by Sophia Tobin
She inclined her head, and he could not tell if she approved or disapproved of his words. But her turn away, as slight as the movement was, was too much for him. He had thought of her in the night, and wondered if he would ever have a chance to speak to her. He had learned to take chances in life; it was something his parents had urged upon him, though he had thought it strange, these two quiet people with their contented isolation in a country cottage – yet there was a vividness in their eyes as they urged on his thoughts and ambitions, no matter how childish they had been. He thought of them now, even if it was only for a moment, as the woman he loved reached and touched the stones again.
‘To be plain, the most agreeable view for me, is you,’ he said. The moment he said it, he knew it sounded wrong; for the first time in many years he had spoken with painful self-consciousness, and it sounded wrong to his ears.
Julia turned sharply, her hand still outstretched as though it might meet the rock.
‘What do you mean?’ she said, and her voice was full of emotion. He could not identify it, although there was fear, and pain, and he suddenly realized that she thought he was mocking her. He wanted to reach out to her and make her understand – but to touch her would be improper and wrong. He could only say it in words, as clearly as he could.
‘You are beautiful,’ he said, and he did not look around before he said it. He said it in a way which indicated that he did not care who heard.
She looked at him, then shook her head. ‘I am not,’ she said, and she sat down upon the remains of a stone wall and looked out at the sea.
‘I disagree with you,’ he said. ‘I think you are one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen.’
He saw the bitter curl of her lip. She did not turn, but kept her eyes fixed on the horizon.
‘You are kind, Mr Steele,’ she said. ‘And I am most grateful. I take it – for you cannot be dwelling on my blemished visage – that you detect something in me. A spiritual beauty, perhaps? I value you, sir, you are a kind gentleman, so I will spare you from keeping that illusion. There was a time when I did not feel ashamed of myself. But my deformity has not made me purer. Quite the contrary. I am all darkness, through and through.’
His mouth was dry; she had spoken with such certainty. He looked around him – at Alba and Theo, talking together, Miss Waring only a few steps behind; at Delphine, struggling to find a focus as she moved here and there. Everything seemed strange to him, suddenly, as though the world was changing before his eyes.
‘I do not believe it,’ he said, and he bowed, before turning away and walking across the nave where monks had once chanted, leaving her to look out at the sea, at the place where so many ships had foundered.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
When we arrived in Broadstairs, I had felt reconciled to my years of travel, and to our solitude. Julia and I took pleasure in food, in walking, in filling our long days with trivial things – in a way, it was a repeat of our younger days, but carried out in the shadow of the worry about money, and in much less luxury. I had once drawn because I loved it; now I drew because I thought that I might need to sell my pictures at some point. A room in our London house was waiting for me, to be my studio. And yet, that need dried up my desire to draw, and made every line from my charcoal dead and lifeless.
My connections with Mrs Quillian’s salon by the sea, as Julia had predicted, made me vulnerable. In the evenings I would smoke a cigarette and watch my cousin read or rest, and wonder why I had chosen to be part of that group. Perhaps I was just tired of solitude. Perhaps I saw in them the model of my own family, a new group to reconcile with, as though I could remake the connections I had once lost. These connections made me weaker – so, when I could have spoken up more strongly for Polly, I stayed silent. I regret it, for it was my silence that had damned me in New York. I speak up now – these words to you are a form of shouting, even – but they come a little too late. Too late for me, for her . . . and for Alba.
‘Stay away from the beach early in the mornings, madam,’ said Martha one day in late August, her rough voice filled with apprehension. The phrase was not a suggestion; it was a command.
Delphine stared at the butter, deep yellow, seeping into the toasted crumpet she was about to bite into. The silence in the room was leaden and charged. Julia stared, mystified, at the maid.
‘I know I shouldn’t say such a thing,’ continued Martha bravely, ‘but I say it for you, as much as me. There’s talk, madam. They say you’ve brought bad luck to the town.’
‘Me?’ said Delphine, hearing the crack of Julia’s astonished laugh.
