The House at Riverton by Kate Morton; Atria Books; 480 pages; $24.95.
This haunting, beautifully conceived novel begins at the end of the 20th century when a young documentary filmmaker, Ursula Ryan, has come to interview 98-year-old Grace Reeves in the hopes that Reeves can fill in some gaps in the dark story of a 1924 event that scandalized British society. Her film will focus on the Hartford family of Riverton, the Oxfordshire estate where Reeves came to work as a servant. Now Reeves is a resident of a home for the elderly, her adult life as an archaeologist a thing of the past. Ryan's request for the interview surprises her; it was the first time in some 70 years that anyone had associated her with the events that made her feel vulnerable and guilty.
Ryan's gentle prodding releases a torrent of recollections. Skipping back and forth between the present and the past, Reeves' memories capture early 20th-century England and the societal changes that transformed a nation. She recalls the last days of Edwardian aristocratic privilege, the devastating impact of World War I, the Roaring '20s and the loss of an entire way of life. But she is reluctant to resurrect some parts of the past – painful secrets kept for decades. However, loyal to a fault, Reeves is not the only one with secrets and deeply felt regrets; there are others whose lives are inextricably connected in a host of unexpected ways.
Reeves was just 14 when she first arrived at Riverton, much in awe of the upper-class family who called it home. The only child of a single mother, she was drawn to the lively Hartford sisters, Hannah and Emmeline, who seemed to live enchanted lives. As someone in domestic service, Reeves' role was to remain invisible in the household, so she was thrilled when the headstrong Hannah took her into her confidence and shared her secret yearnings. The pattern bonded the two young women and set the stage for a chilling parade of events that would shape both their lives in subtle and devastating ways.
None of these would prove more damaging than the secret role Reeves unwittingly played at the party where charismatic young poet Robbie Hunter came between the Hartford sisters and committed suicide. The police reports and newspapers were full of apparent facts, but none came close to the truth. Reeves, the only witness, had buried that part of her past until Ryan took her to the painstakingly recreated movie set that mirrored Riverton's parlor as it had been in its heyday. It was there that all the repressed memories – long-held secrets – flooded back; the clash of past and present overcame her.
That is when Reeves knew that she would record the true story for her grandson, Marcus, a mystery writer reeling from a tragedy of his own: "There is only one person whom I wish to hear my story. One person for whom I set it down on tape. I only hope it will be worth it. That Ursula is right: that Marcus will listen and understand. That my own guilt and the story of its acquisition will somehow set him free," Morton writes.
The novel ends with Reeves, her daughter, Ruth, and Marcus watching a video: Ryan's recently released documentary. As Reeves dozes off, Marcus tells his mother that he plans to write something different this time: a biography of an amazing person, his grandmother, whose life spans almost a whole century from domestic service to a doctorate in archaeology. There is that final recording Reeves left for Marcus. In that, there is a startling revelation, and the last threads of a tattered tapestry are set in place.
Kate Morton grew up in the mountains of Queensland, Australia. At work on her second novel, she is a doctoral candidate and lives with her husband and young son in Brisbane.
AN EXCERPT
For her part, Hannah did not speak much of Teddy. He was an adjunct. An accessory whose attendance made possible the adventure she was on. Oh, she liked him well enough. She found him amusing at times (though often when he least intended), well-meaning and not unpleasant company. His interests were less varied than her own, his intellect less keen, but she learned to stroke his ego when required and seek intellectual stimulation elsewhere. And if she wasn't in love, what did it matter? She didn't notice the absence, not then. Who needed love when there was so much else in the offing?
One morning towards the end of the honeymoon, Teddy woke with a migraine. He would have others in the time I knew him; they did not come often, but were severe when they did, the legacy of a childhood illness. He could do little but lie very still in a darkened, silent room, and drink small amounts of water. Hannah was unsettled that first time; she had been shielded, for the most part, from the unpleasantness of illness.
She made an uncertain offer to sit with him, but Teddy was a sensible man not given to extracting comfort from the discomfort of others. He told her there was nothing she could do, that it was a crime not to enjoy her last days in Paris.
I was required as companion; Teddy considered it unseemly that a lady be seen alone in the street, no matter that she was married. Hannah had no wish to shop and had grown tired of being indoors. She wanted to explore, to unearth her very own Paris. We went outside and began to walk. She used no map, just turned in any direction that took her fancy.
