by Kate Morton
I picked up the pink taffeta dress from the chair. ‘Is this the one you’ll be wearing tonight, miss?’ I said softly.
Emmeline jumped. ‘Oh! You mustn’t sneak up like that. You frightened me half to death.’
‘Sorry, miss.’ I could feel my cheeks growing hot and tingly. I shot a glance at Hannah who appeared not to have heard.
‘Is this the dress you’d like, miss?’
‘Yes. That’s it.’ Emmeline chewed gently on her bottom lip. ‘At least, I think so.’ She pondered the dress, reached out and flicked the ruffled trim. ‘Hannah, which do you think? Blue or pink?’
‘Blue.’
‘Really?’ Emmeline turned to Hannah, surprised. ‘I thought pink.’
‘Pink then.’
‘You’re not even looking.’
Hannah looked up reluctantly. ‘Either. Neither.’ A frustrated sigh. ‘They’re both fine.’
Emmeline sighed peevishly. ‘You’d better fetch the blue dress. I’ll need to have another look.’
I curtseyed and disappeared around the corner into the bedroom. As I reached the wardrobe, I heard Emmeline say, ‘It’s important, Hannah. Tonight is my first proper dinner party and I want to look sophisticated. You should too. The Luxtons are American.’
‘So?’
‘You don’t want them thinking us unrefined.’
‘I don’t much care what they think.’
‘You should. They’re very important to Pa’s business.’ Emmeline lowered her voice and I had to stand very still, cheek pressed close against the dresses, to make out what she was saying. ‘I overheard Pa talking with Grandmamma—’ ‘Eavesdropped, more like,’ Hannah said. ‘And Grandmamma thinks I’m the wicked one!’
‘Fine then,’ said Emmeline, and in her voice I heard the careless shrug of her shoulders. ‘I’ll keep it to myself.’
‘You couldn’t if you tried. I can see it in your face, you’re bursting to tell me what you heard.’
Emmeline paused a moment to savour her ill-gotten gains. ‘Oh . . . all right,’ she said eagerly, ‘I’ll tell you if you insist.’ She cleared her throat importantly. ‘It all started because Grandmamma was saying what a tragedy the war had been for this family. That the Germans had robbed the Ashbury line of its future and that Grandfather would turn in his grave if he knew the state of things. Pa tried to tell her that it wasn’t as desperate as all that, but Grandmamma was having none of it. She said she was old enough to see clearly and how else could the situation be described but desperate, when Pa was last in line with no heirs to follow? Grandmamma said it was a shame that Pa hadn’t done the right thing and married Fanny when he had the chance!
‘Pa turned snippy then and said that while he had lost his heir, he still had his factory, and Grandmamma could stop worrying for he would take care of things. Grandmamma didn’t stop worrying though. She said the bank was starting to ask questions.
‘Then Pa was quiet for a little while and I began to worry, thinking that he had stood up and was on his way to the door and I was to be discovered. I almost laughed with relief when he spoke again and I could hear that he was still in his chair.’
‘Yes, yes, and what did he say?’
Emmeline continued, the cautiously optimistic manner of an actor nearing the end of a complicated passage. ‘Pa said that while it was true things had been tight during the war, he’d given up the aeroplanes and was back making motor cars now. The damned bank—his words, not mine—the damned bank was going to get its money. He said he met a man when he addressed the Parliament. A finance man. The fellow, Mr Simion Luxton, has connections, Pa said, in business and in the government.’ Emmeline sighed triumphantly, monologue successfully delivered. ‘And that was the end of it, or near enough. Pa sounded ever so embarrassed when Grandmamma mentioned the bank. I decided then and there that I’d do anything I could to help make a good impression with Mr Luxton, to help Pa keep his business.’
‘I didn’t know you took such keen interest.’
‘Of course I do,’ Emmeline said primly. ‘And you needn’t be angry with me just because I know more about it than you this time.’
A pause, then Hannah: ‘I don’t suppose your sudden, ardent devotion to Pa’s business has anything to do with that fellow, the son, whose photo Fanny was mooning over in the newspaper?’
‘Theodore Luxton? Is he going to be at dinner? I had no idea,’ Emmeline said, but a smile had crept into her voice.
