Set In Stone

by Linda Newbery

  I stooped to dabble my fingers. Here the sand sloped invitingly into the water, which was clear of weed, and would, I estimated, be deep enough for swimming. At once the idea was irresistible. I glanced around, rather as the fox had done, to ensure that no one was near; quickly I threw off my clothes, laid them on a log-seat, and waded in. Sandy mud oozed between my toes; the shock of cold water against skin now repelled, rather than invited me; but it would be weak-willed to change my mind. Gasping with the unexpected chill, I plunged my head under the surface and pushed away in the first strong strokes. Yes! At once I was exhilarated, filled with pleasure in the cool caress of the water, the powerful thrust of my arms and legs, the complete absorption of mind and body.

  I swam the length of the lake, towards the boathouse and jetty, some fifty yards; then turned again. Here I paused to tread water, aware of the commotion I had made, of my rough intrusion into this tranquil place. As the ripples in my wake subsided, and I made only the small movements necessary to keep myself afloat, I listened intently to the lake’s own sounds: barely discernible movements in the rushes, stirrings of willow leaves in the faintest sigh of the breeze, the melodious phrases of a thrush close at hand; and behind it all, the swelling, joyous cacophony of birds from the trees and woods farther off.

  I find that I cannot understand what happened then - how, so suddenly, the atmosphere of the place seemed to change. I felt a soft touch against my ankle, a feathery, brushing sensation; there was water-weed here, which I had not seen. As I moved away, I found my legs threshing more of the stuff, which seemed intent on tangling itself about me. Fibrous and strong, it did not yield easily to my kicking, and for a second - I am sure it was no more than that - I was gripped by a fear that I should find myself held firm and pulled underwater. What can I have been thinking? - of marine legends, I suppose, tales of sirens, of deathly music and of drowned sailors - but in another moment I had freed myself, and was swimming again. Although I should have been able to laugh at my discomfiture, to resume my pleasure in being alone in such surroundings, I found that I could not. Above me was golden sunlight and birdsong, but my mind was occupied with what might lurk unseen in the depths beneath my flailing legs. I could almost feel the blub-bery touch of fish mouths against my limbs, the slime of eely creatures that might rise from the mud at the lake’s bottom, the bloated touch of drowned flesh -all I can say is that, overcome with an unease that amounted almost to horror, I struck out for shore as fast as I could swim.

  As soon as my feet met the sandy bottom I pushed myself upright, wading, splashing out of the shallows; then I looked around me, thinking that I had truly taken leave of my senses for those bewildering moments. The sun struck warm on my skin; a turtledove crooned in the willows; what danger could I possibly have feared? My best course, I decided, would be to re-enter the water and swim for a few more minutes, until I felt calm. But at that point, looking down, I noticed a scarlet trickle of blood from my right foot, issuing from a small gash near the ankle. In my haste, I must have struck against some rock or obstruction underwater, though I had been quite unaware of any painful collision. I sat on the log-seat, pushing aside my heaped clothes, to examine the wound; it bled profusely, though it did not appear deep, and now I felt the stab of pain, which made me wonder that I had not noticed it before.

  A pocket handkerchief would soon staunch the flow, if I had one about me. I reached for my jacket - and realized, in the same instant, that I was not alone.

  Across the lake, a man stood watching me. He was half concealed by the thick reed-bed on that side of the lake, so that I could see him only from the waist up - clad in a white shirt, with sleeves rolled up, and a tan-coloured waistcoat. He was so still and silent that I wondered for how long he had been standing there - whether he had seen my wild dash from the lake.

  From his posture, and the fact that he made no move either to hide himself or to speak, I assumed that he must have some right to be in the grounds. An employee of the house, perhaps? A stable lad I had not yet encountered? Recovering from the shock of seeing him, I registered that he was a young man of perhaps my own age, taller than I, with hair that shone corn-coloured in the sunlight. An intruder, possibly - a poacher? Who else was likely to be abroad so early in the day but someone illicitly snaring rabbit or hare, or fishing in the lake?

