Kate Morton - The House at Riverton aka The Shifting Fog

‘Her sister.’

This seems to please him. He sits on the end of the bed, pulls Emmeline down next to him, never taking his eyes from Hannah. ‘What’s the rush?’ He says, smiling around his cigar. ‘Perhaps big sister will join Baby in some shots, eh?’

Hannah inhales quickly then regains her composure. ‘Certainly not. We are both leaving this minute.’

‘I’m not,’ says Emmeline.

Philippe shrugs in the way only Frenchmen can. ‘It seems she does not wish to go.’

‘She hasn’t a choice,’ says Hannah. She looks at me. ‘Have you finished packing, Grace?’

‘Almost, ma’am.’

Only then does Philippe notice me. ‘A third sister?’ He raises an appraising eyebrow and I squirm beneath the unwarranted attention, as uncomfortable as if I were naked.

Emmeline laughs. ‘Oh, Philippe. Don’t tease. That’s only Grace, Hannah’s maid.’

Though I am flattered at his mistake, I am grateful when Emmeline tugs at his sleeve and he turns his gaze away.

‘Tell her,’ Emmeline says to Philippe. ‘Tell her about us.’ She smiles at Hannah with the unchecked enthusiasm of a seventeen year old. ‘We’ve eloped, we’re going to be married.’

‘And what does your wife think of that, monsieur?’ says Hannah.

‘He doesn’t have a wife,’ says Emmeline. ‘Not yet.’

‘Shame on you, monsieur,’ says Hannah, voice quivering. ‘My sister is only seventeen.’

As if spring-loaded, Philippe’s arm pulls away from Emmeline’s shoulders.

‘Seventeen’s old enough to be in love,’ says Emmeline. ‘We’ll marry when I’m eighteen, won’t we, Philly?’

Philippe smiles an awkward smile, wipes his hands on his trouser legs and stands.

‘Won’t we?’ says Emmeline, voice raising a tone. ‘Like we talked about? Tell her.’

Hannah tosses the dress into Emmeline’s lap. ‘Yes, monsieur, do tell.’

One of the lamps flickers and the light extinguishes. Philippe shrugs, his cigar sags from his lower lip. ‘I, ah… I…’

‘Stop it, Hannah,’ says Emmeline, voice trembling. ‘You’re going to ruin everything.’

‘I’m taking my sister home,’ says Hannah. ‘And if you make this any more difficult than it already is, my husband will ensure you never make another film. He has friends in the police and the government. I’m sure they’d be very interested to know about the films you’re making.’

Philippe is very helpful after that; he collects some more of Emmeline’s things from the bathroom and packs them in her bag, though not with as much care as I would like. He carries her bags to the car, and while Emmeline is crying and telling him how much she loves him and begging him to tell Hannah that they’re to be married, he stays very quiet. Finally, he looks at Hannah, frightened by the things Emmeline is saying, and just what kind of trouble Hannah’s husband could make for him, and he says, ‘I do not know what she talks about. She is crazy. She told me she was twenty-one.’

Emmeline cries all the way home, hot angry tears. I doubt she hears a word of Hannah’s lecture about responsibility and reputation and running away not being the answer.

‘He loves me,’ is all she says when Hannah reaches the end. There are tears streaming down her face and her eyes are red. ‘We’re going to be married.’

Hannah sighs. ‘Stop, Emmeline. Please.’

‘We’re in love. Philippe will come and find me.’

‘I doubt that,’ says Hannah.

‘Why did you have to come and ruin things?’

‘Ruin things?’ Hannah says. ‘I rescued you. You’re lucky we got there before you got yourself into real trouble. He’s already married. He lied to you so you’d make his disgusting films.’

Emmeline stares at Hannah, her bottom lip trembling. ‘You just can’t stand it that I’m happy,’ Emmeline says, ‘that I’m in love. That something wonderful has finally happened to me. Someone loves me the best.’

Hannah doesn’t answer. We have reached number seventeen and the chauffeur is coming to park the car.

Emmeline crosses her arms and sniffles. ‘Well you might have ruined this film, but I’m still going to be an actress. Philippe will wait for me. And the other films will still be shown.’

‘There are others?’ Hannah looks at me in the rear-vision mirror, and I know what she is thinking. Teddy will have to be told. Only he will be able to make sure the films are never seen.

As Hannah and Emmeline disappear into the house I hurry down the servants’ stairs. I do not own a wristwatch but feel sure it must be getting on for five. The stage show starts at half past the hour. I push through the door but it is Mrs Tibbit waiting for me, not Alfred.

‘Alfred?’ I say, out of breath.

‘Nice fellow, him,’ she says, a sly smile tugging at her mole. ‘Pity he had to go so soon.’

My heart sinks and I glance at the clock. ‘How long ago did he leave?’

‘Oh, some time now,’ she says, turning back toward the kitchen. ‘Sat around here a while, watching the time tick by. Until I put him out of his misery.’

‘Out of his misery?’

‘Told him he was wasting his time. That you were out on one of your secret errands for the Mistress and it was anyone’s guess when you’d be back.’

I am running again. Down Regent Street toward Piccadilly. If I go quickly perhaps I can catch him up. I curse that meddling witch, Mrs Tibbit, while I go. What business had she telling Alfred I wouldn’t be back? And to advise him I was running an errand for Hannah, on my day off too! It’s as if she knew the very way to inflict the largest wound. I know him well enough to guess at Alfred’s mind. More and more these days his letters are peppered with frustration at the ‘feudal exploitation of slaves and serfs’, calls to ‘wake the sleeping giant of the proletariat’. He is already frustrated at my failure to perceive my employment as exploitation. Miss Hannah needs me, I write to him again and again, and I enjoy the work: how can that be viewed as exploitation?

As Regent Street opens into Piccadilly, the noise and bustle escalates. The Saqui & Lawrence clocks are arranged at half-five-end of business-and the circus is clogged with traffic: pedestrian and automotive. Gentlemen and businessmen, ladies and errand boys, jostle for safe passage. I squeeze between a motorbus and a stalled motorised taxi, am almost flattened by a horse-drawn cart laden with fat hessian sacks.

Down the Haymarket I hurry, jumping over an extended cane, invoking the ire of its monocled owner. I stay close to the buildings where the pavement is less travelled until, breathless, I reach Her Majesty’s Theatre. I lean against the stone wall directly beneath the playbill, scanning the laughing, frowning, speaking, nodding faces going by, waiting for my gaze to strike that familiar template. A thin gentleman and a thinner lady rush up the theatre stairs. He presents two tickets and they are swept inside. In the distance, a clock-Big Ben?-strikes the quarter-hour. Could Alfred still be coming? Has he changed his mind? Or am I too late and he’s already in his seat?

I wait to hear Big Ben sound the hour, then another quarter-hour for good measure. No one has entered or left the theatre since the pair of well-dressed greyhounds. By now I am sitting on the stairs. My breath is caught and I am resigned. I will not be seeing Alfred this evening.

When a street cleaner risks a lewd smile at me, it is finally time to leave. I gather my shawl about my shoulders, straighten my hat, and set back for number seventeen. I will write to Alfred. Explain what happened. About Hannah and Mrs Tibbit; I may even tell him the whole truth, about Emmeline and Philippe and the almost-scandal. For all his ideas about exploitation and feudal societies, Alfred is sure to understand. Isn’t he?