Set In Stone

by Linda Newbery

  ‘Juliana!’ I murmured. ‘What is to be done?’

  No answer presented itself. Instead, I found myself marvelling at how much Juliana had concealed. What troubling thoughts must possess her daily, yet she had managed to keep me in ignorance! Any feelings of reproach I felt towards the poor girl were quickly suppressed as I realized what a burden of guilt and shame must be her lot. Clearly, I must return; most urgently I must find a way of letting her know that I had guessed her secret. Most assuredly she would find comfort in that.

  What of Samuel Godwin? How did this affect his position?

  Could Marianne have guessed rightly? Had Mr Farrow brought the unsuspecting young man to live at Fourwinds, not for his artistic ability, but in order for him to confer respectability on Juliana, by marrying her? I turned this idea over and over in my mind, considering it from all angles. Was it possible? No doubt Samuel, if he complied, could benefit from such an arrangement: I knew Ernest Farrow well enough to appreciate that once he had decided on a course of action, he planned everything. If Samuel Godwin were his choice, he had chosen well; Samuel could be as good, as kind, as considerate a husband for Juliana as she might have chosen for herself.

  What, now, should I do with this knowledge? Keep it to myself, for Juliana’s sake? Encourage Samuel, connive to throw them into company together, extol her virtues to him, and his to her? At this point, however, a new question arose in my mind: was Samuel as innocent as I supposed, and quite unaware of the scheme? Surely, yes; I had spent enough time in his company to form a reliable judgement of his character, and could not believe him capable of deviousness or cunning.

  While my thoughts raced, I continued to walk in one direction along the tide’s edge, then to retrace my steps in the other, so that my feet almost wore a groove in the pebbles. It was not possible for me to leave Eastbourne yet; now that I was here, I was obliged to wait until the business with my grandmother was concluded.

  It would not be long. The nurse had assured me of that.

  Leaving the beach at last, my head still teeming with possibilities, I walked back to Sussex Esplanade, stopping on the way to purchase a large bunch of carnations from a flower seller on the street corner. Reluctance slowed my pace. It was not my intention to stay long; my duty fulfilled, I should not return until the morning. Yet it was with a feeling of surrender that I knocked on the door for the second time, and was conducted again to the sick room.

  It was alarming to see a person so close to death. My grandmother’s features retained their hawkish-ness. Her mouth was slightly open; her lids fluttered and her eyes rested on me for a second. In her look I read reproach, as though she were affronted at being brought to such an undignified extremity. Quietly her attendant moved around the room: filling a water glass, adjusting the turn of the sheet, arranging my carnations in a vase and placing them on a chest of drawers opposite the bed, not so close that their perfume would overwhelm the sleeper. Her tasks completed for the moment, she sat by the bed and folded her hands, apparently prepared to keep vigil for as long as necessary. I, on the contrary, was already impatient to leave, although I felt that form required me to sit a little longer.

  ‘You have not seen your great-aunt for some while?’ the nurse asked me gently.

  ‘Not for several years,’ I replied, not adding that I barely recognized her.

  ‘There is no one else you can summon to keep you company? You are Mrs Newbold’s only relative?’

  ‘No. She has a son, though I do not know of his whereabouts.’ Why had my grandmother’s staff not told her this? ‘I expected him to be in attendance.’

  She looked at me in surprise. ‘You do not know? You were not aware that her son was a soldier in Africa - that he was killed last year, in the Transvaal?’

  No, I did not know. Concealing my ignorance as best I could, pretending that the heat, and the shock of this sudden illness, had made me confused and forgetful, I soon excused myself, and left my grandmother in the care of her nurse and servants. She led a comfortable life here. My feet trod thick, well-brushed carpet; there were paintings on the walls in heavy gilt frames; glass-fronted cabinets displayed collections of silverware and china, and a chandelier twinkled in the hallway.

