The Widow's Confession

by Sophia Tobin

  Delphine noted the mud of the yard, dried up in the heat, and she was glad it was not churned up, to spoil the ladies’ dresses. Behind the almshouses lay a cultivated plot of land planted with vegetables, and a coop for chickens. A local man stood at the door, bowing to the new arrivals; he was the overseer, who lived in the central almshouse, and directed visitors. Just this little way from the coast, the air was still, and the heat of the day was gathering and building, the air heavy with the scents of grass and manure.

  The almshouses were tiny within, the old women neat and glad to see them, with their fancy boxes set out before them on a table, the lids inlaid with different coloured woods. The visitors were offered, and accepted, tea. Theo spoke to each of the ladies, and their faces lit up at his approach; Delphine wondered how many times he had come here. Mr Benedict lodged himself in a dark corner and observed proceedings, occasionally attending to Mrs Quillian and Miss Waring. But it was Alba who the women really warmed to. Delphine watched her, speaking to the ladies and inspecting their wares. Carefully, the girl opened her reticule and exchanged money, selecting one piece after another. But it was not her money that the ladies cared about. For when Mrs Quillian, too, began piling wares in her own arms in order to buy them, she elicited only politeness and smiles. The women did far more than that for Alba: they seemed almost to worship her, thirstily drinking in every graceful gesture and every smile. Even in the dark, close room, her exceptional beauty, and the sweetness that laced it, shone through. One of the women even reached out, silently, and put her hand on Alba’s face, fixing the girl with a toothless grin. Alba did not start away; she only smiled worriedly.

  ‘Don’t mind her, miss,’ said another of the women. ‘Nan cannot resist loveliness in anything. When I came, she wanted my locket. You are just the same; she would like to take you and keep you here.’

  ‘So I would,’ agreed Nan.

  The other women laughed, and the visitors continued their transactions over the Tunbridge Wares. It was then that Delphine realized that Julia was missing. She moved unobtrusively around the room, checking that she had not lost her in the stuffy shadows, then went out into the passageway and asked the overseer if he had seen her cousin. He had not – but then he had been in the room until a moment before, helping to set out the wares.

  Delphine walked out of the front door, a slight panic rising within her. Julia’s gaze was always so steady, her serenity never challenged . . . and yet Delphine had seen some nameless unhappiness rising in her cousin. Mr Steele had greeted her that morning with warmth in his eyes, and Julia had looked away, speaking only briefly. Did she truly believe he had no interest in her? Delphine longed to shake her into belief.

  In the fresh air, the carriage drivers were affixing nosebags to their horses’ bridles. Delphine went to question them, and they immediately pointed over her shoulder. She turned and saw Julia, pacing up and down in the shade of a tree a few yards away, her eyes fixed on the ground before her. Delphine saw the bemused look on the drivers’ faces as they glanced at each other. She left them with thanks, pressing a coin into each of their hands, and walked to her cousin’s sphere, following in the path she had worn with her steps through the deep grass.

  ‘Do you not wish to buy something?’ Delphine asked as Julia moved past her.

  ‘I am excusing myself from watching the worshipping of Miss Peters,’ said Julia, without even a flicker of embarrassment. Delphine wondered at her sudden wildness. Her cousin was always so serene, and so aware of her surroundings, that when she changed, her vehemence seemed all the more shocking.

  ‘Come now, this is not worthy of you,’ said Delphine. ‘Alba is simply young, and you know how the old worship the young. Besides, she is very sweet-natured. I have just left her apologizing for buying too few knick-knacks, when she need only buy one. She has the endearing quality of confessing slight faults as though they are monstrous in scale.’

  ‘It is because she knows the fault is slight,’ said Julia. ‘All her real sins she will keep to herself, and carry them tight, like a piece of lead strapped to her chest. I warrant there are many – and if you will not listen to me, then you are foolish. I would that they would sink her.’

  ‘Julia, keep your voice down,’ said Delphine. ‘What if Mrs Quillian, or Miss Waring heard you?’

  ‘What do I care for them? And what do you care?’ cried Julia.

