by Kate Morton
I nodded solemnly, ‘Yes, Mr Hamilton.’ I also understood Myra’s recent investment in my proficiency. She had been grooming me to fill her shoes that she might more easily be granted permission to work outside.
Mr Hamilton shook his head and rubbed his temples. ‘There’ll be waiting at table, drawing-room duties, afternoon tea. And you’ll have to help the young ladies, Miss Hannah and Miss Emmeline, with their dressing so long as they’re here… ’
His litany of chores continued but I no longer listened. I was too excited about my new responsibilities to the Hartford sisters. After my accidental meeting with Hannah in the village, my fascination with the sisters, with Hannah in particular, had grown. To my mind, fed as it was on penny dreadfuls and mystery stories, she was a heroine: beautiful, clever and brave.
Though it would not then have occurred to me to think in such terms, I now perceive the nature of the attraction. We were two girls, the same age, living in the same house in the same country, and in Hannah I glimpsed the host of glistening possibilities that could never be mine.
With Myra’s first railway shift scheduled for the following Friday, there was precious little time for her to brief me on my new duties. Night after night my sleep was broken by a sharp jab on the ankle, an elbow in the ribs and the impartation of a remembered instruction far too important to risk forgetting by morning.
I lay awake a good part of Thursday night, my mind racing fiercely away from sleep. By five o’clock, when I gingerly placed my bare feet on the cold timber floor, lit my candle and pulled on tights, dress and apron, my stomach was swirling.
I fairly flew through my ordinary duties, then returned to the servants’ hall and waited. I sat at the table, fingers too nervous to knit, and listened as the clock slowly ticked away the minutes.
By nine-thirty, when Mr Hamilton checked his wristwatch against the wall clock and minded me it was time to be collecting the breakfast trays and helping the young ladies dress, I was almost bubbling over with anticipation.
Their rooms were upstairs, adjoining the nursery. I knocked once, quickly and quietly-a mere formality, Myra said-then pushed open the door to Hannah’s bedroom. It was my first glimpse of the Shakespeare room. Myra, reluctant to relinquish control, had insisted on delivering the breakfast trays herself before leaving for the station.
It was dark, an effect of discoloured wallpaper and heavy furniture. The bedroom suite-bed, side table and duchesse-was carved mahogany, and a vermillion carpet reached almost to the walls. Above the bed hung three pictures from which the room drew its name; they were all heroines, said Myra, from the finest English playwright that ever lived. I had to take her word for it, for none of the three seemed particularly heroic to me: the first knelt on the floor, a vial of liquid held aloft; the second sat in a chair, two men-one with black skin and one with white-standing in the distance; the third was mid-deep in a stream, long hair floating behind, laced with wildflowers.
When I arrived, Hannah was already out of bed, sitting at the dressing table in a white cotton nightie, pale feet curled together on the vivid carpet as if in prayer, head bowed earnestly over a letter. It was as still as I’d ever seen her. Myra had drawn the curtains and a ghost of weak sunlight crept through the sash window and up Hannah’s back to play within her long flaxen braids. She didn’t notice my entrance.
I cleared my throat and she looked up.
‘Grace,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘Myra said you’d be taking over while she’s at the station.’
‘Yes, miss,’ I said.
‘It’s not too much? Myra’s duties as well as your own?’
‘Oh no, miss,’ I said. ‘Not too much at all.’
Hannah leaned forward and lowered her voice, ‘You must be very busy; the lessons for Miss Dove on top of everything else?’
For a moment I was lost. Who was Miss Dove, and why might she be setting me lessons? Then I remembered. The secretarial school in the village. ‘I’m managing, miss.’ I swallowed, eager to change the subject. ‘Shall I start with your hair, miss?’
‘Yes,’ said Hannah, nodding meaningfully. ‘Yes, of course. You’re right not to speak of it, Grace. I should be more careful.’ She tried to suppress a smile, almost succeeded. Then laughed openly. ‘It’s just… It’s a relief having someone to share it with.’
I nodded solemnly, while inside I thrilled. ‘Yes, miss.’
With a final conspiratorial smile, she lifted a finger to her lips in a sign of silence, and returned to the letter. By the address in the corner, I could see it was from her father.
