The Body on the Beach (The Weymouth Trilogy) (25 page)

As is often the case after a wet summer, September had turned out balmy and calm, with misty sunshine breaking through a watercolour sky - just the sort of weather to tempt an invalid out into the fresh sea air. Mrs Wright being called away to attend to some business at home, Andrew suggested that Kathryn might like to take a short t
urn about the grounds with him – a suggestion with which she immediately concurred
. It felt as though
a whole lifetime had
passed
s
ince her previous visit there. T
he world
itself appeared to have changed – appeared to have aged
from a promising,
young,
exuberant spring to a sedate and melancholy autumn. Nothing could take away the aching pain
that
Bob
’s death had left her with
. It was with her every minute of the day, gnawing at her like the toothache. But at least, for now, she had Andrew by her side. Andrew was the only person in the whole of the world who could have
had
any hope of making her at least tolerably contented, and Andrew seemed to feel exactly the same way about her.

They sat close together on the
little wooden bench overlooking the sea, listening to the gentle lapping of the waves below and smelling the salty air. Andrew put his arm around her protectively and Kathryn did not object. She closed her eyes for a moment, savouring the
ir
closeness, and rested her head on his s
houlder. She knew that it could
n
’
t last
,
but even so she clung on desperately to the sensation of being at one with him
for
perhaps the final time
.

‘It feels so natural, Kathy, does it not, for us to be together like this?
’ he murmured, holding her tight.
‘
We have shared so much
these past few months – so much laughter and so much pain. Our lives have come to depend so much upon each other. It just seems so right for us to be together for the rest of our lives.’

It did. She could not deny it. But try as she might, neither could she deny that this healing time of respite would have to come to an end. Andrew had admitted to her, when pressed, that his wedding date had been set for only a couple of weeks’
hence
and she knew that it would be impossible for her to remain at Belvoir after that
time
. In spite of her intense dislike of Miss Brewer she had enough sympathy with her to know that the presence of a woman who absorbed her new husband’s attention every minute of every day would scarcely be a welcome one, and although Andrew had shown little enough interest in going across to see his
young
fiancée
during her stay
she thought it only fair that he be encouraged, and given the chance,
to do so if he wished.

She therefore gathered the resolution to give him notice that she must soon be released back to her home, and to provide him with a hint that perhaps his married life would begin on a much better footing were he to show his affianced wife a little
more attention than he had
been
show
i
n
g
her
of late
. Indeed, Andrew
appear
ed little enough interest
ed
in his future happiness and even suggested, a little hopefully, that he should try to release himself from his promise. But, much as they might wish it otherwise, they both realised that this simply would not do. Andrew
ha
d requested Sophie’s hand of
his own free will (if his totally foxed state at the time could be at all equated with
‘
will
’
). Unless the lady herself were to change her mind (which Andrew fervently prayed for every hour of every day) they both knew that he was honour bound to stand by his
engagement
.

The fateful day of separation came at last.
Andrew, indeed, would much have pref
erred to her agreeing to stay
another week
with him
at least but Kathryn knew that she had to go – she had to return to face a normality which from now on would take the miserable form of a solitary existence
, devoid of purpose and devoid of love
.
Mrs Wright gave her a kind farewell and made her promise to visit her at least once a week in
High Street
. Andrew agreed to send a message to Scrivens and the Royal, apologising for her non-appearance that week and assuring them of her immediate at
tention at the start of the next
. T
hen his curricle was with them, the horses pawing and tossing their heads, eager to get underway, and Andrew was handing her up and driving her sedately over the town bridge and back to Preston and
to the heartache that was
all that was left of
Sandsford House
.

Sally and Tom greeted her kindly at the door and took her straight inside. Close to tears himself, Andrew decided that it might not be wise to go in with her, much as he might like to do so. So with a wave of his whip he was off again, racing this time, giving the horses their heads, galloping wildly back
to Weymouth
down
the slope of
Preston Hill.

His thoughts now began to turn to his wedding, which was becoming imminent. Sorrowfully and reluctantly he realised that perhaps it was time for him to make his peace with Miss Brewer (and her mama) and, as there was no time like the present, he determined on calling on them on his way back in to town.
Gloster Row was quickly reached.
Flinging the reins to his tiger he ran up the steps two at a time and rang the clanging bell. A frightened-looking maid answered it. No, Miss Brewer was not at home. There were measles in the household – Master
Ignacious
was sick in bed with them at that very moment – and Miss Brewer and the rest of the children had j
ust that morning been
whisked away to their grandmama’s house in the country in order to
evade
the infection.

Somewhat cheered that he should at least be spared an awkward interview, Andrew returned to Belvoir and looked about hi
s rooms
. Somehow the
y all
seemed less appealing than before. He went up to the room that Kathryn had been using. There she had sat – just there, looking out of the window. Here she had brushed her hair. Here she had slept. The sense of her was all about him. He sat on the bed and buried his head in her pillow. He could just smell the scent of her hair upon it. He kissed it softly and then burst into tears.

