The Widow's Confession

by Sophia Tobin

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I know in the past you have considered me wilful; you say you wish for me to be myself now, but I must take that on trust. My desire to be free was born in me, but my life would have been simpler had I learned to repress it. I was raised in New York. After the fire of 1835 my grandfather built us a mansion on lower Fifth Avenue, with Corinthian columns at its front and a dome at its centre. He filled it with what he described as ‘Greek-style’ statues, and French works of art. I often think of those cool marble halls, even now, and I remember the conservatory that opened out from the drawing room, with its canaries and bullfinches.

  It would be easy to imagine that time as a perpetual summer, but it was not. I was never free, for my family was new to money, having created a fortune selling pills and powders. The money gave them the glittering shell of outward confidence, but it was a veneer; they yearned for social acceptance, and for me to make a great marriage. My mother put all her hope in me, and I disappointed her.

  I read in the newspapers there was another fire in New York, in 1845; it was ever a city plagued by fire. I broke the rules of my exile and wrote directly to the Fifth Avenue address. The reply came by the agent in London: your family are well, but it is requested that you do not write again.

  The memory of Julia’s touch on his arm kept Edmund awake late, that night. He reasoned that his mind had been disturbed by the discovery of the bodies, and that a sudden, intense affection was understandable, his mind seeking solace in destabilizing times. He had observed it many times in others, and knew that in time it would fade, like an illness, under the effect of rest and normality. Still, he recognized that he had felt a strange, instinctive tenderness the first time he had seen her, and that his affection was only the logical progression of those thoughts. Troubled, he rose in the middle of the night, having lain long watching the candle by his bedside burn, and went to the window, lifting the drapes, as though she might be standing on the front step of Victory Cottage. He thought it must have been her, that first night; there was an otherworldliness to her gaze which made him think she might do such a thing.

  Mrs Quillian had sent a note to him that afternoon. It was brief, but clear in its request: Mr Steele would be so kind as to stay with Theo that evening; his very company seemed to be acting as a tonic on her dear nephew. For all her agreeable phrases, the letter was firm, and for a moment Edmund felt a little like a guard, or a prisoner. But he turned away from those dark thoughts, aware that they had come from the same place as his tenderness for Julia – uncertainty, and fear.

  He did not wish to speak to Theo of religion any more. The clergyman, understandably, was continually bringing up the subject; he had blessed the bodies in the chalk pit before they had departed. But he would not stray from the personal or speak of the wider context. When Edmund mentioned rationalism – gently, experimentally – it was as though a shadow moved across Theo’s face, and he put up one hand to his forehead, and pressed his fingers there. Edmund could not ascertain if the man was not beyond doubt, or whether the thought of the souls of the damned, who would not turn to Christ, simply overwhelmed him with distress. He felt, instinctively, it was a subject which should be best left alone.

  For the next few days Edmund kept to himself, going out deliberately early or late, so that he would not meet any of the party who had gone to Yoakley’s. He went back and forth in his mind about whether he should return to London. The trip was hardly making him more healthy or rested, and he thought the one sure way of escaping his sudden feelings for Julia would be by severing the connection entirely.

  He did not manage to avoid everyone. On the second morning, he was out walking early when he spotted Mr Benedict and his man coming up Harbour Street. The servant was carrying an easel, and Mr Benedict the paintbox. At the sight of him, Benedict cast his belongings into his companion’s arms and declared himself ready to walk with Mr Steele. Edmund did not have the energy to deter him, and together they made their way along Albion Street.

  ‘I am glad to have the chance to speak to you,’ said Benedict. ‘You must forgive me for the strength of my reaction the other day, at the chalk pit. My emotions run away with me sometimes, and I was so angry that Crisp seemed to treat those deaths as unworthy of his attention.’

  ‘There is no need to apologize,’ said Edmund. ‘Such a sight is shocking, and brings many feelings to the surface.’

