Too Close to the Sun

by Jess Foley

  In her sewing room she slowly paced to and fro, from the fireplace to the window and back again. She could not relax over the breakfast table with Edward. She doubted that she could ever relax with him again. As she arrived at the window for the second time she glanced down and saw Rhind enter the yard, leading the horse and carriage, ready to take his master to the station. Quickly she averted her glance and turned back to pace again. Then, moments later she heard approaching footsteps on the landing and the door opened and Edward appeared in the doorway.

  ‘I thought I’d find you here,’ he said, and came into the room and closed the door behind him.

  He moved across the carpet and came to halt in front of Grace where she had stopped beside her sewing table.

  ‘Why did you leave?’ he said.

  ‘Edward, please – I didn’t feel well.’

  ‘You didn’t feel well – you’ve only just got up.’

  ‘I’m not sleeping. I told you that.’

  He stood in silence, as if weighing the situation, or thinking of words to say. Then he said, ‘Listen – about last night …’

  Grace said nothing, but hearing the words looked down at her hand at it lighted on the tabletop, her finger moving to skim its polished surface.

  ‘I was drunk,’ he said. ‘There, I’ve admitted it.’ A smile again, like the one he had given downstairs. ‘And how often will you find a husband admit to such a thing? Not in a month of Sundays, I should think. But it’s true. I had too much whisky, and it’s the devil’s own brew, it is. You wouldn’t know it, but it makes a man say all kinds of crazy things. Things that are just made up out of the air, for no reason at all that anyone could fathom.’

  Grace remained looking down, watching as her finger traced a slow little circular pattern on the oak. She could not look him in the face. At some other time were she to avoid his glance like this, she could well imagine him saying, Look at me. Please look at me when I’m speaking to you. But at this moment she believed that he as well as she preferred to avoid direct eye contact.

  ‘Yes, people say insane things when they have the drink in them,’ Edward said. ‘Like me last night. And I wanted to tell you – I said some crazy things, didn’t I? I can hardly believe some of the things I said to you. Well, it’s not so much what I said, but more what you might have inferred from what I said. That you might have gone off with the wrong idea or something. I think perhaps you did – which is why this morning you won’t say boo to a goose.’

  Flicking a glance at him, she saw that he spoke with a faint earnest smile on his face, a smile that begged for belief and understanding. She had never seen him look like this before.

  ‘Did you hear what I said?’ he said after a moment.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And have you nothing to say?’

  ‘I don’t know what you want me to say.’

  He seemed momentarily at a loss at this. ‘I’m not asking you to say anything.’

  Her sewing basket was on the table, and beside it a little flannel shirt that she had been making. She picked up the shirt and said, ‘I’m making this for Mrs Castle’s little boy. I should have had it done by now. I said it would be. Poor things, they have so little.’

  ‘Damn the shirt,’ he hissed, and wrenched it from her hands and threw it down on the table. ‘Look at me when I’m speaking to you.’

  She raised her glance, and he looked directly into her eyes. Putting his hands flat upon the table he leaned towards her, putting his face close to her own. ‘I’m through with playing these blasted games with you, madam,’ he said. ‘I’ve tried to meet you halfway, but you’ll have none of it. So, you can think what the bloody hell you like, and the devil with you. There’s no way you can hurt me, anyway. You’re my wife, and you’ll stay my wife.’ He was shaking in his fury, she could see, his lips were pale, drawn back over his teeth. She found herself shrinking from him, drawing back slightly, her heart pounding against her ribs.

  ‘Yes, you’re going to stay my wife,’ he said. ‘What is mine I keep. I’ve told you that. There’s no man who will divide me from what’s mine. D’you hear? What’s mine is mine – to keep. Until such time as I have no use for it.’ He paused, licked his dry lips. ‘Just remember that. You’re my wife – and in case you choose to believe in some half-cocked story you’ve dreamed up, remind yourself that wives can’t speak out against their husbands. And in case you’re in any doubt there, I’m talking specifically about a court of law. And let me tell you something else: If you were foolish enough to speak out against me, there’s nothing anyone could prove. Nothing. Do I make myself clear? I’m not an idiot, so don’t underestimate me. You hear me? So I suggest you make the best of what you’ve got. Yes! Make the best of what you’ve got and stop hankering after your fine Mr Fairman. Just count yourself lucky.’

  ‘Lucky!’ she murmured on a little sob, unable to stop herself.

  ‘Yes, lucky!’ he said bitterly. ‘You had nothing, and you were nothing, and I took you and gave you everything. Your brother too. Where would he be if it were not for me? I gave the two of you a fine house to live in – how else would you ever get to be mistress of a place like this? – and you had a husband who loved you. And who still would love you if only he could see a glimmer of hope. But there’s not, is there? I can see you’ll never change.’

  He straightened. ‘I’m leaving now for the mill. When I come back this evening I want to see some changes around here. For I’ll tell you something, I’m not prepared for things to go on as they are.’

  When Edward had left, leaving the door open behind him, Grace got up and closed it, then moved back into the room and sank into a chair. And there she sat while the minutes ticked by, and ticked by into an hour, and still she did not move.