‘What with the loss of those girls,’ said Martha, struggling on, ‘and all these summer storms. One of the luggers was almost lost the other night. There’s been rumours of the smugglers’ ghosts being seen up at Lanthorne, too. It’s stirred up things.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘There’s talk about it in the taverns. They say you go walking on the beach too early, and are dressed all in black, and with all your mourning jewellery. They say you talk to the weather, and that you’ve put a curse on the town. It’s stirred up the memories of my niece.’ She broke off.
‘And what do you think, Martha?’ asked Delphine.
Martha held her gaze. ‘I’m a good Christian,’ she said, ‘and I have no truck with superstition. But I think you’re exposing yourself to the talk. You’ve marked yourself out.’
‘That’s enough,’ said Julia, pale with fury. ‘If Mrs Beck’s behaviour troubles you so much, perhaps we should engage someone else to char for us.’
Only now did confusion filter into Martha’s expression. ‘I said I would stay for the season, and so I will,’ she said. She placed the teapot down on the table with a decided clunk, and went back into the kitchen.
‘I’ll put her out of this house,’ snapped Julia, rising, but Delphine stopped her.
‘Come now,’ she said. ‘She is overwrought, that is all.’
She sat back in her chair and wondered if Mr Hallam had contributed to the rumours about her. On Sunday she had spoken to him at the church door, briefly and coldly, and there was something in his expression which disturbed her. She sensed he was beginning to hate her. Hate was the word that came into her mind, extreme as it seemed; but she could not, would not, ignore it. She had learned to trust her instincts, to seek out the stealthiest, most hidden voice in the back of her mind, for she knew that it was often whispering the truth, so softly it was beneath the level of human hearing. Alba had also seemed distant at church; her face guarded, and Delphine believed Theo had warned her again. The only thing that gave her gladness was that Mr Benedict was not at church, but spending more time in Ramsgate with his family.
‘It is time for us to leave here,’ said Delphine quietly. ‘I will write to Mr Lock and say that we will need the house in London reclaimed from its tenants. We can leave as soon as he has done so.’ She passed a hand over her brow; she would think of the money later.
‘They will think us guilty of all their strange charges,’ said Julia, with a half-hearted laugh, ‘if we go now.’
‘From what Martha is saying, they think me guilty of it already. Why would you want to stay?’ said Delphine sharply. ‘Is it Mr Steele? If you wished to encourage him, Julia, I think it is too late now. You should have brought it to a conclusion sooner.’ And she raised her voice on the last words, for Julia had got up from the table and left the room.
Theo found it was harder than he had anticipated to approach Mr Benedict on the beach. He had been summoned early to the Albion Hotel by Mr Gorsey, had listened gravely to the hotelkeeper’s grievances and assured him that he would act on his behalf, as it was his duty so to do. Then, standing in the empty terrace, the tables not set by the absent Polly, he had seen his target: Mr Benedict, cloaked and hatted, with his watercolour sketchbook on his knees. Still, Theo paused before going out there, and watched him until Mr Gorsey came up behind him and cleared his throat. At that moment he saw a little girl approach the painter, and the ma
n strike up a conversation. Theo then went swiftly out of the door of the terrace, down the steps into the garden, and through the garden gate on to the promenade.
As he passed from the promenade to Harbour Street, Theo almost broke into a run, suddenly frightened that Mr Benedict might have gone by the time he reached him. But he was still there, the sea wind unsettling the folds of his cloak; and the child had disappeared, small footprints leading off in the direction of the Tartar Frigate. Out of danger, Theo thought, and his relief surprised him.
Benedict looked up at his approach, frowning in the sunlight. His gaze swooped around Theo, as though he thought someone else should be with him, for surely the clergyman would never willingly seek him out? ‘Good morning,’ he said, with a note of insolent surprise, turning his eyes back to his sketchbook and dipping his brush into a jar of water he had set into the sand.
Theo returned his good morning, disconcerted that the other man had not risen to his feet, or was even holding his gaze, making the kind of conversation he was planning to have difficult.
