couldn’t understand. A knowingness to which I wasn’t privy.
‘And what of you, Grace?’ said Mr Hamilton suddenly, eyes snapping away from Mrs Townsend’s. ‘Enough of us. Tell us about London? How is young Mrs Luxton?’
I only half heard his questions. On the edges of my mind something was forming. Whisperings, and glances, and insinuations that had long fluttered singularly were now coming together. Forming a picture. Almost.
‘Well, Grace?’ said Mrs Townsend impatiently. ‘Cat got your tongue? What of Miss Hannah?’
‘Sorry, Mrs Townsend,’ I said. ‘Must’ve been away with the fairies.’
They were all watching me eagerly so I told them Hannah was well. It seemed the proper thing to do. Where would I have begun to tell them otherwise? About the arguments with Teddy, the visit to the spiritualist, the frightening talk of being dead already? I spoke instead of the beautiful house, and Hannah’s clothes, and the glittering guests they entertained.
‘And what of your duties?’ Mr Hamilton said, straightening. ‘Quite a different pace in London. Lots of entertaining? I suppose you’re part of a large staff?’
I told him that the staff was large but not so proficient as here at Riverton and he seemed pleased. And I told them about the attempt Lady Pemberton-Brown had made on me.
‘I trust you told her what was what,’ said Mr Hamilton. ‘Politely but firmly, as I’ve always instructed?’
‘Yes, Mr Hamilton,’ I said. ‘Of course I did.’
‘That’s the girl,’ he said, beaming like a proud father. ‘Glenfield Hall, eh? You must be making quite a name for yourself if the likes of Glenfield Hall were trying to poach you. Still, you did the right thing. In our line of work, what have we if we don’t have our loyalty?’
We all nodded agreement. All except Alfred, I noticed.
Mr Hamilton noticed too. ‘I suppose Alfred’s told you his plans,’ he said, raising a silvery eyebrow.
‘What plans?’ I looked at Alfred.
‘I was trying to tell you,’ he said, biting back a smile as he came to sit by me. ‘I’m leaving, Grace. No more yes-sirring for me.’
My first thought was that he was leaving England again. Right when we had begun to make amends.
He laughed at my expression. ‘I’m not going far. I’m just leaving service. A mate of mine, from the war; we’re setting up in business together.’
‘Alfred…’ I didn’t know what to say. I was relieved, but I was also worried for him. To leave service? The security of Riverton? ‘What kind of business?’
‘Mechanics. My mate’s awful good with his hands. He’s going to teach me how to fix engines and the like. In the meantime I’m going to take on managing the garage. Going to work hard and save money, Gracie-I’ve already got some put away. One day I’m going to have my very own business, I’m going to be my own man. You’ll see.’
Afterwards, Alfred walked me back to the village. Cold night was falling fast and we went quickly to save from freezing. Though I was pleased with Alfred’s company, relieved that we had mended our differences, I said little. My mind was busy, stitching together fragments of knowledge, trying to make sense of the patchwork result. Alfred, for his part, seemed content to walk in silence; as it turned out his mind was racing too, though along another line entirely.
I was thinking of Mother. About the bitterness that always simmered beneath her surface; her conviction, expectation almost, that hers was a life of ill fortune. That was the Mother I remembered. And yet, for some time now I had begun to realise she was not always so. Mrs Townsend remembered her affectionately; Mr Frederick, interminably difficult to please, had been fond of her.
But what had happened to transform the young serving maid with her secret smile? The answer, I was beginning to suspect, was the key to unlocking many of Mother’s mysteries. And its solution was nearby. It lurked like an elusive fish in my mind’s reeds. I knew it was there, could sense it, glimpse its vague shape, but every time I got close, reached to grasp its shadowy form, it slipped away.
That it had something to do with my birth was certain: Mother had been open on that front. And I was sure my ghost of a father figured somewhere: the man she spoke of with Alfred but never with me. The man she’d loved but couldn’t be with. What reason had Alfred given? His family? His commitments?
‘Grace.’
My aunt knew who he was, but she was as tight-lipped as Mother. Nonetheless, I knew well enough what she thought of him. My childhood was peppered with their whispered exchanges: Aunt Dee castigating Mother for her poor choices, telling her she’d made her bed and had no option now but to lie in it; Mother weeping as Aunt Dee patted her shoulder with brusque condolences: ‘You’re better off’, ‘It couldn’t have worked’, ‘You’re well rid of that place’. That place, I knew even as a girl, was the grand house on the hill. And I knew also that Aunt Dee’s contempt for my father was equalled only by her disdain for Riverton. The two great catastrophes in Mother’s life, she was fond of saying.
‘Grace.’
A disdain that extended to Mr Frederick, it would seem. ‘He’s got a nerve,’ she’d said when she spied him at the funeral: ‘Can’t keep away, even now. After all he’s done.’ I wondered how my aunt knew who he was, and what Mr Frederick could possibly have done to make her scowl so?
I wondered, too, what he had been doing there. Fondness for an employee was one thing, but for His Lordship to appear at the town cemetery. To watch as one of his long-ago serving maids was buried…
‘Grace.’ In the distance, through the tangle of my thoughts, Alfred was speaking. I glanced at him distractedly. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask all day,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid if I don’t ask now, I’ll lose my nerve.’
And Mother had been fond of Frederick too. ‘Poor, poor, Frederick,’ she had said when his father and brother passed. Not poor Lady Violet or poor Jemima. Her sympathy had extended directly and exclusively to Frederick.
But that was understandable, wasn’t it? Mr Frederick would have been a young man when Mother worked at the house; it was natural her sympathy would lie with the family member closest to her in age. Just as my sympathy lay with Hannah. Besides, Mother had seemed just as fond of Frederick’s wife, Penelope. ‘Frederick wouldn’t marry again,’ she’d said when I told her Fanny sought his hand. Her certainty, her despondency when I insisted it was so: surely these could only be explained by her closeness to her former mistress?
‘I don’t have a way with words, Gracie, you know that as well as I,’ Alfred was saying. ‘So I’m going to come right out with it. You know I’m going into business soon…?’
I was nodding, somehow I was nodding, but my mind was elsewhere. The elusive fish was close. I could see the glimmer of its slippery scales, weaving through the reeds, out of the shadows…
‘But that’s just the first step. I’m going to save and save and one day, not too far away, I’m going to have a business with Alfred Steeple on the front door, you see if I don’t.’
… And into the light. Was it possible Mother’s upset was not the result of affection for her former mistress at all? But because the man she had cared for-still cared for-might be planning to marry again? That Mother and Mr Frederick…? That all those years ago, when she was in service at Riverton…?
‘I’ve waited and waited, Grace, because I wanted to have something to offer you. Something more than what I am now…’
But surely not. It would have been a scandal. People would have known. I would have known. Wouldn’t I?
Memories, snatches of conversation, floated back. Was that what Lady
