by Kate Morton
The circular pool of stacked stone stood two feet high and twenty feet across at its widest point. It was lined with tiny glass tiles, azure blue like the necklace of sapphires Lord Ashbury had brought back for Lady Violet after serving in the Far East. From the centre emerged a huge craggy block of russet marble, the height of two men, thick at base but tapering to a peak. Midway up, creamy marble against the brown, the lifesize figure of Icarus had been carved in a position of recline. His wings, pale marble etched to give the impression of feathers, were strapped to his outspread arms and fell behind, weeping over the rock. Rising from the pool to tend the fallen figure were three mermaids, long hair looped and coiled about angelic faces: one held a small harp, one wore a coronet of woven ivy leaves, and one reached beneath Icarus’s torso, white hands on creamy skin, to pull him from the deep.
On that summer’s day a pair of purple martins, oblivious to the statue’s beauty, swooped overhead, alighting atop the marble rock, only to take flight again, skim the pond surface and fill their beaks with water. As I watched them, I was overcome with heat and a desire, strong and sudden, to plunge my hand into the cool water. I glanced back toward the distant house, far too intent upon its grief to notice if a housemaid, all the way at the bottom of the south park, paused a moment to cool herself.
I rested the tray on the rim of the pool and placed one tentative knee on the tiles, warm through my black stockings. I leaned forward, held out my hand, withdrew it again at the first touch of sun-kissed water. I rolled up my sleeve, reached out again, ready to submerge my arm.
There came a laugh, tinkling music in the summer stillness.
I froze, listened, inclined my head and peered beyond the statue.
I saw them then, Hannah and Emmeline, not at the boathouse after all, but perched along the rim on the other side of the fountain. My shock was compounded: they had removed their black mourning dresses and wore only petticoats, corset covers and lace-trimmed drawers. Their boots, too, lay discarded on the white stone path that rounded the pool. Their long hair glistened in complicity with the sun. I glanced back to the house, wondering at their daring. Wondering whether my presence implicated me somehow. Wondering whether I feared or hoped it did.
Emmeline lay on her back: feet together, legs bent, knees, as white as her petticoat, saluting the clear blue sky. Her outer arm was arranged so that her head rested on her hand. The other arm—soft, pale skin, a stranger to the sun—was extended straight over the pool, her wrist dancing a lazy figure eight so that alternate fingers pricked the pool’s surface. Tiny ripples lapped one another keenly.
Hannah sat beside, one leg curled beneath her, the other bent so her chin rested on her knee, her toes flirting carelessly with the water. Her arms were wrapped around her raised leg and from one hand dangled a piece of paper so thin as to be almost transparent beneath the sun’s glare.
I withdrew my arm, rolled down my sleeve, collected myself. With one last longing glance at the sparkling pool, I picked up the tray.
As I drew closer, I could hear them talking.
‘. . . I think he’s being awfully pig-headed,’ Emmeline said. They had accumulated a pile of strawberries between them and she popped one in her mouth, tossed the stalk into the garden.
Hannah shrugged. ‘Pa’s always been stubborn.’
‘All the same,’ Emmeline said. ‘To flat out refuse is just silly. If David can be bothered to write to us all the way from France, the least Pa could do is read the thing.’
Hannah gazed toward the statue, inclined her head so that the pool’s reflected ripples shimmered, in ribbons, across her face. ‘David made a fool of Pa. He went behind his back, did the very thing Pa told him not to.’
‘Pooh. It’s been over a year.’
‘Pa doesn’t forgive easily. David knows that.’
‘But it’s such a funny letter. Read again the bit about the mess hall, the pudding.’
‘I’m not going to read it again. I shouldn’t have read it the first three times. It’s far too coarse for your young ears.’ She held out the letter. It cast a shadow across Emmeline’s face. ‘Here. Read it yourself. There’s an enlightening illustration on the second page.’ There was a warm breath of wind then and the paper fluttered so that I could see the black lines of a sketch in the top corner.
My footsteps crunched the white stones of the path and Emmeline looked up, saw me standing behind Hannah. ‘Ooh, lemonade,’ she said, withdrawing her arm from the pool, letter forgotten. ‘Good. I’m dying of thirst.’
