour of need, she showed a gift for prophesy. For next morning, the engagement was announced. And when Lady Violet succumbed to her flu, she drifted into death’s arms a happy woman.

There were others for whom the news was not so welcome. From the moment the engagement was announced and dance preparations gave way to wedding plans, Emmeline took to stomping about the house, glowering. That she was jealous was clear. Of whom I wasn’t sure.

One night in February, as I brushed Hannah’s hair, Emmeline stood by the vanity, turning objects over one by one. She placed a small porcelain sparrow back on the surface rather too roughly.

‘Careful,’ Hannah said. ‘You’ll break it.’

Emmeline ignored the admonition and picked up a pearl hairclip, fastened it in her hair. ‘You promised you wouldn’t leave,’ she said, voicing my own feelings.

I felt Hannah tense. The storm had finally come. ‘I said I wouldn’t get a job and I didn’t,’ she said carefully. ‘I never said I wouldn’t get married.’

Emmeline picked up a bottle of talcum, shook some on her own wrist and replaced it. ‘Yes you did.’

‘When?’

‘Always,’ Emmeline said, sniffing her wrist. ‘You always said you wouldn’t get married.’

‘That was before.’

‘Before what?’

Hannah didn’t answer.

Emmeline found Hannah’s locket on the vanity, ran her fingers over its engraved surface. ‘How can you marry him?’

‘I thought you liked him? You certainly didn’t appear to mind dancing with him.’

Emmeline shrugged sulkily.

‘What’s wrong with him then?’

‘His father for one.’

‘I’m not marrying his father. Teddy’s different. He wants to change things. He even believes women should have the vote.’

‘But you don’t love him.’

The hesitation was slight, the answer offhand. ‘Of course I do.’

‘Like Romeo and Juliet?’

‘No, but-’

‘Then you shouldn’t be marrying him.’ She snatched up the necklace.

‘No one loves like Romeo and Juliet,’ Hannah said carefully, her eyes following Emmeline’s hand. ‘They’re made-up characters.’

‘I do.’

‘Then I pity you. Look what happened to them!’

‘David wouldn’t approve,’ Emmeline said, beginning to prise open the locket.

Hannah stiffened, reached for the necklace. ‘Give it to me,’ she said, voice low.

‘No.’ Emmeline’s eyes were suddenly red and brimmed with tears. ‘He’d say you were running away. Abandoning me.’

Hannah grabbed for the locket but Emmeline was faster; swept it out of reach.

‘Give it to me,’ Hannah said.

‘He was mine, too!’ Emmeline threw the locket onto the vanity with all her might. It hit the wooden surface and split open. We all froze, watching as the tiny book, its spine hand-stitched, its cover faded, fell from inside, tumbled across the top and landed on its cover by the talcum. Battle with the Jacobites.

There was silence. Then Emmeline’s voice. Almost a whisper. ‘You said they were all gone.’

She ran from Hannah’s room, through the burgundy room and into her own.

The door slammed.

I stood back, held the brush by my side as silently Hannah picked up the locket from where it lay: face down, its little gold hinge pointing upwards. She took the tiny book, turned it over and smoothed its surface. Then she placed it back into the hollow of the locket’s chest and pressed it carefully closed. But it wouldn’t clasp. The hinge had broken.

She regarded her reflection a moment and stood up. Kissed the locket and laid it gently on the dresser. Ran fingertips lightly over its etched surface. And then she followed Emmeline.

I tiptoed into the burgundy room behind her, made a show of busying myself with Emmeline’s discarded clothing and peered around the door. Emmeline lay across the bed and Hannah perched at the foot.

‘You’re right,’ Hannah said. ‘I am running away.’

No answer.

‘Haven’t you ever been afraid that nothing interesting lies ahead?’

No answer still.

‘Sometimes when I walk across the estate, I can almost feel the roots growing from my feet, tying me here. I can’t bear to walk by the cemetery for fear of seeing my name on one of the headstones.’ Hannah exhaled slowly. ‘Teddy is my opportunity. To see the world. To travel and meet interesting people.’

Emmeline lifted her reddened face from the pillow. ‘I knew you didn’t love him.’

‘But I do like him.’

‘Like him?’ Emmeline’s cheek was scarred where warm, moist skin had been pressed against the sheet’s fold.

‘You’ll understand one day.’

‘I won’t,’ Emmeline said stubbornly. She sniffled and her eyes filled again with tears. Then came her despondent plea. ‘You said you were going to have adventures.’

‘What’s an adventure but a step into the unknown?’

‘You should wait for someone you love.’

‘What if I never love anyone like that? What if loving is a gift, like horse-riding, or climbing, or playing piano-?’

‘It’s not.’

‘How can you be so sure? I’m not like you, Emmeline. You’re like Mother. I’m much more like Pa. I’m not good at laughing and smiling with people I don’t enjoy. I don’t take pleasure from the carousel of society; I find most society people tedious. If I don’t marry, my life will be one of two things: an eternity of lonely days living in Pa’s house, or a relentless succession of society parties and medieval chaperonage. It’s like Fanny said-’

‘Fanny makes things up.’

