The Shifting Fog

by Kate Morton

  Robbie said nothing.

  Deborah pursed her lips. ‘Unless you’d accompany me, Mr Hunter?’

  Hannah held her breath.

  ‘Me?’ Robbie said, laughing. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Deborah, ‘We’d have a great old time.’

  ‘I’m not a follower of fashion,’ said Robbie. ‘I’d be a fish out of water.’

  ‘I’m a very strong swimmer,’ said Deborah. ‘I’ll keep you afloat.’

  ‘All the same,’ said Robbie. ‘No.’

  Not for the first time, Hannah’s breath caught in her throat. He had a lack of propriety quite unlike the affected vulgarity of Emmeline’s friends. His was genuine and, Hannah thought, quite stunning.

  ‘I urge you to reconsider,’ said Deborah, a note of determined anxiety screwing tight her voice, ‘everybody who’s anybody will be there.’

  ‘I don’t enjoy society,’ said Robbie plainly. He was bored now. ‘Too many people spending too much money to impress those too stupid to know it.’

  Deborah opened her mouth, shut it again.

  Hannah tried not to smile.

  ‘If you’re sure,’ said Deborah.

  ‘Quite sure,’ said Robbie cheerfully. ‘Thanks all the same.’

  Deborah shook the newspaper onto her lap and gave the appearance of resuming her crossword. Robbie raised his eyebrows at Hannah then sucked his cheeks in like a fish. Hannah couldn’t help herself, she laughed.

  Deborah looked up sharply and glanced between them. Hannah recognised the expression: Deborah had inherited it, along with her lust for conquest, from Simion. Her lips thinned around the bitter taste of defeat. ‘You’re a wordsmith, Mr Hunter,’ she said coldly. ‘What’s a seven letter word starting with ‘b’ that means an error in judgement?’

  At dinner a few nights later, Deborah took revenge for Robbie’s blunder.

  ‘I noticed Mr Hunter was here again today,’ she said, spearing a pastry puff.

  ‘He brought a book he thought might interest me,’ Hannah said.

  Deborah glanced at Teddy, who was sitting at the head, dissecting his fish. ‘I just wonder whether Mr Hunter’s visits might be unsettling the staff.’

  Hannah laid down her cutlery. ‘I can’t see why the staff would find Mr Hunter’s visits unsettling.’

  ‘No,’ said Deborah, drawing herself up. ‘I rather feared you wouldn’t. You’ve never really been one for taking responsibility where the household is concerned.’ She spoke slowly, enunciating each word. ‘Servants are like children, Hannah dear. They like a good routine, find it almost impossible to function without. It’s up to us, their betters, to provide them one.’ She leaned her head to the side. ‘Now, as you know, Mr Hunter’s visits are unpredictable. By his own admission, he doesn’t know the first thing about polite society. He doesn’t even telephone ahead so you can give notice. Mrs Tibbit gets herself into quite a flap trying to provide morning tea for two when she’s only been prepared for one. It’s really not fair. Don’t you agree, Teddy?’

  ‘What’s that?’ He looked up from his fish head.

  ‘I was just saying,’ Deborah said, ‘how regrettable it is that the staff has been unsettled lately.’

  ‘Staff unsettled?’ said Teddy. It was, of course, his pet fear, inherited from his father, that the servant class would one day revolt.

  ‘I’ll speak to Mr Hunter,’ said Hannah quickly. ‘Ask him to telephone ahead in future.’

  Deborah appeared to consider this. ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I’m afraid it’s too little too late. I think perhaps it would be best if he were to cease visiting at all.’

  ‘Bit extreme, don’t you think, Deb,’ Teddy said, and Hannah felt a wave of warm affection for him. ‘Mr Hunter’s always struck me as harmless enough. Bohemian, I’ll grant you, but harmless. If he calls ahead, surely the staff—’

  ‘There are other issues to consider,’ Deborah snapped. ‘We wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea, would we, Teddy?’

  ‘Wrong idea?’ Teddy said, frowning. He began to laugh. ‘Oh Deb, you can’t mean that anyone would think Hannah and Mr Hunter . . . That my wife and a fellow like him . . . ?’

  Hannah closed her eyes lightly.

  ‘Of course I don’t,’ Deborah said sharply. ‘But people love to talk and talk isn’t good for business. Or politics.’

