The Widow's Confession (36 page)

Delphine sat on the edge of the park, watching those who walked through it, listening to snatches of conversation. It was one of her favourite occupations, though normally she
brought Julia, for the sake of respectability.

Walking down a street in the City a few weeks before, she had caught the scent of it: incense. Even in that London street it sent her nerves tingling with so many sensations that for a while she
was no longer there, but in the solemn, flint-fronted church on the Kent coast. Smells, sounds and sights came upon her: dust, the pages of prayer books, the hardness of the wooden pews darkened by
thick varnish, every single coloured cell of light from the windows cast on the wood of the floor. She thought about the vast sunny spaces of that church; how Theo had to close them in with incense
– of how he sought to make mysteries out of clear space. She remembered his voice, the voice that had reminded her of the faith of her childhood: resonant yet tender, pure and precise. It was
unwise to love him, yet she did.

His first letter had come on a bright, clear March day. It lay on the breakfast table, on the silver tray their maid used for the letters, Delphine’s name written clearly on the front.

Edmund saw it first. ‘It’s Theo’s writing,’ he said, and passed it across to Delphine. ‘In his last letter, he said he would be writing to you.’ They looked
at each other across the table, as Julia poured the tea. ‘He has been examining his thoughts,’ she said. ‘We have conversed in our letters about the deep melancholy that ailed
him, and how he may live with it in future. But it is up to you, my dear sister, whether you wish to hear what he has to say.’

Delphine took the letter, and went up to her room.

My dear Mrs Beck,
the letter
began, forgive me.
She still remembered the first shock she had felt at seeing his handwriting form her name. The delight that crept over her as
she read his words, densely packed into each page, surprised her too. He had asked her if she wished to know of him, truly. She had thought about it for days, sitting on the edge of the park, as
she did now. She had thought it would be better to tell him not to write, to learn to live quietly, to be peaceful, at last. Then, when she sat to compose the letter, she had found herself writing
the word,
yes.

Since then, Edmund and Julia had watched with amazement as a dense cream envelope arrived on the silver tray every day. The penultimate letter was a declaration of love, a declaration that had
made Delphine catch her breath, for they had never been in each other’s presence since that dreadful night when Miss Waring, now committed as insane, had sought to kill Daisy Benedict. Then
the last letter came.

Please, tell me,
he had written, the same words he said to her on the harbour arm at Ramsgate.
Write to me openly, and honestly. Let me see that summer through your eyes. Let me
hear your apprehensions, your impressions. I cannot make you do this, I know. But I cannot forget that summer, until I know the truth of it all, from you.

The clouds were moving fast across the sky. She watched the colour of the grass, dark then light, from those clouds moving above. She had written her letter, and waited, never expecting a reply.
But it had come, three days later.
I will arrive in London on the 25th.

The shadowline of the trees sharpened as the sun came out from behind the cloud then, just as suddenly, shadow unfurled itself across the park, a darkness moving at walking pace, just as it had
on the day when they had pulled Polly Dean and her child from the sea.

The wind shook the trees above her and a few stray leaves fell, floating in the breeze, a diagonal line to the ground. She would go home now, leave the serenity of the park and venture through
the London streets. When I see him, she thought, then will I know.

The house Delphine shared with Julia and Edmund was in the City; it was comfortable, and as she approached it, she thought of the contentment she had found there, watching Edmund and Julia in
their happiness. A child was to be born to them, very soon, and at the moment Delphine had learned of it, the final vestiges of the anger she felt at Julia’s betrayal had disappeared, like
mist broken up by the morning sunlight.

That house was now her home. Knowing that Theo was sitting in its parlour made her nervous, and she wondered again if she had been wrong to encourage him.

The maid let her in; she opened the parlour door.

‘Theo is taking tea with us,’ said Julia. ‘Will you take a cup?’

Delphine sat down. How strange the conversation was, how stilted, until Edmund at last found a reason for Julia and himself to go out for a moment, leaving Delphine and Theo sitting, side by
side, neither eating nor drinking, until Theo set his cup down with a clatter and she saw that he was shaking.

