At this comparison with my predecessor, I have to admit that I felt a glow of satisfaction, almost of self-righteousness; but Miss Hardacre, like Mr Waring, was not someone I wished to hear mentioned.
‘Your father would never dismiss anyone without good reason,’ I added, ‘and I sincerely hope I shall never give him cause for displeasure. Marianne, it is time for your French lesson. Where are your books?’
‘I shall fetch them. But you needn’t worry about Samuel,’ she assured me. ‘I am quite sure he isn’t a gossip.’ She uncurled her legs, knocking her book carelessly to the floor; then she stood, stretching both arms above her head. ‘Oh, I feel so restless today! Charlotte, you will find me an inattentive pupil, I am afraid.’
She was quite right: I did; though her distraction was matched by my own.
Chapter Eight
Mrs Matthew Dearly, née Hardacre,
to Miss Juliana Farrow
Orchard Cottage,
Rampions,
Near Staverton,
Sussex
22nd June, 1898
My dearest Juliana,
I must apologize for the delay in replying to your last, since you have told me how you look forward to my letters. You would be forgiven for thinking me very neglectful. However, you will see that we have been very much occupied of late, and you will see why for you must be surprised by the address I have given. Yes, we have come to live at Rampions, not five miles from Fourwinds! We have been so very lucky! We had thought ourselves quite settled in Petersfeld, but then the head gardener at Rampions became ill and was forced to retire, and so Mr Vernon-Dale was looking for a replacement. The groom there, with whom Matthew was friendly, wrote with the news, and Matthew applied immediately. It is a wonderful advancement for him, with four under-gardeners to supervise, and the splendid grounds of Rampions, and most importantly we have for our home the gardener’s cottage, which is as comfortable and well appointed a dwelling as I could hope for, and quite sizeable - indeed I prefer to call it a villa, with its own vegetable plot behind and flower garden in front. Rampions is so very grand that I think everyone who comes here must be quite astonished by its splendour. I must say that I am very glad to find myself once again in Sussex, not because I was in the least unhappy in Hampshire - how could I be with Matthew for a husband, and darling little Thomas? - but because it brings me back to the place I know and love best And, dearest Juley it returns me to the vicinity of Fourwinds, and to you and dear Marianne. I know that your father has appointed a new companion for you in my place, but I hope that you have not entirely transferred your affections and that there is still room in your heart for your Eliza. I flatter myself that there is. Mrs Matthew “Dearly has a very different ring to it than Miss Eliza Hardacre, does it not? I am still the very same person, however, and quite unchanged in my devotion to you and your sister, even though I am now a married woman with husband and home of my own.
Now, Juley how shall I come to visit you? For your father would be averse to my visiting Fourwinds. Indeed, as he was so instrumental in helping us to remove to Hampshire, it will displease him to learn that we have now made altogether different arrangements for ourselves - though maybe he need not learn immediately, if you understand my meaning! It would give me the greatest pleasure to welcome you to my new home; but I am quite sure your father would not permit that either If he still travels to London, as used to be his wont, to deal with his business affairs, and stays there for a few nights, maybe you would let me know, so that I could arrange for one of the grooms here to drive me to Fourwinds? I can hardly wait to see you again, and I am sure that you must be longing to see Thomas - Tommy as we call him. He is such a delightful child, pretty playful and sunny-tempered Thank you so much for the toy bear you sent for his first birthday He plays with it devotedly I wonder whether you have any news of Mr Waring? I have not heard a word of him since our paths separated so abruptly - but this and other news can wait until we have the chance to spend a few hours in each other’s company.
With affectionate best wishes, dearest Juley to you and to Marianne,
Your devoted friend,
Eliza
Chapter Nine
Sleepless
At Fourwinds, spending so much time alone, I had ample time to examine my motives. What did I think I was doing, in my efforts with pencil and paintbrush, with oils and washes?
