by Sophia Tobin
CHAPTER THREE
The other visitors came slowly at first, like the warning drops of rain in a summer storm. And, like blotches of rain on a hot New York pavement, Julia and I noticed them all the more.
Mr Benedict was the first. Our previous meeting, when his carriage nearly ran me down, seemed to convince him that we were somehow friends. One morning I found him at the place on the cliff I had wished to use as my viewpoint, his easel set up. He sought to charm me, and asked to see my pictures. I held them close to me, and was blunt when he tried to insist. He woke a violent anger in me; his unceasing persistence reminding me of that last meeting with the man I refer to as my husband. That persistence is a kind of violence, in its way; it pushes through everything and tires its victim, forcing one to either surrender or angrily break away.
You will wish to know of that man Benedict reminded me of. The so-called husband I hide behind. I use the ugly remembrance of him to shield me. When creating a protective legend, it is best to stick to the truth as much as possible. So I use his first name, and when occasionally someone has asked me to describe his looks, I use his looks. It is risky to do so, for I have never yet learned to really control my features, and I cannot help the shadow of disgust which moves across my face at the thought of him. It is a puzzle to the asker, who thinks I have spent so many years in mourning for that man.
I do not use his surname. I thought of Beck myself: a mountain stream, running clear and pure.
Edmund soon found that Broadstairs in daylight was not the mysterious place it had seemed to be on his first night in the parsonage. In the sunshine it appeared peaceful, benign and a little old-fashioned, with no hint of danger. The dark thoughts which had troubled him on the evening of his arrival began to drift away in the purity of the sea air.
A few days after his arrival he went with his host to meet Mrs Quillian, Theo’s aunt, who had just arrived at the Albion Hotel. As they entered the coffee room, Edmund observed with interest the world-weary grandeur of the place: the deep red carpet, the dark walls and the hundreds of knick-knacks which, Theo told him, the late Mrs Gorsey had put on the mantelpiece before she had died. ‘Poor Polly, Gorsey’s daughter, is tasked with dusting them,’ said Theo. ‘At least I do not give Martha that burden, though the current fashion is for such clutter.’ He looked around the room, acknowledging acquaintances here and there. ‘Let us go out into the gallery and take our tea there,’ he said. ‘You may look at the sea, and it is much lighter and airier there.’
They passed out of the coffee room and crossed the dining room to reach the gallery. Polly was setting the tables, a sulky look on her pretty face, and the only other occupant of the room was a young gentleman, seated in the far corner, looking out at the sea.
Theo and Edmund had settled on a table, and Mr Gorsey had delivered them a tray of tea, when Edmund observed the entrance of a man whose marine garb and weather-beaten face immediately interested him. He was rather surprised to see him walking across the reception rooms of the hotel, and his presence awoke the disapproval of more than one grand lady he passed. Yet at the sight of him Gorsey raised his hand in greeting and went to speak to the gentleman in the far corner with some urgency. The mariner paused near Theo and Edmund; Edmund had the sense of being watched by keen, observant eyes.
‘Good morning, Solomon,’ Theo said. ‘Mr Steele, will you allow me to introduce you to Solomon Holbourn, the Harbour Master? Mr Steele is visiting from London, Solomon, and we are attending my aunt.’ He gave a weak smile. ‘She is late, as usual, but that is her right.’
‘A fine lady, Mrs Quillian. We shall be glad to see her again,’ said Solomon. ‘After the Mary White she sent me the finest letter I ever received – I have it still. Along with a bottle of brandy.’ His eyes glittered appreciatively.
‘Well-deserved,’ said Mr Hallam, turning to Edmund. ‘Solomon here is a hero – you may have read of him. He was instrumental in saving seven souls from the Goodwin Sands in March in our new lifeboat. His health is toasted in taverns all over Kent, and even Her Majesty knows his name.’
‘I read about it in the London paper. You went into the water yourself, did you not? That must have been a fearful venture,’ said Edmund.
The man nodded, only a twitch of his lips indicating that he was glad at the words. ‘It was our duty,’ he said. ‘That is all. And Captain White has gifted us a fine lifeboat, so we have him, as well as God, to thank for our lives.’
Behind him, Gorsey was approaching with the young man who had been sitting in the far corner. The landlord was flushed and cleared his throat repeatedly as he approached, in a kind of rehearsal of what he was about to say.
