by Sophia Tobin
Delphine kept her eyes on the line of sea mist. It seemed to be getting closer.
‘The American spirit in me will not reassure you,’ she said. ‘I trust the individual. If you think it was your last chance, perhaps it was. I am convinced of my fate, and no power on earth could convince me otherwise, unless I witnessed some miracle, and it changed me. If you can live, content with your situation, then that is what matters. We have, at least, the chance to live, unlike that poor young girl we saw the other morning, whose face will not leave my mind.’
The waves seemed to be moving steadily in one direction; now and then the white of a breaker showed itself, then was gone.
The excited voices of the women were growing in volume.
‘We had best go and look in that rock pool,’ said Edmund, ‘lest we miss something spectacular.’
They walked, quietly together, and Mr Benedict, drawn too by the voices, was picking his way across the rocks. They found Julia, Delphine, Alba and Mrs Quillian staring at a particularly deep rock pool. Alba was now picking shells off, and naming them, with the kind of precocious pleasure that a young child repeating its times tables to the class would show.
‘That is a cockleshell, and that is a – oh, look at that one!’ she said. ‘It is so beautiful. I would like that one. Aunt, I could decorate a box for you, and that would be the central shell.’
‘Would it, my dear?’ Miss Waring was standing several steps away, too far for her to see what Alba was talking about, but looking in her niece’s direction with an indulgent yet tense glance that flitted about. Delphine wondered what was making her so nervous.
Alba held up the shell and Mr Hallam examined it. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘a fine specimen. The local people call it “the beauty shell”.’ And he moved aside as the others came forwards to inspect it.
They were all peering over the girls’ shoulders; it was only Mr Hallam who noticed Miss Waring falter suddenly. ‘Miss Waring?’ he said. ‘Are you well?’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Oh, I am very sorry, but . . . I am not.’ She swayed as though she would faint; Theo caught her.
‘Aunt!’ cried Alba.
Mr Steele went to Miss Waring’s other side, and along with Mr Hallam he helped her to a large rock, where she could sit down.
‘Silly me,’ said Miss Waring. She sat, rod straight on the rock; the only difference was the pallor of her face. ‘I have been standing up too long.’ She rifled in the large bag she carried with her – its size had caused Julia much hilarity when she first saw it – and gave her niece a small silver-mounted bottle which Delphine recognized from their first meeting. Alba unscrewed it and held it under her nose; her white face jerked up. ‘Thank you – oh dear, oh dear.’ They all gathered around her, quiet and embarrassed, not sure of what to do or say. There was a general feeling of relief when, after a moment or two, Miss Waring pronounced herself mended.
‘My dear lady,’ said Mrs Quillian. ‘Please forgive me, we have been too long in the sun. We must go now, for there will be tea at the Albion Hotel. Tea for all of us – ladies, gentlemen!’ She walked on, speaking the words tea-tea-tea as though it was a summoning bell, chiming out and gathering her followers.
‘It is no wonder Aunt is feeling a little delicate,’ said Alba, swinging the basket of shells as she passed Delphine and caught up with Mrs Quillian. Ahead of her, Miss Waring was leaning on Theo’s arm as they approached the Gap. ‘It was so shocking to hear of that young girl being found dead on the beach. What must it be like to drown?’
‘Please, Miss Peters,’ said Mrs Quillian. She spoke agreeably, but with firmness in her voice. ‘This is not a subject to be pursued in company – or to be pursued at all by you. Let us have tea, and look at your shells.’
The group climbed the Gap again, this time Julia and Delphine walking together, their backs to the group, gripping each other’s hands tightly as the slope steepened.
On arrival at the Albion Hotel, Mr Gorsey directed his tired visitors to the gallery which ran along the back of the building where, he said, tea would be served shortly. Delphine thought to herself that the summer had really started, for Gorsey’s daughter Polly had put aside her drab clothes and was well-dressed and glossy, like a bird with freshly grown plumage, directing people with neat little gestures and smiles.
‘You were industrious today,’ said Edmund to Mr Benedict.