  Conscious of my nakedness, I grabbed at my shirt and, standing, held it to me. I felt obliged to challenge him; his curious silence inhibited me, but there was such arrogance in his stare that I felt his presence must be explained. ‘Hello, there?’ I ventured - feeling that this was scarcely adequate. He responded with a curt, unsmiling nod.

  I began to struggle into my clothes, clumsy with haste. The stranger stepped back from the reeds - in order, I assumed, to reach a firmer path and to make his way towards me, by which time at least I should be semi-clad and more ready to conduct a conversation.

  But I was wrong. While I was occupied in dressing, he had ducked out of sight.

  ‘What the—?’

  Now thoroughly annoyed, I looked this way and that to see which direction he had taken; for the lake, in its tree-fringed hollow, was surrounded by lawn on one side and rough grass on the other, and I did not see how he could get away unobserved. There he was - having cut back behind the willows, he was now walking with a long stride towards the stables. Reaching the fence, he vaulted it easily, and disappeared behind the buildings. I considered giving chase, then rejected it, as he looked both fitter and taller than I; and I was still barefoot. If he were determined to get away, he had outpaced me already.

  I wondered what the time was, for I had left my pocket watch in my room. An age seemed to have passed since I left there, but my adventure must in reality have taken less than an hour; it was still too early for Reynolds, or his stableboy, to be about his work. Still, though, I put on my socks and shoes (forgetting the gash to my foot, which I rediscovered later, aware of a congealing stickiness in my shoe), and followed the interloper towards the stables.

  All was quiet here. It being midsummer, the horses - some five or six - were turned out to pasture, only being brought in when needed. The stables were unoccupied, an open-sided barn sheltering the pony-chaise and the gig. White doves, a dozen or so, were pecking about in the yard; they fluttered up to their cote below the weathervane, with a whirring of wings, as I approached. The stranger, then, could not have come this way, or he would have disturbed these birds before I reached them. He must have gone behind the buildings, on the side farthest from the house -in the direction of Yew Tree Cottage.

  The day before yesterday, I had found its door locked. Today, I intended to take the simple measure of asking Reynolds for the key: doubtless he would be its keeper, and would assume that I had some legitimate business there, such as setting up my painting studio in a private place away from the house. If anyone else - Charlotte, or Mr Farrow - were to find out, and challenge me, I could simply say that I had been assessing the possibilities.

  For the first time it occurred to me that the person I was following might be none other than Gideon Waring himself: the man who so strongly aroused my curiosity. With this realization jangling in my brain, for I had expected Mr Waring to be considerably older, I walked up the flagged stone path towards the cottage.

  Clad in flint and tile like so many buildings locally, it must once have been an attractive little dwelling. Now, with the windows blank, and the wood of the doorframe beginning to rot, it looked sadly neglected. A picket fence marked out its garden, which had recently been used for the growing of vegetables, but had now gone wild and weedy. Bees were already busy in the honeysuckle which, trained over a rudimentary porch, almost obscured the door; the sweet honey fragrance filled my senses as I approached.

  Grasping the handle, I felt it turn in my grip. The door swung open, revealing a single room inside, with a brick fireplace, and stairs rising ahead - I had seen this much before, looking in through the dusty glass. As then, the room was completely bare. Floor
boards creaked as I stepped inside.

  ‘Hello?’ I called out, my voice echoing. ‘Is anyone here?’

  Silence answered me. Stealthily I moved through the empty cottage - a simple kitchen at the rear, and the two small rooms of the upper floor, one with a fireplace. All were empty, and swept clean. From upstairs I looked out at the garden behind, shadowed in the immensity of the yew tree, and at a tiny outbuilding by the boundary fence which was, presumably, an earth-closet, with logs stacked neatly under a lean-to roof beside it.

  I turned again. ‘Mr Waring?’ I called to the echoing rooms, though it was obvious that there was no one to answer. I felt thwarted: so close, yet he had escaped me! He must be living nearer at hand, though, than either Charlotte or Juliana had led me to believe; maybe he had taken lodgings nearby. A few enquiries would surely give me the information I sought.