‘I am sorry to interrupt.’ Against all expectations, the young man spoke first. He was a well-dressed pup, thought Edmund, a little rough-looking to suit his manners, with long, unkempt black hair but fine clothes and a stance that indicated a good deal of confidence. He bowed low. ‘Will you allow me to introduce myself? Ralph Benedict – call me Benedict, that is all. I am here for the summer.’
Uncertain introductions ensued. After a moment’s polite conversation, Benedict took a seat at their table without being offered it and leaned back in a relaxed way, flinging his legs out and crossing them at the ankle. He declined tea.
‘Mr Benedict is a painter,’ said Mr Gorsey. ‘He’s the gentleman I told you of, Solomon.’
‘Here for the whole season?’ said Solomon in Benedict’s general direction. He had remained on his feet, and his expression indicated that he was no respecter of artists or gentlemen, other than those who impressed him through their actions. His cool gaze surprised and amused Edmund; it was obvious that the mariner had seen men like Benedict before, in great quantities.
‘I am,’ said Benedict. ‘My wife and children will be taking a villa at Ramsgate for the summer, but I will be spending much time here at Broadstairs. I have to work; I am lucky that there is a great demand for my work at present. I must make hay, you know, Solomon. And for my current painting, I need your assistance.’
Solomon said nothing.
‘Our Sol is being reticent with you,’ said Gorsey, ‘because there’s already a favoured personage who likes to paint here in the mornings – isn’t that so? Your Widow of the Sands?’ He gave a pleased little giggle.
Edmund saw Theo’s eyes flicker to Gorsey’s face, before he looked back down and stirred his tea.
Solomon seemed annoyed at Gorsey’s words, as though a confidence had been betrayed. ‘There is a lady who comes to paint on the beach in the morning,’ he said, ‘but I have nought to do with it. Nor do I care to meddle in other people’s business – unlike you, Gorsey.’
‘How do you know she is a lady?’ asked Benedict, with a smile that won a sharp look from Theo.
‘She is,’ said Solomon, his voice low and firm. ‘There’s many a bad woman dressed in good clothes – I know that – but she is a true lady in her manners and her expression. Not old, but with a gaze that’s as deep as the sea. Wise. The kind of woman you’d carve on the front of a boat to keep you safe from the waves.’ He said this without embarrassment, as though it was a matter of fact, plain and simple.
‘You can tell he is smitten,’ said Gorsey. Edmund was glad to see that he was not winning points; Benedict was watching the boatman, his expression softened and interested, and he was not responding to the mocking tone of the hotelkeeper. Gorsey ploughed on. ‘Oh, I have seen her myself – elegant, but unconventional, and Solomon loves that sweet American voice, do you not?’
‘American?’ said Benedict. ‘I think I have met her, the day I arrived. She was on the pavement when Dean nearly drove into your parlour, if you remember. Is she really a painter?’
‘What do you need me for, sir?’ said Solomon, and Edmund saw Benedict put away his curiosity; for all of his roughness, he was a sensitive reader of the expression on the man’s face.
‘I would like you to take me to the Goodwin Sands,’ said Benedict. ‘I’ve heard much of their horrors, but I al
so happen to know that it is possible to be taken there. I would pay a handsome amount to see the view from that swirling island of quicksand – and Gorsey tells me you are the man to take me there.’
‘A ridiculous idea,’ said Theo. Benedict glanced at him, bemused.
‘I’m a hoveller and a shipwright, sir,’ said Solomon. ‘But I don’t go to the Sands unless necessity takes me there. As Mr Hallam indicates, it’s not a place for picnics and sketching. I treat it with respect, and I suggest you do the same.’
Amused outrage permeated the young man’s expression. ‘What makes you think I would not treat it with respect?’ he said, glancing at Gorsey, whose face was reddening at the thought of his lost commission.
‘The fact that you can name it with a smile on your face, as though it means nothing to you,’ said Solomon. ‘You may find someone to take you out there, but I am not the man. No, Gorsey – be silent on the matter; you’ve said quite enough already. Mr Benedict, if you take my advice, you will spend your money on donkey rides for your children. Those that go to the Goodwin Sands – whether willingly or otherwise – most often have cause to regret it.’ He nodded, and went to turn away.