‘You’re far too young. He’s at least thirty.’
‘I’m almost fifteen and everyone says I look mature for my age.’
Hannah rolled her eyes.
‘I’m not too young to be in love, you know,’ Emmeline said. ‘Juliet was only fourteen.’
‘And look what happened to her.’
‘That was just a misunderstanding. If she and Romeo had been married and their silly old parents had stopped giving them such trouble, I’m sure they’d have lived happily ever after.’ She sighed. ‘I can’t wait to be married.’
‘Marriage isn’t just about having a handsome man to dance with,’ said Hannah. ‘There’s a lot more to it.’
The gramophone song had stopped playing, but the record continued to spin beneath the needle.
‘Like what?’
Against the cold silk of Emmeline’s dresses, my cheeks grew warm.
‘Private things,’ Hannah said. ‘Intimacies.’
‘Oh,’ Emmeline said, almost inaudible. ‘Intimacies. Poor Fanny.’
There was a silence in which we all pondered Poor Fanny’s misfortune. Newly married and trapped, on honeymoon, with a Strange Man.
I was no longer entirely inexperienced in such terrors, myself. A few months before, in the village, Billy, the fishmonger’s half-witted son, had followed me into the laneway and bundled me into a nook, clumsy fingers pawing at my skirt. I had been startled at first, but then, remembering the package of wrapped mackerel in my string bag, had lifted it high and walloped him over the head. I was released, but not before his fingers had burrowed their way into my private flesh. The echoes made me shudder all the way home and it was some days before I could close my eyes without reliving the experience, wondering what might have happened had I not taken action.
‘Hannah,’ Emmeline said. ‘What are intimacies, exactly?’
‘I . . . well . . . They’re expressions of love,’ Hannah said breezily. ‘Quite pleasant, I believe, with a man with whom you’re passionately in love; unthinkably distasteful with anyone else.’
‘Yes, yes. But what are they? Exactly?’
Another silence.
‘You don’t know either,’ Emmeline said. ‘I can tell by your face.’
‘Well, not exactly—’ ‘I’ll ask Fanny when she gets back,’ Emmeline said. ‘She ought to know by then.’
I ran my fingertips along the row of pretty fabrics in Emmeline’s wardrobe, looking for the blue dress, wondered whether what Hannah said was true. Whether the same attentions Billy had tried to foist on me might ever be considered pleasant from another fellow. I thought about the few times Alfred had stood very near me in the servants’ hall, the strange but not unwelcome feeling that had overcome me . . .
‘Anyway, I didn’t say I wanted to marry immediately.’ This was Emmeline. ‘All I meant is that Theodore Luxton is very handsome.’
‘Very wealthy, you mean,’ Hannah said.
‘Same thing, really.’
‘You’re just lucky that Pa’s decided to let you dine downstairs at all,’ Hannah said. ‘I should never have been allowed when I was fourteen.’
‘Almost fifteen.’
‘I suppose he had to make up numbers somehow.’
‘Yes. Thank goodness Fanny agreed to marry that terrible bore, and thank goodness he decided they should honeymoon in Italy. If they’d been home, I’m sure I’d have been left to dine with Nanny Brown in the nursery instead.’
‘I should prefer Nanny Brown’s company to that of Pa’s Americans any day.’
‘Rubbish,’ Emmeline said.
‘I should be just as happy to read my book.’
‘Liar,’ Emmeline said. ‘You’ve set your ivory satin dress aside, the one Fanny was so determined you shouldn’t wear when we met her old bore. You wouldn’t wear that one unless you were as excited as I am.’
There was a silence.
‘Ha!’ Emmeline said. ‘I’m right! You’re smiling!’
‘All right, I am looking forward to it,’ Hannah said. ‘But not,’ she added quickly, ‘because I want the good opinion of some rich Americans I’ve never met.’
‘Oh no?’
‘No.’
The floorboards creaked as one of the girls trod across the room, and the spent gramophone record, still spinning drunkenly, was halted.
‘Well?’ This was Emmeline. ‘It certainly can’t be Mrs Townsend’s ration menu that’s got you excited.’
