Kate Morton - The House at Riverton aka The Shifting Fog

Emmeline’s hands flew to her face. ‘No!’ she cried. She held a dramatic pose before turning to the audience to reveal her condition.

A collective gasp; they had decided against a mask in the end, opting instead for a handful of strawberry jam and cream, smeared to gruesome effect.

‘Those imps,’ came Mrs Townsend’s aggrieved whisper. ‘They told me they was needing jam for their scones!’

‘Son,’ said Hannah after a suitably dramatic pause, ‘thou art guilty of the same sin, and yet I cannot bring myself to anger at you.’

‘Thank you, Father,’ said David.

‘Wilt thou remember not to discuss your brother’s wife again?’

‘Yes, my Lord.’

‘Then you may go.’

‘Alas, my lord,’ said David, hiding a smile as he extended his arm toward Emmeline. ‘I beseech thee, heal my sister now.’

The audience was silent, awaiting the Lord’s response. ‘No,’ it came, ‘I don’t think I will. She will be shut out from camp for seven days. Only then will she be received again.’ As Emmeline sank to her knees and David laid his hand on her shoulder, Hannah appeared from stage left. The audience drew breath as one. She was dressed immaculately in men’s clothing: a suit, top hat, walking cane, fob watch and, on the bridge of her nose, Mr Frederick’s glasses. She walked to centre stage, twirling her cane like a dandy. Her voice, when she spoke, was an excellent imitation of her father’s. ‘My daughter will learn that there are some rules for girls and others for boys.’ She took a deep breath, straightened her hat. ‘To allow otherwise is to start down the slippery slope to women’s suffrage.’

The audience sat in electric silence, row on row, mouths agape.

The servants were equally scandalised. Even in the dark I was aware of Mr Hamilton’s whitening face. For once he was at a loss as to protocol, satisfying his indomitable sense of duty by serving as leaning post for Mrs Townsend who, not yet fully recovered from seeing her jam misused, had buckled at the knees and collapsed sideways.

My eyes sought Mr Frederick. Still in his seat, he was rigid as a barge pole. As I watched, his shoulders began to twitch and I feared he was on the verge of one of the rages to which Myra had alluded. On stage, the children stood, frozen in tableaux like dolls in a doll’s house, watching the audience while the audience watched them.

Hannah was a model of composure, innocence writ large across her face. For an instant it seemed she caught my eye, and I thought the glimmer of a smile crossed her lips. I could not help it, I smiled back, fearfully, only stopping when Myra glanced sideways in the dark and gave my arm a pinch.

Hannah, glowing, joined hands with Emmeline and David and the three stretched out across the stage and took a bow. As they did, a glob of jam-smeared cream dropped from Emmeline’s nose and landed with a sizzle on a nearby limelight.

‘Just so,’ came a high fluty voice from the audience, Lady Clementine. ‘A fellow I know knew a fellow with leprosy, out in India. His nose dropped off just like that in his shaving dish.’

It was too much for Mr Frederick. His eyes met Hannah’s and he began to laugh. Such a laugh as I had never heard: infectious by virtue of its sheer sincerity. One by one, others joined him; though Lady Violet, I noticed, was not amongst them.

I couldn’t help my own laughter, spontaneous ripples of relief, until Myra hissed into my ear, ‘That’s enough, miss. You can come and help me with supper.’

I would miss the rest of the recital, but I had seen all I wanted to. As we left the room and made our way down the corridor, I was aware of the applause dying, the recital rolling on. And I felt infused by a strange energy.

By the time we had carried Mrs Townsend’s supper and the trays of coffee to the drawing room, given the armchair cushions a preparatory plump, the recital had ended and the guests had started to arrive, arm in arm in order of rank. First came Lady Violet and Major James, then Lord Ashbury and Lady Clementine, then Mr Frederick with Jemima and Fanny. The Hartford children, I guessed, were still upstairs.

As they took their places, Myra arranged the coffee tray so Lady Violet could pour. While her guests chatted lightly around her, Lady Violet leaned toward Mr Frederick’s armchair and said, through a thin smile, ‘You indulge those children, Frederick.’

Mr Frederick’s lips tightened. The criticism, I could tell, was not a new one.

Eyes on the coffee she was pouring, Lady Violet said, ‘You may find their antics amusing now, but the day will come when you’ll rue your leniency. You’ve let them grow wild. Hannah, especially. There’s nothing spoils a young lady’s loveliness so much as impertinence of intellect.’

Her invective delivered, Lady Violet straightened, arranged her expression into one of cordial amiability, and passed a coffee to Lady Clementine.

Conversation had turned, as it so often did those days, to the strife in Europe and the likelihood of Great Britain going to war.

‘There’ll be war. There always is,’ Lady Clementine said, matter-of-factly, taking the proffered coffee and wedging her buttocks deep into Lady Violet’s favourite armchair. Her pitch rose. ‘And we’ll all suffer. Men, women and children. The Germans aren’t civilised like us. They’ll pillage our countryside, murder our little ones in their beds and enslave good English women that we might propagate little Huns for them. You mark my words for I’m very rarely wrong. We’ll be at war before the summer’s out.’

‘Surely you exaggerate, Clementine,’ Lady Violet said. ‘The war-if it comes-couldn’t be as bad as all that. These are modern times, after all.’

‘That’s right,’ Lord Ashbury said. ‘It’ll be twentieth-century warfare; a whole new game. Not to mention there’s not a Hun could lift a torch to an Englishman.’

‘It might be improper to say,’ Fanny said, perching herself at one end of the chaise longue, curls shaking excitedly, ‘but I rather hope the war does come.’ She turned hastily to Lady Clementine. ‘Not all the pillaging and killing of course, Aunty, nor the propagating; I shouldn’t like that. But I do so love seeing gentlemen dressed in uniform.’ She cast a furtive glance toward Major James then returned her attention to the group. ‘I had a letter today from my friend Margery… You remember Margery, don’t you, Aunty Clem?’

Lady Clementine quivered her heavy eyelids. ‘Regrettably. A foolish girl with provincial manners.’ She leaned toward Lady Violet. ‘Raised in Dublin, you know. Irish Catholic, no less.’

I peeked at Myra, offering sugar cubes, and noticed her back stiffen. She caught my glance and shot me a hot scowl.

‘Well,’ Fanny continued, ‘Margery’s holidaying with family by the seaside and she said when she met her mother at the station, the trains were absolutely packed with reservists rushing back to their headquarters. It’s ever so exciting.’

‘Fanny darling,’ Lady Violet said, looking up from the coffee pot, ‘I do think it’s rather in poor taste to wish a war merely for excitement. Wouldn’t you agree, James dear?’

The Major, standing by the unlit fire, straightened himself. ‘While I don’t agree with Fanny’s motivation, I must say I share her sentiment. I for one hope we do go to war. The whole continent’s got itself into a damnable mess-excuse my strong language, Mother, Lady Clem, but it has. They need good old Britannia to get in there and sort it out. Give those Huns a jolly good shake-up.’

A general cheer went up around the room and Jemima clasped the Major’s arm, gazed up adoringly, button eyes aglow.

Old Lord Ashbury puffed his pipe excitedly. ‘A bit of sport,’ he proclaimed, leaning back against his chair. ‘Nothing like a war to sort the men from the boys.’