The House at Riverton aka The Shifting Fog

by Kate Morton

  It is uncanny. The party scene. Hannah’s Chinese lanterns flickering in the dark. The jazz band, clarinet squealing. Happy people dancing the shimmy-shake…

  There is a terrible bang and I am awake. It is the film, the gunshot. I have fallen asleep and missed the ultimate moment. Never mind. I know how this film ends: on the lake of Riverton Manor, witnessed by two beautiful sisters, Robbie Hunter, war veteran and poet, kills himself.

  And I know, of course, that’s not what really happened.

  THE END

  Finally. After ninety-nine years my end has come for me. The secrets that have been restless in my head, growing louder and louder, pushing against my skull, anxious for release, are quiet now. The final thread that tethered me has released and the north wind blows me away. I am fading at last to nothing.

  I can hear them still. Am vaguely aware that they are here. Ruth is holding my hand. Marcus is lying across the end of the bed. Warm upon my feet.

  There is someone else in the window. She steps forward, finally, out of the shadow, and I am looking into the most beautiful face. It is Mother, and it is Hannah, and yet it is not.

  She smiles. Holds out her hand. All mercy and forgiveness and peace.

  I take it.

  I am by the window. I see myself on the bed: old and frail and white. My fingers rubbing together, my lips moving but finding no words.

  My chest rises and falls.

  A rattle.

  Release.

  Ruth’s breath catches in her throat.

  Marcus looks up.

  But I am already gone.

  I turn around and I don’t look back.

  My end has come for me. And I do not mind at all.

  THE TAPE

  Testing. One. Two. Three. Tape for Marcus. Number four. This is the last tape I will make. I am almost at the end and there is no point going beyond.

  Twenty-second of June, 1924. Summer solstice and the day of the Riverton midsummer’s night party.

  Downstairs, the kitchen was abuzz. Mrs Townsend had the stove fire raging and was barking orders at three village women hired to help. She smoothed her apron over her generous middle and surveyed her minions as they basted hundreds of tiny quiche.

  ‘A party,’ she said, beaming at me as I hurried by. ‘And it’s about time.’ She swiped with her wrist at a strand of hair already escaped from her topknot. ‘Lord Frederick-rest that poor man’s soul-wasn’t one for parties, and he had his reasons. But in my humble opinion, a house needs a good party once in a while; remind folks it exists.’

  ‘Is it true,’ said the skinniest of the village women, ‘Prince Edward is coming?’

  ‘Everyone that’s anyone will be here,’ said Mrs Townsend, plucking pointedly a hair off a quiche. ‘Those that live in this house are known to the very best.’

  By ten o’clock Dudley had trimmed and pressed the lawn, and the decorators had arrived. Mr Hamilton positioned himself mid-terrace, arms swinging like an orchestra conductor.

  ‘No, no, Mr Brown,’ he said, waving to the left. ‘The dance floor needs to be assembled on the west side. There’s a cool fog blows up from the lake of an evening and no protection on the east.’ He stood back, watching, then huffed. ‘No, no, no. Not there. That’s for the ice sculpture. I made that quite clear to your other man.’

  The other man, perched atop a stepladder stringing Chinese lanterns from the rose arbour to the house, was in no position to defend himself.

  I spent the morning receiving those guests who’d be staying the weekend, couldn’t help catching their excitement. Jemima, on holiday from America, arrived early with her new husband and baby Gytha in tow. Life in the United States agreed with her: her skin was brown and her body plump. Lady Clementine and Fanny came together from London, the former glumly resigned to the prospect that an outdoor party in June would almost certainly bring on arthritis.

  Emmeline arrived after luncheon with a large group of friends and caused quite a stir. They’d driven in convoy from London and tooted their horns all the way up the driveway before turning circles around Eros and Psyche. On one of the car bonnets was perched a woman dressed in bright pink chiffon. Her yellow scarf drifted behind her neck. Myra, en route to the kitchen with the luncheon trays, stood, horrified, when she realised it was Emmeline.

  There was precious little time, however, to be wasted tut-tutting about the decline of the nation’s youth. The ice sculpture had come from Ipswich, the florists from Saffron, and Lady Clementine was insisting on high tea in the morning room, for old time’s sake.