There was a pause, during which I held very still, waiting, listening. Hannah’s voice, when finally she spoke, was calm, but a slim thread of excitement ran through it. ‘Tonight,’ she said, ‘I’m going to ask Pa whether I might return to London.’
Deep within the closet, I gasped. They had only just arrived; that Hannah might leave again so soon was unthinkable.
‘To Grandmamma?’ said Emmeline.
‘No. To live by myself. In a flat.’
‘A flat? Why on earth would you want to live in a flat?’
‘You’ll laugh . . . I want to take work in an office.’
Emmeline did not laugh. ‘What sort of work?’
‘Office work. Typing, filing, shorthand.’
‘But you don’t know how to do short—’ Emmeline broke off, sighed with realisation. ‘You do know shorthand. Those papers I found the other week: they weren’t really Egyptian hieroglyph . . .’
‘No.’
‘You’ve been learning shorthand. In secret.’ Emmeline’s voice took on a note of indignation. ‘From Miss Prince?’
‘Lord, no. Miss Prince teach something so useful? Never.’
‘Then where?’
‘The secretarial school in the village.’
‘When?’
‘I started ages ago, just after the war began. I felt so useless and it seemed as good a way as any to help with the war effort. I thought when we went to stay with Grandmamma I’d be able to get work—there are so many offices in London—but . . . it didn’t work out like that. When I finally got away from Grandmamma long enough to enquire, they wouldn’t take me. Said I was too young. But now that I’m eighteen I should walk into a job. I’ve done so much practice and I’m really very quick.’
‘Who else knows?’
‘No one. Except you.’
Veiled amongst the dresses, as Hannah continued to extol the virtues of her training, I lost something. A small confidence, long cherished, was released. I felt it slip away, float down amid the silks and satins, until it landed amongst the flecks of silent dust on the dark wardrobe floor and I could see it no more.
‘Well?’ Hannah was saying. ‘Don’t you think it’s exciting?’
Emmeline huffed. ‘I think it’s sneaky. That’s what I think. And silly. And so will Pa. War work is one thing, but this . . .
It’s ridiculous, and you may as well get it out of your mind.
Pa will never allow it.’
‘That’s why I’m going to tell him at dinner. It’s the perfect opportunity. He’ll have to say yes if there are other people around. Especially Americans with all their modern ideas.’
‘I can’t believe even you would do this.’ Emmeline’s voice was gathering fury.
‘I don’t know why you’re so upset.’
‘Because . . . it isn’t . . . it doesn’t . . .’ Emmeline cast about for adequate defence. ‘Because you’re supposed to be the hostess tonight and instead of making sure things run smoothly, you’re going to embarrass Pa. You’re going to create a scene in front of the Luxtons.’
‘I’m not going to create a scene.’
‘You always say that and then you always do. Why can’t you just be—’ ‘Normal?’
‘You’ve gone completely mad. Who would want to work in an office?’
‘I want to see the world. Travel.’
‘To London?’
‘It’s a first step,’ Hannah said. ‘I want to be independent. To meet interesting people.’
‘More interesting than me, you mean.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Hannah said. ‘I just mean new people with clever things to say. Things I’ve never heard before. I want to be free, Emme. Open to whatever adventure comes along and sweeps me off my feet.’
I glanced at the clock on Emmeline’s wall. Four o’clock. Mr Hamilton would be on the warpath if I wasn’t downstairs soon. And yet I had to hear more, to learn the precise nature of these adventures Hannah was so intent upon. Torn between the two, I compromised. Closed the wardrobe, draped the blue dress over my arm and hesitated by the doorway.
Emmeline was still sitting on the floor, brush in hand. ‘Why don’t you go and stay with friends of Pa’s somewhere? I could come too,’ she said. ‘The Rothermeres, up in Edinburgh—’ ‘And have Lady Rothermere enquire after my every move? Or worse, saddle me with those ghastly daughters of hers?’ Hannah’s face was a study in disdain. ‘That’s hardly independence.’
‘Neither is working in an office.’
‘Perhaps not, but I’m going to need money from somewhere. I’m not going to beg or steal, and I can’t think of anyone from whom I could borrow.’
