‘I believe that Mr Gideon Waring, a sculptor, stayed here for a while, a year or more ago?’
‘Waring… Waring,’ the man mused, counting out my change. ‘Aye, I believe he did. Longer ago than a year, though. If it’s the man I’m thinking of, it were closer to two years. Tall feller, quiet, well set up?’
‘That sounds like him!’
‘Aye, he put up here for ten days or so. Harvest time, I remember that.’
‘Has he returned since?’
He pursed his lips, considering, then slowly shook his head. ‘Not to stay here, he ent. No, I’ve not seen him.’
‘Do you know where he went after leaving here?’ I began to feel that my mission was futile; why should this innkeeper, with any number of guests passing through, have more than economic interest in a man who had visited briefly so many months ago?
‘That I don’t know.’ He was already diverted by one of the farmers, a corpulent man with a bulbous nose on which each vein was drawn in purple, who had come to the bar counter and was jingling the money in his pocket.
‘I’ll trouble you for two more pints, Frank, if you please,’ said this burly fellow; then, turning to me, ‘Now, young sir, pardon me for interrupting, but I can point you at a man who’ll tell you about the sculptor you’re enquiring after. You’re the new artist living at Fourwinds, is that right?’
‘I am. Samuel Godwin is my name.’ I wondered how he knew, then recalled Eliza Dearly’s remark that I was the talk of the neighbourhood, to which I had given little credence.
‘Jack Nelson,’ said the farmer, shaking my proffered hand.
‘You’ll know Charlotte Agnew, then,’ said the landlord, looking at me. ‘Miss Agnew, I should say. Used to wait at table here. Give her my regards if you’ll be so kind.’
I nodded; this I could scarcely believe, but, more interested in wresting information from the farmer, I let it pass. ‘Can you really help me, sir?’ I tried to gaze not at his nose, but at the kindly pale eyes behind it. ‘I should be most grateful.’
‘Indeed I can - you’ll find the man not two furlongs from this spot. Take yourself down to St Stephen’s, in the village there, and speak to Ned Simmons.’
‘Ned Simmons? And I’ll find him at St Stephen’s Church?’ I repeated, thinking the man referred to might be vicar or verger.
‘Aye. He’ll be there now, up the tower, most like. Stonemason, see. He and your sculptor used to drink here of an evening, both being in the same line of trade.’
A stonemason! With a quickening sense of excitement, I paid for the farmer’s two pints, for which he thanked me profusely. Then I downed my ale as fast as I could, thanked both farmer and innkeeper in turn, and took my leave.
I remounted the patient mare, and guided her in the direction the farmer had indicated, towards the nearby village.
This settlement proved to be no more than a small gathering of cottages with one or two larger dwellings. The church tower - of the squat, square Norman variety - showed above a cluster of trees, behind a lych gate. Here, once more, I tethered Queen Bess, my hands clumsy with haste and excitement. I could scarcely bear the thought that the stonemason might have downed tools for the day, or even finished his work and left the area. My fears, though, were quickly allayed: I saw rough scaffolding erected around the tower, a canvas bag of tools lying open on the ground, and heard, from above, the regular tink, tink of metal on stone. A ladder led up the flint tower, but the person wielding the chisel was not in sight.
I made my way through lichen-encrusted gravestones to the base of the tower. Cupping both hands around my mouth, I hollered: ‘Mr Simmons? Mr Simmons, are you there?’
The tinking ceased; a few moments later a peaked cap appeared over the edge of the balustrade, and a face beneath it.
‘Who’s that?’
‘My name is Samuel Godwin. May I speak with you?’
Cap and face bobbed out of sight. I waited; thought I should have to yell again; then a booted foot planted itself on the ladder, followed by another, and then by the whole form of the stonemason as he backed nimbly down the rungs. In a moment he was standing beside me. He was a small man of perhaps forty, shorter than I, and wiry as a jockey. Impatient at the interruption, he rubbed dust off his hands.
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘I beg your pardon for calling you away from your work, Mr Simmons. But I wonder if you can help me? I’m in search of a sculptor named Gideon Waring, and I understand you knew him.’
