The Widow's Confession (29 page)

‘Nothing has been the same since you came here,’ said Theo. ‘This quiet place, where I thought I would be safe – you have turned everything upside down. I have tortured
myself over a whore.’

There was no way past him, and the noise grew loud in Delphine’s mind. She took a step back. The thought crossed her mind that she would take a knife, and run it through him, as though he
was that first man and every man since who had judged her and taken away her freedom. For the silence of her mother, and the complicity of every friend and relation she had known in her whole life.
One ring for each of them, worn on her fingers, fingers loaded with gold enamelled over with black. But she felt tired; and she knew there was only one way out of the room without violence. It was
the truth.

‘Very well,’ she said. ‘If you must know it. Despite it all, Mr Hallam, I am a virgin. As pure as every one of those little girls found on the beach. My name is Amy.’

She had shocked him; he dropped his arm. She went past him, quickly, down the hall, out of the front door into the bright, cruel sunshine that blinded her, pulling the door shut behind her with
all her strength. The door slammed shut so hard that the knocker rattled against it, but she did not look back; she had broken into a run towards Victory Cottage, running as if he might follow
her.

Theo stood in the darkness of the hallway, a few steps from the door, now shut. His left hand hung at his side, but his right was raised slightly, the fingers curved round. He stared at it for a
moment, this hand which seemingly did not belong to him. The hand that had reached out as she left, reached out to take her right arm and turn her round to him, and take her face, so that he might
kiss her.

Let me tell you what I wore, each day, apart from my dresses: grey, lavender, black – all of hard-wearing, itchy stuff. Neither full mourning nor half-mourning, but
in flux day by day.

On the little finger of my right hand, a ring bearing a monogram of my grandfather’s initials.

On the third finger of my right hand, a ring enclosing beneath rock crystal the entwined hair of my grandfather and grandmother.

On the second finger of my left hand, a black enamelled mourning ring enclosing the hair of my parents, tied in a love knot.

On the third finger of my left hand, a gold band enamelled in white, with forget-me-nots picked out in gold. The interior engraved with my real name. A mourning ring for a virgin, or one
unmarried.

Around my neck, a choker made of woven hair, the last remnant of who I once was.

Alba had said that Miss Waring thought me over-indulgent in my mourning. Perhaps she saw my face, and thought it too should have been plain and unornamented, that my gaze should not have
been searching for something, as clearly it was – though at the time I thought myself stringent in my carriage and expressions. It was a fair question, though. Why did I still mourn? Why did
I still wear those rings, that choker, those dark uncomfortable dresses? Because I was driven to remember. I thought, I must keep the wound open. It was only by grieving, and hating, and
memorializing, that I remembered who I was. And I could do it in a way that the world did not question. For all of my coolness, I wore my wounds openly, I showed the world that I had known
suffering. And I built my walls, hopeful that no one would ever break them down.

Now? Now I wish to be happy. And to be happy, one must choose to live with the past. I must find a place inside my mind for it; a dark corner, where it can sleep.

Victory Cottage was silent as Delphine entered; in her fumbling urgency it took her more than one turn of the handle to get the front door open.

She went first to the parlour and found Edmund and Julia there, with Polly’s child sleeping in Julia’s arms. The light was already greying in the room; Julia placed a finger to her
lips as Delphine sank into the chair. Her face was white, and as Edmund approached her he saw the shock there. He leaned over her.

‘Something has happened,’ she said in a whisper.

They heard the front door rattle in its frame – someone clumsily trying to open it. Delphine covered her face and turned away. ‘Not him,’ she said. It was such a gesture of
vulnerability that Edmund stepped out into the hallway swiftly, wondering what he would face. He went to the door and yanked it open.

A woman stood there; her face was faintly familiar. ‘I’ve come for the little one,’ she said, and curtseyed belatedly. ‘Martha sent word that she was here. I’m Mrs
Gorsey, Polly’s mother.’

‘One moment,’ he said, and went back into the parlour. Julia was already on her feet, carrying the little girl out into the hallway. The child held her arms out at the sight of her
grandmother.

‘We can keep her here for a while, if you wish,’ said Julia, with such a note of pleading in her voice that it pained Edmund.

