by Kate Morton
She laughed. ‘You’re being modest. It can’t have been easy. A woman in the fifties-a mother-trying to get a tertiary education. Was your husband supportive?’
‘I was on my own by then.’
Her eyes widened. ‘But how did you manage?’
‘I studied part time for a long time. Ruth was at school in the days and I had a very good neighbour, Mrs Finbar, who used to sit with her some evenings when I worked.’ I hesitated. ‘I was just fortunate the educational expenses were taken care of.’
‘A scholarship?’
‘In a sense. I’d come into some money, unexpectedly.’
‘Your husband,’ said Ursula, brows knitting in sympathy. ‘He was killed at war?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘No, he wasn’t. But our marriage was.’
Her gaze drifted once more to my wedding photo.
‘We divorced when he returned to London. Times had changed by then. Everyone had seen and done so much. It seemed rather pointless to remain joined to a spouse one didn’t care for. He moved to America and married the sister of a GI he’d met in France. Poor fellow; he was killed soon after in a road accident.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry…’
‘Don’t be. Not on my account. It was so long ago. I barely remember him, you know. Odd snatches of memory, more like dreams. It’s Ruth who misses him. She’s never forgiven me.’
‘She wishes you’d stayed together.’
I nodded. Lord knows my failure to provide her a father figure is one of the old grievances that colour our relationship.
Ursula sighed. ‘I wonder whether Finn will feel that way one day.’
‘You and his father…?’
She shook her head. ‘It wouldn’t have worked.’ She said it so firmly I knew better than to probe. ‘Finn and I are better this way.’
‘Where is he today?’ I said. ‘Finn?’
‘My mother’s minding him. They were at the park for ice-cream last I heard.’ She rolled her watch around her wrist to read the time. ‘Goodness! I hadn’t realised it was getting so late. I’d better be going, give her some relief.’
‘I’m sure she doesn’t need relieving. It’s special, grandparents and grandchildren. So much simpler.’
Is it always so, I wonder? I think perhaps it is. While one’s child takes a part of one’s heart to use and misuse as they please, a grandchild is different. Gone are the bonds of guilt and responsibility that burden the maternal relationship. The way to love is free.
When you were born, Marcus, I was knocked sideways. What a wonderful surprise those feelings were. Parts of me that had shut down decades before, that I’d grown used to doing without, were suddenly awakened. I treasured you. Recognised you. Loved you with a power almost painful.
As you grew, you became my little friend. Followed me about my house, claimed your own space in my study and set about exploring the maps and drawings I’d collected on my travels. Questions, so many questions, that I never tired of answering. Indeed, it is a conceit I allow myself that I am responsible, in some part, for the fine, accomplished man you have become…
‘They must be in here somewhere,’ said Ursula, searching her bag for car keys, preparing to leave.
I was beset by a sudden impulse to make her stay. ‘I have a grandson, you know. Marcus. He’s a writer of mysteries.’
‘I know,’ she said, smiling as she stopped fossicking. ‘I’ve read his books.’
‘Have you?’ Pleased as I always am.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘They’re very good.’
‘Can you keep a secret?’ I said.
She nodded eagerly, leaned close.
‘I haven’t read them,’ I whispered. ‘Not right the way through.’
She laughed. ‘I promise not to tell.’
‘I’m so proud of him, and I’ve tried, I really have. I begin each with strong resolve, but no matter how much I’m enjoying them, I only ever get halfway. I adore a good mystery-Agatha Christie and the like-but I’m afraid I’m rather weak-stomached. I’m not one for all that bloody description they go on with these days.’
‘And you worked in a field hospital!’
‘Yes, but war is one thing, murder quite another.’
‘Maybe his next book…’
‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘Though I don’t know when that will be.’
‘He’s not writing?’
‘He suffered a loss recently.’
‘I read about his wife,’ Ursula said. ‘I’m very sorry. An aneurism, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. Terribly sudden.’
Ursula nodded. ‘My father died the same way. I was fourteen. Away at school camp.’ She exhaled. ‘They didn’t tell me until I got back to school.’
‘Dreadful,’ I said, shaking my head.
