Too Close to the Sun (24 page)

‘I think so, Papa.’ She looked enquiringly at Grace who stood nearby at the foot of the stairs.

Grace said at once, ‘Oh, she has indeed, Mr Fairman – the best pupil I could have wished for.’

‘There, you see, Papa? I
have
been good.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it.’

‘And I did this for you …’

Sophie held up the rolled paper that was her drawing. He took it from her, unrolled it and looked at the drawing of
the baby lying amid the bullrushes. ‘It’s beautiful. Very beautiful indeed.’

Sophie raised her eyes and flicked a glance of pride at Grace. And then Mr Fairman was rolling up the picture again and straightening. ‘I’m intrigued,’ he said, looking up. ‘Those figures on the wall of the gallery up there.’ He pointed with the rolled-up drawing. ‘I noticed them when I came for dinner. What are they?’

‘They’re characters from the opera,’ Grace said. She realized that she was feeling a little self-conscious in his presence; a little awkward. She kept talking. ‘Would you – would like to see them?’

‘I would indeed. D’you think Mrs Spencer would mind?’

‘Oh, I’m quite sure she wouldn’t object. I’ll lead the way, shall I?’

The three of them walked up the curving staircase to the second floor where the three figures were situated in a gallery that ran almost clear around the wide hall. The figures were not quite life-size, but extremely imposing, nonetheless. Grace, Mr Fairman and the child stopped in front of the first one. Set in a niche was a statue of a tall man in Elizabethan garb, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other hand held in front of him. He was a picture of male beauty, and looked out over the high drop down to the floor below with a wide smile.

The second figure was that of a rather desperate-looking young girl with one hand clutched to her breast and the other at her side holding a knife. She looked to be wearing a nightgown, and there were dark red stains on the side of the skirt and on her sleeve. The third figure was of an ugly, misshapen man with a jester’s hat. Bent at the spine, he looked out over the drop with a leer, one hand held on his belt. There was no left hand; it had been broken off halfway up the forearm.

‘Oh, dear, he’s had an accident,’ Mr Fairman said,
looking more closely at the arm that ended abruptly. ‘What happened to his left arm?’

‘I don’t know,’ Grace said. ‘I asked Mr Spencer and he said it was broken off years ago. Unfortunately the piece has been lost – otherwise it could have been put back.’

‘I don’t like it,’ Sophie said. ‘Not this one. He’s so ugly.’

‘Yes, he is rather, isn’t he?’ said Grace.

‘Who are they supposed to be?’ Sophie asked.

Grace looked at Mr Fairman, smiling. ‘Do you know, sir? Can you guess?’

‘Oh, I see,’ he said, ‘this is my lesson for today, is it? A general knowledge quiz, is it? Well …’ He looked at the three figures one after the other. Then with a nod at the third, broken, one, said, ‘It’s Rigoletto, isn’t it?’

‘Who’s Rigoletto, Papa?’ Sophie asked.

‘A famous character from the grand opera. A cruel man – the main character in an opera by Giuseppe Verdi. His opera is called that:
Rigoletto
.’ He turned back to Grace. ‘So? Did I get good marks?’

‘Very good, sir,’ Grace said. ‘Yes, Mrs Spencer told me it’s Rigoletto. Apparently Mr Gresham, who built the house, was a great lover of the opera.’ She looked from the man to the other statues. ‘And what about the others, sir?’

Mr Fairman stood there, pondering the two figures, looking from one to the other. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I shall assume that they’re also characters from famous operas. But which ones?’ He studied the figure of the girl with the knife in her right hand. ‘Do you know?’ he asked Grace.

‘Yes,’ Grace said. ‘I was told.’

‘But you’re not telling me?’ He looked at the figure a moment or two longer, then said, ‘Is it Lucia, the bride of Lammermoor?’

‘It is,’ Grace said.

Mr Fairman nodded his satisfaction. ‘It’s the knife that betrays it. And she looks suitably deranged.’

‘Who was she, Papa?’ Sophie said. ‘What is she doing with the knife?’

‘I’m afraid she’s just done something rather dreadful,’ her father said. ‘But let’s not talk about her. What about the other gentleman, Miss Harper? – the fellow with the sword? He could be anybody. I’m afraid I can’t guess who.’

‘It’s Don Juan, sir.’

Grace lowered her gaze to the child. ‘Do you like them, Sophie?’

‘Not the man with the funny hat, the one whose arm is broken. Nor the lady.’