  Delphine stopped her with a hand on her arm, held her gaze, pleadingly, and watched her cousin begin to calm down.

  ‘We cannot dislike her because she is young and beautiful,’ Delphine said, lowering her voice. ‘I do not think she has any great fault, or sin. She is all innocence.’

  ‘She is the picture of innocence,’ said Julia. ‘Which is not the same thing.’

  Delphine sighed and shook her head.

  Julia watched Delphine closely; her temper had faded and now she seemed hopeless more than angry. ‘I know,’ she said, ‘you think I am bitter – that she reminds me of my own disfigurement. Have you ever seen me react so before?’

  ‘I have not.’

  Julia seemed mollified. ‘Do not trust your connection with her. The death of that young woman has shaken you, and now you are – well, I hardly know – reaching out to people like Alba, whom you would not have gone near before. I have taken account of my bitterness, and I still see more clearly than you. That girl is all trouble: trouble through and through, but masked as goodness, and that is the most dangerous type of character. You make such a point of shunning Mr Benedict, but she is far more objectionable. For you not to have seen it – I would not have thought it of you.’

  Delphine knew she would not be able to convince her cousin otherwise. ‘We cannot discuss this here,’ she said, glancing at the men with their horses, who were making a show of not listening. ‘If we must speak of this, let us do so at the cottage. Now, come back into the room and buy a wooden box. That is why we are here.’

  Delphine had hoped the carriage occupants would be arranged differently on the journey back, but it was the same, with the gentlemen in one carriage and the ladies in the other. She felt Julia’s silence keenly, for her eyes were dull, as though she had given up even the pretence of enjoyment.

  ‘Mr Benedict is such a charming young man,’ said Mrs Quillian, with roses in her cheeks. ‘He gave the ladies a generous leaving present of money; the astonishment on their faces would have made a good addition to one of his paintings. I hope you all enjoyed seeing this place?’

  The ladies murmured acquiescence.

  ‘They had such pretty trifles for sale,’ said Miss Waring, ‘though you did not have to buy quite so many, Alba, my dear. You will fill my sister’s mantelpiece with all those things, when you return to London.’

  ‘They are very hard to resist though,’ said Mrs Quillian. ‘We must have such things to distract us.’

  Alba looked hurt at her aunt’s words, and Delphine was just thinking of something soothing to say, when the carriage jolted wildly. Delphine had her back to the horses, and for a moment it seemed as though they had quickened up, but then she saw that Miss Waring and Alba were being thrown towards her, clutching at each other, and Alba was screaming; and it occurred to Delphine in the midst of that empty feeling which precedes shock, that the driver was pulling them up, and as fast as he possibly could.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Perhaps it was due to my preoccupation with Amy, but the next girl we found seemed to me to resemble her, even though she was older, and it became clear that her innocence had been lost long ago. She too had golden hair; she too was a servant. It was enough to tie their deaths together in my mind, and in the minds of others.

  I suppose we are all servants, women, in our way – does that shock you? Kept to be ornamental, social creatures; kept to order the dinner, and bring the man his pipe, and speak of only the things he wishes to hear. If you want that from me, you will not get it.

  It is necessary for me to test your affection, you see. Your declaration o
f love lies on the page before me: pretty, but cold and untested, like a jewel that may change colour when held to a flame. As much as it thrilled me to read it, I cannot believe it yet. You must make me believe it, by loving me despite everything that is in me. So know the truth, and know then if you wish to be with me, or not. Whatever the law says, I will never be your servant.

  Once the carriage had lurched to a halt, Delphine did not wait for anyone to come to the door, but opened it herself, even as she heard Mrs Quillian and Miss Waring protest after her. She jumped, and landed heavily on the road, almost falling. As she raised herself she glanced at the astonished face of the driver, who was calming his horse. The boy who had accompanied him clung on grimly as though they were still moving.

  Ahead, the gentlemen’s carriage was stationary, the doors all open where the occupants had clambered out. Mr Steele and Mr Benedict were climbing the grassy verge at the side of the road. Delphine recognized Dr Crisp, who was clearly angry and shouting at a huddle of men on the top of the bank.