‘I am here on a commission,’ he said eventually. This caught Benedict’s attention, as Theo had hoped it would. He planted the brush in its pot and shut his box of colours. But he did not get to his feet.
‘From whom?’ he said.
‘Mr Gorsey,’ said Theo. ‘You may guess what the subject is.’
‘May I?’ Benedict spoke as if he was savouring the words, and leaned back on to his hands, leaving his sketch – lines of colour to Theo – open and drying on his lap.
‘Since you are determined to make this difficult,’ said Theo, ‘I see I must speak plainly.’
‘It seems so,’ said Benedict.
‘You must leave Broadstairs,’ said Theo, ‘and as soon as possible. Mr Gorsey says you have paid unwelcome attentions to his daughter, Polly.’
A cry of laughter emerged from the painter’s mouth. ‘Unwelcome!’ he said.
Theo sighed. ‘You must go, or there will be consequences. You may have misunderstood the nature of this place. You are used to London. Feelings run high here, and when a local girl is dallied with,’ he said, observing Benedict’s mocking smile, ‘believe me, you do not wish to stay here. Some act of violence may even befall you.’
‘This is all nonsense,’ said Benedict, tenderly placing his sketchbook on the sand and rising to his feet. ‘I will speak to Gorsey about it.’
‘I would urge you not to,’ said Theo. ‘He has asked me to act on his behalf. You may return to the hotel to instruct your man to pack, but that is all. He will not let you stay here another night.’ He looked in the direction of the hotel and Benedict’s gaze followed his own. Gorsey stood in the glass gallery of his hotel, looking out. Even from a distance, his expression was grim.
‘Well,’ said Benedict, ‘this is bad.’ He hurried to tidy his things. ‘At least you have had the chance to enjoy it.’
‘Believe me,’ said Theo, ‘I do not enjoy this duty.’
‘Really?’ Benedict turned with sudden violence and looked at him. ‘Do not think I have not noticed your jealousy. Who has been talking of me and Polly Gorsey? Did Gorsey come to you, or have you drawn this out of him, or her? I had no doubt that you would be seeking out some evil to be used against me. We are enemies simply by our natures, Mr Hallam; I can acknowledge the beauty in this world, whilst you simply run to box it in; I can speak to women as if they are human beings, whereas you hide in a corner, behind the plate-glass of piety.’
‘I have carried out my commission,’ said Theo. ‘I will walk you to the hotel. There is no need for further conversation between us.’
Benedict made a mock-bow to him. ‘How it must hurt you to be so honourable,’ he said. ‘I will make my own way; I will not move an inch until you are gone. Oh, do not worry, I will not cause a scene with Gorsey. I shall go to Ramsgate. Now leave me to shift for myself, like a gentleman.’
The letter had been despatched to Mr Lock telling him of Delphine and Julia’s planned return to London. There was the slightest chill of autumn in the air when Delphine and Julia walked to the Albion Hotel, where they had agreed to take tea with Mrs Quillian. They went to the gallery, to watch the waves rolling into the bay and the agitated seagulls calling to each other in the wind. A remark Mrs Quillian made indicated that she knew of the rumours about Delphine. Delphine thought, if this lady knew, then it was definitely time to be gone, and she almost hired a carriage in that moment. She glanced at Julia alongside her, pale and sad since she had said they were to leave, and thought, We are all beginning to be estranged from each other.
At that moment, she saw Mr Benedict coming towards them. He was moving swiftly, and Mr Gorsey was following him. The landlord’s face was glistening with sweat.
‘I am on my way,’ said Benedict to Gorsey, over his shoulder. ‘The carriage is being packed at this moment, as you have seen. Will you let me bid farewell to my friends, at least?’ He was pale and haggard-looking, but there was a vicious turn to his mouth. His lips were moving slightly, as though he was having an imaginary conversation with someone.
‘Very well,’ said Gorsey, acknowledging the ladies, and then moving away.
‘Forgive me,’ said Benedict, bowing to kiss Mrs Quillian’s hand. He was speaking softly, and his gaze swept their faces. ‘Urgent business forces me to leave for Ramsgate.’
