The Shifting Fog (14 page)

The library—usually so vast and imposing—took on the appearance of a stage set. Ordinary items—the Steinway and Sons grand piano, the oak writing desk, Lord Ashbury’s globe—were suddenly rendered smaller, ersatz versions of themselves, and gave the impression of having been arranged to suit a cast of players, yet to make its entrance.

The sitting area in particular bore a theatrical spirit of anticipation. The lounge at centre stage; the armchairs either side, pretty in William Morris skirts; the rectangle of winter sunlight that draped across the piano and onto the oriental rug. Props, all: patiently awaiting actors to take their marks. What kind of play would actors perform, I wondered, in such a setting as this?

A comedy, a tragedy, a play of modern manners?

Thus I could happily have procrastinated all day, but for the persistent voice inside my ear, Mr Hamilton’s voice, reminding me of Lord Ashbury’s reputation for random dust inspections. And so, reluctantly, I abandoned such thoughts and withdrew the first book. Dusted it—front, back and spine—then replaced it and withdrew the second.

By mid-morning I had finished five of the ten gallery shelves and was poised to begin the next. A small mercy: having begun with the higher shelves, I had finally reached the lower and would be able to sit while I worked. After dusting hundreds of books, my hands had become practised, performing their task automatically, which was just as well, for my mind had numbed to a halt. I had just plucked the sixth spine from the sixth shelf when an impertinent piano note, sharp and sudden, trespassed on the room’s winter stillness. I spun around involuntarily, peering down beyond the tree.

Standing at the piano, fingers brushing silently the ivory surface, was a young man I’d never seen before. I knew who he was, though; even then. It was Master David’s friend, from Eton. Lord Hunter’s son who’d arrived in the night.

He was handsome. But who amongst the young is not? With him it was something more. There are those who bring with them a sense of noise, of movement, but his was the beauty of stillness. Alone in the room, his dark eyes grave beneath a line of dark brows, he gave the impression of sorrow past, deeply felt and poorly mended. He was tall and lean, though not so as to appear lanky, and his brown hair fell longer than was the fashion, some ends escaping others to brush against his collar, his cheekbone.

I watched him survey the library, slowly, deliberately, from where he stood. His gaze rested, finally, on a painting. Blue canvas etched in black to depict the crouching figure of a woman, her back turned to the artist. The painting hung furtively on the far wall, between two bulbous Chinese urns in blue and white. He moved to inspect it closely, and there he remained. His utter absorption made him fascinating and my sense of propriety was no match for my curiosity. The books along the sixth shelf languished, spines dull with the year’s dust, as I watched. He leaned back, almost imperceptibly, then forwards again, his concentration absolute. His fingers, I noticed, fell long and silent at his side. Inert.

He was still standing, head tilted to the side, pondering the painting, when behind him the library door burst open and Hannah appeared, clutching the Chinese box.

‘David! At last! We’ve had the best idea. This time we can go to—’

She stopped, startled, as Robbie turned and regarded her. A smile was slow to his lips, but when it came it transformed him. All hint of melancholy was swept away so completely I wondered if I’d imagined it. Without its serious demeanour, his face was boyish, smooth, almost pretty.

‘Forgive me,’ she said, cheeks suffused with pink surprise, pale hair escaping from her bow. ‘I thought you were someone else.’ She rested the box on the corner of the lounge and, as an afterthought, straightened her white pinafore.

‘You’re forgiven.’ A smile, more fleeting than the first, and he returned his attention to the painting.

Hannah stared at his back, confusion plucking at her fingertips. She was waiting, as was I, for him to turn. To take her hand; to tell her his name, as was only polite.

‘Imagine communicating so much with so little,’ was what he finally said.

Hannah looked toward the painting but his back obscured it and she could offer no opinion. She took a deep breath, confounded.

‘It’s incredible,’ he continued. ‘Don’t you think?’

His impertinence left her little choice but to accede and she joined him by the painting. ‘Grandfather’s never liked it much.’

An attempt to sound breezy. ‘He thinks it miserable and indecent. That’s why he hides it here.’

‘Do you find it miserable and indecent?’

She looked at the painting, as if for the first time. ‘Miserable perhaps. But not indecent.’

Robbie nodded. ‘Nothing so honest could ever be indecent.’

Hannah stole a glance at his profile and I wondered when she was going to ask him who he was, how he came to be admiring the paintings in her grandfather’s library. She opened her mouth but found no words forthcoming.