I could only discover a strong desire to make my mark on the future, to achieve something memorable that would outlast my life. But how could this be done? Why, among the countless millions of humans that thronged the Earth, should I believe myself to be set apart by some special gift? Did I seriously believe that I had the talent to outshine the countless unremarkable painters who squinted and stared, who mixed their colours, who dabbed and brushed and smeared their marks on canvas in the naive belief that it would grant them immortality? Was it only conceit on my part, a childish desire for fame and admiration?
I knew only that without the compulsion to draw and paint, to render on paper or canvas what I saw about me, I should consider my life to be quite without purpose.
*
The Farrows went to church in Staverton on Sunday, and I with them. Before and after the service, I was introduced to several people; my arrival at Fourwinds had caused, it seemed, a flurry of interest. I supposed that life in this quiet country place was so uneventful that change of any kind provoked comment and speculation. At these encounters, Mr Farrow introduced me as ‘an artist of great promise’, ‘an immensely talented young painter’, and other such heady descriptions. I did not choose to question his judgement; rather, I began to believe it myself, to think that there must be some latent spark of genius in my work which was apparent to him, if not to me.
Strangely, however, he seemed completely wrong in his assessment of his daughters’ abilities. Whenever we spoke of the drawing lessons, his concern was all for Juliana, for her need to regain health and spirits. Yet, from the start, it was evident to me that Marianne was the one with artistic promise. Juliana had a fussy, hesitant approach, over-concerned with correctness: I should have to work hard, I saw, to make the best of a very modest talent. Marianne, on the other hand, had boldness, a feeling for place, and a style that could be termed slapdash but which needed only a little discipline to smooth its roughness.
On my second Sunday at Fourwinds, after attending church and doing justice to Mrs Reynolds’s good roast beef and apple pie, I excused myself and went outside to look at the Wind carvings. I studied them in detail, and made a careful drawing of each, trying to emulate the clean precision of blanched, smooth-grained stone. Then, turning to a blank page, I walked round to the west side of the house and stood looking up at the space which should have been occupied by the missing piece, the West Wind. I saw it, I fancied, in my mind’s eye.
I was no connoisseur of sculpture, but there was something about these carvings that strongly appealed to me. Each stone figure seemed to have its own living presence, its own personality; and none revealed all its secrets at once. The North Wind seemed wearied of his duties, as if he would fain have changed places with his opposite on the south wall. The East Wind -the beautiful youth, bared to the elements without so much as a conventional fig leaf or wisp of loincloth to conceal his nakedness - looked fearful, hounded by Furies. The South Wind, smug by comparison in the balmy breath of wind that disturbed her tresses, gave a knowing, sidelong glance that was almost sly. Their maker seemed to have taken his inspiration from Roman or Greek figures, infusing them with a pagan mischief that spoke of medievalism. By now I had found other evidence, too, of his presence - of his humour. Beneath one roof quoin, a gargoyle head looked down at passers-by with a jeering expression. On a window ledge, a stone lizard stood poised; on another, a tiny monkey crouched. It was almost as if the sculptor had placed small jokes around the building, to reward the attention of the close observer.
Keenly interested in this Gideon Waring, I had committed his name to memory the instant
Charlotte had uttered it. Here, I felt strongly, was a man whose work spoke of authority and sureness; whose identity was stamped on everything he touched. I had not heard the name before, but wondered if Waring lived locally and if I might see more of his stonework. I envied him his assurance, for in my painting I had yet to find a style I could call my own; I allowed myself to be swayed by one influence after another, as the whim took me. In comparison with the gifted Mr Waring, I felt myself to be a skilled copier, at best.
Looking around me, I saw a wrought-iron seat against the hedge that screened the vegetable garden. I sat, and drew. The afternoon was warm and still; the merest of breezes carried the scent of a rambling rose that sprawled against the house wall; I was content.
Here at Fourwinds, I resolved, I should find myself as an artist. While all my needs were provided for and I had limitless time to devote to my work, I should define and strengthen my style; I should find a painterly expression that was unmistakably my own. Yet, completely at odds with this ambition, I drew now in imitation of Gideon Waring. I was sketching the West Wind as I thought he might have executed it.
