The Widow's Confession

by Sophia Tobin

  They all stood there, a frozen little tableau in the middle of Harbour Street. It was Theo who broke it, and as he passed Edmund, he unfroze too. They went either side of the painter and lifted him, the man struggling to his feet. ‘I had hoped to spare you and the town this, Mr Benedict,’ said Theo.

  Benedict shook his hands away, muttering a curse under his breath. ‘Leave me,’ he said. He began to walk away towards the Albion Hotel.

  ‘Come now, Aunt,’ said Theo. ‘Do you wish to go back?’

  ‘Not just for the moment,’ said Mrs Quillian unsteadily. ‘I believe the air will do me good.’ She attempted a smile for some of the locals who were still watching.

  The sands were busy, and the group moved easily in amongst the people on Main Bay. As Edmund walked alongside them, Delphine saw Julia’s hand twitch, and she wondered what her cousin was thinking of.

  ‘We haven’t seen you much these past few days,’ said Julia. ‘We have felt the lack of your companionship.’

  Delphine saw the astonishment on Edmund’s face, the emotion stealing over his kind expression. Ahead, Theo walked with Mrs Quillian. She wondered if Mr Benedict had found his way safely back to the hotel.

  The clouds were moving fast in the sky, and a sudden shadow made its way over the beach, casting the promenaders and playing children, the bathing machines and line of donkeys, into lower light.

  ‘We cannot depend on the sunshine any more,’ said Julia brightly. ‘Autumn is coming, Mr Steele. When will you be returning to London?’

  At the edge of the water, Delphine saw a woman holding a child on her hip. She appeared to be paddling.

  ‘It’s Polly,’ she said, and she heard Edmund and Julia cease their conversation. She was trying to work out why Polly would be doing such a thing with all the calamities that had happened – and then she realized that the girl was not just paddling.

  She was walking into the sea.

  ‘Mr Steele!’ cried Delphine, and she started weaving her way through the other people, hoping that he was following her.

  By the time she reached the water’s edge, Polly was waist-deep in water. It was clear her dress was weighing her down. Her daughter could not have been more than a year old and was silent in her mother’s arms, looking bemused.

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ gasped Mrs Quillian. The group had come to the water’s edge, and Delphine was aware that Theo stood beside her. ‘The poor dear girl.’

  ‘What are you doing, Polly?’ shouted Delphine.

  At that moment, Polly dipped suddenly, and Delphine thought that the sand she had been on must have shelved off, as it often did; for the sand was moved here and there by the sea, a new landscape every time a tide came in. Suddenly she was in the water nearly up to her shoulders and her daughter’s hair was floating in the sea.

  The cry tore itself from Delphine’s throat and she ran forwards; she was already knee-deep in the sea when she felt hands on her shoulders.

  It was Theo. ‘Do not,’ he said, glancing at her heavy skirts. ‘You will sink like a stone.’ He let go of her and tore off his jacket; beside him, Edmund had already done so and was wading and splashing through the water towards the girl, her head still high, facing the sun and the horizon. Theo reached out for the child first; struggled with Polly, and tore the girl from her arms, lifting her clear from the water as Edmund reached for Polly.

  Polly fought them; Edmund had had no idea she would do so. There was saltwater in his eyes and his mouth, and he wondered for a moment, such was her ferocity, whether she might push him down and drown him. He remembered the faces of Amy Phelps and Catherine Walters, and the thought crossed his mind – quick as a pulse – whether Polly had had some part in their deaths. A lady, with a veil across her face.

  Standing on the shore, never had Delphine felt more constricted by her unwieldy dress. Her bonnet had fallen back, and she found her hands were in her hair, untangling it from its pins. Her cousin held her close, and Delphine heard her fast breathing, knowing that she too was waiting to see the drama unfold.

  As she watched Theo wade back, the tiny girl in his arms, Delphine saw the distress in his eyes, and in the moment that he looked at her, it was as though they were on the cliffs at Reculver again, the connection between them suddenly present, the cobweb threads clear in the sunlight, if only for that moment. He dropped to his knees when he reached the beach, put the girl gently down, and Delphine knelt beside her. The little girl was shocked; choking, but alive, and Delphine lifted her and placed her over her shoulder, patting her on her back so she could spit out the last of the seawater.

