The Shifting Fog (33 page)

‘New York. I’d forgotten you were going. Good of Jemima’s brother to take them.’

‘Yes,’ Lady Violet said. ‘Though I shall miss them. Little Gytha is so like James.’

‘I’ve never been much for babies,’ Lady Clementine sniffed. ‘All that mewling and puking.’ She shuddered so that her second and third chins quivered, then smoothed her diary page and tapped a pen on its blank surface. ‘How long does that leave us then, to find a suitable husband?’

‘One month. We sail on the fourth of February.’

Lady Clementine wrote the date on her journal page then sat up with a start. ‘Oh . . . ! Oh, Violet. I’ve had rather a good idea,’ she said. ‘You say Hannah’s determined to be independent?’

The word itself brought a flutter to Lady Violet’s eyelids. ‘Yes.’

‘So if someone were to give her a little kindly instruction . . . ?

Make her see marriage as the way to independence . . . ?’

‘She’s as stubborn as her father,’ Lady Violet said. ‘I’m afraid she wouldn’t listen.’

‘Not to you or me, perhaps. But I know someone to whom she might.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Yes . . . With a little coaching even
she
should be able to manage this.’

Some days later, her husband happily ensconced in a tour of Mr Frederick’s garage, Fanny joined Hannah and Emmeline in the burgundy room. Emmeline, swept up in the excitement of the upcoming ball, had persuaded Fanny to help her practise dancing. A waltz was playing on the gramophone and the two were triplestepping about the room, laughing and teasing as they went. I had to be careful to avoid them while I dusted and made up the rooms. Hannah sat at the writing desk scribbling in her notebook, oblivious to the merriment behind her. After dinner with the Luxtons, when it had become clear that her dreams of finding work were contingent on fraternal permission that wouldn’t be forthcoming, she had entered a state of quiet preoccupation. While the currents of ball preparation swirled excitedly about her, she remained outside its flow.

After a week of brooding, she entered an opposing phase. She returned to her shorthand practice, translating furiously from whichever book was close to hand, obscuring her work cagily if someone should come close enough to notice. These periods of occupation, too fierce to be sustained, were always followed by a relapse into apathy. She would toss her pen aside, push her books away with a sigh, and sit inert, waiting until such time as a meal might be served, a letter arrive, or it was time again to dress. Of course, her mind, as she sat, was not immobile. She looked as though she were trying to solve the conundrum of her life. She longed for independence and adventure, yet she was a prisoner—a comfortable, well-tended prisoner, but a prisoner nonetheless. Independence required money. Her father hadn’t money to give her and she wasn’t permitted to work.

Why didn’t she defy his wishes? Leave home, run away, join a travelling circus? Quite simply, there were rules and rules were followed. Ten years later—even two years later—things had changed. Conventions had collapsed beneath the weight of dancing feet.

But at that time she was trapped. And so she sat, like Andersen’s nightingale, locked in her gilded cage, too listless to sing. Gripped by a cloud of ennui until the next tide of feverish activity should come to claim her.

That morning, in the burgundy room, she was a victim of the latter. She sat at the writing desk, back turned to Fanny and Emmeline, translating the Encyclopaedia Britannica into shorthand. So concentrated was she on the task that she didn’t so much as flinch when Fanny shrieked, ‘Ow! You elephant!’

Fanny limped to the armchair as Emmeline collapsed with laughter onto the chaise. She slipped off her shoe and leaned to inspect her stockinged toe. ‘I dare say it’s going to swell,’ she said petulantly.

Emmeline continued to laugh.

‘I probably won’t be able to fit into any of my prettiest shoes for the ball!’

Each protest only served to plunge Emmeline into deeper glee.

‘Well,’ Fanny said indignantly. ‘You’ve ruined my toe. The least you could do is apologise.’

Emmeline tried to arrest her amusement. ‘I . . . I’m sorry,’ she said. She bit her lip, laughter threatening again. ‘But it’s hardly my fault that you continue to put your feet in the way of mine. Perhaps if they weren’t so big . . .’ And she collapsed again.

‘I’ll have you know,’ Fanny said, chin trembling with pique, ‘that Mr Collier at Harrods says I have beautiful feet.’

‘He would. He probably charges twice as much to make your shoes as he does for other ladies.’

‘Oh . . . ! You ungrateful little—’

‘Come on, Fanny,’ Emmeline said, sobering. ‘I’m only joking. Of course I’m sorry to have stepped on your toe.’

Fanny humphed.

‘Let’s try the waltz again. I promise to pay better attention this time.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Fanny said, pouting. ‘I need to rest my toe. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s broken.’

