Moon Rising

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  There was such weight of truth in that statement, I felt bowed down by it. We’d both been duped by Irving’s craftiness, I blaming Bram for being less than honourable in his dealings with me, Bram trusting a man who seemed to have no sense of honour at all. Whatever he wanted he took, excusing all by virtue of his great talent.

  Because of him, because of that monumental self-interest, one life had been denied and another almost wiped out, while Bram and I had been kept effectively apart until time took care of everything. That was bad enough, but it was when I thought of my marriage to Henry, and his longing for children, that I trembled with impotent rage. Irving was dead, yet he’d somehow managed to sour all our lives from the beginning.

  I had an obscure sense of being laughed at from beyond the grave.

  Shuddering with cold, we returned to the hotel to hug the fire and warm ourselves with fresh coffee and brandy. My emotions veered between sorrow and anger; between rage and pain and fury at the unfairness of it all. I found myself going over everything in the light of fresh perspective.

  Nothing Bram could say about Irving surprised me. Not even the matter of the letters. In that respect, both Bram and I had been made fools of, and if that were the sum of it, then after all these years it should no longer matter. But it wasn’t all, and it did matter. Irving had managed to pervert everything, and I burned with the desire to make him suffer. Since that was impossible, I vented my bitterness on Bram.

  But even in the midst of it, I knew he was wounded too. We talked on, until eventually, exhausted, I went up to my room. I would have rested in the chair, except that Alice woke and insisted on changing places. The bed’s warmth was a great comfort, but it was a long while before oblivion claimed me.

  Forty-seven

  I imagined he’d be leaving by the first train; but as I came downstairs I saw him waiting for me, and was caught by an unexpected surge of gratitude. In the early morning light he looked grey and weary, and his voice had descended to even more gravelly depths.

  As we were shown to a table in the crowded breakfast room, he said tentatively, ‘I’ve been thinking – I’d like to come to Whitby with you, if I may?’

  Startled, I regarded him steadily for a moment. He was halfway through a series of engagements to publicise his recent biography of Irving, and I knew the book and its success were important, for financial reasons more than any other. ‘What about your lectures?’

  ‘After all these years,’ he said gruffly, ‘Irving can wait. You and I left a lot of unfinished business in Whitby, Damaris – I hadn’t realised how much. I think the time’s come to deal with it, don’t you?’

  I was surprised that it should matter to him and said so; and was surprised afresh by the remorse I felt at his quick, wounded glance. From somewhere I found the grace to apologise.

  Alice had been with me long enough to accept most situations as normal, but I did wonder what she was thinking as Bram took charge, finding us seats on a very crowded train. Making sure I was comfortable, he took a seat facing mine. The sun was shining, our compartment was warm, and with the steady, rocking motion of the train he was soon nodding. So was I, and what seemed only seconds later I woke to the rapid flashing of sunlight through trees. The wide, snowy moors were behind us and we were already in the narrow Esk Valley, the river flowing strongly beside the tracks.

  We stopped between deep white drifts at Sleights, then came the straight run down to Ruswarp, and suddenly I was thinking of Carmilla and the ghost of Old Goosey, and the presence of Old Nick up there in Cock Mill Woods. Stories and folk-tales of long ago, but the memories were extraordinarily alive. Catching a wistful glance from Bram, I straightened at once and turned to Alice, telling her briskly to be sure to watch out for the viaduct carrying the Scarborough line across the Esk; beyond it she would see Whitby.

  A better view stopped me as we were leaving the station. Framed by the great arch of the station doorway, a winter forest of masts stood between us and the town, perhaps a thinner forest than in my childhood, but a heartening sight, even so. Beyond, through the town’s smoky haze, the east cliff was no more than a brooding blue-grey silhouette, while the old parish church crouched as low as ever against the skyline, with the skeletal ruins of the abbey above.

