The Shifting Fog (49 page)

PART 4

HANNAH’S STORY

It is time now to speak of things I didn’t see. To push Grace and her concerns aside and bring Hannah to the fore. For while I was away, something had happened. I realised as soon as I laid eyes on her. Things were different. Hannah was different. Brighter. Secretive. More self-satisfied.

What had happened at number seventeen, I learned gradually, as I did so much of what went on that final year. I had my suspicions, of course, but I neither saw nor heard everything. Only Hannah knew exactly what occurred and she had never been one for fervent confessions. They were not her style; she had always preferred secrets. But after the terrible events of 1924, when we were shut up together at Riverton, she became more forthcoming. And I was a good listener. This is what she told me.

I

It was the Monday after my mother’s death. I had left for Saffron Green, Teddy was at work, and Deborah and Emmeline were lunching. Hannah was alone in the drawing room. She had intended to write correspondence but her paper box languished on the lounge. She found she had little spirit for writing copious thankyou letters
to the wives of Teddy’s allies and was instead looking out over the street, guessing at the lives of the passers-by. She was so involved in her game she didn’t see him come to the front door. Didn’t hear him ring the bell. The first she knew was when Boyle knocked on the morning-room door and made his announcement.

‘A gentleman to see you, ma’am.’

‘A gentleman, Boyle?’ she said, watching as a little girl broke free from her nanny and ran into the frosty park. When was the last time she had run? Run so fast she felt the wind like a slap on her face, her heart thumping so large in her chest that she almost couldn’t breathe?

‘Says he has something belonging to you that he’d like to return, ma’am.’

How tiresome it all was. ‘Could he not leave it with you, Boyle?’

‘He says not, ma’am. Says he has to deliver it in person.’

‘I really can’t think that I’m missing anything.’ Hannah pulled her eyes reluctantly from the little girl and turned from the window. ‘I suppose you’d better show him in.’

Mr Boyle hesitated. Seemed to be on the verge of speaking.

‘Is there something else?’ said Hannah.

‘No, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Only that the gentleman … I don’t think he’s much of a gentleman, ma’am.’

‘Whatever do you mean?’ said Hannah.

‘Only that he doesn’t seem entirely respectable.’

Hannah raised her eyebrows. ‘He’s not in a state of undress, is he?

‘No, ma’am, he’s dressed well enough.’

‘He’s not saying obscene things?’

‘No, ma’am,’ said Boyle. ‘He’s polite enough.’

Hannah gasped. ‘It’s not a Frenchman; short with a moustache?’

‘Oh no, Ma’am’

‘Then tell me Boyle: ‘What form does this lack of respectability take?’

Boyle frowned. ‘I couldn’t say, ma’am. Just a feeling I got.’

Hannah gave the appearance of considering Boyle’s feeling, but her interest was piqued. ‘If the gentleman says he has something
belonging to me, I had best have it back. If he gives any sign of wanting respectability, Boyle, I’ll ring for you directly.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Boyle with great importance. He bowed and left the room, and Hannah straightened her dress. The door opened again and Robbie Hunter was standing before her.

She didn’t recognise him at first. She had only known him briefly, after all; one winter, almost a decade before. And he had changed. He had been a boy when she knew him at Riverton. With smooth, clear skin, wide brown eyes and a gentle manner. And he had been still, she remembered. It was one of the things that had infuriated her. His self-possession. The way he came into their lives with no warning, goaded her into saying things she oughtn’t, and proceeded, with such ease, to woo their brother from them.

The man who stood before her in the morning room was tall, dressed in a black suit and a white shirt. It was ordinary enough clothing, but he wore it differently to Teddy and the other businessmen Hannah knew. His face was striking but lean: hollows below his cheekbones, and shadows beneath his dark eyes. She could see the lack of respectability to which Boyle referred, and yet she was at just as much of a loss to articulate it.

‘Good morning,’ she said.

He looked at her, seemed to look right inside her. She’d had men stare before, but something in the focus of his gaze caused her to blush. And when she did, he smiled. ‘You haven’t changed.’

It was then she knew him. Recognised his voice. ‘Mr Hunter,’ she said incredulously. She looked him over again, this new knowledge colouring her observation. The same dark hair, the same dark eyes. Same sensuous mouth, always slightly amused. She wondered how she’d missed them before. She straightened, stilled herself. ‘How nice of you to come.’ The moment the words were out, she regretted their ordinariness and longed to pull them back.

