Too Close to the Sun

by Jess Foley

  Then, the words almost bursting from him, he said, ‘Does this mean you’ll be getting married?’

  ‘What? What gave you that idea? Who said anything about getting married?’

  ‘That’s what Mrs Tanner always said. She said one day you’d marry your Mr Stephen.’

  ‘Well, I shan’t be doing anything like that.’ She moved closer to him, looking into his face, shadowed a little as he sat with the window behind him. ‘Why are you concerned about me marrying Mr Cantrell?’

  ‘Not only him – anybody.’

  ‘But – but why?’

  ‘Well, you’d have to leave, wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t stay here any longer, would you?’

  ‘Well, I –’

  ‘You wouldn’t, would you? Not if you were married. You and your husband would have a place of your own.’

  ‘Well, yes, that’s true …’

  ‘So, what would happen to me? Where would I go?’

  ‘Billy …’

  ‘I couldn’t stay here, could I?’

  She remained looking down at him. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’m not marrying anybody so you and I are not leaving here. And whenever we do decide to leave it will be for some nice place that’s just right for both of us. I can promise you that.’

  ‘But Grace –’

  ‘I promise you, Billy,’ she said. ‘I will never leave you. Never.’

  It wasn’t till almost nine o’clock that Grace, having been summoned by Jane, left her own room to go down to the drawing room where Mrs Spencer was about to have her coffee. Grace did not want to go. She felt somewhat melancholy tonight, a little low, and having had a choice would have chosen to remain in the solitude of her room. There was nothing for it, though, but that she must go to spend a little time with her employer; it was what she was there for. With Mr Spencer away on business again, Grace’s company was needed.

  At the drawing room door Grace tapped, listened for Mrs Spencer’s voice and went in. She found her sitting on the sofa, her silver-topped cane leaning against the arm. A bright fire was burning in the grate. She appeared to be dressed a little more casually than usual, wearing a very simple dress with a little woollen jacket against the chill, and on top of this a shawl.

  ‘Ah, good evening, Grace,’ she said. ‘Come and sit down. Jane will be bringing the coffee any minute.’ There was a half-full decanter and a sherry glass on the low table before her, and after she had spoken she picked up the glass and took a little sip. ‘Spring’s not here yet,’ she said as Grace sat down, ‘not by a long chalk. Some of these evenings feel more like December, don’t you agree? And I seem to feel the cold so. One needs a little something to warm the blood. Will you have something, Grace? A little brandy with your coffee perhaps?’

  ‘No, thank you, ma’am, the coffee will be fine.’

  ‘Are you warm enough?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘And what sort of day have you had? You had your pupil as usual, did you?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘And how is Sophie getting on?’

  Grace talked for a minute about Sophie’s lessons, and her progress, then Mrs Spencer, said, ‘It will be very nice to see them settled in their own home. He’s an extremely nice man – and his little girl is so sweet. They deserve some happiness. They’ve had a visitor here from London, I gather, for about a week, is that so?’

  ‘Yes. A friend of Mr Fairman’s. Miss Lewin, her name is.’

  ‘A very elegant and beautiful young lady too, according to Jane. She saw them in Corster when she was out on an errand for me last week. What do you suppose? Do you think we’re about to hear the sound of wedding bells?’

  At that moment came a tap at the door, and then Jane was coming in with the tray of coffee which she set down on the low table in front of her mistress. When the maid had gone again Mrs Spencer said to Grace: ‘Grace, would you like to do the honours?’ and Grace moved to the sofa and poured the coffee for the two of them. Her own cup she took back with her to her chair.

  Mrs Spencer sipped from her cup, then said, ‘Jane said she’d seen you walking towards the village this afternoon. I hope you didn’t get caught in the rain.’

  Grace smiled. ‘Fortunately I managed to miss it. I got into shelter just in time.’

  ‘Well, that’s good. I do hope the good weather isn’t too far away. Well, certainly all the signs of spring are here even if it is so cold – the daffodils all out, and the cherry blossom; the birds nesting. I’m just so glad the winter is behind us. I so hate the long nights and the short days and the bleak skies.’

  ‘When we have some warmer days,’ Grace said, ‘perhaps we can go out with our sketchbooks and paint-boxes.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps we can.’ But Mrs Spencer spoke without enthusiasm. ‘Perhaps we can.’