  Outside, I pulled the door closed behind me, wondering whether I should find it locked again if I returned, and made my way across paddock and lawn to the still-sleeping house - rather amused that my day had already contained so much, before the other inhabitants of Fourwinds had so much as left their beds. Instead of entering immediately, I paused to look again at each of the Wind carvings in turn, seeing them in a fresh light now that I thought I had glimpsed their creator. I was beginning to feel well acquainted with their faces and expressions: the weary resignation of the North Wind, tired of plying his icy gusts and cold showers; the concupiscence of the South; the resentful, hunted look of the East - who, handsome fellow that he was, now struck me as bearing a passing likeness to the man I took to be his maker.

  I frowned, looking away from the compelling sidelong glance of that stone face and trying to replace it with the flesh-and-blood features I had seen so briefly. I had already credited Mr Waring with remarkable gifts, with dedication to his art, and with a sensual awareness that enabled him to breathe life into cold stone. To these attributes, I must now add the less appealing one of vanity - since a man who could use himself as model for this beauteous youth must be vain indeed.

  And, if Charlotte were right, he had compromised Miss Eliza Hardacre. Little Thomas Dearly, as I recalled, bore no obvious similarity to the man I had met, but Charlotte had been quite adamant that Waring was indeed his father. Could it be, perhaps, the proximity of Thomas that kept Gideon Waring in the neighbourhood? In which case he must also be aware that the Dearlys had returned from Petersfield…

  I was getting myself quite lost in a maze of speculations. Huffing a sigh, I turned away, and came face to face with Charlotte Agnew, dressed as usual in plain grey, but looking neat and fresh.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Godwin,’ she greeted me. ‘You are up early - but you sound as though you have the weight of the world on your shoulders!’

  ‘Not at all,’ I assured her, and added, suddenly reckless: ‘I believe I have seen Gideon Waring - here, this morning, in the grounds.’

  Charlotte’s face was a picture to behold. Her eyes became quite round; her mouth opened soundlessly; it was the first time I had seen her lost for words. Instantly I regretted having spoken - not because of the shock I had given her, but because I now doubted the sense of what I had said. On what did I base the supposition that the person I had seen was Gideon Waring? On nothing at all, beyond the bare fact that I had seen a strange person by the lake - and a vague resemblance, probably only imagined, to the East Wind. He was more likely to be a stable lad, a poacher, or an intruder from the village, up to no good, who had run away on seeing me.

  ‘You have seen Gideon Waring?’ Charlotte repeated, incredulous. ‘You had better explain.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mr Arthur Deakins, Solicitor, to Miss Charlotte

  Agnew, on Behalf of Mrs Henrietta Newbold

  Deakins and “Murdoch, Solicitors,

  8 Connaught Chambers,

  Eastbourne,

  Sussex

  22nd June, 1898

  Miss Charlotte Agnew,

  c/o Mr Ernest Farrow,

  Fourwinds,

  Staverton,

  Sussex

  Dear Miss Agnew,

  It is my unwelcome duty to write to you with grievous tidings. I believe you may be unaware that your grandmother, “Mrs Henrietta Newbold, is gravely ill at her home in Eastbourne. She is attended there by a nurse, and has asked me to contact you as a matter of urgency I must stress that, if you wish to see her, you should make your way to 3 Sussex Esplanade without delay.

  Please accept my apologies for writing with such distressing news. I shall be available at my offices, where I will be pleased to offer such assistance as you may require.

  With sincerest good wishes,

  Arthur J. Deakins

  Chapter Fifteen

  Summoned

  ‘You have seen Gideon Waring?’ I repeated, incredulous. Almost, for a moment, I thought I had another sleepwalker on my hands, especially as Samuel looked somewhat dishevelled, as though he had thrown on his clothes in haste. ‘You had better explain.’

  He did so; telling me that he had been taking an early walk beside the lake, when he noticed the man he took to be Waring watching him from across the water.

  ‘But you have never seen Mr Waring,’ I pointed out. ‘Whatever makes you conclude that he was the man you saw?’