  I felt Bram’s hand at my elbow and a gentle squeeze, but I was anxious not to let sentiment overtake me. As we sorted the luggage I was at pains to point out that the reason I was staying at the Royal on the west cliff had more to do with personal satisfaction than any feelings of nostalgia. And it was true, since I’d booked a suite just for the private pleasure of knowing I could afford it. In any other place it would not have mattered where I stayed, but in Whitby, for me, staying at the Royal was akin to saying a childish, ‘So there!’ to the ghosts of the past.

  When Bram had gone along to his room and Alice had unpacked, I opened the window on to a narrow balcony and looked up and down the harbour. The tide was out and the river, like a glistening snake, was winding its way between banks of mud on either side. I could smell all the old familiar smells of fish and salt and seaweed, and smoke drifting up from chimneys on the Cragg. I heard the cries of gulls and the rattle of carts on the cobbles, and briefly I was a girl again, hurrying along St Ann’s Staith with a basket of fish, stopping in at the studio to see Jack...

  But this was no time to be indulging in false nostalgia. Gritting my teeth I closed the window and tried to prepare myself for harsher realities. The service for Bella was at two o’clock, and I wanted to visit Cousin Martha beforehand. On the point of departure from London, I’d had a letter from her, thanking me for my offer to pay for the funeral but explaining that someone else had already insisted. And owing to the circumstances, she felt she must accept.