I selected a mother-of-pearl hairbrush from the dressing table and stood behind. I glanced into the oval mirror and, seeing Hannah’s head still bowed over the letter, dared observe her. The light from the window bounced off her face, lending her reflection an ethereal cast. I could trace the network of faint veins beneath her pale skin, could see her eyeballs tracking back and forth beneath her fine lids as she read.
She shifted in her seat and I looked away, fumbled with the ties at the base of her braids. I slipped them free, unravelled the long twists of hair, and started to brush.
Hannah folded the letter in half and slipped it beneath a crystal bonbonnière on the dressing table. She regarded herself in the mirror, pressed her lips together, and turned toward the window. ‘My brother is going to France,’ she said acrimoniously. ‘To fight the war.’
‘Is he, miss?’ I said.
‘He and his friend. Robert Hunter.’ The latter’s name she said distastefully. She fingered the letter’s edge. ‘Poor old Pa doesn’t know. We’re not supposed to tell him.’
I brushed rhythmically, counting silently my strokes. (Myra had said a hundred, that she’d know if I were to skip any.) Then Hannah said, ‘I wish I were going.’
‘To war, miss?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘The world is changing, Grace, and I want to see it.’ She looked up at me in the mirror, the blue and yellow flecks of her eyes animated by sunlight; then she spoke as if reciting a line she’d learned by heart. ‘I want to know how it feels to be altered by life.’
‘Altered, miss?’ I could not for the life of me imagine how she could wish for anything other than that which God had been kind enough to give her.
‘Transformed, Grace. As some people are by great works of music. Or pieces of art. I want to have a grand experience far removed from my ordinary life.’ She looked at me again, her eyes shining. ‘Don’t you ever feel that way? Don’t you ever wish for more than life has given you?’
I stared at her an instant, warmed by the vague sense of having received a confidence; disconcerted that it seemed to require some sign of amity I was hopelessly underqualified to provide. The problem was, I simply didn’t understand. The feelings she described were as a foreign language. Life had been good to me. How could I doubt it? Mr Hamilton was always reminding me how fortunate I was to have my position, and if it wasn’t him, Mother was always willing to pick up the argument. I could think of no way to respond, and yet Hannah was looking at me, waiting. I opened my mouth, my tongue pulled away from the roof with a promising click, but no words were forthcoming.
She sighed and shook her shoulders, her mouth settled into a faint smile of disappointment. ‘No, of course you haven’t. I’m sorry Grace. I’ve unsettled you.’
She looked away and I heard myself say, ‘I’ve sometimes thought I’d like to be a detective, miss.’
‘A detective?’ Her eyes met mine in the mirror. ‘You mean like Mr Bucket in Bleak House?’
‘I don’t know of Mr Bucket, miss. I was thinking of Sherlock Holmes.’
‘Really? A detective?’
I nodded.
‘Finding clues and solving crimes?’
I nodded.
‘Well then,’ she said, disproportionately pleased. ‘I was wrong. You do know what I mean.’ And with that she looked again out the window, smiling faintly.
I wasn’t quite sure how it had happened, why my impulsive answe
r had pleased her so, and I didn’t particularly care. All I knew was that I now basked in the warm glow of a connection having been made.
I slid the brush back onto the dressing table, wiped my hands on my apron. ‘Myra said you would be wearing your walking costume today, miss.’
I lifted the suit from the wardrobe and carried it to the dressing table. I held the skirt so that she might step inside.
Just then, a wallpapered door next to the bedhead swung open and Emmeline appeared. From where I knelt, holding Hannah’s skirt, I watched her cross the room. Emmeline’s was the type of beauty that belied her age. Something in her wide blue eyes, her full lips, even the way she yawned, gave the impression of lazy ripeness.
‘How’s your arm?’ said Hannah, placing a hand on my shoulder for support and stepping into the skirt.
I kept my head down, hoping Emmeline’s arm wasn’t painful, hoping she wouldn’t remember my part in her fall. But if she recognised me, it didn’t show. She shrugged, rubbed absently her bandaged wrist. ‘It hardly hurts. I’m just leaving it wrapped for effect.’