‘Not this.’ Hannah was firm. ‘Marriage will be the beginning of my adventure.’

Emmeline looked at her and in her face I saw the ten year old she had been that first day in the nursery. ‘And I have no say? Have to stay here alone, with Pa? I’d sooner run away.’

‘You wouldn’t last half a day.’ Hannah said drolly, but Emmeline was not in the mood for teasing.

‘He frightens me since the fire,’ Emmeline said in a low voice. ‘He’s not… He isn’t normal.’

‘Nonsense, Pa’s always cross about something. It’s his way.’ Hannah paused, chose her words carefully. ‘Anyway, I wouldn’t be surprised if things got better very soon.’

‘I don’t see how.’

‘You will.’

‘Why? What do you know?’

Hannah hesitated and I leaned closer, curious.

‘What?’

‘It’s supposed to be a secret.’

‘You know I can keep secrets.’

Hannah sighed shortly, with the capitulation of one about to speak despite her better judgement. ‘You mustn’t tell Pa. Not yet.’ She smiled with nervous excitement. ‘Teddy’s father has promised to buy Pa’s factory. He’s been talking to the lawyers for weeks now. He said if Teddy and I were marrying, if we were going to be family, the proper thing to do was to buy it and build it up again.’

‘And give it back to Pa?’

Hannah’s hopeful tone dipped. ‘I don’t know about that. Evidently it’s going to be very expensive. Pa had a lot of debts.’

‘Oh.’

‘Still. It’s better than letting someone else buy it. Don’t you think?’

Emmeline shrugged.

‘Pa’s men will keep their jobs. And Pa will likely be offered an overseeing position. A regular income.’

‘It sounds like you’ve got everything worked out,’ Emmeline said bitterly as she rolled over.

‘Yes,’ Hannah said to her sister’s turned back. ‘I think I really might.’

Emmeline was not the only Hartford for whom the engagement didn’t bring unrivalled joy. As wedding preparations got underway in earnest, the household swept up in dress-fittings, decorations and baking, Frederick remained very quiet, sitting by himself in his study, a permanent expression of trouble clouding his face. He seemed thinner too. The loss of his factory and his mother had taken its toll. So, as it turned out, had Hannah’s decision to marry Teddy.

The night before the wedding, while I was collecting Hannah’s supper tray, he came to her room. He sat in the chair by her dressing table then stood, almost immediately, paced toward the window, looked out over the back lawn. Hannah was in bed, her nightie white and crisp, her hair hanging, like silk, over her shoulders. She watched her father and her face grew serious as she took in his bony frame, his hunched shoulders, the way his hair had gone from golden to silver in the space of a few months.

‘Wouldn’t be surprised if it rains tomorrow,’ he said finally, still looking out the window.

‘I’ve always liked the rain.’

Mr Frederick did not answer.

I finished loading the supper tray. ‘Will that be all, miss?’

She had forgotten I was there. She turned to me. ‘Yes. Thank you Grace.’ With a sudden movement, she reached out and took my hand. ‘I’ll miss you, Grace, when I go.’

‘Yes miss.’ I curtseyed, my cheeks flushed with sentiment. ‘I’ll miss you too.’ I curtseyed to Mr Frederick’s turned back. ‘Goodnight, m’Lord.’

He appeared not to have heard.

I wondered what it was that brought him to Hannah’s room. What it was he had to say on the eve of her wedding that could not have been said at dinner, or afterwards in the drawing room. I left the room, pulled the door behind me, and then, I am ashamed to say, I lay the tray on the corridor floor and leaned in close.

There was a long silence and I began to fear the doors were too thick, Mr Frederick’s voice too quiet. Then I heard him clear his throat.

He spoke quickly, his tone low. ‘Emmeline I expected to lose as soon as she was of an age, but you?’

‘You’re not losing me, Pa.’

‘I am,’ he said, volume rising sharply. ‘David, my factory, now you. All my dearest…’ He checked himself and when he spoke again his voice was so tight it threatened to buckle. ‘I’m not blind to my part in all this.’

‘Pa?’

There was a pause and the bedsprings squeaked. Mr Frederick’s voice, when he spoke, had shifted position and I imagined he now sat on the foot of Hannah’s bed. ‘You are not to do this,’ he said quickly. ‘There are other ways.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking of-’

Squeak. He was on his feet again. ‘The very idea of you living amongst those people. It makes my blood… No, it’s out of the question. I should have put my foot down earlier, before any of this business got out of hand.’

‘Pa-’

‘I didn’t stop David in time, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to make the same mistake twice.’

‘Pa-’

‘I won’t let you-’

‘Pa,’ Hannah said, and in her voice was a firmness that had not been there before. ‘I’ve made my decision.’

‘Change it,’ he roared.

‘No.’