‘Why does your grandfather hang it if he finds it indecent?’

said Robbie.

‘It was a gift,’ Hannah said, pleased to be asked a question she could answer. ‘From an important Spanish count who came for the hunt. It’s Spanish, you know.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Picasso. I’ve seen his work before.’

Hannah raised an eyebrow and Robbie smiled. ‘In a book my mother showed me. She was born in Spain; had family there.’

‘Spain,’ said Hannah wondrously. ‘Have you been to Cuenca?

Seville? Have you visited Alcázar?’

‘No,’ said Robbie. ‘But with all my mother’s stories I feel I know the place. I always promised we’d go back together someday. Like birds, we’d escape the English winter.’

‘Not this winter?’ Hannah said.

He looked at her, bemused. ‘I’m sorry, I presumed you knew. My mother’s dead.’

As my breath caught in my throat, the door opened and David strolled through. ‘I see you two have met,’ he said with a lazy grin.

David had grown taller since last I’d seen him, or had he?

Perhaps it was nothing so obvious as that. Perhaps it was the way he walked, the way he held himself, that made him seem older, more adult, less familiar.

Hannah nodded, shifted uncomfortably to the side. She glanced at Robbie, but if she had plans to speak, to put things right between them, the moment was over too soon. The door flew open and Emmeline charged into the room.

‘David!’ she said. ‘At last. We’ve been so bored. We’ve been dying to play The Game. Hannah and I have already decided where—’

She looked up, saw Robbie. ‘Oh. Hello. Who are you?’

‘Robbie Hunter,’ David said. ‘You’ve already met Hannah; this is my baby sister, Emmeline. Robbie’s come up from Eton.’

‘Are you staying the weekend?’ Emmeline said, shooting a glance at Hannah.

‘A bit longer, if you’ll have me,’ said Robbie.

‘Robbie didn’t have plans for Christmas,’ said David. ‘I thought he might as well spend it here, with us.’

‘The
whole
Christmas vacation?’ said Hannah. David nodded. ‘We could do with some extra company, stuck all the way out here. We’ll go mad otherwise.’

I could feel Hannah’s irritation from where I sat. Her hands had come to rest on the Chinese box. She was thinking of The Game: rule number three, only three may play; imagined episodes, anticipated adventures, were slipping away. Hannah looked at David; her gaze a clear accusation he pretended not to see.

‘Look at the size of that tree,’ he said with heightened cheer.

‘We’d better get decorating if we hope to finish by Christmas.’

His sisters remained where they were.

‘Come on, Emme,’ he said, lifting the box of decorations from the table to the floor, avoiding Hannah’s eye. ‘Show Robbie how it’s done.’

Emmeline looked at Hannah. She was torn, I could tell. She shared her sister’s disappointment, had been longing to play The Game herself; but she was also the youngest of three, had grown up playing third wheel to her two older siblings. And now David had singled her out. Had chosen her to join him. The opportunity to form a pair at the expense of the third was irresistible. David’s affection, his company, too precious to refuse. She sneaked a glance at Hannah then grinned at David; took the parcel he handed her and started to unwrap glass icicles, holding them up for Robbie’s edification.

Hannah, meanwhile, knew when she was beaten. While Emmeline exclaimed over forgotten decorations, Hannah straightened her shoulders—dignity in defeat—and carried the Chinese box from the room. David watched her go; had the decency to look sheepish. When she returned, empty-handed, Emmeline looked up. ‘Hannah,’ she said. ‘You’ll never believe it, Robbie says he’s never even seen a Dresden cherub!’

Hannah walked stiffly to the carpet and knelt down; David sat at the piano, fanned his fingers an inch above the ivory. He lowered them slowly onto the keys, coaxing the instrument to life with gentle scales. Only when the piano and those of us listening were lulled and unsuspecting, did he begin to play. A piece of music I believe to be amongst the most beautiful ever written. Chopin’s waltz in C sharp minor.

Impossible as it now seems, that day in the library was the first music I had ever heard. Real music, I mean. I had vague recollections of Mother singing to me when I was very little, before her back got sore and the songs dried up, and Mr Connelly from across the street had used to take out his flute and play maudlin Irish tunes when he had drunk too much at the public house of a Friday night. But it had never been like this.