‘Oh?’ He jutted his chin at me. ‘And who might you be?’
‘My name is Samuel Godwin. I’m employed by Mr Ernest Farrow, at Fourwinds.’ I held out my hand; after a moment’s pause, he returned the gesture and we exchanged a perfunctory shake.
He scrutinized me with astute brown eyes. ‘Are you on Mr Farrow’s business? Has he sent you after Waring?’
‘No - no.’ I felt it best to be frank. ‘He knows nothing of this enquiry. Since seeing Mr Waring’s stone-carvings at Fourwinds, I’ve become very curious about him. I want to meet him if I can, and learn more about his work.’
‘And what might you be - land agent? Accountant?’ He looked at me narrowly.
‘I am neither. I am drawing tutor to Mr Farrow’s two daughters, and he has also commissioned me to produce a series of paintings of his house.’
Simmons gave me a wry look. ‘You want to watch your back.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘What I say.’ Ned Simmons crouched by his canvas bag, taking advantage of the unexpected grounding to select a small chisel.
‘Mr Simmons,’ I tried, feeling that I was getting nowhere, ‘if I assure you that I am not acting for Mr Farrow, that in fact he knows nothing of my attempts to track down Gideon Waring, and that my interest is simply that of an aspiring artist who feels the greatest admiration for another’s skill - would you consider telling me what you know? Chiefly, whether you know of Mr Waring’s current whereabouts?’
Straightening with the tool he had chosen, Simmons looked at me sternly. ‘Mr Farrow won’t know of this? Nor even that you’ve spoken to me here?’
‘He shall not,’ I assured him.
‘Then - I shall tell you this.’ He still seemed anxious to overcome severe doubt before proceeding; he looked me up and down, rubbed his chin, peered into my face. ‘Promise, mind?’
‘I promise!’
‘Then - if I have your word - I can tell you that Gideon Waring went from here to Chichester, to take up work at the cathedral there. Whether he’s still there or not, I’ve no way of knowing.’ He moved back towards the ladder; about to ascend, he turned to add: ‘That’s all I can tell you. Anything else, you’ll have to get from him. Good day.’
Chapter Seventeen
On the Promenade
In Eastbourne, I had little to do but wait.
As I wished to forestall any suggestion that I might stay at my grandmother’s home, I took the precaution, before reporting there, of finding alternative lodging. Securing a room in a boarding house near the railway station, I paid in advance for two nights, hoping that would suffice. In any case, I had no intention of staying longer.
Three Sussex Esplanade proved to be part of a prosperous terrace facing the sea: a three-storey house, with steps up to the front door, which had a polished brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. A maid answered the door; on introducing myself, I was shown into a sitting room. Here I was joined by the resident nurse, a capable-looking person with quiet, assured movements, who impressed on me that I had arrived not a moment too soon.
‘You must prepare yourself for the worst,’ she told me gravely. ‘Your great-aunt cannot last for more than a day or so.’
No one here, other than the solicitor, knew that Mrs Newbold was in fact my grandmother; I offered no correction. It had suited her, and now it suited me, to pretend that our relationship was farther removed.
With hushed footsteps, this kindly nurse led me into the sick room; the invalid la
y there in semi-darkness, the curtains being closed.
‘It is Charlotte,’ I told her. ‘Charlotte Agnew.’
Her eyelids fluttered half open. I had no way of knowing if she recognized me. It was many years since I had seen her face, and I could not now assume an affection I did not feel.
‘I am sure she is aware of your presence,’ said the nurse, ‘and is comforted by it, even if she cannot speak.’
As soon as was decently possible, I excused myself. Telling the nurse that I would return later, I escaped to the seafront and the gaiety of the holiday-makers who thronged there.
Outside in the air, I found that I was hungry after my train journey, and ordered a meal in a small eating-house on the promenade. Unaccustomed to eating alone in public, I did not linger. Leaving, I bought a copy of The Times from a news vendor, thinking that I might find a seat in one of the esplanade shelters, or even hire a deckchair, and sit reading for a while. I spent an hour or so in this fashion, enjoying the novelty of having both time and money to spend. Mr Farrow paid me eighty pounds a year, and as all my needs were met at Fourwinds, and I rarely left the place, I had no real demands on my income; indeed, I was in the fortunate position of not having to concern myself with money. It occurred to me now that I might look in the shops for presents to take back for Juliana and Marianne; even, if I wished, I could buy something for myself.