  ‘Politics?’ Teddy said.

  ‘Mother said you’re having another go,’ said Deborah. ‘How can people trust you to keep your electorate in check if they suspect you’re having trouble keeping your wife in check?’ She delivered herself a triumphant forkful of food, avoiding the sides of her lipsticked mouth.

  Teddy looked troubled. ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’

  ‘And neither should you,’ Hannah said quietly. ‘Mr Hunter was my brother’s good friend. He visits so that we might speak of David.’

  ‘I know that, old girl,’ said Teddy with an apologetic smile. He shrugged helplessly. ‘All the same, Deb has a point. You understand, don’t you? We can’t have people getting the wrong end of the stick.’

  Deborah stuck to Hannah like glue after that. Having suffered Robbie’s rejection, she wanted to be sure he received the directive; more importantly, that he realised from whom it came. Thus the next time Robbie visited, he once again found Deborah on the drawing-room sofa with Hannah.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Hunter,’ Deborah said, smiling broadly while she plucked knots from the fur of her Maltese, Bunty. ‘How lovely to see you. I trust you’re well?’

  Robbie nodded. ‘You?’

  ‘Oh, fighting fit,’ said Deborah.

  Robbie smiled at Hannah. ‘What did you think?’

  Hannah pressed her lips together. The proof copy of The Waste Land was sitting beside her. She handed it to him. ‘I loved it, Mr Hunter. It moved me immeasurably.’

  He smiled. ‘I knew it would.’

  Hannah glanced toward Deborah, who widened her eyes pointedly. ‘Mr Hunter,’ said Hannah, tightening her lips, ‘there’s something I need to discuss with you.’ She pointed to Teddy’s seat.

  Robbie sat, looked at her with those dark eyes.

  ‘My husband,’ began Hannah, but she didn’t know how to finish. ‘My husband . . .’

  She looked at Deborah, who cleared her throat and pretended absorption in Bunty’s silky head. Hannah watched a moment, transfixed by Deborah’s long, thin fingers, her pointed nails . . .

  Robbie followed her gaze. ‘Your husband, Mrs Luxton?’

  Hannah spoke softly. ‘My husband would prefer that you no longer call without purpose.’

  Deborah pushed Bunty off her lap, brushed her dress. ‘You understand, don’t you, Mr Hunter?’

  Boyle came in then carrying the tea salver. He laid it on the table, nodded to Deborah, then left.

  ‘You will stay for tea, won’t you?’ said Deborah, in a sweet voice that made Hannah’s skin crawl. ‘One last time?’ She poured the tea and handed a cup to Robbie.

  With Deborah as gay conductor, they managed an awkward conversation about the collapse of the coalition government and the assassination of Michael Collins. Hannah was hardly listening. All she wanted was a few minutes alone with Robbie in which to explain. She also knew it was the last thing Deborah would permit.

  She was thinking this, wondering whether she would ever have opportunity to speak with him again, realising just how much she’d come to depend on his company, when the door opened and Emmeline came in from lunching with friends.

  Emmeline was particularly pretty that day: she’d had her hair set into blonde waves and was wearing a new scarf in a new colour—burnt sienna—that made her skin glow. She flew through the door as was her way, sending Bunty scuttling beneath the armchair, and sank casually into the corner of the sofa, resting her hands dramatically on her stomach.

  ‘Phew,’ she said, oblivious to the room’s tension. ‘I’m as stuffed as a Christmas goose. I truly don’t think I’ll ever e
at again.’ She lolled her head to the side. ‘How’s tricks, Robbie?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. She sat up suddenly, eyes wide. ‘Oh! You’ll never guess who I met the other night at Lady Sybil Colefax’s party. I was sitting there, talking with darling Lord Berners—he was telling me all about the dear little piano he’s had installed in his Rolls Royce—when who should arrive but the Sitwells! All three Sitwells. They were ever so much funnier in the flesh. Dear Sachy with his clever jokes, and Osbert with those little poem things with the funny endings—’

  ‘Epigrams,’ Robbie mumbled.

  ‘He’s every bit as witty as Oscar Wilde,’ said Emmeline.

  ‘But it was Edith who was most impressive. She recited one of her poems and it brought the whole lot of us to tears. Well, you know what Lady Colefax is like—an absolute snob for brains—I couldn’t help myself, Robbie darling, I mentioned that I knew you and they just about died. I dare say they didn’t believe me, they all think I’ve a talent for invention—I can’t think why—but you see? You simply have to come to the party tonight to prove them wrong.’

