Read The Widow's Confession Online
Authors: Sophia Tobin
The Widow's Confession
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
:
The Silversmith’s Wife
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2015
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Sophia Tobin 2015
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
The right of Sophia Tobin to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
HB ISBN: 978-1-47112-812-7
TPB ISBN: 978-1-47112-814-1
EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-47112-815-8
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Typeset by M Rules
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
To A.T.
CONTENTS
Delphine’s letter, April, 1852
I still remember the face of the first girl we found on the sands. I think of her name, and she is there.
Her features have the softness of youth, marred only by the frown remaining on her brow, even in death. She lies on her back, a bright shape on dark sand, the folds of her white gown made
translucent by the sea. That sea is coming to claim her, each wave easing forwards, then retreating, each retreat a little less than the one before. The water deepens around her almost
imperceptibly; gently, it floats a few of her golden curls.
I sometimes wonder whether my mind is playing tricks on me with this vividness. Perhaps, in reality, when we found her the hungry tide had already retreated from her, and the morning sun had
begun to dry the sand. I suspect it is so.
I could not paint her, if you asked me to. Even though I see her face so clearly, I could not describe a single line of it with charcoal or watercolour. The memory of her is stored in some
other place; at the thought of her there is a jolt of emotion, but I cannot
reproduce
the memory of her. I can only
feel
it.
My reaction to her and to the other dead girls surprised me. I thought that I had hardened myself and packed my emotions away; folded neatly, like the ballgowns of my youth, with dried
lavender pressed in paper between them. Yet that summer, with its sea mists and storms, unlocked something in me. A thing I had not killed; just denied.
I write to you now as Delphine Beck, and I write only because you have asked me to. Hitherto, if we are truthful, we have been little more than strangers. To write to you seems dangerously
intimate somehow. The paper is passive; it accepts my words as you may not. But I believe you when you tell me that you have to know everything. If we are to begin our lives together, all
concealment must be put aside, and sunlight let into a room which has been dark and cold for so long.
My love, I promised you my confession.
Here it is.
Edmund Steele went to Broadstairs to escape a love affair. It was the first dishonourable act of his life towards a woman. As the train crawled its way through a countryside
deep in the lushness of late spring, he pictured the shape of Mrs Craven’s white neck when her face was turned away from him; remembered the sheen of the reddish-brown gown she had worn at
their last meeting. And, knowing that she had expected him to propose to her, he felt the painful burn of shame, as though he had held his hand too close to a candle flame. I made her no promises,
he thought, as the train neared the coast, and he watched the stuttering shadow of its outline on the ground as it moved on: I made her no promises. But he felt no better.
At Margate Sands, Edmund hired a man with a cart to take him to Broadstairs, the horse sweating in the sun and switching its tail. They travelled through the deep narrow lanes of the countryside
between the two towns. When they emerged from the green darkness of the last hedgerowed lane, onto the coast road near Kingsgate Bay, Edmund put his head back; felt the sunlight, warm and harsh,
slick across his city-worn face. ‘Will you pull up for a moment?’ he asked the man. ‘I’ll pay you extra for the lost time.’
The carrier found a stopping place near the edge of the cliff. There was a sharpness to the air, bitterly cold, but welcome to Edmund. He hoped the clean air would reach the depths of his lungs.
He had wanted to see the sea: the distant breakers, the vast sky, and the curve of the tan-coloured sands beneath the bone-grey, crumbling cliffs.
‘Is it far to Holy Trinity?’ he said.
‘Less than half a mile. Past the North Foreland lighthouse over yonder, then we’re on the road to Stone, and near enough to the town. Come for a holiday, sir?’
‘I think so,’ said Edmund.
The church of Holy Trinity and its parsonage were mere steps away from the town, at a point where the road narrowed to a single carriage width. Edmund said he would take his own trunk to the
house, and sent the carrier off, but the driveway was long and the exertion tired him swiftly and without warning. He was breathing heavily as he knocked on the door of the parsonage.
When the door opened, he blinked at the darkness, his gaze suddenly clouded by the contrast with the sunlight, as he peered at the young man who was saying his name. He saw immediately that his
host’s face had once been marked by illness, and exposed to the scourges of the most brutal heat. Now only the signs were left behind – fading freckles on a face pocked with scars. Yet,
it was still a handsome face in its way, its disfigurements giving its underlying beauty a certain power. Its owner hung back, in the shadows of the hallway.
‘Do come out of the sun, Mr Steele,’ he said. ‘It is merciless today. The sea breeze takes the edge off the heat, which means you do not feel it as it beats down on you, but it
will punish you if you stay out in it.’