  I wondered what those circumstances might be, whether in fact Bella had found a kindly protector in the last year or so. She’d given up prostitution in favour of more respectable work – perhaps not entirely respectable to some, but it seemed wonderfully right to me. Modelling for a group of artists struck me as being the kind of work ideally suited to someone like Bella. She could be beautiful, and had always known how to show herself to great advantage, yet she had no vanity at all. Remembering her as she’d been when we were girls, it wasn’t difficult to imagine an artist falling in love with her, although it was rather more difficult to picture Bella appreciating such adoration. For her sake I hoped he was a good man, an understanding man, and that I might have the privilege of meeting him later.

  ~~~

  I didn’t think I would ever forget my way to the Firth house, but with Pier Lane behind me I was suddenly confused. In twenty years things had changed, the top storey of one building had been demolished, while another had been extended, but I found my way eventually. The old house looked more dilapidated than ever, and I hesitated before knocking on the door.

  A young woman answered, dark-haired and pretty, her resemblance to Bella catching me unawares. She did not know me, and I had a moment’s difficulty explaining who I was. Cousin Martha appeared then and invited me in. She’d grown very fat in the years between, and had lost several teeth, but she’d done her hair and was wearing her best black, and she led me into the house like some noble lady receiving guests into the medieval hall. There was a fire lit, the kettle made a welcoming sound on the hob, and someone had made an attempt to tidy the kitchen and clean the hearth. As she moved a chair for me to sit, I noticed a bottle and glass on the high mantelpiece, but she seemed sober enough, while the young woman – whom she introduced as Meggie – was content to look on in silence from her place by the window.

  ‘I expect you’ve come to see poor Bella,’ Martha said emotionally, raising her eyes to heaven as she lowered herself into a creaking chair. ‘God rest her soul, she suffered something terrible at the end. Thin as a lath and yellow as a Chinaman, you’d never have recognised her in the last few weeks.’ Wiping away a tear with a corner of her apron, Cousin Martha sniffed noisily, and cleared her throat. ‘But Nan
Mills has done her best, I must say. Prettied her up when she laid her out. She’s a good sort, Nan is.’

  ‘Nan Mills?’ I said faintly, not having expected such an icy breath from the past. ‘I remember that name – I thought she’d have been dead and gone long since.’

  ‘Nay, she’s not that old. Sixty, maybe. Still brings ‘em into the world, and sees ‘em out when the time comes...’Spect I’ll be next,’ Cousin Martha observed morosely, making an automatic gesture towards the high mantel, then consciously diverting her hand towards the teapot. ‘Anyway, poor Bella’s in the best room, when you want to go up. I’ll make a pot of tea for when you come down.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said hesitantly, ‘thank you.’

  ‘Nay, Damsy, it’s we should thank you – and we do, Meggie, don’t we? ‘Twas good of you to offer the burial money, and if it hadn’t been for Bella’s friends, we’d’ve been right glad of it. But weren’t necessary, as it turned out, they all wanted to contribute, especially Miss Gwyneth, the lady she kept house for. Anyway,’ Martha went on, leaving me mystified, ‘all’s fixed for this afternoon. Service at the new cemetery chapel, and the Star’ll be serving victuals afterwards, in the back room, for whoever wishes to partake.’

  ‘Very kind,’ I acknowledged, wondering how to ask about these other friends, especially Miss Gwyneth, who intrigued me most of all. Could she be the lover I’d been imagining? Not a man at all – no, of course not – but a woman who could love Bella and respond to her with warmth and understanding. Eventually, clearing my throat, I said: ‘Bella modelled, didn’t she – for a group of painters?’

  ‘Oh, aye, she did. Like I said, she made some good friends, the last year or two. They all thought well of her. She could keep still for hours, our Bella – never a word of complaint. And they did some lovely pictures of her – enough to make you cry, some of ‘em.’

  As she heaved herself out of her chair, Cousin Martha raised her apron to wipe away a stream of tears. ‘Here, just look at this,’ she said, reaching for a small charcoal drawing, framed in passe-partout, of a woman gazing wistfully from a window. It was a study in light and shade, yet I saw at once that it was Bella, so telling and sensitive was the likeness.

  ‘That’s beautiful,’ I said softly.

  ‘Gave me that, Miss Gwyneth did – very attached to Bella, she was. Broke her heart, bless her, when she was ill... Wanted to care for her, but Bella wouldn’t have that. She knew, see – knew she didn’t have long. Wanted to come home to die...’

  I found tears blurring my eyes, and it grieved me to realise how much of Bella’s life I’d missed, although I was pleased beyond measure to think she’d enjoyed better times of late. I said: ‘I thought well of her too. She was a good friend – and a good daughter.’

  ‘Aye, she was that,’ Martha said gruffly. ‘Unlike some...’

  Unlike some, I echoed silently, thinking of Isa.

  At Cousin Martha’s prompting, I went upstairs. Foolishly, and in spite of the warning, I had been expecting to see the friend of my youth laid out like a princess in a fairy tale, a pretty, ruddy-cheeked girl, with full red lips and glossy brown hair, just awaiting a true lover’s kiss to release her from enchanted sleep.

  And in a way, that was almost what I found. For hanging on the wall was an unframed canvas, a portrait in oils of a half-dressed woman, rich with life and colour. It was a portrait painted with love, I saw that at once; a picture that celebrated all the warmth and generosity of which Bella was capable, a picture that would let her spirit live on.

  Silently, I thanked whoever had painted it, whoever had thought of placing it there, for the body that was left had little to remind anyone of Bella’s youth and beauty. I wept over her, nevertheless, and as I gazed at the ravaged face in the coffin I could see that Bella’s death from cancer must have been terrible indeed. And, by that, even more terrible for her mother, trying to ease a depth of suffering that could not have been borne for long. It seemed to me that Cousin Martha must have paid in full for whatever she’d been guilty of in the past, and for the first time I didn’t begrudge her the gin, and even had the grace to wonder whether I had any right to judge her actions at all.

  ~~~

  She had suggested I might like to travel in the carriage with the women of the family but I declined. Even though it seemed unlikely, I was afraid Isa might turn up. An hour or so later, I made my own way to the new cemetery outside town.

  I noticed at once a group of people whose mourning garb stood out amongst the rusty blacks and dated millinery of Cousin Martha’s friends and neighbours. Fisherfolk and jet-workers didn’t generally appear in black silk and trailing velvet. There were three men and two women, and one of the women seemed more obviously distressed than the others, which drew my attention at once.

  Was she Miss Gwyneth? She was about my age, perhaps a little older, with a long, thin, sensitive face, and eyes that were swollen with weeping. It was a face of deep lines, that looked as if it had struggled with life; a face that I hoped had looked on Bella with love.

