The House at Riverton aka The Shifting Fog

by Kate Morton

  ‘What mischief did he get up to? What was it killed him, Myra?’

  ‘In the end all it took was a trip up the stairs,’ Myra said. ‘Happened at the Major’s house in Buckinghamshire. I didn’t see it myself, but Clara, the housemaid there, saw it with her own two eyes, for she was dusting in the hall. She said he was running too fast, lost his footing and slipped. Nothing more. Mustn’t have hurt too bad for he hopped himself up, right as rain, and kept on going. It was that evening, Clara said, that his knee swelled up like a balloon-just like Timmy’s shoulder before-and later in the night he started crying.’

  ‘Was it days?’ I said. ‘Like the last time?’

  ‘Not with Adam, no.’ Myra lowered her voice. ‘Clara said the poor lad screamed with agony most of the night, calling for his mother, begging her to take the pain away. There was no one in that house slept a wink that long night, not even Mr Barker, the groomsman, who was all but deaf. They just lay in their beds, listening to the sound of that boy’s pain. The Major stood outside the door all night, brave as anything, never shed a tear.

  ‘Then, just before the dawn, according to Clara, the crying stopped, sudden as you like, and the house fell to a dead silence. In the morning, when Clara took the lad a breakfast tray, she found Jemima lying across his bed, and in her arms, face as peaceful as one of God’s own angels, her boy, just as if asleep.’

  ‘Was she crying, like the time before?’

  ‘Not this time,’ Myra said. ‘Clara said she looked almost as peaceful as him. Glad his suffering was over, I expect. The night was ended and she’d seen him off to a better place, where troubles and sorrows could find him no more.’

  I considered this. The sudden cessation of the boy’s crying. His mother’s relief. ‘Myra,’ I said slowly, ‘you don’t think-?’

  ‘I think it was a mercy that boy went faster than his brother, is what I think,’ Myra snapped.

  There was silence then, and I thought for a minute she had fallen to sleep, though her breathing was still light which made me think she had not and was just pretending. I pulled the blanket up around my neck and closed my eyes, tried not to picture screaming boys and desperate mothers.

  I was just drifting off when Myra’s whisper cut through the cold air. ‘Now she’s gone and expecting again, isn’t she. Due next August.’ She turned pious then. ‘You’re to pray extra hard, you hear? ’Specially now-He listens closer near Christmas. You’re to pray she’ll be delivered of a healthy babe this time.’ She rolled over and pulled the blanket with her. ‘One that won’t go bleeding itself to an early grave.’

  Christmas came and went, Lord Ashbury’s library was declared dust-free, and the morning after Boxing Day I defied the cold and headed into Saffron Green on an errand for Mrs Townsend. Lady Violet was planning a New Year luncheon party with hopes of enlisting support for her Belgian refugee committee. She quite liked the idea, Myra had heard her say, of expanding into French and Portuguese expatriates, should it become necessary.

  According to Mrs Townsend there was no surer way to impress at luncheon than with Mr Georgias’s genuine Greek pastries. Not that they were available to all and sundry, she added with an air of self-aggrandisement, particularly not in these testing times. No indeed. I was to visit the grocery counter and ask for Mrs Townsend of Riverton’s special order.

  Despite the glacial weather, I was glad to make the trip to town. After weeks of festivity-Christmas, and now New Year-it was a welcome change to get outside, to be alone, to spend a morning beyond the range of Myra’s endless scrutiny. For after months of relative peace, she had taken particular interest in my duties of late: watching, scolding, correcting. I had the uneasy sense of being groomed for a change I was yet to see coming.

  Besides, I had my own secret reason for welcoming the village chore. The fourth of Arthur Conan Doyle’s novels of Sherlock Holmes had been printed and I’d arranged with the peddler to purchase a copy. It had taken me six months to save the money and would be the first I had ever bought brand new. The Valley of Fear. The title alone made me thrill with anticipation.

  The peddler, I knew, lived with his wife and six children in a grey-stone back-to-back that stood to attention in a line of identical others. The street was part of a dreary housing pocket tucked behind the railway station, and the smell of burning coal hung heavy in the air. The cobblestones were black and a film of soot clung to the lampposts. I knocked cautiously on the shabby door, then stood back to wait. A child of about three, with dusty shoes and a threadbare pullover, sat on the step beside me, drumming the downpipe with a stick. His bare knees were covered in scabs made blue by the cold.

