The Widow's Confession

by Sophia Tobin

  It was past ten o’clock when Edmund heard Theo come in from attending an invalid’s bedside. The parson went upstairs and changed into fresh clothes before he appeared, perfectly neat and his hair oiled, in the drawing room. Edmund had been aware of Martha speaking in the passageway, and when he looked up he saw concern in his host’s eyes. The lamplight gave his pale blue eyes a shimmer and warmth that Edmund did not think of when he remembered him; it made him like the boy better.

  ‘My dear Mr Steele, is all well?’ said Theo. ‘I wish I had disobeyed you and come to the inquest. Martha says she was quite worried about you.’

  Martha, who was standing behind him, mumbled something. Edmund just caught the words ‘many hours’, before she gave a brisk nod and went off to the kitchen.

  ‘I am perfectly well, thank you, but I was shaken by the process,’ said Edmund, rising, until Theo took the seat opposite him and he sank down again, amazed at how weak his legs felt. ‘The girl was called Amy Phelps. She had been in Broadstairs for a couple of weeks.’

  ‘I have not heard of her,’ said Theo.

  ‘She was a Nonconformist, I understand – not one of your flock,’ said Edmund. ‘She was fourteen, but was being courted by one of the young mariners. He had a bad temper and they quarrelled the day before she was found. There are no marks of violence upon her, and yet I am uncomfortable with the idea that she simply got cut off by the tide, and drowned.’

  ‘It does happen,’ said Theo. ‘Even those that live by the sea may be misled, and trust it when it should be guarded against.’

  ‘I cannot get the child’s face out of my mind,’ said Edmund. ‘Her swain was there. He sobbed and said he wished he had made her his wife.’

  Silence fell between them. He heard the soft clattering of Martha, making the kitchen her own.

  ‘How terrible.’ Even in the softness of lamp and firelight, Theo looked pale and anguished; his right hand, formed in a fist, pressed against his lips, and he brought it away only to speak. ‘It seems he had good intentions towards the girl.’

  Edmund shook his head. ‘He seemed hot-headed and vindictive to me, for all of his tears.’

  ‘Marriage,’ said Theo, ‘is a blessed state, ordained by God. It is at least to his credit that he sought to cool his ardour in the righteous protection of marriage.’

  ‘My father would say that marriage was a furnace: capable of forging bonds, but also of destroying both with its heat.’ Edmund wished he could speak with more authority on it. He was also aware that his father would never have envisaged his words being shared with a clergyman, but he was out of sorts. Another case had occurred to him. ‘I remember a boy who worked for me once. He married a girl and I thought it would be the making of him. But how they fought! They fought until they parted. I have seen such unhappiness. It has served as a warning to me.’ He thought of Mrs Craven – of her laughter, a little forced. ‘Perhaps too much of a warning,’ he said. ‘I wonder now, if I should have married when the chance presented itself. I was wary of being unhappy. I still am.’

  ‘The only salve for an unhappy marriage is prayer,’ said Theo. ‘Though I accept it is difficult. A difference in temper may seem small at a distance, but the reality of life with someone who is ill-suited to one can be harsh; a piece of grit in the eye felt every morning on waking.’ There was a slight tremble in his voice which made Edmund examine him more closely. Theo caught his eye and lifted his chin, regaining his composure. ‘I see it, sometimes, in my work,’ he said. ‘It is my role, to remind persons of the mutual comfort which God urges upon us.’

  ‘I have been, perhaps, too careful,’ said Edmund. ‘But I have never felt myself prepared for marriage. So often I have worshipped a face, with no knowledge of the heart; and I pity the women too. They are encouraged to be weak, silly creatures these days.’ He passed a hand over his eyes. ‘This Amy Phelps was just a child. She should not have had to worry about the ardour of a boatman, yet it seems she encouraged him. Still – we will not speak of it any more. I will not cloud your evening with my own sorrows. How is your patient?’

  ‘Coming through the worst, I am glad to report. Ah, Martha, thank you. You read my mind.’ Martha handed them each a glass of red wine, then stomped back to the kitchen. Theo leaned forwards. ‘It will just be a chop each again, I’m afraid,’ he murmured. ‘I hope you do not mind our simple fare. Poor Martha is overstretched in her duties.’ They raised their glasses.