  Grace began: ‘Also, when the warmer weather comes we –’ but Mrs Spencer overrode her, not rudely, but as if she was preoccupied to the point of being momentarily unaware. ‘Even if we don’t go painting,’ Mrs Spencer said, gazing off, looking into the fire, ‘it would certainly be nice to get out of the house for a while. I don’t get out enough, my husband tells me, and perhaps he’s right. Perhaps I should make more of an effort. After all the carriage is there, and Mr Rhind or Mr Johnson can be there if I need a driver.’ She took a sip from her sherry glass. ‘Rhind is always there for Mr Spencer.’ She turned to Grace now. ‘I don’t think you like Mr Rhind, do you? I somehow got that impression.’

  ‘Well –’ Grace did not know what to say, and so said nothing, taking refuge from the awkwardness of the moment in stirring her coffee.

  ‘Not everyone does. Like him, I mean. He does not inspire liking. He is not an eminently likeable man. Although at times I’m sure my husband must think he is. Heaven knows, Rhind is loyal and faithful enough. Where Edward is concerned, there’s no one more faithful.’

  ‘I rather gathered that,’ Grace said tentatively.

  ‘Then you gathered correctly.’

  Grace said, having wondered so long, ‘Has Mr Rhind been in Mr Spencer’s employ for long? I rather assumed that he has.’

  ‘Oh, for a considerable number of years now. My husband was a young man when they met. They both were, though Rhind is a few years older. Exactly by how much I don’t know.’ The sherry glass was empty and Mrs Spencer refilled it from the decanter. Her coffee seemed to be more or less forgotten. Grace divined in the woman’s mood some lowness of spirit – as there was in her own, and thought that if she, Grace, were asked to give some kind of emotional comfort, then she would be ill equipped to provide it.

  ‘They met, so I understand, as I say,’ Mrs Spencer picked up a napkin and dabbed at her mouth, ‘when they were both young men. Apparently Rhind was in a spot of bother over something. Something in which he was in trouble with the police. I don’t know the ins and outs of it, and it’s of no importance now, but I believe what happened is that Edward helped the man out of the particular spot he was in. And, loyal man that he is, Rhind never forgot it. He seems to have spent all these years supporting my husband in whatever way he thinks necessary. I do believe that if Edward asked him to jump off a bridge he would do it. There’s nothing, I think, that Rhind wouldn’t do for him.’

  ‘I’ve never been quite sure what Mr Rhind’s exact role is,’ Grace said.

  ‘That’s an excellent question,’ said Mrs Spencer. ‘I’m not sure that I can answer it precisely. Let’s just say he’s a kind of factotum. Whatever Edward wants him to be he will be. He’s his valet, his driver, his groom, his just about everything.’ She put the napkin down on the table before her. ‘Would you like some more coffee, Grace?’

  Was it possible that her mistress’s words were a little slurred? Grace wondered. ‘No, thank you,’ she said. ‘I still have some.’

  Mrs Spencer gestured to an area behind the sofa on which the chess set lay on a marble-topped table. ‘We must get back to our games at some time,’ she said. ‘We haven’t played in two or three wee
ks now.’

  Grace had been at the disposal of Mrs Spencer for most of the time when Sophie had not been having her lessons, but her employer had not called on her beyond the odd occasion, and none of those periods had lasted any great length of time. It was almost as if for the time being she preferred her own company.

  ‘We must do more sketching together as well,’ Mrs Spencer said. ‘And more painting. I’m afraid I’ve neglected my painting somewhat – which is a shame as it can be a great comfort to me.’ She was silent for a moment, then added, ‘I met my husband through my painting, did I ever tell you that?’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  ‘Yes, that’s how we met. I had some of my paintings on show in an exhibition in Swindon and he happened to see them. And bought them, can you believe? So that’s how our correspondence began – and then he asked whether I had more paintings available. So he visited me and – and well, that’s how it all began. Just think, just by chance he happened to be in Swindon at the time my paintings were on show.’ She smiled at the memory.

  Grace said, ‘Perhaps I’ve been spending too much time with Sophie. I should be spending more time with you, ma’am. We could make other arrangements if you like. Perhaps Sophie should come in only for half the week.’