I leaned the side of my face against the rails and closed my eyes, abandoned myself to the glorious, aching notes. I cannot truly say how well he played; with what would I compare it? But to me it was flawless, as all fine memories are.

While the final note still shimmered in the sunlit air, I heard Emmeline say, ‘Now let me play something, David; that’s hardly Christmas music.’

I opened my eyes as she started a proficient rendition of ‘O

Come All Ye Faithful’. She played well enough, the music pretty, but a spell had been broken.

‘Can you play?’ Robbie said, looking toward Hannah who sat cross-legged on the floor, conspicuously quiet. David laughed. ‘Hannah has many skills, but musicality is not amongst them.’ He grinned. ‘Although who knows, after all the secret lessons I hear you’ve been taking in the village . . . ’

Hannah glanced at Emmeline who shrugged contritely. ‘It just slipped out.’

‘I prefer words,’ Hannah said coolly. She unwrapped a bundle of tin soldiers and laid them in her lap. ‘They’re more apt to do as I ask of them.’

‘Robbie writes too,’ David said. ‘He’s a poet. A damn fine one. Had a few pieces published in the
College Chronicle
this year.’ He held up a glass ball, shooting splinters of prism light onto the carpet below. ‘What was the one I liked? The one about the decaying temple?’

The door opened then, stifling Robbie’s answer, and Alfred appeared, carrying a tray laden with gingerbread men, sugarplums, and paper cornucopias filled with nuts.

‘Pardon me, Miss,’ Alfred said, laying the tray atop the drinks table. ‘Mrs Townsend sent these up for the tree.’

‘Ooh, lovely,’ Emmeline said, stopping mid-song and racing across to pick out a sugarplum.

As he was turning to leave, Alfred glanced surreptitiously toward the gallery and caught my prying eye. As the Hartfords turned back their attention to the tree, he slipped around behind and climbed the spiral staircase to meet me.

‘How’s it coming along?’

‘Fine,’ I whispered, my voice odd to my own ears through lack of use. I glanced guiltily at the book in my lap, the empty place on the shelf, six books along.

He followed my gaze and raised his eyebrows. ‘Just as well I’m here to help you, then.’

‘But won’t Mr Hamilton—’

‘He won’t miss me for a half-hour or so.’ He smiled at me and pointed to the far end. ‘I’ll start up that way and we can meet in the middle.’

I nodded, gratitude and reticence combined. 

Alfred pulled a cloth from his coat pocket and a book from the shelf, and sat on the floor. I watched him, seemingly engrossed in his task, turning the book over methodically, ridding it of all dust, then returning it to the shelf and withdrawing the next. He looked like a child, turned by magic to a man’s size, sitting there cross-legged, intent on his chore, brown hair, usually so tidy, flopping forward to swing in sympathy with the movement of his arm. He glanced sideways, caught my eye just as I turned my head. His expression sparked a surprising frisson beneath my skin. I blushed despite myself. Would he think I had been looking at him? Was he still looking at me? I didn’t dare check, in case he mistook my attention. And yet? My skin prickled under his imagined gaze. It had been like this for days. Something sat between us that I could not rightly name. The ease I had come to expect with him had evaporated, replaced by awkwardness, a confusing tendency toward wrong turns and misunderstandings. I wondered whether blame lay with the white feather episode. Perhaps he’d seen me gawking in the street; worse, he’d learned it was I who’d blabbed to Mr Hamilton and the others downstairs.

I made a show of polishing thoroughly the book in my lap and looked pointedly away, through the rails and onto the stage below. Perhaps if I ignored Alfred the discomfort would pass as blindly as the time.

Watching the Hartfords again, I felt detached: as a viewer who had dozed off during a performance, awoken to find the scenery had changed and the dialogue moved on. I focused on their voices, drifting up through the diaphanous winter light, foreign and remote.

Emmeline was showing Robbie Mrs Townsend’s sweets tray, and the older siblings were discussing the war. Hannah looked up from the silver star she was threading onto a fir frond, stunned. ‘But when do you leave?’

‘Early next year,’ David said, excitement colouring his cheeks.

‘But when did you . . . ? How long have you . . . ?’

He shrugged. ‘I’ve been thinking about it for ages. You know me, I love a good adventure.’

Hannah looked at her brother: she had been disappointed by Robbie’s unexpected presence, the inability to play The Game, but this new betrayal was much more deeply felt. Her voice was cold.