The House at Riverton aka The Shifting Fog

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 Myra 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.’

‘She doesn’t mean how is he physically,’ Emmeline said unexpectedly. ‘She means how is he in the head.’

‘In the head, miss?’ I looked at Hannah, who was frowning faintly at Emmeline.

‘Well you did.’ Emmeline turned to me, her eyes red-rimmed. ‘When he served tea yesterday afternoon he behaved most peculiarly. He was offering the tray of sweets, just as usual, when suddenly the tray started quivering back and forth.’ She laughed: a hollow, unnatural sound. ‘His whole arm was shaking, and I waited for him to steady it so I could take a lemon tart, but it was as if he couldn’t make it stop. Then, sure enough, the tray slipped and sent an avalanche of Victoria sponges all over my prettiest dress. At first I was quite cross-it was really too careless; the dress could have been ruined-but then, as he continued to stand there with the strangest look on his face, I became frightened. I was sure he’d gone quite mad.’ She shrugged. ‘He snapped out of it eventually and cleaned the mess. But still, the damage was done. He was just lucky that I was the one to suffer. Pa wouldn’t have been so forgiving. He’d be ever so dark if it happened again tonight.’ She looked directly at me, blue eyes cold. ‘You don’t think it’s likely, do you?’

‘I couldn’t say, miss.’ I was taken aback. This was the first I’d heard of the event. ‘I mean, I shouldn’t think so, miss. I’m sure Alfred is all right.’

‘Of course he is,’ Hannah said quickly. ‘It was an accident, nothing more. Returning home must take some adjustment after being away so long. And those salvers look awfully heavy, especially the way Mrs Townsend loads them. I’m sure she’s on a quest to fatten us all up.’ She smiled but the echo of a frown still creased her brow.

‘Yes miss,’ I said.

Hannah nodded, the matter closed. ‘Now let’s get these dresses on so we can play dutiful daughters for Pa’s Americans and be done with it.’

THE DINNER

All along the corridor and down the stairs I replayed Emmeline’s reportage. But no matter which way I twisted it, I arrived at the same conclusion. Something was amiss. It was not like Alfred to be clumsy. In all the time I had been at Riverton I could think of only a couple of occasions when he had faulted in his duties. Once, in a hurry, he had used the drinks salver to deliver the mail; another time he had tripped up the service stairs on account of he was getting the flu. But this was different. To spill an entire tray? It was almost impossible to imagine.

And yet, the episode was surely not a fabrication-what reason, after all, had Emmeline to invent such a thing? No, it must have occurred, and the reason must be as Hannah suggested. An accident: a moment of distraction as the dying sun caught the windowpane, a slight cramp of the wrist, a slippery tray. No one was immune to such occurrence, particularly, as Hannah pointed out, someone who had been away some years and was out of practice.

But though I wished to believe this simple explanation, I could not. For in a small pocket of my mind a collection of motley incidents-no, not so much as that-a collection of motley observations was forming. Misinterpretations of benign queries after his health, overreactions to perceived criticisms, frowns where once he would have laughed. Indeed, a general air of confused irritability applied itself to everything he did.

If I were honest, I had perceived it from the evening of his return. We had planned a little party: Mrs Townsend had baked a special supper and Mr Hamilton had received permission to open a bottle of the Master’s wine. We had spent much of the afternoon laying out the servants’ hall table, laughing as we arranged and rearranged items so that they might best please Alfred. We were all a little drunk, I think, on gladness that evening, though none more so than I.

When the expected hour arrived we positioned ourselves in a tableau of poorly pretended casualness. Expectant glances met one another as we continued to wait, ears registering every noise outside. Finally, the crunch of grave, low voices, a car door closing. Footsteps drawing near. Mr Hamilton stood, smoothed his jacket, and took up position by the door. A moment of eager silence as we awaited Alfred’s knock, and then the door was open and we were upon him.

It was nothing dramatic: Alfred didn’t rant or rave or cower. He let me take his hat and then he stood, uncomfortably, in the doorjamb as if afraid to enter. Schooled his lips into a smile. Mrs Townsend threw her arms around him, dragging him across the threshold as one might a resistant roll of