Hannah turned to face the wall and I lifted her nightie off, slipped the fitted bodice of the walking costume over her head. ‘You’ll probably have a scar, you know,’ she teased.
‘I know.’ Emmeline sat on the end of Hannah’s bed. ‘At first I didn’t want one, but Robbie said it would be a battle wound. That it would give me character.’
‘Did he?’ said Hannah acerbically.
‘He said all the best people have character.’
I pulled tight Hannah’s bodice, stretching the first button toward its eyelet.
‘He’s coming with us on our ride this morning,’ said Emmeline, drumming her feet against the bed. ‘He asked David if we could show him the lake.’
‘I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time.’
‘But aren’t you coming? It’s the first fine day in weeks. You said you’d go mad if you had to spend much longer inside.’
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ said Hannah airily.
Emmeline was silent for a moment then she said, ‘David was right.’
As I continued to button, I was aware that Hannah’s body had tensed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He told Robbie you were stubborn, that you’d lock yourself away all winter to avoid him if you decided on it.’
Hannah tightened her mouth. For a moment she was at a loss for words. ‘Well… you can tell David that he’s wrong. I’m not avoiding him at all. I have things to do inside. Important things. Things neither of you know about.’
‘Like sitting in the nursery, stewing, while you read through the box again?’
‘You little spy!’ said Hannah indignantly. ‘Is it any wonder I’d like some privacy?’ She huffed. ‘You’re wrong as it happens. I won’t be going through the box. The box is no longer here.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve hidden it,’ said Hannah.
‘Where?’
‘I’ll tell you next time we play.’
‘But we probably won’t play all winter,’ Emmeline said. ‘We can’t. Not without telling Robbie.’
‘Then I’ll tell you next summer,’ said Hannah. ‘You won’t miss it. You and David have plenty of other things to do now that Robert Hunter is here.’
‘Why don’t you like him?’ said Emmeline.
There was an odd lull then, an unnatural pause in conversation, during which I felt strangely conspicuous, aware of my own heartbeat, my own breaths.
‘I don’t know,’ Hannah said eventually. ‘Ever since he got here things have been different. It feels like things are slipping away. Disappearing before I even know what they are.’ She held out her arm while I straightened the lace cuff. ‘Why do you like him?’
Emmeline shrugged. ‘Because he’s funny and clever. Because David likes him so well. Because he saved my life.’
‘That’s overstating it a bit,’ Hannah sniffed as I fastened the last button on her bodice. ‘He tore your dress and tied it round your wrist.’ She turned back to face Emmeline.
Emmeline’s hand flew to her mouth and her eyes widened. She started to laugh.
‘What?’ Hannah said, ‘What’s so funny?’ She stooped to take in her reflection. ‘Oh,’ she said, frowning.
Emmeline, still laughing, collapsed sideways against Hannah’s pillows. ‘You look like that simple boy from the village,’ she said. ‘The boy whose mother makes him wear clothes too small.’
‘That’s cruel, Emme,’ Hannah said, but she laughed despite herself. She regarded her reflection, wriggled her shoulders back and forth, trying to stretch the bodice. ‘And quite untrue. That poor boy never looked anything like this ridiculous.’ She turned to view her reflection side-on. ‘I must’ve grown taller since last winter.’
‘Yes,’ Emmeline said, eyeing Hannah’s bodice, tight across her breasts. ‘Taller. Lucky thing.’
‘Well,’ Hannah said. ‘I certainly can’t wear this.’
‘If Pa would take as much interest in us as he does in his factory,’ Emmeline said, ‘he’d realise we need new clothing once in a while.’
‘He does his best.’
‘I’d hate to see his worst,’ Emmeline said. ‘We’ll be making our debuts in sailor dresses if we’re not careful.’
Hannah shrugged. ‘I couldn’t care less. Silly, outmoded pageant.’ She looked at her reflection again, tugged at the bodice. ‘Nonetheless, I’ll have to write to Pa and ask whether we might have new clothing.’
‘Yes,’ Emmeline said. ‘And not pinafores. Proper dresses, like Fanny’s.’
‘Well,’ Hannah said, ‘I’ll have to wear a pinafore today. This won’t do.’ She raised her eyebrows at me. ‘I wonder what Myra will say when she finds out her rules have been broken.’
