The Widow's Confession Read Free Page B

the hotel.
    So this is how it ends, she thought, after a journey of a thousand miles. And in that single, endless moment, she closed her eyes.
    In the blackness she heard the carriage draw up with a fearful, skidding sharpness, scattering grit so that some hit the windowpane of the hotel past her head, and the horse gave a painful
whinny. She waited for the sound of splintering wood, the scream of the animal.
    The sounds did not come.
    She opened her eyes and saw the proprietor of the Albion, Mr Gorsey, come running out of the front door, a young woman in drab clothes on his heels, wiping her hands on her apron.
    ‘Michael!’ Gorsey shouted. His voice quietened as he came nearer; it would be foolish to scare the horse more. ‘Damned idiot!’ He caught sight of Delphine. ‘Forgive
me, madam – Polly, see to the lady.’ He reached for the horse’s head, as its driver jerked viciously at the reins.
    The girl who had followed him turned to Delphine, straightening her hair as she did so. The triviality of the gesture almost made Delphine laugh out loud. ‘I am unharmed, thank you,’
she said.
    The door of the carriage opened. ‘Madam – are you hurt?’
    It was the first man who climbed out of the carriage. He was at her side in two steps. Her shocked mind took in every detail of his appearance: a pallid wide face, black eyes, and lank black
shoulder-length hair. He was dressed in the finest of the London fashions, but in a dishevelled way, as though his clothes had been flung on rather than arranged. On his lapel a pin glittered: a
white enamelled skull, with ruby eyes. Delphine knew the price of many things, and she certainly knew Parisian jewels when she saw them. Before she could draw away, he had taken her gloved hand in
his.
    ‘Mr Dean lost control of his horses. Mr Ralph Benedict RA, at your service,’ he said, with a bow. She looked down; he was still holding her hand. ‘Madam, do speak to us, and
tell us you are not harmed. This young lady will find you some tea.’ He smiled briefly over Delphine’s shoulder at the young woman who worked in the hotel.
    His touch had violated the space that Delphine normally kept around her, and she felt his gesture to be a mark of disrespect, an advantage taken of her shock. There was something else, too: a
fleeting irritation at his confidence. She withdrew her hand, saying coolly, ‘I am well,’ and turned to walk away.
    ‘And your name, so I may enquire after you?’ he said, with a quickness that irritated her further. She wondered how he could say it in such an unperturbed way, when she had her back
to him.
    ‘As I said, I am quite well,’ she replied, turning back. ‘There is no need to enquire.’
    ‘Will you come into the hotel, and rest for a moment?’ he said. But she merely curtseyed, and moved off.
    She heard the uproar of Mr Gorsey’s rage begin again; the sounds of trunks being pulled down. She walked away as swiftly as was decent, keeping her head up, trying to quell the strange
emptiness of shock which was rising in her.
    ‘I know who she is,’ said Michael Dean, who had finally climbed down and seen off the admonishments of the hotel-keeper with a few swift curses. ‘Her name’s Mrs Beck. I
unloaded her trunks when she arrived the other day. She’s come here with another lady.’
    ‘I thank you,’ said Mr Benedict, with a glance at his ashen-faced servant, who had finally emerged from the carriage interior. ‘But that’s not quite enough to earn my
forgiveness for the ride you’ve just given us.’
    As the others unloaded the carriage, he kept his eyes on the lady who was walking away from him, until she finally disappeared around a turn in the road. Then, and only then, did he turn and
smile at the young woman who was ushering him into the hotel.
    Victory Cottage stood opposite Holy Trinity Church. It had been renamed forty-six years before, after the
Victory
at the Battle of Trafalgar, but was that
indeterminate age known