‘What time does your widow come to paint?’ said Benedict, to his back. ‘I am planning to go out there in the mornings myself, and I wouldn’t wish to disturb her.’
‘I hardly know,’ said Solomon. ‘And you are free to do what you wish, sir. It’s nought to me who walks on the beach. Mr Hallam, Mr Steele, I’ll wish you good day.’ He nodded at Gorsey, and strode out of the room.
To Theo’s evident irritation, Benedict stayed with them after Solomon’s departure, and even managed to wrestle an introduction to Mrs Quillian, who came to join them not long afterwards. Having charmed her with several compliments, the painter departed with little ceremony, saying that he should be working. Edmund was relaxed about the young man’s lack of manners, but he could tell Theo was not sanguine.
Edmund found Theo’s aunt to be an agreeable presence, enlivening his conversation with Theo like a shot of rum in water. It was clear she was past sixty, but despite her widowhood she dressed in bright colours, and confided immediately in Edmund that Mr Quillian would not have wished her to wear black for longer than was necessary. She was wide-eyed, rosy-cheeked, and had the kind of nimble movements which showed that she had long enjoyed climbing mountains, making tours and arranging excursions, and was not the kind of woman to make a fuss over small things. She had already canvassed Mr Gorsey for the most interesting arrivals to Broadstairs and, she told Edmund, made firm friends with a certain Miss Waring, a woman near her own age, who had come down from London with her beautiful niece. She looked at Edmund with frank interest and admiration. ‘You may even wish to marry the young girl!’ she suggested, a wicked glint in her eye. ‘She is as pretty as a picture, you know.’
‘Aunt,’ said Theo, with a sigh. He had been out of sorts since the conversation with Benedict, and was listening to Mrs Quillian with a resigned expression, toying with the knife on the tablecloth.
‘Mr Steele is not offended, Theo,’ said Mrs Quillian stoutly. ‘And I’m told that gentlemen often come down to the seaside to find a bride, even a distinguished man such as Mr Steele, who I am sure could marry whoever he wishes.’
‘I am sorry to tell you I am not looking for a bride,’ said Edmund, with a smile. ‘And I am practically in my dotage, so if you have found a beautiful young lady, she is not for me.’
‘In your dotage?’ cried Mrs Quillian. ‘Nonsense. You can’t be more than five and forty.’
‘I will ask for more tea,’ said Theo, getting up and squaring his shoulders, as though he might shake off his aunt’s words like a dog shaking off dust.
Mrs Quillian watched her nephew cross the red carpet and speak to Polly. The brightness faded a little from her face, and the smile she gave Edmund was one of such intense sadness that he hardly knew what to do or say.
‘I am so very glad you are here with my nephew,’ she said. ‘So very, very glad. He has long needed company. He has long needed a friend.’
CHAPTER FOUR
I accept my own agency in all that happened. I strongly believe there is no other way to live. Those who cast everything into God’s hands – how comforting that must be. I have never been able to surrender control in that way. You must tell me, one day, how you do it. As when I had recovered from the first wave of bitterness after we left New York, I accepted that I had played my part in shaping my fate, so I will not blame others for any suffering I underwent that summer in Broadstairs.
When the first girl’s body was found on the beach, I need not have been there. The gentlemen actively tried to stop me from accompanying them, but with what would have been considered indecent firmness, I insisted on going. Despite what I said, my decision to go was mostly informed by curiosity for, parched by my sterile travels, I thirsted for experience.
I did not know my decision would haunt me. I can hardly believe I hurried towards it, towards her, as though seeing her dead would be another experience, another sketch for my portfolio. How foolish and heartless that seems. My only excuse is that perhaps I feared that I myself was dead in some way, and wished to compare a living death with a real one.
When Delphine opened her eyes, she could not hear the sea or the wind, and the window showed a clear sky, the light merciless. It was the perfect morning for painting, and she rushed to dress and gather her drawing materials. Despite her cousin’s warnings that she should not go out alone, she cherished such mornings. In London she had asked her dressmaker to produce a drawing dress – one that could be fastened at the front, by her own hands, and did not require her to have help dressing on a day such as this. She put it on. Then she swathed herself in her voluminous, hooded cloak, pinned up her hair, and tied her black bonnet on.