Finding a bench that had only one other occupant, I sat reading my newspaper until I felt my senses muzzed by sleep. This was most unlike me; the break with routine seemed to be affecting me strangely. Collecting bag and newspaper, I walked slowly along the promenade, occasionally diverted by the antics of swimmers or by children and dogs playing on the beach. Soon I found that the rhythmic plash and sigh of the waves, and the high scream of gulls, had lulled me into a peculiarly ruminative state of mind.
Removed from Fourwinds, I was not quite my accustomed self. The encounter with my grandmother had shaken my equilibrium, reminding me sorely of my childhood. The sympathy I felt was not for the dying woman but for myself, for I owed her little enough. She had disposed of me. Yes, she had provided for me: had paid for my board and lodging, and had sent me to a mediocre boarding school; that, however, was chiefly for the sake of her conscience. She did not love me, did not want to acknowledge me as her relative; I had seen her only rarely. The life I had made for myself at Fourwinds owed nothing to her. There, in my known habitat, I was Miss Agnew, Charlotte: admirably filling my role, which required that I efface myself and think always of my two charges. So absorbed was I in their lives, that my own seemed of little importance. I permitted myself the somewhat complacent thought that Juliana and Marianne would be missing me, for we had never before been parted. This dependence was mutual. I did not like being away from them, and was uneasy at the thought of conversation between them and Samuel Godwin without my presence. My disquiet, however, was more than that. Without Marianne and Juliana, away from the pattern of meal times, lessons and conversation, away from Mr Farrow, whose habits and foibles I knew so perfectly, I felt bereft: not only of them, but also of myself. Uprooted from my familiar surroundings, transplanted abruptly from open downland to this England-edge where the sea constantly fretted and eroded the land - who was I? If anyone had put such a simple question to me, I almost felt that I should be at a loss for an answer. The syllables of my name had become empty puffs of air, meaningless.
Slightly giddied, I continued to walk along the seafront. To outward appearances I must have presented exactly the same figure as usual: a slight, unremarkable young woman, plain of feature, and dressed in grey, quite without jewellery or other adornment. Within, however, I was gripped by a sense of bewilderment, almost of panic. What was I? - I was nothing. Here, I cared for no one, and nobody cared for me. What if, by some unthinkable circumstance, I should remain here, and never return to Fourwinds? I should be utterly alone. No friendly or respectful glances would come my way as I walked through the town; no one would notice me as I passed. Anonymous in the crowd, I should be lost.
Gripping the railing of a flight of steps that led down to the beach, I felt overcome by faintness, and closed my eyes against the glare. After a few moments, I felt a grip on my arm, and warm breath close to my cheek.
‘You all right, miss? Been taken poorly?’ The face that looked into mine was round, rosy-cheeked, with tendrils of hair escaping from beneath a cap: it was the face of a mature woman with girlish looks. She carried a jug of milk. ‘Why not come and have a nice sit-down? Cup of tea’ll soon put you to rights. On the ‘ouse, mind.’ She gestured towards a kind of caravan down on the beach, to which she had evidently been making her way; it had a striped awning, and deckchairs on the sand nearby. ‘Come on, duck, give me your arm.’
‘Thank you. I will.’ Suddenly I felt overwhelmed by affection towards this kindly soul. Someone had seen me after all; responded with fellow-feeling, and offered me help. She clucked her tongue in concern as she guided me down to the sand: ‘Steady, now -watch your step - that’s the way.’
By now feeling somewhat foolish, I sat in a deckchair until I had recovered. After drinking a second cup of tea, I insisted on paying for both, then bade farewell to my Samaritan, and walked along the very fringe of the waves, even though my shoes soon filled with grit and pebbles.
