The gallery of the Riverton library ran lengthways, high above the room itself, and it was hard not to be distracted. Reluctance to begin is quick to befriend procrastination, and the view of the room below was tremendous. It is a universal truth that no matter how well one knows a scene, to observe it from above is something of a revelation. I stood by the railings and peered over, beyond the tree.
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, alclass="underline" 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.