Too Close to the Sun

by Jess Foley

  ‘Well,’ Grace said, ‘if your father asks me, I shall tell him that you’ve worked very hard at your lessons today. And I shall tell him that you produced really excellent work.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘And I shall give him the picture I drew for him of the little baby Moses.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll love it.’

  A little silence. Sophie ate some of her bread and cheese, took a sip from her milk glass, then gave a sigh. ‘I hope the other days are just like this,’ she said.

  Grace was touched by the child’s sentiment. ‘Do you mean with your lessons?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, there’s no reason they shouldn’t be. But we’re only just starting. We must try to make them even better.’

  ‘Miss Lewin used to hear me read at times.’

  ‘Miss Lewin? Who is Miss Lewin?’

  ‘She’s a friend of Papa’s. We knew her in London. She used to come to the house sometimes. She’s very nice. And very pretty.’

  ‘And she used to listen to you read?’

  ‘Yes. Only my storybooks, though. We didn’t read newspapers together. Papa says she’s coming down to see us soon. He had a letter from her. She’ll get the train, as we did. Miss Lewin has the most beautiful little dog – he’s a King Charles spaniel. I don’t know whether he’ll be travelling down to Corster with her. I hope so, but – we’ll have to see. I asked Papa if we could have a dog, but he said the time wasn’t right.’ She gave a little sigh. ‘Perhaps someday it will be. Miss Lewin said to Papa that one has to be very careful when choosing a dog as a pet, for she said with some breeds the dog’s hair comes out and gets over all the furniture and one’s clothes. She has the nicest clothes, Miss Lewin does. Some of her dresses have all this lace, all these ribbons. She looks so beautiful. I shall have nice clothes when I’m grown up.’ She sighed again. ‘I wonder how long it takes.’

  ‘How long what takes?’ Grace asked.

  ‘To be grown up.’

  ‘Oh, believe me, Sophie, you’ll get there in good enough time.’ Grace smiled. ‘And that will be very nice for you if Miss Lewin comes down to Corster to visit, won’t it?’

  ‘Yes. But I wish I could see some of my old friends also. Susannah, Georgie, Abigail. I miss them.’

  ‘Ah.’ Grace’s tone was sympathetic. ‘I’m sure you do. But you’ll make new friends here. Just give it time.’

  ‘Well, we’ve been here a month and I haven’t met anyone. And Papa’s so busy most of the day, I don’t see so much of him either. I spend so much time with Nancy, my nurse. Oh, she’s very nice, but sometimes I’d like to meet other people, talk to other people. And that’s one reason it’s so nice to come here today.’ She looked around her at the room. ‘I like it here in this house.’

  ‘Well, soon you’ll be moving into a nice house of your own.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Papa says he thinks he’s found something that’s really very nice. A house just outside of the town – a house with a nice garden. That’s where he’s gone this afternoon. Oh, I do hope he can buy it. I don’t care to keep living in furnished rooms. I like our own furniture, our own rooms. It’s not the same.’

  ‘Did your nurse, Nancy, come down with you from London?’

  ‘Yes. She’s been with me for over a year now. I’m glad she could come with us. If not, I wouldn’t have known anyone. My governess, Miss Cheadle, couldn’t come.’ She paused, concentrated on her food for a few moments, then said, ‘When we’ve eaten we’ll get on with our lessons, shall we? I want Papa to know that I’ve worked well.’

  Grace and Sophie spent the last hour studying geography in a rather informal way. With the help of the globe, they traced out where Sophie’s father had been on his travels: to France and Italy. And then they tracked Mr Spencer’s travels, looking at the routes to Brazil and America. After some discussion on the topic, Grace took her charge down to the conservatory and showed her some of the wonderful, exotic vegetation there that had come from overseas. Going by the copperplate legends on the wooden nameplates there were plants from India and Kashmir and Brazil, and others from African and Arabian countries. One day soon, Grace went on to suggest, they could bring their sketchbooks into the conservatory and render some nice pencil drawings of some of the plants.

  Back in the library there was only time for Sophie to gather her things together and then the maid was there saying that Mr Fairman had arrived to fetch his daughter.

