The Widow's Confession (30 page)

‘Of course I did,’ said Theo impatiently. Then he looked at Edmund. ‘But you did not. My dear sir, please go and put dry clothes on. You place your life at risk to wait so long
with,’ he paused, ‘the ladies.’

Edmund did what he said. When he returned, Theo had got another glass out, and had filled both his and Edmund’s with a good measure of brandy. Then he sat back in his chair, and though he
raised his glass at Edmund’s bidding, he had lost the slightly forced good cheer he had been manifesting when Edmund arrived. Instead, he sat, drink in hand, lost in his thoughts.

‘I should tell you,’ said Edmund. ‘I am engaged.’

A frown crossed Theo’s brow. ‘Engaged?’ he said. ‘To whom?’

Edmund almost smiled; wondered if he had really been so opaque when, internally, his whole world had been shifting, and knew in that moment that he had inherited his father’s ability to
mask his thoughts. ‘Miss Mardell,’ he said, using her assumed name, as the most familiar.

‘Oh.’ The perplexed expression faded from Theo’s face; the hardness of panic that had entered his eyes, briefly, softened back into thoughtfulness. He took a draw from his
glass then. ‘Is she who she says she is?’ he said.

Edmund was disturbed by the tone of his voice; barely veiled violence hung behind his words. ‘She has travelled under that name. Her real name is De Witt. When one is escaping trials, it
is understandable that one would not wish to carry that name and move under its shadow everywhere,’ he said.

Theo made a sound – half-cough,
half-hah.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘She has tricked you too.’

‘No one is tricked,’ said Edmund brusquely. Theo blinked; he looked hurt. Edmund leaned forwards, and put his glass down. ‘Theo,’ he said, trying to make his voice even,
‘what is wrong? Will you speak to me? You can, if you wish, or I will sit here with you.’

‘Matthew twenty-four,’ said Theo. ‘Watch therefore: for ye know not what hour your Lord doth come. But know this, that if the goodman of the house had known in what watch the
thief would come, he would have watched, and would not have suffered his house to be broken up.’

‘Theo,’ said Edmund.

Theo slammed his glass down onto the table which such force that Edmund was sure he had broken it, but it stood there, in the gloom, still whole.

They sat in silence for what seemed to be an eternity to Edmund. Misery hung in the very air. He felt it soak into him and depress his spirits, spirits which despite everything had been high,
for he had the expectation that he would marry, and the subject of marriage now seemed a thing of joy. At length, he thought he would try one last time.

‘I may be wrong,’ he started, ‘but I suspect that you may also have thought of marriage. And, I must claim some secret knowledge here, I do know that it was once a possibility
for you, a long time ago, in Ceylon.’

Theo blinked, but said nothing.

‘I know what end it came to,’ said Edmund, ‘that the poor lady died on her way here, and that you have mourned her, with the grace that I would expect from a man of your
honourable character. But, if I was to say one thing to you, my dear Hallam, it would be that you cannot mourn forever. That God, in all His mysteries, does grant us other chances – to be of
use, as you have found with your vocation here – but also to love. Surely if we are offered such a chance, we should take it.’

There was perplexity, again, on Theo’s face.

‘Perhaps I am not making myself clear,’ said Edmund, with a sigh. ‘I am poor with words, as Charles will tell you. But what I mean to say is – you are not tied to the
remembrance of that good lady, unless you wish to be. You have done her memory honour, and may begin again, and make an honest marriage, blessed by God. Do you think our Maker would begrudge you
that?’

Theo’s frown had faded. He was breathing slowly; every breath was a sigh, as though he was near sleep. ‘You are kind, to speak to me so,’ he said eventually. ‘I thank you
for it. But you do not understand, Mr Steele. That lady you speak of – she was a virtuous girl. I heap blessings on her in my prayers. She was a local girl in Colombo, whom I saw one day when
I was leaving church; hardly sixteen when I met her . . . Ah, yes, you see, that puts a different complexion on things. I see that even in this poor light, your expression has changed.’

‘Not at all,’ said Edmund gravely.