‘No,’ Grace said, ‘perhaps not.’

Mr Fairman said, ‘I wonder what possessed the house owner to install such things. I mean, they’re certainly very powerful figures, but they’re not that attractive – particularly the one of Rigoletto.’

Grace said, ‘Mr Spencer has spoken of getting the Rigoletto repaired. I should think it wouldn’t be difficult. It’s only ceramic. A good artist could do that.’

‘Could you do it?’ Mr Fairman asked her.

‘I, sir? Oh, no. I draw and paint a little, but nothing to such a standard to enable me to cope with this.’

Mr Fairman nodded, then turned to his daughter. ‘Come along, miss, I think we had best be going home.’ Briefly he bent and touched at the child’s cape and then he was taking her small hand in his.

Grace followed them down the stairs and out onto the forecourt where the hired horse and cab were waiting.

‘Up you get, Miss Sophie …’ With a great flourish, making her squeal, the man picked up the child and deposited her on the carriage seat. Then, moving back across the gravel to where Grace stood on the wide stone step, he raised his right hand to his hat. ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ he said.

‘It was a great pleasure,’ she said. ‘I learned a lot.’

He gave a little laugh at this. ‘I’m not surprised. I learn things from Sophie every day. Tomorrow, then?’

‘Tomorrow, yes.’

The man touched at his hat again, thanked her again and wished her goodbye. Then, after murmuring a word to the cab driver, he swung himself up into the carriage and the vehicle was moving away, turning on the curve of the drive around the little fountain and heading for the gates. The last view Grace had was of Sophie turning and waving to her.

As the carriage turned out of sight on the bend of the drive, Grace was aware of feeling very glad at the way things had turned out. Notwithstanding her slight sense of awkwardness with Mr Fairman, it had gone well with Sophie. She was altogether such an agreeable child and apart from Grace having enjoyed teaching her, the work had made her feel useful. For so long now she had been only too conscious that she was not fully employed at the house, and the situation had made her wonder how long she could continue to take her wages. Now, though, she felt that she was gainfully employed.

She was standing in the library, having returned there to make sure that nothing was out of place, when there came a knock at the door, and the door opened and Mr Spencer put his head round.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I find you all alone. Your pupil has gone.’ He came on into the room. He was dressed in a black overcoat, his hat in his hand.

‘Hello, Mr Spencer. Yes, sir, Sophie and her father have just driven away.’

‘I just got in,’ he said, ‘and I’m off again within the hour. Soon as the horse is changed. The poor animal must be exhausted.’ He looked around him as if somehow the room would show signs of the little event that had taken place there. ‘So, how did it go? Was it all right?’

‘Oh, yes, sir, it went extremely well. We haven’t disturbed anything in the room, I made certain of that.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about that. So what work did you do? Lessons, I mean.’

‘Oh, well, we did English – reading and vocabulary, some geography and also a little drawing and arithmetic. Oh, yes, and we also went for a stroll in the grounds.’

‘You packed quite a lot into a short space of time.’ He looked around him. ‘Did you manage here all right?’

‘Oh, yes. Sophie sat at the card table. It worked excellently.’

‘What about you? Was the lesson all right for you? I mean – it wasn’t exactly something you chose out of the blue, was it? – teaching Mr Fairman’s child. You didn’t exactly have a lot of choice when it came to it.’

Grace hesitated, then said, ‘Well – I can only tell you, sir, that I enjoyed the lesson with Sophie today, and that I’m looking forward to the next one.’

He nodded. ‘Well said.’ He turned, edging towards the door. ‘I must be off. I have things to do.’

The next moment he had wished her a good day and had gone, closing the door behind him.

Grace spent another two or three minutes in the room, then left and went upstairs to her own room.

On entering she found lying on the carpet a letter that the maid had slipped under her door in her absence. She could see at once that the writing on the envelope was that of her aunt.

Grace opened the envelope and took out the letter. The first part dealt with generalities, with her own health and that of Billy and Grace, and then touched upon a subject which, Grace thought, might perhaps have been better left unmentioned. Ending one paragraph, her aunt had written:

… and I have in turn to pass on the information received by me from a friend, Mrs Collimore, who assumed that I would
wish to be informed. It appears that Mr Stephen Cantrell has parted from his fiancée. There is no word – as yet – as to the reason, or who has carried out the severing of the tie, but it nevertheless appears to be true. Mr Cantrell is seen in the vicinity of Green Shipton only on his lonesome, while it seems that Miss Shilford is not seen at all. I thought you would be glad to know this, my dear. But whether or not you are actually glad, I do think perhaps it is something you ought to know.