  With Sophie in her hat and cape once more and carrying her drawing, they went downstairs to find Mr Fairman standing in the hall. He too, as Sophie had done earlier, was looking up at the domed glass ceiling high above.

  ‘I’ve had a chance to have a real look this time,’ he said as Grace and the child went down the stairs towards him. ‘It’s quite magnificent. One would never guess that such monumental treasures are hidden away like this in some little insignificant English village.’ He nodded in affirmation of his words, then turned to Sophie as she skipped towards him. ‘Well,’ he said, crouching before her and kissing her cheek, ‘have you been a good pupil?’

  ‘I think so, Papa.’ She looked enquiringly at Grace who stood nearby at the foot of the stairs.

  Grace said at once, ‘Oh, she has indeed, Mr Fairman – the best pupil I could have wished for.’

  ‘There, you see, Papa? I have been good.’

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it.’

  ‘And I did this for you …’

  Sophie held up the rolled paper that was her drawing. He took it from her, unrolled it and looked at the drawing of the baby lying amid the bullrushes. ‘It’s beautiful. Very beautiful indeed.’

  Sophie raised her eyes and flicked a glance of pride at Grace. And then Mr Fairman was rolling up the picture again and straightening. ‘I’m intrigued,’ he said, looking up. ‘Those figures on the wall of the gallery up there.’ He pointed with the rolled-up drawing. ‘I noticed them when I came for dinner. What are they?’

  ‘They’re characters from the opera,’ Grace said. She realized that she was feeling a little self-conscious in his presence; a little awkward. She kept talking. ‘Would you – would like to see them?’

  ‘I would indeed. D’you think Mrs Spencer would mind?’

  ‘Oh, I’m quite sure she wouldn’t object. I’ll lead the way, shall I?’

  The three of them walked up the curving staircase to the second floor where the three figures were situated in a gallery that ran almost clear around the wide hall. The figures were not quite life-size, but extremely imposing, nonetheless. Grace, Mr Fairman and the child stopped in front of the first one. Set in a niche was a statue of a tall man in Elizabethan garb, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other hand held in front of him. He was a picture of male beauty, and looked out over the high drop down to the floor below with a wide smile.

  The second figure was that of a rather desperate-looking young girl with one hand clutched to her breast and the other at her side holding a knife. She looked to be wearing a nightgown, and there were dark red stains on the side of the skirt and on her sleeve. The third figure was of an ugly, misshapen man with a jester’s hat. Bent at the spine, he looked out over the drop with a leer, one hand held on his belt. There was no left hand; it had been broken off halfway up the forearm.

  ‘Oh, dear, he’s had an accident,’ Mr Fairman said, looking more closely at the arm that ended abruptly. ‘What happened to his left arm?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Grace said. ‘I asked Mr Spencer and he said it was broken off years ago. Unfortunately the piece has been lost – otherwise it could have been put back.’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Sophie said. ‘Not this one. He’s so ugly.’

  ‘Yes, he is rather, isn’t he?’ said Grace.

  ‘Who are they supposed to be?’ Sophie asked.

  Grace looked at Mr Fairman, smiling. ‘Do you know, sir? Can you guess?’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ he said, ‘this is m
y lesson for today, is it? A general knowledge quiz, is it? Well …’ He looked at the three figures one after the other. Then with a nod at the third, broken, one, said, ‘It’s Rigoletto, isn’t it?’

  ‘Who’s Rigoletto, Papa?’ Sophie asked.

  ‘A famous character from the grand opera. A cruel man – the main character in an opera by Giuseppe Verdi. His opera is called that: Rigoletto.’ He turned back to Grace. ‘So? Did I get good marks?’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ Grace said. ‘Yes, Mrs Spencer told me it’s Rigoletto. Apparently Mr Gresham, who built the house, was a great lover of the opera.’ She looked from the man to the other statues. ‘And what about the others, sir?’

  Mr Fairman stood there, pondering the two figures, looking from one to the other. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I shall assume that they’re also characters from famous operas. But which ones?’ He studied the figure of the girl with the knife in her right hand. ‘Do you know?’ he asked Grace.

