The Widow's Confession (27 page)

He stepped forwards, then stopped and looked at him. ‘She didn’t tell you, did she?’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, he is not like you, he is a man to keep his word, and she
will not see him again. And in a few months, sir, isn’t it true, she will bear your child?’

The frozen little group in the street, all behind Benedict, watched the painter step back. When he turned, Delphine had no doubt that the news had shocked him profoundly. She sensed it was not
the pregnancy which had disturbed him so deeply, despite Mrs Quillian’s audible cry. Was it not true that men of his sort had women all over London? It was news of the husband.

He rocked back on his heels, and sat down in the middle of the road. It was this action, Delphine thought, which saved him from the violence of the other man, who looked down on him
uncomprehendingly for a long moment, then turned and walked away in the direction of the Dolphin. She noticed there were more people on the street now; a couple of children, staring, aping the
expressions of their mothers, who stood in doorways, their arms crossed, their eyes hard, watching.

‘Where is my man?’ said Benedict, to no one in particular. ‘Send to the hotel. I need my medicine. Someone fetch him.’

They all stood there, a frozen little tableau in the middle of Harbour Street. It was Theo who broke it, and as he passed Edmund, he unfroze too. They went either side of the painter and lifted
him, the man struggling to his feet. ‘I had hoped to spare you and the town this, Mr Benedict,’ said Theo.

Benedict shook his hands away, muttering a curse under his breath. ‘Leave me,’ he said. He began to walk away towards the Albion Hotel.

‘Come now, Aunt,’ said Theo. ‘Do you wish to go back?’

‘Not just for the moment,’ said Mrs Quillian unsteadily. ‘I believe the air will do me good.’ She attempted a smile for some of the locals who were still watching.

The sands were busy, and the group moved easily in amongst the people on Main Bay. As Edmund walked alongside them, Delphine saw Julia’s hand twitch, and she wondered what her cousin was
thinking of.

‘We haven’t seen you much these past few days,’ said Julia. ‘We have felt the lack of your companionship.’

Delphine saw the astonishment on Edmund’s face, the emotion stealing over his kind expression. Ahead, Theo walked with Mrs Quillian. She wondered if Mr Benedict had found his way safely
back to the hotel.

The clouds were moving fast in the sky, and a sudden shadow made its way over the beach, casting the promenaders and playing children, the bathing machines and line of donkeys, into lower
light.

‘We cannot depend on the sunshine any more,’ said Julia brightly. ‘Autumn is coming, Mr Steele. When will you be returning to London?’

At the edge of the water, Delphine saw a woman holding a child on her hip. She appeared to be paddling.

‘It’s Polly,’ she said, and she heard Edmund and Julia cease their conversation. She was trying to work out why Polly would be doing such a thing with all the calamities that
had happened – and then she realized that the girl was not just paddling.

She was walking into the sea.

‘Mr Steele!’ cried Delphine, and she started weaving her way through the other people, hoping that he was following her.

By the time she reached the water’s edge, Polly was waist-deep in water. It was clear her dress was weighing her down. Her daughter could not have been more than a year old and was silent
in her mother’s arms, looking bemused.

‘Oh my goodness,’ gasped Mrs Quillian. The group had come to the water’s edge, and Delphine was aware that Theo stood beside her. ‘The poor dear girl.’

‘What are you doing, Polly?’ shouted Delphine.

At that moment, Polly dipped suddenly, and Delphine thought that the sand she had been on must have shelved off, as it often did; for the sand was moved here and there by the sea, a new
landscape every time a tide came in. Suddenly she was in the water nearly up to her shoulders and her daughter’s hair was floating in the sea.

The cry tore itself from Delphine’s throat and she ran forwards; she was already knee-deep in the sea when she felt hands on her shoulders.

It was Theo. ‘Do not,’ he said, glancing at her heavy skirts. ‘You will sink like a stone.’ He let go of her and tore off his jacket; beside him, Edmund had already done
so and was wading and splashing through the water towards the girl, her head still high, facing the sun and the horizon. Theo reached out for the child first; struggled with Polly, and tore the
girl from her arms, lifting her clear from the water as Edmund reached for Polly.

Polly fought them; Edmund had had no idea she would do so. There was saltwater in his eyes and his mouth, and he wondered for a moment, such was her ferocity, whether she might push him down and
drown him. He remembered the faces of Amy Phelps and Catherine Walters, and the thought crossed his mind – quick as a pulse – whether Polly had had some part in their deaths.
A
lady, with a veil
across her face
.

