Too Close to the Sun

by Jess Foley

  ‘Well, I do hope she gets something out of it.’ She smiled at Grace. ‘And you too. Perhaps, Grace, she’ll find a friend in you.’

  ‘Well – I hope so, ma’am, indeed. She misses her old friends, she told me so.’

  The soup was finished. Mrs Spencer poured more wine for herself – Grace demurred, still having her glass almost full – and rang the bell for the maid. ‘Tell me,’ she said to Grace, ‘does she speak of her mother?’

  ‘She hasn’t done so once,’ Grace said.

  ‘No, well, I doubt that she remembers her. I understand from Edward that she died some years ago – so Sophie must have been very small. Two at the most, I believe. Apparently, according to what Mr Spencer tells me, Mrs Fairman died of cholera. All terribly tragic. By all accounts she was a very beautiful young woman, and Mr Fairman was devoted to her. I can only go by what Edward tells me, of course, and I don’t think Mr Fairman has told him very much. Quite understandably, I shouldn’t think Mr Fairman likes to talk much upon the subject – and of course it isn’t something one can ask questions about.’

  The wind had got up and now began to howl around the house, sending the rain before it in violent flurries that were thrown against the glass. ‘Oh, here it comes,’ Mrs Spencer said. ‘I’m glad I’m not outside right now.’ The maid came in and took away the soup plates and then brought in the roast mutton and vegetables and a bottle of claret. Mrs Spencer said to her, ‘We’ll serve ourselves, Jane,’ and the girl left again. As Mrs Spencer poured the new wine she urged Grace to help herself to the meat and vegetables. Grace did so. Mrs Spencer helped herself very sparingly to the food, and only picked at a few tiny mouthfuls in between taking sips of her wine. It seemed to Grace that the time passed slowly, while the food on Mrs Spencer’s plate hardly diminished.

  ‘Perhaps what Mr Fairman needs is a wife,’ Mrs Spencer said. ‘After all, it’s time enough if it’s been four or five years.’ Another sip from her glass. ‘The trouble is, so often a man is loath to take a similar step if he’s been happy once. It’s no recipe for happiness if you find a man measuring all new relationships by the first, successful one. I’m sure Mr Fairman’s child will be a lot happier, too, when she and her father have moved into a house of their own. It can’t be easy staying in furnished rooms the way they are. No matter how luxurious they might be it’s not the same as having your own place. One needs to be able to put down roots, to call a place one’s own. It isn’t necessary to have a palace.’ She waved a hand, taking in the room, the house. ‘This place here – one doesn’t need a place this size in order to be happy. Have you ever been over it, Grace? Have you ever been over the house?’

  Grace swallowed the last of the vegetables she had taken, then shook her head. ‘No. You showed me over a part of it when we first came here, but other than that, no.’

  ‘You haven’t been over the east and west wings? Well, there’s no reason you should. Though if you want to look at it one day I’ll be very happy to show you around. There’s nothing much to see – rooms with dustsheets over a lot of forgotten furniture, and many other rooms that have not even been finished. Can you believe that? They’re not even finished. Some rooms are without fireplaces, without plaster on the walls. Edward has dreams, I know, of finishing it all off and opening up all the rooms. He’d love to have weekend parties here, with all the carriages and servants coming and going, but that’s just a dream.’ She gave a sigh. ‘I don’t know – the very notion of employing enough servants to keep it open and functioning is beyond me. I don’t know how people managed. Those house parties with people coming for the weekend, in the shooting season and so on. Can you imagine it – just two people living here and having all this space? One’s whole time could be spent in administration. As I say, I think my husband might like a more socially orientated life, but it’s not for me. He’d probably like having all the guests for a weekend, but not I. I never was accustomed to it, and I don’t think I could ever be now. It’s too late. Before we came here five years ago I lived comparatively modestly. I never dreamed of having such a home; and inheriting it came as a complete surprise to me. The paper mill as well. But Edward loves it. He loves to be involved in business. And what would I have done without him to run things for me?’

  ‘Mr Fairman wanted to see the figures in the niches,’ Grace said. ‘I took him and Sophie up to see them. I hope that was all right.’

