by Jess Foley
Too Close To The Sun
Jess Foley was born in Wiltshire but moved to London to study at the Chelsea School of Art, then subsequently worked as a painter and actor before taking up writing. Now living in Blackheath, south-east London, Jess’s first novel, So Long At The Fair, was published in 2001.
Praise for So Long At The Fair
‘Jess has really captured the sense of a family united against great odds. The heroine, Abbie, is strong but flawed as all good heroines should be and as we follow her triumphs and trials we see her change from a girl to a woman in the most dramatic and satisfying of ways’ Iris Gower
‘A jolly good read … Abbie is a great character, buffeted by fate but a powerful woman of her time’ Susan Sallis
Also by Jess Foley
So Long At The Fair
TOO CLOSE TO THE SUN
Jess Foley
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Also by Jess Foley
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Too Close To The Sun
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Part Two
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Part Three
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Epilogue
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
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Epub ISBN 9781446429792
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Published by Arrow Books in 2003
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Copyright © Jess Foley 2002
Jess Foley has asserted the right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
First published in the United Kingdom in 2002 by Century
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 0 09 941577 1
For Victoria
PART ONE
Chapter One
On the day that was to see the course of Grace’s life change they had found a spent rocket in the hedgerow by the stile. Billy saw it and hooted with excitement. Moving to the hedge he stretched up his hand, then with a little moan sank back.
‘It’s too high. I can’t get to it.’
Giving a sigh as if she were indulging him, Grace stepped to the hedge, reached up and caught the rocket by its stem.
‘Here you are. Though what you want it for I can’t imagine.’
The rocket was just one of many fireworks that had been set off last month in celebration of Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee. The whole village had had a party on the green, and the bonfire and fireworks that had followed in the evening had provided a spectacle such as Billy had never seen in all his eight years.
‘Will it go again?’ he asked, and Grace said, ‘No, unfortunately it won’t. It’s all used up. You might as well throw it back where it was.’
‘You sure it won’t go again?’
‘Absolutely sure.’
Billy looked at the rocket for moment longer, then, with a shrug, moved and threw it into the hedgerow. That done, he resumed the conversation that had been interrupted by his sight of the rocket.
‘Will you be going away, Grace?’
At his words Grace turned and glanced down at the top of his head as he limped along at her side. His thick brown hair had been touched by the sun and in its highlights shone a dull auburn. When she remained silent, he lifted his freckled face and looked up. ‘Will you?’ These days he seemed to be full of insecurities and questions.
‘I’ve told you already,’ she said, ‘it depends how things work out. I must wait and see what happens.’
‘Pappy said when you get married you’ll be leaving us anyway.’
‘Get married,’ she said. ‘If that’s going to happen I’d be glad if somebody would let me in on the secret.’ Grace was just twenty. A slim girl of just above middle height, she had the beauty that youth itself possesses and also that inherited from her mother. She had dark eyes, and hair of a rich chestnut that could shine tawny gold in the sun. Now, her wide, pink mouth was compressed in impatience. ‘Seems like I’m the last to know some things,’ she said.
Billy looked up at her. ‘And your Mr Stephen – would he be the last to know as well?’
Grace nodded at the look, and smiled. ‘You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Just make sure you’re not too clever for your own good.’
Having taken short cuts to avoid the roads, they were following a narrow footpath traversing a meadow. Up ahead was a stile, then just one more meadow and they’d be close to their destination. After the recent rains the green of the grass was rich and lush. Birds skimmed the air in their foraging for food, and butterflies danced over the hedgerows.
It was Saturday, almost 10.30. They had set off from Green Shipton almost an hour before, the two of them, carrying two framed pictures, oil paint on canvas. The frames, made and fitted by their father, had been fashioned of elm, and carved and polished with the greatest care. Prior to Grace and Billy setting out, their father had wrapped each frame in a protective covering of burlap, then tied each with string, in such a way as to form a little handle for carrying. The canvases were fragile, and it would not do for any damaging pressure to be put on them. Grace carried one picture, and Billy the other.
On the right of the path a few yards ahead lay a pond, where sometimes the cattle came to drink. Fringed by trees and shrubbery, it seemed a mysterious little spot in the middle of the green expanse of the meadow.
‘I don’t like this pond,’ Billy said as they drew
nearer to it.
‘Why not?’
‘I just don’t.’
