Chapter 9 #2
“He loved the sea. Alfred. Their house in London was on the Thames, and so he rowed, and learnt to sail on the river—his father’s trade was boats, of course—the water was his life.
Down in Sussex, he kept a small yacht at the harbour at Rye—that’s the next town along—a sailing dinghy, and he’d sail whenever he could; he’d even go out on the fishing boats and learn their ways, for no one knows the water better than a man who owes his living to it.
And…and sometimes, he would take me out with him.
At night, sailing by the moon. I’m sure my parents knew, or my mother, at least, but she never stopped me.
I think she knew she couldn’t… Nothing could have…
nothing could have kept me from Alfred. Or him from me. Well. Except death.”
She said that last as though she tried to laugh, but it was too tight and anguished to be that. She blinked against tears, her nose pink from a day in the sun, her hair escaping the hairdresser’s coils, being tugged this way and that by the breeze.
But her blue eyes were clear and steady as a rock, despite their sparkling sheen. She kept on looking out, as though she really did look out over ancient seas to somewhere far, far away. The past. That unreachable country.
“How did he die?”
This time she did laugh, though it held no less anguish.
“Some sudden internal infection, some inflamed organ. Can you believe it? He sailed his whole life, served two years in the navy, and yet he wasn’t drowned or blown to bits by a cannonball or shipwrecked on some savage shore, but died of something like that.
The fittest, most vital, most alive boy you could imagine…
He went from that to dead in two days. And he was at sea, and there was only some butcher of a ship’s surgeon, and I wasn’t there—”
He couldn’t touch her. And this was a moment when a person ought to be held—he’d seen it, a woman overcome in the street, a father at a friend’s funeral… But he stood silent and still, not being allowed. Not knowing how.
“And when he was dead, they wrapped him up and dropped him overboard. And I know it was all they could do…I know it’s what happens at sea…
but he has no grave, he’s down there somewhere, thousands of miles away…
and I… You know, sometimes I used to sit on the beach with the sea all hazy in the sun, the light all broken and fractured, and I’d feel like I’d blink and somehow he’d be walking up towards me out of the water, as though it was all a mistake and he’d only got lost somewhere along the way home… ”
She gave a gasping sob, and his hand lifted…but fell away as she recovered herself, shaking her head.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologise.”
“You asked for the story.”
“I did.”
“And I suppose you regret it.”
“Not at all.”
She looked up at him, embarrassed, sad, broken in a deep, lasting place, in a way he could hardly fathom. And yet…he thought he understood. Or at least he knew what it was like to long for something to be very different to how it was.
After a moment, she raised him a smile, though unshed tears still darkened her lashes. “You must be angry. You are being nice to me. Isn’t that the only time you’re polite?”
“Should I tell you your hair needs repinning?”
“Yes. Much better.”
If there hadn’t been three people walking towards them, he would have offered to do it for her. She would blush and refuse, but she would stand still and let him, wondering why she did. Hating herself for it. For the way she shivered at his touch.
So this was the ghost who held her forever moored offshore. Alfred, who had loved her from fourteen to nineteen. Alfred, who had married her for two years and left her grieving for nine.
So alive, so vital… Moonlight sailing, two children exploring an ancient landscape already full of ancient ghosts… He watched a large bumblebee fly low over the grass, looking for clover not yet out.
“Is this a search party, do you think?” She nodded to the people coming their way, a hair pin between her lips, her hands busy at the back of her head.
Beckford, two others.
“Just bored. Everyone is getting bored. We’ll all go home in an hour.
Or most of us.” He watched her slide the pin back into place.
“Lady Frances will stay until late. But if you’re tired, you can have my carriage.
I rode, but I had it sent here. There are normally several people who imbibe a little too much and need to go home sooner than planned. ”
“Like me?” She smiled. “I’ll remember never to drink champagne in April. It seems to make me maudlin.”
“You are not remotely drunk. And I liked hearing you talk.”
That confused her. He could tell. She found him very confusing. He was beginning to confuse himself. Wasn’t he meant to be biding his time?
“But I wouldn’t recommend you go just yet,” he advised.
“Not if you can stand to bear it a little longer. Lady Frances has drunk too much and knows she ought to leave. If you go home before her, it will remind her of it—that you made a wiser choice than her—and she’ll resent you for it.
Better to stay and weather it with fortitude. ”
“With grace.” She nodded. “And serenity.”
He returned her smile.
“Exactly, Mrs Ardingly.”
“Did Critchall come this way?” called Beckford, now within hailing distance. “Or down to the river?”
“The river, I think,” said Sebastian.
“Oh, blast.” He flashed a contrite look at the widow. “Oh, bother, I mean. Hallo, Pretty—ah, Mrs Ardingly.”
“Hello, Mr Beckford.”
“Um…nice day for it, eh?”
“It is. Very nice.”
“Pity not to see your aunt here.”
“Thank you.”
“Ought to call on my mother again. Very welcome.”
“Thank you, Mr Beckford. She’ll be delighted to hear it.”
“By Jove.” His eyes widened as something caught his attention. “That’s the biggest bee I ever saw in my life. I could almost ride it.”
“It’s probably a queen.”
“Ah, well, then I reckon I shouldn’t. She might not stand for it.”
“No. I suspect it would be beneath her royal dignity.”
Sebastian, amused by the exchange, kept his smile small. But he liked the way she handled Beckford, not laughing at him, but gently moulding herself to his level. It probably came of having younger brothers.
“Right you are!” Beckford nodded, as though this was a perfectly sensible end to a perfectly sensible conversation. He looked around at his two young companions. “Shall we try the river, men?”
They agreed, and the three went back the way they’d come. Without a word, Sebastian and Mrs Ardingly also followed, though more slowly. The picnic was soon in sight again, the group slightly smaller.
“Thank you,” Mrs Ardingly suddenly said, “for listening.” Then she hastened forward to rejoin the others.