  ‘Yes,’ Grace said. ‘I was told.’

  ‘But you’re not telling me?’ He looked at the figure a moment or two longer, then said, ‘Is it Lucia, the bride of Lammermoor?’

  ‘It is,’ Grace said.

  Mr Fairman nodded his satisfaction. ‘It’s the knife that betrays it. And she looks suitably deranged.’

  ‘Who was she, Papa?’ Sophie said. ‘What is she doing with the knife?’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s just done something rather dreadful,’ her father said. ‘But let’s not talk about her. What about the other gentleman, Miss Harper? – the fellow with the sword? He could be anybody. I’m afraid I can’t guess who.’

  ‘It’s Don Juan, sir.’

  Grace lowered her gaze to the child. ‘Do you like them, Sophie?’

  ‘Not the man with the funny hat, the one whose arm is broken. Nor the lady.’

  ‘No,’ Grace said, ‘perhaps not.’

  Mr Fairman said, ‘I wonder what possessed the house owner to install such things. I mean, they’re certainly very powerful figures, but they’re not that attractive – particularly the one of Rigoletto.’

  Grace said, ‘Mr Spencer has spoken of getting the Rigoletto repaired. I should think it wouldn’t be difficult. It’s only ceramic. A good artist could do that.’

  ‘Could you do it?’ Mr Fairman asked her.

  ‘I, sir? Oh, no. I draw and paint a little, but nothing to such a standard to enable me to cope with this.’

  Mr Fairman nodded, then turned to his daughter. ‘Come along, miss, I think we had best be going home.’ Briefly he bent and touched at the child’s cape and then he was taking her small hand in his.

  Grace followed them down the stairs and out onto the forecourt where the hired horse and cab were waiting.

  ‘Up you get, Miss Sophie …’ With a great flourish, making her squeal, the man picked up the child and deposited her on the carriage seat. Then, moving back across the gravel to where Grace stood on the wide stone step, he raised his right hand to his hat. ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ he said.

  ‘It was a great pleasure,’ she said. ‘I learned a lot.’

  He gave a little laugh at this. ‘I’m not surprised. I learn things from Sophie every day. Tomorrow, then?’

  ‘Tomorrow, yes.’

  The man touched at his hat again, thanked her again and wished her goodbye. Then, after murmuring a word to the cab driver, he swung himself up into the carriage and the vehicle was moving away, turning on the curve of the drive around the little fountain and heading for the gates. The last view Grace had was of Sophie turning and waving to her.

  As the carriage turned out of sight on the bend of the drive, Grace was aware of feeling very glad at the way things had turned out. Notwithstanding her slight sense of awkwardness with Mr Fairman, it had gone well with Sophie. She was altogether such an agreeable child and apart from Grace having enjoyed teaching her, the work had made her feel useful. For so long now she had been only too conscious that she was not fully employed at the house, and the situation had made her wonder how long she could continue to take her wages. Now, though, she felt that she was gainfully employed.

  She was standing in the library, having returned there to make sure that nothing was out of place, when there came a knock at the door, and the door opened and Mr Spencer put his head round.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I find you all alone. Your pupil has gone.’ He came on into the room. He was dressed in a black overcoat, his hat in his hand.

  ‘Hello, Mr Spencer. Yes, sir, Sophie and her father have just driven away.’

  ‘I just got in,’ he said, ‘and I’m off again within the hour. Soon as the horse is changed. The poor animal must be exhausted.’ He looked around him as if somehow the room would show signs of the little event that had taken place there. ‘So, how did it go? Was it all right?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir, it went extremely well. We haven’t disturbed anything in the room, I made certain of that.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about that. So what work did you do? Lessons, I mean.’

  ‘Oh, well, we did English – reading and vocabulary, some geography and also a little drawing and arithmetic. Oh, yes, and we also went for a stroll in the grounds.’

  ‘You packed quite a lot into a short space of time.’ He looked around him. ‘Did you manage here all right?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Sophie sat at the card table. It worked excellently.’

