Set In Stone

by Linda Newbery

  His complacency stirred me again. ‘This is intolerable! Am I your puppet?’ I flung at him. ‘You have behaved monstrously, and you continue to deny it!

  You believe your wealth can shield you, but it cannot!’ Again I bounded towards him, leaned across the desk; I reached out, grabbing the lapels of his smoking jacket. He pushed back his chair, almost hauling me with him: stood and faced me, trembling with anger, while I released him with a gesture of disgust.

  ‘Do not touch me. I warn you, do not!’ he cried hoarsely. ‘It will be the worse for you, if you lay hands on me!’

  Our eyes met and locked; I stared at him with something approaching hatred. Never before had I felt such loathing for another human being, and yet it was fuelled by my former regard, and the knowledge that he had used and deceived me. His eyes flickered towards the gun case on the wall; I saw it, saw that of the two of us, I was closer. Extending my arm, I forestalled him as he lunged across the desk, and we stood grappling with each other in a silent contest of strength and will. I do not know whether I intended merely to prevent him from obtaining the weapon, or whether I should have threatened him with it, even used it - all I know is that my instincts clamoured to hit and hurt and shame him, to wipe the smug expression for ever from his face.

  I never found out, for at that moment we were disturbed by a loud rapping at the door.

  We broke apart, and I sprang back; Mr Farrow straightened himself, and smoothed the lapels of his jacket; the door opened, and Charlotte stood there, staring alarmed at the scene before her.

  ‘Pardon me for interrupting’ - she was rather short of breath - ‘but I have to tell you that Juliana has disappeared.’

  ‘Disappeared?’ Mr Farrow echoed. ‘Are you quite incapable of supervising her? What do I pay you for?’

  ‘Yes, it is my fault,’ Charlotte said, meeting his eye, ‘but we must search for her without delay.’

  In a moment we were hurrying down the stairs, Charlotte and I abreast, our employer behind us.

  ‘Where can she have gone?’

  ‘I have sent Reynolds to enquire at the Dearlys’ cottage,’ Charlotte told me, ‘but Marianne is convinced she went to the lake.’

  ‘The lake! She is out there, in this weather?’

  The front door had been left open, flung back by the strong wind, battered anew with each gust. Seeing this, Charlotte let out a cry of frustration. ‘I told her to wait for me - Marianne - I should have known she would not!’

  Almost as anxious at the thought of Marianne out alone in the storm, as at Juliana’s slipping away, I broke into a run - out to the lawn, down the slope of garden and onto the rough grass of the approach to the lake. There was only a sliver of moon tonight, fitfully obscured by scudding clouds; I could see only dimly the tousled trees ahead of me, and the glimmer of water; I stumbled, plunged on towards the shore. ‘Marianne!’ I shouted, and again and again, ‘Juliana! Marianne!’

  No one answered. I reached the shore and stood looking out at the dark, inscrutable surface of the lake, pounded by the wind almost into waves, reflecting nothing. In the thudding of my heart I felt a renewal of the fear that had seized me in the water; a certainty that something was pulling me back here, waiting in the depths. The wind was so strong that my yelling could scarcely be heard. Straining my ears into the gusts, I heard at first only my own panting breath, until another sound reached me - a sobbing cry from the direction of the boathouse, and a disturbance in the water. Moving quickly in that direction, I heard a plashing sound, and the swimmer’s voice, high-pitched and frantic: ‘Juley! Juley—’

