‘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 Riverton 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
Mrs Townsend snorted. ‘Self-made man indeed. Can’t have hurt marrying
‘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
‘At least they
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.