  ‘What about you? Was the lesson all right for you? I mean – it wasn’t exactly something you chose out of the blue, was it? – teaching Mr Fairman’s child. You didn’t exactly have a lot of choice when it came to it.’

  Grace hesitated, then said, ‘Well – I can only tell you, sir, that I enjoyed the lesson with Sophie today, and that I’m looking forward to the next one.’

  He nodded. ‘Well said.’ He turned, edging towards the door. ‘I must be off. I have things to do.’

  The next moment he had wished her a good day and had gone, closing the door behind him.

  Grace spent another two or three minutes in the room, then left and went upstairs to her own room.

  On entering she found lying on the carpet a letter that the maid had slipped under her door in her absence. She could see at once that the writing on the envelope was that of her aunt.

  Grace opened the envelope and took out the letter. The first part dealt with generalities, with her own health and that of Billy and Grace, and then touched upon a subject which, Grace thought, might perhaps have been better left unmentioned. Ending one paragraph, her aunt had written:

  … and I have in turn to pass on the information received by me from a friend, Mrs Collimore, who assumed that I would wish to be informed. It appears that Mr Stephen Cantrell has parted from his fiancée. There is no word – as yet – as to the reason, or who has carried out the severing of the tie, but it nevertheless appears to be true. Mr Cantrell is seen in the vicinity of Green Shipton only on his lonesome, while it seems that Miss Shilford is not seen at all. I thought you would be glad to know this, my dear. But whether or not you are actually glad, I do think perhaps it is something you ought to know.

  Grace finished reading the letter, read the particular paragraph again, and then stood there with the letter held tightly in her hand. She had tried not to think of Stephen over the past weeks, months. And by not thinking about him she had somehow managed to stifle the hurt she felt within. Besides which she had had all the hundred and one diversions that had commandeered her, all the diversions that had come with leaving the family home and trying to make a new start for Billy and herself.

  Billy got home just before five, and after eating a sandwich supplied by Mrs Sandiston went off to join his school-friend who lived on a neighbouring farm. He had permission to stay there for an hour and a half, after which he was to come back to the house. Later, following his return, he went down to the staff dining hall near the kitchens and ate the cold supper that Mrs Sandiston provided. When he returned he knocked on Grace’s door and found her gett
ing ready for her dinner with Mrs Spencer.

  ‘Now don’t you be late to bed,’ Grace told him. ‘I don’t want to come back up and find your lamp still burning.’

  When it was time, she made her way down to the drawing room where she found Mrs Spencer sitting in her chair near the fire. The evening had turned surprisingly cool, and it looked as if rain was threatening. Mrs Spencer sat with a warm shawl around her shoulders.

  ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ Mrs Spencer said as Grace came forward. ‘Dinner will be ready in a minute.’

  Mrs Spencer poured sherry for the two of them. As they sat and sipped at their drinks they could hear the sound of the strengthening wind as it rattled the windows. Soon afterwards Jane came in to say that dinner was ready, and the two women got up and went through into the dining room, Mrs Spencer taking her glass with her. Sitting at the table, she finished her sherry, then sat back as Jane served the soup. When the maid had gone away, Mrs Spencer poured wine and said to Grace, ‘Well, now, tell me how it all went.’

  Over the soup, Grace related the events of the visit and Mrs Spencer nodded her satisfaction at the way things had turned out.

  ‘I’m sure Mr Fairman must have been pleased,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, indeed,’ Grace nodded, ‘he seemed to be.’

  ‘His child has had quite enough upheaval in her short life. First of all losing her mother, and then being uprooted and having to move home. It can’t have a calming effect on a sensitive, vulnerable child.’ With her soup plate still half-full, Mrs Spencer set down her spoon and pushed her plate away. Then, getting up from the table, she limped to the fireplace and pushed a teetering log more securely into the flames. Putting down the poker again, she straightened and pulled her shawl a little more closely around her shoulders. As she resumed her seat she said, ‘Sophie seems a pleasant child, doesn’t she? And a bright one too.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Grace said. ‘It’s a pleasure to teach her.’