Standing on the shore, never had Delphine felt more constricted by her unwieldy dress. Her bonnet had fallen back, and she found her hands were in her hair, untangling it from its pins. Her
cousin held her close, and Delphine heard her fast breathing, knowing that she too was waiting to see the drama unfold.

As she watched Theo wade back, the tiny girl in his arms, Delphine saw the distress in his eyes, and in the moment that he looked at her, it was as though they were on the cliffs at Reculver
again, the connection between them suddenly present, the cobweb threads clear in the sunlight, if only for that moment. He dropped to his knees when he reached the beach, put the girl gently down,
and Delphine knelt beside her. The little girl was shocked; choking, but alive, and Delphine lifted her and placed her over her shoulder, patting her on her back so she could spit out the last of
the seawater.

‘Bravely done,’ she said to Theo, but her words were lost in the turn of the last wave, and Theo had gone back into the sea to help Edmund with Polly. Delphine put the child down on
the sand, stroking her hair and saying, ‘All is well, all is well, all is well.’

Polly was still struggling and fighting, but silently – saying nothing. There was only the pant of her breath and the dull plash of her arms against the surface of the sea. Eventually both
men dragged her, one arm each, backwards; no respecters of her status as a woman, but as though they were hauling some wild fish from the sea. When they finally released her she lay on the sand,
beside her daughter, her breathing laboured, her dress dark with water. A small crowd had gathered nearby, and Delphine glimpsed Martha at the front, an expression of distress on her face.

Polly turned to look at her daughter, then reached out towards the little girl. They all thought it would be a touch of tenderness, but instead her hand formed a claw, and it was as though she
sought to dole out her sentence of death on the child, even now. But her hand would not reach; she was too far, and Julia snatched the little girl up.
‘I
will take her to our
cottage,’ she said. ‘She will be safe there.’ And she looked at Edmund, soaked through, picking his coat up from the sand, and some kind of understanding passed between them, for
he came to join her.

‘Let me carry her,’ he said, and they set off across the sand together.

Delphine sat down beside Polly, Theo standing over them both. Polly was looking around now, lying on her back, her eyes darting this way and that. She saw Martha. ‘Come to triumph over
me?’ she said. ‘Get away! Get away!’

Delphine saw the puzzlement in Theo’s eyes. ‘They’ve known each other since they were children,’ she said, getting to her feet and brushing a little of the wet sand off
her ruined dress. ‘Martha,’ she said, ‘take Mrs Quillian back to the Albion.’ For the old lady, standing on the edge of it all, looked deeply shocked.

‘Don’t worry, Aunt,’ said Theo. ‘Mrs Beck and I will see to Polly. Please go back, I will call for you tomorrow.’

Polly had begun to cry – Delphine sensed that tears seemed easier than speaking – and her first, tight little sobs began to run into cries, terrible shrieking cries, that reminded
Delphine of the gulls. Theo leaned over her and put his hand under her elbow. It was a kind of physicality Delphine had never seen in him before; she had the sense that no power on earth could
shake that slim, strong hand from the girl’s elbow. ‘Get up,’ he said, in Polly’s ear. ‘Get up now, and we will take you to the parsonage. You do not have to go home
yet.’

‘Home?’ said Polly. ‘I have no home.’

‘We’ll see,’ said Theo.

Delphine did not want to touch the girl. She had seen how the petal-sweetness of her beauty had a dangerous edge. It was as if Polly was all sharp edges now, and one could wound oneself even by
her touching her. But she knew it was what Theo needed, so she took the girl’s other elbow and they hauled her, almost a dead weight, to her feet. Across the sand they went, with their
burden, Theo casting kindly but grave nods to anyone who crossed their path, strangers and locals alike. One of the women who had stood on the doorstep to see Mr Benedict berated had come down,
without her own child, and as they neared her, Delphine saw malice cross her face, the muscles around her mouth tensed as though she would say something, spit something, make clear the disgust she
had for Polly. But instead, she stood back and crossed her arms, and looked down at the sand. She was a good-looking woman, with tight blonde curls and a tortoiseshell comb in her hair, and
Delphine allowed herself to wonder whether she and Polly had once been friends, and had their pick of the young men of Broadstairs together. Would Polly’s failure mean she would now be cast
out from such companionship? Was her real sin her failure to remain a winner in all the local games?

