Set In Stone

by Linda Newbery

  The train duly arrived, disgorged two elderly passengers, then, with a hiss of steam, moved off. Marianne watched in dismay as it rounded the bend.

  ‘Where is he?’ she cried in distress. ‘Where is Samuel? Oh, Charlotte, he is lost to us! He will never come back - I know he will not - we should never have let him go. Why must everybody leave us?’

  ‘How you exaggerate!’ I told her. ‘There will be a simple reason. His friends have persuaded him to stay on for the evening, and catch the late train home. Yes, that will explain it.’

  However, as we crossed the dusty forecourt, I felt a tug of disappointment on my own account; I wanted Samuel safely back with us. Reynolds, hearing the news, was displeased, complaining that he would have to return later. ‘Might as well keep Hector between the shafts day and night, the amount of toing and froing that’s been called for lately,’ he grumbled, as we took our seats. He picked up the whip, clucked his tongue, and we moved off, soon leaving the town behind us. The vista opened before us: the ridge of downs to our left, the pastures dotted with sheep, and the dusty chalk of the tracks, for the ground was parched after weeks without rain.

  It was then that I had the idea of making another call that had been very much on my mind.

  ‘Reynolds,’ I called out, before the impulse left me, ‘I should like to call at Rampions on the way home. Could you take us there, please?’

  Marianne clutched at my arm. ‘Rampions? Oh, Charlotte, must we? I - I want to go home.’

  ‘I wish to speak to Eliza Dearly,’ I told her. ‘I shall not take more than a few minutes - then we will go home directly. Why should that upset you?’ - for dismay was written all over her face.

  ‘No - no, I am not in the least upset,’ she said, recovering quickly. ‘It is just that - you know - are you sure it is wise? Papa does not like us to see Eliza.’

  ‘Then you may blame me,’ I replied. ‘You need not speak to her; you need not even get down from the chaise.’ As Reynolds guided Hector into the lane that led to Rampions, the pony shook his mane with impatience, having thought his head was pointing for home. I told Reynolds to take us to the gardener’s cottage, which was reached through a side entrance beyond the very grand gates which led to the mansion.

  Orchard Cottage, which was, indeed, somewhat larger than one would expect a cottage to be, was set in an area walled off from the extensive gardens, walks and orchards surrounding the mansion. We pulled into a yard enclosed by various outbuildings: tool sheds, stables and the like. A few chickens pecked about, but there was no one to be seen.

  Marianne tried once more to deter me. ‘Please, Charlotte, can’t we go home? I - I am not feeling well - it must be the heat.’

  This was so transparent an excuse, and I was by now so determined, that I told her to wait in the chaise, and climbed down to go in search of Eliza.

  Through a doorway in a high brick wall I saw a formal kitchen garden, with symmetrical narrow paths, pear trees trained over hooped arches, and three greenhouses in one corner. Two young gardeners were bent over their tasks, one weeding a vegetable bed, the other picking pea pods and laying them in a trug. Neither of these was old enough to be Matthew Dearly. On looking back towards the cottage, I saw that its front door stood open. I approached, down a flagged path bordered with pinks and marigolds, and rapped on the door. Inside, a narrow passageway, its floor covered with a rag rug, led to two more doors: one leading to a kitchen; the other, presumably, to a parlour.

  Low voices were heard murmuring from that room. After a moment Eliza Dearly, in a flowered dress and apron, appeared from within, leaving the door ajar.

  ‘Yes?’ She did not seem surprised to see me; but then she could easily have glanced out of the window and seen Reynolds, Marianne and the chaise. Neither did she sound at all friendly. Of course, I had been markedly aloof with her when she visited Fourwinds.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Dearly,’ I said. ‘Please excuse this interruption. There is something I should like to discuss with you.’

  ‘Oh?’ She rubbed her hands together, then rested one of them on the swell of her belly. I saw what I had not noticed on our previous encounter: that she was with child. ‘Has he sent you?’ she asked me in a markedly imperious manner. ‘Mr Farrow, I mean?’

  ‘He has not. I am here on my own account.’

