can’t tell.’
‘Why? She hides him?’
‘Because the whole story’s a lie!’ Jenny rounded, angrily. ‘My Artemisia’s as faithful to you as the day’s long— for all the joy she gets of it! But because you’re always bellowing about how she’s no-one’s but yours, somebody’s started this rumour to make you look ridiculous!’
‘You’re lying now!’ he contended. ‘You know who she’s seeing— she’s told you!’
‘You’re so eager to believe she’s cheating! Oh, what did she ever do to deserve you? I make no secret of loathing you, Tom— I’ve told her to find another man a hundred times, but she won’t do it. And now, if she’d really taken my advice, do you think I’d betray her to you, and snatch away her best chance of happiness?’
‘You brought it up, Jenny— you just said the whole town thinks she’s going behind my back!’
‘I wanted to make you look a joke in front of your dribbling cronies, just when you were boasting the loudest!’
Tom drew three deep breaths, released his hold, and scrutinised her defiant face. ‘I’ll find out what she’s up to— I’ll burst in on her when she thinks I’m out getting my hair cut.’
‘Burst in on her! Accuse that innocent woman! All she’s ever done is look after you, and overlook what a beast you are— and then, on top of that, you’ll accuse her too! Oh, that’s the surest way to lose her love— it’s a miracle you’ve not lost it already!’
He huffed in bewilderment. ‘But if she’s doing what they say— if she is—!’
‘How you disgust me!’ Jenny adjusted her ruffled clothes disdainfully. ‘You want her to be guilty! You want to give your hateful jealousy some cause!’
Tom smacked his fist into his palm with resolve. ‘The fishermen, you say! They can see her from the harbour— I’ll ask them the truth!’
‘And do you think they’ll tell you?’ she sneered. ‘Who do you suppose will be brave enough to slander Artemisia to her crazy husband?’
‘Well then— well then— I’ll see for myself! I’ll take a boat and see for myself if she’s alone while I’m away! That’s it!’
‘How clever! How trusting! What a loving man you are!’ Jenny turned to leave, finally repulsed; but he accosted her again.
‘If you warn her, Jenny, you’ll suffer for it. I’ll know— I’ll find out.’
She looked him up and down with bitter distaste. ‘I’ve no need to speak a single word to her— my niece is perfectly innocent. Spy on her if you will— you’ll always find her alone. But mark me, Tom Parnell: a jealous man will prove his jealousy somehow, no matter how groundless it is.’
Tom did not believe that maxim, however, and fully intended to try Artemisia’s fidelity on the very next occasion. A passing hint from the indignant aunt led him to one of the fishermen, who, as a relative newcomer to the trade, was glad to add to his income and take a tip for carrying Tom out into the bay, with a view of the inn’s seaward windows.
The sun had set early, and the town was a massed glitter, the lights from each window reflecting on the choppy water. A stout wind blew, so that the little vessel veered and rocked in its progress, and Tom, no familiar seafarer, gripped the handrail on the port side intently. His eyes were fixed on the masses of the buildings, his heart thundered in dreadful anticipation, and his mind cluttered with notions— what he would do to the man, if a man should indeed be discovered with his wife, he knew already; he had rehearsed that often enough, and warned anyone who would listen. But what to say to her, the adulteress, perplexed him: he had never considered it before, and now it became painfully apparent that his heart, so precipitously beating, would be obliged to break. And so it was that while his jealousy was eager to justify itself, his love was loathe to find her guilty.
The boat turned slowly to clear the edge of the quay, and now the flank of the Red Ship inn came clearly into view, its small casements brightly illuminated from within, all along the ground floor, and a single one on the first— the Parnells’ apartment. Tom had never seen his establishment from this perspective before, but he immediately discerned that the lit room there above was the bedroom. The bedroom, of all rooms, occupied at this hour, when the rest were left in darkness! He began to breathe in sharp gulps. The distance between him and the wall slowly increased, as they veered to avoid the shallower water— but this gave him the advantage of a more even angle: now that he no longer peered up, but across, he clearly discerned a silhouette at the window, leaning out, a hand languidly to a cheek, long hair let down, the odd curl straying wide as the growing gale danced it. Artemisia, without a doubt— but alone? Alone? Tom strained his eyes, leaning dangerously over the side, to detect whether some other figure were lurking within the room beyond. The mirror was on the far wall behind her, it gleamed white; the edge of the bedstead was just beyond— but not a shadow against the walls, not a soul but that solitary, pensive lady.
