by Sophia Tobin
Edmund followed his fiancée to the kitchen. She had put the bottle down, and was leaning on the counter with a stricken look on her face.
He placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘My dear girl,’ he said, then paused, for he did not know what to call her. She had confided her real name to him, but the information was so new that he could not say it, for he knew it would sound wrong to his ears.
She turned to him and rested her head against his shoulder. Edmund hardly knew what to do with this closeness; the scent of her, and warmth of her, was so far from what he had yet experienced that he had to check himself.
‘I thought,’ she said in a low voice, ‘that we might both be happy, my cousin and I. After all these years of resignation.’
Edmund hesitantly allowed his arms to slip around her. He listened, but he could not hear Delphine crying; he could not bear to think she had been left alone to struggle with her trouble.
‘I am glad you know my name,’ she said. ‘There is more I have to tell, but not tonight. Not now.’
She clung to him, then raised her face to his, and he knew not whether their kiss had been begun by her, or by him; only that it was not chaste, but fierce, and that he held her bodily against him in a way which he had not anticipated. Her sudden intensity was surprising – almost, the word came to him later – dangerous. But he did not feel any misgiving in that moment; only love and tenderness, sharpening into hunger.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Mr Clare was the man who ruined me. A little older than me, rich, and passionate about me. I was told he was handsome too, but I never quite believed it, even if my opinion did not match the crowd’s. There was dissolution in those features, I thought – but what I had really seen was cruelty. I was from a strict household, also rich, but climbing, and I was rebelling – just with words, of course, the only weapon I had. When Mr Clare sent me a note asking me to meet him (most improper) I saw another way to rebel. Out on a New York sidewalk, I saw in an instant that I had made a mistake, heard the heated, champagne-fuelled words of offer: an elopement. He believed I loved him, was dazzled by him, wanted him. I did not; I fled. But I had been seen, and I had no idea what his hurt pride and the malice of my enemies would do to my life. I had never even known I had enemies.
Edmund wondered whether he had waited too long. He walked the last stretch of the parsonage drive with a sense of foreboding in his heart, as one would approach an empty and haunted house. The light was fading, the trees were still – and then he saw a faint glow in the drawing-room window.
As Edmund knocked on the front door of the parsonage, it reminded him of that first day, arriving in the blazing sun. Now the sights and sounds were familiar to him; the softness of the summer warmth fading as night descended; the distant sound of the sea, wild tonight, and its ceaseless turning over of the waves on the beach. He could smell the sea in the air; hear the sounds of people returning to their lodgings for the evening, a few fretful children’s voices. There would be an assembly tonight at the rooms on the front, but he was far from clapping and cheering, or wanting to hear music and merriment. He knocked on the door, and he was fearful of what he might find. Unbeknownst to Julia and Delphine, he had kept his eye on the window, and had seen that the lamps of Holy Trinity had not been lit for Evening Prayer. He had wondered if one or two worshippers might have waited on the steps of the church, but knew that none of them would have gone up to the parsonage, probably thinking that the priest had been called away on urgent business, and was perhaps attending a dying person’s bedside.
The door opened. The hall was dark, and he saw only the shape of someone, a little sliver of a white face in the shadows. ‘Theo?’ he said.
‘Ah, Mr Edmund Steele,’ said Theo, and Edmund smelled at once the brandy on his breath. ‘Come in.’ He stumbled ahead of Edmund, reaching out to touch the walls, until he came to the drawing-room door and opened it.
‘Did Mrs Gorsey come and get Polly?’ asked Edmund, entering and looking around the room. There was no sign of disturbance. Two oil lamps burned, companionably, their buttery flames giving the room a soft glow.
‘Yes,’ said Theo. ‘And I told Martha to go too. Then I took your advice; a drink or two hardly hurts a man.’ He sat down heavily in the chair by the fire, where no fire burned. He was talking precisely; without the fumes of the brandy, and his erratic movements, Edmund would have assumed he was sober.
‘You did change?’ said Edmund. ‘That seawater chilled me through.’
