by Kate Morton
‘Not exactly,’ David said.
‘He won’t let you go.’ How relieved she sounded, how certain.
‘He won’t have a choice,’ said David. ‘He won’t know I’ve gone until I’m safe and sound on French soil.’
‘What if he finds out?’ Hannah said.
‘He won’t,’ David said, ‘because no one’s going to tell him.’ He eyed her pointedly. ‘Anyway, he can make all the petty arguments he wants but he can’t stop me. I won’t let him. I’m not going to miss out just because he did. I’m my own man, it’s about time Pa realised that. Just because he’s had a miserable life-’
‘David,’ said Hannah sharply.
‘It’s true,’ said David, ‘even if you won’t see it. He’s been stuck under Grandmamma’s thumb all his life; he married a woman who couldn’t stand him; he fails at every business he turns his hand to-’
‘David!’ said Hannah, and I felt her indignation. She glanced at Emmeline, satisfied herself that she was not within earshot. ‘You have no loyalty. You ought to be ashamed.’
David met Hannah’s eyes and lowered his voice. ‘I won’t let him inflict his bitterness on me. It’s pitiable.’
‘What are you two talking about?’ This was Emmeline, returned with a handful of sugared nuts. Her brows knitted. ‘You’re not rowing, are you?’
‘Of course not,’ said David, managing a weak smile as Hannah glowered. ‘I was just telling Hannah I’m going to France. To war.’
‘How exciting! Are you going too, Robbie?’
Robbie nodded.
‘I ought to have known,’ said Hannah.
David ignored her. ‘Someone’s got to look after this fellow.’ He grinned at Robbie. ‘Can’t let him have all the fun.’ I caught something in his glance as he spoke: admiration perhaps? Affection?
Hannah had seen it too. Her lips tightened. She had decided whom to blame for David’s desertion.
‘Robbie’s going to war to escape his old man,’ said David.
‘Why?’ said Emmeline excitedly. ‘What did he do?’
Robbie shrugged. ‘The list is long and its keeper bitter.’
‘Give us a little hint,’ Emmeline said. ‘Please?’ Her eyes widened. ‘I know! He’s threatened to cut you from his will.’
Robbie laughed, a dry, humourless laugh. ‘Hardly.’ He rolled a glass icicle between two fingers. ‘Quite the opposite.’
Emmeline frowned. ‘He’s threatened to put you into his will?’
‘He’d like us to play happy families,’ Robbie said.
‘You don’t want to be happy?’ Hannah said coolly.
‘I don’t want to be a family,’ Robbie said. ‘I prefer to be alone.’
Emmeline’s eyes widened. ‘I couldn’t bear to be alone, without Hannah and David. And Pa, of course.’
‘It’s different for people like you,’ Robbie said quietly. ‘Your family has done you no wrong.’
‘Yours has?’ Hannah said.
There was a pause in which all eyes, including mine, focused on Robbie.
I held my breath. I already knew of Robbie’s father. On the night of Robbie’s unexpected arrival at Riverton, as Mr Hamilton and Mrs Townsend initiated a flurry of supper and accommodation arrangements, Myra had leaned over and confided what she knew.
Robbie was son to the newly titled Lord Hasting Hunter, a scientist who had made his name and his fortune in the discovery of a new sort of fabric that could be made without cotton. He had bought a huge manor outside Cambridge, given a room over to his experiments, and he and his wife had proceeded to live the life of the landed gentry. This boy, said Myra, was the result of an affair with his parlourmaid. A Spanish girl with hardly a word of English. Lord Hunter had grown tired of her as her belly grew, but had agreed to keep her on and educate the boy, in return for silence. Her silence had driven her mad: driven her finally to take her own life.
It was a shame, Myra had said, drawing breath and shaking her head, a serving maid mistreated, a boy grown up fatherless. Who wouldn’t have sympathy for the pair of them? All the same, she had looked at me knowingly, Her Ladyship wasn’t going to appreciate this unexpected guest. Birds of a feather need to flock together.
Her meaning had been clear: there were titles and there were titles, those that were of the blood and those that glistened shiny as a new motor car. Robbie Hunter, son (illegitimate or not) of a newly titled lord, was not good enough for the likes of the Hartfords and thus not good enough for the likes of us.
‘Well?’ said Emmeline. ‘Do tell us! You must! What’s your father done that’s so terrible?’