  ‘In this sleepy place, I’m sure you have no truck with suspicious deaths,’ said Edmund.

  Theo took a large gulp of wine. ‘Wherever there is human life, there is mayhem. But you are right – our losses are often made by the sea, by accident and illness, or occasionally by melancholy, particularly in the winter months. Some years before I came here there was a mysterious case, though. You may have seen Martha’s sister, Anna, with her at church? She was once the char for the cottages in Nelson Place, but she is often unwell, and poor Martha runs herself ragged trying to do everything rather than lose the income.’

  Edmund nodded, the wine warming his numbed faculties.

  ‘There was a terrible tragedy involving Anna’s daughter, ten years ago. It was before my time here, but Martha told me of it; it was as if she could not rest until she had told me, as though by repeating it, the girl could not be forgotten. On the beach one day, at Kingsgate, Anna was busy talking with some other women, and the girl went ahead, round the curve of the cliff. When Anna went to find her, she did not see her at first. Someone had drowned her – held her face into a full rock pool. She had put up a struggle, I was told. As I say, it was ten years ago, but the family still bears the scars. At the time, Anna did not have other children. Two years after the little one’s death, she had Sarah, and now they are,’ he paused, and looked into his glass, ‘protective. Very protective of her.’

  ‘Did they never find who had done this?’ said Edmund.

  The priest shook his head. ‘No. Anna did not see anyone on the beach. But it would have been easy for the person to hide, and the woman was, of course, hysterical with shock. There is always talk, of course – troubles bring out the worst in human nature as well as the best – but there was no question that the child was adored. Besides, two of the women Anna had been talking to went with her and found the child.’

  ‘How is she now?’ asked Edmund, struck to his core with the image of a mother finding her daughter’s body.

  ‘Poorly,’ said Theo. ‘Now and then she rallies, and manages to do some of her work, but Martha mostly carries the burden. I sit with Anna sometimes, but she says she has no need for prayers. Poor soul. Her husband is a hoveller; you will see him down on the pier most days, like Solomon, whom you met. They watch the weather, and keep their eye out for vessels in trouble. They will help where they can – pilot a boat home, for example. In the case of a wreck,’ his voice dipped, ‘they have the right of salvage. It is only fair to repay the risks that they take. They are hard, brave men, and they have the correct respect for the Goodwin Sands.’

  ‘Do you know much of the Sands?’ asked Edmund, intrigued by the dark look that had fallen over Theo’s face. For a moment, he thought that Theo would not answer. He became very still, fixed, his face frozen and stiff. Then he caught Edmund’s eye, and moved as though waking from a reverie.

  ‘Living here, you are forced to know of it,’ he said. ‘Go out on a clear night, Mr Steele, and you will see the lightships marking its place, warning ships. On stormy nights, I wonder how the men who tend those lightships cope with them, for even with their anchors forty fathoms deep, they must fear for themselves. They know – and accept, I suppose, as the hovellers do – that it would be possible for day to dawn and them never to be seen again.’

  Something in Edmund’s face must have shown a hint that he thought this was over-dramatic, for Theo looked at him with a sudden intensity.

  ‘They call it “the ship swallower” – you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘I did not,’ said Edmun
d. ‘Why is it so dangerous? Can craft just not avoid the area?’

  ‘If only it was that simple,’ said Theo. ‘The sands change, and shift. The place seems solid at times, like an island – and in a way it is, but it is also an illusion. The sand is of a quality that it will claim a ship and take it whole; suck it down and swallow it, once it is in its grip. A steamer with two hundred souls is as much in danger as a skiff with two. Can you imagine being taken by the sea and the sand, in such a way?’

  ‘No,’ said Edmund. He had a strong imagination, and Theo’s words were chilling him, adding a fear to the emptiness he had already felt at the inquest. He saw from the look on his face that Theo was lost in thoughts of the shifting sands of the Goodwins. His eyes were blank, fixed on the middle distance, when he next spoke.