  I knocked again, harder this time. Finally the door opened to reveal a rake-thin woman with a pregnant belly tight beneath her apron and a red-eyed infant on her hip. She said nothing, looked through me with dead eyes while I found my tongue.

  ‘Hello,’ I said in a voice I’d learned from Myra. ‘Grace Reeves. I’m looking for Mr Jones.’

  Still she said nothing.

  ‘I’m a customer.’ My voice faltered slightly; an unwanted note of inquiry crept in. ‘I’ve come to buy a book?’

  Her eyes flickered, an almost imperceptible sign of recognition. She hoisted the baby higher onto her bony hip and tilted her head toward a room behind. ‘He’s out the back.’

  She shifted some and I squeezed past, heading in the only direction the tiny house afforded. Through the doorway was a kitchen, thick with the stench of rancid milk. Two little boys, grubby with poverty, sat at the table, rolling a pair of stones along the scratched pine surface.

  The larger of the two rolled his stone into that of his brother then looked up at me, his eyes full moons in his hollowed face. ‘Are you looking for my pappy?’

  I nodded.

  ‘He’s outside, oiling the wagon.’

  I must have looked lost, for he pointed a stubby finger at a small timber door next to the stove.

  I nodded again; tried to smile.

  ‘I’ll be starting working with him soon,’ the boy said, turning back to his stone, lining up another shot. ‘When I’m eight.’

  ‘Lucky,’ the littler boy said jealously.

  The older one shrugged. ‘Someone needs to look after things while he’s gone and you’re too small.’

  I made my way to the door and pushed it open.

  Beneath a clothes line strung with yellow-stained sheets and shirts, the peddler was bent over inspecting the wheels of his cart. ‘Bloody bugger of a thing,’ he said under his breath.

  I cleared my throat and he spun around, knocking his head on the cart handle.

  ‘Bugger.’ He squinted up at me, a pipe hanging from his bottom lip.

  I tried to recapture Myra’s spirit, failed, and settled for finding any voice at all. ‘I’m Grace. I’ve come about the book?’ I waited. ‘Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?’

  He leaned against the cart. ‘I know who you are.’ He exhaled and I breathed the sweet, burnt smell of tobacco. He wiped his oily hands on his pants and regarded me. ‘Fixing my wagon so it’s easy for the boy to manage.’

  ‘When are you going?’ I said.

  He gazed beyond the clothes line, heavy with its sallow ghosts, toward the sky. ‘Next month. With the Royal Marines.’ He brushed a dirty hand across his forehead. ‘Always wanted to see the ocean, ever since I was a boy.’ He looked at me and something in his expression, a sense of desolation, made me look away. Through the kitchen window I could see the woman, the infant, the two boys staring out at us. The dimpled glass, dull with soot, gave their faces the impression of reflections in a dirty pond.

  The peddler followed my gaze. ‘Fellow can make a good living in the forces,’ he said. ‘If he stays lucky.’ He threw down his cloth and headed for the house. ‘Come on then. Book’s in here.’

  We made the transaction in the tiny front room then he walked me to the door. I was careful not to glance sideways, careful not to glimpse the hungry little faces I knew would be watching. As I wa
lked down the front steps I heard the eldest boy say, ‘What did the lady buy, Pappy? Did she buy soap? She smelled like soap. She was a nice lady, wasn’t she, Pappy?’

  I walked as quickly as my legs would carry me without breaking into a run. I wanted to be far away from that household and its children who thought that I, a common housemaid, was a lady of substance.

  I was relieved finally to turn the corner into Railway Street and leave behind the oppressive stench of coal and poverty. I was no stranger to hardship-many times Mother and I had only thinly scraped by-but Riverton, I was learning, had changed me. Without realising, I had grown accustomed to its warmth, and comfort, and plenty; had begun to expect such things. As I hurried on, crossing the street behind the horse and cart of Down’s Dairies, my cheeks burning with bitter cold, I became determined not to lose them. Never to lose my place as Mother had done.