Edmund wondered whether he really did look so bad that he needed to be sheltered from the sun like some delicate maiden, and it pinched his pride. The penalties of easy London living, he
thought; too much claret, too much meat. ‘You must be Mr Hallam,’ he said. ‘I admit I did not expect you to be answering your own door.’
Theo Hallam laughed; it suited him. ‘I should be working on a sermon. But my housekeeper Martha is fretting over our supper in the kitchen, and as she is sadly overstretched at the moment,
it would have been unfair to expect her to look out for you as well.’
‘Well, I am pleased to meet you,’ said Edmund, holding out his hand.
Theo shook it briskly. ‘And I you. But do come out of the heat, Mr Steele, I beg of you.’
The coolness of the tiled hallway was a relief to Edmund, as was the tea Theo ordered from Martha, who looked with frank curiosity at Edmund as she loudly unloaded the tray. They took tea in the
drawing room, an immaculate room, uncluttered but tastefully decorated with paintings and ceramics. Its austere beauty surprised Edmund, for he knew the clergyman lived alone, and he did not link
such clean serenity with the habits of a bachelor.
‘I must thank you for allowing a perfect stranger a room for the season,’ he said, trying to take in the details of the room without his eyes lingering too much.
‘A friend of Mr Venning is a friend of mine,’ said Theo. ‘He has known my family since I was a boy, and went to Oriel College, as I did. And I admit that what he told me of
your work piqued my interest. I understand you have medical connections, and that you are interested in the study of the mind.’
‘I fear Charles has overrated me,’ said Edmund, with an uneasy laugh. ‘It is true that I count many medical men as my friends, but I do not practise myself. I am comfortable
enough – I worked in a City counting-house in my youth, and invested in railways at the right time – so I have the leisure to study what interests me. I have been concerned in one or
two cases.’
‘And the mind is your area of interest?’ said Theo.
Edmund swallowed. ‘Yes – that is, it was. I think it is a subject which is in its infancy.’
A warmth had crept over Theo’s previously neutral expression. ‘You speak of healing the mind, and I the soul. Perhaps we may discuss the way in which these areas overlap.’
There was a faint glow in the young man’s blue eyes; an enthusiasm which Edmund moved quickly to quash.
‘If you would be so kind, I am glad to take a rest from it. Do not mention my interest to any of the sea-bathers, I beg you. I wish to be nothing but a tourist here.’ He thought of
his study at home – the labelled drawers and cabinets of papers, the neatly written indices. ‘I am of robust health, but my friends tell me that I have over-exerted myself recently. I
do not feel it myself – I am quite merry – but I trust their opinions. Mr Venning has instructed me to rest,’ he smiled, ‘and I am sure you can imagine his firmness on the
matter.’
Theo nodded, without any offence. ‘Very well. You are here before most of the incomers – forgive me, the tourists, I should say. “Incomers” sounds so bare and
unwelcoming. Well, you are among the first, so you will be settled in before the rest arrive. My aunt, Mrs Quillian, will be here in a few days or so. She comes every season to the town, and always
stays at the Albion. She does not care to dwell with her poor parson nephew; she prefers to be surrounded by people.’
‘I thought this was a quiet place,’ said Edmund, feeling slightly alarmed.
Theo laughed. ‘It is not always so. And any increase in numbers is doubly noticeable to its inhabitants. Many of the local people claim to prefer the rough seas and empty streets of
January, but we would be ruined without our guests. We are to have gaslight soon, you know, so the modern age has reached us. You may read of the London arrivals in the newspaper – we have
the occasional Duke and Marquis, and Mr Dickens, of course.’ He offered Edmund a slice of bread and butter. Edmund took it. The butter was spread thinly, as though it had been spread on, then
scraped off, then scraped again.
‘Empty streets are unknown to me,’ said Edmund, biting into the bread and discovering it was stale. ‘Perhaps I should have come in January – I would have liked to see
that.’ He chewed, slowly. ‘Mr Venning says clean air and pleasant company will restore me to my normal ways.’
‘Have you been truly unwell?’ said Theo. The beauty of the question was all in the way he said it: without the sharpness of gossiping curiosity, but with enough steadiness to assure
Edmund he had an interested listener.
Edmund took a gulp of tea to wash down the bread, then put his teacup down, gently, on the small table beside him. ‘Well asked,’ he said. ‘Charles sent me here with good
reason. I can see you will be drawing my confessions from me like poison from a wound.’