‘I fought with him before I left. Something ridiculous. I can’t even remember now. I slammed the door of the car and didn’t look back.’
‘You were young. All the young are like that.’
‘I still think of him every day.’ She pressed her eyes shut, then opened them again. Shook the memories away. ‘How about Marcus? How is he?’
‘He took it badly,’ I said. ‘He blames himself.’
She nodded, didn’t look surprised. Seemed to understand guilt and its peculiarities.
‘I don’t know where he is,’ I said then.
Ursula looked at me. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s missing. Neither Ruth nor I know where he is. He’s been gone the better part of a year.’
She was perplexed. ‘But… is he okay? You’ve heard from him?’ Her eyes were trying to read mine. ‘A phone call? A letter?’
‘Postcards,’ I said. ‘He’s sent a few postcards. But no return address. I fear he doesn’t want to be found.’
‘Oh, Grace,’ she said, kind eyes meeting mine. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘So am I,’ I said. And it was then I told her about the tapes. About how much I need to find you. That it’s all I can think to do.
‘It’s the perfect thing to do,’ she said emphatically. ‘Where do you send them?’
‘I have an address in California. A friend of his from years ago. I send them there, but as for whether he receives them…’
‘I bet he does,’ she said.
They were mere words, well-meant assurances, yet I needed to hear more. ‘Do you think so?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ she said firmly, full of youthful certainty. ‘I do. And I know he’ll come back. He just needs space and time to realise it wasn’t his fault. That there was nothing he could have done to change it.’ She stood up and leaned across my bed. Picked up my walkman and placed it gently on my lap. ‘Keep talking to him, Grace,’ she said, and then she leaned toward me and kissed my cheek. ‘He’ll come home. You’ll see.’
There now. I have forgotten my purpose. Have been telling you things you already know. Sheer self-indulgence on my part: Lord knows I don’t have time for such distraction. Now where was I? 1915? No, 1916. War was consuming the fields of Flanders, the Major and Lord Ashbury were yet warm in their graves, and two long years of slaughter were still to come. So much devastation. Young men from the furthest reaches of the earth choreographed in a bloody waltz of death. The Major, then David…
No. I have neither stomach nor inclination to relive them. It is enough to say that they occurred. Instead, I will draw breath and say, ‘It was November 1918,’ and, as if by magic, it will be so.
We will return to Riverton. Hannah and Emmeline, who have spent the last two years of the war in London at Lady Violet’s townhouse, have just arrived to take up residence with their father. But they are changed: they have grown since last we spoke. Hannah is eighteen, about to make her society debut. Emmeline, fourteen, teeters on the edge of an adult world she is impatient to embrace. Gone are the games of yesteryear. Gone, since David’s death, is The Game. (Rule number three: only three may play. No more, no less.)
One of the first things Hannah does on return to Ri
verton is recover the Chinese box from the attic. I see her do it, though she does not know it. I follow her as she puts it carefully into a fabric bag and takes it with her to the lake.
I hide where the path between the Icarus fountain and the lake narrows and watch as she takes her bag across the lake bank to the old boathouse. She stands for a moment, looks around, and I duck lower behind the bushes so she doesn’t see me.
She goes to the edge of the escarpment, stands with her back to its ridge, then lines up her feet so the heel of one boot touches the toe of the other. She proceeds toward the lake, counting three steps before stopping.
She repeats this three times, then kneels on the ground and opens her bag. Pulls from it a small spade. She must have taken it when Dudley wasn’t looking.
Hannah digs. It is difficult at first, due to the pebbles that coat the lake bank, but in time she reaches the dirt beneath and is able to scoop more at a time. She doesn’t stop until the pile beside her is a foot high.
She removes the Chinese box from her bag then, and lays it deep within the hole. She is about to scoop the dirt on top when she hesitates. She retrieves the box, opens it, takes one of the tiny books from inside. She opens the locket around her neck and conceals it within, then returns the box to the hole and resumes burying it.