‘Surely it’s not as serious as that. I barely trod on it. Here. Let me take a look.’

Fanny curled her leg beneath her on the sofa, obscuring the foot from Emmeline’s view. ‘I think you’ve done more than enough already.’

Emmeline drummed her fingers on the chair’s arm. ‘Well how am I to practise my dance steps?’

‘You needn’t bother; Great Uncle Bernard’s too blind to notice, and second-cousin Jeremy will be too busy boring you with interminable talk of war to care.’

‘Pooh. I don’t intend to dance with the great-uncles,’

Emmeline said.

‘I’m afraid you’ll have little choice,’ said Fanny. Emmeline raised her eyebrows smugly. ‘We’ll see.’

‘Why?’ Fanny said, eyebrows narrowing. ‘What do you mean?’

Emmeline smiled broadly. ‘Grandmamma’s convinced Pa to invite Theodore Luxton—’

‘Theodore Luxton?’ Fanny flushed. ‘Coming here?’

‘Isn’t it thrilling?’ Emmeline clutched Fanny’s hands. ‘Pa didn’t think it was proper to invite business acquaintances to Hannah’s ball, but Grandmamma insisted.’

‘My,’ said Fanny, pink and flustered. ‘That is exciting. Some sophisticated company for a change.’ She giggled, patted each warm cheek in turn. ‘Theodore Luxton indeed.’

‘Now you see why I have to learn to dance.’

‘You should have thought of that before you crushed my foot.’ Emmeline frowned. ‘If only Pa had let us take
proper
lessons. No one will dance with me if I can’t do the right steps.’

Fanny’s lips thinned into an almost-smile. ‘You’re certainly not blessed as a dancer, Emmeline,’ she said. ‘But you needn’t worry. You won’t want for partners at the ball.’

‘Oh?’ Emmeline said, with the ersatz artlessness of one accustomed to compliments.

Fanny rubbed her stockinged toe. ‘
All
the gentlemen present are expected to ask the daughters of the house to dance. Even the elephants.’

Emmeline scowled.

Buoyed by her small victory, Fanny continued. ‘I remember my coming-out dance like it was yesterday,’ she said, with the fond nostalgia of a woman twice her age.

‘I suppose with your grace and charm,’ Emmeline said, rolling her eyes, ‘you had more than your fair share of handsome young gentlemen lined up to dance with you.’

‘Hardly. I’d never seen so many old men waiting to step on my toes so they could return to their old wives and catch some sleep. I was ever so disappointed. All the best men were busy with the war. Thank goodness Godfrey’s bronchitis kept him out else we might never have met.’

‘Was it love at first sight?’

Fanny screwed up her nose. ‘Certainly not! Godfrey took violently ill and spent most of the night in the bathroom. We only danced once that I remember. It was the quenelle; he became greener and greener with each turn until midway through he took his leave and disappeared. I was really rather cross at the time. I was completely stranded and very embarrassed. I didn’t see him again for months. Even then it took us a year before we were married.’

She sighed and shook her head. ‘The longest year of my life.’

‘Why?’

Fanny considered this. ‘Somehow I imagined that after my coming-out dance life would be different.’

‘Wasn’t it?’ Emmeline said.

‘Yes, but not the way I thought. It was dreadful. Officially I was grown up, yet I was still unable to go anywhere or do anything without Lady Clementine or some other dusty old lady minding my business. I was never so happy in all my life as when Godfrey proposed. It was the answer to my prayers.’

Emmeline, having difficulty figuring Godfrey Vickers—bloated, balding and habitually unwell—as the answer to anybody’s prayers, wrinkled her nose. ‘Really?’

Fanny looked pointedly at Hannah’s back. ‘People treat one differently when one’s married. I only have to be introduced as

“Mrs” Vickers and people realise I’m not a silly girl, but a married woman capable of adult considerations.’

Hannah, apparently unmoved, continued her fierce translation.

‘Have I told you about my honeymoon?’ Fanny said, returning her attention to Emmeline.

‘Only a thousand times.’

Fanny was undeterred. ‘Florence is the most romantic foreign city I’ve ever seen.’

‘It’s the only foreign city you’ve seen.’