Just as swiftly came the thought: Was that her only sin? Was her own child the first person she had tried to kill?

‘Quickly now,’ said Theo, and they walked up the middle of Harbour Street, their heads bowed, up the short slope like shire horses dragging their plough behind them. Polly began to
sob again, as though her sorrow might earn her the pity of her neighbours, might draw them from their houses and lead her mother to take her in her arms, and say: ‘It’s all right, my
girl. Things will be mended.’ But no such mercy happened, and Delphine thought to herself that they must send a message to Mr Gorsey. She wondered if the painter was sitting in a carriage,
Ramsgate-bound, blaming others for his misfortune.

Julia and Edmund had long since gone before them with the child; the door of Victory Cottage was closed. Without discussion Theo and Delphine turned up the driveway to the parsonage, their
charge now silent, submitting to their guidance without any protest.

Theo ushered them into the hallway and Delphine saw him glance at their state; covered in seawater and sand. ‘Into the kitchen,’ he said, and Polly gave a low, bitter laugh.

They sat in silence for several minutes around the kitchen table. It was Theo who spoke first.

‘Do you remember your Bible study, Polly?’ he said. ‘Luke, chapter seven, verse forty-seven: Her sins, which are many, are forgiven; for she loved much: but to whom little is
forgiven, the same loveth little.’

Polly watched him sullenly. ‘Is that all you have to say?’ she said.

‘All?’ said Theo. ‘It is everything, Polly, if you would but realize it. Can you see that your Saviour offers you hope? Offers you forgiveness from your sins?’ He paused.
‘No matter how numerous they are.’ And Delphine saw the doubt in his eyes, and wondered if he too was thinking of the girls washed up on the beach, of Polly’s frequent presence on
the pier, scanning the horizon with her cutting gaze.

‘Not sins,’ said Polly in a low but defiant tone. ‘Mistakes.’

‘The two are often confused,’ said Delphine.

Theo looked at her. ‘I’d say it was a sin,’ he said, ‘to try and take your own life, and that of your child. What did you hope for, Polly? The muddy corner of
Mockett’s field, past the wall of the churchyard? A forgotten grave beyond the reach of prayers?’

Polly’s mouth twisted in distress and her tears began to fall again. ‘I did not think of anything,’ she said, ‘other than the terrible things that Michael said to me.
They were not true. Jessie is his, and I meant to be a true and good wife to him. If this,’ she placed her hand on her stomach, ‘is true, then it was an error only; one mistake. I have
been Michael’s sweetheart since I was fourteen years old. The others admired me, but I kept eyes only for him.’

Delphine saw Theo’s gaze flick down to the surface of the kitchen table. She sensed he doubted Polly’s words, and she wanted to say: ‘Just because she is aware of the effect
she has on men, it does not mean that she was untrue to him.’

‘Fourteen years old,’ said Polly again. ‘I was good at my lessons, but no one cared for that. I am twenty-four now. It is a lifetime, to be in this place. And he gives me no
word of praise, except now and then. All his warmth he saves for his evenings in the Tartar Frigate, for his old mates on the boat. If I am there it is to be sweet little Polly. He does not care
what I say, or think, as long as I do not interfere in the singing of their sea shanties.’

Theo’s eyes were blank as she spoke, and Delphine wondered how many times he had heard this story. She glimpsed in Polly’s eyes the truth of it all, and knew that she herself would
rather have anything than the stultifying boredom of the fireside with someone who did not understand her or know her.

‘I have spent my life trying to think what to say to him,’ said Polly sadly, ‘but I do love him. Mr Benedict was so fine – like a bird with exotic plumage. He made me
laugh. He saw me as they used to see me – as unreachable Polly, as beautiful Polly; when I was a prize to be wanted and sought for. He saw all of that in me. It was a little wrong of me to
spend time with him. But Michael – he has kissed other girls, I have seen him. When the
Mary White
happened, his friends told me he went to Ranelagh, and said he pretended he had
been one of the lifeboatmen, just to be with a girl – a slip of a girl. All of those friends of his wanted me once; now I am a joke to them. If he has done that, then why is what I have done
a sin? He was wrong to leave me, wrong to leave me. I am so angry sometimes, it builds in me like a fire, and I hardly know what to do with it.’