The Widow's Confession (10 page)

It was the spot Delphine had stood at on her second day in the town. It was the natural curve of the bay that she loved, as if it was carved out of the cliffs by the water. She tried to fix it
in her mind: the sea, stretching out over the horizon to France, was formed from discrete layers of colour. Anyone would forgive the sweep of the watercolourist’s brush in trying to portray
it, but you would have to be here to really believe it: hold up the sketch and compare it to the skyline and its stripes of blue, and grey and green. The pattern of the waves could be seen even at
this distance, the dance and sparkle of sunlight on water, the turning over of a wave, chasing away the golden sunlight temporarily as it smoothed out its place on the shore.

There was a scattering of people below, and some bathing machines parked near the water. All as if that dead girl was never there, thought Delphine. She heard the sound of children’s
voices, faint screams here and there of delight and rage, and the way in which the little ones seemed to be in cautious pursuit of the sea, daring to come up to the edge of it, then swiftly
retreating, then returning in a game of which they never tired. But more than that, she was entranced by the constant movement of the sea, unchangeable, unceasing. From this distance it seemed
gentle, yet she knew it was an unstoppable force, carrying everything in its wake. Carrying a body as easily as it carried pebbles and seaweed. She saw the churning of the water around the pier,
its endless turning and overturning.

Julia had walked up alongside her, her veil draped over her face.

‘I am trying to memorize it,’ said Delphine. ‘It’s beautiful, but cruel.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I can’t help thinking – remove us all, and the sea would still be here. Its delicate shades of colour, the light playing on the water.’ She did not add that in each wave
she saw the merciless repetition of nature; that in every child’s scream of delight, she imagined another kind of scream, and saw the still face of the dead girl.

‘You seem troubled,’ said Julia gently, then Delphine heard the smile in her voice as she added, ‘Now, look at that. Surely that chases the melancholy away.’

She was pointing to a young seagull, its wings outstretched, riding the currents of air beside the cliff. It did not have the confidence of an older bird, but wavered a little now and then as it
passed them. Despite its yellow eyes and long beak it was half-grown, its downy cream-coloured breast flecked through with baby grey. Delphine had been observing the seagulls, and she loved this
stage most of all – its hesitant serenity, each day bringing a greater mastery of its skills. Julia herself preferred the bleating, terrified babies with their iron-grey plumage, constantly
berating their mothers with their wailing, grating calls.

‘We shall be back in the carriages in a moment or two,’ said Julia. ‘Mrs Quillian has decided this is no place for a picnic. It is not quiet enough, and she does not wish us to
be disturbed by other sightseers, or musicians, or donkeys.’ She could not help a tiny snort of laughter. ‘We will continue a little way up the coast, to Dumpton Gap, where the air is
apparently just as bracing but the beach less populated. There is talk of shell-collecting after our picnic.’ She glanced back over her shoulder. ‘I know I wished to have nothing to do
with anyone, but I think we will find this excursion amusing in its way. Poor Miss Waring is trying hard to guard her niece from the men, as if they were ravaging beasts. No one is worried about
us.’

‘Thank you for giving me all the news,’ said Delphine wearily. ‘I wish I had brought my paints and we could settle here, and let them go on.’

‘If you are unwell, we can go back,’ said Julia. ‘You look a little pale. My dear? This is not like you.’

‘I am perfectly well, darling, but thank you.’

Soon, Mr Steele came over and offered his arm to both of them, seeing them into the carriage. He was quiet as he did so, only saying their names and assisting them with careful gallantry.
Delphine noted that his gaze often turned to Julia, but as the carriages rattled off up the coast, she wondered if there was something amiss with him, for she had caught a hint of sadness in his
eyes.

Before long they came to Dumpton Gap which, as had been predicted, was much quieter. There was a small gap in the cliffs, and a steep incline down to the beach, which looked slightly dangerous
to Delphine’s eyes. She had a vision of attempting to struggle down the slope in her slippery shoes, with the back of her dress catching as she stepped, and the idea that she might have to
take a man’s arm (in her mind, this was the incorrigible Mr Benedict), made her wonder if she might have to stay at the top. Still, it was a beautiful place, with a high rolling down of
green, where they settled for the picnic.