  ‘Very well, then. We will talk in the garden,’ said Mrs Dearly, giving a quick glance behind her. The child, Thomas, was toddling along the passageway; reaching her, he clutched at her skirts. With an exclamation of surprise or annoyance, she scooped him up, and marched purposefully out of the door. ‘This way,’ she commanded me. As I followed, I looked at the child, wondering if I could trace Juliana’s features in his. How very clear his eyes were, how smooth and unblemished his skin, how round his cheeks! He returned my gaze, his mouth almost twitching into a smile, then hid his face against Eliza’s shoulder. Truly, he was a most enchanting little boy.

  ‘And how is little Thomas?’ I asked.

  ‘He is very well, thank you,’ Eliza answered, leading the way to a small wooden bench at one side of the garden, shaded by apple trees. ‘As you see, he will soon have a little brother or sister.’ She set the child on the ground, where, holding her hand, he took a few steps, making little remarks to himself.

  ‘Mrs Dearly,’ I said, firmly, ‘the child you are expecting will not be brother or sister to Thomas, will it? I am correct, I think, in believing that you are not, in fact, Thomas’s mother - nor your husband his father.’

  She made an attempt at prevarication. ‘Oh? What can you mean by that?’ However, she was an inadequate dissembler, and I was determined.

  ‘Come, Mrs Dearly, let us not waste time,’ I urged her. ‘I am right, am I not?’

  She looked at me squarely. ‘So - you have worked it out for yourself? I cannot think that Juliana chose to tell you.’ She jutted her chin. ‘Tell me - does this raise me in your esteem, now that I am cleared of becoming a mother so indecently soon after my marriage? Or have I sunk lower, for entering into such an arrangement?’

  ‘I should apologize for misjudging you,’ I said, without warmth, for I could feel no liking for her; ‘though I can hardly be blamed for suspecting what all appearances seemed to suggest. However, that is not what I wish to discuss. I have come to ask, Mrs Dearly, what arrangements have been made for Thomas’s upbringing. More precisely, is he to grow up in the belief that he is in fact your son? Is he ever to be told the truth? And is Juliana expected to ignore his existence?’

  Eliza gave me a haughty, sidelong look. ‘I might ask what business it is of yours. Why do you not ask Mr Farrow? He has all the answers - you need not have troubled yourself to come here.’

  ‘I am merely asking,’ I told her, ‘out of concern for Juliana. She was extremely distressed after your visit, Mrs Dearly. You know her, and I pride myself that I understand her as well as you once did. She must, for the sake of her health, find some way of putting this behind her - and that is well nigh impossible, now that you live so close. Obviously, the boy must be provided for, now and in the future; and I assume that his father takes neither responsibility nor interest.’

  ‘His father?’ Eliza looked at me steadily. ‘My husband and I have a financial arrangement with Mr Farrow. The details need not concern you.’

  ‘Precisely,’ I agreed. ‘He is, in effect, a member of the Farrow family, even if not acknowledged as such; his needs will be met. Yet the present arrangement, as you call it, is unsatisfactory for Juliana. She cannot venture into town without fear of meeting you and the child—’

  ‘Fear!’ Eliza repeated. ‘Fear, you call it! You think you know Juliana, Miss Agnew, but let me tell you that you know only as much as she chooses to let you know. I am still her confidante; I am the person she trusts, and turns to.’

  ‘Trusts you!’ I could not prevent myself; the words burst from me. ‘Why, it was under your supervision that she was led into this predicament! You must, surely, have known what was going
on between her and Mr Waring?’

  ‘Miss Agnew,’ Eliza said, with a visible effort at keeping her self-control, ‘you are free with your accusations, but plainly you do not know as much as you think you know. If you care what is best for Juliana, you will take her away from her father.’

  ‘Away from her father?’ I repeated, incredulous. ‘Away from the one source of stability and comfort in her life? I cannot understand you, Mrs Dearly.’