‘Of course I did,’ said Theo impatiently. Then he looked at Edmund. ‘But you did not. My dear sir, please go and put dry clothes on. You place your life at risk to wait so long with,’ he paused, ‘the ladies.’
Edmund did what he said. When he returned, Theo had got another glass out, and had filled both his and Edmund’s with a good measure of brandy. Then he sat back in his chair, and though he raised his glass at Edmund’s bidding, he had lost the slightly forced good cheer he had been manifesting when Edmund arrived. Instead, he sat, drink in hand, lost in his thoughts.
‘I should tell you,’ said Edmund. ‘I am engaged.’
A frown crossed Theo’s brow. ‘Engaged?’ he said. ‘To whom?’
Edmund almost smiled; wondered if he had really been so opaque when, internally, his whole world had been shifting, and knew in that moment that he had inherited his father’s ability to mask his thoughts. ‘Miss Mardell,’ he said, using her assumed name, as the most familiar.
‘Oh.’ The perplexed expression faded from Theo’s face; the hardness of panic that had entered his eyes, briefly, softened back into thoughtfulness. He took a draw from his glass then. ‘Is she who she says she is?’ he said.
Edmund was disturbed by the tone of his voice; barely veiled violence hung behind his words. ‘She has travelled under that name. Her real name is De Witt. When one is escaping trials, it is understandable that one would not wish to carry that name and move under its shadow everywhere,’ he said.
Theo made a sound – half-cough, half-hah. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘She has tricked you too.’
‘No one is tricked,’ said Edmund brusquely. Theo blinked; he looked hurt. Edmund leaned forwards, and put his glass down. ‘Theo,’ he said, trying to make his voice even, ‘what is wrong? Will you speak to me? You can, if you wish, or I will sit here with you.’
‘Matthew twenty-four,’ said Theo. ‘Watch therefore: for ye know not what hour your Lord doth come. But know this, that if the goodman of the house had known in what watch the thief would come, he would have watched, and would not have suffered his house to be broken up.’
‘Theo,’ said Edmund.
Theo slammed his glass down onto the table which such force that Edmund was sure he had broken it, but it stood there, in the gloom, still whole.
They sat in silence for what seemed to be an eternity to Edmund. Misery hung in the very air. He felt it soak into him and depress his spirits, spirits which despite everything had been high, for he had the expectation that he would marry, and the subject of marriage now seemed a thing of joy. At length, he thought he would try one last time.
‘I may be wrong,’ he started, ‘but I suspect that you may also have thought of marriage. And, I must claim some secret knowledge here, I do know that it was once a possibility for you, a long time ago, in Ceylon.’
Theo blinked, but said nothing.
‘I know what end it came to,’ said Edmund, ‘that the poor lady died on her way here, and that you have mourned her, with the grace that I would expect from a man of your honourable character. But, if I was to say one thing to you, my dear Hallam, it would be that you cannot mourn forever. That God, in all His mysteries, does grant us other chances – to be of use, as you have found with your vocation here – but also to love. Surely if we are offered such a chance, we should take it.’
There was perplexity, again, on Theo’s face.
‘Perhaps I am not making myself clear,’ said Edmund, with a sigh. ‘I am poor with words, as Ch
arles will tell you. But what I mean to say is – you are not tied to the remembrance of that good lady, unless you wish to be. You have done her memory honour, and may begin again, and make an honest marriage, blessed by God. Do you think our Maker would begrudge you that?’
Theo’s frown had faded. He was breathing slowly; every breath was a sigh, as though he was near sleep. ‘You are kind, to speak to me so,’ he said eventually. ‘I thank you for it. But you do not understand, Mr Steele. That lady you speak of – she was a virtuous girl. I heap blessings on her in my prayers. She was a local girl in Colombo, whom I saw one day when I was leaving church; hardly sixteen when I met her . . . Ah, yes, you see, that puts a different complexion on things. I see that even in this poor light, your expression has changed.’
‘Not at all,’ said Edmund gravely.