  She remained there in the silence of the room; there was no sound at all coming to her from the house, no sound coming up from the stable yard. Billy would have gone to school ages ago. She missed him. At times such as this she would have liked to have him close by, comforted by his common sense and his optimistic outlook. This, though, she had to handle on her own. This was not something she could bring Billy into.

  At one point she picked up the little shirt that Edward had so angrily dashed down, and thought for a moment that she might work on it, and try to finish it for the Castle boy, but she could not bring herself to so much as thread a needle, and she set it down. It could wait for another time.

  She must do something, however, and at last, without purpose, she got up and left the room.

  Still without purpose, she moved along the landing and there opened the door to the studio. Mrs Spencer’s studio. For she could never see it as anything other. Now in the open doorway she stood and looked into the room. It had hardly changed since the last time Mrs Spencer had worked in it. And Grace’s portrait was still there. She picked it up and placed it on the easel and stood back and looked at it. It was very lifelike, she thought, and what a pity it was that Mrs Spencer had never got around to finishing it.

  She wandered around the room while the memories came back. She saw herself again as she had stood there on that day over three years ago, when she and Billy had come to deliver the framed canvases. She could see herself in her linen dress with the flowers on it; see Billy once again, rushing towards the panic-stricken bird. That was such a happier time, a time before the world had changed for them both.

  She turned, made her way to the door and back out onto the landing.

  She was halfway down the stairs leading to the hall when there came a ring at the doorbell. She got to the hall just as Effie came from the rear of the house and moved towards the door. Out of curiosity, Grace lingered while the maid opened the door and spoke to the man who stood on the front step. She heard the stranger ask whether Mr Spencer was in, and the maid replied that he was not. At this Grace stepped forward.

  ‘I’m Mrs Spencer,’ she told the man. ‘Can I help you at all?’ She turned then and nodded to the maid, saying, ‘It’s all righ
t, Effie,’ and the maid went away.

  Tipping his bowler hat to her, the caller told Grace that his name was Connors, that he was from the Apex Insurance Company, and that he was there to see Mr Spencer on the matter of a policy he was taking out. ‘I could have written to him on the matter,’ the man said, ‘but I found myself in the area, so decided to call in person.’ He was a tall man, with a thin face, and dressed against the cold day in a dark brown wool coat with an astrakhan collar. He carried a briefcase which he held up as he spoke, and tapped it, adding, ‘It’s a document I’ve brought that needs his attention. But if he’s not here I’ll make an appointment and come back another day. I’m sorry to have troubled you.’

  ‘No, wait, please,’ Grace said. ‘If you tell me what it is you want, I might be able to save you another journey. You say it’s about a particular policy.’

  ‘Yes, a life insurance policy.’

  ‘And what about it?’

  The man hesitated as if uncertain whether to continue, to divulge information. Grace said, ‘I’m Mrs Spencer; I’m sure I can help you.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps you can, ma’am.’ The man nodded, resigned. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, Mr Spencer’s very recently started to take out a life insurance policy on a member of his family. You do know about it, ma’am?’ The latter was half-question, half-statement.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Grace heard herself say, ‘ – he’s mentioned it,’ and then, ‘But please, come into the hall.’

  The man entered, taking off his hat as he came.

  ‘That’s it,’ Grace said as she closed the front door, ‘come in out of that cold wind.’ She turned and gestured to the sofa. ‘Please, sit down.’

  ‘Now,’ Grace said, sitting beside the man, ‘you said my husband has started to take out a life insurance policy. What do you mean, he’s started to take it out?’

  ‘Only that it can’t go through just yet, ma’am, as there’s a little information required about the insured.’

  ‘Oh, I see, then tell me what you want to know and I’ll be happy to help you, if I can.’

  ‘I’m sure you can, ma’am. It’s just the matter of the date of birth of the insured.’

  ‘What date did he give you?’

  ‘He gave the day and the month, but no year.’

  Throughout the brief exchange Grace had felt her heartbeat increasing. Thoughts were flying through her brain with such swiftness that she could scarcely examine them. Edward had insured her life. But of course. Of course. It made sense. And he would have insured the first Mrs Spencer too.

  ‘The year,’ she heard herself saying, ‘well, I was born in 1867.’

  ‘No, ma’am, not you,’ he said. ‘It’s Master William Barratt Harper.’

  When the man had gone, back out into the chill November day, Grace had stayed trembling in the hall. She had not given him the information he required. On hearing that it was Billy who was the subject of the policy, she had said to the man, ‘Oh, but you must come back and see my husband. He will deal with it himself.’ And the man had looked at her bewildered, puzzled at her behaviour after her former cooperation. But still he had gone, putting his hat back on his head, giving it a pat and stepping out again into the wind. Very well, he had said, he would write and make an appointment with her husband.

  With the door closed behind the man, Grace had stood there, unable to think of what to do. It was Billy’s life that was at risk. As she raised her fingers to her cheek she saw that her hand was shaking.