Hannah turned, tucked the letter into her waistband. ‘Grace,’ she said, smiling.
‘We’re hiding from Old Grope-ford,’ Emmeline said, swinging to sit upright, her back to the fountain. ‘Ooh, that sun’s delicious. It’s gone straight to my head.’
‘And your cheeks,’ Hannah said.
Emmeline raised her face to the sun, closed her eyes. ‘I don’t mind. I wish it could be summer all year round.’
‘Has Lord Gifford been and gone, Grace?’ Hannah said.
‘I couldn’t say for sure, miss.’ I rested the tray on the fountain edge. ‘I should think so. He was in the drawing room when I served morning tea and Her Ladyship didn’t mention he was staying.’
‘I hope not,’ Hannah said. ‘There’s enough that’s unpleasant at the moment without him making excuses to look down my dress all afternoon.’
A small wrought-iron garden table was nestled by a cluster of pink and yellow honeysuckles and I carried it over to hold the refreshments. I planted its curled feet amongst the stones of the path and set the tray on top; started to pour the lemonades.
Between thumb and index finger, Hannah twirled a strawberry by its stalk. ‘You didn’t happen to hear any of what Lord Gifford was saying, did you, Grace?’
I hesitated. I wasn’t supposed to be listening when I served the tea.
‘About Grandfather’s estate,’ she said. ‘About Riverton.’ Her eyes wouldn’t meet mine, and I suspected she felt as uncomfortable asking as I did answering.
I swallowed, set down the jug. ‘I . . . I’m not sure, miss . . .’
‘She did!’ Emmeline exclaimed. ‘I can tell—she’s blushing. You did, didn’t you?’ She leaned forward, eyes wide. ‘Well then, tell us. What’s to happen? Is it to go to Pa? Are we to stay?’
‘I don’t know, miss,’ I said, shrinking, as I always did, when faced with Emmeline’s imperious attention. ‘Nobody knows.’
Emmeline took a glass of lemonade. ‘Someone must know,’ she said haughtily. ‘Lord Gifford, I’d have thought. Why else was he here today if not to talk over Grandfather’s will?’
‘What I mean, miss, is it depends.’
‘On what?’
Hannah spoke then. ‘On Aunt Jemima’s baby.’ Her eyes met mine. ‘That’s it, isn’t it, Grace?’
‘Yes, miss,’ I said quietly. ‘At least I think that’s what they were saying.’
Emmeline said, ‘On Aunt Jemima’s baby?’
‘If it’s a boy,’ Hannah said thoughtfully, ‘then everything is rightly his. If not, Pa becomes Lord Ashbury.’
Emmeline, who had just popped a strawberry in her mouth, clapped her hand to her lips and laughed. ‘Imagine. Pa, lord of the manor. It’s too silly.’ The peach ribbon that threaded around the waistline of her petticoat had snagged on the pool rim and started to unravel. A long thread zigzagged down her leg. I would have to remember to mend it later. ‘Do you think he would want us to live here?’
Oh, yes, I thought hopefully. Riverton had been so quiet the year past. Nought to do but re-dust empty rooms and try not to worry too much about those still fighting.
‘I don’t know,’ Hannah said. ‘I certainly hope not. It’s bad enough being trapped here over summer. The days are twice as long in the country and there’s only half as much with which to fill them.’
‘I’ll bet he would.’
‘No,’ Hannah said resolutely. ‘Pa couldn’t bear the separation from his factory.’
‘I suppose it does,’ Hannah said. ‘For what that’s worth.’
Emmeline jumped up, rolled her eyes. ‘It’s worth a lot.’ She put her glass back on the table and climbed onto the rim of the pool. ‘The Honourable Emmeline Hartford of Riverton Manor. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?’ She turned and curtseyed to her reflection, batted her eyelids and presented her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, handsome sir. I’m the Honourable Emmeline Hartford.’ She laughed, delighted by her own skit, and began to skip along the tiled edge, arms out to the sides for balance, repeating the titled introduction between bursts of renewed laughter.
Hannah watched her for a moment, bemused. ‘Have you any sisters, Grace?’