  ‘Do you know the term they use? They say a boat is “swaddled down” into the sands. It always makes me think of a baby. A huge ship, wrapped and coddled and shrouded in liquid sand, until it is gone, along with every living creature on board. So often a ship sets its course, and does not allow for the beam tide when sailing down the Channel, so heads on confidently into catastrophe. With the Goodwin Sands, as with much else in life, to presume you are safe is the most dangerous thing.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  We did not hear from Mrs Quillian for ten days after our first meeting. Julia thought we were safe, again. We were alone with our secrets, free to walk and to watch the sea. Did the serenity of the place melt some part of my defence? No. I had experienced the picturesque before, and remained impervious.

  Alba was the key. She was the reason why Julia and I came to be part of Mrs Quillian’s circle.

  She had the kind of beauty that pierces the heart of whatever man, woman or beast it shines upon. When you experience such beauty, there is no help for you. You are lost to it, and to look upon that face is almost painful, for when you see it, you feel that original wound in your heart. And that wound opens you to others.

  I have been accused of trying to corrupt Alba. I think those words even passed your lips, as though the interest of an older woman in a younger one can only be malign. But it is not true. I was never jealous of her. I pitied her. I saw that she was living through my own predicament; I recognized in her struggles the very things that had burned up my own youth. My interest in her was totally innocent; I have nothing to confess there.

  One afternoon, Delphine and Julia decided to walk towards the Foreland, to see Kingsgate, the bay named in honour of the arrival of Charles II there two centuries before. Walking was an occupation they both enjoyed, for as pampered girls in New York they had barely walked at all.

  ‘Do you remember?’ said Delphine, as they set out. Julia knew she spoke of New York; that was the phrase they always used, when they ventured into their past lives. They could only speak of the past to each other, for they kept their secrets close to them. ‘There was always a carriage, always a room where the drapes were let down and the light shut out.’

  Their grandfather, the head of the family, had come to view the physicality of the outside world as a kind of corruption. He had held the common view that women should be protected from fatigue. So when they first left New York, Julia and Delphine were soft and plump, with delicate limbs and skin that looked as though it had never seen sunlight. Then they came to Europe, and found that walking was one occupation to fill the endless stretch of their days. To their amazement, their health improved, rather than declining. For weeks they compared their blisters and raw, tenderized feet. But Delphine felt a kind of triumph in enduring the pain. It was proof that she had broken free from the old world; that she was, now, different. Besides, she hardly cared then whether she lived or not.

  One blister she had treasured – a long blood blister that ran down the outer length of the pad of her foot. The red blood beneath the skin at first looked so angry that it might fight its way out. Over time, it darkened to brown, and lay there for weeks, then months. She wanted to pierce the skin, but Julia warned her against worsening the wound and, though she heated a needle in a candle flame, she left it, and wondered if it would stay with her forever. But it did not, gradually fading and working itself away, until her foot was normal again, but harder.

  Now, their boots meant nothing to them as they followed the coast road. They saw large, agreeable houses, then only fields, the sea always at their right hand. The road curved, and wandered gently up and down over barrow-like hills. At Stone they saw a large stuccoed house and estate behind high flint walls, and skirted farmland, seeing workers in the fields.

  ‘How was your sketching today?’ asked Julia.

  ‘Well enough, but nothing worth seeing yet,’ said Delphine. ‘I am pleased with how our dresses are lasting – I told you this material would work well being packed and unpacked. Wearing mourning, it hardly matters if I look rich or poor, as long as I do not draw notice. But I could almost be tempted to cast off black and wear pale clothes, now we are free from the London soot.’

  ‘I do not feel quite settled here yet,’ said Julia, giving her a dark look. ‘London seemed safer, somehow.’

  ‘We need to be somewhere different. It does not pay to become too comfortable in one place.’ Delphine breathed in the freshness of the air. ‘Mrs Quillian seems harmless enough, but as for Mr Benedict . . .’ She paused, remembering the intensity of his gaze. ‘He is an artist of some type, you know. A member of the Royal Academy, as he was careful to make clear to me. I am suspicious of him.’

