While I loitered there, uncertain how to react, Marianne took the toddling boy by the hand, in the manner of a doting aunt, and led him towards the lawn. What a happy party they looked, the four of them!
Decisive intervention was called for, I knew; duty told me to step forward and inform the visitor that, in Mr Farrow’s stead, I must ask her to leave the premises. In my hesitation, however, I was lost. Nothing in Mrs Dearly’s demeanour showed any hint of her former disgrace; on the contrary, an observer might think her an established friend of the family, with every right to come visiting whenever she chose. Her confidence stripped me of mine.
In these first few moments, I formed the opinion that my predecessor gave herself airs. She was, I estimated, two or three years older than I, and tolerably handsome. She wore a high-necked blouse of striped fabric, a narrow, belted skirt and a broad-brimmed hat; crossing the few yards to the lawn, she twirled a parasol, talking all the while. ‘Well, my dears, you’re both looking the picture of health! How good it is to see you after so long - and to find myself back at Fourwinds! Who would have thought that your governess would return in such style? I declare, the place has not changed one bit - I could almost fancy that we are about to resume our lessons! What happy times we had, did we not? Tommy, Tommy, what do you think of this splendid house?’ she addressed the child, who, unsurprisingly, offered no opinion.
Stepping forward, I asserted my presence. Mrs Dearly surveyed me boldly.
‘Oh!’ Juliana was ruffled for a moment; then she turned to her guest. ‘Eliza - this is Charlotte, Miss Agnew, who now fills your place. Charlotte, may I introduce you to Mrs Dearly?’
‘Welcome to Fourwinds,’ I said, formally, and without cordiality. ‘As I expect you are aware, Mr Farrow is away from home, and unable to greet you himself.’ It would have taken a keener sensibility than Mrs Dearly’s to hear the implied reproof; and subsequent conversation confirmed that this first impression was not mistaken.
We shook hands. Mrs Dearly gave me a condescending smile, while her gaze swept over my unremarkable features, and my plain grey dress. Look what you are, her smile seemed to say, and look how comfortable I am. Steadfastly I held her gaze. How could she, with her past, presume to intimidate me?
‘Oh, and here is Mr Godwin,’ cried Juliana, attempting to cover any awkwardness in the situation with uncharacteristic vivacity. ‘Mr Godwin, come and be introduced.’
There was far more warmth in the smile and the handshake Eliza Dearly offered our young artist; her eyes lingered on his face and form. ‘Well, Mr Godwin, I suppose you know you are quite the talk of the neighbourhood?’ she simpered. When Samuel expressed surprise, she went on: ‘Oh yes! Everyone is agog to see your paintings. Mr Farrow is a generous patron, is he not? I can only hope that this project turns out more successfully than his last.’ She raised her eyes to the North Wind, who glowered above us as if displeased with the warmth of the midsummer day. ‘Has the missing statue ever been found, or is the west wall still blank? Ah, the artistic temperament must be treated with caution. Do you not agree? Mr Godwin, are you temperamental? Do you fly into rages, or brood darkly for days on end?’
‘I am sorry to disappoint you,’ said Samuel. ‘I have never felt that I should be tolerated if I did. From what I have seen of Gideon Waring’s work, I have the greatest admiration for it and for him; but I don’t understand why artists should expect to behave any differently from other people.’
‘Ah, then I wonder if you are genuinely an artist!’ Mrs Dearly admonished him. ‘Everyone knows that true artists have volatile temperaments. I shall be very disappointed if you never rage, sulk or fly into a jealous passion.’
Her tone was teasing, but Juliana answered with all seriousness: ‘Mr Waring never raged or sulked. He was the most even-tempered man I have ever known.’
‘And he was a genuine artist,’ said Marianne. ‘No one could doubt that.’
‘Indeed, he was even-tempered; but who knows what depths of passion lurked beneath?’ answered Mrs Dearly, with a look of intolerable knowingness.
This was not to be endured. ‘I think, Juliana,’ I said, though really my point was directed at Mrs Dearly, who seemed to have no inhibitions at all, ‘we had better find another topic of conversation. You know that we do not talk of Mr Waring.’