  ‘Oh, of course. And did Mr Fairman find them interesting?’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  Mrs Spencer shook her head. ‘I don’t like them. Not at all. I can’t imagine how anyone could. Except my husband.’ She smiled indulgently here. ‘He loves the things, and swears one day he’ll get the broken one repaired. Have you ever been to the opera, Grace?’

  ‘Never, ma’am.’

  ‘Have you not? Oh, my dear, you’ve missed something wonderful. Well, the next time there’s a touring opera company coming to Redbury we shall go. I’d love to go, though it’s no use my asking Edward. He can’t stand it.’

  The meat course was finished, and Mrs Spencer rang the bell for Jane to clear away. As they waited, Mrs Spencer turned towards the windows where the rain continued to spatter on the pane.

  ‘I do hope Edward isn’t riding in some open carriage somewhere,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want him to go off anyway, but he must go. There’s nothing for it but that he must go. He’s never at rest. He must be overseeing things all the time. If it isn’t the soap factory in Milan it’s the paper mill here. And he can’t bear to delegate. It’s as if he doesn’t trust anyone else to do their job. It’s no wonder he gets irritable at times.’ She shook her head and gave a deep sigh. ‘But that’s the way he is. There’s no changing one’s nature.’

  ‘Did you inherit the soap factory also, ma’am? – if I may ask?’

  ‘No, that was my husband’s. He’s owned that since he was a young man.’ She said nothing more on the matter, and Grace could not ask.

  The maid cleared away the dishes and then brought in the dessert, a little pastry with raisins and strawberry conserve. Mrs Spencer would have nothing of it for herself, but Grace took a little and ate it slowly while her mistress continued to talk and sip at her wine. There was something different about Mrs Spencer tonight, Grace thought. It was not only the amount of alchohol she was consuming – a phenomenon that Grace had not observed before – but there seemed to be something rather melancholy about her mood, a little sadness about the mouth, in the droop of her eye.

  They had coffee in the drawing room, with which Mrs Spencer took a little brandy. And now Grace could clearly see that her employer was somewhat affected by the wine she had consumed. It showed in her slightly languid movements, in the deepening of her voice. The conversation was punctuated by little silences that Grace did not know how to circumvent, and in the end they either resorted to small talk or fell into silence.

  Putting down her coffee cup, Mrs Spencer picked up her brandy glass and got up from her chair. Taking her cane, she moved to the window and stook looking out at the wild, wet night. Beyond her head Grace could just make out the heads of the waving treetops against the night sky.

  With her back to Grace, Mrs Spencer said, ‘It gets lonely here, you know, Grace. All these rooms, all this space – it doesn’t help, you know. It doesn’t help at all.’

  Chapter Eleven

  On some days Sophie would arrive and depart by hired cab; on other days her father might bring her and call to take her home when the day’s lessons were finished. But whatever varied arrangements were made, the child had her lessons, arriving at ten every day. She was a willing and very able pupil, and Grace found teaching her no chore. Not only did she find it rewarding in the sense that Sophie was obviously learning and enjoying the process, but it also made her feel useful again. And knowing the feeling of being worthwhile, and having something so worthwhile to do, lifted her spirits enormously, and she could only wonder at the difference when she contrasted it with how she had felt before
. Just going along from day to day, helping Mrs Spencer when it was required, or sitting with her for company – they were useful acts, but they were not enough in themselves to make Grace feel that she was doing anything that really mattered. Were it not for Billy’s needs, she would long since have begun to consider her situation. Now, though, with Sophie coming for lessons on Monday through to Friday, Grace’s whole outlook took a change for the better.

  On the Tuesday of the second week Sophie arrived in the carriage with her father at the reins. Grace, going to the landing window that looked out over the forecourt, could see Mr Fairman as, holding his hat, he jumped down onto the gravel. Sophie, she noticed, stayed in her seat where she was.

  Grace got down into the hall just as the maid admitted Mr Fairman. When Jane asked if she could take his hat, he said there was no need as they were not stopping. As Mr Fairman smiled at Grace who had stopped at the foot of the stairs, Grace said:

  ‘Is Sophie not coming in, sir?

  ‘On the contrary, we’ve come to see if you’ll come out.’