  ‘Bravely done,’ she said to Theo, but her words were lost in the turn of the last wave, and Theo had gone back into the sea to help Edmund with Polly. Delphine put the child down on the sand, stroking her hair and saying, ‘All is well, all is well, all is well.’

  Polly was still struggling and fighting, but silently – saying nothing. There was only the pant of her breath and the dull plash of her arms against the surface of the sea. Eventually both men dragged her, one arm each, backwards; no respecters of her status as a woman, but as though they were hauling some wild fish from the sea. When they finally released her she lay on the sand, beside her daughter, her breathing laboured, her dress dark with water. A small crowd had gathered nearby, and Delphine glimpsed Martha at the front, an expression of distress on her face.

  Polly turned to look at her daughter, then reached out towards the little girl. They all thought it would be a touch of tenderness, but instead her hand formed a claw, and it was as though she sought to dole out her sentence of death on the child, even now. But her hand would not reach; she was too far, and Julia snatched the little girl up. ‘I will take her to our cottage,’ she said. ‘She will be safe there.’ And she looked at Edmund, soaked through, picking his coat up from the sand, and some kind of understanding passed between them, for he came to join her.

  ‘Let me carry her,’ he said, and they set off across the sand together.

  Delphine sat down beside Polly, Theo standing over them both. Polly was looking around now, lying on her back, her eyes darting this way and that. She saw Martha. ‘Come to triumph over me?’ she said. ‘Get away! Get away!’

  Delphine saw the puzzlement in Theo’s eyes. ‘They’ve known each other since they were children,’ she said, getting to her feet and brushing a little of the wet sand off her ruined dress. ‘Martha,’ she said, ‘take Mrs Quillian back to the Albion.’ For the old lady, standing on the edge of it all, looked deeply shocked.

  ‘Don’t worry, Aunt,’ said Theo. ‘Mrs Beck and I will see to Polly. Please go back, I will call for you tomorrow.’

  Polly had begun to cry – Delphine sensed that tears seemed easier than speaking – and her first, tight little sobs began to run into cries, terrible shrieking cries, that reminded Delphine of the gulls. Theo leaned over her and put his hand under her elbow. It was a kind of physicality Delphine had never seen in him before; she had the sense that no power on earth could shake that slim, strong hand from the girl’s elbow. ‘Get up,’ he said, in Polly’s ear. ‘Get up now, and we will take you to the parsonage. You do not have to go home yet.’

  ‘Home?’ said Polly. ‘I have no home.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Theo.

  Delphine did not want to touch the girl. She had seen how the petal-sweetness of her beauty had a dangerous edge. It was as if Polly was all sharp edges now, and one could wound oneself even by her touching her. But she knew it was what Theo needed, so she took the girl’s other elbow and they hauled her, almost a dead weight, to her feet. Across the sand they went, with their burden, Theo casting kindly but grave nods to anyone who crossed their path, strangers and locals alike. One of the women who had stood on the doorstep to see Mr Benedict berated had come down, without her own child, and as they neared her, Delphine saw malice cross her face, the muscles around her mouth tensed as though she would say something, spit something, make clear the disgust she had for Polly. But instea
d, she stood back and crossed her arms, and looked down at the sand. She was a good-looking woman, with tight blonde curls and a tortoiseshell comb in her hair, and Delphine allowed herself to wonder whether she and Polly had once been friends, and had their pick of the young men of Broadstairs together. Would Polly’s failure mean she would now be cast out from such companionship? Was her real sin her failure to remain a winner in all the local games?

  Just as swiftly came the thought: Was that her only sin? Was her own child the first person she had tried to kill?

  ‘Quickly now,’ said Theo, and they walked up the middle of Harbour Street, their heads bowed, up the short slope like shire horses dragging their plough behind them. Polly began to sob again, as though her sorrow might earn her the pity of her neighbours, might draw them from their houses and lead her mother to take her in her arms, and say: ‘It’s all right, my girl. Things will be mended.’ But no such mercy happened, and Delphine thought to herself that they must send a message to Mr Gorsey. She wondered if the painter was sitting in a carriage, Ramsgate-bound, blaming others for his misfortune.