He smiled; rather ironically it seemed to Hannah.

‘Won’t you sit down?’ She indicated Teddy’s armchair and Robbie sat perfunctorily, like a schoolboy obeying a mundane instruction unworthy of defiance. Once again she had an irksome sense of her own triviality.

He was still looking at her.

She checked her hair lightly with the palms of both hands, made sure the pins were all in place, smoothed the pale ends against her neck. She smiled politely. ‘Is there something amiss, Mr Hunter? Something I need to fix?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve carried an image in my mind, all this time … You’re still the same.’

‘Not the same, Mr Hunter, I assure you,’ she said, as lightly as she could. ‘I was fifteen when last we met.’

‘Were you really so young?’

There was that lack of respectability again. Oh, it wasn’t so much what he said—it was a perfectly ordinary question, after all—it was something in the way he said it. As if he concealed a double meaning she couldn’t grasp. ‘I’ll ring for tea, shall I?’ she said, and regretted it immediately. Now he would stay.

She stood and pressed the bell button then hovered by the mantle, straightening objects and collecting herself, until Boyle was at the door.

‘Mr Hunter will be joining me for tea,’ said Hannah.

Boyle looked at Robbie suspiciously.

‘He was a friend to my brother,’ Hannah added, ‘in the war.’

‘Ah,’ said Boyle. ‘Yes, ma’am. I’ll have Mrs Tibbit fetch up tea for two.’ How deferential he was. How conventional his deference made her seem.

Robbie was looking around, taking in the morning room. The Art Deco furnishings that Deborah had selected (‘the latest thing’) and Hannah had always tolerated. His gaze drifted from the octagonal mirror above the fire to the gold and brown diamond-print curtains.

‘Modern, isn’t it?’ Hannah said, striving for flippancy. ‘I’m never quite sure I like it, but my husband’s sister says that’s the point of modernity.’

Robbie seemed not to hear. ‘David spoke of you often,’ he said. ‘I feel that I know you. You and Emmeline and Riverton.’

Hannah sank onto the edge of the lounge at mention of David. She had schooled herself not to think of him, not to open the box of tender memories. And yet here sat the one person with whom she might be able to discuss him. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘tell me about David, Mr Hunter.’ She steeled herself. ‘Was he … did he …’ She
pressed her lips together, looked at Robbie. ‘I’ve often hoped he forgave me.’

‘Forgave you?’

‘I was such a prig that last winter, before he left. We weren’t expecting you. We were used to having David to ourselves. I was rather stubborn, I fear. I spent the entire duration ignoring you, wishing you weren’t there.’

He shrugged. ‘I didn’t notice.’

Hannah smiled wistfully. ‘Then it seems I wasted my energy.’

The door opened and Boyle appeared with the salver of afternoon tea. He laid it on the table by Hannah and stood back.

‘Mr Hunter,’ said Hannah, aware that Boyle was lingering, eyeing Robbie. ‘Boyle said you had something to return to me.’

‘Yes,’ Robbie said, reaching into his pocket. Hannah nodded to Boyle, assured him everything was in hand, his presence no longer required. As the door closed, Robbie withdrew a piece of cloth. It was tatty, with threads loose, and Hannah wondered how on earth he thought this might belong to her. As she watched she realised it was an old piece of ribbon, once white, now brown. He peeled the ribbon open, fingers shaking, and held it toward her.

Her breath caught in her throat. Wrapped inside was a tiny book.

She reached over and plucked it gingerly from its shroud. Turned it over in her hands to look at its cover, though she knew well enough what it would say.
Journey Across the Rubicon
.

A wave of reminiscence: being chased through the Riverton grounds, drunk on the thrill of adventure; whispered secrets in the shadowy nursery. ‘I gave this to David. For luck.’

He nodded.

Her eyes met his. ‘Why did you take it?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘David would never have given this away.’

‘No, he wouldn’t, he didn’t, I was only ever its messenger. He wanted it returned, the last thing he said was take it to Nefertiti. And I have.’

Hannah didn’t look at him. The name. Her own secret name. He didn’t know her well enough. She closed her fingers around the little book, dropped the lid on memories of being brave and
untamed and full of prospect, lifted her head to meet his gaze. ‘Let’s speak of other things.’

Robbie nodded slightly and pushed the ribbon back into his pocket. ‘What do people speak of when they meet again like this?’