Kathryn, in her turn, was doing the self same thing at Sandsford, but she was suffering double the misery. Sally had
thoughtfully
left everything in Bob’s room, and in Andrew’s room, exactly as they had left them and as she wandered in and out of each Kathryn could sense their presence in just the same way that Andrew had
sensed
her
own
. She looked at all her son’s little treasures, lying on the floor. She smiled wanly. She had never managed to get him to tidy up. She was glad that she hadn’t nagged him too much
to do so
, now. There was his blackboard, with a few of his bold round letters written upon it together with an indeterminate picture which could have been a horse. There was a motley collection of shells and pebbles, gathered, no doubt, on some productive visit to the beach. There was his toy boat, taking pride of place on the window ledge. She picked it up and sighed over it. Then she put it down and walked resolutely out of the room.

Finding that memories and regrets were not the most satisfactory companions just now, before another day was over Kathryn had decided that constant employment was probably the best – if not the only – way in which she could even try to come to terms with the constraints of her new existence.
No Bob. No Andrew. Only herself.
So she immediately threw herself into a whirlwind of activity – visits to Weymouth to undertake her commissions, house cleaning,
rug beating
(most therapeutic)
,
gardening, baking, cooking, washing.
She even practised
her new skills
on the spinet.
She visited Mrs Wright in
High Street
.  She watched the bathers on Weymouth beach
and the soldiers on parade
. She stood on the town bridge, staring at the busy boats in the harbour – ferry boats at rest, fishing boats unloading their wriggling, gleaming
catches on the quay, cutter
s and square riggers with young boys climbing the rigging like monkeys, singing as they worked. All this she saw. And yet, standing there on her own, garbed in black, little basket in hand, she felt as far removed from it all as she would have done had she been
watchi
ng
from
the moon.

Kathryn normally averted her eyes whenever she walked past the Brewers’ house on her way into town but one morning – it was the first of October, misty and calm – she couldn
’
t help but notice some unusual activity in the doorway, and the drawing down of the blinds at the front of the house. In a second of blind panic she wondered whether she had mistaken the day and that Miss Brewer would emerge at any moment in her wedding clothes. But no. Andrew’s wedding date
was etched deeply and clearly o
n her mind. She had another three days before he would be lost to her for ever.

She was still a little curious, however, so after she had finished her work at the Royal she decided to pay a quick visit to her friend, Mrs Wright. After all, Mrs Wright knew all there was to know about the comings and goings in Weymouth and she would certainly know what was happening in a family which was so soon to be allied to he
r own. But Mrs Wright was not at home
and the little servant, Beck
y, was not at all sure when she
’
d be back.

‘
Oh, well, not to worry. It has
nothing to do with me, that’s for sure.’

But i
n an odd sort of a way i
t did have something to do with her, indirectly at least. For just as she was about to turn off the main road onto the trackway to Preston she was accosted by a distant voice and the sight of Andrew
on his horse,
waving at her from
the top of the hill
. She felt a sudden surge of joy at the sight of him and
only
managed to prevent herself from running into his arms
with
great difficulty. R
estrain
herself
she did, however, and she
waited for him patiently
at the side of the road
instead. He jumped from the horse and squeezed her hand
gently
before walking alongside her
on her way
back
to the house
.

‘I have just been to Sandsford,’ he said. ‘
Sally said you were in town. I’
m so pleased to have caught up with you.’

‘I have been desperate for news from you,’ she replied. ‘Is everything...as it should be?’

‘Not entirely. There is some sad news from the Brewers
’
. Their children have all gone down with the measles – every one of them has taken their turn – and this morning the eldest boy, Ignacious, has died. Everyone is devastated, as you will imagine. Mrs Brewer can hardly be consoled.’

‘
Oh, my goodness.
No,
indeed,
I am sure she cannot. What
a horrible illness.
And she has lost her son?
Poor lady. She will doubtless be distraught.
And all the children have caught it? Are they all equally as bad?’

They both looked a little conscious.

‘They have all caught it, although it appears that poor Ignacious was the only one in any real danger. Miss...Miss Brewer is currently at its peak, I understand. She is in bed at her grandmama’s. She went down with it last week. We were due to – well, you know what was
due
to happen on Friday. It will not happen for the moment. The wedding will have to be rearranged.’

Neither of them spoke the words that each knew the other was thinking.

‘I see,’ said Kathryn. ‘She will be much disappointed, that’s for sure.’

‘Yes,’ said Andrew. ‘And now they are in mourning
for Ignacious
it is likely to be several months, at least.’

They exchanged a glance which needed no words. Kathryn uttered a silent prayer of thanks. Several months. Why, anything could happen in several months.

‘I am not even allowed to go to visit her,’ he added, sounding rather less despondent about this enforced separation than perhaps he should have done, given the nature of the event which would otherwise have been taking place at the end of that same week. ‘Given that I’ve never been exposed to the measles before, the doctor has advised that I refrain from a visit until
there is no further risk of infection
.’