Mrs Dearly gave me a haughty look, as though the lowliest kitchen maid had dared to advise her betters. My gaze fell on the little boy on all fours on the grass, who was staring, eyes and mouth round with astonishment, at a bee that buzzed in prospecting spirals close to his head. Marianne swished the insect away, and the child sat up, waving a plump hand in imitation. He was, I have to concede, a pretty and engaging boy, with straight dark hair and alert eyes; but conversation about him was not to be encouraged, either.
‘Tea will be served in the garden, under the cedar tree,’ said Juliana, breaking the awkward pause.
‘How delightful!’ Mrs Dearly adjusted her hat. ‘I am so longing to hear all your news!’
Chairs and a table had already been set out on the south lawn, beneath the cedar’s spreading branches. Alice brought tea, bread-and-butter and cake, crockery and hot water; Juliana had made arrangements with the domestic staff without consulting me, and I wondered whether she had also ensured their silence. My demure miss was revealing depths of deviousness I had never suspected.
We settled ourselves in the shade. Samuel proved to have an unexpected affinity with little Thomas, taking on the task of amusing the boy. Soon he got down on all fours behind his chair, hiding all of himself but his hands, which he shaped to represent various kinds of animal: elephant, donkey and chicken, each accompanied by the appropriate sound. The little boy stared, frowned, broke into disarming chuckles, and crawled behind the seat in evident expectation of finding a whole menagerie concealed there. Against my better judgement, I found myself smiling indulgently. It was unfair, of course, to blame this innocent child for the wantonness of his conception.
While Juliana gave her attention to this game, Mrs Dearly chatted on, eagerly questioned by Marianne, and I had no need to do anything but listen. Here was a young lady so pleased with herself that she felt everyone else must share her absorption; she talked endlessly about Rampions, the number of staff employed there, the gardener’s cottage (which she referred to as a villa), her vegetable garden, and how admirable a wife her husband found her. Before twenty minutes had passed, I had heard quite enough. Excusing myself, I said that I had matters to attend to indoors, and wished her a stiff farewell.
It was pleasantly cool in the house. Seating myself at the bureau in the morning room, I began to read Marianne’s French composition. Although the errors sprinkled liberally throughout her work made me tut, I was soon absorbed; so much so that I gave a start of surprise when a voice spoke close behind me.
‘What, back at your work already?’ It was Samuel, looking over my shoulder. ‘Surely you needn’t shut yourself inside on such a glorious afternoon?’
Recovering, I turned to face him. ‘Thank you, Mr Godwin, I am quite purposefully occupied. I tire of too much leisure. You seemed very taken with Mrs Dearly’s boy,’ I remarked. ‘Are you fond of small children?’
‘I am, rather,’ he replied, looking for a moment quite wistful. ‘A cousin of mine has a little boy of Tommy’s age - he reminded me of family days at home.’ He sat on the chaise longue, and reclined there for a moment without speaking; I steered my thoughts back to the composition, until Samuel asked me, quite without prelude, ‘Are you happy here, Charlotte?’
Startled, I replied, ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Miss Agnew, I should say,’ he amended. ‘You appear - as Miss Agnew - to be the perfect employee: discreet, quietly mannered, considerate. Pardon my impertinence, but it is Charlotte I am enquiring about - not Miss Agnew the employee. What of her? Is she happy here?’
‘I hardly know,’ I replied, with an embarrassed little laugh. ‘It is not something I spend time contemplating.’
&
nbsp; ‘I sense that your own happiness takes second place to that of the two young ladies.’
‘What else is expected from a paid companion?’ I returned. ‘I am very fond of Marianne and Juliana, of course. Maybe excessively so.’ Immediately regretting this, I turned back to the page I was scrutinizing.
‘Please excuse me if I’m curious about you,’ Samuel persisted. ‘What keeps you here? What of your life before? You have told me so little. Do you have a family? In answer to your questions, I have told you all about mine - introduced you, in effect, to my mother, my sister - even to the dog. Do, please, return the confidence.’
It is in my nature to be secretive. This has never presented a difficulty, since most people, I have found, are interested principally in themselves; it is easy enough to be considered a good friend, even a confidante, by the simple means of listening, and sympathizing. Someone in my position is rarely called upon to analyse her feelings, or give her views on the life she finds herself leading.
