Kate Morton - The House at Riverton aka The Shifting Fog

‘David’s friend?’ said Hannah. ‘From Riverton?’

‘Robbie Hunter,’ said Emmeline, smiling slowly, delightedly, hand dropping into her lap. ‘Of course I do. By my count, you owe me a dress. Perhaps this time you’ll resist the urge to tear it from me.’

At Emmeline’s insistence, Robbie stayed for dinner. It was unthinkable, she said, that he be allowed to leave when he had only just arrived. So it was, Robbie joined Deborah, Teddy, Emmeline and Hannah in the dining room of number seventeen that night.

Hannah sat on one side of the table, Deborah and Emmeline on the other, Robbie the foot to Teddy’s head. They made amusing book ends, Hannah thought: Robbie the archetype of the disillusioned artist, and Teddy, after four years working with his father, a caricature of power and plenty. He was still a handsome man-Hannah had noticed some of his colleagues’ young wives making eyes at him, little use it would do them-but his face was fuller and his hair was greyer. His cheeks, too, had taken on the blush of plentiful living. He leaned back against his chair.

‘So. What is it you do for a crust, Mr Hunter? My wife tells me you’re not in business.’ That an alternative existed no longer occurred to him.

‘I’m a writer,’ said Robbie.

‘Writer, eh?’ said Teddy. ‘Write for The Times , do you?’

‘I did,’ said Robbie, ‘amongst others.’

‘And now?’ said Teddy.

‘I write for myself.’ He smiled. ‘Foolishly, I thought I’d be easier to please.’

‘How fortunate,’ said Deborah breezily, ‘to have the time to give oneself over to one’s leisure. I wouldn’t recognise myself if I wasn’t rushing hither and yon.’ She began a monologue on her organisation of a recent masked society ball, and smiled wolfishly at Robbie.

Deborah was flirting, Hannah realised. She looked at Robbie. Yes, he was handsome, in a languid, sensuous sort of way: not at all Deborah’s usual type.

‘Books, is it?’ said Teddy.

‘Poetry,’ said Robbie.

Teddy raised his eyebrows dramatically. ‘“How dull it is to stop, to rust unburnished rather than to sparkle in use.”’

Hannah winced at the mishandled Tennyson.

Robbie met her eye and grinned. ‘“As though to breathe were life.”’

‘I’ve always loved Shakespeare,’ said Teddy. ‘Your rhymes anything like his?’

‘I’m afraid I pale by comparison,’ said Robbie. ‘But I persist nonetheless. Better to lose oneself in action than to wither in despair.’

‘Quite so,’ said Teddy.

As Hannah watched Robbie, something she had glimpsed came into focus. Suddenly she knew who he was. She inhaled. ‘You’re RS Hunter.’

‘Who?’ said Teddy. He looked between Hannah and Robbie, then to Deborah for clarification. Deborah lifted her shoulders affectedly.

‘RS Hunter,’ said Hannah, eyes still searching Robbie’s. She laughed. She couldn’t help it. ‘I have your collected poems.’

‘First or second?’ said Robbie.

‘ Progress and Disintegration ,’ said Hannah. She hadn’t realised there was another.

‘Ah,’ said Deborah, eyes widening. ‘Yes, I saw a write-up in the paper. You won that award.’

‘ Progress is my second,’ said Robbie, looking at Hannah.

‘I should like to read the first,’ Hannah said. ‘Tell me the name, won’t you, Mr Hunter, so I may purchase it.’

‘You can have my copy,’ said Robbie. ‘I’ve already read it. Between you and me, I find the author quite a bore.’

Deborah’s lips curled into a smile and a familiar glint appeared in her eye. She was assessing Robbie’s worth, cataloguing the list of people she could impress if she produced him at one of her functions. By the keen way she rubbed her glossy red lips together, his value was high. Hannah felt a surprising jolt of possession then.

‘ Progress and Disintegration ?’ said Teddy, winking at Robbie. ‘You’re not a socialist, are you, Mr Hunter?’

Robbie smiled. ‘No, sir. I have neither possessions to redistribute, nor desire to acquire them.’

Teddy laughed.

‘Come now, Mr Hunter,’ said Deborah. ‘I suspect you’re having fun at our expense.’

‘I’m having fun. I hope it’s not at your expense.’

Deborah smiled in a way she thought beguiling. ‘A little birdie tells me you’re not quite the stray you’d have us think.’

Hannah looked at Emmeline, smiling behind her hands; it wasn’t difficult to deduce the identity of Deborah’s little birdie.

‘What are you talking about, Dobby?’ said Teddy. ‘Out with it.’

‘Our guest has been teasing us,’ said Deborah, voice rising triumphantly. ‘For he isn’t Mr Hunter at all, he’s Lord Hunter.’

Teddy lifted his eyebrows. ‘Eh? What’s that?’

Robbie twisted his wineglass by its stem. ‘It’s true enough my father was Lord Hunter. But the title isn’t one I use.’

Teddy eyed Robbie over his plate of roast beef. Denying a title was something he couldn’t understand. He and his father had campaigned long and hard for Lloyd George’s ennobling. ‘You sure you’re not a socialist?’ he said.

‘Enough politics,’ said Emmeline suddenly, rolling her eyes. ‘Of course he’s not a socialist. Robbie’s one of us, and we didn’t invite him so we could bore him to death.’ She fixed her gaze on Robbie, rested her chin on the palm of her hand. ‘Tell us where you’ve been, Robbie.’

‘Most recently?’ said Robbie. ‘Spain.’

Spain. Hannah repeated it to herself. How wonderful.

‘How primitive,’ said Deborah, laughing. ‘What on earth were you doing there?’

‘Fulfilling a promise made long ago.’

‘Madrid, was it?’ said Teddy.

‘For a time,’ said Robbie. ‘On my way to Segovia.’

Teddy frowned. ‘What’s a fellow do in Segovia?’

‘I went to Alcázar.’

Hannah felt her skin prickle.

‘That dusty old fort?’ said Deborah, smiling broadly. ‘I can’t think of anything worse.’

‘Oh no,’ said Robbie. ‘It was remarkable. Magical. Like stepping into a different world.’

‘Do tell.’

Robbie hesitated, searching for the right words. ‘Sometimes I felt that I could glimpse the past. When evening came, and I was all alone, I could almost hear the whispers of the dead. Ancient secrets swirling by.’

‘How ghoulish,’ said Deborah.

‘Why would you ever leave?’ said Hannah.

‘Yes,’ said Teddy. ‘What brought you back to London, Mr Hunter?’

Robbie met Hannah’s eyes. He smiled, turned to Teddy. ‘Providence, I suspect.’

‘All that travelling,’ said Deborah, in what Hannah recognised as her beguiling voice. ‘You must have some of the gypsy in you.’

Robbie smiled, but he didn’t answer.

‘Either that or our guest has a guilty conscience,’ said Deborah, leaning toward Robbie and lowering her voice playfully. ‘Is that it, Mr Hunter? Are you on the run?’

‘Only from myself, Miss Luxton,’ said Robbie.

‘You’ll settle down,’ said Teddy, ‘as you get older. I used to have a bit of the travel bug myself. Entertained notions of seeing the world, collecting artefacts and experiences.’ By the way he ran his flat palms over the tablecloth either side of his plate. Hannah knew he was about to launch a lecture. ‘A man accumulates responsibilities as he gets older. Gets set in his ways. Differences that used to thrill when he was younger start to irritate. Take Paris, for instance; I was there recently. I used to adore Paris, but the whole city is going to the dogs. No respect for tradition. The way the women dress!’ He shook his head. ‘No way a wife of mine would be allowed to get about like that!’