  ‘But I wish you to understand,’ said Benedict, stopping and turning to him, seeking to read Edmund’s expression with his urgent gaze. ‘I can trust you, Mr Steele, can I not? You see, I have been accustomed to being treated as though I am worth nothing, too. I was not born to this state. I am the son of an innkeeper. One of six. Without my talent – for which I thank God, every day – I might have been one of those poor souls myself, beneath the notice of men like Crisp.’

  ‘We all have our tender places,’ said Edmund. ‘Do not think on it any more.’

  ‘And I am absolved!’ said Benedict brightly. ‘I feel I could tell you everything, Mr Steele.’ He smiled broadly.

  ‘Have you managed to paint much in the last few days?’ asked Edmund, hoping to encourage him on to another topic. The painter’s cheerful expression left his face, as suddenly as a curtain being dropped.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I make studies every day, but I tend not to speak of my overall plan for the next painting. I find, if I do so, the inspiration dries up. Life is difficult enough, without chasing the muse away. The deaths have affected me greatly; I do not have enthusiasm for my subject.’

  ‘There is much natural inspiration here,’ said Edmund, thinking of the coastal paths, the bays and the sea. But his remark won, surprisingly, a sly smile from Benedict.

  ‘Correct, correct. But in the current circumstances I must snatch at inspiration; it is a matter of minutes rather than hours. I have no difficulty persuading local girls to sit for me, and Polly, Gorsey’s daughter, is a most stunning natural beauty. But look at the ladies in our own party. They are jealously guarded by elderly relatives, or by their own sense of propriety. I am fickle, I admit – my current favourite is Mrs Beck. “The Widow of the Sands”, old Solomon on the pier calls her, and I admit she distracts me.’

  He seemed to catch some disagreement in Edmund’s expression. ‘Do you not think so?’ he said. ‘I am not surprised. A gentleman, asked to guess, will never choose the right model. You have to see with a painter’s eye, and the face has to have something apart from beauty. I am not, like some, seeking to paint only a dead beautiful face, lips parted, an object of brute desire – Polly Gorsey. The effect I am after is more nuanced. And Mrs Beck . . . it is not just her sensuality – for she is sensual, you know – but that she has a quality of raw hurt about her, as though cauterized in the midst of some early tenderness.’

  The words shocked Edmund into silence, not least because Benedict had hit on some truth that Edmund had not, until now, perceived. Although experienced in matters of the mind, until that moment he had thought Mrs Beck enigmatic and strong, and he liked her; he did not wish to go deeper than that. His immediate response was revulsion at Benedict’s words. He wanted only to ally himself with Delphine and Julia, and protect them from the artist’s hungry gaze, the sense of hunter and prey in his words. ‘I have not seen that at all,’ he said. ‘I might say that you are wrong.’

  The artist seemed untroubled; he yawned and shrugged. ‘As you wish,’ he said, then: ‘My wife will be arriving with the children soon. It will almost be a relief to see her, after the drama of the last few days. I have taken our normal house at Ramsgate for her, and though I will be able to spend some time here – for she understands that I must have peace to work – she will also expect my attendance on her sometimes. She is a good girl; I do not begrudge her her summer, as long as she never speaks of domestic troubles or the servants, or any other such tiresome thing. That is our agreement.’ He smiled again, his eyes bright and glittering.

  When they reached the section where the
road branched into two, the painter turned and offered Edmund his hand. ‘I’ll bid you good day,’ he said. ‘I don’t want any genteel tea parties for a good few days. It is too like a hothouse for me. If you wish to find me later I will be in one of these fine alehouses. The Dolphin shall be my favourite, I hazard.’

  Even a good dinner could not cure Edmund of his malaise, and it was against his own will that he found himself mentioning Julia and Delphine in passing to Theo that evening.

  ‘Miss Alba was talking of Mrs Beck and Miss Mardell when we were at the almshouses,’ he began. ‘She said that she admired “their faded grandeur”, as though they were ancient monuments. I almost laughed out loud, for they are such vital presences in our group. I could not think of anything less appropriate.’

  The dark expression which flashed across Theo’s face lasted only a moment, but Edmund felt it as a knife, for Theo was normally so even that he thought the expression must be an indicator of a deep dislike.

