Too Close to the Sun

by Jess Foley

  ‘Therefore soon,’ he had finished, in his relating of the story to Grace, ‘I shall be staying here most of the time. No more trips to the Continent.’ And with a slight, ironic smile, ‘And how will you like that, my dear?’

  How he had changed, Grace thought once more. Over the months how he had changed. In so many ways. Not only in their relationship, but in his dealings with his businesses too. Whatever flame of enthusiasm had once been there, now appeared to have gone, so that so often he seemed to go about absorbed in a kind of surly melancholy.

  He spent the greater part of his days at the mill, and when he was not there he had taken to walking in the fields, or sitting up in his study. And there he would drink, and she, sitting in the room beneath, would hear his footsteps as he paced the floor over her head, drinking whisky and consumed by his devils. On some evenings he would eat alone there, leaving Grace to dine alone in the dining room. On latter days, if the maid let Grace know that the master had asked for a tray to be sent up to his study, Grace would forgo eating in the dining room and herself eat from a tray in the drawing room. As for the night when, drunk, he had told her of his pursuit of Miss Eleanor for the sole purpose of obtaining Asterleigh, no further reference was made to such a time; it might never have happened.

  Although in his manner towards Grace he was less considerate, he still insisted he loved her, and at night his passion would often bring him to her side. After he was sated he would turn and fall into an uneasy sleep, a sleep broken by mutterings and ramblings which, to her, would make no sense.

  And as the days wore on she told herself that she must get accustomed to the changes, for it was almost a certainty that they would never be as they were again. Kester was out of her life, but Billy was safe and happy. She could bear what she was going through, she thought, and indeed, it was not so bad as so many women had to suffer. She and Edward would get through this desperately bad period, for this is what she told herself it was, and when that was done they could find some measure of happiness together.

  But then, she found the seeds.

  In the last week of November, Grace learned that Effie, the maid who had replaced the ungracious and insolent Jane, had given in her notice, intending to find a position that was both closer to her sweetheart – apparently he was footman at a house near Bath – and better paid. Achieving the latter aim, Grace guessed, would probably not be that difficult; she did not know what wages Edward paid his staff, but she was fairly sure that they would not be over-generous. Grace did not learn directly from the maid that she intended to leave, but from Mrs Sandiston, who mentioned it almost in passing. And then the next day Edward himself mentioned it. Grace had never been given a role in the management of the house as were other wives, but, whether she liked it or not, had to leave it to her husband and the housekeeper. Old habits die hard, she had silently acknowledged; the first Mrs Spencer had not done so, and the pattern had been set with her.

  ‘Seems like the parlourmaid’s going to be leaving us any day soon,’ Edward said to Grace as they sat over the last of dinner. ‘Timpkins, whatever her name is.’

  ‘Yes, Timpkins – Effie,’ Grace replied. ‘Mrs Sandiston mentioned it to me the other day.’

  ‘So that’ll mean another advertisement, more interviews. Christ knows why these girls want to hop, skip and jump from one post to another like this. But they all do it.’

  ‘For one thing, I understand, she wants to be near her young man.’

  ‘What!’ Edward exclaimed. ‘Dear God, what a reason. But that’s the way the world is, I suppose, and ever was. Can you see a man doing that?’ He shook his head. ‘Women. Ah, well, there’ll never be any changing them.’

  ‘Is it such a bad thing,’ Grace said, ‘to wish to be near the one you love?’

  ‘Oh, Grace,’ he said, ‘sometimes you sound like the voice of some pathetic novelette. Please – don’t say such things when I’ve just eaten. And be glad I haven’t got a queasy stomach.’

  Grace said, ignoring this, ‘She’s a nice young girl, and very obliging. I shall be sorry to see her go.’

  ‘Well, she is going, and she wants a reference. She asked days ago, I’m afraid. I just haven’t been able to get down to it.’