  She drew breath and in one swift movement withdrew a cigarette from her bag and had it lit. She exhaled a rush of smoke. ‘Say you’ll come, Robbie. It’s one thing to have people doubt one when one’s lying, quite another when one’s speaking the truth.’

  Robbie paused a moment, considering her offer. ‘What time should I collect you?’ he said.

  Hannah blinked. She’d expected him to decline as he always did when Emmeline tossed him one of her invitations. She’d thought Robbie felt the same way about Emmeline’s friends as she did. Perhaps his disdain did not extend to the likes of Lord Berner and Lady Sybil. Perhaps the lure of the Sitwells was too much to resist.

  ‘Six o’clock,’ Emmeline said, smiling broadly. ‘What a thrill.’

  Robbie arrived at five-thirty. It was an irony, thought Hannah, that someone who made a habit of arriving without announcement should become so excessively polite when meeting someone even less reliable than he.

  Emmeline was still dressing so Robbie sat in the drawing room with Hannah. She was pleased finally to have opportunity to explain about Deborah, the way she’d goaded Teddy into making his decree. Robbie told her to forget it, that he’d guessed as much. They spoke then of other things and time must have flown, because suddenly Emmeline appeared, dressed and ready to go. Robbie nodded goodbye to Hannah, then he and Emmeline disappeared into the night.

  For a time it continued thus. Hannah saw Robbie when he came to collect Emmeline and there was little Deborah could do to change things. Once, when she made a last-ditch attempt to have him banished, Teddy shrugged and said it seemed only proper that the mistress of the house entertain guests who called for her younger sister. Would she have the fellow sit by himself in the drawing room?

  Hannah tried to satisfy herself with precious snatched moments, but found herself thinking about Robbie between times. He’d never been forthcoming about what he did when they weren’t together. She didn’t even know where he lived. So she started imagining; she’d always been good at games of imagination.

  She managed, rather conveniently, to ignore the fact that he was spending time with Emmeline. What did it matter anyway? Emmeline had an enormous group of friends. Robbie was just one more.

  Then one morning, when she was sitting at the breakfast table with Teddy, he flicked his hand against his open newspaper and said, ‘What do you think of that sister of yours, eh?’

  Hannah braced, wondering what disgrace Emmeline had caused this time. She took the paper as Teddy passed it across the table.

  It was only a small photograph. Robbie and Emmeline leaving a nightclub the previous evening. A good shot of Emmeline, Hannah had to concede, chin lifted, laughing as she pulled Robbie by the arm. His face was less obvious. He was in shadow, had looked away at the critical moment.

  Teddy took it back and read the accompanying text aloud: ‘The Honourable Miss E Hartford, one of society’s most glamorous young ladies, is pictured with a dark stranger. The mystery man is said to be the poet RS Hunter. A source says Miss Hartford has hinted an engagement announcement is not too far away.’ He laid the paper down, took a forkful of devilled egg. ‘Quite the dark horse, isn’t she? Didn’t think Emmeline was the sort to keep a secret,’ he said. ‘Could be worse, I suppose. Could have set her cap at that Harry Bentley.’ He dabbed his thumb at the corner of his moustache, wiped away a clot of egg. ‘You’ll talk to him though, won’t you? Make sure everything’s above board. I don’t need a scandal.’

  When Robbie came to collect Emmeline the following night, Hannah received him as usual. They spoke for a time as they always did, until finally Hannah could stand it no longer.

  ‘Mr Hunter,’ she said, walking to the fireplace. ‘I must ask. Do you have something you wish to speak with me about?’

  He sat back, smiled at her. ‘I have. And I thought I was.’

  ‘Something else, Mr Hunter?’

  His smile faltered. ‘I don’t think I follow.’

  ‘Something you wanted to ask me about?’

  ‘Perhaps if you told me what it is you think I should be saying,’ said Robbie.

  Hannah sighed. She collected the newspaper from the writing bureau and gave it to him.

  He scanned it and handed it back. ‘So?’

  ‘Mr Hunter,’ Hannah said in a quiet voice. She didn’t want the servants to hear if they happened to be in the entrance hall. ‘I am my sister’s guardian. If you wish to become engaged, it really would be polite for you to discuss your intentions with me first.’

