The Shifting Fog

by Kate Morton

  And with them went the room’s enchantment. Stillness became emptiness and the small flame of pleasure I had nurtured was extinguished. I hurried my duties now, straightened the bookshelves without so much as a glance at their contents, no longer caught the horse’s eye; thought only of what they might be doing. And when I was finished I didn’t linger, but moved on swiftly to complete my duties. Occasionally, when I was clearing the breakfast tray from a second-floor guestroom or disposing of the night-waters, a squeal of distant laughter would draw my eyes to the window and I would see them, far off in the distance, heading toward the lake, disappearing down the driveway, duelling with long straight sticks.

  Downstairs, Mr Hamilton had stirred the servants into a frenzy of activity. It was the test of a good staff, he said, not to mention the proof of a butler’s mettle, to serve a household of guests. No request was to prove too much. We were to work as a finely oiled locomotive, rising to meet each challenge, exceeding the Master’s every expectation. It was to be a week of small triumphs, culminating in the midsummer dinner.

  Mr Hamilton’s fervour was infectious; even Nancy suffered an elevation of spirits and called a truce of sorts, offering, grudgingly, that I might help her clean the drawing room. It wasn’t ordinarily my place, she reminded me, to be cleaning the main rooms, but with the Master’s family visiting I was to be allowed the privilege—under strict observation—to practise these advanced duties. So it was I added this dubious opportunity to my already inflated duty load and accompanied Nancy daily to the drawing room where the adults sipped tea and discussed things that interested me little: weekend country parties, European politics and some unfortunate Austrian fellow who’d been shot in a faraway place.

  The day of the recital (Sunday 2 August 1914—I remember the date, though not for the recital as much as what came after) coincided with my afternoon off and my first visit to Mother since I’d started at Riverton. When I’d finished my morning duties I exchanged my uniform for regular clothes, strangely stiff and unfamiliar on my body. I brushed my hair out—pale and kinky where it had been wrapped in its plait—then set about rebraiding, coiling a bun at the nape of my neck. Did I look any different, I wondered? Would Mother think so? It had only been five weeks and yet I felt inexplicably changed.

  As I came down the servants’ stairs and into the kitchen I was met by Mrs Townsend who thrust a bundle into my hands. ‘Go on then, take it. Just a little something for your mother’s tea,’ she said in a hushed voice. ‘Some of my lemon-curd tart and a couple of slices of Victoria sponge.’

  I looked at her, taken aback by the uncharacteristic gesture. Mrs Townsend was as proud of her shipshape home economics as she was of her towering soufflé.

  I glanced toward the staircase, dropped my own voice to a whisper. ‘But are you sure the Mistress—’ ‘You never mind about the Mistress. She and Lady Clementine won’t be left wanting.’ She dusted down her apron, pulled her round shoulders to full height so that her chest seemed even more expansive than usual. ‘You just be sure an’ tell your mother we’re looking out for you up here.’ She shook her head. ‘Fine girl, your mother. Guilty of nothing that aint been done a thousand times before.’

  Then she turned and bustled back to the kitchen as suddenly as she’d appeared. Leaving me alone in the darkened hallway, wondering what she’d meant.

  I turned it over in my mind all the way to the village. It was not the first time Mrs Townsend had perplexed me with an expression of fondness for my mother. My own puzzlement left me feeling disloyal, but there was little in her reminiscences of good humour that could be accorded with the Mother I knew. Mother with her moods and silences.

  She was waiting for me on the doorstep. Stood as she caught sight of me. ‘I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me.’

  ‘Sorry, Mother,’ I said. ‘I was caught up with my duties.’

  ‘Hope you made time for church this morning.’

  ‘Yes, Mother. The staff go to service at the Riverton church.’

  ‘I know that, my girl. I attended service at that church long before you came along.’ She nodded at my hands. ‘What’s that you’ve got?’

  I handed over the bundle. ‘From Mrs Townsend. She was asking after you.’

  Mother peeked within the bundle, bit the inside of her cheek. ‘I’ll be sure and have heartburn tonight.’ She rewrapped it, said grudgingly, ‘Still. It’s good of her.’ She stood aside, pushed back the door. ‘Come on in, then. You can make me up a pot of tea and tell me what’s been happening.’