  Grace thought, this is something that I could do, as mistress of the house. It’s my duty as mistress. But she would not suggest such a thing. Such work had always been done by Edward, who would be guided by Mrs Sandiston who would take into account the views of his wife.

  ‘What do you think?’ Edward said again. ‘Shall we give her a nice reference?’

  ‘Of course,’ Grace said, and then realized he was teasing. ‘She deserves it, and you can’t blame a girl for wanting to better her position.’

  ‘I suppose not. I’ll write one for her tonight and leave it on the hall table. You or Mrs Sandiston can give it to her.’

  ‘You’re going off first thing in the morning, are you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Will you be back tomorrow?’

  ‘No, I’ll stay overnight. There’s so much to sort out.’ He sighed. ‘It just doesn’t seem to get easier. On the contrary, it just seems to get more difficult.’

  Grace kept quiet at this; she had heard the same complaint several times recently, and there was nothing new she could think of to say.

  The next day Mrs Sandiston came to her asking for Effie’s reference. ‘Oh,’ Grace said, ‘Mr Spencer said he would take care of it. He said he’d leave it in the hall.’

  But it was not on the hall table, and Mrs Sandiston said, ‘Where else would he have left it, ma’am? Effie’s hoping to get it off today to the people she’s applied to. She’s late with it already, I understand.’

  ‘And it’s not in the hall, you say?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Well, I can only think that it must be in his study. But I’m afraid I don’t have a key.’

  ‘I’ve got a key, ma’am.’

  This was an interesting point. Edward’s study had to be cleaned and dusted, but it also had to be safe from intruders and snoopers. There would never be any reason for Grace to go looking in his study, therefore there was no reason for her to have a key. On the other hand, the place would be quite safe where the servants were concerned. Not only, was it assumed, would they have no interest in what was in Edward’s study, but even if they had, they would not dare to indulge that interest.

  After a moment, Grace said, ‘Yes,’ trying to make it appear that it was the simplest answer to the problem; certainly not one that would present her with the slightest of qualms. ‘Yes,’ she said again, ‘then perhaps you’d best get your keys and we’ll have a look.’

  Mrs Sandiston went away and was back within two minutes carrying a bunch of keys on a large ring. She and Grace went to the study and there Grace stood aside while Mrs Sandiston unlocked the door. Then it was Mrs Sandiston’s turn to stand aside while Grace entered the room.

  Grace had never been in the room on her own before, and it felt strange to go there now. She could smell the distinctive smell of the place, the wood, the leather of the book bindings, Edward’s tobacco.

  With Mrs Sandiston standing in the doorway, Grace crossed the room to Edward’s desk and there looked down at the few items on its surface. On the blotter lay two or three open letters to him, and a hurried survey showed that they were nothing to do with what the women were seeking.

  Mrs Sandiston, hearing Grace’s sigh, and seeing from her expression that the reference was not there, said tentatively, ‘Perhaps it’s in the drawer, ma’am.’

  And Grace, hearing the words, could not turn to the woman and say, I must not venture so far; my husband would be most displeased, could only pause while she steeled herself, and then say, a little too brightly – as if such a request were no more than asking for extra bread for the day: ‘Of course, yes,’ and immediately pulled on the left-hand drawer. And to her surprise it opened smoothly; it was not locked. But there, Edward expected no one but the maid
to ever enter this locked room, and therefore what need was there for secrecy and locks and bolts?

  Letters, envelopes, pencils, erasers, pins, two boxes of matches. Grace moved her fluttering fingers over the items that faced her in the drawer, at once trying not to disturb their seeming unordered order, and at the same time investigating the various contents. There was something there that drew her attention, but she passed on, looking for the reference. It was not there. She looked up at the housekeeper, and gave a little shake of the head, sighed, closed the drawer, and pulled on the middle one. Again, unlocked. And there, before her eyes, was a fresh envelope addressed: To Whom it may concern. And opening the envelope, Grace took out the page inside and read the words in Edward’s distinctive handwriting:

  Dear Sir, Madam,

  I have pleasure in recommending to you the services of one Euphemia Timkins who has for the past year plus been in my employ at Asterleigh House . . .