He turned, and they looked at each other.

‘Is there a way to begin again?’ he said.

London, 1854

The couple, a lady and a gentleman, were the first to enter the Great Room of the Royal Academy for the Summer Exhibition. It did not take them long to find the picture they
were looking for, having sought advice from the porter – and it was in a prominent position. The canvas was several yards in length, and the couple regarded it with deep concentration,
standing apart, he in a black coat and top hat, she in a pale blue dress and bonnet.

‘Do you like it?’ she said, at last. ‘The newspapers say they will likely have to put a rail up, to keep the crowds away, as they did with his painting last year.’

‘It is finely executed,’ said Theo. ‘But you are the artist, my love. Your opinion counts more than mine.’

Delphine glanced at him and smiled.

‘He is very clever,’ she said. ‘There are some critics who will sneer, of course, but his grasp of detail and composition is unrivalled.’ She moved to the corner and
looked at the signature – neat, with a swirl on each capital:
R. Benedict.

‘Another triumph,’ Theo said, without rancour.

Already more people were approaching, and the sound of voices was growing louder in the room. Delphine set to examining the painting again, as though she hoped to grasp every detail before other
people came alongside her, expressing their opinions. The picture was of the sands at Broadstairs, and it was painted from the viewpoint of the sea. It depicted the mass of visitors on the sands of
Main Bay: a gentleman reading the paper; two women gossiping; another woman lifting a child into the water so that she might paddle. In the distance there were bathing machines. One of the men was
clearly Edmund Steele. A young girl, with a gaily beribboned bonnet, was Alba, and the lady sitting on the sand, dressed in white, bore a resemblance to Julia, but with no birthmark.

‘Is it ethical,’ said Theo, ‘for him to paint people without asking?’

She sighed. ‘No. Alba knew – she said so in her last letter – and I suppose Edmund and Julia will not be so troubled by it. Perhaps. As long as their names are never mentioned.
I don’t think he would – do you?’

‘One can never know,’ said Theo. ‘But I think not. He wishes to forget that summer, I’m sure.’ He brushed at her waist with his hand. ‘I am astonished that he
did not paint
you,’
he said.

Delphine remembered the wildflower meadow on the cliffs near Kingsgate, that blistering day. Remembered Benedict’s cold and hazy gaze: ‘There are some people I cannot paint,’
he had said. She wondered if he had loved, or hated her; and she shook off the thought.

‘Let us go, shall we?’ she said, tucking her hand into the crook of her husband’s arm. ‘It is such a crush, now.’

The Hallams’ visit to the Academy was at the beginning of a short holiday for them. Their parish in London took up a good deal of their time. At the end of that day they
took the train to Margate, then travelled by hired carriage to Broadstairs, where they had rented a small house for a fortnight. They came via the coast road. The light was fading, the sea mist
rolling in, setting its thin veil over the sea and cliffs. The light of the North Foreland lighthouse pressed out its insistent beam into the mist, and at the sight of it Delphine took her
husband’s hand, for she knew it would remind him of his past.

The rented house was on the road to Stone. The front doorway had a Gothic point to it, as did the latticed windows. The sharp sea-winds set off little draughts here and there, through the house,
their whistling seeming to call to the gulls.

‘Perhaps we should not have come back,’ said Delphine that evening. She was sitting before the dressing table, in her nightdress, brushing her hair. ‘I did wonder.’ In
the mirror, she saw her husband, sitting on the bed, misgiving written plain across his face. ‘I know you wished to see the place again, with me at your side, but some things should be left
in the past.’ He said nothing, and she put the brush down. ‘My dear?’

‘Mr Benedict never approved of me,’ he said. ‘He would say I have taken something beautiful and imprisoned it.’ He looked at her. ‘Have I?’

‘Am I a
something?’
she said archly, catching his gaze in the reflection of the mirror. ‘I made my decision. It is true, I never saw myself as a clergyman’s
wife, but now I am, and it is the first decision I have ever made for myself, freely.’

