‘More bad news?’ Mrs Townsend looked up from the Christmas menu she was planning, cheeks red from the fire.
‘The worst, Mrs Townsend.’ He returned his glasses to the bridge of his nose. ‘More losses at Ypres.’ He rose from his seat and moved to the sideboard where he had spread out a map of Europe and which now hosted a score of miniature military figurines (David’s old set, I think, retrieved from the attic) representing different armies and different campaigns. He removed the Duke of Wellington from a point in France and replaced him with two German Hussars. ‘I don’t like this at all,’ he said to himself.
Mrs Townsend sighed. ‘And I don’t like
‘No turkey, Mrs Townsend?’ Katie gaped.
‘Not so much as a wing.’
‘But whatever will you serve?’
Mrs Townsend shook her head, ‘Don’t go getting in a flap, now. I daresay I’ll manage, my girl. I always do, don’t I?’
‘Yes, Mrs Townsend,’ said Katie gravely. ‘I must say you do.’
Mrs Townsend peered down her nose, satisfied herself there was no irony intended, and returned her attention to the menu.
I was trying to concentrate on my knitting but when I dropped the third stitch in as many rows, I cast it aside, frustrated, and stood up. Something had been bothering me all evening. Something I had witnessed in the village that I didn’t rightly understand.
I straightened my apron and approached Mr Hamilton who, it seemed to me, knew just about everything.
‘Mr Hamilton?’ I said tentatively.
He turned toward me, peered over his glasses, the Duke of Wellington still pinched between two long tapered fingertips. ‘What is it, Grace?’
I glanced back to where the others sat, engaged in animated discussion.
‘Well girl?’ Mr Hamilton said. ‘Cat got your tongue?’
I cleared my throat. ‘No, Mr Hamilton,’ I said. ‘It’s just… I wanted to ask you about something. Something I saw in the village today.’
‘Yes?’ he said. ‘Speak up, my girl.’
I glanced toward the door. ‘Where is Alfred, Mr Hamilton?’
He frowned. ‘Upstairs, serving sherry. Why? What’s Alfred got to do with all this?’
‘It’s just, I saw Alfred today, in the village-’
‘Yes,’ Mr Hamilton said. ‘He was running an errand for me.’
‘I know, Mr Hamilton. I saw him. At McWhirter’s. And I saw when he came out of the store.’ I pressed my lips together. Some unaccountable reticence made me loath to speak the rest. ‘He was given a white feather, Mr Hamilton.’
‘A white feather?’ Mr Hamilton’s eyes widened and the Duke of Wellington was released unceremoniously onto the table.
I nodded, remembering Alfred’s shift in manner: the way he’d been stopped in his jaunty tracks. Had stood, dazed, feather in hand as passers-by slowed to whisper knowingly at one another. Had dropped his gaze and hurried away, shoulders bent and head low.
‘A white feather?’ To my chagrin, Mr Hamilton said this loudly enough to draw the attention of the others.
‘What’s that, Mr Hamilton?’ Mrs Townsend peered over her glasses.
He brushed a hand down his cheek and across his lips. Shook his head in disbelief. ‘Alfred was given a white feather.’
‘No,’ Mrs Townsend gasped, plump hand leaping to her chest. ‘He never was. Not a white feather. Not our Alfred.’
‘How do you know?’ Myra said.
‘Grace saw it happen,’ Mr Hamilton said. ‘This morning in the village.’
I nodded, my heart beginning to race with the uneasy sense of having opened the Pandora’s box of someone else’s secret. Being unable now to close it.
‘It’s preposterous,’ Mr Hamilton said, straightening his waistcoat. He returned to his seat and hooked his spectacles over his ears. ‘Alfred is not a coward. He’s serving the war effort every day he helps keep this household running. He has an important position with an important family.’
‘But it’s not the same as fighting, is it Mr Hamilton?’ said Katie.
‘It most certainly is,’ blustered Mr Hamilton. ‘There’s a role for each of us in this war, Katie. Even you. It’s our duty to preserve the ways of this fine country of ours so that when the soldiers return victorious, the society they remember will be waiting for them.’
‘So even when I’m washing pots I’m helping the war effort?’ said Katie in wonderment.
‘Not the way you wash them,’ Mrs Townsend said.
‘Yes Katie,’ Mr Hamilton said. ‘By keeping up with your duties, and by knitting your scarves, you’re doing your bit.’ He shot glances at Myra and me. ‘We all are.’
‘It doesn’t seem enough, if you ask me,’ Myra said, her head bowed.
‘What’s that, Myra?’ Mr Hamilton said.
Myra stopped knitting and laid her bony hands in her lap. ‘Well,’ she said cautiously, ‘take Alfred, for example. He’s a young fit man. Surely he’d be of better use helping the other boys what are over there in France? Anyone can pour sherry.’
‘Anyone can pour…?’ Mr Hamilton paled. ‘You of all people should know that domestic service is a skill to which not all are suited, Myra.’
Myra flushed. ‘Of course, Mr Hamilton. I never meant to suggest it was.’ She fidgeted with the marbles of her knuckles. ‘I… I suppose I’ve just been feeling a bit useless myself, of late.’
Mr Hamilton was about to denounce such feelings, when all of a sudden Alfred came clattering down the stairs and into the room. Mr Hamilton’s mouth dropped shut and we fell into a conspiracy of collective silence.
‘Alfred,’ Mrs Townsend said at last, ‘whatever’s the matter, racing down them stairs like that?’ She cast about and found me. ‘You scared poor Grace half to death. Poor girl nearly jumped out of her skin.’
I smiled weakly at Alfred, for I hadn’t been frightened at all. Merely surprised, like everyone else. And sorry. I should never have asked Mr Hamilton about the feather. I was becoming fond of Alfred: he was kind-hearted and had often taken time to draw me from my shell. To discuss his embarrassment while his back was turned made a fool of him somehow.
‘I’m sorry, Grace,’ Alfred said. ‘It’s just, Master David has arrived.’
‘Yes,’ Mr Hamilton said, looking at his watch, ‘as we expected. Dawkins was to collect him from the station off the ten o’clock train. Mrs Townsend has his supper ready, if you care to take it up.’
Alfred nodded, catching up his breath. ‘I know that, Mr Hamilton…’ He swallowed. ‘It’s just… Master David. He has someone with him. From Eton. I believe it’s Lord Hunter’s son.’
I take a breath. You once told me that there is a point in most stories from which there is no return. When all the central characters have made their way on stage and the scene is set