  Late afternoon the band arrived, and Myra showed them through the servants’ hall onto the terrace.

  ‘Negroes!’ said Mrs Townsend, eyes wide with fearful excitement. ‘At Riverton Manor. Lady Ashbury will be turning in her grave.’

  ‘Which Lady Ashbury?’ said Mr Hamilton, inspecting the hired wait staff.

  ‘All of them, I dare say,’ said Mrs Townsend, eyes wide.

  Finally, afternoon tilted on its axis and began its slide toward evening. The air cooled and thickened, and the lanterns began to glow, green and red and yellow against the dusk.

  I found Hannah at the burgundy-room window. She was kneeling on the lounge peering down toward the south lawn, watching the party preparations, or so I thought.

  ‘Time to get dressed, ma’am.’

  She startled. Exhaled tensely. She’d been like that all day: jumpy as a kitten. Turning her hand first to this task, then to that, never leaving any more complete than she had found it.

  ‘Just a minute, Grace.’ She lingered a moment, the setting sun catching the side of her face, spilling red light across her cheek. ‘I don’t think I ever noticed what a pretty view it is,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think it’s pretty?’

  ‘I do, ma’am.’

  ‘I wonder that I never noticed before.’

  In her room, I set her hair in curlers, an undertaking more easily said than done. She refused to stay still long enough for me to pin them tightly, and I wasted a good deal of time unwinding and starting again.

  With the curlers in place, or good enough, I helped her dress. Silver silk, shoestring straps falling into a low-cut V at the back. It hugged her figure, terminating an inch below her pale knees.

  While she pulled at the hem, straightening it, I fetched her shoes. The latest from Paris: a gift from Teddy. Silver satin with fine ribbon straps. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not those. I’ll wear the black.’

  ‘But ma’am, these are your favourites.’

  ‘The black are more comfortable,’ she said, leaning forward to pull her stockings on.

  ‘But with your dress, it’s a shame-’

  ‘I said black, for God’s sake; don’t make me say it again, Grace.’

  I drew breath. Returned the silver and found the black.

  Hannah apologised immediately. ‘I’m nervous. I shouldn’t take it out on you. I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right, ma’am,’ I said. ‘Natural to be excited.’

  I unrolled the curlers and her hair sat in blonde waves around her shoulders. I parted it on the side and brushed it across her forehead, catching the hair with a diamond clasp.

  Hannah leaned forward to attach pearl drop earrings, winced then cursed as she caught her fingertip in the clip.

  ‘You’re rushing, ma’am,’ I said gently. ‘You must go carefully with those.’

  She handed them to me. ‘I’m all thumbs today.’

  I was draping ropes of pale pearls around her neck when the evening’s first car arrived, crunching the gravel on the driveway below. I straightened the pearls so they fell between her shoulderblades, rested in the small of her back.

  ‘There now,’ I said. ‘You’re ready.’

  ‘I hope so, Grace.’ She raised her eyebrows, scanned her reflection. ‘Hope there’s nothing I’ve overlooked.’

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t think so, ma’am.’

  She used her fingertips to brush rapidly the edges of her brows, stroking th
em into line. She straightened one of her pearl strands, lowered it a little, raised it again, exhaled noisily.

  Suddenly, the squeal of a clarinet.

  Hannah gasped, clapped a hand to her chest. ‘My!’

  ‘Must be exciting, ma’am,’ I said cautiously. ‘All your plans finally coming to fruition.’

  Her eyes met mine sharply. She seemed as if about to speak, yet she didn’t. She pressed her red-stained lips together. ‘I have something for you, Grace. A gift.’

  I was perplexed. ‘It’s not my birthday, ma’am.’

  She smiled, quickly pulled open the small drawer of her dressing table. She turned back to me, fingers closed. She held it by the chain high above my hand, let it collapse into my palm.

  ‘But, ma’am,’ I said. ‘It’s your locket.’

  ‘Was. Was my locket. Now it’s yours.’

  I couldn’t return it fast enough. Unexpected gifts made me nervous. ‘Oh no, ma’am. No thank you.’