  The death of the uncle I had never seen (half-uncle, to be accurate) explained the solicitor’s letter, and why I had been summoned. As far as I could tell, I was now my grandmother’s only relative in this country. Some spirit of contrition, or maybe some whim, must have urged her to instruct the solicitor to trace and contact me, after all the years of estrangement. It was too late: she could summon me to her bedside, but was powerless to command any feeling of sorrow or loss.

  In the morning the blinds were down. The maid looked tearful as she opened the door to me. ‘Oh, miss - you’re too late!’

  Quickly the nurse came to meet me, extending a sympathetic hand. ‘I am so sorry, Miss Agnew. Your great-aunt has passed away, not half an hour ago. Please accept my condolences.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Mr Charles Latimer to Samuel Godwin

  Slade,

  London

  Friday, 1st

  Dear Godwit,

  What’s become of you, you scoundrel? Are you so busy that you can’t spare a minute to write? I’ve given up expecting to hear from you. Can only assume that your new life there, buried in the South Downs in your rustic retreat, is so fascinating that you’ve completely forgotten your friends at the Slade, who bade you a fond and tearful farewell such a short while ago. Johnny says you must be completely engrossed with the young ladies there, and that’s your reason for neglecting us — we can think of no other explanation. What a job you have fallen into! Hard work it must be indeed, spending every day in feminine company, guiding their delicate hands, nourishing them with morsels of praise. We are agog to hear full descriptions of your pupils, and how you get on with them. Every morning we bound towards the letter-rack in the happy expectation of finding a letter, even a postcard, from you - and every time we slink away downcast and quite flat footed with disappointment.

  Well, you may have forgotten us, but we haven’t forgotten you. Life goes on here much as usual - but soon we will be disbandng for the summer, and we are making plans. I shall be heading for the Aegean, for a few weeks of sustained hard work beneath the sun’s hot rays, while acquainting myself with the local wine. Johnny will be travelling up to Scotland to don a kilt and stalk the heathery hills while he awaits the start of the grouse season and permission to blast poor defenceless birds out of the sky barbarian that he is. But first -

  We are reluctant to set off on our travels without reac-quainting ourselves with our dear, lost, lamented Godwit Johnny you may remember, has an aunt and uncle in Brighton, and we are planning to spend next weekend there before parting for the next few weeks. Brighton is not far from you - does your employer let you out, now and again? Can you plead with him that you need a rest from your strenuous labours, your back-breaking toil, the relentless pressure of your duties? That you would benefit from the refreshment of sea air, a dip in the briny, convivial company and an evening in an alehouse?

  Come, Sam, do say Yes. If your answer is No, Johnny and I will be forced to conclude that you have forsworn our company for ever, and that you regard our devoted friendship as the merest trifle to be cast aside on a whim.

  Your friend - neglected, dejected, but I hope not rejected -

  Chas

  Chapter Nineteen

  Partnered

  I should not have picked up Marianne’s sketchbook when I found it lying on the oak settle in the vestibule - but on an impulse I did, and was shocked by what I saw as I flicked back its cover.

  This was what had occupied her during our unsuccessful still-life lesson that morning; this accounted for her huddled position in the bay window, and her mischievous expression. In watercolours, she had painted a double portrait, of Juliana and me - not skilled, but recognizable enough. We were seated together at the table, our heads close, and Mar
ianne’s brush - agile, if not subtle - had caught a moment in which I appeared to be explaining something to my pupil, turned towards her, pencil in hand and lips parted in speech, while she in turn gazed back at me with a fawning expression which I can only say I had never noticed in reality. The picture did not disturb me, though, as much as its caption. Underneath the drawing, Marianne had written in a flowing hand, Betrothed, and had added a border of hearts entwined with flowers.

  It was only Marianne’s jest, I felt sure of that; yet the mere suggestion was enough to perturb me. Her vantage point - observing me and her sister so closely engaged in discussion, from across the room - had put the foolish notion into her head. I knew from my sister Isobel and her friends that young girls will amuse themselves with such nonsense. Yes, I hoped that was all - fervently hoped that Juliana did not share the notion that my attention to her was anything other than that of drawing master to pupil. Replacing the sketchbook precisely where I had found it, I consoled myself with this thought: that if Marianne imagined me to be romantically interested in her sister, she must be quite unaware that she herself figured so largely in my daydreams.

