Short Story

A Woman of Mystery
Women & Home Magazine

When Celestia Somersby moved into Old Lodge, the sleepy, insular village of Westcotton was roused to wakefulness by a blazing curiosity. It wasn’t that they hadn’t witnessed the arrival of strangers, though, being a small, remote town on the Devonshire coast there was little to entice people, except the odd few who came for the peace; it was because Celestia Somersby was a woman of mystery. “She’s very beautiful,” said Betty Knight, standing back to admire the expanding flower display she was arranging in the nave. Vivien Pratt screwed up her nose and leant on her broom, surrounded by leaves and twigs from Betty’s overenthusiastic creation.
“In a severe way,” she replied with a snort. “I don’t think that black she wears is very becoming. Makes her look pale and drawn. Older, too,” she added and there was an ill-disguised timbre of pleasure in her voice, for she was sixty-five and looked it.
“You can’t deny she’s elegant, though. I used to wear long skirts with boots like that when I was young.” said Betty with a sigh.
“It’s not your age, dear,” said Vivien, passing her reptilian eyes up and down Betty’s squat build. “It’s your girth. You shouldn’t indulge so. I’m not this thin by nature but by abstinence, Betty. Jesus taught us that, and he was thin, wasn’t he? No cream buns and pies from Ethel’s Pantry for him, just the odd fish and crust of bread after the five thousand had troughed.”
“Do you think she’s a divorcee?” Betty pulled her stomach in then let it out with a heave as a wilting lily diverted her attention.
“She wears a ring, you know. I saw it. Though, there’s been no sign of a man. Must be divorced, otherwise, why would she look so sad?”
“If Cyril gave me a divorce, I wouldn’t look sad. I’d be positively gleeful. Thirty years of sitting about like a fat walrus. I’d be more than happy to roll him back into the sea.”
“You’d be lost, dear, have no illusions. That woman’s a walking tragedy; you can see it on her face. A smile would do much for that sallow complexion.” Vivien didn’t bother to reflect on her own smile, lost long ago with her sense of fun. Slowly she began to sweep.
“She hasn’t said so much as a hello to anyone. Just lots of sightings, though no one seems to know what she does or why she’s come. There, I think Reverend Jollie will appreciate my effort this week. I do love spring, don’t you? Still, she’ll come to church on Sunday, I’m sure. We can all get a good look at her then.”
“My dear, if she hasn’t had the decency to introduce herself by Sunday, I shall think her very rude indeed. She shan’t be welcome here.”
“That’s not for you to say, Vivien. This is God’s house.”
“Then I shan’t invite her back for tea. She’ll know she’s caused offence then, won’t she.” And she’ll know who calls the shots around here, too.

By Sunday the whole village was whispering about the enigmatic Celestia Somersby. She had wandered into Agatha Tingle’s shop and bought a basket of provisions, infuriating the docile shopkeeper by hiding her features beneath a black sunhat and dark glasses. She had said nothing, just paid, handing the older woman crisp pound notes with long white fingers. Agatha gossiped with Betty and Vivien over tea in Edith’s Pantry, dissecting every detail, from the goods she had bought to the strange old fashioned buckle shoes she wore on her feet, while Vivien sipped weak tea and Betty bit into a large slice of chocolate cake. What they didn’t know, however, was that Fitzroy Merridale had seen her down on the beach, walking wistfully with her feet in the surf, her long black dress billowing about her ankles, the chiffon scarf tied about her hat flapping like the wings of a bat and that there, in the roaring wind and the crashing of waves, he had lost his heart. It had been a wonderful moment. An awakening from somewhere dull into somewhere bright and full of possibilities.

Since that exquisite sighting, Fitzroy had been unable to think of little else but Celestia Somersby. He had sat in the Four Codgers pub and listened to the mutters of speculation. Some said that she was divorced, others that she had murdered her husband. He believed none of it and took pleasure from the fact that she hadn’t deigned speak to any of them, because he knew instinctively that she would talk to him. After all, he was one of the few in town her age. Westcotton was an old people’s town. He had only moved there to write, having found no inspiration in London. He was also bold. Why, he mused, was it up to her to approach them? Surely as the newcomer they should make the gesture and welcome her into their midst. He sat in the pew, on the cold hard seat of ancient wood, and looked about him. Agatha, Betty, Vivien, Edith and a gaggle of other grandmothers in feathered hats and pastel dresses. Their husbands fat and weathered or thin and dominated. A few young couples with fidgeting children, following in the deep, stodgy footsteps of their parents. There was nothing for Celestia Somersby here. Why had she come?

When Reverend Jollie stepped into the nave, his long gowns disguising a belly full of Edith’s scones, the disappointment that was felt by every member of his congregation caused the very air in the church to drop. Betty glanced warily at her flowers, afraid that the lilies would wilt too, for everyone had expected the first proper sighting of Celestia Somersby. She had not come.