  ‘Go out?’

  ‘A little excursion.’ He gestured over his shoulder. ‘I’ve hired a carriage for the day, and I thought perhaps it wouldn’t matter so much if she misses a few lessons today. I’ve told her I’m taking her on a little jaunt, and I suggested that you might like to come along.’

  ‘Well – where to? Where would we be going?’

  ‘I haven’t told Sophie yet.’ Here he put a finger to his lips. ‘But we’re going to see our new home.’

  ‘Oh, sir,’ Grace said, ‘that’s wonderful.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve signed a contract on a house and with luck we shall be moving in in three or four weeks. I want to have a few little alterations made, change a bit of this and a bit of that, but generally it’s very suitable. And I know that Sophie will like it. She has seen it, once – when we went to give it a quick look-over a couple of weeks back. And she expressed a liking for it then – so at least I know she’ll be pleased. And now,’ he added, ‘I thought we might find out if Sophie’s teacher likes it also.’

  ‘I’m being invited along to see it?’ Grace said, the surprise in her voice.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he smiled broadly. ‘That’s why we’re here. Please say yes.’

  For a moment she was at a loss for words, then she said, ‘Well – I’ll have to fetch my cape and my hat. And I must let Mrs Spencer know – I must ask her permission. Just in case she wants me for anything. But it’ll only take a minute. I’m sure it’ll be all right.’ Turning, she started up the stairs.

  The first thing she did was go to Mrs Spencer’s studio where her employer had been working for the past half-hour. Grace tapped on the door, and on the call of ‘Come in’, stepped into the room. Mrs Spencer was not at her easel but was sitting at the window, vaguely gazing out over the lawns.

  ‘Yes, what is it, Grace?’ She turned as Grace entered the room.

  ‘Please, ma’am, Mr Fairman and his daughter have arrived, and wish to know if I’d like to accompany them out on a little trip.’

  ‘What, no lessons today?’

  Grace smiled. ‘It seems not, ma’am. I understand he’s in the process of buying a house, and is anxious for Sophie to see it. He’s very kindly asked if I’d care to go along.’

  ‘And do you want to go?’

  Grace hesitated briefly before answering. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘if it’s all the same to you, ma’am. It’s a very pleasant day. And it might be nice to take a little carriage ride.’

  ‘Then you must go, of course you must.’

  Grace had not seen a great deal of her employer over the past few days. Not in fact in any great way since the evening they had had dinner together. On the following day Mrs Spencer had come down with a cold, and as was her wont at such times, tended to keep to herself and avoid social company. Today was her first day back in her studio, but it didn’t look as if she was getting very far.

  As if to endorse the impression that Grace had gained, the woman sighed and gave a slow shake of her head. ‘Yes, you go on out and have a good time, Grace,’ she said. ‘I certainly don’t need any help today. It’s one of those days when I can’t even seem to help myself to any good purpose.’ She waved a hand towards her easel with the part-finished canvas upon it. ‘I haven’t made any progress so far today, and it doesn’t look as if I’m going to. I think I’m just not in the mood. And it’s no good sitting here, waiting for inspiration to strike.’ She waved her hand again, this time in Grace’s direction. ‘You go on out and enjoy the sunshine. Perhaps we’ll talk or have some tea later on, when you’re back.’

  ‘Is there anything you’d like me to get for you while I’m out?’

  ‘No, nothing, my dear, thank you.’ She gave a little sigh and turned briefly back to the window again. ‘What I need can’t be bought.’ She turned back to Grace, a sudden smile, too bright, too quick, lighting up her face. ‘Go on, Grace, go on and enjoy your youth. Enjoy it while you can, for it won’t come again.’

  Downstairs, Grace found the hall empty, then on opening the front door saw Mr Fairman standing beside the horse. He smiled as Grace approached and held out his hand to help her up into the carriage beside his daughter. Seconds later, he was in the driving seat and the carriage was crunching away across the gravel towards the road.

  The house of their destination was situated just off the Corster road on the way to the village of Upper Callow. Mr Fairman pulled up the horse at the entrance and turned to Sophie at his side.