In its shadows vaguely threatening, it lay only four or five yards from the edge of the footpath. Not that one could see much of the water itself, overhung as it was by the foliage that crowded its banks.
‘Is it really so deep?’ Billy said.
‘I’ve no idea how deep it is.’
‘Some boys – they said a whole cow drowned in it.’
‘Oh? And when was this supposed to have happened?’
‘They didn’t say.’
‘Well, not in my lifetime; I’d have heard of it.’
‘That’s what they said anyway.’
‘Perhaps they made it up. Or perhaps it’s an old legend.’
‘What’s a legend?’
‘Well, it – it’s a story that’s been kind of – handed down – and perhaps nobody knows after so long whether it’s true or not.’ She paused, glancing down at him again. ‘Did they say anything else, the boys?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well –’ she wondered how best to put it, ‘were they – being unkind to you?’
‘No,’ he said at once. ‘No, they were fine.’
‘Oh – that’s all right, then.’
There had been a few occasions in the past when some lout or other had taken the opportunity to have some fun at Billy’s expense, once or twice reducing him to tears. And at such times, Grace would never forget, their mother’s protective wrath had been formidable. Small and slim, Mrs Harper had never given a thought to her lack of physical power, but had approached the victimizer as if having all the strength in the world. And like a tigress defending her cub, she had known no fear. Grace had seen her on one occasion when she had confronted a boy from a neighbouring village, a boy who had picked on Billy as an easy victim for his ridicule, focusing on his ungainly gait. But the boy had reckoned without Mrs Harper. She had run from the house with hair and apron flying, dashing at the boy and at the same time unleashing a torrent of reprimand that had him rooted to the spot. She had not used any physical violence, had not attempted to strike the boy; Grace had never known her to strike anyone, though where Billy was concerned, Grace was fairly sure that she might not have held back in particular circumstances if moved enough.
As they walked, Grace looked down at him with a smile. He was not tall for his eight years, added to which he was slight and fine-boned – like Grace herself, taking after their mother’s side of the family, though Grace was taller than her mother had been. ‘You’ll look after Billy, won’t you?’ her mother had said several times during those final days. He had been in her thoughts right up to the last, in ways that Grace herself never could have been. But Grace had not quite the needs of Billy. Should it come to it, Grace thought, she could manage on her own. Billy, though, was a different matter.
As they reached the last stile Billy came to a stop with a little groan. Grace halted beside him. ‘What’s up?’ she said. ‘Is it getting too much for you?’
‘Oh, it’s such a hot day,’ he said. ‘I need a rest.’
‘Come on, then, let’s sit down for a minute.’
With Grace leading they moved a few yards alongside the hedgerow, and there in the shade of a small hawthorn tree Grace set down the wrapped picture, very carefully leaning it against the tree’s trunk. With admonitions to be careful, Billy did likewise with his package.
As Billy sat down beside her, Grace pushed her straw hat to the back of her head. Running her hands over her hair, her palm came away damp with perspiration. ‘Oh,’ she sighed, ‘it’s not the day for doing anything.’ Taking her hat off, she sank back until she was lying full length in the grass. ‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘it would be so nice to have no responsibilities, to have nothing to do.’
‘That wouldn’t suit you at all,’ he said. ‘You like to be busy.’
‘Not always.’ She opened her eyes and turned her head towards him. He sat plucking blades of grass and tossing them aside. ‘Sometimes it’s good to just relax or have fun,’ she said.
After lying there for several more minutes she sat up and replaced her hat, then got up and brushed down her dress. ‘Come on, young William, let’s be off.’
And they set off again, over the stile and into the lane and so on to the road. And after a while there ahead of them was the old low stone wall that marked the front boundary of Asterleigh House. Minutes later they were starting up the drive.
Asterleigh House, situated a mile from the village of Berron Wick, stood back from the road on the top of a low ridge, surrounded by elms and oaks and the green rolling fields of Wiltshire. To the northeast lay the city of Redbury, and beyond that the railway town of Swindon. Directly to the east was the market town of Corster. To the south lay Salisbury and the Wiltshire plains. The house, with its façade of white stone, was large, comprising over thirty rooms, and stood hemmed by well-laid herbaceous borders and green lawns. Begun in the 1850s, it was said that the house had never been finished. But finished or not, to outsiders it was impressive; few people in the surrounding villages knew any other dwelling as fine.