‘What is this,’ David said, smiling, ‘the inquisition?’ He turned to Robbie. ‘Apologies, Hunter. They’re a snoopy pair. They don’t receive much company.’
Emmeline smiled and tossed a handful of paper at him. It fell far short of its mark and fluttered back upon the pile that had amassed beneath the tree.
‘It’s all right,’ Robbie said, straightening. He flicked a strand of hair from his eyes. ‘Since my mother’s death my father has reclaimed me.’
‘Reclaimed you?’ said Emmeline, frowning.
‘After happily consigning me to a life of ignominy he now finds he needs an heir. It seems his wife can’t provide one.’
Emmeline looked from David to Hannah for translation.
‘So Robbie’s going to war,’ said David. ‘To be free.’
‘I’m sorry about your mother,’ Hannah said grudgingly.
‘Oh, yes,’ Emmeline cut in, her childish face a model of practised sympathy. ‘You must miss her terribly. I miss our own mother dreadfully and I didn’t even know her; she died when I was born.’ She sighed. ‘And now you’re going to war to escape your cruel father. It’s like something in a novel.’
‘A melodrama,’ said Hannah.
‘A romance,’ said Emmeline eagerly. She unrolled a parcel, and a group of hand-dipped candles fell onto her lap, releasing the scent of cinnamon and hemlock. ‘Grandmamma says it’s every man’s duty to go to war. She says those that stay home are shirkers and miscreants.’
Up in the gallery, my skin prickled. I glanced at Alfred then looked away quickly when he met my gaze. His cheeks were blazing, eyes loud with self-reproach. Just as they had been the day in the village. He stood up abruptly, dropped his cleaning rag, but when I reached to return it to him he shook his head, refused to meet my eyes, and murmured something about Mr Hamilton wondering where he was. I watched helplessly as he hurried down the staircase and slipped from the library, unnoticed by the Hartford children. Then I cursed my lack of self-possession.
Turning from the tree, Emmeline glanced at Hannah, ‘Grandmamma’s disappointed in Pa. She thinks he’s got it easy.’
‘She’s got nothing to be disappointed about,’ Hannah said hotly. ‘And Pa’s most certainly not got it easy. He’d be over there in an instant if he could.’
A heavy silence fell upon the room and I was conscious of my own breaths, grown fast in sympathy with Hannah.
‘Don’t be cross with me,’ Emmeline said sulkily. ‘It’s Grandmamma who said it, not me.’
‘Old witch,’ said Hannah fiercely. ‘Pa’s doing what he’s able for the war. That’s all any of us can do.’
‘Hannah would like to be joining us at the front,’ David said to Robbie. ‘She and Pa just won’t understand that war is no place for women and old men with bad chests.’
‘That’s rubbish, David,’ said Hannah.
‘What?’ he said. ‘The bit about war not being for women and old men, or the bit about you wanting to join the fight?’
‘You know I’d be just as much use as you. I’ve always been good at making strategic decisions, you said-’
‘This is real, Hannah,’ said David abruptly. ‘It’s a war: with real guns, real bullets and real enemies. It’s not make-believe; it’s not some children’s game.’
I drew breath; Hannah looked as if she’d been slapped.
‘You can’t live in a
fantasy world all your life,’ David continued. ‘You can’t spend the rest of your life inventing adventures, writing about things that never really happened, playing a made-up character-’
‘David!’ cried Emmeline. She glanced at Robbie then back at David; her bottom lip trembled as she said, ‘Rule number one. The Game is secret.’
David looked at Emmeline and his face softened. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry, Emme.’
‘It’s secret,’ she whispered. ‘It’s important.’
‘Course it is,’ said David. He tousled Emmeline’s hair. ‘Come on, don’t be upset.’ He leaned to peer into the decoration box. ‘Hey!’ he said. ‘Look who I found. It’s Mabel!’ He held aloft a glass Nuremberg angel, with wings of spun glass, a crinkled gold skirt and a pious wax face. ‘She’s your favourite, right? Should I put her up on top?’
‘Can I do it this year?’ Emmeline said, wiping at her eyes. Upset though she might have been, she wasn’t going to let an opportunity pass.
David looked at Hannah pretending to inspect the palm of her hand. ‘What do you say, Hannah? Any objections?’
Hannah looked at him squarely, coldly.