‘Every evening, after we dined, Godfrey and I strolled along the River Arno. He bought me the most beautiful necklace at a quaint little shop on the Ponte Vecchio. I felt quite a different person in Italy. Transformed. One day we climbed the Forte di Belvedere and looked out all over Tuscany. It was so beautiful, I could have wept. And the art galleries! There was simply
too
much to see. Godfrey’s promised to take me back again as soon as we can.’ Her eyes flickered toward the desk, where Hannah continued to write. ‘And the
people
one meets when travelling; quite fascinating really. One fellow on the boat over was en route to Cairo. You’ll never guess what he was going to do there. Dig for buried treasures! I couldn’t quite believe it when he told us. Apparently the ancients used to be buried with their jewels. I can’t think why. Seems an awful waste. Dr Humphreys said it was something to do with religion. He told us the most exciting stories, even invited us to visit the dig if we found ourselves out that way!’ Hannah had stopped writing. Fanny stifled a small smile of accomplishment. ‘Godfrey was a little suspicious—thought the fellow was pulling our legs—but I found him awfully interesting.’

‘Was he handsome?’ Emmeline said.

‘Oh yes,’ Fanny gushed, ‘he . . .’ She stopped, remembered herself and returned to the script. ‘I’ve had more excitement in the two months I’ve been married than in the rest of my life.’ She eyed Hannah beneath her eyelashes and delivered the trump card. ‘It’s funny. Before I was married, I used to imagine that having a husband one would lose oneself. Now I find it’s quite the opposite. I’ve never felt so . . . so independent. One is attributed with so much more sense. No one blinks if I determine to take myself out for a walk. Indeed, I’ll probably be asked to chaperone you and Hannah until such time as you are married yourselves.’ She sniffed imperiously.

‘You’re lucky to have someone like me, instead of being saddled with someone old and dull.’

Emmeline raised her eyebrows but Fanny did not see. She was watching Hannah, whose pen now lay by her book.

Fanny’s eyes flickered with self-satisfaction. ‘Well,’ she said, easing her shoe over her injured toe, ‘much as I’ve enjoyed your spirited company, I’ll take my leave. My husband will be back from his walk by now and I find myself thirsting for some . . .
adult
conversation.’

She smiled sweetly and left the room, head high. The posture was undermined somewhat by a slight limp.

While Emmeline started another record and triple-stepped herself around the room, Hannah remained at the desk, back still turned. Her hands were clasped, forming a bridge on which her chin rested, and she was staring out the windows across the neverending fields. As I dusted the cornice behind her, I could see by the glass’s faint reflection that she was in deep thought. The following week the house party arrived. As was custom, its members set about immediately enjoying the activities their hosts had undertaken to provide. Some rambled across the estate, others played bridge in the library, and the more energetic took to fencing in the gymnasium.

After her herculean effort of organisation, Lady Violet’s health took a sudden turn for the worse and she was confined to bed. Lady Clementine sought company elsewhere. Lured by the glinting and grating blades, she took up bulky occupation in a leather armchair in view of the fencing. When I served afternoon tea she was engaged in a cosy tête-à-tête with Simion Luxton.

‘Your son fences well,’ Lady Clementine said, indicating one of the masked swordsmen. ‘For an American.’

‘He may talk like an American, Lady Clementine, but I assure you, he’s an Englishman through and through.’

‘Indeed,’ Lady Clementine said.

‘He fences like an Englishman,’ Simion said vociferously.

‘Deceptively simple. Same style that’ll see him into Parliament in the coming elections.’

‘I did hear of his nomination,’ Lady Clementine said. ‘You must be very pleased.’

Simion was even more puffed up than usual. ‘My son has an excellent future.’

‘Certainly he represents almost everything we conservatives look for in a parliamentarian. At my most recent Conservative Women’s tea, we were discussing the lack of good, solid men to manage the likes of Lloyd George.’ Her gaze of appraisal returned to Teddy. ‘Your son may be just the thing, and I’ll be more than happy to endorse him if I find him so.’ She took a sip of tea. ‘Of course, there is the small matter of his wife.’

‘No matter there,’ Simion said dismissively. ‘Teddy doesn’t have a wife.’

‘Precisely my point, Mr Luxton.’

Simion frowned.

‘Some of the other ladies are not so liberal as I,’ Lady Clementine said. ‘They see it as a mark of weak character. Family values are so important to us. A man of certain years without a wife . . . people start to wonder.’

‘He just hasn’t met the right girl.’

‘Of course, Mr Luxton. You and I both know that. But the other ladies . . . They look at your son and see a fine good-looking fellow with so much to offer, yet left wanting a wife. You can’t blame them that they start to wonder why. Start to wonder whether perhaps he hasn’t an eye for the ladies?’ She raised her eyebrows pointedly. Simion’s cheeks turned red. ‘My son is not . . . No Luxton man has ever been accused of . . .’