  ‘We are suspicious of everyone,’ said Julia. ‘Forgive me, I am sorry – that was meant to be in jest. If the town is not what you wish it to be, perhaps we should consider where we should go next?’ She was wearing a thicker veil than usual over her face. Delphine, so accustomed to the sight of the red birthmark on her cousin’s face, sometimes forgot that Julia was conscious of it.

  ‘Let us decide that at the end of the season,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, but my dear,’ said Julia, ‘what does Mr Lock say, of money?’

  ‘Let me think of that,’ said Delphine. ‘There is no need to worry. We have lasted this long.’

  ‘But our income is not increasing, is it? And there is nothing of value left to sell.’

  ‘Hush,’ said Delphine. ‘If things get bad for me, you can simply go home.’

  ‘I won’t leave you,’ said Julia, and Delphine did not bother to ask the question which always occurred to her, and which she had asked several times, in train carriages and hotel rooms across Europe: why not?

  They reached the lighthouse at North Foreland. It had been worth the walk. The white octagonal building towered over them, arresting in its brilliance, its patented lantern at rest. Beside it stood the coastguard’s handsome cottage, also painted a dazzling white.

  ‘Knock for the keeper,’ said Delphine.

  ‘You knock for the keeper,’ said Julia. ‘It’s quite possible that he hates Americans too.’

  But before they could debate it, they saw the figure of a girl hurrying towards them from the direction of the bay. Her bonnet had fallen back, and as she waved at them, urgently, she dropped one side of her skirts and nearly fell head over heels.

  Delphine and Julia were on one side of the road, and the girl arrived on the other. When Delphine looked at her properly, she realized the girl was the one she had seen in church. Violet eyes, aquiline nose and small and mysterious mouth were framed by the coppery-gold hair that had been tamed into a bun. She thought again it was a face she would have to paint.

  ‘Can we help you?’ Delphine called.

  The girl spoke, but her voice was soft and high, and her words were carried away by the breeze.

  ‘Speak again,’ said Delphine.

  ‘It’s my aunt,’ said the girl, shouting now, the flicker of distress across her face indicating that she knew she was behaving with impropriety. ‘She is down at the bay and is feeling unwell. I was wrong to make her walk so far. We were going to be met by a local man who said he would bring his cart for
us, but he has not, and now she will not move, and the tide is coming in, and I tried at Holland House, but no one would come at my knocking, and after that body was found . . .’ She began to cry. The serenity of her beauty was at odds with the tears which suddenly began to pour down her face.

  ‘We must help this young lady,’ said Delphine to Julia, who had said nothing. ‘Come on.’ She took her cousin’s hand and pulled her along. The girl had taken off running, which was astonishing, unladylike. She was ploughing down the hill at some speed, holding her skirts up, and Delphine said a small prayer for her sake that a coachload of visitors did not appear around the turn in the road, to shame her. Julia cast Delphine a look of astonishment as they tried to follow her at a more decent pace.

  ‘She is more child than lady,’ said Delphine, unsure why but feeling the need to defend this young stranger from her cousin’s censure. They hurried along, trying to look as though they were walking.

  The girl scudded ahead of them, skimming down the length of the grassy slopes, then disappearing through a gap in the cliffs.

  ‘Smugglers,’ said Julia breathlessly. ‘We are following smugglers’ routes.’

  ‘You have been listening too much to Martha,’ said Delphine, glad to see that the girl had finally stopped. As they got nearer they saw she was bent over a person sitting on the sand, holding her hand. The woman looked to be a matron of fifty or more, with a buxom, tightly-corseted figure.

  ‘She is unharmed!’ called the girl.

  ‘Alba,’ said the woman, as Delphine and Julia approached, seeming both frightened and glad. ‘What has she said? Have we troubled you? There are no gentlemen, are there?’

  ‘No,’ said Delphine. ‘It is just me and my cousin. I am Mrs Beck; this is Miss Mardell.’

  ‘I am so sorry to be sitting on the sand,’ said the woman. ‘I could die of shame. But I cannot rise. I feel so weak. I am trembling – look.’ Dramatically she held out one large hand, its fingers glittering with rings. After this demonstration, she opened and delved into a capacious bag which sat on the sand beside her. She produced a vial which she unscrewed, then sniffed.