  Robbie smiled, saw that Hannah was not amused and coached his lips back into repose. ‘I’ll remember that, Mrs Luxton.’

  She blinked at him. ‘Well, Mr Hunter?’

  ‘Well, Mrs Luxton?’

  ‘Is there something you would like to ask me?’

  ‘No,’ said Robbie, laughing. ‘I have no intention of marrying Emmeline. Not now. Not ever. But thank you for asking.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Hannah simply. ‘Does Emmeline know that?’

  Robbie shrugged. ‘I don’t see why she’d think otherwise. I’ve never given her reason.’

  ‘My sister is a romantic,’ said Hannah. ‘She forms attachments easily.’

  ‘Then she’ll have to unform them.’

  Hannah felt sympathy for Emmeline then, but she felt something else too. She hated herself as she realised it was relief.

  ‘What is it?’ Robbie said. He was very close. She wondered when he’d moved to stand so close.

  ‘I’m worried about Emmeline,’ Hannah said, stepping back a little, her leg grazing the sofa. ‘She imagines your feelings more than they are.’

  ‘What can I do?’ said Robbie. ‘I’ve already told her they’re not.’

  ‘You must stop seeing her,’ said Hannah quietly. ‘Tell her you’re not interested in her parties. It won’t be too much of a hardship for you, surely. You’ve said yourself you have little to speak of with her friends.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Then if you don’t feel anything for Emmeline, be honest with her. Please, Mr Hunter. Break it off. She’ll come to harm otherwise and I can’t allow that.’

  Robbie looked at her. He reached out and, very gently, straightened a piece of her hair that had come loose. She was frozen to the spot, was aware of nothing but him. His dark eyes, the warmth coming from his skin, his soft lips. ‘I would,’ he said. ‘This minute.’ He was very close now. She was aware of his breaths, could hear them, feel them on her neck. He spoke softly. ‘But how would I ever see you?’

  Things changed after that. Of course they did. They had to. Something implicit had become explicit. For Hannah the darkness had started to recede. She was falling in love with him, of course, not that she realised it at first. She’d never been in love, had nothing with which to compare. She’d been attracted to people before, had felt that sudden, inexplicable pull, had felt it once with Teddy. But there is a difference betw
een enjoying someone’s company, thinking them attractive, to finding oneself helplessly in love.

  The occasional meetings she had once looked forward to, snatched while Robbie waited for Emmeline, were no longer enough. Hannah longed to see him elsewhere, alone, somewhere they might speak freely. Where there wasn’t the constant risk that someone else might join them.

  Opportunity came one evening in early 1923. Teddy was in America on business, Deborah at a country-house weekend, and Emmeline out with friends at one of Robbie’s poetry readings. Hannah made a decision.

  She ate dinner alone in the dining room, sat in the morning room after and sipped coffee, then retired to her bedroom. When I came to dress her for bed, she was in the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the elegant claw-foot tub. She was wearing a delicate satin slip; Teddy had brought it back from one of his trips to the continent. In her hands was something black.

  ‘Would you like to take a bath, ma’am?’ I said. It was unusual, but not unheard of, for her to bathe after dinner.

  ‘No,’ said Hannah.

  ‘Shall I bring you your nightdress?’

  ‘No,’ she said again. ‘I’m not going to bed, Grace. I’m going out.’

  I was confused. ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘I’m going out. And I need your help.’

  She didn’t want any of the other servants to know. They were spies, she said matter-of-factly, and she wanted neither Teddy nor Deborah—nor Emmeline, for that matter—to know she’d been anywhere but home all evening.

  It worried me to think of her out alone at night, keeping such a thing from Teddy. And I wondered where she was going, whether she would tell me. Despite my misgivings, however, I agreed to help. Of course I did. It was what she’d asked of me.

  Neither of us spoke as I helped her into a dress she’d already chosen: pale blue silk with a fringe that brushed her bare knees. She sat in front of the mirror, watching as I pinned her hair tight against her head. Plucking at the fronds of her dress, twirling her locket chain, biting her lip. Then she handed me a wig: black, sleek and short, something Emmeline had worn months before to a fancy-dress party. I was surprised—wigs were not her habit—but I fitted it, then stepped back to observe. She looked like a different person. Like Louise Brooks.