Too Close to the Sun (32 page)

‘Oh, he loves it. He’s never had such a room before.’

‘He’s a good boy. He’ll be in bed asleep now, right?’

Grace smiled. ‘I hope so.’

‘It’s such a good thing he’s got you. Without you, what would he do? With no parents and no home? It would be the workhouse, I’ve no doubt. Or he’d be sleeping rough, begging for his food, perhaps doing the odd job to earn a crust. And with his – his injury he’d be limited as to what he could do. Thank God he’s got you.’

Grace said, ‘Yes, he’s got me.’ She did not want to dwell on such a theme.

Mrs Spencer took a sip from her glass. It was already half-gone. Grace wondered what she did with her time all
day. While she, Grace, was teaching Sophie, what was Mrs Spencer doing? She didn’t spend all her time painting, Grace knew that much. In fact, as far as Grace was aware, she was spending less and less time at her easel and sketchbook. The portrait begun of Grace remained unfinished; it had been two or three weeks since Mrs Spencer had asked her to sit for it. She had been passionate about it at the start, but no longer, it seemed. Like the rest of her painting. Like the games of chess they had enjoyed. And it seemed a very long time since Grace had heard her mistress playing the piano and singing her favourite songs from the operetta. Things were different, Grace thought. In just a few months things seemed to have changed.

Mrs Spencer sat with her sherry glass in her hand, eyes half-closed, her gaze in the direction of the fire. On a small table just behind the back of the sofa an oil lamp cast its soft light, making a pale nimbus around the woman’s hair. A little sigh came from her. Grace took in the drooping eye and softened jaw line and thought how tired she looked. There was no longer any trace of youth in her face.

Mrs Spencer put a hand to her mouth as she yawned. ‘I’m so pleased you could come and see me tonight,’ she said. ‘I’ve been feeling a little melancholy. But I’m sure that’s often the way when you have a husband who works all hours God made.’

Grace said, ‘I’m almost always about the house, ma’am, if you want me.’ Then she added, ‘At any time, day or night.’

‘Thank you, dear. I appreciate that.’

Mrs Spencer looked away again, gaze towards the fire, eyes half-closed. Silence fell in the room. In the quiet Grace could hear the singing of the burning wood in the grate, the faint sigh of the wind in the tree outside the window, its branches tapping now and again upon the pane. One of the burning logs toppled into the glowing ash, a little too close
to the edge of the grate, and Grace looked at Mrs Spencer as if to ask,
Shall I attend to the fire?
, but saw that there had been no reaction, and realized after a moment that the woman was asleep.

Quietly, Grace got up from the chair, moved to the fire and, taking the poker, pushed the burning log back into a safer position. Carefully setting the poker down again, she moved back to her chair.

Grace sat there, unmoving. She did not think to look at the clock until some considerable time had passed, and then she saw that it was close on eleven. Mrs Spencer must have been asleep for at least twenty minutes. Grace did not know what to do. She could not just get up and leave her mistress there. And on the other hand, she did not feel that she could go and rudely awaken her. So she stayed where she was, and all the while Mrs Spencer remained sitting there on the sofa, her chin lowered to her chest, eyes closed, her empty sherry glass held in her lap between her hands.

The fire in the grate was burning lower. Should she, Grace wondered, put on more wood? Or would Mrs Spencer, on waking, see this as a liberty, a step too far?

And then suddenly, Mrs Spencer was awake again. As if nothing had happened she opened her eyes and lifted her head, saying a very little ‘Oh,’ of surprise to find that she had been sleeping. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said, turning, finding Grace still in her chair, ‘Grace, I think I must have dropped off for a minute. How rude. Please forgive me.’

‘You’re tired, Mrs Spencer,’ Grace said. And then, ‘Wouldn’t you like to go to bed?’

Mrs Spencer nodded. ‘My dear, I think I would.’ She became aware that she was still holding her sherry glass, and she leaned forward a little and carefully placed it on the table. Then, leaning to her left, she took hold of her cane. Grace got up and moved to her to help her up from the seat.
At once Mrs Spencer put up her free hand, palm out, stopping Grace in her movement.

‘It’s all right, my dear. I can do it myself. I’m quite capable.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Grace apologized.