  I cannot remember much of which we spoke, for I was an unconscientious conversationalist that afternoon. My mind was not with Mother in her tiny, cheerless kitchen, but up in the ballroom on the hill where earlier I had helped Nancy arrange chairs into rows and hang gold curtains around the proscenium arch.

  All the while Mother had me performing chores I kept an eye on the kitchen clock, mindful of the rigid hands marching their way closer and closer toward five o’clock, the hour of the recital.

  I was already late when we said our goodbyes. By the time I reached the Riverton gates the sun was low in the sky. I wove along the narrow road toward the house. Magnificent trees, the legacy of Lord Ashbury’s distant ancestors, lined the way, their highest boughs arching to meet, outermost branches lacing so that the road became a dark, whispering tunnel.

  As I burst into the light that afternoon, the sun had just slipped behind the roofline, giving the house a mauve and orange outer glow. I cut across the grounds, past the Eros and Psyche fountain, through Lady Violet’s garden of pink cabbage roses and down into the rear entrance. The servants’ hall was empty and my shoes echoed as I broke Mr Hamilton’s golden rule and ran along the stone corridor. Through the kitchen I went, past Mrs Townsend’s workbench covered with a panoply of sweetbreads and cakes, and up the stairs.

  The house was eerily quiet, everyone already in attendance at the recital. When I reached the gilded ballroom door I smoothed my hair, straightened my skirt and slipped inside the darkened room; took my place on the side wall with the other servants.

  ALL GOOD THINGS

  I hadn’t realised the room would be so dark. It was the first recital I had ever attended, though I had once seen part of a Punch and Judy show when Mother took me to visit her sister, Dee, in Brighton. Black curtains had been draped across the windows and the room’s only brightness came from four limelights retrieved from the attic. They glowed yellow along the front of the stage, casting light upwards and glazing the performers in a ghostly shimmer.

  Fanny was onstage singing the final bars of ‘The Wedding Glide’, batting her eyelids and trilling her notes. She hit the final G with a strident F and the audience broke into a round of polite applause. She smiled and curtseyed coyly, her coquetry undermined somewhat by the curtain behind bulging excitedly with elbows and props belonging to the next act.

  As Fanny exited stage right, Emmeline and David—draped in togas—entered stage left. They brought with them three long timber poles and a sheet, which were quickly arranged to form a serviceable, though lopsided, tent. They knelt beneath, holding their positions as a hush fell over the audience.

  A voice came from beyond: ‘Ladies and gentlemen. A scene from the Book of Numbers.’

  A murmur of approval.

  The voice: ‘Imagine if you will, in ancient times, a family camped on a mountainside. A sister and brother gather in private to discuss the recent marriage of their brother.’

  A round of light applause.

  Then Emmeline spoke, voice buzzing with self-importance.

  ‘But brother, what has Moses done?’

  ‘He has taken a wife,’ said David, rather drolly.

  ‘But she is not one of us,’ said Emmeline, eyeing the audience.

  ‘No,’ said David. ‘You are right, sister. For she is an Ethiopian.’

  Emmeline shook her head, adopting an expression of exaggerated concern. ‘He has married outside the clan.

  Whatever w
ill become of him?’

  Suddenly a loud, clear voice from behind the curtain, amplified as if travelling through space (more likely a rolled-up piece of cardboard), ‘Aaron! Miriam!’

  Emmeline gave her best performance of fearful attention.

  ‘This is God. Your father. Come out ye two unto the tabernacle of the congregation.’

  Emmeline and David did as they were told, shuffling from beneath the teepee to the front of stage. Flickering limelights threw an army of shadows onto the sheet behind.

  My eyes had adjusted to the dark and I was able to identify certain members of the audience by their familiar shapes. In the front row of finely dressed ladies, Lady Clementine’s tumbling jowls and Lady Violet’s feathered hat. A couple of rows behind, the Major and his wife. Closer to me, Mr Frederick, head high, legs crossed, eyes focused sharply ahead. I studied his profile. He looked different somehow. The flickering half-light gave his high cheekbones a cadaverous appearance and his eyes the look of glass. His eyes. He wasn’t wearing glasses. I had never seen him without.