‘No, miss,’ I said. ‘Nor brothers neither.’
‘Really?’ she said, as if existence without siblings was something she hadn’t considered.
‘I was not so lucky, miss. It’s just Mother and me.’
She looked at me, squinted into the sun. ‘Your mother. She was in service here.’
It was a statement rather than a question. ‘Yes, miss. Until I was born, miss.’
‘You’re very like her. To look at, I mean.’
I was taken aback. ‘Miss?’
‘I saw her picture. In Grandmamma’s family scrapbook. One of the household photographs from last century.’ She must have felt my confusion, for she rushed on, ‘Not that I was looking for it; you mustn’t think that, Grace. I was trying to find a certain picture of my own mother when I came across it. The resemblance to you was striking. The same pretty face, same kind eyes.’
I had never seen a photograph of Mother—not from when she was younger—and Hannah’s description was so at odds with the Mother I knew that I was seized by a sudden and irrepressible longing to see it for myself. I knew where Lady Ashbury kept her scrapbook—the left-hand drawer of her writing desk. And there were times, many times now Nancy was away, that I was left alone to clean the drawing room. If I made sure the household was busy elsewhere, and if I were very quick, it wouldn’t be difficult, surely, to glimpse it for myself ? I wondered if I dared.
‘Why did she not come back to Riverton?’ Hannah was saying. ‘After you were born, I mean?’
‘It wasn’t possible, miss. Not with a babe.’
‘I’m sure Grandmamma’s had families on staff before.’ She smiled. ‘Just imagine: we might have known each other when we were children if she had.’ Hannah looked out over the water, frowned slightly. ‘Perhaps she was unhappy here, didn’t want to return?’
‘I don’t know, miss,’ I said, inexplicably discomforted to be discussing Mother with Hannah. ‘She doesn’t much talk about it.’
‘Is she in service somewhere else?’
‘She takes in stitching now, miss. In the village.’
‘She works for herself?’
‘Yes, miss.’ I had never thought of it in those terms.
Hannah nodded. ‘There must be some satisfaction in that.’
I looked at her, unsure whether she was teasing. Her face was serious, though. Thoughtful.
‘I don’t know, miss,’ I said, faltering. ‘I . . . I’m seeing her this afternoon. I could ask if you like?’
Her eyes had a cloudy look about them, as if her thoughts were far away. She glanced at me and the shadows fled. ‘No. It’s not important.’ She fingered the edge of David’s letter, still tucked into her petticoat. ‘Have you had news of Alfred?’
‘Yes, miss,’ I said, glad of the change of subject. Alfred was safer territory. He was a part of this world. ‘I had a letter this week past. He’ll be home on leave in September. That is, we hope he will.’
‘September,’ she said. ‘That’s not so long. You’ll be glad to see him.’
‘Oh yes, miss, I certainly will.’
Hannah smiled knowingly and I blushed. ‘What I mean, miss, is we’ll all be glad to see him downstairs.’
‘Of course you will, Grace. Alfred is a lovely fellow.’
My cheeks were tingling red. For Hannah had guessed correctly. While letters from Alfred still arrived for the collective staff, increasingly they were addressed solely to me. Their content was changing too. Talk of battle was being replaced with talk of home and other secret things. How much he missed me, cared for me. The future . . . I blinked. ‘And Master David, miss?’ I said. ‘Will he be home soon?’
‘December, he thinks.’ She ran her fingers over the etched surface of her locket, glanced at Emmeline and lowered her voice. ‘You know, I’ve the strongest feeling it will be the last time he comes home to us.’
‘Miss?’
‘Now that he’s escaped, Grace, seen the world . . . Well, he has a new life, doesn’t he? A real life. The war will end, he’ll remain in London and study piano and become a grand musician. Lead a life rich with excitement and adventure, just like the games we used to play . . .’ She looked beyond me in the direction of the house and her smile faded. She sighed then. A long, steady exhalation that made her shoulders deflate. ‘Sometimes . . .’
The word hung between us: languorous, heavy, full, and I waited for a conclusion that did not come. I could think of nothing to say, so I did what I did best. Remained silent and poured the last of the lemonade into her glass.
She looked up at me then. Held out her glass. ‘Here, Grace. You have this one.’