  Her steps were checked by Theo, who was walking towards her. ‘Mrs Beck,’ he said, and his voice had the quality of a warning. She glanced at him, but made to pass him, at which he reached out and took her arm to prevent her from going any further – a strangely intimate gesture. It was a gesture made out of desperation, she could tell, but when her eyes met his he released her, as though he had received a shock. ‘Please do not go any further,’ he said.

  ‘Mr Hallam,’ she said, ‘whatever is happening here, you do not need to shield me from it. See to Mrs Quillian and Miss Waring – they are the ones who need your attention.’ She could hear their voices from the carriage, and the driver’s mate looked too shocked to jump down and hand them out.

  Theo looked at her as though she was a troublesome horse he could not control, then nodded and walked past her to the carriage. Delphine continued walking, swiftly, her skirts gathered in her hands. When Mr Benedict saw her, he came down the bank before she could climb it. He looked as though he had taken a hit; he bent over for a moment, as if to catch his breath, but straightened up as she approached.

  ‘Are any of you harmed?’ he asked, when she reached him. ‘One of those men ran out in front of the carriage. It was lucky Mr Steele had seen Dr Crisp and was already banging on the side of the carriage for the driver to stop. Still, the driver did well to pull up; his poor mare was most affrighted. A London horse would have run him over.’ He smiled ruefully, but his hand twitched at his collar, and Delphine could see that it was trembling.

  ‘None of us is harmed,’ said Delphine. She saw Benedict look over her shoulder, where Mr Hallam was presumably helping the shaken ladies down. ‘What is going on?’

  ‘I know better than to stop you,’ said Mr Benedict. ‘See for yourself if you must – they have found more bodies, Mrs Beck.’ He held her gaze for a brief moment, then broke away. ‘God save their souls,’ he said. ‘I must check on the ladies; it will not do to leave them to the parson. And I need to compose myself.’

  Delphine climbed the bank in two steps, and came to a halt next to Mr Steele. They were on the edge of one of the small chalk pits, dug out of the earth in fields around there. At the bottom lay a man, face up, his long dark hair loose, his dead eyes wide with astonishment. At his side lay a woman in a pink dress and a straw bonnet. She was lying face down, her dress fanned out, her dust-covered boots clearly visible. Her left arm was flung over the man’s body in a last embrace, and Delphine felt the sudden sting of tears in her eyes; unexpected again, this grief at the death of strangers. Beside the man’s head she saw an edging of rusty brown: dried blood.

  ‘Everyone move back,’ said Dr Crisp. He had taken off his greatcoat and jacket, and his shirt was smudged with dust. ‘And you, Mr Steele. The sides are unsteady. They may collapse, and we will end up,’ he paused, ‘down there – with those two.’

  ‘Will you not bring her up?’ said Edmund. ‘There may be life in her yet.’

  A spasm of exasperation crossed Dr Crisp’s face. ‘There is no life in either of them,’ he said. ‘I have been down there already.’ He glanced at the group of four men, labourers from their clothing, huddled together a few feet away. ‘It would be easy enough to raise them if those wretches helped, but they are squeamish around dead bodies, it seems. My housekeeper would be of more use. They have been drinking all night at the Red Lion in St Peter’s, and Mark Bennet, who just so nearly stepped in front of your horses, cannot even walk straight. They found these two on their way home this morning, and one of them came to summon me from my home. I was just trying to work out the best course of action when your carriages pulled up. It is not the day I was planning to have.’

  ‘Are they too poor for you to bother over, like Amy Phelps?’ snapped Mr Benedict, who had rejoined them. ‘I am astonished that you attended, as they are such an inconvenience to you. Good God, man, look at them!’

  ‘I’ve done little else since I got here,’ said Dr Crisp, wiping the dust from his forehead with one arm, and not concealing the violence in his tone, ‘and your play-acting won’t help them.’

  ‘Play-acting?’ shouted Benedict, and he took a step forwards, as though he might seek to strike the doctor, a step which took him near to the edge of the pit. It was Edmund who drew him back.