‘I have no family,’ I replied. ‘I am alone in the world. That is all you need know.’
‘I am sorry,’ he said.
‘Then you may spare your pity,’ I told him. ‘I am quite accustomed to my role in life.’
He looked likely to press for further details; then thought better of it, and sat gazing out of the window. Following his glance, I saw Juliana and Mrs Dearly strolling together along the lower lawn, Juliana carrying the boy in her arms.
‘Please,’ I told him, ‘don’t linger inside on my account. There is more congenial company to be found outdoors.’
To my amazement, I saw a smile twitch at the corners of his mouth.
‘Do I amuse you, Mr Godwin?’ I asked him sharply.
‘Only in that your disapproval of Mrs Dearly is so transparent,’ he replied, in what I considered an impertinent manner. ‘Your feelings are clearly read in your face.’
‘My conduct towards her has been entirely appropriate. I only wish she would show the same sense of decorum; yet I suppose that is hardly to be expected.’
He nodded. ‘You dislike her intensely - do you not? You were firm on that point within moments of meeting her.’
‘I am mortified that you think my feelings so easily read,’ I returned.
Undeterred, he went on: ‘I would go so far as to say, you had made up your mind before meeting her. Am I right?’
‘Since you were present at luncheon, when the visit was discussed, that is hardly a remarkable deduction,’ I pointed out.
‘And nothing you see in the lady induces you to change your opinion?’ he persevered.
Rustling the pages of Marianne’s essay, I replied, ‘Neither her station in life, nor her conduct, entitles her to be considered a lady. Do you have some particular reason for this interrogation?’
‘Only this. Let me hazard a guess,’ said he. ‘You have reason to suspect that Mrs Dearly’s little boy, there, is not - as one would naturally assume - the product of her recent marriage. No - you believe that his sire is none other than our elusive sculptor, Gideon Waring. Am I right? Hence, your stern disapproval of his mother? And of Tommy himself, endearing though he is?’
‘You have a fertile imagination, Mr Godwin.’
‘I like to think so - but here, it is not imagination at work, but a simple piecing together of information,’ said Samuel. ‘Mr Waring left Fourwinds suddenly, after an altercation.’ He enumerated his points on his fingers. ‘Miss Hardacre, as she then was, also left in disgrace. Miss Hardacre had been in the habit of visiting Mr Waring’s cottage. A little more than a year later, she returns with an infant son. What other conclusion can possibly be drawn?’
‘If you choose to spend your time gossiping with the servants,’ I said, with my eyes still on the page before me, ‘you will no doubt hear all manner of things.’
‘Oh, come - must you be so prim and frosty?’ he admonished me. ‘Is this not what you believe about the boy’s parentage - did Mr Farrow hint as much, when he engaged you in Miss Hardacre’s place?’
With a huff of impatience, I put down my pen. ‘Very well - yes, you are quite right, though I cannot see why it concerns you. It may be as well for you to know, now that Mrs Dearly has returned to the neighbourhood, that she is not welcome here - whether or not Mr Farrow is at home. This visit has been most unfortunate. He will, I know, be displeased when he finds out she is living nearby.’
Samuel made a steeple of his fingers and pursed his lips, looking ludicrously pompous. ‘But what if a misjudgement has taken place?’ he pursued. ‘What if Thomas’s father is not, after all, Gideon Waring - but Mr Dearly, the gardener?’
‘You have just now pointed out strong reasons to the contrary. You need only consider the dates involved. Thomas Dearly is a little over a year old -which means he was born in May last year. Eliza Hardacre left here just before Christmas - her marriage, in Hampshire, must have taken place between then and the birth. In other words, although her child was certainly conceived out of wedlock, her marriage took place in time to avoid further disgrace.’
‘And is it impossible,’ he said, smiling, ‘that she had been courting her husband while she was employed here? Would that not be a more likely explanation?’
‘Only if her behaviour were even more reprehensible than I believe it to be,’ I replied crisply. ‘Even she would surely not keep company, as one might put it, with two men at once!’
Samuel smiled at this. ‘So,’ he went on, ‘you are quite certain of her liaison with Mr Waring?’