Reverend Jollie was aware of their frustration because it reflected his own. He had indulged in fantasies of a more godly nature than Fitzroy Merridale, envisaging her confessing her sins, of which there were many, onto his chest. He was appalled at his own weakness for since Celestia Somersby had arrived in Westcotton he had wished he were Catholic.

With a heavy sigh he raised his palms to the sky and addressed the sheep in his flock like the good shepherd that he was. “Welcome, friends…” Just when his enthusiasm was on the point of stalling, the large doors of the church opened with a deep groan. At once the air was charged with expectation. Reverend Jollie watched his congregation turn their heads to face the entrance now gaping open like the toothless yawn of an old man. Fitzroy Merridale’s heart stopped for a second as did his breath, suspended between anticipation and disappointment, willing it to be her. He craned his neck past Cyril Knight’s thick shoulders and saw, to his delight, the slim, hesitant figure he had dreamed about since he saw her walking barefoot up the beach. She remained there for what seemed like a very long while, her arms out stretched on either side, her gloved hands holding the doors open. She wore black and her white face and neck glowed luminous beneath the veil that was pinned to her hat. Only her crimson lips and the pink apples of her cheeks retained their colour. With a purposeful stride she walked up the aisle, passing the many pairs of eyes that strained for a better view of her face. To Reverend Jollie’s astonishment she knelt before him, for he still stood in front of the altar, and crossed herself, inclining her head as the Catholic’s do. He experienced a frisson of excitement then let out a controlled though staggered breath. She smiled, a small but unmistakeable smile, before turning and walking back down the aisle to a seat at the back. Fitzroy grinned with admiration. What a cool, confident display that was and how dignified. He had noticed her slim ankles and the high heels on those old fashioned buckled shoes. He wondered what she looked like with her hair down, cascading over naked shoulders.

Fitzroy wasn’t the only man in the church unable to concentrate on the service, even Reverend Jollie flustered over the sermon like an overexcited girl, anticipating communion when she would at last raise her veil and cast her dark eyes to him in submission. He was to be disappointed, however, for although she knelt before him she did not raise her veil nor her eyes, which remained lowered and demure.

“Well” huffed Vivien once the service was over and they were all standing about in the sunshine. “She might have introduced herself. What does she have to hide, I wonder. I shall not invite her to tea.”
“I don’t think she’ll mind,” said Betty with a laugh. “She doesn’t look the type for tea. Much too common for her, I suspect, as are we.”
“Oh, for goodness sake, Betty. You talk such nonsense. Your father might have been a plumber but mine, my dear, was the son of a gentleman.” Betty raised her eyebrows cynically. She knew better than to argue with Vivien Pratt.

Fitzroy had noticed Celestia leave during the blessing and had slipped out behind her. As she walked briskly down the path towards the green he hurried after her. “Miss Somersby,” he said, catching her up. “May I introduce myself?” She continued to walk until they were out of sight of the church. Only then did she turn. He was surprised at her small stature for her charisma gave the impression that she was taller. She did not lift her veil, but he saw her eyes shining behind it. “My name is Fitzroy Merridale. I want to welcome you to Westcotton.”
“Thank you.” Her voice was soft and deep like brown suede. He noticed she looked around furtively.
“May I accompany you home?” he asked. She nodded and proceeded to walk across the green. “I don’t imagine you know anyone here.”
“That is why I have moved,” she said and her words weighed heavily with significance.
“I see,” he replied, intrigued. “I hope you don’t mind me approaching you. You just seem so…alone.”
“I am alone,” she said, then sighed. “It is nice to talk to someone.” Fitzroy felt his insides flutter as if they were filled with bubbles.
“I’m a bit of a loner myself. I’m trying to write a novel, but it’s not really working. I live in a cottage by the sea. I saw you the other day, walking along the beach.” He was sure she smiled beneath her veil. Encouraged, he continued. “You had taken your shoes off and your feet were in the water. It must have been cold.”
“I didn’t notice,” she replied.
“Well, I live near there. It’s meant to fill me with inspiration, but I just stare out at a void. You inspired me, though.” She stopped and looked up at him.
“Did I?”
“Yes, you gave me an idea for a story.” He felt himself blush and put his hands in his pockets. “I’ve already begun.” She stared at him a long moment then walked on.
“Why don’t you come back for tea? It’s not much, but it’s home.”

The house was pretty, with tall ceilings and sash windows overlooking a large garden surrounded by lime trees. Once inside the wall that encircled the property they were entirely alone. Fitzroy followed her into the house. He watched as she took off her hat in front of a gilt mirror in the hall. She unpinned her hair so that it fell in dark waves over her shoulders and down her back. Then she slipped off her gloves and unbuttoned her coat with delicate white fingers. When she turned to him he was struck by the surprisingly pale colour of her eyes. Like water in a tropical sea. Her mouth twisted once again into a small smile and he felt the colour rise in his cheeks. She was more beautiful than he had imagined.