The painter’s mood seem to catch on his words, and he brushed his black hair away from his face with a violent gesture. ‘It is no good,’ he said. ‘My drawing today has been hopeless. I keep thinking about that poor girl on the beach. I cannot help but think it should have been looked into more. How petty our amusements seem in the shadow of death.’
Edmund put his cup down. His day, too, had been veiled over with sadness, Amy Phelps’s face recurring to him every so often. ‘It is natural that we should feel upset over what has happened,’ he said. ‘But we should do our best to protect our fellows from it, and to try and recover, for nothing can be done about it now.’ He spoke carefully, not wanting to encourage drama in the other man, who seemed to be spoiling for it.
‘I am only grateful that Mrs Beck was not out sketching that day; it freezes my blood, the thought that she might have found her, and been put through the ordeal of seeking help,’ said Benedict. ‘And it was the attitude of Crisp which so infuriated me. As though the girl was nothing, to be buried and forgotten as soon as possible.’
And yet, thought Edmund, you did not come to the inquest.
‘Mr Benedict,’ said Miss Waring, a little severely, for she was seated several feet from him, her fingers playing over the pretty cameo brooch she had pinned at her neck. ‘Pray, we do not wish to converse about such a disagreeable thing.’
‘My dear Miss Waring,’ said Benedict, pushing his chair back and leaning forwards, as though he had something of urgency to say to the lady. ‘Are we so divided from our fellow creatures that we can refer to their suffering as something merely disagreeable? She had a name; she may have been poor, but she was a person with a life that has been extinguished. Her name was Miss Amy Phelps, God rest her soul. Her name was – is, in the sight of heaven – Amy.’
Edmund saw movement in the corner of his eye before he heard the thump of a cup on the carpeted floor; he sprang to his feet and caught Julia as she stumbled. He thought she was about to faint, in the pattern of Miss Waring, but instead she righted herself against his arm.
‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘You must think all of us ladies poor creatures.’ He could only shake his head gently at her words.
‘It’s the heat,’ said Delphine. ‘Sit down, my love. Thank you, Mr Steele.’ She nodded at him as she carefully disentangled Julia’s arm from his hands.
Julia sank onto a chair and Delphine’s eyes met her cousin’s with an understanding of the word that had weakened her.
Amy.
It was strange, she thought, how these things came at you. Out of the clear blue sky of a summer’s afternoon, a storm. She could think of nothing to say.
‘It has been a long day,’ said Julia, and there seemed to be a note of pleading in her voice. Her eyes seemed to say: forgive me for not being as strong as you.
‘We will go home now,’ Delphine said quietly. ‘Mrs Quillian, thank you for organizing this trip. What a very pleasant day it has been.’
Edmund sat at the desk for some time before he began to write. Had someone been in the room, watching him, they might have said that he was in a daze; he sat with his hands in his lap, staring out of the window before him at the innocuous view of green leaves and sky. Occasionally, he would lift his hands and run them over the smooth surface of the desk, wondering at the delicacy of the wood, which, pale and cinnamon brown, felt like fine woven cloth beneath his fingertips.
He blinked slowly as he thought, yet every time his eyelids closed he would see a flash of wet sand, a golden curl, or a hand, purplish-white, the fingers slightly curled, the nails bitten down.
Then h
e saw footprints in the sand, the corpse alive, walking away from him, to the water. In this vision, she alone sought her own death, creator of the final image he could not, despite his years, cast from his memory.
He knew he could not write of this to his friend; he knew also, that Charles Venning had sent him a question which he was honour-bound to answer, and so it was he sat for some time, summoning the bonhomie necessary to create a letter fit for its purpose, and trying to stow Amy Phelps into some distant corner of his mind. So he sought to remember London, but the bustling streets, the colour and noise, the smoky air seemed to exist in a different dimension. And because of the letter’s subject, he thought of Mrs Craven too, of the jangle of the cut-glass drops around the candles in her drawing room; the colour of those full, deep glasses of red wine.
At last, he wrote; and the only trace of the dead girl’s influence was the earnestness he fought until it seeped into his sentences, the keen sense of life, death and the desire not to waste time.
So, my dear Charles, you will get plenty of these letters from me, and it shall be your punishment – your penance – for sending me here. An old man like me needs a walk into town every day, and as there is only one post to London – at twenty past eight in the evening – no decision needs to be made about when.