  ‘You must keep hold of your temper,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Benedict. He spoke in a whisper, careful that Delphine and the doctor could not hear. ‘I believe I met them, Steele, one evening when I took refreshment in the town. The man’s face looks familiar to me. It has shocked me, that is all.’

  Edmund slapped his back. ‘Be still,’ he said.

  ‘Mr Hallam,’ said the doctor, sounding relieved at the sight of the clergyman, who had joined them. ‘Thank goodness. Will you keep these rowdy excursionists in order?’ He pointed at Delphine, and his look had no ceremony in it. ‘And take that lady away,’ he said. He said ‘lady’ as if it were an insult. Theo glanced at Delphine, and his mouth twitched. He longs, she thought, to say ‘I told you so.’

  It was Edmund who offered Delphine his arm. She did not refuse; and they descended the verge together. ‘What a sight,’ he said.

  She did not reply; Julia was walking towards them.

  ‘Miss Waring is praying,’ Julia said, as she reached them. ‘She is under the impression that something terribly immoral has happened. I have given her my smelling salts. She is thinking well enough to find the flask of brandy in her capacious bag. Mrs Quillian is comforting poor Alba, who is weeping terribly.’

  Edmund offered Julia his other arm. To Delphine’s surprise, she took it, and she saw her hand close tightly over it. ‘Thank you,’ she said, so softly that Delphine realized the words were meant for him alone. Was that a suggestion of emotion in Mr Steele’s face, a change in the line of his mouth?

  When Edmund returned to the men on the verge, he found Dr Crisp instructing one of the labourers to go to St Peter’s and fetch a cart. ‘Run, then,’ he shouted. As the man headed off, he glanced at Edmund. ‘I would not trust them with my horse,’ he said, indicating his own mount, which was tethered to a tree stump and munching grass contentedly.

  ‘It’s an uncommonly dark coincidence, to see you all here again at a scene of death,’ Crisp continued, his hard gaze sweeping the group. ‘You’d best not let word get around. You Londoners are good enough for your money in the season, but if you become associated with events like this, you’ll be turned out of town.’ Edmund wasn’t sure if there was sarcasm in his tone, or real meaning.

  ‘We should take the ladies back,’ said Theo. ‘They cannot stand at the side of the road forever.’

  ‘Poor souls,’ said Benedict, his eyes fixed on the bodies at the bottom of the pit.

  ‘I think it’s clear enough what happened,’ said Dr Crisp, rolling up his shirtsleeves. He called two of the other men over and directed them down into the pit, with the idea of lifting the woman. They looked unhappy, but eventually obeyed hi
m.

  ‘And what is that?’ said Benedict. His voice, quivering with anger, had a jarring note.

  Dr Crisp gave him a withering glance. ‘These two were out carousing, probably at Ranelagh Gardens – the pleasure gardens here, sir. I’m sure you’re familiar with that particular place of entertainment. They came to walk home, he wished for some fun, pulled her aside, and in the darkness they tumbled into this pit. They have been dead some time.’

  ‘Clear enough,’ said Benedict. ‘Neat, and convenient. That is what you said about that poor girl on the beach, when someone had written something in the sand beside her body.’

  ‘You are embroidering the facts, sir,’ said Crisp, with a sigh.

  ‘Does your mind not recognize complexity?’ said Benedict. ‘That girl’s body; now these two. For all your sideways swipes at us Londoners, if there is evil in this town, it should be looked at head-on.’

  The two labourers in the pit were gazing at Mr Benedict; they seemed terrified.

  ‘There is no evil here,’ said Crisp angrily. ‘For God’s sake, Mr Hallam and Mr Steele, please remove this man, who is making my job harder, before I have to ask these men to do so by force.’

  Theo and Edmund did as they were told, and there was initially little resistance from Benedict. As they led him away, however, he snatched his arms free from their hands and twisted back to direct his words at the doctor. ‘There is nothing clear about it,’ he said, raising his voice to a shout. ‘Nothing, I say.’