This was unusual, but I was not sorry to terminate the conversation with Samuel. Quickly completing my meal, I excused myself and tidied my hair and dress before going to Mr Farrow’s study.
He called, ‘Come in,’ in answer to my knock; not looking up from his papers, he gestured that I should sit. Waiting, I found myself gazing at the photographs on his desk. There were two: one showed poor Constance, Mrs Farrow, smiling over an armful of flowers; in the other, Juliana sat on a garden bench while Marianne stood behind, an arm draped across her sister’s shoulder. It was a foolish fantasy of mine to picture myself as a part of this family grouping; to think of Mr Farrow’s glance falling on my image, his face softening into a smile of affection, in moments of distraction from his work. Since I was all but invisible to him, this was a ridiculous indulgence, but one which I permitted myself from time to time.
After a few moments he put down his pen and shuffled his papers together. He was brief.
‘Charlotte, I have pressing business matters to attend to in London; I am leaving today, and will return on Friday,’ he informed me. ‘I shall stay at my club. Tell Reynolds to have the gig ready; I shall take the midday train.’
With a nod, I assured him that I should see to it. He continued: ‘On Saturday, the Vernon-Dales and the Greenlaws are invited to dinner; I intend to introduce them to Mr Godwin. I should like you to act as hostess, since Juliana is not up to it; you may draw up the menu with Mrs Reynolds, and she will take care of everything else. Maybe you could see to the flowers.’
‘Yes, Mr Farrow, it will be my pleasure,’ I assured him, in some surprise.
I waited to see if he had any more to say; but as he did not, I turned to go. Then he added, ‘I have arranged to see Mr Godwin; perhaps you would remind him to be prompt, for I am in a hurry to leave.’
Outside his door, I stood for a few moments considering what I had just heard, before making my way to Marianne’s room to see if she were awake. No dinner party of any sort had been held at Fourwinds during my time there; as far as I knew, Ernest Farrow had not entertained guests since the death of his wife. What could have prompted this unwonted hospitality? Was it really all in honour of Samuel Godwin? If so, I wondered, slowly climbing the stairs, what role was he expected to play? Resident artist, protégé… or potential suitor for Juliana?
No! It was a ridiculous notion. Marianne might entertain the fancy if she chose, but I was not so foolish. I walked briskly along the corridor and rapped on Marianne’s door, to see if she were awake.
Chapter Eleven
Sketching
Occupied as my mind had been during the wakeful hours of the night, I now found even more to puzzle and absorb me.
I recalled my mother’s words, at home in Sydenham, when I told her of my good fortune. ‘Fourwinds does sound a delightful place!’ she had remarked. ‘My only worry, Sam, is that you may find it too dull there, too quiet. You are accustomed to London, and to the company of your friends at the Slade - you will be lonely.’ Though I had dismissed her anxiety, my concern had been that my situation with the Farrows might lack the challenge - and the need to compete with my art-school fellows - necessary to develop my skills.
By now, however, I had formed a rather different picture. Fourwinds was delightful indeed, constantly surprising me with new discoveries: the face of a Green Man, almost hidden by carved leaves, in the arch of the door to the servants’ wing; the beauty and craftsmanship of a simple wooden bench in a corner of the garden; a window-catch shaped like a dragon. Yet the harmonious setting, in which no detail had been overlooked, in which nothing was ugly or out of place, was at odds with the lives lived within its walls. I could no longer cross the vestibule, or climb the staircase, without seeing the broken, spread-eagled form of Mrs Farrow there, so vivid that I had to avert my eyes; without hearing Marianne’s cry as she witnessed her mother’s fatal plunge. I could no longer sit at Mr Farrow’s dinner-table without contemplating the dreadful loss he had suffered, and which he must face anew every day of his life. I could no longer look at Marianne - and of course I frequently did look at her, for my eyes tracked her every movement -without wondering what torment lay behind her beautiful eyes, or at Juliana, without speculating that the calmness of her manner hid mental disturbance of a less obvious kind. Having myself only recently sustained the shock of bereavement, I could appreciate that the spectacular manner of Mrs Farrow’s death could hardly have caused more distress to her husband and daughters.