You asked me what happened with Mrs Craven, Charles, and I will tell you now at last. She is a fine lady, and an opportune chance at matrimony for such a man as me. Being a widow, no surprises would have lain in her path with marriage, no light dreams such as young women have. And indeed she is a handsome woman. But I can write all of these things, Charles, without even a single twinge of regret. I think of her kindly. But our conversations always had something of effort about them; I always forced my cheer, and measured my words to please her.
Well, so? I hear you say. I am an honest man, Charles, and I simply knew, that last night I spoke to Mrs Craven, that I could not say those vows and make them true. My parents were not so. They had love wherein they could read each other’s glance; their own kind of language, even in silence. So I have seen it; I know it can be true. But not for me and Mrs Craven. I am sorry if I have grieved the lady. I hope, my good friend, you will write and tell me that I have not.
I meant to write to you of this small town, for much has happened in the last few days; tragic things, which have no place in this cheerful letter. I meant to make pithy observations, like an insect collector pinning butterflies to a board (Theo collects insects – did you know?). But your query, perfectly understandable, deserved an answer. Now I will close this letter and seal it up, and hope that you will comprehend my reasons, and know them to be honourable.
Your friend, Edmund Steele
CHAPTER NINE
I can hardly describe the terror that I felt at the sound of that name: Amy. I was insensible with it. I forgot myself for that moment, and existed only in fear. If my cousin had not dropped her cup, and brought me clear of it, I might have said anything.
For days, it was as much a haunting as a memory. I had never seen the dead girl’s eyes, and yet she opened them for me and looked into my face. They were blue, flecked with violet. Then, as now, my mind could not allow an incomplete image; the picture had to be perfect and whole. But how she looked at me. Without defence, for she was a young girl with none of the fortifications I had built around me. It was as though she, from the world of the dead, could look into the furthest reaches of my own, dormant soul. Her name linked us; as a locket opened up to find some long-forgotten relic, pressed whole into it, so her name opened up my fear of the past, and of being discovered.
‘It is from Mrs Quillian,’ said Delphine, her gaze lingering on the small square of cream card, the neat, curving handwriting in straight lines with small, restrained flourishes. It had been a fortnight since the shell-collecting. ‘She is planning another excursion; this one to Yoakley’s Almshouses.’
‘We will not go, of course,’ said Julia in a flat tone, lifting her teacup to her lips.
Delphine looked up from the card. ‘I think we should accept,’ she said.
Julia put down her cup, and the movement was full of grace, as though they still sat in their family’s salon in New York. Julia always moved so, but the sight of it in this moment hit some nerve in Delphine and she felt a stabbing pain arc across her brow – a pain of the past like a trailing comet, which she had not felt for a long time.
‘All these years,’ said Julia, ‘we have never gone out into society before. I was astonished enough that you granted us one trip with this group, but another? Why now? Is it something to do with that poor dead girl on the beach?’
‘Do you think I have become unhinged by it?’ said Delphine coolly. ‘I thought you would welcome another excursion. I saw you speaking with Mr Steele on our last trip, and I see no reason why you should keep your distance from him. He seems to be a good man, as well as a handsome one, and he seems to have a liking for you. Our financial position – yes, you may well look at me so if you wish – is not desperate, and I will not have you think that it is. But our old life is quite gone from us. You always had hopes of returning, whereas I . . . I knew, the first day, that we were leaving for good.’
‘I do not believe that,’ said Julia.
‘It is the truth. Or, at least, it is the truth for me. They will never forgive me, Julia. I dishonoured our name and the most they could hope for is that, in time, I will be forgotten completely. I am dead to them.’
She saw Julia’s usually smooth composure begin to crack; she could not bear to look upon the rawness breaking through her serenity. ‘It is why I always urged you to return,’ Delphine said. ‘I had hoped you could live that life again even if I could not.’
‘You forget,’ said Julia, hardness entering her voice. ‘My existence was not like yours.’