‘That’s all right, that’s quite all right.’ Pushing herself up from the sofa, and with the support of her cane, Mrs Spencer got to her feet. ‘My leg bothers me a little tonight,’ she said. ‘Sometimes it does that. Not often, but occasionally. Tonight it does. It’s as if I have no strength in it. There’s nothing I can do about it. It will pass in time. Tomorrow it’ll be all right again.’ She bent slightly and rubbed at her thigh. Then, turning to Grace, she said, ‘Is Billy ever in pain? In discomfort?’

The question took Grace by surprise, and she found it a little shocking. How much did people know? she sometimes wondered. She was about to say,
Yes, at times he is
. But she simply said, ‘He doesn’t complain. He never has.’

‘No, I doubt that he would. He doesn’t strike one as that kind of a lad.’ A brief moment of silence between them, then Mrs Spencer said, ‘I was hard on you both on that first day when you came bringing my paintings in their new frames. And you know why, of course, don’t you?’

Grace did know, but she kept silent.

Mrs Spencer went on. ‘I’m sure you do – you’re a sensitive person. Well, it was because of my leg, wasn’t it? You and your brother – you just stared at my limping across the room. It made me angry, as you no doubt noticed. And then, of course, I saw that young Billy also had a slight disablement.’ She was silent for a moment, then she added, ‘My leg – my condition – it didn’t come from any accident. Not like Billy. Did you know that?’

‘No,’ Grace said. She had wondered often, but had never dared ask knowledge of it of any of the servants.

‘No, I had infantile paralysis,’ Mrs Spencer said. ‘I was
just coming up to four. I remember hardly anything about it. All I really remember is lying about so much and then growing up with a game leg and a limp.’

Grace was at a loss for words. She wanted to say how sorry she was, but did not dare, for fear such sympathy might be thought impertinent.

Mrs Spencer went on, ‘So no dances for me, I’m afraid, when I was a young girl. In fact, very little of any kind of physical activity. But I should think Billy knows about that too. Oh, when I was growing up I saw the other girls going off to their soirées, going ice skating when the lake was frozen over, but not me. Ah, well.’ She pressed her lips together and then added with a sigh, ‘But it’s no good standing here talking about it. It’s all a part of history now. Nothing to be done about it, and I’m not complaining. I’ve had my share of good times in spite of all that.’ She turned and started to move away, then added, looking over towards the fireplace, ‘I must see to the fire before I go,’ and Grace said at once, ‘Leave that to me. I’ll look after that. Let me walk with you to your room first.’

Mrs Spencer said, just a trifle defensively, ‘Well, I don’t need it, of course,’ then added in the same breath, ‘but at the same time I’m always glad of your company, my dear.’

Grace walked with her to the door, opened it for her and followed her mistress out of the room.

There was one little gas light palely burning in the hall, another on the first-floor landing, and a third on the second floor. Looking up, Grace saw that the top of the cupola seemed to fade into a hazy darkness above the rail that ran around the gallery, the three figures in their niches looking ghostly and half-formed in the pale light. Mrs Spencer, stopping at Grace’s side, followed the line of her gaze and looked upwards.

‘Dear God,’ she said, ‘this is such an ugly house.’

‘Oh,’ Grace said quickly, hardly able to believe what she
had heard, ‘but there are so many lovely things here. The high, ornate ceilings, the tall windows …’

‘Oh, some of the rooms are all right.’ Mrs Spencer gave a grudging nod. ‘Some are quite attractive in fact. But the house itself – it isn’t beautiful – it’s ugly. There’s no other word for it. My husband loves it, though. In his eyes it’s the finest place on earth. I would never have chosen to come here. But that’s what you do.’ She gave an ironic smile. ‘Such things will a wife do.’

They moved on over the carpet of the hall, Mrs Spencer seeming to limp a little more and to lean a little more heavily on her stick than usual. When they reached the stairs she stopped, her free hand on the newel post, looked about her and said with a sigh, ‘No, I don’t think this has ever really been a home to me. And if truth be told, I think I would have been happy to let it stand empty. I never wanted it in the first place. I didn’t even know my uncle – my uncle who left it to me. I never met him in my life.’ She gave a little shake of her head. ‘Look at this place. One doesn’t need a hundred rooms in order to be happy. And I certainly don’t need such a place in order to be happy with Mr Spencer. Sometimes I think it doesn’t make him happy either. In a way it does but – it just eats up the money. It’s like some monstrous hungry animal. No matter how much money is spent on it it’s never satisfied. And now my husband is talking of having electricity installed throughout.’