The announcement of Saturday’s dinner party, at least, seemed to herald an end to formal grieving. ‘Well, you are in favour,’ Charlotte remarked, after Mr Farrow had given me the news.
Unsure of her tone, I looked at her askance. ‘You will be present?’
‘Of course,’ Charlotte replied. ‘It is my duty.’
I stifled a smile. How typical of Charlotte, to represent the promise of pleasure as merely an extension of her duties! For myself, I was looking forward to the occasion, for it showed that my role here was not merely as art teacher and employee, but as valued member of the household. Mr Farrow had hinted that the Saturday dinner guests were wealthy and influential people: that, in other words, if they liked the work I did for him, further commissions or recommendations would be likely to follow.
Anyone observing me that afternoon as I conducted the daily drawing lesson would have considered that Samuel Godwin was a fortunate fellow indeed. Juliana, Marianne and I had arranged our stools in the shade of a holm oak; the weather was fair, my companions charming. Beyond the paddock, the grazing horses, and the trees in full summer beauty, the sweep of the Downs was hazed in blue. The gentlest of breezes cooled our faces; the burbling of skylarks and the scream of swifts filled the sky with those most exuberant of summer sounds.
Juliana had expressed a wish to draw the horses in the paddock, and in particular her white mare, Queen Bess. Charlotte, evidently considering by now that the girls were safe with me unchaperoned, had gone indoors to make arrangements for Saturday with Mrs Reynolds. Marianne had tired of our company, and had wandered down towards the lake, to draw the bulrushes by the little boathouse; and thus, for the first time, I found myself alone with Juliana.
As a pupil, she was inept. Horses are not the easiest subject, especially for someone with as little knowledge of their anatomy, and such poor powers of observation, as Juliana. I suggested that she execute a series of rapid sketches, to free her style a little; but the bulbous joints, ungainly postures and stiff necks she produced on paper did no justice to the graceful animals before us. She was nothing, though, if not diligent. Where Marianne would have tossed her pencil aside and given up in disgust, Juliana toiled on, painstakingly trying to put my advice into practice. Our concentration - for I, too, was attempting to draw her favourite, although I know little of horses - was broken only by the occasional remark, or request for help from my pupil. I noticed that something seemed changed in her manner today, as if she were nourishing a secret excitement. Juliana - in complete contrast to her sister - was not given to outward displays of feeling; so when I say that her manner suggested excitement, I mean that she revealed it in small, private smiles, and occasional fidgets and murmurings as she surveyed her work.
Meanwhile, I had become interested in the outbuildings on the opposite side of the paddock, behind the stables. Usually, from the house and garden, these buildings were concealed behind the stable block, but our present vantage point brought them into view. The stables, new and with every modern convenience, had been built at the same time as the house; but the ivy-covered cottage I was looking at, together with some tumbledown structures nearby, obviously predated the recently built Fourwinds. These outbuildings, I assumed, had belonged to the earlier dwelling, the old house of which Charlotte had told me.
‘That,’ I remarked, noticing the inky dark of the yew tree that partly obscured the roof, ‘is Yew Tree Cottage, I presume?’
The effect on Juliana was instantaneous. A deep flush reddened her cheeks
; she turned her head so that the brim of her hat shielded her face from me; but too late. I had seen.
‘Yes, it is.’
I could not think why the mere pronouncing of its name should cause such consternation, but here was my chance - away from Charlotte’s controlling presence - to ask some pertinent questions.
‘Mr Waring, the sculptor, used to live there, did he not? Is it inhabited now?’ I put to her - though the place wore such a neglected, shut-up look that this did not seem likely.
‘It has stood empty since Gideon - I mean, Mr Waring - left us,’ Juliana answered.
‘And he went away quite suddenly, I understand? Before the Four Winds project was completed?’
‘Did Charlotte tell you that?’
‘Yes. But she gave no reason for his sudden departure.’
To my surprise, Juliana said, without prompting: ‘It was my father’s doing. He took against Mr Waring for nothing at all! He would not be satisfied until he had driven him from the premises.’
‘He must have had some good reason, surely?’ Juliana merely shook her head, not seeming to trust herself to speak.