The spread had been well put together by the reluctant Mr Gorsey. The men ate heartily, and poured out hock for themselves and the ladies. Miss Waring and Mrs Quillian, past the age of censure,
ate heartily too, taking some of every dish with much enthusiasm. The burden of eating little lay on the younger ladies. As though by secret agreement, they each took a small piece of the bread,
and some sliced cucumber to ornament the plate, and left them there, occasionally picking at what was there, in the elegant way they had been taught. Delphine felt sad as she watched them,
Julia’s veil fluttering in the breeze as she raised her glass to her lips, and she wondered if she even took in any of the sweet wine, or simply did so for effect, for none of them would
allow themselves more than a single glass.

Alba looked around, for the new surroundings had animated her, and she giggled at any remark which seemed to require it, as though helplessly in the grip of her good spirits. Mr Benedict ate
with relish, his teeth tearing at a chicken leg; he offered every dish to the young ladies, but seemed pleased when they all refused it and equally pleased to serve large helpings to the older
ladies. ‘May I compliment you on making such perfect arrangements, Mrs Quillian,’ he said with a broad smile, starting a girlish flush in the lady’s face.

When the blue cheese was unwrapped, Delphine decided she would take it no more; she requested a large slice, and ate it with an apple hungrily, as if she was showing her parents and grandparents
her defiance of them. As the years had passed she had allowed herself to forget them for long periods of time, living their privileged lives in New York, but in the past day or so they had hovered
in the corner of her sight, ghosts of her former life. The presence of these people, whose rejection had untethered her, made her deliberately defiant of the rules and conventions she had been
raised by, even though they could not see her.

She knew that she would be noticed when she ate the cheese, but was surprised when the eyes that hovered on her with the most intensity were those of Mr Hallam. He allowed his gaze to rest on
her as she ate, for a minute too long.

Mr Benedict evidently saw it too, and the way he caught Delphine’s eye before he spoke indicated that he was ready to do battle on her behalf. ‘Many of your parishioners are farming
folk, is that correct, Mr Hallam?’ he asked. He was chewing his chicken in a haphazard, almost gratuitous way, and took a large mouthful of wine.

‘Yes,’ said the priest. ‘Visitors normally think only of the sea, but our farms and their produce are just as important.’

‘Do you ever take meals with them in the field?’ said Mr Benedict. ‘Do you – shall we say – try to bring yourself to their level?’

There was an insult in what he was saying, Delphine was sure of it, though she didn’t know what it was. She glanced at Julia, but her cousin’s face was expressionless as she took
another mock sip of white wine. Then she saw Mr Steele, and his expression confirmed it; there was a look of disquiet on his handsome face.

Mr Hallam sighed; a departure from his normal way, she was sure. ‘Not on their working days. I bless their Harvest supper, and we eat soup and bread and cheese together.’

‘Very rustic,’ said Mr Benedict. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask, having seen your church service – do you think we should all be Papists, Mr Hallam? Is England a little
too Protestant for you?’

Alba gave an audible gasp. Before, Delphine had seen only studied politeness in the clergyman’s features, but Benedict’s words had put a light to a wick, and now a flame flared in
his eyes.

‘I hope you have not just seen the service,’ he said. ‘I hope you have been part of it. I have served you the blood and body of Christ; Our Saviour demands not just mere
attendance, but faith, nurtured in the heart. It is not mere show, Mr Benedict. We must be truthful Christians, prepared for the Day of Judgement.’

‘I wondered, though,’ said Mr Benedict. ‘You seem to embrace so many Catholic principles that I thought you might be a secret convert.’

‘Really, gentlemen,’ said Mrs Quillian, who was polishing off a large slice of pork pie. ‘Is this a conversation for a picnic? Theo?’ She put her hand out, and touched
his arm. ‘Where is all the joyful, light conversation I hoped for?’

‘Forgive me, madam, forgive me,’ said Benedict, with a pleading look, a little too intense to be genuine.

‘Perhaps we could play word games,’ said Alba.

‘Alba,’ said Miss Waring, in gentle warning. She was not touching her food, but sat straight, her hands clasped in her lap. Delphine saw that her eyes darted between the painter and
the priest; and she guessed it was the priest whom Miss Waring supported.