  Just before the High Street intersection, I ducked beneath a canvas awning into a dim alcove and huddled by a shiny black door with a brass plaque. My breath hung white and cold in the air as I fumbled the purchase from my coat and removed my gloves.

  I had barely glanced at the book in the peddler’s house save to ascertain it was the right title. Now I allowed myself to pore over its cover, to run my fingers across the leather binding and trace the cursive indentation of the letters that spelled along the spine, The Valley of Fear. I whispered the thrilling words to myself, then lifted the book to my nose and breathed the ink from its pages. The scent of possibilities.

  I tucked the delicious, forbidden object inside my coat lining and hugged it to my chest. My first new book. My first new anything. I had now only to sneak it into my attic drawer without raising Mr Hamilton’s suspicions, or confirming Myra’s. I coerced my gloves back onto numb fingers, squinted into the frosty glare of the street and stepped out, colliding directly with a young lady walking briskly into the alcove.

  ‘Oh, forgive me!’ she said, surprised. ‘How clumsy I am.’

  I looked up and my cheeks flared. It was Hannah.

  ‘Wait…’ She puzzled a moment. ‘I know you. You work for Grandfather.’

  ‘Yes, miss. It’s Grace, miss.’

  ‘Grace.’ My name was fluid on her lips.

  I nodded. ‘Yes, miss.’ Beneath my coat, my heart drummed a guilty tattoo against my book.

  She loosened a lapis blue scarf, revealing a small patch of lily-white skin. ‘You once saved us from death by romantic poetry.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  She glanced at the street where icy winds were turning air to sleet, shivered, involuntarily, into her coat. ‘It’s an unforgiving morning to be out.’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ I said.

  ‘I shouldn’t have braved the weather,’ she added, turning back to me, her cheeks kissed by cold, ‘but for an extra music lesson I have scheduled.’

  ‘Me neither, miss,’ I said, ‘but for the order I’m collecting for Mrs Townsend. Pastries. For the New Year luncheon.’

  She looked at my empty hands, then at the alcove from which I’d come. ‘An unusual place from which to purchase pastries.’

  I followed her gaze. The brass plaque on the black door read Mrs Dove’s Secretarial School. I cast about for a reply. Anything to explain my presence in such an alcove. Anything but the truth. I couldn’t risk my purchase being discovered. Mr Hamilton had made clear the rules concerning reading material. But what else should I say? If Hannah were to report to Lady Violet that I had been taking classes without permission, I risked losing my position.

  Before I could think of an excuse, Hannah cleared her throat and fumbled a brown paper package in her hands. ‘Well,’ she said, the word hanging in the air between us.

  I waited, miserably, for the accusation to come.

  Hannah shifted her position, straightened her neck and looked directly at me. She stayed that way for a moment then finally she spoke. ‘Well Grace,’ she said decisively. ‘It would appear we each have a secret.’

  So stunned was I that at first I didn’t answer. I had been so nervous I hadn’t realised she was equally so. I swallowed, clutched the rim of my hidden cargo. ‘Miss?’

  She nodded, then confounded me, reaching forward to clasp one of my hands vehemently. ‘I congratulate you, Grace.’

  ‘You do, miss?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said fervently. ‘For I know what it is you hide beneath your coat.’

  ‘Miss?’

  ‘I know, because I’ve been doing the same.’ She indicated her package and bit back an excited smile. ‘These aren’t music sheets, Grace.’

  ‘No, miss?’

  ‘And I’m certainly not taking music classes.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Lessons for pleasure. At a time like this! Can you even imagine?’

  I shook my head, mystified.

  She leaned forward, conspiratorially. ‘Which is your favourite? Typing or shorthand?’

  ‘I couldn’t say, miss.’

  She nodded. ‘You’re right of course: silly to talk of favourites. They’re each as important as the other.’ She paused, smiled slightly. ‘Though I must admit a certain partiality to shorthand. There’s something exciting about it. It’s like… ’

  ‘Like a secret code?’ I said, thinking of the Chinese box.

  ‘Yes.’ Her eyes shone. ‘Yes, that’s it exactly. A secret code. A mystery.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  She straightened then, and nodded toward the door. ‘Well, I’d better get on. Miss Dove will be expecting me, and I daren’t keep her waiting. As you know, she’s fierce about tardiness.’