Meanwhile, the boat continued to curve away from the shore, so that Tom’s view became increasingly oblique. Frustrated, he yelled over his shoulder to insist that they circle back in. He needed another look— maybe she was stood there waiting for her lover to arrive, and a second survey would reveal him. But Tom was aggravated to find that their course continued to the black horizon, so that the lights receded and receded, and he must peer harder and harder still to distinguish the bulk of his inn from the other buildings clustered along the front. He flung about, annoyed, to command the helmsman more emphatically to obey him, and steer into harbour again; but as he turned to vent this ire, his quickening heart abruptly halted its pounding— not because it broke, as he had feared, but because it was cut, cut and cut open again by a knife in the strong and vengeful hand of the lone fisherman.
The vista from Artemisia’s open window was an unrelieved swathe of darkness. The clouds had gathered densely in, and not a star or planet shed a ray on the sea. Beyond the range of the quay lamps, nothing was visible, nor did the blustering of the wind communicate a connected sound of any kind. She was chilled from waiting there, and broke her restful pose to retreat into the room. All her movements were soft, slow and elegant— really, she was very beautiful, without even meaning to be— but her thoughts were not so serene as her posture. Chaotic, perplexing interchanges of hope and dread succeeded in rapid fluctuations through her mind: yes, she had measured and disenchanted love —her own, her husband’s and her admirer’s— and, mistress of its enmeshing threads, had spun it again and cast her snare, woven to her own pattern; but now, no, she could not tell how her net would hold, which wire would snap, which pull too tight, which snag and wrench the whole askew.
She forced herself to dwell on successes and certainties. Her aunt, yes. Jenny had never played her part so admirably. She had instilled suspicion into Tom, and yet denounced it as false; she had railed against the husband’s distrust, and yet steered him towards the very method of proving his wife’s faith that Artemisia intended. But what if Tom should change his mind, or try something unexpected? No, no; there was compensation for that: here she was alone, incontestably lonely. Tom could not accuse her. No, no, Tom did not disquiet her, she knew him too well. Davey, though— yes, Davey— would he falter? Would he quail from her commission? No, surely not. He would strike home. But if Tom should fight him? If Tom should survive, if Tom should conquer Davey— yes, yes it was possible— too possible— if Tom should return! No, no! It must not be— Davey must be quick, and certain— yes, Tom must die.
The hours ticked away, midnight struck, and passed— she waited. This long delay, as with all the delays she had built into the scheme, was quite intentional. Davey must have been successful: the delay proved it. She had told him to sail far out to sea and dump the body overboard there. Then to wait, to the very early hours, when everyone was asleep and the town silent, before sneaking back to see her and receive, finally, that lover’s reward he had so long coveted.
Hour upon hour— and now the delay seemed too protracted, suspiciously so— where was he? W
hat had happened? A slight movement downstairs— she sprang up. A footstep on the landing. She flew to the window and closed the curtains. The door opened, cautiously, and Davey appeared. His face was blanched, taut. The easiness, the humour that had made him handsome, was starched from his expression: he looked mechanical, stark. Her eyes flicked over his heavy jacket— not an untoward stain— but his fingernails, his hands— spotted, smeared, filthy. In one, her own large kitchen knife, streaked and grubby.
She pointed through to the sink, for him to deposit the weapon there, where she could boil, scrub, scour it. He did not seem to notice: he gaped at her. She gazed warily back. Where was the key? Her key to the front door? She must find it, take it away from him; he must not be found to possess it. Why did he stare at her like that? Why was he so fixed, and ghastly?
Then, suddenly, a flush of colour suffused his countenance: his lips finally parted, broadened into a touch of smile, and his eyes began to glow, as though the heat of his being, subdued and damped by shock, flared and burned again in the presence of his beloved. He started forward, breathing her name— grateful to have her, proud to have served her, eager to please her, impetuous to love her. He raised his
The Sleight of Heart: a modern folk tale Page 6