‘No, no.’ I imagined his voice in my ear; imagined he had crept up on me and looked over my shoulder, amused and sceptical. ‘No,’ he would say. ‘That is not it at all.’ Disturbingly, when I tried to give a face to the person I had summoned, the features appearing in my mind were those of my father. ‘Painting’s all very well as a leisure interest,’ he admonished me, ‘but you’ll never make a living at it. How d’you think you’ll ever support a wife and family? Keep it as a hobby, boy, that’s my advice to you.’
What would he think of me now, my father? He would disapprove; he would find me a disappointment. When I announced my intention of studying at the Slade, he had all but washed his hands of me, only grudgingly persuaded by my mother to give me a meagre living allowance. My solitude here was allowing thoughts to surface, uncomfortable memories which I preferred to suppress. I had let down my father; but, equally, he had let me down. I found myself recalling an episode in which I had set up my easel in the park, and was absorbed in trying to capture the autumnal light through trees, when my father had approached, walking briskly, with Monty on his lead. Father threw a disparaging glance at my canvas, which I tried to turn away from his view; then he told me, ‘You’re squandering your time, Sam. What can you hope to do that’s not been done a thousand times before? Photography’s the thing now - your paints and canvases will soon belong in museums.’ And he had stumped on across the grass, calling irritably to the dog, who showed me the whites of his eyes in a regretful look before trotting after his master. Monty, I consoled myself, would have preferred to keep me company, lying close by my easel while I painted.
This memory infected my idyll, wrenching me like the pain of colic. I groaned, and tore the page from my sketchbook, crumpling it in my hand.
As I rose to my feet, Marianne walked towards me from the southern side of the house, carrying a tapestry bag. She did not notice me at first; when she did, she quickened her steps and approached me, her face alert.
‘You were drawing him!’ she cried. ‘I know you were, and now I have spoiled it.’
Him? The figure I had drawn was female.
‘No, you have spoiled nothing,’ I assured her, revealing the torn page clenched in my hand.
‘Let me see!’
She attempted to wrest it from me, but I resisted. ‘It is not worthy of your attention, believe me.’
‘You are trying to put things right!’ She looked at me keenly. ‘You know how important it is - and I am grateful. But you cannot know the West Wind, Samuel. Be glad that you cannot.’
I was newly struck by her strange zealousness. ‘Why do you not attempt its likeness?’ I suggested, on an impulse. ‘I should be most interested.’
‘Maybe.’ She spoke offhandedly, her interest quenched as suddenly as it had been aroused. Giving me a vague smile, she moved across the grass to sit on the bench I had just been occupying. I stood and watched, but she paid me no further attention; she sat quite still, gazing up at the empty space on the house wall. After a few moments I walked on, wondering where I might find Charlotte, and left Marianne to her meditation. When I turned to look, I saw that she too had brought sketchbook and pencil, and was drawing almost feverishly, with quick upward glances at the blank space, as if drawing something that was not there. She had only been waiting for me to be gone.
*
My days had settled into an agreeable pattern. After breakfast with Charlotte, and sometimes with one or both of the girls, I worked alone for most of the morning. I wanted to produce a set of detailed preparatory drawings, which I would show Mr Farrow before beginning to paint. Inexpressibly proud, and more than a little anxious, at being entrusted with this commission, I was determined to fulfil it in a manner which exceeded all expectations. I roamed around the house, inside and out, with a speculative eye, considering the angles and approaches I might choose.
The early part of each afternoon was devoted to my drawing lessons with Juliana and Marianne. Charlotte accompanied us, taking, I supposed, the role of chaperone; she sewed, or prepared Marianne’s French lessons. I could scarcely describe my routine as arduous; when my pupils tired, I had free time for walks on the Downs, from whence I could look down on Fourwinds amidst its trees and lawns, or in a southerly direction to the distant sea. Often, Juliana went out on horseback; she had a white mare, called Queen Bess. Marianne, it seemed, was not fond of riding, had no horse of her own, and preferred to spend her afternoons reading, or sketching by the lake shore.