  ‘Marianne!’ I shouted again, with all the strength of my lungs, and with renewed energy dashed on around the water’s edge; I tripped over a tree-root and sprawled headlong; I picked myself up again. Another figure had appeared at the shore - Juliana! Poised by the willows, she steadied herself against a leaning branch. I had only time to register that Marianne must have waded in, under the mistaken impression that her sister needed rescuing; then Juliana - ignoring my yell of alarm - launched herself forward. I heard the splash and gurgle as she plunged into the water, and her gasp of shock at the coldness. And now there were voices behind me - ‘There! There she is!’ - and the light from a lantern that swayed violently, casting eerie shadows - but I was occupied in divesting myself of jacket and boots, then scanning the water. I should lose them - once in and swimming, I should have only their cries to guide me. ‘I’m coming!’ I shouted, and waded in, waist-deep; then, fighting my reluctance, I plunged forward, the cold shock of wetness gripping my chest with fear that choked my breath, and weighting my clothes so that they seemed to enmesh my limbs like a trawlerman’s nets. Keeping my head up, I swam towards Marianne; I heard her gasping cries; I saw the quick bobbing movement of her swimming; then she ducked under the surface and was gone. Behind me, at the shore, I heard the splash of another body plunging in; I saw the glimmer of the oil lamp; Charlotte, her skirt ballooning like a sail, was rushing up the little pier. There she clambered into the rowing boat, and as it rocked and swayed, held out her lantern over the water. ‘There - there!’ she cried. I saw where she pointed, swam closer, took a deep breath, and upended myself.

  Beneath the surface I struggled against instinct to keep my eyes open, to peer into the murky gloom. Discerning only shadows, I threshed about with my arms, felt the fibrous stems of weeds, disentangled myself; lungs bursting, I flailed again, one hand making contact with the fabric of a garment; simultaneously, one foot struck the yielding softness of the lake-bed. I held fast to the cloth; I grabbed hold with my other hand; I kicked for the surface with all my might. Whichever girl I had, I hauled her roughly with me, got her head above water; whether she was breathing or not, I could not tell, but at that moment another body intruded, hampering my efforts in an attempt to assist, and a voice - Mr Farrow’s - croaked: ‘Juliana! Juley—’

  ‘Don’t touch her!’ I shouted. Freeing one hand, I thrust him away hard; then looked round for Charlotte.

  Hearing the plash of oars, I saw that she had rowed out from the pier and was now battling with the oars, trying to turn the little boat into the wind, ready to come to my assistance. I bundled Juliana towards her, our courses met, her hand reached out; as soon as she had Juliana in a firm grasp I turned again; for where was Marianne? Striking into darkness, I was struck by panic, for the choppy water showed me nothing - then I heard, a few yards away, her sobbing breaths, and saw the feeble strokes of her swimming. ‘Marianne! I’m here!’ I called; found her, and in a few moments held her in my arms, kicking back towards the rowing boat. Charlotte, unable to get Juliana over the side unaided, was attempting to control the list and sway; her face was lit by the lantern, as in a Renaissance painting; the incongruous thought struck me even in extremis. Between us, making the boat teeter precariously, we managed to haul both girls onto its boards, weighted as they were by volumes of sodden fabric; Charlotte plied the oars, and I swam in her wake towards the pier. As she moored there, I hauled myself out. Marianne, shocked and winded, attempted to rise; I helped her along the prow and onto dry land; then returned to Charlotte, who was bending over Juliana in the boat. I dreaded to hear what she might have to tell me; but she turned to me with relief.

  ‘She is breathing,’ she said; and I felt that my own breath had been arrested until this moment. ‘I feared at first that she was not - but she stirred, coughed up a good deal of water, and is reviving. Look to Marianne - fetch your jacket - we must summon help.’

  ‘Mr Farrow!’ I exclaimed, looking round for him. ‘Surely he is not still in the water!’ I grabbed the lantern and held it out, illuminating only the ruffled surface - no bobbing head, no hand waving for help.

  ‘I must help him!’ I cried, preparing to dive; but Charlotte held tight to my arm, restraining me.

  ‘He must wait. We have the girls to attend to.’

  She spoke with perfect calmness, as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening. I looked at her, unable to read her expres
sion; then twisted myself free, snatched up the lantern and held it high as I moved along the lake shore. I called Mr Farrow’s name, over and over again; I stood on the end of the pier and cast the light as far as it would reach; failing to see him, I took to the rowing boat, and cast about in the water. At last, finding no trace of him, I went back to Charlotte, resigned and on the point of exhaustion. She had urged the two girls into the leeward side of a stout tree, for what protection it offered. Marianne was now on her feet, shivering almost violently, while Juliana still crouched on the ground, huddled into my jacket.