‘I can still hardly believe it,’ he said.

‘Nor I,’ she said, and laughed. ‘It is a mystery, Mr Hallam.’ And she tied her hair back with a ribbon.

There was a boom, like distant thunder.

‘There’s a wreck,’ he said.

Delphine rose and tiptoed across the bare boards of the room, over the bedside rug with its flowering rose pattern. She climbed up on to the bed, knelt beside him and untied the stock around his
starched collar. He watched her, and there was a quality to his watching as though he was observing her for the first time. When she had finished untying it, he kissed her.

She drew away. ‘Do not think of melancholy things,’ she said. ‘You told me you were longing for a respite from London; that you were going to pick me up and twirl me around the
moment you could breathe clean air again.’

His mouth twitched. He guided her hands around his neck, set them firm there, then encircled her waist with one arm and put the other beneath her, as though he was about to lift her. His gaze
was no longer opaque to her. She saw the emotions that crossed his face: his faith, his doubt, his devotion and his passion. And through it all, with her gaze, she drew a smile from him.

‘Will you promise me something?’ he said.

She nodded.

‘You won’t let go,’ he said.

She raised her hand and looked at the single gold ring on her finger, the only piece of jewellery she now wore. They heard another boom roar out over the sea, its angry lament echoing in the
darkness alongside the warning of the lighthouse beam over the crashing sea.

‘The promise is already made,’ she said.

The inspiration for this book was William Powell Frith’s painting
Ramsgate Sands (Life at the Seaside)
, which depicts Victorian holidaymakers on the beach. Frith
holidayed in Ramsgate with his family every year, and would have been working on preparatory sketches for the picture in the summer of 1851; Mr Benedict was inspired by the idea of an artist on
holiday.
Ramsgate Sands (Life at the Seaside)
was shown at the Royal Academy in 1854, becoming an instant hit, and was bought by Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. It remains in the Royal
Collection today.

Some eagle-eyed readers will have spotted that, whilst it is perfectly possibly that Miss Waring and Alba viewed paintings at the National Gallery, they would not have seen the particular
paintings discussed with Mr Benedict.
The Baptism of Christ
by Piero della Francesco and
Noli Me Tangere
by Titian were acquired by the Gallery in 1861 and 1856 respectively.

I have only ever been to the Goodwin Sands in my imagination. My vision of it owes much to the many excellent books on the subject, especially
Memorials of the Goodwin Sands
by George
Byng Gattie, and
The Goodwin Sands
by George Goldwin Carter, in addition to the advice of my father and Tim Seward.

I have chosen not to use the names of the real residents of Broadstairs in 1851, apart from Solomon Holbourn, the lifeboatman who played a pivotal role in the famous
Mary White
rescue,
and who is immortalized in the song of the same name.

Main Bay, Broadstairs, was renamed Viking Bay in 1949.

I am grateful to my editor Clare Hey, not only for her excellent judgement in the editing process, but for being the most tactful and good-humoured of editors. I am also
grateful for the support of a fantastic team at Simon & Schuster: Carla Josephson for her editing skills, Joan Deitch for her superb and sensitive copy-editing, and the wonderful Helen
Mockridge, Dawn Burnett, Jamie Groves, Gill Richardson, Rumana Haider, Dominic Brendon, Mel Four, Glen Holmes and Nico Poilblanc, and many others.

Grateful thanks as always to my brilliant and supportive agent, Jane Finigan, and to all at Lutyens & Rubinstein. I am so thankful to be represented by such a fantastic team of people.

My father and Tim Seward answered my sea-related questions, and I am grateful to both of them for their local knowledge.

As always, the staff of the London Library have been extremely helpful.

My thanks to my friends and colleagues for cheering me on: your support means a great deal.

I am immensely grateful to my family for their loyalty and encouragement: thank you Mum, Dad, Lisa, Samuel and Harrison. Love also to my sister Angela and her family. Last but not least, I owe
so much to my husband, who makes everything possible. This book is dedicated to him, with love and gratitude.