  She pushed my hand away firmly. ‘I insist. To say thank you for all you’ve done for me.’

  Did I detect the note of finality even then?

  ‘I only do my duty, ma’am,’ I said quickly.

  ‘Take the locket, Grace,’ she said. ‘Please.’

  Before I could argue further, Teddy was at the door. Tall and slick in his black suit; comb marks channelling his oiled hair, nerves furrowing his broad brow.

  I closed my hand around the locket.

  ‘Ready?’ he said to Hannah, fretting with his moustache ends. ‘That friend of Deborah’s is downstairs, Cecil what’s-his-name, the photographer. He wants to take family shots before too many guests arrive.’ He knocked the doorframe twice with his open palm and continued down the hall saying, ‘Where on earth is Emmeline?’

  Hannah smoothed her dress over her waist. I noticed her hands were shaking. She smiled anxiously. ‘Wish me luck.’

  ‘Good luck, ma’am.’

  She surprised me then, coming to me, kissing my cheek. ‘And good luck to you, Grace.’

  She squeezed my hands and hurried after Teddy, leaving me holding the locket.

  I watched for a while from the upstairs window. Gentlemen and ladies-in green, yellow, pink-arriving on the terrace, sweeping down the stone stairs onto the lawn. Jazz music floating on the air; Chinese lanterns flickering in the breeze; Mr Hamilton’s hired waiters balancing huge silver trays of sparkling champagne flutes on raised hands, weaving through the growing crowds; Emmeline, shimmering in pink, leading a laughing fellow to the dance floor to perform the shimmy-shake.

  I turned the locket over and over in my hands, glanced at it every so often. Did I notice then the faint rattle from within? Or was I too preoccupied, wondering at Hannah’s nerves? I hadn’t seen her that way for a long time, not since the early days in London, after she saw the spiritualist.

  ‘There you are.’ Myra was at the door, cheeks flushed, out of breath. ‘One of Mrs Townsend’s women has collapsed with exhaustion and there’s no one to dust the strudels.’

  It was midnight before I finally climbed the stairs to bed. The party was still raging on the terrace below, but Mrs Townsend had sent me away as soon as she could spare me. It seemed Hannah’s twitchiness was contagious, and a busy kitchen was no place for fumbling.

  I climbed the stairs slowly, feet throbbing: years as a lady’s maid had caused them to soften. An evening in the kitchen was all it took to blister. Mrs Townsend had given me a little parcel of bicarbonate soda and I intended to soak them in a warm bath.

  There was no escaping the music that night: it permeated the air, impregnating the stone walls of the house. It had grown more raucous as the evening wore on, matching the spirits of the party-goers. I could feel the frenzied drumbeat in my stomach even as I reached the attic. To this day, jazz turns my blood to ice.

  At the top landing I considered going straight to set the bath running but decided to fetch my nightgown and toiletries first.

  A pool of the day’s hot air hit my face when I opened my bedroom door. I pulled the electric switch and hobbled to the window, swinging the sash open.

  I stood for a moment, savouring the burst of cool, breathing its faint aroma of cigarette smoke and perfume. I exhaled slowly. Time for a long, warm bath, then the sleep of the dead. I collected my soap from the dressing table beside me then limped toward the bed for my nightgown.

  It was then I saw the letters. Two of them. Propped against my pillow.

  One addressed to me; one with Emmeline’s name on front.

  The handwriting was Hannah’s.

  I had a presentiment then. A rare moment of unconscious clarity.

  I knew instantly that the answer to her odd behaviour lay within.

  I dropped my nightgown and picked up the envelope marked Grace. With trembling fingers I tore it open. I smoothed the sheet of paper. My eyes scanned and my heart sank.

  It was written in shorthand.

  I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the piece of paper, as if, through sheer force of will, its message would become clear.

  Its indecipherability only made me more certain its contents were important.

  I picked up the second envelope. Addressed to Emmeline. Fingered its rim.

  I deliberated only a second. What choice did I have?

  So help me God, I opened it.