Here, I took myself firmly in hand. Far from becoming invisible, I had made an exhibition of myself, attracting the attention of strangers. Charlotte Agnew reasserted herself; she straightened her back and lifted her chin, and looked the world levelly in the face. What had I been thinking of, to allow myself such foolish indulgence? Walking on, I took deep breaths, filling my lungs with salt-laden sea air, feeling strength and confidence returning.
My progress along the beach brought me close to a family group who sat on rugs, enjoying a picnic, sheltered by the edge of the promenade and by a canvas screen. They, of course, did not notice my glances. The group comprised a young mother dressed in white, a uniformed nursemaid, a tiny baby, swaddled, and placed in the shade of a screen, and a sailor-suited boy of maybe two years. This boy’s attention was intently fixed on a pair of donkeys giving rides to children farther along the beach; as I watched, he made a dash for freedom, toddling with arms outstretched, struggling for balance on shingles that shifted beneath his feet. ‘No, Teddie!’ called the mother in alarm; the nursemaid darted after him and led him firmly back, with a wry grimace, while he wriggled and wailed. Putting down the pastry she had been about to eat, the mother gathered the resisting boy into her arms and rocked him. ‘Be patient, Teddie! We’ll go and see the donkeys in a little while.’ In her place I should have put him aside with a harsh reminder to behave himself, but her face was soft with tenderness. Unaccountably perturbed, I turned away to the water’s edge.
As I stood gazing out at the calm aquamarine surface that was barely ruffled, the merest frills of waves hardly disturbing the pebbles, for the tide was full in, I found myself puzzling again over the conversation I had had yesterday with Juliana, and her strange insistence that she ought not to marry. The cause of her tearfulness could only be the visit from Eliza Dearly and the infant Tommy. Why, though, should she be so upset by the new proximity of the governess she had been fond of, possibly even as fond as she now was of me? And why should Eliza Dearly’s happily married state provoke so firm a resolution in Juliana to remain a spinster? Try as I might, I was at a loss to understand. Could it be a delicate revulsion against what she had witnessed of the liaison between Eliza and Gideon Waring? Yet if that were the case, why invite Eliza to Fourwinds at all? And she had shown no aloofness of manner towards the former governess. On the contrary, she had been in a fluster of delight, and hardly able to take her eyes off little Tommy—
Tommy! Barely could I prevent myself from smiling as I pictured the charming little boy, and recalled Juliana’s tender face as she carried him. It seemed she was deeply attached to the child; I thought of her furtive excitement before the visit, her low spirits after—
It was impossible - unthinkable - unendurable - and yet, and yet, though every fibre of feeling rebelled—
- it made clear sense - supplied all answers, filled all gaps—
Juliana, not Eliza Dearly, was the boy’s mother.
No, no! How could my mind even admit such a grotesque possibility? It was preposterous - intolerable! My mind reeled; every instinct in me struggled to repel the notion. I turned and walked along the shore, the pebbles and the waves blurring hotly before my eyes. How could I entertain such a thought, about my beloved Juliana?
Every instinct recoiled; yet each moment supplied an answer to a puzzling question. Each new thought convinced me that I must be right.
I walked and walked, until I was hot and almost feverish. If this were so, how thoroughly I had been taken in! By Mr Farrow, and most of all, by Juliana herself! I thought I had Juliana’s trust; believed I was her confidante - but how much she had hidden from me!
Now, dizzied and shocked, yet forcing myself methodically to re-examine the situation, I realized that Juliana’s illness and convalescence away from Fourwinds, attributed to a nervous disorder, had coincided with Tommy’s birth.
What, then, of Eliza Dearly, and her role in this? I found that I had even more to condemn than before. If my surmising were correct (and it must be correct), she had most grievously abused her position of trust at Fourwinds by allowing Juliana to be corrupted by that most wicked of men, Gideon Waring. Indeed, when I realized that Juliana must have been barely seventeen at the time of the child’s conception, scarcely more than a child herself, I was filled with such disgust that I must have protested aloud, for a passer-by turned to look at me before moving on hastily, as though I were a madwoman. How vile, how reprehensible their conniving must have been! For how else could a well-brought-up young girl find herself so irredeemably compromised, without being manipulated by two older people she ought to have been able to trust?
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