  Julia and Edmund had long since gone before them with the child; the door of Victory Cottage was closed. Without discussion Theo and Delphine turned up the driveway to the parsonage, their charge now silent, submitting to their guidance without any protest.

  Theo ushered them into the hallway and Delphine saw him glance at their state; covered in seawater and sand. ‘Into the kitchen,’ he said, and Polly gave a low, bitter laugh.

  They sat in silence for several minutes around the kitchen table. It was Theo who spoke first.

  ‘Do you remember your Bible study, Polly?’ he said. ‘Luke, chapter seven, verse forty-seven: Her sins, which are many, are forgiven; for she loved much: but to whom little is forgiven, the same loveth little.’

  Polly watched him sullenly. ‘Is that all you have to say?’ she said.

  ‘All?’ said Theo. ‘It is everything, Polly, if you would but realize it. Can you see that your Saviour offers you hope? Offers you forgiveness from your sins?’ He paused. ‘No matter how numerous they are.’ And Delphine saw the doubt in his eyes, and wondered if he too was thinking of the girls washed up on the beach, of Polly’s frequent presence on the pier, scanning the horizon with her cutting gaze.

  ‘Not sins,’ said Polly in a low but defiant tone. ‘Mistakes.’

  ‘The two are often confused,’ said Delphine.

  Theo looked at her. ‘I’d say it was a sin,’ he said, ‘to try and take your own life, and that of your child. What did you hope for, Polly? The muddy corner of Mockett’s field, past the wall of the churchyard? A forgotten grave beyond the reach of prayers?’

  Polly’s mouth twisted in distress and her tears began to fall again. ‘I did not think of anything,’ she said, ‘other than the terrible things that Michael said to me. They were not true. Jessie is his, and I meant to be a true and good wife to him. If this,’ she placed her hand on her stomach, ‘is true, then it was an error only; one mistake. I have been Michael’s sweetheart since I was fourteen years old. The others admired me, but I kept eyes only for him.’

  Delphine saw Theo’s gaze flick down to the surface of the kitchen table. She sensed he doubted Polly’s words, and she wanted to say: ‘Just because she is aware of the effect she has on men, it does not mean that she was untrue to him.’

  ‘Fourteen years old,’ said Polly again. ‘I was good at my lessons, but no one cared for that. I am twenty-four now. It is a lifetime, to be in this place. And he gives me no word of praise, except now and then. All his warmth he saves for his evenings in the Tartar Frigate, for his old mates on the boat. If I am there it is to be sweet little Polly. He does not care what I say, or think, as long as I do not interfere in the singing of their sea shanties.’

  Theo’s eyes were blank as she spoke, and Delphine wondered how many times he had heard this story. She glimpsed in Polly’s eyes the truth of it all, and knew that she herself would rather have anything than the stultifying boredom of the fireside with someone who did not understand her or know her.

  ‘I have spent my life trying to think what to say to him,’ said Polly sadly, ‘but I do love him. Mr Benedict was so fine – like a bird with exotic plumage. He made me laugh. He saw me as they used to see me – as unreachable Polly, as beautiful Polly; when I was a prize to be wanted and sought for. He saw all of that in me. It was a little wrong of me to spend time with him. But Michael – he has kissed other girls, I have seen him. When the Mary White happened, his friends told me he went to Ranelagh, and said he pretended he had been one of the lifeboatmen, just to be with a girl – a slip of a girl. All of those friends of his wanted me once; now I am a joke to them. If he has done that, then why is what I have done a sin? He was wrong to leave me, wrong to leave me. I am so angry sometimes, it builds in me like a fire, and I hardly know what to do with it.’

  At the words Mary White, Theo and Delphine’s eyes had met. Theo seemed to be searching for something to say.

  ‘Marriage is a sacred bond,’ he said. Delphine wanted to say, ‘No, no it is not. Not that kind of marriage.’

  ‘You are shivering, both of you. I will get some blankets.’

  He went out and they heard him ascending the stairs.

  Polly turned her gaze to Delphine’s face. ‘How does he know what marriage is?’ she said.