  ‘Let me describe him,’ said Samuel. ‘A younger man than I expected. Tall - taller than I. Light hair and a tanned face - rather handsome, from my brief impression - virile, I should say.’

  It was impossible not to make an expression of distaste. Mr Waring’s virility had manifested itself all too obviously.

  ‘That is all I had time to see,’ Samuel went on, not noticing. ‘But he made off towards Yew Tree Cottage - that is what made me suspicious.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, troubled, ‘never having met him myself, I cannot tell from your description whether or not it was Waring you saw. It is possible. The simplest way to find out would be to ask the girls, but I should not like them to hear that he has returned - if he it was. What can he be doing here? I thought he had long gone! What might bring him back? Might he have left something behind in the cottage, and returned to collect it?’

  ‘I followed him in that direction,’ said Samuel, ‘but he did not stop there. I went inside, but found the place empty.’

  ‘Surely not. The cottage is kept locked.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Samuel, ‘but it was not locked this morning.’

  ‘I must ask Reynolds whether he knows anything of this,’ I said. ‘It makes me uneasy to think of that man being around, especially with Mr Farrow not at home.’

  ‘You don’t think,’ Samuel queried, ‘he intends some harm?’

  ‘I have no reason to think him vengeful. But only consider the circumstances. He was sent away after a bitter quarrel with Mr Farrow; he left the same day, taking all his belongings with him; and now he seems to have returned, not openly by calling at the house, but by sneaking into the grounds in the early hours of the morning. And apparently he has a key to the cottage. I cannot choose but find it a matter for concern. We must be on our guard, and I will tell Reynolds and the gardeners to keep a sharp lookout. One of them may know where he is lodging. Mr Godwin, your hair is wet, and here’ - I permitted myself the liberty of plucking a thin green frond from behind his ear - ‘is what appears to be water-weed. Have you been swimming in the lake?’

  He reddened. ‘I have. It was so tempting.’

  ‘And so you plunged in. Well, well. If you will excuse me,’ I said, turning away, ‘I shall go and see if Marianne is awake. You will be glad to know that she spent a peaceful night, without disturbance.’

  Re-entering the house, I mounted the stairs. If I am honest, I must confess that at that moment I was struggling to contain feelings of envy. How glorious it must be to be strong and male! To be able, on a whim, to cast off one’s clothes and dive into cool water, to swim freely as otter or water rat! Contemplating it, I was irritated by the swish of skirt around my ankles, the t
ug of petticoat beneath it, the clasp of my stays; moreover, I was impatient with myself, with the neat, constrained person I presented to the world. The role I filled so efficiently had become me, so completely that I felt myself defined by it. Charlotte Agnew, governess, companion. What was I, besides?

  Shaking off this futile discontent, I knocked gently on Marianne’s door and entered. Mr Farrow was expected home today; there was much to do. After breakfast I should see Mrs Reynolds to ensure that everything was in order for his return; but, first, I intended to speak to her husband. After talking for a few moments to Marianne, who was brushing her hair and almost ready to come down, I went into the servants’ wing and sought Reynolds in the kitchen. As usual at this hour, he was seated at the table with a plate of bread, ham and eggs, while his wife busied herself at the range. Without preamble, I enquired whether he had seen anything of the errant sculptor.

  He looked surprised at my question. ‘No, miss! I ent seen him, not since he went away.’

  ‘Has anyone been sleeping in the cottage?’

  ‘No, miss,’ he replied. ‘Kept locked up, it is.’

  ‘Mr Godwin found it unlocked this morning, and went inside,’ I countered.

  ‘Well, I can’t understand that,’ he said, with a frown. ‘Key’s over in harness room, but that’s kept locked an’ all, and the key to that door I keep with me.’ He patted the bunch of keys he kept attached to his trouser belt.

  ‘And there’s only one key to the cottage?’ I asked.

  ‘There is now,’ said he, ‘but there used to be two. Mr Waring had his own, and left in such a hurry he never give it back, not as I know of.’