  ‘This looks a likely place,’ he said. ‘Shall we go in and have a closer look?’

  ‘Papa,’ said Sophie, ‘this is the house we saw the other week. And I liked it so much more than the others we saw. I told you.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, smiling, ‘I remember that you did.’

  Early Victorian, the house stood back from the road with a circular carriage drive in front and a paved stable yard at the rear. There were flowerbeds and lawns leading to kitchen gardens and a small orchard right at the back. ‘Enough space but not too much,’ Mr Fairman said, ‘ – not too much space that a man should be intimidated by it, but enough to enable him to take a breath. After all, I’m an architect. I just need good light and a decent drawing board, not acres of paddocks.’

  ‘Is there room for a girl to have a pony, Papa?’ Sophie said.

  ‘A pony?’

  ‘Just a small one?’

  ‘Oh, we’ll have to see about that.’

  The house had a white stucco façade over sand-coloured brick. And while not vast, it was large enough, with just the right number of rooms – rooms that were spacious for the most part, with high ceilings and decent-sized fireplaces. It had a good, welcoming wide hall, and a fine staircase leading up to rooms that looked out over meadows and copses, and, over to the south, the village of Lower Callow.

  One of the upper rooms was papered with a design of butterflies of all kinds, making a beautiful, if somewhat faded, display as they danced around the walls. Sophie was enchanted, and tried to see how many varieties she could find. Moving on to another room some minutes later they found two framed pictures leaning against the wall near the window.

  ‘Can we see them, Papa?’ Sophie said, and Mr Fairman picked up the outermost picture and held it before her. It was a rather faded mezzotint of Franz Hal’s painting known as The Laughing Cavalier. Mr Fairman set it down and picked up the other. As he turned it towards Sophie she drew in her breath and said, ‘Oh, the poor angel. What happened to him?’

  The framed oleograph showed a slim, near-naked young man lying prostrate on a rock set in a blue sea, with beautiful snow-white wings spread out beneath him. About the still form water nymphs had gathered in the water, some reaching up to him in wonder and curiosity.

  As her father leaned the picture against the first one, Sophie crouched down before it. ‘It’s so beautiful,’ she said. ‘Is the angel sleeping?’

  Grace said, ‘I don’t think he’s an angel, Sophie.
I think it’s Icarus, it must be.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Mr Fairman. ‘It can be no one else.’

  ‘Who is Icarus?’ Sophie said. ‘And why is he lying there asleep with the ladies watching him?’

  Mr Fairman caught Grace’s eye across the child’s head and said, smiling, ‘And I suppose the schoolroom can be wherever you happen to be, can’t it?’

  Grace smiled back fleetingly then lowered her glance to Sophie and bent beside her.

  ‘The story of Icarus is an ancient myth,’ she said, ‘and –’

  ‘What’s a myth?’

  ‘Well – let’s just say for now that it’s a very old story from ages past.’ Here she flicked a brief, self-conscious glance at Mr Fairman, as if seeking approval. Then back to the child: ‘And the myth about Icarus comes from Greece. Icarus was the young son of an architect – just like your papa. But his name was Daedalus.’

  ‘Daedalus? That’s a funny name.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it? Unfortunately Daedalus made the king of Crete, King Minos, very angry, and the king imprisoned him and his son Icarus in a tower.’ Grace broke off here and turned her glance again towards Mr Fairman. ‘Am I getting it right so far, sir?’ she said.

  He nodded, giving a grave smile, his eyes not leaving her own. ‘Faultless, so far as I can tell.’

  Grace felt herself blush a little under his gaze and quickly looked back at the picture.

  ‘So what happened to them, miss?’ Sophie said.

  ‘Well, Daedalus – Icarus’s father – decided they should escape, and so he made wings for them both of wax and feathers – and they escaped and flew away.’

  ‘Oh, good, that’s good,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Ah, but –’ Grace shook her head, ‘sadly it didn’t go well. Icarus flew too high, he flew too near the sun, and the heat of the sun melted the wax of his wings.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’ Sophie’s hands moved to her cheeks. ‘So what happened to him?’

  ‘Well – with his wings so damaged, poor Icarus couldn’t fly, and he fell into the sea – and was drowned.’