She went outside, into the small garden before the cottage. As she had guessed, the light was perfect, every shadow hard-edged. So it was that she saw Mr Benedict’s servant. He was hurrying from the direction of York Gate and the beach, and carrying an easel under his arm. He paused and looked in her direction, but with unseeing eyes, it seemed, for without any acknowledgement of her presence he turned away, to his left, and began to stride up Albion Street, towards the hotel. The combination of his looks – a shocked expression with an extreme pallor – and the urgency of his movement made Delphine leave her sketchbook in the hall and follow him.
There was no one on the street but them, and the man’s pace did not slacken, so Delphine had to hasten to keep up with him. As she expected, he turned into the Albion. When she reached the reception she saw signs of his hurried entrance – the easel left leaning haphazardly against the counter. The hotelkeeper would not like it, she thought, scraping the wood. The room was empty and the sound of raised voices drew her on to the coffee room, where the servant was talking in an agitated manner to Mr Benedict and Mr Gorsey. His back was to Delphine, but the tone of his voice as he said, ‘We must go there, quickly,’ indicated extreme distress.
Along with Gorsey, Mr Benedict saw her immediately, and despite the look of grave concern on his face, his eyes sparked at the sight of her as the hotelkeeper held up his hand commandingly to silence the servant.
‘Not in front of the lady,’ said Mr Gorsey.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about Mrs Beck,’ said Benedict. ‘I am sure she is unshockable.’ His eyes roamed her face, as though he was savouring her expression. ‘My fellow artist,’ he said, ‘were you out roaming on this fine morning?’
‘What has happened?’ she asked, ignoring the insolence of the question. The servant’s shoulders bowed a little more, as though he was attempting to fold himself away.
Benedict patted him on the back. ‘Go up to the room,’ he said. ‘You have had a shock, and will be no use to us. Gorsey and I will sort all this out.’ He turned back to Delphine. ‘Nothing to alarm you unduly, as an American. In your nation of shotgun-bearers, life is cheap, is it not? Poor old Edward went to co
nstruct my easel and found a body on the beach.’
His eyes met hers.
‘How terrible,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Benedict, ‘a young girl, apparently.’ And the look of curiosity that had been painted so large across his face at the sight of her was replaced completely with an expression of distress. The sudden change did not suit him; his was a face that was suited to a smile, for it gave his pale complexion and rough dark features the glitter of energy and health. In his sudden sorrow he looked drained and ill. He gazed at Delphine for a moment, then turned back to the hotelkeeper.
‘We have spent too much time talking,’ he said. ‘Let us go. Edward said she was at the shoreline – well, she can’t be left there. Do you have a constabulary here?’
Mr Gorsey looked amazed. ‘Why, this is not London,’ he said. ‘They tried to bring one in for Kent, but it was rejected.’ He looked obscurely proud of this. ‘There’s the parish constable, but he won’t thank us for fetching him at this hour, if she’s nought but a drowning.’ He shifted awkwardly on his feet. ‘Are you sure you wish to be involved with this, sir?’ he asked. ‘The only medical man is Dr Crisp, and we won’t raise him at this time. He’s never up before noon, and he’s been getting worse recently. He’ll downright refuse to come, even if we knock him up.’
‘Not even for a body?’ said Delphine.
‘Especially not for a body – for a corpse won’t pay. Forgive me,’ said Mr Gorsey with a glance towards Delphine. In his agitation he had forgotten his obsequiousness. He pondered the problem. ‘I can fetch Mr Hallam, the parson – he may know what to do. Or . . .’ he hesitated. ‘We could leave her. She is hardly our responsibility.’
‘That is not possible,’ said Benedict. ‘Let us fetch Mr Hallam. We will go together. But not you, madam,’ he said to Delphine. ‘It is not right that you should come with us.’
‘I think it absolutely right that I should,’ she said, and saw Mr Gorsey look sharply at her. ‘I am hardly a green young girl, and I have seen much of illness and death in my own family. We do not know what the circumstances are, but it would sit better with me if I could be there. This poor woman should have one of her own sex at her side, for the sake of decency.’ She looked at each of them in turn, and waited for their objections. ‘Let us not lose any more time,’ she said.