‘Mr Farrow left me in little doubt of it,’ I told him. ‘Besides, Marianne—’
His attention sharpened. ‘Yes?’
‘Suffice it to say that Marianne - who, you must remember, was only fourteen at this time, a mere child - has a - how shall I put this? - a precocious awareness of things that no child ought to be exposed to.’
‘She has told you this?’ said he.
‘In so many words. No wonder the poor girl is distressed.’
He looked puzzled. ‘But Marianne showed no reluctance to entertain Eliza this afternoon. She seemed delighted, especially with the little boy.’
A glance silenced him. ‘I know Marianne far better than you do, Mr Godwin,’ I assured him. ‘You must take my word for it that Miss Hardacre proved herself completely unsuited to the teaching and supervision of young girls. That is why I am so anxious that her visit here must not be repeated. Mr Farrow does not wish his daughters to come under the influence of such a disreputable person. Her past cannot be forgotten, merely because she now presents herself as a respectable married woman - for which she ought to consider herself very fortunate. Mr Matthew Dearly must be a forgiving man indeed.’
Infuriatingly, Samuel laughed. ‘You would prefer her to be a penniless outcast, it appears - to suffer for her sin? You would like her to grovel at the workhouse door, or beg for scraps by the roadside?’
‘On the contrary. I should never wish such misfortune on anyone, and certainly not on her blameless little boy,’ I told him. ‘But I do wish she did not give herself such airs - it is her assumption of superiority I find intolerable.’
He looked at me with a knowing smile.
‘You think yourself very clever, I see,’ I retaliated. ‘What is the meaning of that complacent look?’
He only smiled the more; and I may as well acknowledge that he would have won over a woman of less resolve. His face was flushed with the beginnings of sunburn, for he had unguardedly been walking without a hat; he looked the picture of ease and contentment.
‘I was merely thinking,’ he said, ‘that your pride in your charges does you credit. A sister could not show more devotion than you do towards Marianne and Juliana. And therefore you are bound to dislike Miss Hardacre, for your jealousy of her is transparent.’
‘ Jealous?’ I retorted. ‘I You are gravely mistaken if you think I could possibly feel any envy of - of that—’
‘You bear her a grudge,’ he insisted, ‘because of the affection
shown to her by both girls. You do not like to think that she once occupied your place, and still occupies their thoughts.’
This was provoking beyond measure. Deciding to remove myself to my room, I stood, and collected up my papers. ‘Well, Mr Godwin,’ I told him, ‘if you have quite finished entertaining yourself in this fashion, by analysing my character, you must excuse me. I have work to do, even if you do not.’
It gave me great satisfaction to sweep out of the room, leaving him staring after me.
Chapter Thirteen
Watched
I had left my curtains open while I slept. The exuberance of birdsong woke me; it was already full daylight, although a glance at the mantel clock told me that the hour was barely past five. Slipping out of bed, I went barefooted to the open window, and looked out.
My spirits lifted in response to the glory of the midsummer morning. The lawn, and the lake beyond, were hazed in gold; the smooth line of the Downs beyond was misty pale. A fox trod stealthily across the grass - pausing to look this way and that, to sniff the air, before walking on unhurried, as if the world were spread out for his pleasure. I saw the narrow muzzle, the delicate tread of his paws, the rich copper of fox-fur against grass; almost, I fancied, I smelled the sharp, feral tang of him.
Suddenly impatient at being indoors, I dressed quickly, crept down the stairs, unlocked the front door and let myself out. I stopped in the porch to put on my shoes, which I had left off till now to avoid waking sleepers in the bedrooms I passed.
The air was as cool and refreshing as spring water.
As soon as my lungs filled with it, and my feet trod the dewy grass, I felt elated; coming out so long before the house was awake, I was claiming these early hours for my own, a delicious secret I shared with the creatures who inhabited them. I made my way down to the lake, and stood on its nearest shore, looking out at the water’s surface, where the faintest of mists lingered. The shore was fringed, for the most part, with rushes; at the farthest end, sheltered by willows, a small landing-stage had been constructed, with a boathouse and wooden jetty. A moorhen with her brood of chicks bobbed across the water, quickly vanishing into the safety of rushes; I heard the cra-a-ark of some other unseen bird.
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