to follow, but duty was ever his master. He ran his handkerchief across his face one last time and turned to us, lips pressed together so they sketched one pale line of dutiful resignation.
‘Grace,’ he said as I prepared to chase Alfred. ‘Put on your good apron. You’re needed upstairs.’
•
In the dining room I took my place between the chiffonier and the Louis XIV chair. On the opposite wall Myra raised her eyebrows. Powerless to convey all that had happened downstairs, unsure what such an explanation would contain, I lifted my shoulders slightly and looked away. Wondered where Alfred was and whether he would ever be himself again.
They were finishing the pheasant course and the air quivered with the polite tinkle of cutlery on fine china.
‘Well,’ Estella said, ‘that was,’ imperceptible pause, ‘just lovely.’ I watched her profile, watched the way her jaw worked as she chewed each word, wringing from it all life and vitality before pushing it out through broad, crimson lips. I remember her lips especially, as she was the only person wearing makeup. Much to Emmeline’s eternal sorrow, Mr Frederick had rather definite ideas on makeup and its wearers.
Estella cleared a valley between the leftover mounds of solidifying pheasant and laid down her cutlery. She kissed cherry splotches onto a white linen napkin I would have to scrub later. ‘Such
Myra raised her eyebrows. For a guest to comment directly on the meal was almost unheard of. Indeed, such blatant respects verged on discourtesy, all too easily interpreted as evidence of surprise or, worse, relief. We would have to be cautious when recounting to Mrs Townsend.
Mr Frederick, as astonished as we, launched an uneasy oratory on Mrs Townsend’s unparalleled skill as a ration cook, under which veil Estella took opportunity to peruse the room. Her gaze alighted first on the ornate plaster cornices marrying wall to ceiling, slid south to the William Morris frieze on the dado rail, before resting, finally, on the wall-mounted Ashbury crest. Taking stock, or so it seemed, as all the while her tongue darted methodically beneath her cheek, working some stubborn and distasteful morsel from between her gleaming teeth.
Small sociable chat was not Mr Frederick’s metier in life, and his narration, once started, became a desolate conversational island from which there seemed no escape. He began to flounder. He cast about with his eyes but Estella, Simion, Teddy and Emmeline had all found discrete occupation elsewhere. He had almost surrendered to his fate when finally, in Hannah, he found an ally. They exchanged a glance, and while he allowed his desultory description of Mrs Townsend’s butterless scones to wilt, she cleared her throat.
‘You mentioned a daughter, Mrs Luxton,’ Hannah said. ‘She isn’t with you on this trip?’
‘No,’ Estella said quickly, her attention returned to her tablemates. ‘No, she isn’t.’
Simion looked up from his pheasant and grunted. ‘Deborah hasn’t accompanied us in some time,’ he said. ‘She has commitments at home.
Hannah showed a resurrection of genuine interest. ‘She works?’
‘Something in publishing.’ Simion swallowed a forkful of pheasant. ‘Don’t know the details.’
‘Deborah is the fashion columnist on
‘Ridiculous-’ Simion’s body shook, capturing a hiccough before it became a burp, ‘-tripe about shoes and dresses and other extravagances.’
‘Now Father,’ Teddy said with a slow smile. ‘Deb’s column is very popular. She’s been influential in shaping the way New York’s society ladies dress.’
‘Guff! You’re fortunate your daughters don’t put you through such things, Frederick.’ Simion pushed his gravy-smeared plate aside. ‘Work indeed. You British girls are much more sensible.’
It was the perfect opportunity and Hannah knew it. I held my breath, wondering whether her desire for adventure would win out. Hoping it wouldn’t. That she would honour Emmeline’s entreaty and stay here at Riverton. With Alfred as he was, I couldn’t bear to think that Hannah might also disappear.
She and Emmeline exchanged a glance, and before Hannah had chance to speak, Emmeline said quickly, in the clear musical voice young ladies were advised to cultivate for use in company, ‘
‘I’d sooner tear out my own heart than see either of my daughters working,’ Mr Frederick said matter-of-factly.
Hannah’s lips tightened.
‘Damn near broke my heart,’ Simion said. He looked at Emmeline. ‘If only my Deborah had your sense.’
Emmeline smiled, her face blooming with a precocious ripeness of beauty I was almost embarrassed to observe.
‘Now, Simion,’ Estella placated. ‘You know Deborah wouldn’t have accepted the position if you hadn’t granted your permission.’ She smiled, too broadly, at the others. ‘He never could say no to her.’
Simion humphed but did not disagree.
‘Mother’s right, Father,’ Teddy said. ‘Taking a little job is quite the thing amongst the New York smart set. Deborah is young and she’s not yet married. She’ll settle down when the time comes.’
‘I’ve always preferred correctness to smartness,’ Simion said. ‘But that’s modern society for you. They all want to be considered smart. I blame the war.’ He tucked his thumbs beneath the tight rim of his pants, concealed from all but my view, and provided his stomach some welcome breathing space. ‘My only consolation is that she earns good money.’ Reminded of his favourite topic, he cheered somewhat. ‘I say, Frederick. What do you think of the penalties they’re talking of imposing on poor old Germany?’
As conversation swept along, Emmeline looked sideways beneath her eyelids at Hannah. Hannah kept her chin up, eyes following conversation, face a model of calm, and I wondered whether she had been going to ask at all. Perhaps Emmeline’s earlier appeal had changed her mind. Perhaps I imagined her light shudder as opportunity disappeared in a sudden draught up the chimney.
‘One does feel rather sorry for the Germans,’ Simion said. ‘There’s a lot to be admired in their people. Excellent employees, eh Frederick?’
‘I don’t employ Germans in my factory,’ Frederick said.
‘There’s your first mistake. You won’t find a more diligent race. Humourless, I’ll grant you, but meticulous.’
‘I’m quite happy with my local men.’
‘Your nationalism is admirable, Frederick. But not, surely, at the expense of business?’
‘My son was killed by a German bullet,’ Mr Frederick said, fingers spread, light but taut, on the table rim.
The remark was a vacuum into which all bonhomie was drawn. Mr Hamilton caught my gaze and motioned Myra and me to create a diversion by collecting the main plates. We were halfway around the table when Teddy cleared his throat and said, ‘Our deepest sympathies, Lord Ashbury. We had heard about your son. About David. Word at White’s, he was a good man.’
‘Boy.’