Delphine roused herself. ‘Shall we walk down to the Gap?’ she said, her alto voice breaking through the tension. She raised a linen napkin to her lips. ‘We were promised
shell-collecting, were we not?’

‘That was well done,’ said Mr Steele. Delphine was staring down the steep incline of the Gap, wondering at her rash suggestion. ‘May I assist you?’ he
said.

She shook her head. ‘Take Miss Mardell.’ She saw the flicker in his eyes as he bowed and turned away; she had noted his chivalry towards Julia, and the thought crossed her mind that
he had a partiality for her cousin. She watched him go to her and offer his arm, and there was a kind of beauty in the way Julia placed her long white fingers on his sherry-coloured coat, and they
went down the slope easily, their steps in time.

Delphine began to walk alone; she was graceful and upright, but as she had predicted, her boots were a problem, and in a few steps she began to slip and slide. She stopped, wondering how she
would go forwards, and was settling in her mind that she did not care if she fell, but she would not ask for help, when she sensed someone come alongside her, and she prepared a rough retort for Mr
Benedict.

But it was Mr Hallam. He said nothing, only put out his arm. She looked at it for a moment. Her hesitation was hard to overcome; not just because she had refused his help in the past, but
because he was a puzzle to her. She had thought she could identify character and motivations as easily as she peeled one of her grandfather’s hothouse oranges. Not him; there was a
withholding in him, an opacity twinned with a certain purity – and she could not understand him. She was fearful of such mysteries and, unable to admit her fear, felt on the brink of
dislike.

She put her hand on his arm and they started forwards. But they were on a poor section of the path, and when a little gravel gave way, they skidded down a few steps. It was only seconds, but it
felt as though time had stopped to Delphine. As panic seized her, she thought they would fall. When they came to a stop, Mr Hallam’s left hand was gripping her elbow, and his right hand her
right hand, clasped tightly, his whole hand encompassing hers in a tight grip; he was holding her arm against his chest.

They looked at each other. In that brief moment, the look seemed to have a quality of its own that shocked both of them; it was as if their sudden physical closeness had opened up a realm of
possibilities between them. Neither of them moved.

He released her.

‘We are safe,’ he said. ‘Do not worry.’

‘I am not worried,’ she said.

As he placed his arm out, formally, and she put her hand on it and they continued to descend, she saw that his pale complexion had gained a tinge of red.

‘The sun is hot,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he said. They continued in silence, and when they reached the bottom of the slope he drew his arm away even quicker than she could raise her hand from it. He raised his hat.
‘I wish you a good afternoon, Mrs Beck,’ he said. Confused, and wondering whether he might be leaving, she gave the briefest of curtseys. He had left her alone and she saw, below her on
the beach, Mr Steele reaching down to pick up a shell and give it to Julia.

‘Mrs Beck?’

It was Alba. Shielded by a bonnet, and in a pale cream dress, she held a parasol over her head, her eyes narrowed in the sun. She had seemed a vision of perfection in the church, and she
remained so. Yet the sunlight also revealed her faults – that she was human, not a goddess, with a freckle here and there and, today, shadows beneath her eyes. But the light brought out the
extraordinary coppery-gold of her hair, the slight slice you could see, for it was drawn back from her face, and mainly hidden beneath her bonnet. Some yards behind her, her aunt was talking
animatedly with Mrs Quillian. The latter said something in response and Miss Waring laughed; a rich, warm sound.

‘Good day, Miss Peters,’ said Delphine. She hadn’t noticed it before, but the girl’s voice was not the perfectly pronounced, middle-class English of her aunt’s.
There was a tinge in it, of unfinished words, casually pronounced.

‘Please,’ said the girl, ‘do call me Alba. That is what everyone in my home calls me, and I do miss them very much. It was how I said my name – Albertine – when I
was little. It would make me feel better if you called me that.’

Delphine inclined her head. ‘Then I shall.’

‘I have been meaning to say,’ said Alba, ‘I was so fussed the other day, that I did not thank you sufficiently. I meant to write, but when I came to do it, I could not remember
the name of the cottage where you said you lived. I am so silly about these things.’ She gave a nervous little laugh. ‘So, I am here to say thank you, thank you from the bottom of my
heart, for the kindness you showed me. I am truly grateful.’