I leave her then, alone on the lake bank; Mr Hamilton will miss me if I’m away much longer and he is not in any mood to be trifled with. Downstairs, the Riverton kitchen is abuzz with excitement. Preparations are underway for the first dinner party since war broke out, and Mr Hamilton has impressed upon us that tonight’s guests, business investors, are Very Important to the Family’s Future.
And they were. Just how important, we could never have imagined.
NEW
‘New money,’ Mrs Townsend said knowingly, looking from Myra to Mr Hamilton to me. She was leaning against the pine table using her marble rolling pin to quash resistance from a knot of sweaty dough. She stopped and wiped her forehead, leaving a trail of flour clinging to her eyebrows. ‘Americans at that,’ she said, to no one in particular.
‘Now, Mrs Townsend,’ Mr Hamilton said, scrutinising the silver salt and pepper dishes for tarnish. ‘While it’s true Mrs Luxton is one of the New York Stevensons, I think you’ll find Mr Luxton is as English as you or I. He hails from the north according to The Times.’ Mr Hamilton peered over his half-rimmed glasses. ‘A self-made man, you know.’
Mrs Townsend snorted. ‘Self-made man indeed. Can’t have hurt marrying her family’s fortune.’
‘Mr Luxton may have married a wealthy family,’ Mr Hamilton said primly, ‘but he’s certainly done his bit to increase the fortune. He’s a very successful businessman by anyone’s standards. Textiles, manufacturing, pharmaceuticals. There’s not much he doesn’t have a hand in running. Especially since the war.’
Mrs Townsend humphed. ‘I don’t care if he owns half of England. It don’t change the fact he’s new money.’ She pointed her rolling pin at each of us in turn. ‘New money on the lookout for old class.’
‘At least they have money,’ Myra said. ‘That’ll make a welcome change around here if you ask me.’
Mr Hamilton straightened and shot me a stern look, though I had not been the one to speak. As the war had progressed and Myra had spent more time working on the outside, she had changed. In her duties she remained efficient as ever, but when we sat around the servants’ table and spoke of the world, she was more comfortable in voicing opposition, more likely to question the way things were done. I, on the other hand, had not yet been corrupted by external forces and, like a shepherd who decides ’tis better to forsake one lost sheep than risk the flock through inattention, Mr Hamilton had determined to keep both eyes on me. ‘I’m surprised at you, Myra,’ he said, looking at me. ‘You know the Master’s business affairs are not ours to query.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Hamilton,’ Myra said, in a voice without contrition. ‘All I know is that ever since Mr Frederick came to Riverton, he’s been closing rooms faster than I can say. Not to mention the furniture that’s been sold from the west wing. The mahogany writing bureau, Lady Ashbury’s Danish four-poster.’ She eyed me over her polishing cloth. ‘Dudley says most of the horses are going too.’
‘His Lordship is simply being prudent,’ Mr Hamilton said, turning to Myra to better argue his case. ‘The west rooms were closed because, with your railway work and Alfred being away, there was far too much cleaning for young Grace to manage on her own. As for the stables, what need does His Lordship have for so many horses with all his fine motor cars?’
The question, once launched, he let linger in the cool winter’s air. He removed his glasses, huffed on their lenses and wiped them clean with a triumphant theatricality.
‘If you must know,’ he said, stage business complete, glasses restored to his nose’s end, ‘the stables are to be converted into a brand-new garage. The largest in all of Essex.’
Myra was nonplussed. ‘All the same,’ she said, lowering her voice, ‘I’ve heard whispers in the village-’
‘Nonsense,’ Mr Hamilton said.
‘What kind of whispers?’ Mrs Townsend said, bosom heaving with each roll of her pin. ‘News about the Master’s business?’
At the stairs, the shadows shifted and a slim woman of middle years stepped into the light.
‘Miss Starling…’ Mr Hamilton faltered. ‘I didn’t see you there. Come on in and Grace will make you a cup of tea.’ He turned to me, mouth tight as the top of a coin purse. ‘Go on then, Grace,’ he said, motioning toward the stove. ‘A cup of tea for Miss Starling.’
Miss Starling cleared her throat before stepping away from the stairwell. She tiptoed toward the nearest chair, little typewriting machine clamped beneath a freckled arm.
