Free The Widow's Confession by Sophia Tobin Page A

Foreland, to see Kingsgate, the bay named in honour of the arrival of Charles II there two centuries before.
Walking was an occupation they both enjoyed, for as pampered girls in New York they had barely walked at all.
    ‘Do you remember?’ said Delphine, as they set out. Julia knew she spoke of New York; that was the phrase they always used, when they ventured into their past lives. They could only
speak of the past to each other, for they kept their secrets close to them. ‘There was always a carriage, always a room where the drapes were let down and the light shut out.’
    Their grandfather, the head of the family, had come to view the physicality of the outside world as a kind of corruption. He had held the common view that women should be protected from fatigue.
So when they first left New York, Julia and Delphine were soft and plump, with delicate limbs and skin that looked as though it had never seen sunlight. Then they came to Europe, and found that
walking was one occupation to fill the endless stretch of their days. To their amazement, their health improved, rather than declining. For weeks they compared their blisters and raw, tenderized
feet. But Delphine felt a kind of triumph in enduring the pain. It was proof that she had broken free from the old world; that she was, now, different. Besides, she hardly cared then whether she
lived or not.
    One blister she had treasured – a long blood blister that ran down the outer length of the pad of her foot. The red blood beneath the skin at first looked so angry that it might fight its
way out. Over time, it darkened to brown, and lay there for weeks, then months. She wanted to pierce the skin, but Julia warned her against worsening the wound and, though she heated a needle in a
candle flame, she left it, and wondered if it would stay with her forever. But it did not, gradually fading and working itself away, until her foot was normal again, but harder.
    Now, their boots meant nothing to them as they followed the coast road. They saw large, agreeable houses, then only fields, the sea always at their right hand. The road curved, and wandered
gently up and down over barrow-like hills. At Stone they saw a large stuccoed house and estate behind high flint walls, and skirted farmland, seeing workers in the fields.
    ‘How was your sketching today?’ asked Julia.
    ‘Well enough, but nothing worth seeing yet,’ said Delphine. ‘I am pleased with how our dresses are lasting – I told you this material would work well being packed and
unpacked. Wearing mourning, it hardly matters if I look rich or poor, as long as I do not draw notice. But I could almost be tempted to cast off black and wear pale clothes, now we are free from
the London soot.’
    ‘I do not feel quite settled here yet,’ said Julia, giving her a dark look. ‘London seemed safer, somehow.’
    ‘We need to be somewhere different. It does not pay to become too comfortable in one place.’ Delphine breathed in the freshness of the air. ‘Mrs Quillian seems harmless enough,
but as for Mr Benedict . . .’ She paused, remembering the intensity of his gaze. ‘He is an artist of some type, you know. A member of the Royal Academy, as he was careful to make clear
to me. I am suspicious of him.’
    ‘We are suspicious of everyone,’ said Julia. ‘Forgive me, I am sorry – that was meant to be in jest. If the town is not what you wish it to be, perhaps we should consider
where we should go next?’ She was wearing a thicker veil than usual over her face. Delphine, so accustomed to the sight of the red birthmark on her cousin’s face, sometimes forgot that
Julia was conscious of it.
    ‘Let us decide that at the end of the season,’ she said.
    ‘Yes, but my dear,’ said Julia, ‘what does Mr Lock say, of money?’
    ‘Let me think of that,’ said Delphine. ‘There is no need to worry. We have lasted this long.’
    ‘But our income is not increasing, is it? And there is nothing of value