  The Lord began to deliver his judgement, and I returned my attention to the stage. ‘Miriam and Aaron. Wherefore were ye not afraid to speak against my servant Moses?’

  ‘We’re sorry, Father,’ said Emmeline. ‘We were just—’ ‘Enough! My anger is kindled against thee!’

  There was a burst of thunder (a drum, I think) and the audience jumped. A cloud of smoke plumed from behind the curtain, spilling over onto the stage.

  Lady Violet exclaimed and David said, in a stage whisper, ‘It’s all right, Grandmamma. It’s part of the show.’

  A ripple of amused laughter.

  ‘My anger is kindled against thee!’ Hannah’s voice was fierce, bringing the audience to silence. ‘Daughter,’ she said, and Emmeline turned away from the audience to gaze into the dissipating cloud. ‘Thou! Art! Leprous!’

  Emmeline’s hands flew to her face. ‘No!’ she cried. She held a dramatic pose before turning to the audience to reveal her condition.

  A collective gasp; they had decided against a mask in the end, opting instead for a handful of strawberry jam and cream, smeared to gruesome effect.

  ‘Those imps,’ came Mrs Townsend’s aggrieved whisper.

  ‘They told me they was needing jam for their scones!’

  ‘Son,’ said Hannah after a suitably dramatic pause, ‘thou art guilty of the same sin, and yet I cannot bring myself to anger at you.’

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ said David.

  ‘Wilt thou remember not to discuss your brother’s wife again?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  ‘Then you may go.’

  ‘Alas, my lord,’ said David, hiding a smile as he extended his arm toward Emmeline. ‘I beseech thee, heal my sister now.’

  The audience was silent, awaiting the Lord’s response. ‘No,’ it came, ‘I don’t think I will. She will be shut out from camp for seven days. Only then will she be received again.’ As Emmeline sank to her knees and David laid his hand on her shoulder, Hannah appeared from stage left. The audience drew breath as one. She was dressed immaculately in men’s clothing: a suit, top hat, walking cane, fob watch and, on the bridge of her nose, Mr Frederick’s glasses. She walked to centre stage, twirling her cane like a dandy. Her voice, when she spoke, was an excellent imitation of her father’s. ‘My daughter will learn that there are some rules for girls and others for boys.’ She took a deep breath, straightened her hat. ‘To allow otherwise is to start down the slippery slope to women’s suffrage.’

  The audience sat in electric silence, row on row, mouths agape.

  The servants were equally scandalised. Even in the dark I was aware of Mr Hamilton’s whitening face. For once he was at a loss as to protocol, satisfying his indomitable sense of duty by serving as leaning post for Mrs Townsend who, not yet fully recovered from seeing her jam misused, had buckled at the knees and collapsed sideways.

  My eyes sought Mr Frederick. Still in his seat, he was rigid as a barge pole. As I watched, his shoulders began to twitch and I feared he was on the verge of one of the rages to which Nancy had alluded. On stage, the children stood, frozen in tableaux like dolls in a doll’s house, watching the audience while the audience watched them.

  Hannah was a model of composure, innocence writ large across her face. For an instant it seemed she caught my eye, and I thought the glimmer of a smile crossed her lips. I could not help it, I smiled back, fearfully, only stopping when Nancy glanced sideways in the dark and gave my arm a pinch.

  Hannah, glowing, joined hands with Emmeline and David, and the three stretched out across the stage and took a bow. As they did, a glob of jam-smeared cream dropped from Emmeline’s nose and landed with a sizzle on a nearby limelight.

  ‘Just so,’ came a high fluty voice from the audience—Lady Clementine. ‘A fellow I know knew a fellow with leprosy, out in India. His nose dropped off just like that in his shaving dish.’

  It was too much for Mr Frederick. His eyes met Hannah’s and he began to laugh. Such a laugh as I had never heard: infectious by virtue of its sheer sincerity. One by one, others joined him, though Lady Violet, I noticed, was not amongst them.

  I couldn’t help my own laughter, spontaneous ripples of relief, until Nancy hissed into my ear, ‘That’s enough, miss. You can come and help me with supper.’