Although there were only five of us at Fourwinds, dinner was served each evening in formal style. Mr Farrow sat at the head of the table, Marianne to his left, Juliana to his right, with me beside her. Charlotte’s place was at the far end, facing Mr Farrow, in the position his wife would have occupied; indeed, he looked to her to preside over meals, to give instructions to the cook and housekeeper, and in fact to take on several of the tasks a wife would have performed. Did she, I began to suspect, have designs on becoming the next Mrs Farrow? Many a young woman in her position, employed by a wealthy and presentable widower, would have nurtured such a hope. I looked at her keenly for evidence of scheming, but what I saw instead was single-minded devotion - to her employer as much as to her two charges. Whenever Mr Farrow spoke, her eyes rested on him with a fond, attentive expression; yes, I thought, she wishes to become a part of this family, and must surely wish without hope of fulfilment, for I cannot see Mr Farrow choosing to pair himself with Miss Charlotte Agnew. She was less plain than I had thought her at first glance - her quick eyes gave her an appealing liveliness - but was always simply dressed, even for dinner, without adornment. In our conversations so far, she had revealed little of herself - she plied me with questions about my family, my upbringing, my ambitions, but gave only vague answers to those I asked her in return. Although our routines brought us into contact several times each day, I scarcely knew more about her than I had at first meeting.
Always, there were four courses, and wine; the food was excellent, and the company congenial. Afterwards, in the drawing room, Juliana played the piano, with Marianne - who declined to play, on the grounds that she never practised adequately - turning the pages for her. As I sat at ease, or strolled on the lawn in the rose-scented dusk, or contemplated what the morrow might bring, I considered myself to be luckier than I deserved.
I had only one cause for regret. I missed my Slade friends, Chas, John and others; missed the laughter, the uproariousness, the high spirits of student life. I missed the classes, the silent hum of concentration, the smell of turpentine and pencil shavings; the noisy meals in the refectory; the squares of clipped grass where we sprawled to talk and argue, and, outside, the London streets, and the public house where we spent many an evening, each of us making a pint of beer last as long as possible, teasing Johnny for his hopeless adoration of the girl who worked in the furniture shop. Twice, I began to write to Chas and J
ohn; twice I put my letter aside, unable to employ the jocular tone we used among ourselves, and unwilling to give a serious account of my new surroundings and acquaintances. London, home and the Slade seemed fixed in the past, like moths on a collector’s board, already withered and fading to dust.
Late on the evening of my encounter with Marianne in the garden, I sat by the open window of my room, my sketchbook before me. Over the last few evenings I had been amusing myself by drawing portraits. I had decided that I would reward Mr Farrow’s patronage by surprising him with a portrait of his daughters. Experimenting with this first sketch, and finding that I did have some ability to capture the likeness of my subjects, I had added - on a whim - Charlotte, standing behind the two sisters.
Looking afresh at the three images that gazed back at me, I was struck by what each face revealed of the personality behind it. In Juliana’s - mild, composed, tranquil - I read sadness. Marianne’s expression, though I could not do justice to her extraordinary, vibrant beauty, held boldness, a spirit of defiance. And Charlotte? Charlotte had been the hardest of all three to capture, her features unremarkable, her expression hard to define; but what I saw, now that she was committed to paper, was her sharp mind, her cleverness. She was, I realized, someone I should not underestimate.
I was more tired than I had thought. Abandoning paper and pencil, I moved to the open window, gazing out at the midsummer dusk. A dog barked somewhere, far off; I heard the lowing of cattle; the trees were lush with leaf. The quietness of the evening soothed me; I made ready for bed.
At first I must have slept heavily. Much later, something woke me - the screech of a bird from outside, maybe - and I lay for a few seconds in the silvery darkness, unable to remember where I was. When I realized that I was not, after all, in my bedroom in Sydenham, with Mama and Isobel in adjoining rooms, everything downstairs just as I knew it, and Monty snoring gently on the front doormat, which was his preferred sleeping place, I felt a renewed longing for home. I should have given much at that moment to walk down our own familiar stairs and to find everything just as I knew it.
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