‘She won’t be pleased, miss,’ I said, daring to smile back as I unbuttoned the walking suit.
Emmeline looked up; tilted her head and blinked at me. ‘Who’s that?’
‘This is Grace,’ Hannah said, ‘Remember? She saved us from Miss Prince last summer.’
‘Is Myra unwell?’
‘No, miss,’ I said. ‘She’s down in the village, working at the station. On account of the war.’
Hannah raised an eyebrow. ‘I pity the unsuspecting passenger who misplaces his ticket.’
‘Yes, miss,’ I said.
‘Grace will be dressing us when Myra’s at the station,’ Hannah said to Emmeline. ‘Won’t it be a nice change to have someone our own age?’
I curtseyed and left the room, my heart singing. And a part of me hoped the war would never end.
•
It was crisp, the March morning we saw Alfred off to war. The sky was clear and the air heady with the promise of excitement. I felt oddly infused with purpose as we walked to town from Riverton. While Mr Hamilton and Mrs Townsend kept the home fires burning, Myra, Katie and I had been given special permission, on condition our duties were complete, to accompany Alfred to the station. It was our national duty, Mr Hamilton said, to offer morale to Britain’s fine young men as they dedicated themselves to their country.
Morale was to have its limits, however; under no circumstances were we to engage in conversation with any of the soldiers for whom young ladies such as ourselves might represent easy prey.
How important I felt, striding down the High Street in my best dress, accompanied by one of the King’s Army. I am certain I was not alone in feeling this rush of excitement. Myra, I noticed, had made special efforts with her hair, her long black ponytail looped into a fancy chignon, much like the Mistress wore. Even Katie had made attempts to tame her wayward curls.
When we arrived, the station was brimming with other soldiers and their well-wishers. Sweethearts embraced, mothers straightened shiny new uniforms, and puffed-up fathers swallowed great lumps of pride. The Saffron Green recruiting depot, refusing to be outdone in such matters, had organised an enlisting drive the month before and posters of Lord Kitchener’s pointed f
inger could still be found on every lamppost. They were to form a special battalion, Alfred said, the Saffron Lads, and would all be going in together. It was better that way, he said, to already know and like the fellows he’d be living with, fighting with.
The waiting train glistened, black and brass, punctuating the occasion from time to time with a great, impatient puff of self-important steam. Alfred carried his kit midway along the platform then stopped. ‘Well girls,’ he said, easing the kit to the floor and gazing about. ‘This looks as good a spot as any.’
We nodded, drinking in the carnival atmosphere. Somewhere at the far end of the platform, up where the officers gathered, a band was playing. Myra waved officially to a stern conductor who nodded a curt reply.
‘Alfred,’ said Katie coyly, ‘I’ve got something for you.’
‘Do you, Katie,’ said Alfred. ‘That’s mighty nice of you.’ He presented his cheek.
‘Oh Alfred,’ said Katie, blushing like a ripe tomato. ‘I never meant a kiss.’
Alfred winked at Myra and me. ‘Well now, that’s a disappointment, Katie. Here I was, thinking you were going to leave me with a little something to remember home by, when I’m far away across the sea.’
‘I am.’ Katie held out a crumpled tea towel. ‘Here.’
Alfred raised an eyebrow. ‘A tea towel? Why, thank you Katie. That’ll certainly remind me of home.’
‘It’s not a tea towel,’ said Katie. ‘Well, it is. But that’s just the wrapping. Look inside.’
Alfred peeled open the package to reveal three slices of Mrs Townsend’s Victoria sponge cake.
‘There’s no butter or cream, on account of the shortages,’ said Katie. ‘But it’s not bad.’
‘And just how do you know that, Katie?’ snapped Myra. ‘Mrs Townsend won’t be happy you’ve been in her larder again.’
Katie’s bottom lip folded. ‘I just wanted to send something with Alfred.’
‘Yes,’ Myra’s expression softened. ‘Well, I suppose that’s all right then. Just this once: for the sake of the war effort.’ She turned her attention to Alfred. ‘Grace and I have something for you, too, Alfred. Don’t we Grace? Grace?’
