Kate Morton - The House at Riverton aka The Shifting Fog

Hannah heard glass scraping against glass and then the burbling of sherry being poured.

‘He was still in his clothes,’ said Deborah in an eager whisper, ‘and his room was a mess. Papers everywhere.’ She laughed. ‘You’ll love this, what do you think was lying in his lap?’

‘His will?’

‘A photograph,’ said Deborah. ‘An old formal photograph from late last century. Family and servants.’ The last was said meaningfully, Hannah thought, though she couldn’t understand why. She knew the type of photograph to which Deborah referred. Grandmother had insisted on one each year. Was it so strange that in his last hours Pa would seek solace in the faces of the people he’d loved?

‘Lord Gifford had quite a time finding Frederick’s will,’ Deborah was saying.

‘He found it, though,’ said Teddy quickly. ‘There were no surprises?’

‘It was as we discussed,’ said Deborah. ‘He was true to his word in that.’

‘Excellent,’ said Teddy.

‘Going to sell the place?’ said Deborah.

There was a pause and the squeak of leather as Teddy rearranged himself in his desk chair. ‘I don’t think I will,’ he said. ‘I’ve always fancied a place in the country.’

‘You could seek nomination for the seat of Saffron,’ said Deborah. ‘Country people do love their lord of the manor.’

There was a pause and Hannah held her breath, listening for footsteps. ‘By God, Dobby, you’re a genius! I’ll call Lord Gifford immediately,’ said Teddy breathlessly, and the telephone cradle rattled. ‘See if he’ll have a word with the others on my behalf.’

Hannah pulled away then. She had heard enough.

She didn’t speak to Teddy that night. In any event, Emmeline was home by the comparatively early hour of two. Hannah was still awake in bed when Emmeline stumbled along the hall. She rolled over and closed her eyes tight, tried not to think any more about what Deborah had said, about Pa and the way he had died. His desperate unhappiness. His loneliness. The darkness that had claimed him. And she refused to think of the letters of contrition she’d never quite managed to finish.

And in the isolation of the bedroom Deborah had decorated for her, with Teddy’s contented snores drifting from the room beyond, noises of night-time London muffled by her window, she fell into dreams of black water, abandoned ships and lonely foghorns floating back to empty shores.

Robbie came back. He gave no explanation for his absence, simply sat down in Teddy’s armchair as if no time had passed and presented Hannah with his first volume of poetry. She was about to tell him she already owned a copy when he drew another book from his coat pocket. Small, with a green cover.

‘For you,’ he said, handing it to her.

Hannah’s heart skipped when she saw its title. It was James Joyce’s Ulysses , and it was banned everywhere.

‘But where did you-?’

‘A friend in Paris.’

Hannah ran her fingertips over the word Ulysses . It was about a married couple, she knew, and their moribund physical relationship. She had read-rather Teddy had read her-extracts from the newspaper. He’d called them filth and she had nodded agreement. In truth, she’d found them strangely affecting. She could imagine what Teddy would have said if she’d told him so. He’d have thought her ill, recommended she see a doctor. And perhaps she was.

Yet, though thrilled to have opportunity to read the novel, she wasn’t certain how she felt about Robbie bringing it for her. Did he think she was the type of woman for whom such topics were ordinary fare? Worse: was he making a joke? Did he think her a prude? She was about to ask him when he said, very simply and very gently,

‘I’m sorry about your father.’

And before she could say anything about Ulysses , she realised she was crying.

No one thought much of Robbie’s visits. Not at first. Certainly there was no suggestion that anything improper was passing between him and Hannah. Hannah would’ve been the first to deny it if there had. It was known to everyone that Robbie had been a friend to her brother, had been with him at the end. If he seemed a little irregular, less than respectable, as she knew Boyle continued to maintain, it was easily enough put down to the mystery of war.

Robbie’s visits followed no pattern, his arrival was never planned, but Hannah started looking forward to them, waiting for them. Sometimes she was alone, sometimes Emmeline or Deborah was with her; it didn’t matter. For Hannah, Robbie became a lifeline. They spoke of books and travel. Far-fetched ideas and faraway places. He seemed to know so much about her already. It was almost like having David back. She found she longed for his company, became fidgety between times, bored with whatever else she’d been doing.

Perhaps if Hannah had been less preoccupied she would have noticed she was not the only one for whom Robbie’s visits had come to hold attraction. May have observed that Deborah was spending more time at home. But she did not.

It came as a complete surprise one morning, in the drawing room, when Deborah put aside her crossword puzzle and said, ‘I have a ball organised for next week, Mr Hunter, and wouldn’t you know it? I’ve been so busy organising I haven’t had time even to think about finding myself a partner.’ She smiled, all white teeth and red lips.

‘Doubt you’ll have trouble,’ said Robbie. ‘Must be heaps of fellows looking for a ride on society’s golden wave.’

‘Of course,’ said Deborah, mistaking Robbie’s irony. ‘All the same, it’s such late notice.’

‘Lord Woodall would be sure to take you,’ said Hannah.

‘Lord Woodall is abroad,’ Deborah said quickly. She smiled at Robbie. ‘And I couldn’t possibly go alone.’

‘Going stag is all the rage according to Emmeline,’ said Hannah.

Deborah appeared not to have heard. She batted her lids at Robbie. ‘Unless…’ She shook her head with a coyness that didn’t suit her. ‘No, of course not.’

Robbie said nothing.

Deborah pursed her lips. ‘Unless you’d accompany me, Mr Hunter?’

Hannah held her breath.

‘Me?’ Robbie said, laughing. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why not?’ said Deborah, ‘We’d have a great old time.’

‘I’ve none of the social graces,’ said Robbie. ‘I’d be a fish out of water.’

‘I’m a very strong swimmer,’ said Deborah. ‘I’ll keep you afloat.’

‘All the same,’ said Robbie. ‘No.’

Not for the first time, Hannah’s breath caught in her throat. He had a lack of propriety quite unlike the affected vulgarity of Emmeline’s friends. His was genuine and, Hannah thought, quite stunning.

‘I urge you to reconsider,’ said Deborah, a note of determined anxiety screwing tight her voice, ‘everybody who’s anybody will be there.’

‘I don’t enjoy society,’ said Robbie plainly. He was bored now. ‘Too many people spending too much money to impress those too stupid to know it.’

Deborah opened her mouth, shut it again.

Hannah tried not to smile.

‘If you’re sure,’ said Deborah.

‘Quite sure,’ said Robbie cheerfully. ‘Thanks all the same.’

Deborah shook the newspaper onto her lap and gave the appearance of resuming her crossword. Robbie raised his eyebrows at Hannah then sucked his cheeks in like a fish. Hannah couldn’t help herself, she laughed.

Deborah looked up sharply and glanced between them. Hannah recognised the expression: Deborah had inherited it, along with her lust for conquest, from Simion. Her lips thinned around the bitter taste of defeat. ‘You’re a wordsmith, Mr Hunter,’ she said coldly. ‘What’s a seven letter word starting with ‘b’ that means an error in judgement?’