‘They ask each other what they’ve been doing,’ said Hannah, tucking the tiny book inside her escritoire. ‘Where their lives have taken them.’

‘Well then,’ Robbie said. ‘What have you been doing, Hannah? I can see well enough where life has taken you.’

Hannah straightened, poured a cup of tea and held it out to him. The cup jiggled against its saucer in her hand. ‘I’ve married. A gentleman called Theodore Luxton, you might have heard of him. He and his father are in business. They collect companies, or so I believe.’

Robbie was watching her, but gave no indication that Teddy’s name was familiar to him.

‘I live in London, as you know,’ Hannah continued, trying to smile. ‘Such a wonderful city, don’t you think? So much to see and do? So many interesting people …’ Her voice trailed off. Robbie was distracting her, watching her as she spoke with the same disconcerting intensity he’d offered the Picasso all those years ago in the library. ‘Mr Hunter,’ she said with some impatience. ‘Really. I must ask you to stop. It’s quite impossible to—’

‘You’re right,’ he said softly. ‘You have changed. Your face is sad.’

She wanted to respond, to tell him he was wrong. That any sadness he perceived was a direct consequence of having her brother’s memory resurrected. But there was something in his voice that stopped her. Something that made her feel transparent, uncertain, vulnerable. As if he knew her better than she knew herself. She didn’t like it, but she knew somehow it would do no good to argue.

‘Well, Mr Hunter,’ she said, standing stiffly. ‘I must thank you for coming. For finding me, returning the book.’

Robbie followed her lead, stood. ‘I said I would.’

‘I’ll ring for Boyle to show you out.’

‘Don’t trouble him,’ said Robbie. ‘I know the way well enough.’

He opened the door and Emmeline burst through, a whirl of pink silk and shingled blonde hair. Her cheeks glowed with the joy of being young and well connected in a city and a time that belonged to the young and well connected. She collapsed onto the sofa and crossed one long leg over the other. Hannah felt old suddenly, and strangely faded. Like a watercolour left by error in the rain, its colours washed into each other so only the barest outline remained.

‘Phew. I’m pooped,’ Emmeline said. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any tea left?’

She looked up and noticed Robbie.

‘You remember Mr Hunter, don’t you, Emmeline?’ said Hannah.

Emmeline puzzled for a moment. She leaned forward and rested her chin on the palm of her hand, wide blue eyes blinking as she gazed at his face.

‘David’s friend?’ said Hannah. ‘From Riverton?’

‘Robbie Hunter,’ said Emmeline, smiling slowly, delightedly, hand dropping into her lap. ‘Of course I do. By my count, you owe me a dress. Perhaps this time you’ll resist the urge to tear it from me.’

At Emmeline’s insistence, Robbie stayed for dinner. It was unthinkable, she said, that he be allowed to leave when he had only just arrived. So it was, Robbie joined Deborah, Teddy, Emmeline and Hannah in the dining room of number seventeen that night.

Hannah sat on one side of the table, Deborah and Emmeline on the other, Robbie the foot to Teddy’s head. They made amusing book ends, Hannah thought: Robbie the archetype of the disillusioned artist, and Teddy, after four years working with his father, a caricature of power and plenty. He was still a handsome man—Hannah had noticed some of his colleagues’ young wives making eyes at him, little use it would do them—but his face was fuller and his hair was greyer. His cheeks, too, had taken on the blush of plentiful living. He leaned back against his chair.

‘So. What is it you do for a crust, Mr Hunter? My wife tells me you’re not in business.’ That an alternative existed no longer occurred to him.

‘I’m a writer,’ said Robbie.

‘Writer, eh?’ said Teddy. ‘Write for
The Times
, do you?’

‘I did,’ said Robbie, ‘amongst others.’

‘And now?’ said Teddy.

‘I write for myself.’ He smiled. ‘Foolishly, I thought I’d be easier to please.’

‘How fortunate,’ said Deborah breezily, ‘to have the time to give oneself over to one’s leisure. I wouldn’t recognise myself if I wasn’t rushing hither and yon.’ She began a monologue on her organisation of a recent masked society ball, and smiled wolfishly at Robbie.

Deborah was flirting, Hannah realised. She looked at Robbie. Yes, he was handsome, in a languid, sensuous sort of way: not at all Deborah’s usual type.

‘Books, is it?’ said Teddy.

‘Poetry,’ said Robbie.