Grace finished reading the letter, read the particular paragraph again, and then stood there with the letter held tightly in her hand. She had tried not to think of Stephen over the past weeks, months. And by not thinking about him she had somehow managed to stifle the hurt she felt within. Besides which she had had all the hundred and one diversions that had commandeered her, all the diversions that had come with leaving the family home and trying to make a new start for Billy and herself.

Billy got home just before five, and after eating a sandwich supplied by Mrs Sandiston went off to join his school-friend who lived on a neighbouring farm. He had permission to stay there for an hour and a half, after which he was to come back to the house. Later, following his return, he went down to the staff dining hall near the kitchens and ate the cold supper that Mrs Sandiston provided. When he returned he knocked on Grace’s door and found her getting ready for her dinner with Mrs Spencer.

‘Now don’t you be late to bed,’ Grace told him. ‘I don’t want to come back up and find your lamp still burning.’

When it was time, she made her way down to the drawing room where she found Mrs Spencer sitting in her chair near the fire. The evening had turned surprisingly
cool, and it looked as if rain was threatening. Mrs Spencer sat with a warm shawl around her shoulders.

‘Make yourself comfortable,’ Mrs Spencer said as Grace came forward. ‘Dinner will be ready in a minute.’

Mrs Spencer poured sherry for the two of them. As they sat and sipped at their drinks they could hear the sound of the strengthening wind as it rattled the windows. Soon afterwards Jane came in to say that dinner was ready, and the two women got up and went through into the dining room, Mrs Spencer taking her glass with her. Sitting at the table, she finished her sherry, then sat back as Jane served the soup. When the maid had gone away, Mrs Spencer poured wine and said to Grace, ‘Well, now, tell me how it all went.’

Over the soup, Grace related the events of the visit and Mrs Spencer nodded her satisfaction at the way things had turned out.

‘I’m sure Mr Fairman must have been pleased,’ she said.

‘Oh, indeed,’ Grace nodded, ‘he seemed to be.’

‘His child has had quite enough upheaval in her short life. First of all losing her mother, and then being uprooted and having to move home. It can’t have a calming effect on a sensitive, vulnerable child.’ With her soup plate still half-full, Mrs Spencer set down her spoon and pushed her plate away. Then, getting up from the table, she limped to the fireplace and pushed a teetering log more securely into the flames. Putting down the poker again, she straightened and pulled her shawl a little more closely around her shoulders. As she resumed her seat she said, ‘Sophie seems a pleasant child, doesn’t she? And a bright one too.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Grace said. ‘It’s a pleasure to teach her.’

‘Well, I do hope she gets something out of it.’ She smiled at Grace. ‘And you too. Perhaps, Grace, she’ll find a friend in you.’

‘Well – I hope so, ma’am, indeed. She misses her old friends, she told me so.’

The soup was finished. Mrs Spencer poured more wine for herself – Grace demurred, still having her glass almost full – and rang the bell for the maid. ‘Tell me,’ she said to Grace, ‘does she speak of her mother?’

‘She hasn’t done so once,’ Grace said.

‘No, well, I doubt that she remembers her. I understand from Edward that she died some years ago – so Sophie must have been very small. Two at the most, I believe. Apparently, according to what Mr Spencer tells me, Mrs Fairman died of cholera. All terribly tragic. By all accounts she was a very beautiful young woman, and Mr Fairman was devoted to her. I can only go by what Edward tells me, of course, and I don’t think Mr Fairman has told him very much. Quite understandably, I shouldn’t think Mr Fairman likes to talk much upon the subject – and of course it isn’t something one can ask questions about.’

The wind had got up and now began to howl around the house, sending the rain before it in violent flurries that were thrown against the glass. ‘Oh, here it comes,’ Mrs Spencer said. ‘I’m glad I’m not outside right now.’ The maid came in and took away the soup plates and then brought in the roast mutton and vegetables and a bottle of claret. Mrs Spencer said to her, ‘We’ll serve ourselves, Jane,’ and the girl left again. As Mrs Spencer poured the new wine she urged Grace to help herself to the meat and vegetables. Grace did so. Mrs Spencer helped herself very sparingly to the food, and only picked at a few tiny mouthfuls in between taking sips of her wine. It seemed to Grace that the time passed slowly, while the food on Mrs Spencer’s plate hardly diminished.