‘Mr Benedict,’ said Mrs Quillian, with some concern for her favourite. ‘You seem to have lost your composure. Perhaps you are unwell.’
A kind of tenderness came into the painter’s eyes. ‘Dear Mrs Quillian,’ he said, ‘you are right, as always. A walk is what I need – a brief promenade in the fresh air. Will you join me?’ He offered her his arm.
She took it, clearly not knowing what to do, and Delphine and Julia rose to go with them, a glance of mutual confidence indicating that they wished to protect the poor lady. Emerging on to the pavement of Albion Street, where Benedict’s carriage was being packed, they met Theo and Edmund.
‘Aunt,’ said Theo, but Mrs Quillian had already passed him, Mr Benedict casting a glance behind as they did so.
‘What is going on?’ said Theo. His eyes met Delphine’s but jumped away. She felt a rush of anger at his reaction.
‘He is leaving,’ she said, ‘but he is behaving erratically.’ She looked at Edmund, who was bidding good day to Julia. ‘Please come with us. Benedict’s wildness worries me.’
It was an ordinary day, the street a little quieter than usual. No one looked at Benedict, other than the occasional person who noticed his grim expression, but Delphine’s sense of foreboding would not die down. They turned down Harbour Street, and as they walked under the shadow of York Gate, a man stepped out from a doorway. His hands were in his pockets, but his expression was clearly hostile; large and solid, he turned, and caught Benedict’s shoulder with his own, knocking him. The jolt was enough for Mrs Quillian to stop, and step away from Benedict. Theo hurried forwards and offered her his arm.
‘Call y’self a gentleman, do you?’ said the man. He brought his face close to Benedict’s. A foot away, Delphine saw the anger burning there: plain, true, unhidden. And also a kind of vacancy, a blankness. From that blankness, she sensed, violence would come.
Benedict said nothing, which surprised Delphine. It was the first time she had seen him lost for words.
‘What is wrong here?’ said Edmund softly. His interjection startled the man, who had obviously thought he was alone with the object of his disgust. His gaze flickered to Edmund’s face then back to Benedict.
‘I’ve no quarrel with you,’ he said, ‘other than your association with him.’ He turned back to Benedict. ‘Do you know half the havoc you’ve caused? For all your fancy ways you are nothing but a crook. Were there not enough girls here for you, that you had to meddle with another man’s wife? Her husband’s gone, you know, has said she can no longer use his name, nor can he trust that her children are his.’
‘You are mistaken,’ said Benedict, and Del
phine heard the sound of his dry tongue breaking away from the roof of his mouth. ‘There has been some misunderstanding about Polly Gorsey; there is no man’s wife involved.’
‘No man’s wife?’ The incredulity of the man’s expression was extreme. ‘Who told you she was still Polly Gorsey? Her old man, eh? Always saying my Polly this and my Polly that. She might have been born that, but she was Polly Dean until an hour ago, mother to a little one, for all that she leaves the girl with her ma so much. You have ruined another man’s marriage, and now I’ll ruin you.’
He stepped forwards, then stopped and looked at him. ‘She didn’t tell you, did she?’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, he is not like you, he is a man to keep his word, and she will not see him again. And in a few months, sir, isn’t it true, she will bear your child?’
The frozen little group in the street, all behind Benedict, watched the painter step back. When he turned, Delphine had no doubt that the news had shocked him profoundly. She sensed it was not the pregnancy which had disturbed him so deeply, despite Mrs Quillian’s audible cry. Was it not true that men of his sort had women all over London? It was news of the husband.
He rocked back on his heels, and sat down in the middle of the road. It was this action, Delphine thought, which saved him from the violence of the other man, who looked down on him uncomprehendingly for a long moment, then turned and walked away in the direction of the Dolphin. She noticed there were more people on the street now; a couple of children, staring, aping the expressions of their mothers, who stood in doorways, their arms crossed, their eyes hard, watching.
‘Where is my man?’ said Benedict, to no one in particular. ‘Send to the hotel. I need my medicine. Someone fetch him.’