‘What about Pa?’
‘You heard Grandmamma. Some people may have made money from the war, but Pa was not amongst them.’
‘Well I think it’s a terrible idea,’ Emmeline said. ‘It . . . it just isn’t proper. Pa would never allow it . . . and Grandmamma . . .’ Emmeline drew breath. Exhaled deeply so that her shoulders deflated. When she spoke again her voice was young and pale. ‘I don’t want you to leave me.’ Her gaze sought Hannah’s. ‘First David, and now you.’
Her brother’s name was a physical blow for Hannah. It was no secret that she had mourned his death especially. The family had still been in London when the dreaded black-rimmed letter arrived, but news travelled surely across the servants’ halls of England in those days, and we had all learned of Miss Hannah’s alarming loss of spirits. Her refusal to eat was the cause of much concern, and had Mrs Townsend intent upon baking raspberry tartlets, Hannah’s favourite since a girl, to send to London.
Whether oblivious to the effect her invocation of David had caused, or entirely aware, Emmeline continued. ‘What will I do, all alone in this great big house?’
‘You won’t be alone,’ Hannah said quietly. ‘Pa will be here for company.’
‘That’s little comfort. You know Pa doesn’t care for me.’
‘Pa cares a great deal for you, Emme,’ said Hannah firmly. ‘For all of us.’
Emmeline glanced over her shoulder and I pressed myself against the doorframe. ‘But he doesn’t really like me,’ she said. ‘Not as a person. Not as he does you.’
Hannah opened her mouth to argue but Emmeline hurried on.
‘You don’t have to pretend. I’ve seen the way he looks at me when he thinks I can’t see. Like he’s puzzled, like he’s not sure exactly who I am.’ Her eyes glazed but she did not cry. Her voice was a whisper. ‘It’s because he blames me for Mother.’
‘That’s not true.’ Hannah’s cheeks had turned pink. ‘Don’t even say such things. No one blames you for Mother.’
‘Pa does.’
‘He doesn’t.’
‘I heard Grandmamma tell Lady Clem that Pa was never the same after the dreadful business with Mother.’ Emmeline spoke then with a firmness that surprised me. ‘I don’t want you to leave me.’ She rose from the floor and sat by Hannah, clasped her hand. An uncharacteristic gesture which seemed to shock Hannah as much as it did me. ‘Please.’ And then she began to cry.
The two sat
side by side upon the chaise, Emmeline sobbing, her final word between them. Hannah’s expression bore the stubborn set that was so singularly hers, but behind the strong cheekbones, the wilful mouth, I noticed something else. A new aspect, not so easily articulated as the natural consequence of reaching adulthood . . .
And then I realised. She was eldest now and had inherited the vague, relentless, unsolicited responsibility such familial rank demanded.
Hannah turned to Emmeline and gave an appearance of brightness. ‘Cheer up,’ she said, patting Emmeline’s hand, ‘You don’t want red eyes at dinner.’
I glanced at the clock again. Quarter after four. Mr Hamilton would be fuming. There was nothing for it . . .
I re-entered the room, blue dress draped over one arm. ‘Your dress, miss?’ I said to Emmeline.
She did not respond. I pretended not to notice that her cheeks were wet with tears. Focused on the dress instead, brushed flat a piece of lace trim.
‘Wear the pink one, Emme,’ Hannah said gently. ‘It suits you best.’
Emmeline remained unmoved.
I looked at Hannah for clarification. She nodded. ‘The pink.’
‘And you, miss?’ I said.
She chose the ivory satin, just as Emmeline had said she would.
‘Will you be there tonight, Grace?’ Hannah said as I fetched the beautiful satin gown and corset from her wardrobe.
‘I shouldn’t think so, miss,’ I said. ‘Alfred has been demobbed. He’ll be helping Mr Hamilton and Nancy at table.’
‘Oh,’ Hannah said. ‘Yes.’ She picked up her book, opened it, closed it, ran her fingers lightly along the spine. Her voice, when she spoke, was cautious. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask, Grace. How is Alfred?’
‘He’s well, miss. He had a small cold when he returned but Mrs Townsend fixed him up with some lemon and barley and he’s been right since then.’