  ‘Please, come indoors,’ Charlotte urged me. ‘You have wasted enough time on him. We must take the girls inside without delay.’

  Chapter Thirty

  Charlotte Speaks

  I knew you would not bring him alive from the water, for I have killed him. I have killed my father.

  Yes. Yes.

  You are shocked. Of course. And you have had many shocks this evening. Come, wrap yourself in this blanket. Drink some of this brandy. It will bring the colour back to your cheeks.

  You saved Juliana’s life, Samuel. I suspect that she went down to the lake with the intention of taking her own life. And without your intervention, she could have taken Marianne with her. Marianne knew - I should have questioned her, listened to her—

  I? No, I did nothing. All I did was—

  I pushed him away, Samuel. When you swam back for Marianne, he attempted to board the boat. He looked exhausted. I could not stop myself - I was occupied with Juliana - I could not bear the thought of him touching her, placing his hands on her, even in that desperate situation. Samuel, I have found out -I have learned of—

  I pushed him back in! I struck him away with an oar. I did not mean to kill him, it was not my intention - I thought he would swim to the shore, or haul himself out at the pier—

  But perhaps it is best. Why should he live? Juliana cannot live while he is in the world. Now he is out of it.

  Yes, we must have the lake dredged tomorrow. He will wait till then.

  No, thank you - my mind is too active for sleep. I should prefer to stay here awhile - will you stay with me and talk, if you are not quite exhausted?

  Gideon? You found Gideon Waring? Ah, and he-he knew of—? Poor man, how I have maligned him!- Yes, of course - that accounts for— I wish you had told me, on your return - Yes, yes - we have both received this same revelation, this same shock - How much I have failed to understand!

  My father? Yes, Mr Farrow - he is - he was - my father - yes.

  No, no, he never knew.

  I had better explain. If you are not too tired? You are sure?

  Samuel, we have urgent matters to discuss, and the most distressing things to confront - but first I must tell you what I have told no one else; what I have kept secret for so long that I have almost stopped acknowledging it as the truth - have scarcely even allowed myself to think of him as my father, nor the girls as my sisters—

  Are you ready? A little warmer - not at all feverish? Very well, then:

  My mother, Violet, worked as a maidservant at the Farrows’ house in Belgravia. That is the house which Mr Farrow later sold, in order to buy the land here. She was then eighteen; Ernest, the elder of the Farrows’ two sons, was nineteen. They were lovers. I will not say that he seduced her, though that must have been the case - my mother, on the one occasion I met her, was adamant that he loved her, and that she loved him. She spoke of him only in terms of the highest praise. He was away at Cambridge for most of that time; their liaison was a brief one, over a Christmas when he was at home.

  She knew that it could lead nowhere. She accepted his advances in full knowledge of that.

  When she found herself with child, he had already returned to Cambridge. She must be a strong-minded woman in many ways, my mother. She did not write to him, did not make any attempt to communicate the news that he was to be a father. She left the Farrows’ employment before her condition was discovered. She went home to my grandmother, who made arrangements for her to stay with a family in Devon until I was born, so that her ruination, as my grandmother saw it, could be concealed. It was never acknowledged that Violet had a daughter.

  So - yes - poor little Thomas and I have this in common.

  My grandmother made arrangements for my upbringing. Yes, that is correct: Mrs Newbold, the lady who has recently died. My mother sought employment elsewhere; she moved to Yorkshire, becoming a maidservant on a prosperous farm there. A few years later she married the son of that family, and took his name. He, in disgrace for some reason, was sent to Kenya, which is I believe the destination of many a wayward son, to seek his fortune by farming there.

  No - I never saw my mother throughout the whole of my childhood. Our one meeting took place two years ago. I said that my grandmother brought me up, but it would be truer to say that she provided for me - she sent me to a drab boarding school, well out of her way. Widowed soon after my birth, she quickly remarried; a son was born of this marriage, and I was even more superfluous. Although I had relations in name, I have always felt myself to be quite alone in the world. That is what I have accepted; that is how I announce myself—

  I know, Samuel, and I am very sorry. I should not have deceived you, for you have always been honest with me; but I hope you will understand. It is my way of preserving some pride.