‘You were aware of this at the time?’ I enquired.
‘Yes, I—’ Again her cheeks flushed deeper. ‘I liked Gideon Waring, you see. I thought of him as my friend. Father did not know - he would have forbidden it -but Miss Hardacre and I used to come across to his workshop, to watch him and to talk with him. And sometimes I came alone.’
‘Miss Hardacre?’
‘Our governess, before Charlotte came. She went away, too - to be married.’
‘So,’ I said, ‘your father must have had some particular objection to your acquaintance with Mr Waring?’
‘I do not know what it was. When he found out, Father was angry. And then Gideon left very suddenly - I did not even have the chance to wish him farewell. I was so sorry - I—’ She looked at me sidelong, with evident consternation at saying so much, but plunged on: ‘I felt his loss very keenly. He was such an… interesting man. And kind, too— Oh, if only he were here now! I miss him so.’
‘I see.’ I sketched on for a few moments, thinking over this revelation. Clearly my own company did not make up for the loss of Gideon Waring’s; but Juliana had spoken with such uncharacteristic impetuousness that I did not think she intended to slight me.
‘You say that your governess went away to be married,’ I ventured. ‘You don’t mean that she became Mrs Waring?’
‘Oh, no! No! That was only—’ Visibly, she checked herself. ‘Eliza - Miss Hardacre, as she was - is very happily married to Matthew Dearly, a gardener. They lived for a while in Petersfield, but have lately come back to Sussex - Matthew Dearly has taken up employment with Mr Vernon-Dale.’
‘Vernon-Dale?’ I repeated. I had been introduced, briefly, to the Vernon-Dales at church; they were among the guests Mr Farrow had invited to dinner on Saturday.
‘Yes, the Vernon-Dales, at Rampions. It is a grand house and estate not far from here - you will no doubt see it. Might I…?’ Juliana glanced at me, then away.
‘Yes?’ I prompted.
She took a deep breath. ‘Mr Godwin - might I ask a favour of you?’
‘Of course you may. What is it?’
‘I should like you to keep a secret from Papa. You see’ - she gave me a look of beguiling openness - ‘I plan to invite Eliza to visit me, while he is away.’
It could not escape my notice that heightened colour and animation gave Juliana a glow her features lacked in their customary repose. The delicacy of her skin, the pale-gold gleam of the tendrils of hair escaping from her brimmed hat, the direct gaze of her blue eyes, made a pretty picture indeed. Marianne’s looks were so striking that she easily eclipsed her sister when they were together; but, alone, Juliana had charms enough to command male attention.
However, I was puzzled by her request. ‘Why should a visit from your former governess require secrecy?’
‘Because, you see,’ Juliana said, ‘Papa would not like Eliza to come here. He dismissed her, and sent her away.’
‘He dismissed her, as well as Mr Waring?’
‘Yes,’ said Juliana, casting her eyes down at her sketchpad; absently, she resumed drawing.
‘Was there any connection between the two dismissals?’
‘I am quite sure there was not,’ Juliana replied, not looking at me.
I began to feel a stirring of alarm for my own security; but quickly told myself that Mr Farrow was too fair and reasonable to discharge two of his employees without good reason. A solution came easily to mind.
‘Is it presumptuous of me to suspect that there was a - a romantic attachment between Mr Waring and your governess?’ I conjectured. ‘And that your father took exception to it?’
‘I cannot say what Father may have thought,’ Juliana answered; but a renewed crimsoning of her cheeks spoke otherwise.
‘As for keeping your secret,’ I continued, ‘I shall follow Charlotte’s lead; if she agrees, then so shall I. In return, can you tell me something?’
‘What is it?’
‘I should very much like to meet Gideon Waring. Do you know where I might find him?’
‘I would tell you, if only I knew,’ Juliana said, with a small sigh. ‘But unfortunately I have no idea where he went.’
Our conversation was put to an end by the arrival of Marianne, who had wearied of drawing, and wanted her sister to accompany her on a walk around the lake. ‘Do join us, Samuel!’
‘Perhaps - in a moment,’ I told her. ‘I must work here for a few more minutes.’