She stood there for a moment in silence then turned to Grace as if having just remembered her presence. ‘Take no notice of my meanderings, Grace. Sometimes I talk to myself, and sometimes I talk too much. I shouldn’t complain, I know. I’ve nothing to complain about.’

She took the first step and side by side they moved steadily up the wide stairs together to the first-floor landing. There Mrs Spencer turned towards her room.
‘Thank you, Grace,’ she said. ‘And now you go on to bed. I’m sure you must be tired.’

‘I’ll see that the fire’s safe first.’

‘Yes, put the guard up.’

‘Good night, Mrs Spencer.’

‘Goodnight, Grace.’

Mrs Spencer turned away and opened the door to her bedroom. As Grace made her way down the stairs the hall clock struck twelve.

The following week Sophie was brought to and fetched from Asterleigh House by hired cab. The lessons proceeded as usual; the child worked hard and still seemed happy and contented with the arrangements. On three of the evenings Grace went to see Mrs Spencer. On the Tuesday they began a game of chess, but Grace could see that Mrs Spencer’s heart was not in it, and before long it was abandoned. For most of the rest of the time they chatted and worked with their needles, Grace sewing and mending clothes either for herself or Billy, and Mrs Spencer at her embroidery. Most of Grace’s evening time, however, was spent with Billy. During the whole week she saw nothing of Mr Spencer.

Then, on the Friday, Mr Fairman himself brought Sophie for her lessons. On this occasion, having seen their arrival from the library window, Grace expected to see the carriage drive away again. But it did not happen. Going to the library door she got there just as Sophie came along the landing towards her. Sophie wished Grace a good morning, then added that her papa had gone to call on Mrs Spencer for morning coffee. Forty minutes later there drifted up the sound of a horse and carriage moving on the gravel, and Sophie got up from her chair at the table and ran to the window. ‘It’s Papa, driving away,’ she said, and waved, trying to attract his attention. ‘Ah, he doesn’t see me,’ she sighed. ‘Still, he’ll be back soon.’

A minute later came a tap at the door and Jane was there, asking if Grace could go and see Mrs Spencer in her studio.

Grace left Sophie working and went along the landing to her mistress’s studio where she found her standing with her face to the window. She turned as Grace entered, and Grace could see at once that it was one of her better days. She was not, however, dressed in her smock for painting. Beside her on the tall easel was the unfinished portrait of Grace.

‘Hello, Grace,’ she said as Grace entered, then with a gesture towards the canvas, ‘I’ve been showing your portrait to Mr Fairman. I mentioned to him that I’d begun a painting of you, and he was most insistent that I show it to him.’ She looked back at the painting, head a little on one side, studying it. ‘He seemed quite taken with it, and said I should set about finishing it.’

Grace stood beside her mistress and looked at the picture, seeing herself gazing out from the canvas frame.

‘Edward has said often that I should finish it,’ Mrs Spencer went on. ‘He says it’s one of the best things I’ve done,’ and corrected herself with a little laugh, ‘ – or rather, one of the best things I’ve
almost
done.’ She turned to Grace. ‘What do you think?’

‘Oh, I like it very much, ma’am. And you know I’ll be happy to sit for it again whenever you like.’

‘Yes, I have no doubt of that, my dear. And an excellent sitter you were, too.’ She sighed. ‘But do I have the energy right now? That’s the question. When I work on a canvas this size it’s a different matter. I can’t sit down to it at the smaller easel, the way I do when I paint one of my still lifes. For something like this I have to be able to walk to and from the easel. Not so easy with my leg.’ She stepped back from the painting, eyes narrowed, studying it. ‘Well, we shall see.’ She turned then, almost full circle, looking about her at the room. ‘I haven’t worked in here in – oh, it seems ages,’ she said a little wistfully. ‘For years I couldn’t wait to get to my painting every day. But these past months – I don’t
know – I don’t seem to have had the urge that I once did.’ She moved to her painting table on which stood her jar of brushes, the little container of linseed oil, the larger one of turpentine, the old rag that she used to wipe her brushes on, and her palette – the latter covered with different hues of paint smears, just as she had left it. Seeing it all, Grace reflected that when she had first come to the house eight months earlier it would have been inconceivable that such a thing could happen. Time had changed things.