  Yes, my mother contacted me. I was working then as a pupil-teacher. She was on a brief visit from Kenya, where she still lives. We met briefly in Hyde Park, and have not communicated since. How odd it was to meet this woman, a complete stranger, without whom I should not exist! I am still not sure why she suggested that meeting, unless it was to assuage her guilty conscience, or to have some current memory of me, for she has no other children. That day, I asked who my father was; she told me his name, and that I was the product of their passionate love. She was not ashamed of it, disastrous though the consequences had been for her. She told me that Ernest came from a wealthy family; although she warned me that he knew nothing of my existence, she thought that he might give me financial support, if I approached him and asked for it. I resolved to do no such thing, but was gripped by a powerful urge to seek him out, to see for myself what kind of man he was.

  - Yes, I did so immediately. My mother had told me the location of the Farrows’ Belgravia home, and next day I went there. I found that the Farrows were no longer in residence. The new occupant, Lady Merriby, told me that Ernest Farrow had been the previous owner of the house - which, as I saw for myself, was a very substantial one - but that he had sold up after the death of his parents, to build himself a new house in Sussex. Lady Merriby had his forwarding address, which she gave me.

  At once resigning from my post, I came to Staverton. I had not enough money to support myself, so took employment at the Cross Keys—

  Oh? Did he? Yes, it is true - working in the kitchen and waiting at table. It was hard work, more strenuous than I was accustomed to, over long hours and for low pay, but I had at least bed and board. More importantly, I was in a position to gather news of Mr Farrow, and of his new house, Fourwinds, which had excited much local interest. I learned of the recent tragic loss of his wife, and that he had two daughters. My half-sisters! No sooner had I learned of their existence than I longed to meet them. I had no intention of disclosing my identity, and in fact no further plan than to satisfy my curiosity. However, within the course of a few days I overheard several very intriguing conversations, beginning with news of a scandal. I learned that the governess, Miss Eliza Hardacre, had been keeping company with a male employee of Mr Farrow’s; both she and he had fallen out of favour, and were dismissed.

  Here was an opportunity, the best I should ever have! On my first free afternoon, I presented myself at Fourwinds, where I asked to see Mr Farrow. He was still, of course, in mourning for his late wife, and I -I - then, I felt for him most piteously, and for my sisters. Giving away nothing of my background, I said that I had heard of the vacancy for a governess, and o
ffered my services. He was a little suspicious at first, but I was able to reassure him as to my suitability, and gave him character references from my school. I did not see either of my half-sisters on that occasion, and had to return to the Cross Keys in a fidget of agitation. The house itself, this beautiful house, so lovingly built, so perfectly crafted, had cast a spell on me, Samuel, as I believe it did with you, when you first saw it. I yearned to see it again, to examine every room, every aspect, almost as strongly as I longed to meet its inhabitants - my secret family, as I ventured to think of them. I had to wait almost a week before I received a letter offering me the post. Mr Farrow explained that the role I was to fill was partly that of governess, partly companion, in view of the sad loss of the girls’ mother.

  Yes. Charlotte Agnew is my real name. I had no choice but to use it, because of the need to procure a character reference. If the name Agnew had meant anything to Mr Farrow, I should have attempted to pass it off as coincidence; it is not an uncommon name. He made no comment, and I continued in my deception. Presumably, since her status in his parents’ home was a lowly one, he knew my mother only as Violet.

  My first impression? I could not help gazing at him in fascination - which I attempted to conceal. He struck me as a handsome man - I tried in vain to see any resemblance to my own unremarkable face. His manner was charming, reassuring. He seemed so - so solid - there in the stylish house he had built to his requirements, surrounded by all the accoutrements of wealth and stability. Yet he must be my father, for Violet had been adamant that he was her only lover before she was married; he was the great passion of her youth. I could not feel bitter towards him for the life of comfort he led; for, if he had known of my mother’s predicament, who is to say that he would not have done all he could to help her?