  Eventually she left the hall and moved back to the sewing room. She went there in the lack of having any other place she could think of going to. Just as she had before she began slowly to pace, ending up at the window where she looked down on the stable yard. And there she saw Rhind moving about in the course of his business. Almost as if he could sense her eyes upon him, he suddenly raised his head. And for a brief moment their eyes met. Quickly she turned away and moved to her sewing table, where she sat down in her little chair, the Castle boy’s shirt beside her next to her sewing basket.

  She had to get away, she knew, and she had to take Billy with her. Without the shadow of a doubt she knew that as long as he stayed at Asterleigh his life would be in danger.

  But what could she do? Her instinct was to run at once to Kester. He would know what to do. But she could not, must not do that. For one thing she must not involve him in the situation in a way that could put him or Sophie in any danger. The thought briefly flashed through her mind that she and Billy could go to Aunt Edie’s but she knew that that would be no good. For one thing, Aunt Edie was too set in her ways to suddenly agree to share her home indefinitely with relatives, no matter how fond of them she might be. In addition to which she had not space to accommodate both herself and Billy. And besides, Edward would find her in no time, and he would not be content to allow her to remain away from him if he could prevent it.

  The answer, the only answer, she thought, was for her and Billy to get right away, somewhere Edward could not find them, and ideally somewhere he wouldn’t think of looking. They could go abroad perhaps, to America or Australia, or New Zealand. Many young people were emigrating to the colonies and building new and successful lives for themselves, so why not she? And in an English-speaking country her abilities as a teacher might be sought after; with good fortune there was no reason why she and Billy should not make good lives for themselves.

  But travel cost money. And that was one thing she did not have. With Edward always keeping the purse strings so tight, and letting her have just enough for her essentials, there had never been the opportunity to put anything by.

  But that, she eventually decided, was where Kester could help. If he could lend her enough money to be able to get away and make a new start … It would be one act of assistance and then he would no longer be involved.

  She remained sitting there for some time, and then, on a decision, got up and went into the library.

  At the writing table she sat and took from a drawer an envelope and paper. Then, dipping her pen into the inkwell, she wrote:

  Asterleigh

  Dear Kester,

  Billy and I are in need of your help. I cannot go into the reasons now, but I beg you to believe me when I say that our situation is desperate, and that we must get away from here without delay.

  Will you meet Billy and me tomorrow at twelve o’clock by the church in Corster, in King’s Square? I shall keep Billy home from school, and we shall be ready and waiting for you.

  Another thing. I have to ask you this now, so that you can be prepared, is it possible that you can lend me some money? It goes without saying that I shall pay you back. But I am desperately in need of financial help; indeed, without it I cannot see that we shall get anywhere.

  I am sending this with one of the maids. Please send back a brief word confirming that we can meet. I feel sure you will not let me down, and I shall wait to hear from you.

  Grace

  On an envelope Grace wrote Kester’s name and address, and then, having blotted the ink, sealed the letter inside.

  And now what to do about it? Certainly she could not send Rhind; he was the last person she could ask. Nor could she go herself, for Rhind would almost certainly be watching her movements. After her observed visit to the doctor, Grace had no doubt that Edward was having her movements observed.

  After a little further thought she went to Mrs Sandiston, to ask if she could spare one of the maids to go on an errand into Corster. The housekeeper replied that Effie, the maid who was due to leave for other employment, could go in for her. ‘I’ll tell her to put on her hat and coat and come to see you, ma’am,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you. Tell her I shall be in the sewing room.’

  Twenty minutes later Effie came up to the sewing room where Grace was waiting for her. She was a tallish girl, dark and attractive, and wearing a mauve hat and grey cape.

  Grace had made a list of three items she wanted the maid to get for her from the art supplies
shop in Corster centre. She had listed two oil colours: viridian and cerulean blue, and a small bottle of linseed oil. It was such a small requisition, but there simply was not the money to spare for a lot more. She would like to have dispensed with the visit to the art shop altogether, but some purchases were necessary if there was to be a perceived genuine reason for the girl’s going.

  Grace handed the small list to the girl, along with sufficient money for the purchase, and her train fares. And as the girl looked at the list Grace was conscious of how trivial the errand’s purpose sounded. Effie, however, accepted it without a flicker of a question in her expression.

  The maid had put the list into her bag and was turning away, when Grace said, ‘Oh, Effie – one other thing …’ And when the girl turned back, Grace was holding the envelope addressed to Kester. ‘Would you take this also?’ Grace said. ‘It’s to go to Mr Fairman in Crescent Gardens. Do you know it? You’re from Corster, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘And do you know Crescent Gardens? I believe it’s on the south side of the town, near to the canal.’

  ‘I know it, ma’am.’

  ‘His house in Crescent Gardens is called the White House. It’s all written on the envelope. Can you get there all right? Will you need to take a cab?’

  ‘No, ma’am, I can walk.’

  Grace put the envelope into the girl’s hand. ‘You won’t lose it, will you?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘And make sure you go to deliver the letter before you go to buy the oil paints. All right?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘I mean the paints are not nearly so important. So if you don’t have time to buy them it won’t matter. We can get them another day.’

  The girl nodded.

  ‘Yes, and when you give the letter over to Mr Fairman, you wait for a reply, all right? He’ll give you an answer.’

  ‘Yes. But ma’am – what if the gentleman’s not there?’