He followed her into the sitting room where a fire smouldered in the grate. There was a piano upon which large church candles were placed in clusters. The melted wax revealed that they were often lit. “Do you play?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said and sat down on the stool. As she launched into an emotive solo, her face was suddenly darkened by some unspoken sadness.
“Play something happy,” he asked. She raised those strange pale eyes to him and shook her head.
“I’m afraid I can’t play what is not in my heart.”
“Then don’t play,” he said impulsively. “Please don’t play if it makes you sad.” Once again she smiled but this time it was the smile one gives in the face of a beautiful sunset. A smile tinged with sorrow. She got up from the stool and walked up to him. The look in her eyes was intense. He turned away.
She raised her hand and ran it down his cheek. “You’re a sensitive man,” she said and then she kissed him. He didn’t pull away or question his good fortune, but wrapped her in his arms and pressed his lips to hers. He breathed in the scent of her skin, warm and sweet like the smell of bluebells, and closed his eyes.

Suddenly she pushed him away. “You must go!” she said hastily, shaking her head as if ashamed of what had come over her.
“But Celestia!” he pleaded.
“Not here. Not here Fitzroy. I can’t. It’s wrong.” She staggered back and leant against the piano, her hand pressed against her forehead.
“What’s wrong? Are you married?”
“No.”
“Are you divorced?”
“No.”
“Are you a widow?” She stared at him with frightened eyes and hurried into the hall.
“You must go!”
“Will we meet again?”
“There’s a cave on the beach, you know the one. I’ll meet you there tomorrow at noon. Don’t breathe a word to anyone!” Fitzroy promised then departed. The door closed behind him and he was left bewildered. If she had been mysterious before, she was even more mysterious now.

The following day Fitzroy went down to the beach and waited for her in the cave. He waited and waited but she did not come. When finally he was on the point of leaving she hurried in through the narrow entrance and fell into his arms. “I’m sorry,” she breathed, kissing him fervently. “Forgive me!” He did not bother to ask why she was late. He did not care. He had her in his arms and was happy.

The following weeks passed in the same manner. They met in the cave and she was always late. But he had learned to wait for her. They didn’t talk much and every time they parted he felt he knew her less than before. In the evenings he went to the Four Codgers and listened to the talk. The rumours had grown. They called her the Black Widow and were certain she had killed her husband. Maybe one, perhaps more. Fitzroy sat smiling to himself. He knew her better than any of them.

At the end of May, when the air was filled with the sugary scent of summer, Fitzroy invited her back to his cottage. “I want to make love to you,” he said. At first she was hesitant, as if betraying another or breaking a vow, but then overcome with desire she agreed. In the amber light of evening he unburdened her of the black clothes she wore, unwrapping her slowly as if she were a precious gift. Her skin was soft and creamy and blushing with youth. You are too vibrant a woman to be subdued by black, he thought as he kissed her flesh. Then he noticed a scar on her chest. It was pale, barely visible. It was the texture that made it stand out. Afraid of wounding her, he said nothing. After they had made love they lay entwined, engulfed by an unsettling mixture of joy and sorrow, as if instinctively aware of the transience of their affair.

Then one night in the Four Codgers Fitzroy heard them talk of another man. One who came and left her house in a car. He was dark, in his late forties. He never stayed for long. Fitzroy was consumed with jealousy. He marched over to Old Lodge and knocked on the door. When she did not open it he pounded with his fists. “Who is he?” he bellowed into the night air. Before walking away he noticed a brief flash of light from upstairs and the hasty drawing of a curtain.

The following morning there was a furore on the beach. Policemen and onlookers and dozens of people he did not recognise. When he approached, Vivien Pratt drew him aside. “Don’t,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s that woman. Celestia Somersby. She’s dead.”
“Dead?” he gasped, feeling his world unravelling about him.
“Drowned.” Then she hissed. “They say it’s suicide. I don’t know. Might have been murder.”

Celestia Somersby, or Jane Hardwick as she was really called, was not buried in Westcotton. Fitzroy found her brother sorting through her things at Old Lodge. “She was a Londoner at heart,” he said sadly. “She was once an actress. A good actress too, before the accident. After that she was too frightened of the stage to continue. She turned her life into a drama. Moving from place to place where no one knew her. Where she could be anyone she wanted to be so long as she was playing a role.”
“Why did she kill herself?” Fitzroy asked and the pain must have echoed up from the hollowness in his heart. Her brother looked at him for a long moment then smiled compassionately.
“She fooled you too, didn’t she?” He sighed and picked up her photograph. “She died, my friend, because she couldn’t sustain that bizarre life forever. She wanted to be Celestia but Jane was always one step behind her. I think she preferred to die dramatically than live modestly.”
“But I loved her.”
“No, you didn’t. You loved someone who didn’t exist. Even she had lost sight of who she really was. But in a way she got what she wanted. A dramatic life and a dramatic death and she will live on as Celestia in your memory and in the memory of the others who gave her their hearts. Only I will remember her as Jane but she never cared much for me. I was a constant reminder of the truth and she cared little for that.”

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