‘Please?’ said Emmeline, jumping to her feet, a flurry of skirts and wrapping paper. ‘You two always put her up, I’ve never had a turn. I’m not a baby any more.’
David made a show of deep consideration. ‘How old are you now?’
‘Eleven,’ said Emmeline.
‘Eleven…’ repeated David. ‘Practically twelve.’
Emmeline nodded eagerly.
‘All right,’ he said finally. He nodded at Robbie, smiled. ‘Give me a hand?’
Between them they carried the decorating ladder to the tree, seated the base amongst the crumpled paper that was strewn across the floor.
‘Ooh,’ Emmeline giggled, beginning to climb, the angel clutched in one hand. ‘I’m just like Jack, climbing his beanstalk.’
She continued until she reached the second to last rung. She stretched the hand that held the angel, reaching for the treetop, which remained tantalisingly aloof.
‘Bully,’ she said under her breath. She glanced down at the three upturned faces. ‘Almost. Just one more.’
‘Careful,’ David said. ‘Is there something you can hold onto?’
She reached out with her free hand and clutched a flimsy bough of fir, then did the same with the other. Very slowly, she lifted her left foot and placed it carefully on the top rung.
I held my breath as she lifted her right. She was grinning triumphantly, reaching out to place Mabel on her throne, when all of a sudden our eyes locked. Her face, poking above the treetop, registered surprise, then panic, as her foot slipped and she began to fall.
I opened my mouth to call out a warning but it was too late. With a scream that made my skin prickle, she tumbled like a rag doll to the floor, a pile of white skirts amid the tissue paper.
The room seemed to expand. For just one moment, everything and everyone stood still, silent. Then, the inevitable contraction. Noise, movement, panic, heat.
David scooped Emmeline into his arms. ‘Emme? Are you all right? Emme?’ He glanced at the floor where the angel lay, glass wing red with blood. ‘Oh God, it’s sliced right through.’
Hannah was on her knees. ‘It’s her wrist.’ She looked about for someone; found Robbie. ‘Fetch some help.’
I scrambled down the staircase, heart knocking against my ribcage. ‘I’ll go, miss,’ I said, slipping out the door.
I ran along the corridor, unable to clear my mind of Emmeline’s motionless body, every gasped breath an accusation. It was my fault she’d fallen. The last thing she had expected to see as she reached the treetop was my face. If I hadn’t been so nosy, if I hadn’t surprised her…
I swung around the bottom of the stairs and bumped into Myra.
‘Watch it,’ she scowled.
‘Myra,’ I said between breaths. ‘Help. She’s bleeding.’
‘I can’t understand a word of your gabble,’ said Myra crossly. ‘Who’s bleeding?’
‘Miss Emmeline,’ I said. ‘She fell… in the library… from the ladder… Master David and Robert Hunter-’
‘I might have known!’ Myra turned on her heel and hurried toward the servants’ hall. ‘That boy! I had a feeling about him. Arriving unannounced as he did. It’s just not done.’
I tried to explain that Robbie had played no part in the accident, but Myra would hear none of it. She clipped down the stairs, turned into the kitchen and pulled the medicine box from the sideboard. ‘In my experience, fellows as look like him are only ever bad news.’
‘But Myra, it wasn’t his fault-’
‘Wasn’t his fault?’ she said. ‘He’s been here one night and look at what’s happened.’
I gave up my defence. I was still breathless from running and there was little I could ever say or do to change Myra’s mind once it was made.
Myra dug out disinfectant and bandage strips and hurried upstairs. I fell into step behind her thin, capable frame, hurrying to keep up as her black shoes beat a reproach down the dim narrow hall. Myra would make it better; she knew how to fix things.
But when we reached the library, it was too late.
Propped in the centre of the lounge, a brave smile on her wan face, was Emmeline. Her siblings sat either side, David stroking her healthy arm. Her wounded wrist had been bound tightly in a white strip of cloth-torn from her pinafore, I noted-and now lay across her lap. Robbie Hunter stood near but apart.
‘I’m all right,’ said Emmeline, looking up at us. ‘Mr Hunter took care of everything.’ She looked at Robbie with eyes rimmed red. ‘I’m ever so grateful.’
‘We’re all grateful,’ said Hannah, eyes still on Emmeline.
David nodded. ‘Mighty impressive, Hunter. Where did you learn to do that?’