  ‘Here it is,’ said Grace, holding up the envelope in one hand, the letter in the other. ‘Success at last.’ She put the letter back into the envelope, stepped across the floor and put it into Mrs Sandiston’s hand. ‘Here – please give it to Effie, and tell her I’m sorry it’s been so delayed.’

  Mrs Sandiston thanked her, put the envelope into her pocket, then said, ‘D’you want me to lock up, ma’am?’ standing hesitantly with her keys in her left hand.

  A moment passed, a moment that would change Grace’s life, and Grace said, ‘Not for a minute or two. Leave the key and I’ll bring it down to you.’

  ‘Very well.’ Mrs Sandiston nodded, clearly not happy with the proposal, for it was against the usual practice. ‘I’ll come back and lock up when you’re through, ma’am.’

  ‘Thank you – just give me ten minutes.’

  Grace stood there while the sound of Mrs Sandiston’s footsteps faded on the stairs. She looked down at the desk before her. The centre drawer was still open. She glanced over its contents and then pushed it shut. And then turned her gaze to the drawer on the left, the one she had opened first.

  After a moment she gingerly grasped the handle and slid the drawer open.

  She stood looking down at the interior of the open drawer, and her eyes moved to focus on the object that had distracted her: an envelope, folded over, with contents that rattled dimly when the drawer was moved. An envelope, unsealed, that had spilled a little of its contents with the shifting of the drawer.

  Turning, stepping away, she crossed to the door and silently closed it.

  Back before the desk, she looked again at the envelope and the two or three seeds that had spilled from it.

  This was what had attracted her – the seeds that had rattled into the corner of the drawer from the envelope’s aperture. The seeds had struck a chord in her somewhere.

  Tentatively she reached in and picked up the seeds that had spilled into the drawer. Then she took up the envelope in her right hand, tipped it, and spilled a number of the seeds into her palm.

  They were quite large, the size of a pea, and of a light brown colour. They looked like mottled beans. Her immediate thought was surprise that such things should be kept in a secluded place like this. What were they, and what were they for? In her experience Edward had never been overly interested in matters horticultural, and she could not entertain the idea that he would be starting now. While the questions went through her mind, there in some other part of her brain a little bell rang again. She stood there with the seeds in her hand trying to think what that something was.

  It would not come. After a few moments she tipped most of the seeds back into the envelope and, keeping five or six still in her hand, put the envelope back and closed the drawer.

  From the study she went to the kitchen where she found Mrs Sandiston, and told her that the study could now be locked again. Afterwards she went into the sewing room, her little lair, where no one came but she and Billy and the maid. A fire had been lighted and she sat by the fireside and laid the seeds out on the small table at her elbow.

  And then as she looked at them it came to her; she knew where they had come from.

  At once she got up, left the room and went to the conservatory. It had been long ago that her attention had been drawn to the plant, but she remembered the incident. She rarely went into the conservatory, but now as she entered the smell and warmth swept over her with such familiarity as if it had been only yesterday when she had last been inside. Turning to her right she moved past the stunted palms, the lush green of the ferns with their sweet, sickly scent and then past the wicker chair, the sofa and table. She moved past the spot where on its ornate stand the birdcage had hung – gone now, like the small songbirds, those songbirds that had refused to sing – to a place beside a tall, prickly shrub that in the ripeness of summer had born such strange fruit. The plant she sought was no longer there.

  It had been there; she had seen it herself. She could recall Edward’s words as she had looked at the plant, telling her that it carried a deadly poison. She could almost see the plant in front of her – very tall, with palm-like leaves, toothed at the edges. She could remember its ripened fruit, too, see again the bean-like seeds. But the plant was not there now. However, there was a space where the plant had stood, so she was not mistaken.

