Kate Morton - The House at Riverton aka The Shifting Fog

‘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.