‘Well.’ Theo waved one hand in the air. ‘I was young too – just out of Cambridge, flushed with my purpose. I saw her, and felt the most powerful emotion I had ever felt; thought I heard the voice of God Himself speak to me. He had chosen my wife, not I – that is what I told myself. I pursued her; her family saw a chance in me. I was granted the liberty to become engaged to her – and I considered myself quite a pilgrim, I can tell you. I came back here, as promised, to prepare a place for her and now,’ he said, smiling at Edmund, ‘now, here comes it, Mr Steele. All those feelings, the voice of God – they all faded. I had her likeness, which I had drawn myself. I had a lock of her hair. She had been taught to write, so I even had her words before me. But when I read those letters, I knew that our souls did not correspond at any point. When I asked questions, she did not know how to reply; and I was the same. Her words seemed hollow to me. They were the words of a stranger. And she was coming to me. I was to honour my promise. But the truth is, the worst of it is . . .’ He looked down, as though his head was suddenly heavy on his neck. ‘I did not want her to come. All of those feelings, so potent in the hot sun, had vanished. And I realized – on my knees, in this church – that all I had felt was lust. I! Always so pure, always so quick to examine my own heart. And when her ship foundered, and I knew she was dead, do you know what I felt?’
He leaned forwards, his eyes glinting in the light from the oil lamp.
‘Relief,’ he said. ‘Just that – pure relief. Relief that she was dead, and that I would not have to live out a lifetime with her.’ He curved his hand around the empty glass; Edmund did not reach for the decanter to refill it. ‘Now, man of the world as you are, tell me what I deserve.’
Edmund wondered if Theo really did expect words of punishment. It seemed the man was punishing himself enough already. Edmund thought he could only speak to him in the language he would understand. ‘Forgiveness,’ he said. ‘That is what you deserve, and if you ask for it, you will receive it – is that not what you tell your flock every day?’
Theo shook his head. Edmund saw the distress as it came into his face, pushing out the exasperation and frustration written across his features.
‘I am in the darkness,’ he said. ‘I have prayed on it, these past few weeks. I have meditated on the storm within me. And there is no light, Edmund.’ He looked up, and there was a shine to his eyes. ‘I am guilty. I can almost touch the fires of hell. God will not speak to me. I cannot make the wrong decision, again. I have seen the hurt that it causes. I cannot step further away from God and His purpose for me. But He has not deserted me. I must wait. I must wait – and word will come, I know.’
He stayed still. They sat together in silence. At length, Edmund rose and took up one of the lamps. ‘I wish you good night,’ he said, and walked towards the door. He was reaching for the handle when he heard Theo say his name.
‘I have lost her, haven’t I?’ he said.
Edmund knew he was asking for the truth. ‘I think so,’ he said.
He went out of the door and closed it quietly behind him, holding up the lamp as he looked down the hallway. By its dull light, he saw the closed study door and decided that its mystery had troubled him too long. He walked silently down the tiled hall, then opened the door, turning the doorknob slowly so as to make his entrance as quiet as possible. He saw first on the wall the drawing of Saint Sebastian, an image of holy suffering, which had alerted him to Theo’s particular melancholy. He took a breath, preparing himself for what he imagined: neatness, order, sterility. Perhaps walls full of pinned butterflies, or collected sea grasses. A place where Theo could nurture the coldness he felt was necessary to deal with others.
In that moment, the door hit an obstruction and refused to move any further. Alert to every sound, Edmund edged his way around it and angled the lamp to cast some light on the room. It was then he saw how wrong he had been.
He could barely see Theo’s desk. It was obscured with piles of paper and newspapers. The whole room was filled to its corners and half its height with books, newspapers and religious tracts. Piles had been made, and fallen over; the only space on the floor was a small pathway to the desk. There was no order; only clutter and chaos. The sickly-sweet smell of rotting food assailed Edmund; he stepped back out of the room and closed the door. As he turned, he caught sight of Theo, standing in the hallway, in the light from the drawing-room doorway.
‘I didn’t want you to see that,’ he said.
Edmund caught his breath; felt his heart pounding in his chest. ‘I am your friend,’ he said. ‘There has been a crisis, but you will come through it. Believe me, Theo.’
Theo leaned against the door. ‘They sent you for me, didn’t they?’ he said. ‘That’s why Mr Venning sent you here. My family think I am mad, don’t they?’