  I would miss the rest of the recital, but I had seen all I wanted to. As we left the room and made our way down the corridor, I was aware of the applause dying, the recital rolling on. And I felt infused by a strange energy.

  By the time we had carried Mrs Townsend’s supper and the trays of coffee to the drawing room and given the armchair cushions a preparatory plump, the recital had ended and the guests had started to arrive, arm in arm in order of rank. First came Lady Violet and Major Jonathan, then Lord Ashbury and Lady Clementine, then Mr Frederick with Jemima and Fanny. The Hartford children, I guessed, were still upstairs.

  As they took their places, Nancy arranged the coffee tray so Lady Violet could pour. While her guests chatted lightly around her, Lady Violet leaned toward Mr Frederick’s armchair and said, through a thin smile, ‘You indulge those children, Frederick.’

  Mr Frederick’s lips tightened. The criticism, I could tell, was not a new one.

  Eyes on the coffee she was pouring, Lady Violet said, ‘You may find their antics amusing now, but the day will come when you’ll rue your leniency. You’ve let them grow wild. Hannah, especially. There’s nothing spoils a young lady’s loveliness so much as impertinence of intellect.’

  Her invective delivered, Lady Violet straightened, arranged her expression into one of cordial amiability and passed a coffee to Lady Clementine.

  Conversation had turned, predictably enough, to the strife in Europe and the likelihood of Great Britain going to war.

  ‘There’ll be war. There always is,’ Lady Clementine said, matter-of-factly, taking the proffered coffee and wedging her buttocks deep into Lady Violet’s favourite armchair. Her pitch rose. ‘And we’ll all suffer. Men, women and children. The Germans aren’t civilised like us. They’ll pillage our countryside, murder our little ones in their beds and enslave good English women that we might propagate little Huns for them. You mark my words for I’m very rarely wrong. We’ll be at war before the summer’s out.’

  ‘Surely you exaggerate, Clementine,’ Lady Violet said. ‘The war—if it comes—couldn’t be as bad as all that. These are modern times, after all.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Lord Ashbury said. ‘It’ll be twentieth-century warfare; a whole new game. Not to mention there’s not a Hun could lift a torch to an Englishman.’

  ‘It might be improper to say,’ Fanny said, perching herself at one end of the chaise longue, curls shaking excitedly, ‘but I rather hope the war does come.’ She turned hastily to Lady Clementine. ‘Not all the pillaging and killing of course, Aunty, nor the propagating; I shouldn’t like that. But I do so love seeing gentlemen dressed in uniform.’ She cast a furtiv
e glance toward Major Jonathan then returned her attention to the group. ‘I had a letter today from my friend Margery . . . You remember Margery, don’t you, Aunty Clem?’

  Lady Clementine quivered her heavy eyelids. ‘Regrettably. A foolish girl with provincial manners.’ She leaned toward Lady Violet. ‘Raised in Dublin, you know. Irish Catholic, no less.’

  I peeked at Nancy, offering sugar cubes, and noticed her back stiffen. She caught my glance and shot me a hot scowl.

  ‘Well,’ Fanny continued, ‘Margery’s holidaying with family by the seaside and she said when she met her mother at the station, the trains were absolutely packed with reservists rushing back to their headquarters. It’s ever so exciting.’

  ‘Fanny darling,’ Lady Violet said, looking up from the coffee pot, ‘I do think it’s rather in poor taste to wish a war merely for excitement. Wouldn’t you agree, Jonathan dear?’

  The Major, standing by the unlit fire, straightened himself. ‘While I don’t agree with Fanny’s motivation, I must say I share her sentiment. I for one hope we do go to war. The whole continent’s got itself into a damnable mess—excuse my strong language, Mother, Lady Clem, but it has. They need good old Britannia to get in there and sort it out. Give those Huns a jolly good shake-up.’

  A general cheer went up around the room and Jemima clasped the Major’s arm, gazed up adoringly, button eyes aglow.

  Old Lord Ashbury puffed his pipe excitedly. ‘A bit of sport,’ he proclaimed, leaning back against his chair. ‘Nothing like a war to sort the men from the boys.’