‘My uncle’s a doctor,’ he said. ‘I’d thought to follow him, but I’m not fond of blood.’
David surveyed the red-stained cloths on the floor. ‘You did a good job pretending otherwise.’ He turned to Emmeline and stroked her hair. ‘Lucky you’re not like the cousins, Emme; a nasty cut like that.’
But if she heard, Emmeline made no sign. She was gazing at Robbie in much the same way Mr Dudley had gazed at his tree. Forgotten, at her feet, the Christmas angel languished: face stoic, glass wings crushed, gold skirt red with blood.
The Times
25 FEBRUARY 1916
An Aeroplane to Fight Zeppelins
MR HARTFORD’S PROPOSAL
(FROM OUR OWN CORRESPONDENT)
IPSWICH, 24 FEB.
Mr Frederick Hartford, who will be giving an important speech in the Parliament tomorrow on the aerial defence of Britain, gave me today some of his views on the general question at Ipswich, where his motor-car factory is located.
Mr Hartford, brother of Major James Hartford V.C. and son of Lord Herbert Hartford of Ashbury, thinks that Zeppelin attacks are to be warded off by producing a new light and fast type of one-seater aeroplane, of the kind proposed earlier this month by Mr Louis Blériot in the Petit Journal.
Mr Hartford said he does not believe in building Zeppelins which, he says, are awkward and vulnerable, and, on this latter account, are capable of operating only at night. If the Parliament is amenable, Mr Hartford plans temporarily to suspend his manfacture of motor-cars in favour of the light-weight aeroplanes.
Also addressing the Parliament tomorrow is businessman Mr Simion Luxton, who is similarly interested in the question of aerial defence. In the past year Mr Luxton has purchased two of Britain’s smaller motor-car manufacturers and most recently acquired an aeroplane factory near Cambridge. Mr Luxton has already commenced the manufacture of aeroplanes designed for warfare.
Mr Hartford and Mr Luxton represent the old and new faces of Britain. While the Ashbury line can be traced as far back as the court of King Henry VII, Mr Luxton is the grandson of a Yorkshire miner, who started his own manufacturing business and has since had much succes
s. He is married to Mrs Estella Luxton, American heiress to the Stevenson’s pharmaceutical fortune.
UNTIL WE MEET AGAIN
That night, high in the attic, Myra and I curled up close in a desperate bid to stave off the icy air. The winter sun had long since set, and outside the angry wind shook the rooftop finials and crept, keening, through cracks in the wall.
‘They say it’s going to snow before year end,’ Myra whispered, pulling the blanket up to meet her chin. ‘And I’d have to say as I believe them.’
‘The wind sounds like a baby crying,’ I said.
‘No it doesn’t,’ Myra said. ‘It sounds like many things but never that.’
And it was that night she told me the story of the Major and Jemima’s children. The two little boys whose blood refused to clot, who had gone to their graves, one after the other, and now lay side by side in the cold hard ground of the Riverton graveyard.
The first, Timmy, had fallen from his horse, out riding with the Major on the Riverton estate.
He’d lasted four days and nights, Myra said, before the crying finally stopped and the tiny soul found some rest. He was white as a sheet when he went, all the blood having raced to his swollen shoulder, eager for escape. I thought of the nursery book with its pretty spine, inscribed to Timothy Hartford.
‘His cries were hard enough to listen to,’ Myra said, shifting her foot so that a pocket of cold air escaped. ‘But they were nothing next to hers.’
‘Whose?’ I whispered back.
‘His mother’s. Jemima’s. Started when they carried the little one away and didn’t stop for a week. If you’d only heard the sound. Grief to make your hair turn grey. Wouldn’t eat, nor drink neither; faded away so as she was almost as pale as he, rest his soul.’
I shivered; tried to accord this picture with the plain, plump woman who seemed far too ordinary to suffer so spectacularly. ‘You said “children”? What happened to the others?’
‘Other,’ Myra said. ‘Adam. He made it older than Timmy, and we all thought he’d escaped the curse. Poor lad hadn’t though. He’d just been swaddled tighter than his brother. There wasn’t much his mother would allow him do more active than reading in the library. She wasn’t planning on making the same mistake twice.’ Myra sighed, pulled her knees up higher to her chest for warmth. ‘Ah, but there’s not a mother alive who can stop her boy getting into mischief if mischief’s in his mind.’