Kate Morton - The House at Riverton aka The Shifting Fog

‘She must,’ Lady Violet said gravely.

Lady Clementine caught the whiff of desperation. ‘There’s no particular reason she need make a match so soon…’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Is there?’

Lady Violet sighed.

‘There is!’ Lady Clementine said, eyes widening.

‘It’s Frederick. His confounded motor cars. The lawyers sent me a letter this week. He’s borrowed more money.’

‘Without discussion?’ Lady Clementine said hungrily. ‘Dear, dear.’

‘I dare say he knew better than to ask,’ Lady Violet said. ‘He knows how I feel. These are uncertain times. I’m afeared he’s going to mortgage all our futures for the sake of his factory. He’s already sold the residence in Yorkshire to pay the death duties on his inheritance.’

Lady Clementine tut-tutted.

‘Would that he’d sold that factory instead. It’s not like he hasn’t had offers, you know. That business partner of his, Mr Luxton, is keen to increase his share. Talk of independent notions: Frederick’s worse than Hannah. He doesn’t seem to realise the duties of his position.’ Lady Violet shook her head. Sighed. ‘I can hardly blame him. The position was never meant to be his.’ Then came the familiar lament. ‘If only James were here.’

‘Now, now,’ Lady Clem said. ‘Frederick’s sure to make a success of it. Motor cars are quite the thing these days. Every man and his dog is out driving them. I was almost flattened the other day as I crossed the road outside Kensington Place.’

‘Clem-! Were you injured?’

‘Not this time,’ Lady Clementine said matter-of-factly. ‘I’m sure I won’t be so fortunate the next.’ She raised one eyebrow. ‘A most gruesome death, I can assure you. I spoke to Dr Carmichael at great length regarding the types of injuries one might sustain.’

‘Terrible,’ Lady Violet said, shaking her head distractedly. She sighed. ‘I wouldn’t mind so much about Hannah if Frederick would only marry again.’

‘Is it likely?’ Lady Clementine said.

‘Hardly. As you know, he’s shown little interest in taking another wife. He didn’t show nearly enough interest in his first wife if you ask me. He was far too busy with-’ She glanced at me and I busied myself straightening the tea cloth. ‘With that other despicable business.’ She shook her head and tightened her lips. ‘No. There’ll be no more sons and it’s no use hoping otherwise.’

‘Which leaves us with Hannah.’ Lady Clementine took a sip of tea.

‘Yes.’ Lady Violet sighed irritably and smoothed the lime satin of her skirt. ‘I’m sorry Clem. It’s this cold I’ve got. It’s put me in quite a mood.’ She shook her head. ‘I just can’t seem to shake the ill feeling I’ve been carrying of late. I’m not a superstitious person-you know that-but I’ve the oddest sense…’ She glanced at Lady Clementine. ‘You’ll laugh, but I’ve the oddest sense of impending doom.’

‘Oh?’ It was Lady Clementine’s favourite subject.

‘It’s nothing specific. Just a feeling.’ She gathered her shawl about her shoulders and I noticed how frail she had become. ‘Nonetheless, I will not sit back and watch this family disintegrate. I will see Hannah engaged-and engaged well-if it’s the last thing I do. Preferably before I accompany Jemima to America.’

‘New York. I’d forgotten you were going. Good of Jemima’s brother to take them.’

‘Yes,’ Lady Violet said. ‘Though I shall miss them. Little Gytha is so like James.’

‘I’ve never been much for babies,’ Lady Clementine sniffed. ‘All that mewling and puking.’ She shuddered so that her second and third chins quivered, then smoothed her diary page and tapped a pen on its blank surface. ‘How long does that leave us then, to find a suitable husband?’

‘One month. We sail on the fourth of February.’

Lady Clementine wrote the date on her journal page then sat up with a start. ‘Oh…! Oh, Violet. I’ve had rather a good idea,’ she said. ‘You say Hannah’s determined to be independent?’

The word itself brought a flutter to Lady Violet’s eyelids. ‘Yes.’

‘So if someone were to give her a little kindly instruction…? Make her see marriage as the way to independence…?’

‘She’s as stubborn as her father,’ Lady Violet said. ‘I’m afraid she wouldn’t listen.’

‘Not to you or me, perhaps. But I know someone to whom she might.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Yes… With a little coaching even she should be able to manage this.’

Some days later, her husband happily ensconced in a tour of Mr Frederick’s garage, Fanny joined Hannah and Emmeline in the burgundy room. Emmeline, swept up in the excitement of the upcoming ball, had persuaded Fanny to help her practise dancing. A waltz was playing on the gramophone and the two were triple-stepping about the room, laughing and teasing as they went. I had to be careful to avoid them while I dusted and made up the rooms.

Hannah sat at the writing desk scribbling in her notebook, oblivious to the merriment behind her. After dinner with the Luxtons, when it had become clear that her dreams of finding work were contingent on fraternal permission that wouldn’t be forthcoming, she had entered a state of quiet preoccupation. While the currents of ball preparation swirled excitedly about her, she remained outside its flow.

After a week of brooding, she entered an opposing phase. She returned to her shorthand practice, translating furiously from whichever book was close to hand, obscuring her work cagily if someone should come close enough to notice. These periods of occupation, too fierce to be sustained, were always followed by a relapse into apathy. She would toss her pen aside, push her books away with a sigh, and sit inert, waiting until such time as a meal might be served, a letter arrive, or it was time again to dress.

Of course, her mind, as she sat, was not immobile. She looked as though she were trying to solve the conundrum of her life. She longed for independence and adventure, yet she was a prisoner-a comfortable, well-tended prisoner, but a prisoner nonetheless. Independence required money. Her father hadn’t money to give her and she wasn’t permitted to work.

Why didn’t she defy his wishes? Leave home, run away, join a travelling circus? Quite simply, there were rules and rules were followed. Ten years later-even two years later-things had changed. Conventions had collapsed beneath the weight of dancing feet. But at that time she was trapped. And so she sat, like Andersen’s nightingale, locked in her gilded cage, too listless to sing. Gripped by a cloud of ennui until the next tide of feverish activity should come to claim her.

That morning, in the burgundy room, she was a victim of the latter. She sat at the writing desk, back turned to Fanny and Emmeline, translating the Encyclopaedia Britannica into shorthand. So concentrated was she on the task that she didn’t so much as flinch when Fanny shrieked, ‘Ow! You elephant!’

Fanny limped to the armchair as Emmeline collapsed with laughter onto the chaise. She slipped off her shoe and leaned to inspect her stockinged toe. ‘I dare say it’s going to swell,’ she said petulantly.

Emmeline continued to laugh.

‘I probably won’t be able to fit into any of my prettiest shoes for the ball!’

Each protest only served to plunge Emmeline into deeper glee.

‘Well,’ Fanny said indignantly. ‘You’ve ruined my toe. The least you could do is apologise.’

Emmeline tried to arrest her amusement. ‘I… I’m sorry,’ she said. She bit her lip, laughter threatening again. ‘But it’s hardly my fault that you continue to put your feet in the way of mine. Perhaps if they weren’t so big…’ And she collapsed again.