  ‘No, no,’ Mrs Spencer said quickly, ‘the arrangements are fine as they are. You teach the child. I like the thought of her coming here. The same with Billy. I like the thought of his living here. At least this house serves some purpose, instead of just standing here like some great mausoleum.’ A brief pause and she added, ‘I never wanted to come here.’

  Hearing such words, Grace was curious. But she dared not enquire further, feeling as it was that Mrs Spencer might well think she had already volunteered more than enough.

  ‘Are you sure you won’t have some more coffee, Grace …?’

  ‘No, really, thank you.’

  Mrs Spencer nodded, sipped from her glass and went to replace it on the table. She misjudged the placing of it, however, and caught the rim of the glass’s foot on the edge of the table. In a moment the little amount of sherry that was in there had spilled over the table’s surface. Quickly Grace hurried over and with Mrs Spencer’s napkin dabbed at the spilt liquor. ‘It’s all right, Grace,’ Mrs Spencer said as Grace mopped up, and then, ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with me tonight.’

  ‘I’d better go and get a cloth,’ Grace said, looking at the table, but Mrs Spencer said, ‘No, don’t go to any trouble. It was only a drop and there’s no harm done.’

  ‘Shall I get you a clean glass?’ Grace said, holding the empty one.

  ‘Oh, good heavens, no, don’t bother to do that.’

  Mrs Spencer made no attempt to take the empty glass from Grace, and after a moment Grace picked up the decanter and refilled the glass. Setting glass and decanter down on the table she moved back to her own seat. Silence fell in the room, silence but for the occasional crackle and snap from the fire. Mrs Spencer sipped from her newly charged glass and into the quiet said, ‘I used to live in Swindon. Did you know that?’

  ‘I believe someone told me.’

  ‘You believe someone told you, eh? Oh, yes, I’m sure the gossip about me has gone the rounds.’ She took another sip from her glass. ‘Yes, in Swindon – and I lived in a very modest house. Oh, very modest. Small in comparison to this. But it suited me. I was settled in my life, and I never thought I would move. I had no reason to. But then I married and we moved here.’ She gave an ironic smile. ‘I had one maid where I lived before, and now look.’ Her gaze wandered off again, as if her thoughts were elsewhere, then, turning back to Grace, she said: ‘What do you want to do, Grace?’

  ‘What do I want to do? I don’t understand.’

  ‘With your life. What do you want to do with your life? I mean, here you are – How old are you now, twenty-one?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Twenty-one years old. You have your life before you. Don’t waste it.’

  ‘No,’ Grace said, ‘I won’t,’ and thought how foolish her words had been. It was a wonder Mrs Spencer hadn’t laughed aloud. And truth to tell, if she had thought for a moment on Grace’s situation, she probably would have done so. Here was Grace, at twenty-one, spending her days either teaching a small child or working as companion to a lonely woman – and she could spend years in the same employ without the chance to meet anyone or change her position. And that very day what had she done? She had turned down what in fact amounted to a proposal of marriage, with security for the rest of her days. But then, she had had no choice. Quite simply, it had not been right.

  Mrs Spencer, still thinking on Grace’s answer, said, ‘Indeed, no, you must not,’ then gave a sigh and raised her head and looked about her. Returning her gaze to Grace, she added, ‘Are you satisfied with your room, my dear?’

  ‘With my room? Yes, indeed. It’s very nice, thank you.’

  ‘Well, if not, then there are plenty of other rooms in the house.’ Mrs Spencer waved a hand, as if taking in the other rooms. ‘That’s one thing there’s no shortage of – rooms. And Billy? Is he happy with his room? I should have asked long before this.’

  ‘Oh, he loves it. He’s never had such a room before.’

  ‘He’s a good boy. He’ll be in bed asleep now, right?’

  Grace smiled. ‘I hope so.’

  ‘It’s such a good thing he’s got you. Without you, what would he do? With no parents and no home? It would be the workhouse, I’ve no doubt. Or he’d be sleeping rough, begging for his food, perhaps doing the odd job to earn a crust. And with his – his injury he’d be limited as to what he could do. Thank God he’s got you.’