  For a moment as she stood there she considered going to see Mr Clutter. He would surely remember removing the plant – if indeed he had been the one to remove it. Further, he would know the name of the plant; he might even recognize the seeds.

  But something held her back from going to see him. If she spoke to him there was no knowing to whom he might casually report her enquiry. And then how to explain it? The fact of the place at which she had found the seeds – Edward’s private drawer – could put her in a difficult position. For the time being, she thought, she would try to keep things from general knowledge.

  And then she remembered the name of the plant – the English name; they had joked about it: the castor oil plant. She remembered too that there was in existence a picture of it.

  Often when Billy got in from school he went straight to seek out Grace. But not every day. So today, to try to ensure that she saw him without delay, Grace left word with the maid to tell him that she wished to see him. He found her in the drawing room, waiting for him. He was going out again, he told her; to join one of his schoolfriends. Grace said she wouldn’t keep him long, and after asking him how school had gone that day, moved at once to the subject uppermost in her mind.

  ‘Billy, you drew pictures of many of the plants in the conservatory, didn’t you?’

  ‘You know I did,’ he said. ‘So did you. Sometimes we drew them together, or I did them with Mrs Spencer.’

  ‘Yes. There was one plant in particular – it’s gone now – that we both made drawings of.’

  ‘Which one?’ He was impatient to be gone.

  ‘It was a tallish plant near where the birdcage stood. I think it was the castor oil plant.’

  ‘Oh, yes, the castor oil plant.’ Then he added, smiling at his own smugness, ‘Genus ricinus communis.’

  ‘You remember its Latin name even.’

  ‘It was written on the little plate.’

  ‘I threw my drawing away, I’m sorry to say.’

  ‘I’ve still got mine.’

  Grace smiled. ‘I was hoping you’d say that. I thought you would. I know you never throw anything out. Can you get it for me – your drawing?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Is that inconvenient?’

  ‘I was going out as soon as I’ve had something to eat.’

  ‘It won’t take you long, surely.’

  Twenty minutes later Billy was handing Grace one of his sketchbooks, opened to a page showing a drawing of the plant. Grace looked at the sketch of the large plant with its huge, handsome, fan-like leaves and bristly, spined clusters of fruits.

  ‘May I borrow this?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Of course. What d’you want it for?’

  ‘I just w
ant to borrow it for a while.’

  ‘All right.’ She hadn’t answered his question, but he did not pursue it. ‘I’m going out now, then,’ he said, ‘as soon as I’ve had some tea.’

  Left alone, Grace sat looking at the sketchbook page. Beneath the drawing Billy had written the date that he had made it, and also Ricinus communis – a name he had obviously copied from the plant’s label in the conservatory. After a few moments Grace got up from her seat and, leaving the room, made her way to the library.

  It did not take long to find the right book, and soon she had found a page on which was a description of the plant. And there was a small drawing too, not as fine as Billy’s but informative, nevertheless.

  The article, after describing the plant – to her surprise, she read that some specimens grew to thirty or forty feet in height – went on to say:

  … Although the plants are probably native to Africa and Asia they have become naturalized throughout the tropical world. They are chiefly cultivated in India and Brazil where they are largely grown for their oil in pharmaceutical and industrial usage …

  The article then spoke briefly of the plant’s poisonous properties. When Grace had read it she read through it again, and on a piece of paper made some notes, after which she closed the book and put it back on the shelf.

  The next morning, Grace decided to go to Corster, and eschewing the notion of having Rhind or Johnson drive her, she walked to the station and there caught a train into the town where she bought some silk colours and linen. Having finished her shopping in good time, she set off for the station and there caught the train heading back to Berron Wick. She got off the train, however, when it reached Liddiston, and there made her way to an address in Willow Street, close to the station. According to the card that Dr Mukerjee had given her when he had called on the occasion of Billy’s fall, he held surgery in his house on weekdays from ten o’clock until twelve. When she rang the bell at the front door of his house it was close on 11.30.