Completing my drawing of Queen Bess, which I thought good enough to please her mistress, I pieced together the new information I had received, and found that it added up to some rather interesting totals. After only a short while, I packed away my drawing materials and, instead of joining the two young ladies, made my way across the paddock to Yew Tree Cottage.
Chapter Twelve
Visitor
On Thursday at luncheon, Juliana waited until Alice had cleared away the dishes before mentioning, with studied casualness, that she expected a visitor that afternoon.
‘Oh? Who is it?’ Marianne asked eagerly.
There was a pause; then Juliana answered, with a touch of defiance, ‘Mrs Dearly.’
‘Dearly?’ repeated Marianne. ‘Oh, you mean our Eliza! How odd Mrs Dearly sounds - I shall always think of her as Eliza, or Miss Hardacre. But I thought she was in Hampshire?’
‘She lives nearby, now,’ Juliana told her. ‘She is at Rampions - almost our neighbour.’
‘At Rampions?’ I repeated. ‘Employed by the Vernon-Dales? I am most surprised to hear that.’
‘Why, Charlotte?’ asked Juliana.
What I meant was that Miss Hardacre had left Fourwinds under a cloud, so presumably without the good character reference which a family as eminent as the Vernon-Dales would require. Instead of broaching this topic, however, I said: ‘Because the Vernon-Dales have no need of a governess. Their children are quite grown up, are they not?’
‘Yes - but Eliza is married now, and no longer a governess,’ Juliana replied. ‘Her husband, Matthew Dearly, who used to be at Oak Lodge, is head gardener at Rampions. It is an excellent advancement for him - the gardens there are very splendid.’
‘Is your father aware of her new situation?’
‘I don’t know - I suppose so,’ Juliana said, offhandedly.
Very rarely did I find cause for annoyance with Juliana; but now I was displeased with her, for delaying this announcement until such a late stage.
‘I am surprised you did not think to mention this sooner,’ I remarked, trying to conceal my pique.
‘You sly thing, Juley!’ Marianne said, her eyes shining. ‘Inviting Eliza here while Papa’s out of the way!’
‘You may think it very clever,’ I reproved, ‘but I should not need to remind you both that I am in charge of the household while your father is in London. What am I to say to him? Juliana, I am surp
rised at you for compromising me like this.’
‘Father need not know,’ Juliana said, uneasily meeting my gaze. ‘You won’t tell him, will you? And Mr Godwin has already promised not to.’
‘I see. So you have confided in Mr Godwin before you thought of telling me?’ This time I could not help sounding offended. Samuel was peeling an apple and affecting disinterest; but, glancing at him, I saw the flicker of his eye, and knew he was attending closely.
‘Oh, Charlotte! Please don’t be cross.’ Marianne got up and put an arm round me, like the impetuous little girl she sometimes still was. ‘We love you just as much as we ever did Eliza, don’t we, Juley? You know we do. You needn’t feel envious.’
‘I am not envious,’ I replied, though in truth I was a little irked that she had not said more than. ‘The point is that you know full well that your father would not welcome Miss Hardacre here - I mean Mrs Dearly,’ I amended. ‘If I allow it, he will hold me to blame.’
‘Then, if he finds out, we’ll tell him it was Juley’s idea,’ Marianne returned, ‘and that you knew nothing of it - which is quite true.’
If I am honest, my curiosity about my predecessor soon got the better of my peevishness, though I continued to make a show of disapproval. At half past three, Eliza Dearly arrived in a pony-chaise, driven by a young man in shirtsleeves and a peaked cap. My charges hastened to greet her; I, however, waited in the vestibule, from whence I watched with utter incredulity as she lifted a small boy down from the chaise seat. While she gave her driver instructions as to what time he should return, Marianne took the infant from her, all but smothering it with exclamations and cooings, while Juliana gazed at it fondly.
My heart was beating fast as I shrank back behind the curtains. Of course, she had the child now; even the lowliest servant at Fourwinds knew this, although Juliana had made no reference to it. Not for a moment had I imagined that she would have the temerity to bring it here! It was improper enough for her to visit during Mr Farrow’s absence; bringing that child with her was nothing short of outrageous. Juliana, surely, could not have intended that?
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