  The household being busily occupied in preparation for the evening’s dinner party, I was able to put the matter out of my mind; but it returned in force later.

  Charlotte’s absence was keenly felt by everyone. By Mr Farrow, who had needed her to welcome the guests and ensure that all ran smoothly; by Marianne, who wanted advice on dress and hairstyling; by Juliana, who, simply, never wanted to be without her; and lastly, by myself, for I should have appreciated her quiet guidance in this unfamiliar social situation. As it was, Charlotte had evidently done all she could beforehand: arranging the menu and the seating plan with Mrs Reynolds, and hiring two extra maidservants, one to help in the kitchen and another to wait at table with Alice.

  The guests, some of whom had been strolling around the garden, assembled in the drawing room, where the large doors stood open to the evening air. There were six of them: the Vernon-Dales and the Greenlaws, all of whom I had met briefly at church; a stylish lady introduced as Annette Duchêne, who was the Greenlaws’ house guest; and a Mr Eaton, Mrs Greenlaw’s brother, a horse-breeder. I felt myself under scrutiny as I joined them, and was introduced to the two I had not already met. More, I seemed to be the subject of interested speculation; indeed, I suspected that the evening’s main purpose was to bring me into the society of these people. Mr Farrow had, evidently, boasted of my ability - and, even, of my reputation as a painter sure to make my mark in the coming years. He had every faith in the soundness of his investment; pride and ambition made me content to trust his judgement, and eager to accept his valuation of my worth.

  ‘Mr Godwin - we are so pleased of this chance to become better acquainted!’ said Mrs Vernon-Dale, a formidable woman of fifty, steelily masculine of feature, and clad in a stiffly beaded dress which gave the appearance of armour. ‘I’m so looking forward to seeing your work. Have you exhibited much?’

  ‘Very pleased to see you again.’ Her husband was gruff, moustached, slightly stooping, and I guessed that he would feel more at home with rifle or golf club in his hand, rather than a crystal glass. ‘I hope we’ll be able to have a proper chat later.’

  ‘Enchantée!’ Miss Annette Duchêne was, as I have already said, a very striking woman - fashionably dressed, with dark hair twined up into a clasp-and-flower arrangement on top of her head, and a dress of rose silk that bared a great deal of her shoulders and bosom. She took my hand and gave me a fleeting glance which I can only describe as flirtatious.

  ‘I do hope you’ve settled here happily, Mr Godwin?’ Her hostess, Mrs Greenlaw, was far more matronly, encased in tight burgundy satin. ‘Do you have family of your own? Shall you be at church tomorrow? Maybe you’d care to join us for sherry afterwards?’

  Mr Greenlaw wrung my hand in a strong grip. ‘Good evening - good evening. You must come and dine with us some time. Your work here keeps you busy, I suppose? Do you do portraits? I’ve been thinking of commissioning one for some while - you know the sort of thing - my wife and I and the dogs, house in the background?’

  And finally Mr Eaton the horse-breeder, a tall man with black, bristling eyebrows that seemed to compensate for thinning hair: ‘Pleased to meet you. From London, are you? A Slade man? Finding it a bit quiet here in the Downs, I suppose?’

  Our number was completed, of course, by the three Farrows. Juliana was dressed in dove-grey, a shade that was all wrong for her, emphasizing the pallidity of her complexion; her hair was dressed simply, even demurely, and she wore only small pearl earrings for adornment. Over her dress she wore a light beaded shawl, which she kept tugging more closely about her neck and bosom. Marianne, by contrast, had chosen a dress that perfectly suited her colouring: a silk gown of dark fir-green. Her hair was arranged in an artfully casual style that twisted up some of its abundance into jewelled combs, while a few long tresses - gloriously chestnut against the green - tumbled about her shoulders. She looked quite enchanting; my eyes were irresistibly drawn to her. Impertinent young madam that she was, she boldly looked me up and down as she entered the room, assessing my turnout, and gave me a private nod and smile that said: Yes, I see you have made an effort. Well done - you will do nicely! I returned the look, expressing approval of her dress and coiffure in what I hoped was a brotherly or even an avuncular manner, although I feared that my fascination with her must be written on my face for all to see. Juliana, beside her, remained unaware of this unspoken communication. Her fingers fumbled at the edge of her thin shawl. She was ill at ease in this social situation; indeed, one might have thought that Marianne was the elder sister, Juliana the debutante.

