Kate Morton - The House at Riverton aka The Shifting Fog

‘Oh no, miss,’ I said. ‘Not too much at all.’

Hannah leaned forward and lowered her voice, ‘You must be very busy; the lessons for Miss Dove on top of everything else?’

For a moment I was lost. Who was Miss Dove, and why might she be setting me lessons? Then I remembered. The secretarial school in the village. ‘I’m managing, miss.’ I swallowed, eager to change the subject. ‘Shall I start with your hair, miss?’

‘Yes,’ said Hannah, nodding meaningfully. ‘Yes, of course. You’re right not to speak of it, Grace. I should be more careful.’ She tried to suppress a smile, almost succeeded. Then laughed openly. ‘It’s just… It’s a relief having someone to share it with.’

I nodded solemnly, while inside I thrilled. ‘Yes, miss.’

With a final conspiratorial smile, she lifted a finger to her lips in a sign of silence, and returned to the letter. By the address in the corner, I could see it was from her father.

I selected a mother-of-pearl hairbrush from the dressing table and stood behind. I glanced into the oval mirror and, seeing Hannah’s head still bowed over the letter, dared observe her. The light from the window bounced off her face, lending her reflection an ethereal cast. I could trace the network of faint veins beneath her pale skin, could see her eyeballs tracking back and forth beneath her fine lids as she read.

She shifted in her seat and I looked away, fumbled with the ties at the base of her braids. I slipped them free, unravelled the long twists of hair, and started to brush.

Hannah folded the letter in half and slipped it beneath a crystal bonbonnière on the dressing table. She regarded herself in the mirror, pressed her lips together, and turned toward the window. ‘My brother is going to France,’ she said acrimoniously. ‘To fight the war.’

‘Is he, miss?’ I said.

‘He and his friend. Robert Hunter.’ The latter’s name she said distastefully. She fingered the letter’s edge. ‘Poor old Pa doesn’t know. We’re not supposed to tell him.’

I brushed rhythmically, counting silently my strokes. (Myra had said a hundred, that she’d know if I were to skip any.) Then Hannah said, ‘I wish I were going.’

‘To war, miss?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘The world is changing, Grace, and I want to see it.’ She looked up at me in the mirror, the blue and yellow flecks of her eyes animated by sunlight; then she spoke as if reciting a line she’d learned by heart. ‘I want to know how it feels to be altered by life.’

‘Altered, miss?’ I could not for the life of me imagine how she could wish for anything other than that which God had been kind enough to give her.

‘Transformed, Grace. As some people are by great works of music. Or pieces of art. I want to have a grand experience far removed from my ordinary life.’ She looked at me again, her eyes shining. ‘Don’t you ever feel that way? Don’t you ever wish for more than life has given you?’

I stared at her an instant, warmed by the vague sense of having received a confidence; disconcerted that it seemed to require some sign of amity I was hopelessly underqualified to provide. The problem was, I simply didn’t understand. The feelings she described were as a foreign language. Life had been good to me. How could I doubt it? Mr Hamilton was always reminding me how fortunate I was to have my position, and if it wasn’t him, Mother was always willing to pick up the argument. I could think of no way to respond, and yet Hannah was looking at me, waiting. I opened my mouth, my tongue pulled away from the roof with a promising click, but no words were forthcoming.

She sighed and shook her shoulders, her mouth settled into a faint smile of disappointment. ‘No, of course you haven’t. I’m sorry Grace. I’ve unsettled you.’

She looked away and I heard myself say, ‘I’ve sometimes thought I’d like to be a detective, miss.’

‘A detective?’ Her eyes met mine in the mirror. ‘You mean like Mr Bucket in Bleak House ?’

‘I don’t know of Mr Bucket, miss. I was thinking of Sherlock Holmes.’

‘Really? A detective?’

I nodded.

‘Finding clues and solving crimes?’

I nodded.

‘Well then,’ she said, disproportionately pleased. ‘I was wrong. You do know what I mean.’ And with that she looked again out the window, smiling faintly.

I wasn’t quite sure how it had happened, why my impulsive answer had pleased her so, and I didn’t particularly care. All I knew was that I now basked in the warm glow of a connection having been made.

I slid the brush back onto the dressing table, wiped my hands on my apron. ‘Myra said you would be wearing your walking costume today, miss.’

I lifted the suit from the wardrobe and carried it to the dressing table. I held the skirt so that she might step inside.

Just then, a wallpapered door next to the bedhead swung open and Emmeline appeared. From where I knelt, holding Hannah’s skirt, I watched her cross the room. Emmeline’s was the type of beauty that belied her age. Something in her wide blue eyes, her full lips, even the way she yawned, gave the impression of lazy ripeness.

‘How’s your arm?’ said Hannah, placing a hand on my shoulder for support and stepping into the skirt.

I kept my head down, hoping Emmeline’s arm wasn’t painful, hoping she wouldn’t remember my part in her fall. But if she recognised me, it didn’t show. She shrugged, rubbed absently her bandaged wrist. ‘It hardly hurts. I’m just leaving it wrapped for effect.’

Hannah turned to face the wall and I lifted her nightie off, slipped the fitted bodice of the walking costume over her head. ‘You’ll probably have a scar, you know,’ she teased.

‘I know.’ Emmeline sat on the end of Hannah’s bed. ‘At first I didn’t want one, but Robbie said it would be a battle wound. That it would give me character.’

‘Did he?’ said Hannah acerbically.

‘He said all the best people have character.’

I pulled tight Hannah’s bodice, stretching the first button toward its eyelet.

‘He’s coming with us on our ride this morning,’ said Emmeline, drumming her feet against the bed. ‘He asked David if we could show him the lake.’

‘I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time.’

‘But aren’t you coming? It’s the first fine day in weeks. You said you’d go mad if you had to spend much longer inside.’

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ said Hannah airily.

Emmeline was silent for a moment then she said, ‘David was right.’

As I continued to button, I was aware that Hannah’s body had tensed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He told Robbie you were stubborn, that you’d lock yourself away all winter to avoid him if you decided on it.’

Hannah tightened her mouth. For a moment she was at a loss for words. ‘Well… you can tell David that he’s wrong. I’m not avoiding him at all. I have things to do inside. Important things. Things neither of you know about.’

‘Like sitting in the nursery, stewing, while you read through the box again?’

‘You little spy!’ said Hannah indignantly. ‘Is it any wonder I’d like some privacy?’ She huffed. ‘You’re wrong as it happens. I won’t be going through the box. The box is no longer here.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve hidden it,’ said Hannah.

‘Where?’

‘I’ll tell you next time we play.’

‘But we probably won’t play all winter,’ Emmeline said. ‘We can’t. Not without telling Robbie.’

‘Then I’ll tell you next summer,’ said Hannah. ‘You won’t miss it. You and David have plenty of other things to do now that Robert Hunter is here.’

‘Why don’t you like him?’ said Emmeline.