The woman shook her head. ‘Best with family,’ she said, and received the child into her arms. The little girl looked over her grandmother’s shoulder as the woman walked down
the path, and raised a chubby little hand as though to say goodbye. Edmund watched Julia – but she only smiled and waved back, as one would to a child on the beach. She had done it in a
practised manner; turned away and smiled brightly. From what she had told him, he guessed that she had known many goodbyes, and become accustomed to it.

Delphine was still sitting in the same place. Julia sat down beside her and Edmund went to stand by the empty fireplace, feeling that he was intruding as he watched Delphine wipe a tear away
with her thumb.

‘Dearest,’ said Julia after a moment, ‘what has happened?’

Delphine looked at her. ‘He knows,’ she said, ‘Mr Hallam.’ Her eyes glanced regretfully at Edmund. ‘There is no need to go, Mr Steele. I am sure he will tell you
everything. You need only cross the street and walk up the drive, and you will have a full and colourful version of my character painted for you.’

‘I think I may make my own judgement,’ said Edmund and, alarmed at her pallor, he went quietly from the room to find something for her to drink.

Julia leaned towards Delphine, took her face in her hands. ‘You look terrible, my darling – worse even than
that
day.’ They sat in pregnant silence as Edmund returned
with Madeira, neither he nor Julia wanting to ask what had happened, only knowing that it must have been something of great violence.

‘We must leave this place,’ Delphine said. ‘I never want to see him – or anyone else from our party – again.’

‘I do not believe that,’ said Julia bravely.

‘Then you must learn to listen better.’ Delphine took the glass Edmund offered her, drinking it down in one mouthful. She caught his gaze with her own as she put it on the table
beside her. ‘He has insulted me,’ she said. The clock ticked in the silence she let fall. ‘I never thought to hear such words from his lips. I think I held him sacred, until this
moment.’ She wiped another tear away. ‘I have been a fool.’ She looked at Julia. ‘You must forgive me for letting you down,’ she said. ‘He knows who we are
– and he is wild with anger. I do not know what he will do – who he will tell. I am sorry, but we must begin again.’

‘Do not say you are sorry,’ said Julia. ‘I cannot bear it.’

‘He has hurt me,’ whispered Delphine, and she caught Edmund’s glance again. ‘I felt it so much I almost wanted to kill him.’

Julia looked from one to the other. ‘Do not speak so intemperately. There is a man here who will defend you,’ she said, ‘who will be family to you, as soon as God
allows.’ She had one arm wrapped around her body, the other hand pressed to the mark on her face. She looked at Edmund.

Delphine’s gaze flickered between them. ‘Oh,’ she said, a gentle smile flaring up on her face, in such contrast to the grief that it was almost ghoulish. ‘Tell
me.’

Edmund swallowed; he would not have chosen this moment to tell her. It seemed insensitive, and yet Julia’s strained gaze was unwavering. ‘Your cousin has done me the honour of
agreeing to become my wife,’ he said.

Delphine nodded. ‘I am glad,’ she said.

Julia sprang to her, held her tightly. ‘So you see,’ she said, ‘Edmund will defend you. He will right all the wrongs Mr Hallam has done – won’t you,
dear?’

Edmund was shaken by the novelty of the word. He nodded.

Delphine pulled away from her. ‘There is nothing Mr Steele can do,’ she said.

‘But there must be,’ said Julia, a scratch of vulnerability in her voice.

Delphine shook her head. ‘Whatever connection lay between Mr Hallam and me,’ and her face showed her astonishment, that her mind had been a stranger even to herself, in this sudden
recognition of the store of feeling which lay beneath the surface of each ‘good morning’ and ‘good evening’ exchanged between her and Theo. ‘Whatever that
connection,’ she went on, ‘though we were hardly aware of it, either of us, it is now broken.’ She looked up at Edmund, and he saw in the shadows beginning under her eyes, the
exhaustion of extreme emotion. ‘You do not need to defend me. I do not doubt that you are a gentleman, and loyal to my cousin – but you have no debt to me. There is nothing to be
done.’ She reached across and poured herself another glass of Madeira. ‘I have fought worse battles than this,’ she said, and at her words Julia picked up the decanter and hurried
from the room. Delphine watched her. ‘You should go after her,’ she said.

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.

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.’