‘Well.’ Theo waved one hand in the air. ‘I was young too – just out of Cambridge, flushed with my purpose. I saw her, and felt the most powerful emotion I had ever felt;
thought I heard the voice of God Himself speak to me.
He
had chosen my wife, not I – that is what I told myself. I pursued her; her family saw a chance in me. I was granted the
liberty to become engaged to her – and I considered myself quite a pilgrim, I can tell you. I came back here, as promised, to prepare a place for her and now,’ he said, smiling at
Edmund, ‘now, here comes it, Mr Steele. All those feelings, the voice of God – they all faded. I had her likeness, which I had drawn myself. I had a lock of her hair. She had been
taught to write, so I even had her words before me. But when I read those letters, I knew that our souls did not correspond at any point. When I asked questions, she did not know how to reply; and
I was the same. Her words seemed hollow to me. They were the words of a stranger. And she was coming to me. I was to honour my promise. But the truth is, the worst of it is . . .’ He looked
down, as though his head was suddenly heavy on his neck. ‘I did not want her to come. All of those feelings, so potent in the hot sun, had vanished. And I realized – on my knees, in
this church – that all I had felt was lust. I! Always so pure, always so quick to examine my own heart. And when her ship foundered, and I knew she was dead, do you know what I
felt?’

He leaned forwards, his eyes glinting in the light from the oil lamp.

‘Relief,’ he said. ‘Just that – pure relief. Relief that she was dead, and that I would not have to live out a lifetime with her.’ He curved his hand around the
empty glass; Edmund did not reach for the decanter to refill it. ‘Now, man of the world as you are, tell me what I deserve.’

Edmund wondered if Theo really did expect words of punishment. It seemed the man was punishing himself enough already. Edmund thought he could only speak to him in the language he would
understand. ‘Forgiveness,’ he said. ‘That is what you deserve, and if you ask for it, you will receive it – is that not what you tell your flock every day?’

Theo shook his head. Edmund saw the distress as it came into his face, pushing out the exasperation and frustration written across his features.

‘I am in the darkness,’ he said. ‘I have prayed on it, these past few weeks. I have meditated on the storm within me. And there is no light, Edmund.’ He looked up, and
there was a shine to his eyes. ‘I am guilty. I can almost touch the fires of hell. God will not speak to me. I cannot make the wrong decision, again. I have seen the hurt that it causes. I
cannot step further away from God and His purpose for me. But He has not deserted me. I must wait. I must wait – and word will come, I know.’

He stayed still. They sat together in silence. At length, Edmund rose and took up one of the lamps. ‘I wish you good night,’ he said, and walked towards the door. He was reaching for
the handle when he heard Theo say his name.

‘I have lost her, haven’t I?’ he said.

Edmund knew he was asking for the truth. ‘I think so,’ he said.

He went out of the door and closed it quietly behind him, holding up the lamp as he looked down the hallway. By its dull light, he saw the closed study door and decided that its mystery had
troubled him too long. He walked silently down the tiled hall, then opened the door, turning the doorknob slowly so as to make his entrance as quiet as possible. He saw first on the wall the
drawing of Saint Sebastian, an image of holy suffering, which had alerted him to Theo’s particular melancholy. He took a breath, preparing himself for what he imagined: neatness, order,
sterility. Perhaps walls full of pinned butterflies, or collected sea grasses. A place where Theo could nurture the coldness he felt was necessary to deal with others.

In that moment, the door hit an obstruction and refused to move any further. Alert to every sound, Edmund edged his way around it and angled the lamp to cast some light on the room. It was then
he saw how wrong he had been.

He could barely see Theo’s desk. It was obscured with piles of paper and newspapers. The whole room was filled to its corners and half its height with books, newspapers and religious
tracts. Piles had been made, and fallen over; the only space on the floor was a small pathway to the desk. There was no order; only clutter and chaos. The sickly-sweet smell of rotting food
assailed Edmund; he stepped back out of the room and closed the door. As he turned, he caught sight of Theo, standing in the hallway, in the light from the drawing-room doorway.

‘I didn’t want you to see that,’ he said.

Edmund caught his breath; felt his heart pounding in his chest.
‘I
am your friend,’ he said. ‘There has been a crisis, but you will come through it. Believe me,
Theo.’

Theo leaned against the door. ‘They sent you for me, didn’t they?’ he said. ‘That’s why Mr Venning sent you here. My family think I am mad, don’t
they?’

‘No,’ said Edmund. ‘No, they do not. But you are struggling with some great weight on your soul.’ He came forwards. ‘We are all of us haunted in our way,
Theo.’

