Kate Morton - The House at Riverton aka The Shifting Fog

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.’