Lucy Starling was Mr Frederick’s secretary, employed, originally, for the factory in Ipswich. When the war ended and the family moved permanently to Riverton, she started coming from the village, twice a week, to work in Mr Frederick’s study. She was perfectly ordinary to look at. Medium brown hair tucked beneath a prudent straw hat, skirts in dull shades of brown and olive, a plain white blouse. Her only accessory, a small cream cameo at her collar, seemed to sense its own ordinariness, wilting sadly forward to reveal its simple silver clasp.
She had lost her fiancé on the Ypres Salient and wore her mourning, like her clothing, with enduring plainness, her grief too reasonable ever to excite great sympathy. Myra, who knew such things, said it was a great shame she had gone and lost a man prepared to marry her, for lightning did not strike twice and with her looks and at her age she would almost certainly end up an old maid. What’s more, Myra added sagely, we were as well to pay particular attention that nothing go missing from upstairs, as Miss Starling was as likely as not to be looking toward her old age.
Myra’s were not the only suspicions aroused by Miss Starling. The arrival of this quiet, unassuming and, by all accounts, conscientious woman, created a stir downstairs that now seems unimaginable.
It was her place that caused such uncertainty. It wasn’t right, Mrs Townsend said, for a young lady of the middle class to be taking liberties in the main house, seating herself in the Master’s study, gadding about with airs and graces out of step with her position. And, though it was doubtful that Miss Starling with her sensible mouse-brown hair, home-stitched clothing and cautious smile could ever be accused of airs and graces, I understood Mrs Townsend’s bother. The lines between upstairs and down had once been clearly and comfortably drawn, but with Miss Starling’s arrival old certainties had begun to shift.
For while she was not one of Them, neither was she one of Us.
Her presence downstairs that afternoon brought a cerise glow to Mr Hamilton’s cheeks and a nervous animation to his fingertips, which now hovered busily about his lapel. The curious matter of station perplexed Mr Hamilton specially, for in the poor, unsuspecting typist he perceived an adversary. Though as butler he was the senior servant, responsible for overseeing
the house’s management, as personal secretary she was privy to the shimmering secrets of the family’s business affairs.
Mr Hamilton plucked his gold fob watch from his pocket and made a show of comparing its time with that on the wall clock. The watch had been a gift from the former Lord Ashbury and of it Mr Hamilton was immeasurably proud. It never failed to deliver him stillness, to help retain authority in instances of stress or bother. He ran a pale, steady thumb across its face. ‘Where is Alfred?’ he said, finally.
‘Laying table, Mr Hamilton,’ I said, relieved that the taut balloon of silence had finally been pricked.
‘Still?’ Mr Hamilton snapped closed the watch, his agitation finding welcome focus. ‘It’s been almost a quarter-hour since I sent him with the brandy balloons. Honestly. That boy. I’d like to know what they’ve been teaching him in the military. Ever since he got back he’s been flighty as a feather.’
I flinched as if the criticism had been levelled at me.
‘It’s common with them that’s come home,’ Myra said. ‘Some of them that arrive at the train station are quite strange-’ She stopped polishing wine glasses as she fished about for the right words. ‘Nervous and a bit jumpy.’
‘Jumpy, indeed,’ Mrs Townsend said, shaking her head. ‘He just needs a few good feeds. You’d be jumpy too if you’d been living on army rations. I mean to say. Tins? Of beef?’
Miss Starling cleared her throat and said, in a voice leavened with careful elocution: ‘They’re calling it shell shock, I believe.’ She looked about timidly as the room fell silent. ‘At least, that’s what I’ve read. Many of the men are struck by it. It doesn’t do to be too hard on Alfred.’
In the kitchen my hand slipped and black tea leaves rained over the pine table.
Mrs Townsend lay down her rolling pin and pushed her floury sleeves up over her elbows. Blood had rushed to her cheeks. ‘Now just you listen here,’ she said, with an unqualified authority usually the preserve of policemen and mothers. ‘I will not hear talk of that in my kitchen. There’s nothing wrong with Alfred that a few of my dinners won’t fix.’