  Grace said, ‘Yes, he’s got me.’ She did not want to dwell on such a theme.

  Mrs Spencer took a sip from her glass. It was already half-gone. Grace wondered what she did with her time all day. While she, Grace, was teaching Sophie, what was Mrs Spencer doing? She didn’t spend all her time painting, Grace knew that much. In fact, as far as Grace was aware, she was spending less and less time at her easel and sketchbook. The portrait begun of Grace remained unfinished; it had been two or three weeks since Mrs Spencer had asked her to sit for it. She had been passionate about it at the start, but no longer, it seemed. Like the rest of her painting. Like the games of chess they had enjoyed. And it seemed a very long time since Grace had heard her mistress playing the piano and singing her favourite songs from the operetta. Things were different, Grace thought. In just a few months things seemed to have changed.

  Mrs Spencer sat with her sherry glass in her hand, eyes half-closed, her gaze in the direction of the fire. On a small table just behind the back of the sofa an oil lamp cast its soft light, making a pale nimbus around the woman’s hair. A little sigh came from her. Grace took in the drooping eye and softened jaw line and thought how tired she looked. There was no longer any trace of youth in her face.

  Mrs Spencer put a hand to her mouth as she yawned. ‘I’m so pleased you could come and see me tonight,’ she said. ‘I’ve been feeling a little melancholy. But I’m sure that’s often the way when you have a husband who works all hours God made.’

  Grace said, ‘I’m almost always about the house, ma’am, if you want me.’ Then she added, ‘At any time, day or night.’

  ‘Thank you, dear. I appreciate that.’

  Mrs Spencer looked away again, gaze towards the fire, eyes half-closed. Silence fell in the room. In the quiet Grace could hear the singing of the burning wood in the grate, the faint sigh of the wind in the tree outside the window, its branches tapping now and again upon the pane. One of the burning logs toppled into the glowing ash, a little too close to the edge of the grate, and Grace looked at Mrs Spencer as if to ask, Shall I attend to the fire?, but saw that there had been no reaction, and realized after a moment that the woman was asleep.

  Quietly, Grace got up from the chair, moved to the fire and, taking the poker, pushed the burning log back into a safer position. Carefully setting the poker dow
n again, she moved back to her chair.

  Grace sat there, unmoving. She did not think to look at the clock until some considerable time had passed, and then she saw that it was close on eleven. Mrs Spencer must have been asleep for at least twenty minutes. Grace did not know what to do. She could not just get up and leave her mistress there. And on the other hand, she did not feel that she could go and rudely awaken her. So she stayed where she was, and all the while Mrs Spencer remained sitting there on the sofa, her chin lowered to her chest, eyes closed, her empty sherry glass held in her lap between her hands.

  The fire in the grate was burning lower. Should she, Grace wondered, put on more wood? Or would Mrs Spencer, on waking, see this as a liberty, a step too far?

  And then suddenly, Mrs Spencer was awake again. As if nothing had happened she opened her eyes and lifted her head, saying a very little ‘Oh,’ of surprise to find that she had been sleeping. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said, turning, finding Grace still in her chair, ‘Grace, I think I must have dropped off for a minute. How rude. Please forgive me.’

  ‘You’re tired, Mrs Spencer,’ Grace said. And then, ‘Wouldn’t you like to go to bed?’

  Mrs Spencer nodded. ‘My dear, I think I would.’ She became aware that she was still holding her sherry glass, and she leaned forward a little and carefully placed it on the table. Then, leaning to her left, she took hold of her cane. Grace got up and moved to her to help her up from the seat. At once Mrs Spencer put up her free hand, palm out, stopping Grace in her movement.

  ‘It’s all right, my dear. I can do it myself. I’m quite capable.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Grace apologized.

  ‘That’s all right, that’s quite all right.’ Pushing herself up from the sofa, and with the support of her cane, Mrs Spencer got to her feet. ‘My leg bothers me a little tonight,’ she said. ‘Sometimes it does that. Not often, but occasionally. Tonight it does. It’s as if I have no strength in it. There’s nothing I can do about it. It will pass in time. Tomorrow it’ll be all right again.’ She bent slightly and rubbed at her thigh. Then, turning to Grace, she said, ‘Is Billy ever in pain? In discomfort?’