  ‘I thought not.’ For a moment her chin jutted and she looked almost defiant; then her manner changed, and she spoke in a quieter, confiding voice. ‘If he finds out - Marianne, too, before— I can do nothing, but I am afraid for them, both of them, I—’

  Here she caught herself short, almost biting her lip; I looked at her, uncomprehending. At that moment, from the stable yard which the garden overlooked, I heard the scrape of hooves on cobbles. As I looked round, a white, bridled head lifted over one of the half-doors, ears pricked sharply. It was, unmistakably, Queen Bess. She gave a soft snickering sound, looking in the direction of her companion, Hector, who was hidden from my sight by the corner of the cottage.

  ‘Oh!’ I exclaimed. ‘She is here - Juliana is here with you now!’

  How stupid I had been - how easily taken in! I understood now whose voice I had heard through the open door; understood Juliana’s sudden insistence on riding every afternoon. I felt myself flushing with annoyance at being so wrong-footed.

  ‘She is - and comes as often as she can,’ Eliza said. ‘I wish you would stop her, for Mr Farrow would be angry if he knew. She takes up all my time - talking, weeping, playing with the boy, going over and over again that awful business of her mother’s death - I cannot think there is any more to say, but you see, Miss Agnew, it is to me that she comes.’

  So much for your sympathy, I thought, my heart wrenching for poor Juliana.

  ‘You were living at Fourwinds, were you not,’ I said coldly, ‘when Mrs Farrow had her fatal accident? That, no doubt, is why Juliana comes to you with her anguish. You were present - I was not.’

  ‘You call it an accident,’ Eliza said quietly, ‘but it was no such thing. Mrs Farrow took her own life - in desperation. I am certain of that, beyond all doubt.’

  I took a moment to assimilate this; then retorted: ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Wait a moment.’ She rose to her feet and stood for a moment smoothing her apron, as though undecided; then she walked quickly indoors, leaving me with the boy. He gazed after her, stretched out his hand and said something unintelligible before returning to a game he was making with twigs on the ground, arranging them in patterns. I sat on the bench, looking at his sturdy back and compact limbs, his dark silky hair, for of course, I now took the keenest interest in this child. How easily contented he was with a little patch of earth, a few sticks and stones; yet how alarmingly his horizons would extend, as he grew up and encountered the world beyond these gates, and learned, as surely he must, of the irregularity of his parentage! Yet he could be considered lucky, in comparison with many another child conceived unwanted and out of wedlock. He would not want for home comforts and care.

  It was Juliana I was most concerned for. Turning, I looked towards the parlour window behind me; I glimpsed a quick movement as she darted out of sight. She had been looking out at me, as I sat here with her child. Her attachment to him had been drawing her here, day after day. Tender-hearted as she was, how would she face separation, now or in the future?

  When Eliza Dearly returned, it was with secrecy in her manner.

  ‘Step into the vegetable garden,’ she whispered, ‘for Juliana must not know of this - must not see.’ She swept the child into her arms, making him wail for the enforced abandonment of his twig game, and set off towards the door I had glanced through earlier.

  Very much perplexed, I followed her into the large cultivated expanse of the walled garden. The two youths were still at their tasks; glancing at them, Eliza led the way in a different direction, along a narrow brick path, past apple trees espaliered against the wall, ripening marrows and currant bushes heavy with fruit, and into the open door of one of the greenhouses. The air was warm with the smell of watered peat and tomato foliage. We were alone; still, she glanced in all directions before taking something from her apron pocket.

  ‘You must not tell Juliana,’ she urged me. ‘Give me your word.’

  ‘I do,’ I replied, rashness and curiosity overcoming doubt.

  She handed me an envelope. ‘Very well, then -read this. No one knows of its existence, other than I.’

  The envelope was small, and of good quality vellum paper; it was addressed simply to Eliza, in a lady’s slanting hand. I took out the two folded sheets of paper it contained.

  My dearest Eliza, I read, in a script which began neatly but became larger and less controlled as the writing progressed.

  Forgive me, for I must confide in someone. There may be no sense at all in what follows, for I doubt my sanity. I have tried to speak, and cannot speak sense. Only by sitting here quite alone can I summon words of any meaning.