  I was running: sore feet forgotten, blood pulsing, heartbeat in my head, breath catching in time with the music, in time with the music, down the stairs, through the house, onto the terrace.

  I stood, chest heaving, scanning for Teddy. But he was lost. Somewhere amid the jagged shadows and the blurred faces.

  There was no time. I would have to go alone.

  I plunged into the crowd, skimming faces-red lips, painted eyes, wide laughing mouths. I dodged cigarettes and champagnes, beneath the coloured lanterns, around the dripping ice sculpture toward the dance floor. Elbows, knees, shoes, wrists whirled by. Colour. Movement. Blood pulsing in my head. Breath catching in my throat.

  Then, Emmeline. Atop the stone staircase. Cocktail in hand, head tipped back to laugh, strand of pearls draped from her neck to lasso that of a male companion. His coat draped about her shoulders.

  Two would have more chance than one.

  I stopped. Tried to catch my breath.

  She righted herself, regarded me from beneath heavy lids. ‘Why, Grace,’ she said with careful annunciation, ‘is that the prettiest party dress you could find?’ She threw her head back with laughter as she slipped on the ‘p’ sounds.

  ‘I must speak with you, miss…’

  Her companion whispered something; she smacked his nose playfully.

  I tried to breathe. ‘… a matter of urgency…’

  ‘I’m intrigued.’

  ‘… please…’ I said. ‘… In private…’

  She sighed dramatically, removed her pearls from the fellow’s neck, squeezed his cheeks and pouted. ‘Don’t go far now, Harry darling.’

  She tripped on her heel, squealed, then giggled, stumbling the rest of the way down the stairs. ‘Tell me all about it, Gracie,’ she slurred as we reached the bottom.

  ‘It’s Hannah, miss… she’s going to do something… something dreadful, at the lake…’

  ‘No!’ said Emmeline, leaning so close I could smell respired gin. ‘She’s not going to take a midnight swim, is she? How s-s-scandalous!’

  ‘… I believe she’s going to take her life, miss, that is, I know it’s what she intends…’

  Her smile slipped, eyes widened. ‘Huh?’

  ‘… I found a note, miss.’ I handed it to her.

  She swallowed, swayed, her voice leapt an octave. ‘But… Have you… Teddy-?’

  ‘No time, miss.’

  I took her wrist and dragged her into the Long Walk.

  Hedges had grown to meet overhead and it was pitch black. We ran, stumbled, kept our hands to the side, brushing leaves to find the way. With each turn the party sounds grew more dreamlike. I rememb
er thinking this was how Alice must’ve felt, falling down the rabbit hole.

  We were in the Egeskov Garden when Emmeline’s heel snagged and she tumbled.

  I almost tripped over her, stopped, tried to help her up.

  She swept my hand aside, clambered to her feet and continued running.

  There was a noise then in the garden and it seemed that one of the sculptures was moving. It giggled, groaned: not a sculpture at all but a pair of amorous escapees. They ignored us and we ignored them.

  The second kissing gate was ajar and we hurried into the fountain clearing. The full moon was high and Icarus and his nymphs glowed ghostly in the white light. Without the hedges, the band’s music and the whooping of the party were loud again. Strangely nearer.

  With aid of moonlight we went faster along the small path toward the lake. We reached the barricade, the sign forbidding entrance, and finally, the point where path met lake.

  We both stopped in the shelter of the path’s nook, breathing heavily, and surveyed the scene before us. The lake glistened silently beneath the moon. The summer house, the rocky bank, were bathed in silvery light.

  Emmeline inhaled sharply.

  I followed her gaze.

  On the pebbly bank were Hannah’s black shoes. The same I’d helped her into hours before.

  Emmeline gasped, stumbled toward them. Beneath the moon she was very pale, her thin figure dwarfed by the large man’s jacket she wore.

  A noise from the summer house. A door opening.

  Emmeline and I both looked up.

  A person. Hannah. Alive.

  Emmeline gulped. ‘Hannah,’ she called, her voice a hoarse blend of alcohol and panic, echoing off the lake.

  Hannah stopped stiff, hesitated; with a glance to the summer house she turned to face Emmeline. ‘What are you doing here?’ she called, voice tense.