  Finally, Mr Farrow himself. Presiding, he cut an impressive figure - the black and white of dinner jacket and dress shirt giving him a dramatic, almost flamboyant appearance, with his florid colouring, strong features and thick hair. It struck me anew that he was a handsome man, still in his prime, and with status and wealth besides. While I was thinking this, I noticed Annette Duchêne’s eyes resting on him appreciatively.

  He might remarry; indeed, it was more than likely. This had crossed my mind before, in connection with Charlotte; but here was an altogether different prospect. I would have wagered, too, that the possibility was not far from Mademoiselle Duchêne’s thoughts. Aha, I thought: if Charlotte were here, she would find a formidable rival in this stylish mademoiselle, with her coquettish glances and teasing smiles! I would have been much diverted by seeing them seated at the same table, so strikingly contrasted in dress and demeanour.

  As we moved through to the dining room, I found myself partnered with Juliana. She looked up at me shyly as I pulled back her chair, then cast her eyes down, as was customary with her. She had not revived in spirits since Charlotte’s departure. Although I should have preferred to sit next to Marianne, it was perhaps as well for my composure that I did not; and I determined that if Juliana did not enjoy the evening, it would not be through want of effort on my part. I made myself attentive, engaging her in conversation. There was little competition from her neighbour to the right, Mr Eaton, who was delivering a monologue to Mrs Greenlaw about breeding stock and bloodlines. Following this thread, I made a remark to Juliana about the comfortable paces and excellent manners of her mare, Queen Bess, and asked where she went on her rides. While she answered me, my gaze returned to Marianne, who seemed bored by the comfortable Mr Greenlaw; she looked boldly back at me, noted my solicitousness towards Juliana, and smiled approval. Only then did I remember what I had seen in her sketchbook; I felt my face flush with heat. The sharp-eyed miss noticed that too, of course; made her own interpretation, and was highly pleased.

  On my left I had Mrs Vernon-Dale, whose conversation with Mr Farrow, throughout the soup and the fish course, was all about her plans to extend and landscape the garden at Rampions. A new greenhouse was to be added, and a conservatory to the house, and the kitchen garden extended. Mr Farrow took only polite interest
in this, until Mr Vernon-Dale, seated opposite, interrupted. ‘Has Marguerite told you about the head gardener I’ve taken on? Capital fellow. Dearly, his name is. Matthew Dearly. Used to work for the Radcliffes at Oak Lodge.’

  ‘No - surely not!’ my employer said brusquely. ‘Their gardener moved away to - er, Hampshire, wasn’t it? I believe Francis Radcliffe mentioned that.’

  ‘That’s true - he did, but he’s back again,’ said Mr Vernon-Dale. ‘I can tell you he’s transforming the place. Already licked those lazybones under-gardeners into shape.’

  I watched Mr Farrow closely. He picked up the decanter, refilled Annette Duchêne’s glass, then called to Alice for more wine. ‘Conservatory, you say?’ he continued to Mrs Vernon-Dale. ‘Have you found a good architect?’

  ‘Matthew Dearly? Hasn’t he married that young woman who used to be governess here?’ Mrs Greenlaw asked the table at large.

  ‘Yes, yes - they’ve moved into our Orchard Cottage. Did you know that your old governess is married now, with a child of her own - a fine little boy?’ Mr Vernon-Dale said genially to Marianne.

  Juliana made an abrupt, almost involuntary movement, dropped her napkin to the floor and began to fumble; I went to her assistance, retrieving it. Alice returned with the wine and moved from place to place, collecting the fish plates.