  ‘They are both most elegant and interesting ladies,’ Edmund went on, beginning to feel uncomfortable. He was not used to justifying himself to anyone.

  ‘I admit I do not see that,’ said Theo. ‘Martha has mentioned them to me, and says they are good to her, if a little strange in their ways – she is in awe that they have butter and jam on bread. As for my opinion: Miss Mardell is agreeable enough. But Mrs Beck – there is a certain hardness to her aspect, a wilfulness which I cannot admire.’ He caught the look of discontent on Edmund’s face. ‘Perhaps I am being unfair,’ he said. ‘But they have forced me to become quite the housekeeper, by taking so much of Martha’s time. I find myself filling in the order books for the tradesmen, and planning what we must have for dinner, when there are many other things I need to do.’

  ‘Perhaps a wife is in order,’ said Edmund. He had meant it as a joke, but his tone was harsher than he had intended, and the look on Theo’s face showed that he had taken offence. Edmund had never seen before the painful turning-in of his gaze.

  They parted for the evening with polite but distant words, and Edmund retired to his room – neatened again – washing his face in the basin of cold water left for him by Martha at his request, though he now wondered if Theo had been forced to fill it in her absence. He heard Theo’s footsteps pass along the landing, heard the door close, and the house rest – but he could not. He was angry, very angry, and he had no idea why. For so long, he had prided himself on knowing his own mind, and being able to quietly examine his own thoughts. But the anger had him in its grip, and he had the unhappy conviction that he did not know himself at all.

  He took his place at the writing desk, and thought that at least one irritant should be addressed.

  My dear Charles,

  You write warmly, and yet you mention nothing of Mrs Craven. You could hardly have thought I would not notice. I asked you for reassurance on the subject, and you send none.

  Very well. If you will be silent on it all, so will I. I am not some fat old fish to be pulled out of the water by such a hook.

  E.S.

  He threw his pen down, and it took every effort for him not to go to the window and pull back the drape. Instead, he lay down on the bed, without undressing or even pulling a blanket over him, and blew the candle out, resolving that he would not see or speak of the American ladies again, until he could be said to be indifferent to them.

  ‘Poor Mrs Quillian,’ said Julia. ‘She so wished to create a kind of salon by the sea, but the deaths have tainted all her plans and her favourites keep deserting her.’ That morning, they had met the lady, who informed them that Mr Benedict would be spending the next two weeks in Ramsgate with his wife and children. They had passed Solomon on their way to the beach, and he had nodded to them, but other than that, the past few days had been free of any familiar faces.

  Delphine and Julia were seated in a bathing machine: a contraption which resembled a slatted chalet on wheels, to be pulled by horse into the sea for the purposes of modest bathing. It was evidently not the first time the machine had ventured into the water that day; the women’s feet were cold against the soaking wet carpet. Released from her corset, Delphine slumped luxuriously against the side of the machine. She was dressed in a long-sleeved flannel shift, and her hair lay in a plait down her back.

  The bathing machine began to move, drawn by the old carthorse who had eyed them emotionlessly at their arrival, jolting them this way and that. Julia, who had been so busy looking around at the rather dirty interior as she knotted a scarf over her head, fell off the ledge she had been sitting on. This unlocked a wave of hilarity in Delphine, who laughed and laughed until she was crying, and she also fell off the ledge.

  Another wave of hilarity struck them as the machine came to a halt, and it was a minute or two before they fell silent.

  There was the sound of water all around them – the plash of waves against wheels and the sides of the machine. Delphine would have thought they were afloat, if not for the heavy stillness of the square room. They heard the creak of the modesty hood as the dipper – a large, strong woman who had not spoken since they paid her – let it down. Delphine jumped when there was a thud against the door.

  ‘It’s the waves,’ she said. ‘Come on.’

  She opened the door and peered out from beneath the modesty hood, a wave rising and striking her as she did so, and she cried out at its fierce coldness. The horse stood impassively, held by its grim-faced attendant.

  ‘We can go out a little further on our own,’ said Delphine, feeling bold. ‘I do not see anyone on the cliffs watching us; surely we will be safe from gentlemen’s eyes.’