  During an address which was mercifully short, the minister at the new cemetery chapel managed to express the best part of Bella and leave the rest unsaid. I could feel my sense of detachment wavering, but it was not until he mentioned the family’s tragic loss of their father, twenty years before, that my self-control almost crumbled. I felt myself trembling, remembering poor Bella and what she’d suffered, the revenge she’d taken, and the years of punishment she’d chosen for herself. I knew then that for all my promises and good intentions, I’d stayed away because I could think of nothing to alleviate her suffering.

  As we moved outside for the interment, I pulled myself together. Douglas was escorting his mother, while a young man who might have been Davey stood up with Lizzie and Meggie. Another brother, dark and heavily built, whom I took to be young Magnus, fell into shambling step beside me. His eyes were red as though from weeping, and he was shivering as we followed the minister outside. Together we withstood the icy blast on that windswept slope.

  Miss Gwyneth, supported by the younger woman and one of the men, stood close by. We saw the coffin into the ground, and one by one cast a handful of earth as a parting gesture. I thought of Old Uncle Thaddeus and his folk legends, and prayed that at the last Bella had found some kind of peace and forgiveness. ‘Rest in peace, Bella,’ I whispered fervently, ‘no need to come again...’

  There were mourners enough from the Cragg and thereabouts to support Cousin Martha and the family. I stayed long enough at the Star to take a steadying glass of port wine and to introduce myself to the smaller group of Bella’s friends. We talked for a while, and I sensed enough to confirm my earlier assumptions. Whether Miss Gwyneth understood my sympathy, appreciated my sincerity, or even knew who I was, was impossible to tell. She seemed sensitive and kind, and warmed at once when I mentioned her picture of Bella. I asked whether she’d given it to my cousin, and at once she shook her head. ‘No, it’s only on loan – I couldn’t bear to part with it. I just wanted people to remember dear Bella as she was – in life, not death . . .’

  I pressed Miss Gwyneth’s hand and took my leave.

  ~~~

  Making my way back to the hotel, I clenched my jaw against a strong desire to call down curses upon Isa Firth’s head. For my own sake, I was glad she hadn’t turned up at the funeral, but she should have been there. To have ignored her twin sister when she was dying was unforgivable. There was no question of her not knowing: each member of the family told me that she’d been informed. They told me about the shop too, maintaining that Isa had turned her back on them after the photographer died and left her most of his money.

  ‘Ashamed of us, she was,’ Lizzie had said bitterly, ‘with her little shop and her stuck-up ways. Sweets and gifts for the visitors – you know, bits of jet, fossil paperweights, stuff like that. A few picture postcards. Seasonal trade mostly, but she seems to keep going. God knows how – there can’t be much profit in it.’

  I knew
about the shop, and had suspected for years that my quarterly contributions to the mythical Jack Louvain Memorial Fund were helping to keep Isa Firth in business.

  Well, there would be a reckoning, and very soon. In my luggage at the hotel was a collection of Isa’s notes and photographs that I had deliberately kept for some such opportune moment. With Henry’s death I could have stopped the blackmail, but she didn’t know about that, and, having saved this moment, I wanted her to understand that I had no compunction about taking her letters to the police. I wanted to frighten her, and frighten her badly.

  ~~~

  ‘Perhaps her only intention was to hurt you,’ Bram hazarded over tea in my sitting room. ‘To enjoy hurting you – there are such people, you know. Even if she knew who I was – and she may have done – it could be that she was afraid to approach me. I may have seemed too risky a proposition – whereas she knew you, could estimate your reactions. It was a calculated gamble, d’you see? You would pay up rather than risk exposure, but I might well have sent the police...’

  That possibility had not occurred to me before. To me, Isa Firth was interested in money and social position, one leading to the other – and though I knew she was vindictive and had always detested me, I never imagined she would use blackmail purely for those reasons.

  ‘To inflict pain,’ Bram repeated, ‘and exert power. They may have been her prime intentions. You have to consider that she might not have needed the money at all.’

  ‘But a little extra always comes in handy, doesn’t it?’ I remarked acidly.

  ‘Oh, yes, indeed it does. But I was merely pointing out that if Jack Louvain left her money enough to set up in business – and if she had enough photographic plates to reproduce his pictures – then perhaps she didn’t need what was extracted from you.’