Kate Morton - The House at Riverton aka The Shifting Fog

‘Grace? Can I get you something?’ This was Ursula. ‘Would you like the heating turned down?’

‘I’m going to have to take her home.’ Ruth again. ‘I knew this wasn’t a good idea. It’s far too much for her.’

Yes, I wanted to go home. To be home. I felt myself being hoisted up, my cane thrust into my hand. Voices swirled about me.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, to no one in particular. ‘I’m just so tired.’ So tired. So long ago.

My feet were aching: protesting their confinement. Someone-Ursula, perhaps-reached out to steady me, her hand grasping my arm. A cold wind slapped my damp cheeks.

I was in Ruth’s car then, houses, trees and road signs rushing past.

‘Don’t worry, Mum, it’s all over now,’ Ruth said. ‘I blame myself. I should never have agreed to take you.’

I put my hand on her arm, felt her tense.

‘I should have trusted to my instincts,’ she said. ‘It was stupid of me.’

I closed my eyes. Listened to the hum of the radiator, the pulse of the windscreen wipers, the drone of the traffic.

‘That’s it, you have a bit of a rest,’ Ruth said. ‘You’re going home. You never have to go back again.’

I smiled, felt myself drifting away.

It is too late, I am home. I am back.

17 JANUARY 1925

Preston’s Gorge Body Identified: Local Beauty Dead

The body found yesterday morning in Preston’s Gorge has been identified as that of local beauty and film actress, the Honourable Miss Emmeline Hartford, 21. Miss Hartford was reportedly travelling from London to Colchester when her car collided with a tree and rolled down into the gorge.

Miss Hartford was due to arrive at Godley House, the home of her childhood friend, Mrs Frances Vickers, on Sunday afternoon. Mrs Vickers alerted police when Miss Hartford failed to arrive.

An investigation will be held to determine the cause of the collision but police do not suspect foul play. According to witnesses, it was most likely the result of high speed and icy conditions.

Miss Hartford is survived by her elder sister, the Honourable Mrs Hannah Luxton, who is married to the Conservative Member for Saffron Green, Mr Theodore Luxton. Neither Mr nor Mrs Luxton were available for comment; however, the family’s solicitors, Gifford & Jones, released a statement on their behalf, asserting their shock and requesting privacy.

This is not the first tragedy to befall the family in recent times. Last summer, Miss Emmeline Hartford and Mrs Hannah Luxton were unfortunate witnesses to the suicide of Lord Robert Hunter on the grounds of Riverton Estate. Lord Hunter was a poet of some note and had published two collections of poetry.

It is mild this morning, a foretaste of spring, and I am sitting on the iron seat in the garden, beneath the elm. It’s good for me to get a bit of fresh air (so says Sylvia), thus here I sit, playing peek-a-boo with the shy winter sun, my cheeks as cold and slack as a pair of peaches left too long in the fridge.

I have been thinking about the day I started at Riverton. I can see it clearly. The intervening years concertina and it is June 1914. I am fourteen again: naïve, gauche, terrified, following Myra up flight after flight of scrubbed elm stairs. Her skirt swishes efficiently with every step, each swish an indictment of my own inexperience. I am struggling behind, my suitcase handle cutting my fingers. I lose sight of Myra as she turns to begin up yet another flight, rely on the swishing to lead the way…

When Myra reached the very top she proceeded down a dark corridor with low ceilings, stopping finally, with a neat click of the heels, at a small door. She turned and frowned as I hobbled toward her, her pinched gaze as black as her hair.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ she said, clipped English unable to disguise her Irish vowels. ‘I didn’t know you were slow. Mrs Townsend never said anything about it, I’m sure.’

‘I’m not slow. It’s my suitcase. It’s heavy.’

‘Well,’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen such a fuss. I don’t know what kind of housemaid you’re going to make if you can’t carry a suitcase of clothing without lagging. You’d better hope Mr Hamilton don’t see you dragging the carpet sweeper around like a sack of flour.’

She pushed open the door. The room was small and spare, and it smelled, unaccountably, like potatoes. But one half of it-an iron bed, chest of drawers and chair-was to be mine.

‘There now. That’s your side,’ she said, nodding toward the far edge of the bed. ‘I’m this side and I’d thank you not to touch anything.’ She walked her fingers along the top of her chest of drawers, past a crucifix, a Bible and a hairbrush. ‘Sticky fingers will not be abided here. Now get your things unpacked, get into uniform and come downstairs so you can start your duties. No dawdling, mind, and for heaven’s sake, no leaving the servants’ hall. Luncheon’s at midday today on account of the Master’s grandchildren arriving, and we’re already behind with the rooms. Last thing I need is to have to go looking for you. You’re not a dawdler, I hope.’

‘No, Myra,’ I said, still smarting at the implication I might be a thief.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘we’ll see about that.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I tell them I need a new girl and what do they send me? No experience, no references and, by the looks of you, a dawdler.’

‘I’m not-’

‘Pish,’ she said, stamping a narrow foot. ‘Mrs Townsend says your mother was quick and able, and that the apple don’t fall far from the tree. All’s I can say is you’d better hope it’s so. The mistress won’t put up with dawdling from the likes of you and neither will I.’ And with a final, disapproving toss of her head, she turned heel and left me alone in the tiny dim room at the top of the house. Swish… Swish… Swish…

I held my breath, listening.

Finally, alone with the sighing of the house, I tiptoed to the door and eased it shut, turning to take in my new home.

There was not much to see. I ran my hand over the foot of the bed, ducking my head where the ceiling slanted against the roof line. Across the end of the mattress was a grey blanket, one of its corners patched by a competent hand. A small, framed picture, the only hint of decoration in the room, hung on the wall: a primitive hunting scene, an impaled deer, blood leaking from its pierced flank. I looked away quickly from the dying animal.

Carefully, silently, I sat down, wary of wrinkling the smooth under-sheet. The bedsprings creaked in response and I jumped, chastened, my cheeks flooding with colour.

A narrow window cast a shaft of dusty light into the room. I climbed up to kneel on the chair and peered outside.

The room was at the back of the house and very high. I could see all the way past the rose garden, over the trellises and to the south fountain. Beyond, I knew, lay the lake, and on the other side, the village and the cottage in which I had spent my first fourteen years. I pictured Mother, sitting by the kitchen window where the light was best, her back curled over the clothing she darned.

I wondered how she was managing alone. Mother had been worse lately. I’d heard her of a night, groaning in her bed as the bones of her back seized beneath her skin. Some mornings her fingers were so stiff I’d had to run them under warm water and rub them between my own before she could as much as pluck a roll of thread from her sewing basket. Mrs Rodgers from the village had agreed to stop in daily, and the ragman passed by twice a week, but still, she’d be alone an awful lot. There was little chance she’d keep up the darning without me. What would she do for money? My meagre salary would help but surely I’d have been better to stay with her?