They saw in each other’s eyes the world they had left behind. Delphine remembered music, champagne, balls, laughter and wit – however false. But she knew that Julia’s life had been spent seated at the side of the sprung dance-floor, her head averted so that the red stain on her face could not be seen, expecting only disappointment, preparing herself to be a burden, no matter how loved she was by her parents.
‘It is the past, for both of us,’ said Delphine. ‘Consider Mr Steele. You cannot stay with me forever. And I feel the old bitterness creeping upon me again – as it did when we first left America. I am not the person I was, and I will become more disagreeable as time passes; I know it.’
‘You are frightening me now,’ said Julia, casting her napkin on to the breakfast things, and rising. ‘We will go, if you wish, to these almshouses, but do not speak any more of Mr Steele.’ She made to leave, then turned back. ‘I did not rebuff him; there is no need to. I would not cheapen myself by seeking to encourage a regard that does not exist. You are painting pictures, Cousin. And do not speak of me being settled upon him, like some faulty gift. Even you could not persuade a man to do that.’
She left the room, and Delphine heard her ascending the stairs. She put the card on to the white tablecloth, and let her eyes lie upon it for some time.
So it was, on a bright morning, at the unusually early hour of half past eight, before the roads and beach were filled, that Mrs Quillian’s hired carriages rolled up the hill of Broadstairs’ High Street, past the mill and on out across the fields towards Margate.
‘Will you let me read from the guidebook to you all?’ said Alba. She was holding the new book in her gloved hands. It was a small, ox-blood-red volume which, Mr Able in the High Street had assured her, told her everything she needed to know about Broadstairs and its environs.
‘I am not sure, Alba,’ said Miss Waring, glancing with concern at Julia, Delphine and Mrs Quillian. ‘It might be tiresome for our new friends.’
‘It would be a pleasure to hear you,’ said Delphine, and Alba cast her a look of particular warmth. Delphine had put away the sense of disquiet she had had when Alba had asked about Amy Phelps. She was growing to
like Alba very much. The girl had intelligence, good spirits and a kind nature, and Delphine felt protective towards her. She sensed that Alba had not been educated to do well in life, and wondered whether she could use her influence to help shape her, and make her stronger, for such were Alba’s unique talents and beauty that she knew the girl could shine in the world – shine where Delphine, cut off from society at such an early age by her loss, could not. It was also a balm to be with someone who took pleasure in her company, for Julia’s affection had the quality of weariness which had become second nature, and which Delphine only now recognized.
The fields they passed were flat and planted with lines of vegetables, bordered with grass verges and the occasional tree. Now and then the suggestion of a shallow chalk pit could be glimpsed, a dip of shadow near the verges. Alba named the places they passed, her soft voice rushing through the paragraphs, sometimes running words together. They drove by the fine rectory of St Peter’s behind its high flint walls, the parish which had once encompassed that of Holy Trinity; then, to their right, the fertile fields and livestock of Dane Court Farm, home of the Mockett family. It was at this point that Alba mentioned that the jolting of the carriage was making her feel unwell, so her aunt took the book away and pressed her hand against her niece’s brow. ‘It was as I thought,’ she said. ‘You have grown hot. It will not be long now, I’m sure.’
Delphine had taken pleasure in the reading, but it was clear that Julia had not. Her blue eyes had remained fixed on the views outside the window, even when Alba said she was unwell. Only once did she look back into the carriage, as it began to slow on the approach to the almshouses, and Delphine saw that her eyes were bright with dislike.
‘An excursion like this is truly a balm to the soul,’ said Miss Waring, taking up the conversation. ‘It teaches humility, and shows the exercise of the Christian soul in charity.’
No one responded.
Yoakley’s Almshouses were situated, conveniently for visitors, at the side of the road to Margate. The drivers were used to making the trip, and drew up alongside the neat, red-brick almshouses with their Dutch gables. They had been built in 1710 by Michael Yoakley, and now housed poor old women, who sold Tunbridge Ware donated to them by local ladies. They were accustomed to tourists, Mrs Quillian said, as she was handed down by Mr Benedict, who was in a chivalrous mood. ‘Such did Mr Gorsey stress their popularity, I was worried they might not be able to accommodate us; it is why we have visited so early in the morning.’