‘No,’ said Edmund. ‘No, they do not. But you are struggling with some great weight on your soul.’ He came forwards. ‘We are all of us haunted in our way, Theo.’
Theo looked at him, a glassy quality to his gaze. ‘You should be here on a winter’s night,’ he said, ‘when the weather is all around, so it feels as though it has the house in its grip. I can hear the sea from here, its roar and its fury, hear the rain hard against the windowpane, the gale in the trees. I almost imagine myself at sea – with her.’
‘Some believe,’ said Edmund, ‘that if you speak of such things, it offers the mind relief. That you can relearn how to think of the past. I have seen it. Will you speak to me of it?’
Theo nodded, his head low. ‘Very well,’ he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I often think of the conversation in the parsonage kitchen, when all the strength I had built over a decade dissolved in an instant; an illusion. I felt desolation – and I saw it in the eyes of he who spoke with me, too. I took no pride in it. I saw that he could only think of me as someone wicked; that it was his way of defending himself from whatever, unnameable feeling he had for me. Mr Steele said it was love; I do not think it was, not then. We were so far from loving each other in that moment, that I cannot think of what it would have taken to bring us together; an act of God, perhaps. Our clash, that day, was like the warning reverberation of the cannon they fired from the lightships at the Sands when a ship foundered, causing everyone to spring up and look at each other, and say: ‘Is it a wreck? Is it a wreck?’ In his goodness, Mr Steele saw that as the precursor to love. But I believed, in that moment, that we would have made each other miserable; that whatever tied us together would have destroyed our peace. It was why we drew together then sprang apart so often during that summer. We were frightened of our desires, and of what their consequences might be.
As a child, Delphine had been told of the curative properties of sleep by her governess. Often, she had allowed herself to succumb to sleep simply out of this long-engrained lesson; that the mind would be washed clean of all its cares in beautiful oblivion. This morning there was only a moment before the events of the day before tumbled over in her mind – and the remembrance of them was like a flame approaching paper, and drying everything up in its path the moment before it burned.
She heard movement downstairs, went down quickly
and discovered Julia at the window of the parlour, her hair loose around her shoulders. When Delphine came in she turned, and looked a little ashamed.
‘Mr Steele won’t call just yet,’ said Delphine, with a faint smile.
‘Martha has not come this morning,’ Julia replied.
‘I wouldn’t expect to see her again,’ said Delphine. ‘I think, perhaps, she believes that we have brought bad luck with us. We had a good few months here, my dear. We will be gone soon.’
They decided to stay in that morning. Delphine built up the fire and Julia made the breakfast. It was half past eleven, and they were both reading when they heard the sound of the gate opening. However, before Julia could even look out of the window, there was a sharp rapping at the door. She ran and opened it.
‘My dear,’ said Edmund. ‘May I come in, briefly?’ He was in the parlour in two steps, and both women fell silent at the signs of strain on his face.
‘You must excuse me this morning,’ he said. ‘I cannot stay. I came to tell you why Martha has not come to you. Her niece – Sarah – she cannot be found.’
‘Has anyone been to Polly?’ said Julia.
‘Polly has been with her family all night,’ said Edmund. ‘They gave her laudanum so that she might sleep; it is nothing to do with her. I doubted it anyway, but now it is certain.’
‘Oh, dear God,’ said Delphine, sitting down suddenly. ‘Can we do anything?’
‘Stay in,’ said Edmund. ‘I am sorry to say it, but there is bad feeling in the town at the moment – very bad feeling. Towards Dr Crisp for not noting the other deaths as suspicious, and towards the strangers in the town – especially you, I regret to say, though it is best you know. I will be searching for the girl with Mr Hallam.’ His eyes dipped at the mention of the priest’s name. ‘We do not have time to speak of it now, but I hope that the breach between you can be healed. I must go, now. We will head towards Kingsgate. I have hope that she may be found; that this is not a case like the others. But stay in. Do not answer the door.’ The tenderness in his eyes as he looked at Julia filled Delphine with joy, even in that dark moment.