The Shifting Fog (17 page)

‘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 lilywhite 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?’

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.