  They treated it carefully, the grey-blue, alive water, so powerful in its swell even this close to the shore, the sand dissolving beneath their feet as they walked, until they were in the water up to their necks, encased by the cold of it.

  ‘I feel so vital, as if I can feel every nerve in my body,’ said Julia. But she could see that Delphine was unhappy; all the delight had faded from her face.

  ‘Is this how Amy Phelps felt?’ she said, and saw her cousin’s face fall. ‘I am sorry. I should learn to speak less. That was always my fault.’ And for a moment she was in her mother’s drawing room, being reprimanded for an unladylike remark.

  She felt Julia take her hand, and squeeze it. In the distance, she saw a little girl playing by the edge of the sea.

  They walked back up the beach, dressed and wrapped in their cloaks. The locals were out in the good weather, the hovellers smoking their pipes on the pier, some laughing and talking, others, like Solomon, bearing watchful, calm expressions. Some local girls were conversing with them. They looked strong and warm-fleshed; they were proud of any embellishments to their dress, and talked and laughed loudly. It struck Delphine that they all looked as though they could defend themselves, and would not be shy to do so.

  ‘Is that Polly Gorsey?’ said Delphine. The girl was standing, talking to the men, laughing. ‘She is usually in the Albion, working.’ She watched the way in which the sunlight caught in the girl’s coiled hair; the ideal silhouette of her figure beneath the elaborate dress she wore. Delphine wondered whether Polly had sewed all the little embellishments herself, for it was not a plain dress, but one decorated with hand-worked cloth roses and ribbons. She also wondered how much of a struggle it was for Mr Gorsey to get his daughter to wear the plain white apron over her clothes, and recalled how drab Polly had looked that first day she had seen her, when Mr Benedict’s carriage had nearly run her down.

  Julia was resting when Martha marched into the cottage, carrying a basket of bread and milk and eggs. Delphine let her pass through the house, heard her stamping about in the kitchen. It was only when she heard the crash of broken porcelain that Delphine went to see her.

  ‘I have to pay for that,’ she said, looking at the white fragments in Martha’s hands.

  ‘Sorry, madam,’ Martha said.

  ‘What is wrong?’ Delphine asked. ‘Are you over-tired? I fear you
are working too hard, looking after us and Mr Hallam. We can hire someone else, you know. It might be for the best.’

  Martha turned away, flushing as she always did when embarrassed. ‘It’s not that,’ she said. Her large hands were trembling, and Delphine wondered if she might cry. There was something so deeply moving about this big, strong girl, normally so proud, suddenly wishing to hide, that Delphine felt her throat tighten in a mirror of her distress.

  ‘It’s nothing really,’ she said gruffly, but her voice quivered. ‘Just some of the girls. I grew up with them. You think they would be past their tittle-tattling, but it reminds me of being a little chick again, and all their spiteful words. Polly had the devil in her today, to speak to me so.’

  Delphine waited, knowing that encouragement would not make her speak, but that silence might. She knew that Martha did not have the wherewithal of the girls on the pier: that tough shine, like sea pebbles tossed against each other until the surface is smooth and hard.

  ‘It’s a boy, ma’am,’ she said eventually. ‘I would say he is my sweetheart, but he is not. He was at least my friend, I thought. I was foolish, very foolish. I am not a girl who men favour. I could never be Polly, even if I tried, and I do not want to try. At least I shall never end up at the bottom of a chalk pit with some fool from the Ranelagh Gardens.’

  She dug her fingers into an onion skin, and peeled it.

  ‘I’ve seen those girls down by the harbour,’ said Delphine, not wondering at the reference to the latest deaths, for word travelled faster here than it did in London. ‘Did one of them take your beau? He is best forgotten, if so.’

  ‘I did not say he was mine,’ Martha said, without raising her voice. ‘And if I ever had a hope of him – well, it was long ago, at least a year or two – but I find thoughts can get deep rooted sometimes, without you even noticing it. I told one of the girls in a weak moment, and now they use it to make fun of me. How I hate them.’ She stabbed the onion with the knife.