‘Oh no, miss. Thank you, miss. I’m all right.’
‘Nonsense,’ Hannah said. ‘Your cheeks are almost as red as Emmeline’s. Here.’ She thrust the glass toward me.
I glanced at Emmeline, setting pink and yellow honeysuckle flowers to float on the other side of the pool. ‘Really, miss, I—’
‘Grace,’ she said, mock sternly. ‘It’s hot and I insist.’
I sighed, took the glass. It was cool in my hand, tantalisingly cool. I lifted it to my lips, perhaps just a tiny sip . . .
An excited whoop from behind made Hannah swing around. I lifted my gaze, squinted into the light. The sun had begun its slide to the west and the air was hazy.
Emmeline was crouched midway up the statue on the ledge near Icarus. Her pale hair was loose and wavy, and she had threaded a cluster of white clematis behind one ear. The wet hem of her petticoat clung to her legs.
In the warm, white light she looked to be part of the statue.
A fourth mermaid, come to life. She waved at us. At Hannah.
‘Come up here. You can see all the way to the lake.’
‘I’ve seen it,’ Hannah called back. ‘I showed you, remember?’
There was a drone, high in the sky, as a plane flew overhead. I wasn’t sure what kind it was. Alfred would have known.
Hannah watched it go, not looking away until it disappeared, a tiny speck, into the sun’s glare. Then suddenly she stood, resolutely, and hurried to the garden seat that held their clothing. As she pulled on her black dress, I set down the lemonade and made to help her.
‘What are you doing?’ Emmeline asked her.
‘I’m getting dressed.’
‘Why?’
‘I have something to do at the house.’ Hannah paused as I straightened her bodice. ‘Some French verbs for Miss Prince.’
‘Since when?’ Emmeline wrinkled her nose suspiciously. ‘It’s the holidays.’
‘I asked for extra.’
‘You did not.’
‘I did.’
‘Well I’m coming too,’ Emmeline said, without moving.
‘Fine,’ Hannah said coolly. ‘And if you get bored, perhaps Lord Gifford will still be at the house to keep you company.’ She sat on the garden seat a
nd started lacing up her boots.
‘Come on,’ Emmeline said, pouting. ‘Tell me what you’re doing. You know I can keep secrets.’
‘Thank goodness,’ Hannah said, looking at her with wide eyes. ‘I wouldn’t want anyone to find out I was doing extra French verbs.’
Emmeline sat for a moment, watching Hannah and drumming her legs against a marble wing. She inclined her head. ‘Do you promise that’s all you’re doing?’
‘I promise,’ Hannah said. ‘I’m going to the house to do some translations.’ She sneaked a glance at me then, and I realised the precise nature of her half-truth. She was going to work on translations, but they were in shorthand and not French. I lowered my eyes, disproportionately pleased at my casting as conspirator.
Emmeline shook her head slowly, narrowed her eyes. ‘It’s a mortal sin to lie, you know.’ She was clutching at straws.
‘Yes, oh pious one,’ Hannah said, laughing.
Emmeline crossed her arms. ‘Fine. Keep your silly secrets. I’m sure I don’t mind.’
‘Good,’ Hannah said. ‘Everybody’s happy.’ She smiled at me and I smiled back. ‘Thank you for the lemonade, Grace.’ And then she disappeared, through the kissing gate and into the Long Walk.
‘I’ll find out, you know,’ Emmeline called after her. ‘I always do.’
There came no response and I heard Emmeline huff. As I turned to face her, I saw the white clematis that had decorated her hair, spinning onto the stone below. She looked at me crossly. ‘Is that glass of lemonade for me? I’m parched.’
My visit to Mother that afternoon was brief and would not have been notable, had it not been for one thing.
Usually when I visited, Mother and I sat in the kitchen where the light was best for stitching and where we had spent most of our time together before I started at Riverton. That day, however, when she met me at the door she led me to the tiny sitting room that opened off the kitchen. I was surprised, and wondered who else Mother was expecting, for the room was rarely used, had always been reserved for the visits of important folk like Doctor Arthur or the church minister. I sat on a chair by the window and waited while she fetched tea.