  Yesterday, my husband told you that I am grievously ill. I overheard him. But if I am ill, he has made me so. He caught me making ready to leave Fourwinds in secret - to run away, taking my girls with me. But I cannot take them. I cannot have them near me. And now he has made other plans.

  As for my reason, I hardly know how to convey it. I will try Two days ago, Juliana told me something so dreadful that I hardly know how to commit it to paper. She told me that my husband - not once but many times over the last year - has visited her at night in her bedroom. He has forced his attentions on her - he has behaved to her as a man to his wife.

  To me he does not He does not love me, I have known that He has not entered my bedroom since my last miscarriage. I lost his baby son, and for that he can never forgive me. It is not my fault and I have grieved ever since, but he never touches me now. Never a kiss, never an embrace, never a kind word.

  I thought poor Juley must be deluded I tried to coerce, even threaten her into saying she was lying, or dreaming. She wept and wept but she said it was no word of a lie.

  Most horrible of all, she is with child I could not believe anything so monstrous, but she says it is true.

  It is the stuff of nightmare. I doubt my own sense. For surely it is I who am dreaming or imagining. My husband rejects me and now I am jealous of my daughter and make up terrible accusations against her Is anything more shameful than that?

  And Marianne? Do I suspect her of the same? Do I suspect him with her?

  I do not know. My head is a buzzing wasp’s nest of fears and suspicions. I cannot think clearly.

  I cannot bear to look at Juley nor Marianne. I cannot bear to look at myself in the mirror, for I see only barrenness, and madness and fear.

  I must go away from them. He says so.

  I could not comfort poor Juley. I could only think and think myself into spiral of despair. Next day I went to Ernest I was shaking and weeping so much that I hardly know what I said, but he understood me at once and was angry. I was afraid, and trembled like a child. He seized me and flung me into a corner. Or did I dream that? No, for I have the purpling bruise on my arm, unless that is painted by my mind. I am perverted, he says - I am crazed, insane and evil to imagine such things. He says that Juley has confided in him and that Gideon Waring is her seducer He has forced the man to confess and has dismissed him.

  Then he was calm and kind He sat me down and stayed by me while I wept. He tells me that I am ill, and he is very sorry. I cannot stay here. I must be away from the girls, or I will infect them. I must go to a special sanatorium for illnesses ofithe mind. I will be made better there, he says. Two doctors are coming to see me, not our usual Dr Fletcher, but two others. They will see if I am as mad as my husband says I am. And I must be. I am very sorry, Eliza, for all you must have endured from me.

  But now I am afraid. I shall be locked up with madmen and madwomen. I shall never be free. I shal
l never be myself again. And it is myself I fear most, for the foulness my mind invents.

  How happy I was once, but how I depended on his good will How powerless we women are, Eliza, once we lose the good will off men. It goes, and we are gone. Well, I am going.

  Who would believe what I have written here? Do you? Do I? No one will ever doubt my husband Good father Good husband He is respectable, blameless. Poor man, to be encumbered with such a wife as I, a madwoman. Everyone will say so.

  My heart breaks to leave my girls, but leave them I must, this way or the other They must not run mad like their mother They will do better with him.

  Arrangements are made - I am to leave Fourwinds tomorrow. But I have a plan of my own. I must be away from him. I must be away from my darling girls. But there is only one way I can escape from myself.

  Goodbye, Eliza, and thank you. You have been good to me. Look after my girls, and help them to forget their wretched mother.

  My sincerest thanks and good wishes.

  Constance

  My eyes had devoured the letter with all speed, although the writing became difficult to decipher. Reaching the end, I began again from the beginning, conscious of Eliza watching me. At length, barely trusting myself to speak, I refolded the paper and inserted it into its envelope.

  ‘Is this the rambling of a madwoman?’ I asked, hearing the tremor in my voice. ‘As she claims?’

  Eliza shook her head and occupied herself with the child, who was trying to pluck unripe tomatoes that clustered, greenly tempting. ‘I cannot tell.’

  ‘Poor woman! But how did you receive this letter? Did she give it to you?’

  ‘She pushed it under the door of my room, on the night of her fatal fall. By the time I saw it, she was dead.’