  Delphine sensed spite behind her words. ‘He means to help you,’ she said, ‘but I know it is hard to hear his words. Polly, you may tell me – has there been more to this? Were the bodies on the beach anything to do with you?’

  Polly frowned, but kept her eyes on Delphine’s. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Now you wish to pile every sin on my head. Is that convenient for you? It hardly surprises me. Mr Benedict took me to the Ranelagh Gardens. We drank champagne as he told me all about you as a little group – how amusing he was. And you sit here all grave and pious, as though you are a true lady and I am dirt.’

  ‘You are mistaken,’ said Delphine. ‘I am not judging you. I do not like you, it is true. But I would have dragged you out of the water myself, if I had to. I understand the damage a man can do to a woman.’

  ‘Yet you do not defend me,’ said Polly. ‘Instead, you ask me if I am a murderer. Such a fine lady, you are.’

  ‘I am talking to you,’ said Delphine. ‘I am trying to talk to you, Polly. We should speak openly with each other. Why are you not listening?’

  ‘Mr Benedict knows who you are,’ said Polly, and for the first time a smile seared its way across her red lips. ‘What would happen if I told him?’ She nodded towards the door, at the distant sounds of Theo returning.

  It was like the day she had met Benedict, Delphine thought; the day the carriage had come hurtling down the hill towards her. So this is how it ends. She had no idea exactly how much Benedict knew, and what he had told Polly, but she knew it was enough to lay waste to the façade she had carefully built around her. She held Polly’s gaze. ‘Tell him,’ she said.

  It was strange, the relief that flooded her, now that the moment had come. And in that kitchen, soaked to the skin, the thought hit her like the revelation she had spent so many years hoping for, staring at stained-glass windows. I have already lost everything. There is no need to be afraid.

  She rose as Theo entered the room, blankets in his arms. ‘Polly has something to say to you,’ she said. ‘Go on,’ she prompted Polly. ‘Say what you have to say. Tell him.’

  The girl looked at her mutely.

  ‘Very well. Shall I begin?’ Delphine turned to Theo and looked directly at him. ‘I am not a widow, Mr Hallam. I have never been married.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Unbeknownst to me, Julia had begun to make her own quiet bid for freedom. She, who had been so against our making connections in the town, who had so often kept her face veiled. When I heard what had happened I worried for her, and even more so for Mr Steele. I wondered if my comments about money had burrowed deep into her mind, and made her risk a
marriage she would not normally have wished for. Our family had allowed us an income, as long as we stayed away; they had never increased it, even as the years passed. It was enough for us to live decently, though not well, but its unchanging nature worried me. I thought that one day, when the memory of us had faded enough, it would stop altogether. But now I see it was not the dwindling of the money that terrified me, so much as the proof it offered: that the love they had for me, hidden beneath convention and anger, had dwindled, too, wasting away to nothing.

  I should not have worried for Julia when I learned what had happened. That I did worry shows me how little we knew each other, even after all those years.

  They had come into Victory Cottage in a hurry, knocking things off the hallstand, Edmund holding the dripping child in his arms and thinking, It is so small, so dark in here. It no longer felt like the comfortable cottage he had taken refuge in on the night of the mist. In the parlour, he laid the girl down on the sofa and saw how threadbare its embroidery was, unsoftened by the evening firelight and candlelight. He looked around and became aware that the books and ornaments which had been present before had all been removed, and the suspicion that Delphine and Julia were packing up to leave entered his mind. There was a chill stealing over him, the chill of autumn, and he realized, warmed as he had been by his terror and excitement, that he was now cold, cold to the bone, from the seawater soaking his clothes.

  Julia put a hand on his arm, and her unexpected touch sent shivers through him.

  ‘Dear Mr Steele,’ she said, ‘will you put the kettle on the range? It should have water in it.’ He went silently, without replying, but feeling the sensation of her hand on his arm as though it was still placed there.

  He moved around awkwardly in the kitchen, hearing the wail of the little girl in her unfamiliar surroundings. The kettle was on the side, but it had no water in it, and he carried it back into the parlour, befuddled, and thinking that all he wanted was a good strong brandy. What he saw there pulled him up on the threshold.