Theo looked at him, a glassy quality to his gaze. ‘You should be here on a winter’s night,’ he said, ‘when the weather is all around, so it feels as though it has the
house in its grip. I can hear the sea from here, its roar and its fury, hear the rain hard against the windowpane, the gale in the trees. I almost imagine myself at sea – with
her
.’

‘Some believe,’ said Edmund, ‘that if you speak of such things, it offers the mind relief. That you can relearn how to think of the past. I have seen it. Will you speak to me
of it?’

Theo nodded, his head low. ‘Very well,’ he said.

I often think of the conversation in the parsonage kitchen, when all the strength I had built over a decade dissolved in an instant; an illusion. I felt desolation –
and I saw it in the eyes of he who spoke with me, too. I took no pride in it. I saw that he could only think of me as someone wicked; that it was his way of defending himself from whatever,
unnameable feeling he had for me. Mr Steele said it was love; I do not think it was, not then. We were so far from loving each other in that moment, that I cannot think of what it would have taken
to bring us together; an act of God, perhaps. Our clash, that day, was like the warning reverberation of the cannon they fired from the lightships at the Sands when a ship foundered, causing
everyone to spring up and look at each other, and say: ‘Is it a wreck? Is it a wreck?’ In his goodness, Mr Steele saw that as the precursor to love. But I believed, in that moment, that
we would have made each other miserable; that whatever tied us together would have destroyed our peace. It was why we drew together then sprang apart so often during that summer. We were frightened
of our desires, and of what their consequences might be.

As a child, Delphine had been told of the curative properties of sleep by her governess. Often, she had allowed herself to succumb to sleep simply out of this long-engrained
lesson; that the mind would be washed clean of all its cares in beautiful oblivion. This morning there was only a moment before the events of the day before tumbled over in her mind – and the
remembrance of them was like a flame approaching paper, and drying everything up in its path the moment before it burned.

She heard movement downstairs, went down quickly and discovered Julia at the window of the parlour, her hair loose around her shoulders. When Delphine came in she turned, and looked a little
ashamed.

‘Mr Steele won’t call just yet,’ said Delphine, with a faint smile.

‘Martha has not come this morning,’ Julia replied.

‘I wouldn’t expect to see her again,’ said Delphine. ‘I think, perhaps, she believes that we have brought bad luck with us. We had a good few months here, my dear. We
will be gone soon.’

They decided to stay in that morning. Delphine built up the fire and Julia made the breakfast. It was half past eleven, and they were both reading when they heard the sound of the gate opening.
However, before Julia could even look out of the window, there was a sharp rapping at the door. She ran and opened it.

‘My dear,’ said Edmund. ‘May I come in, briefly?’ He was in the parlour in two steps, and both women fell silent at the signs of strain on his face.

‘You must excuse me this morning,’ he said. ‘I cannot stay. I came to tell you why Martha has not come to you. Her niece – Sarah – she cannot be found.’

‘Has anyone been to Polly?’ said Julia.

‘Polly has been with her family all night,’ said Edmund. ‘They gave her laudanum so that she might sleep; it is nothing to do with her. I doubted it anyway, but now it is
certain.’

‘Oh, dear God,’ said Delphine, sitting down suddenly. ‘Can we do anything?’

‘Stay in,’ said Edmund. ‘I am sorry to say it, but there is bad feeling in the town at the moment – very bad feeling. Towards Dr Crisp for not noting the other deaths as
suspicious, and towards the strangers in the town – especially you, I regret to say, though it is best you know. I will be searching for the girl with Mr Hallam.’ His eyes dipped at the
mention of the priest’s name. ‘We do not have time to speak of it now, but I hope that the breach between you can be healed. I must go, now. We will head towards Kingsgate. I have hope
that she may be found; that this is not a case like the others. But stay in. Do not answer the door.’ The tenderness in his eyes as he looked at Julia filled Delphine with joy, even in that
dark moment.

‘I am not afraid,’ said Delphine.

‘Put aside your courage, just for today,’ he said, and, with a bow, departed.

Delphine waited for people to halt outside their front gate, for carts and carriages to slow. In the end it became too much for Julia, who went to her room, saying she wanted
to be quiet. So when a knock came at the door, it was Delphine who went to answer it, without hesitation despite Edmund’s words.