  I curtseyed and stepped out from under the awning.

  ‘Grace?’

  I turned back, blinking through the falling sleet. ‘Yes miss?’

  She lifted a finger to her lips. ‘We share a secret now.’

  I nodded, and we held each other’s gaze in a moment of accord, until, seemingly satisfied, she smiled and disappeared behind Miss Dove’s black door.

  On 31 December, as the final moments of 1915 bled away, the staff gathered round the servants’ hall dining table to usher in the New Year. Lord Ashbury had allowed us a bottle of champagne and two of beer, and Mrs Townsend had conjured something of a feast from the ration-plundered pantry. We all hushed as the clock marched toward the ultimate moment, then cheered as it chimed in the New Year. When Mr Hamilton had led us in a spirited verse of ‘Auld Lang Syne’, conversation turned, as it always does, to plans and promises for the New Year. Katie had just informed us of her resolution never again to sneak cake from the larder, when Alfred made his announcement.

  ‘I’ve joined up,’ he said, looking directly at Mr Hamilton. ‘I’m going to the war.’

  I drew breath and everyone else fell silent, awaiting Mr Hamilton’s reaction. Finally, he spoke. ‘Well,’ he said, tightening his mouth into a grim smile. ‘That’s a very worthy sentiment, Alfred, and I’ll talk to the Master about it on your behalf, but I must say I don’t imagine he’ll be willing to part with you.’

  Alfred swallowed. ‘Thank you, Mr Hamilton. But there’s no need for that.’ He took a breath. ‘I’ve spoken to the Master myself. When he visited from London. He said I was doing the right thing, wished me luck.’

  Mr Hamilton digested this. His eyes flickered at what he perceived as Alfred’s perfidy. ‘Of course. The right thing.’

  ‘I’ll be leaving in March,’ Alfred said tentatively. ‘They’ll send me for training first.’

  ‘Then what,’ Mrs Townsend said, finally finding her voice. Her hands were firmly planted on her well-padded hips.

  ‘Then…’ an excited smile crept onto his lips. ‘Then France, I guess.’

  ‘Well,’ Mr Hamilton said stiffly, collecting himself. ‘This deserves a toast.’ He stood and held his glass aloft, the rest of us following tentatively his lead. ‘To Alfred. May he be returned to us as happy and as healthy as he left us.’

  ‘Here, here,’ Mrs Townsend said, unable to disguise her pride. ‘And sooner rather than later.’


  ‘Steady on, Mrs T,’ Alfred said, grinning. ‘Not too soon. I want to be sure and have some adventures.’

  ‘You just be sure and take care of yourself, my boy,’ Mrs Townsend said, her eyes glistening.

  Alfred turned to me as the others refilled their glasses. ‘Doing my bit to defend the country, I am Grace.’

  I nodded, wanting him to know that he had never been a coward. That I had never thought it of him.

  ‘Write to me, will you Gracie? Promise?’

  I nodded again. ‘Course I will.’

  He smiled at me and I felt my cheeks warm.

  ‘While we’re celebrating,’ Myra cut in, tapping her glass for quiet, ‘I have some news of my own.’

  Katie gasped. ‘You’re never getting married, are you Myra?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Myra scowled.

  ‘Then what?’ Mrs Townsend said. ‘Don’t tell me you’re leaving us too? I don’t think I could take it.’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Myra said. ‘I’ve signed on to become a railway train guard. Down at the village station. I’ve been looking for a way to help with the war effort and then I saw the advertisement when I was running errands last week.’ She turned to Mr Hamilton. ‘I’ve already spoken with the Mistress and she said it was all right so long as I could still fit in my duties. She said it reflected well on this house that the staff are all doing their bit.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Mr Hamilton said through a sigh. ‘So long as the staff still manages to do their bit inside the house.’ He removed his glasses and rubbed wearily the bridge of his long nose. He replaced them and looked sternly at me. ‘It’s you I feel sorry for, lass. There’s going to be a lot of responsibility on your young shoulders with Alfred gone and Myra working two jobs. I’ve no chance of finding anyone else to help. Not now. You’ll need to be taking on a lot of the work upstairs until things return to normal. Do you understand?’