I was frightened for her. Mr Frederick’s tempers were legend at Riverton. He had refused all contact with David when he dared deceive him. What would he do now, faced with Hannah’s outright defiance?

His voice quivered, white with rage. ‘You would answer no to your father?’

‘If I thought him wrong.’

‘You’re a stubborn fool.’

‘I’m like you.’

‘To your folly, my girl,’ he said. ‘Your strength of will has always inclined me to leniency, but this I will not tolerate.’

‘It’s not your decision, Pa.’

‘You are my child and you’ll do as I say.’ He paused and an unwanted note of desperation coloured his anger. ‘I order you not to marry him.’

‘Pa…’

‘Marry him,’ his volume leapt, ‘and you won’t be welcome here.’

On the other side of the door, I was aghast and afraid. For though I understood Mr Frederick’s sentiment, shared his desire to keep Hannah at Riverton, I also knew threats were never a way to make her change her mind.

Sure enough, her voice when she spoke was steely with resolve. ‘Goodnight, Pa.’

‘Fool,’ he said in the bewildered tone of one who couldn’t yet believe the game has been played and lost. ‘Stubborn fool of a child.’

His footsteps drew near and I hurried to pick up my tray. Was withdrawing from the door when Hannah said: ‘I’ll be taking my maid with me when I go.’ My heart leapt as she continued. ‘Myra will look after Emmeline.’

I was so surprised, so pleased, I barely heard Mr Frederick’s reply. ‘You’re welcome to her.’ He pushed the door so furiously I almost dropped my tray, strode toward the stairs. ‘Lord knows I don’t need her here.’

Why did Hannah marry Teddy? Because she loved him? Perhaps. She was young and inexperienced-to what would she compare her feelings?

Because she believed marriage was her ticket to freedom? Undoubtedly. Lady Clementine, with Fanny’s help, had seen to that.

There were those that thought she was deserting a sinking ship, but those who whispered such had never known her. She wasn’t deserting the ship, she was saving it. Or thought she was.

And there was Emmeline to think of. Always, there was Emmeline to think of-she had promised as much to David she told me, the day he went to war. With Mr Frederick’s business as it was, marriage to Teddy was a way of looking after Emmeline. Ensuring her a future of connections and comfort.

Whatever the case, to outsiders the match was a good one. Simion and Estella Luxton were delighted, and so was everyone downstairs. Even I was pleased now that I was to accompany them. For Lady Violet and Lady Clementine were right, weren’t they? For all her youthful resistance, Hannah was sure to marry someone and surely Teddy was as good a catch as any?

They were married on a rainy Saturday in March 1919, and a week later we left for London. Hannah and Teddy in the car up front, while I shared the second car with Teddy’s valet and Hannah’s trousseau.

Mr Frederick stood on the stairs, stiff and pale. From where I sat, unseen in the second car, I was able, for the first time, to look properly upon his face. It was a beautiful, patrician face, though suffering had robbed it of expression.

To his left was the line of staff, in descending order of rank. Even Nanny had been exhumed from the nursery, and stood at half Mr Hamilton’s height, leaking silent tears into a white handkerchief.

Only Emmeline was absent, having refused to watch her sister leave. I saw her though, right before we left. Her pale face framed behind one of the etched Gothic panes of the nursery window. Or I thought I did. It may have been a trick of the light. One of the little boy ghosts who spent their eternity in the nursery.

I had already said my goodbyes. To the staff, and to Alfred. Since the night on the garden stairs we’d made tentative amends. We were circumspect these days, Alfred treating me with a polite caution almost as alienating as his irritation. Nonetheless, I’d promised to write. Extracted from him an undertaking to do likewise.

And I’d seen Mother the weekend before the wedding. She’d given me a little package of things: a shawl she had knitted years before, and a jar of needles and threads so that I might keep up my stitching. When I’d thanked her she’d shrugged and said they were no use to her; she wouldn’t be like to use them now her fingers were locked and as good as useless. On that last visit she’d asked me questions about the wedding and Mr Frederick’s factory and Lady Violet’s death. She surprised me, taking her former mistress’s death easily. I’d come lately to realise that Mother had enjoyed her years of service, yet when I spoke of Lady Violet’s final days she offered no condolences, no fond remembrances. She merely nodded slowly and let her face relax into an expression of remarkable dispassion.

But I did not think to query it then, for my mind was full of London.

The dull thump of faraway drums. Do you hear them, I wonder, or is it just me?

You have been patient. And there is not much longer to wait. For into Hannah’s world, Robbie Hunter is about to make his return. You knew he would, of course, for he has his part to play. This is not a fairytale, nor a romance. The wedding does not the mark the happy ending of this story. It is simply another beginning, the ushering in of a new chapter.

In a far grey corner of London, Robbie Hunter wakes. Shrugs off his nightmares and pulls a small parcel from his pocket. A parcel, nursed in his breast pocket since the final days of war, its safe delivery promised to a dying friend.