Grace and Billy had never been inside any similar house in their lives, and nor had they been that close to any. Not that they had been very deep inside Asterleigh; they had only been into the kitchen; but even entry into the kitchen of such a place was worthy of remark.
And now they were approaching the kitchen again, moving across the cobbled yard from the side gate. A maid was in the yard, beating a carpet, a colourful, oriental piece, that for convenience’s sake hung on a line. As they went to move past her towards the rear door, she let her hands fall at her sides, as if having let go a huge weight, and gave the deepest sigh. ‘Yes, can I’elp you?’ she said. She was plain in appearance, with frizzy reddish hair and a mass of freckles over her pale pink face.
‘We’ve brought something for Mr Spencer,’ Grace said.
As she finished speaking, another maid, this one wearing a neat white apron and cap, opened the back door.
‘It’s all right, Annie,’ she said, then, looking at Grace and Billy she raised her eyebrows and said, ‘Yes, miss?’
With Billy following, Grace crossed to the door. ‘We’ve brought something for Mr Spencer,’ she said again.
‘The master’s not in right now,’ the girl said. ‘Can you tell me what you’ve got?’
‘Two of Mrs Spencer’s pictures.’
‘If you’d care to wait a moment, I’ll let the missis know. Who shall I say it is?’
‘Miss Grace Harper.’
‘Right.’ As the maid began to close the door behind her she added, ‘I’d better shut this and keep out the dust.’
The door closed behind the maid as she went back into the house. In the yard the red-haired maid resumed beating the carpet, pounding out little puffs of dust that floated away on the warm air. As Grace watched, her eyes met the other girl’s. The latter relaxed her beating for a moment and smiled. ‘You want a nice job, miss? This ent the day for beatin’ carpets, I can tell you.’
A minute later and the maid was back. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said. ‘The missis’d like to see you.’
‘Mrs Spencer?’ Grace said, a little awed.
‘Yes. You must come indoors.’
As the maid stood aside, Billy held out the wrapped picture to Grace and murmured, ‘You go on, Grace, I’ll stay here.’
‘Of course not,’ Grace replied. ‘You must come with me.’ The maid was waiting, and after a moment Grace and Billy – after carefully wiping their shoes on the doormat – moved past her into a rear passageway, on the left of which was a washhouse and, on the right, the kitchen in which a cook and a maid were at work. The parlour maid closed the door behind them and said, ‘If you’d like to follow me, miss …’
She opened the door in front of them and they passed through into the spacious main hall. The floor, laid in circles and rectangles of marble in pink, white and grey, seemed to stretch to a vast
distance, enclosed by a staircase that curved elegantly down from the upper floor in a sweeping, graceful arc. Grace and Billy looked around them. They had never been in this part of the house before. Now, seeing the lavish interior, it was like being in another world. On the walls hung tall paintings of men and women in clothes from the past; there were long velvet drapes at the tall windows. The whole room seemed so enormous; its great fireplace – all laid with logs even in this day of July – and its sofa and fine chairs seeming to take up so little space in the vast room.
And, looking up, there were even more wonders to see, for the great height of the circular hall went to the very top of the house, ending in a great cupola glazed with coloured glass that let through shafts of light of different hues that touched the walls and stairs; and touched too a gallery that ran almost all around the hall on its top floor, a gallery with statues standing in niches in the wall.
There was no time to stand and gape, though, for the maid was speaking to them, a trifle impatiently. ‘Please,’ she said over her shoulder, ‘come this way.’
Grace had never had any thought of being invited into the house proper – and even less so of being summoned in to meet Mrs Spencer. Had the possibility occurred to her, she would have taken more trouble with her appearance. As it was, she was wearing her oldest summer dress, a cotton affair with pink and blue flowers on a white background. When new, it had been very attractive, and had suited her well. Now, however, its best days were past: the blue had run in the wash and it had been darned at the right shoulder and elbow. Grace wore it nowadays – as on this day – only for unimportant errands – and errands when she did not expect to encounter anyone of importance. Very conscious of her dress having seen better times – as had her plain hat and dusty boots – Grace, with Billy reluctantly following, went after the maid along a deeply carpeted passage.
Some way along, the maid came to a halt, knocked on a door, pushed it open and bent into the room. Grace heard her murmur something and then the girl was turning back to them. ‘The mistress says if you please to come in.’