Set in Stone (9 page)

‘Come, Mr Godwin,’ I said, rising from my seat. ‘This good food must not go to waste.’

He followed me to the sideboard. ‘I have noticed before,’ he remarked, ‘how you avoid the subject – but that only arouses my curiosity all the more.’

Lifting the lid of a chafing dish, I served myself with poached eggs. ‘On the contrary. I am quite willing to tell you what little I know. You must remember that I have never encountered Mr Waring, for he left Fourwinds before I arrived.’ I returned to my place. ‘There was evidently a dispute between him and Mr Farrow. Mr Waring had been living here while he carried out the work, in Yew Tree Cottage, one of the outbuildings. He was at work on the fourth carving, the West Wind, when a fierce altercation resulted in Mr Farrow dismissing him. It is not known whether he destroyed the final carving, or took it away with him. Coffee, Mr Godwin?’

‘Thank you. And the cause of the dispute?’

‘That I do not know.’

Samuel assimilated this, and ate his bacon in silence.

‘And yet,’ he went on, after this pause, ‘Mr Farrow was not offended enough to abandon the whole project? He could, if he wished, have discarded or sold off the first three Winds, and engaged another sculptor – but he did not. The North, East and South Winds are in their positions, and the fourth wall remains blank. Surely he intends to complete the sequence?’

‘I believe so. The girls, you see, have become fond of the first three Winds, and insisted on their being placed in position. Mr Farrow once mentioned his wish to find another sculptor, to make the West Wind in imitation of Gideon Waring’s style. However, such a man is not easy to find.’

‘I should think not!’ he exclaimed. ‘It would be a pity if the West Wind were a poor imitation of the other three. But I am most curious about the nature of the quarrel. It cannot have concerned the quality of the work; that much is evident. About money, then? Mr Waring did not think he was being paid enough?’

‘I have told you, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘As it is not my concern, I have wasted no time in speculation.’

He was silenced by this rebuff. At that moment Alice interrupted us, bringing hot water and fresh toast. ‘Excuse me, Miss Agnew, but Mr Farrow has finished his breakfast and wishes to see you in his study at nine o’clock.’

This was unusual, but I was not sorry to terminate the conversation with Samuel. Quickly completing my
meal, I excused myself and tidied my hair and dress before going to Mr Farrow’s study.

He called, ‘Come in,’ in answer to my knock; not looking up from his papers, he gestured that I should sit. Waiting, I found myself gazing at the photographs on his desk. There were two: one showed poor Constance, Mrs Farrow, smiling over an armful of flowers; in the other, Juliana sat on a garden bench while Marianne stood behind, an arm draped across her sister’s shoulder. It was a foolish fantasy of mine to picture myself as a part of this family grouping; to think of Mr Farrow’s glance falling on my image, his face softening into a smile of affection, in moments of distraction from his work. Since I was all but invisible to him, this was a ridiculous indulgence, but one which I permitted myself from time to time.

After a few moments he put down his pen and shuffled his papers together. He was brief.

‘Charlotte, I have pressing business matters to attend to in London; I am leaving today, and will return on Friday,’ he informed me. ‘I shall stay at my club. Tell Reynolds to have the gig ready; I shall take the midday train.’

With a nod, I assured him that I should see to it. He continued: ‘On Saturday, the Vernon-Dales and the Greenlaws are invited to dinner; I intend to introduce them to Mr Godwin. I should like you to act as hostess, since Juliana is not up to it; you may draw up the menu with Mrs Reynolds, and she will take care of everything else. Maybe you could see to the flowers.’

‘Yes, Mr Farrow, it will be my pleasure,’ I assured him, in some surprise.

I waited to see if he had any more to say; but as he did not, I turned to go. Then he added, ‘I have arranged to see Mr Godwin; perhaps you would remind him to be prompt, for I am in a hurry to leave.’

Outside his door, I stood for a few moments considering what I had just heard, before making my way to Marianne’s room to see if she were awake. No dinner party of any sort had been held at Fourwinds during my time there; as far as I knew, Ernest Farrow had not entertained guests since the death of his wife. What could have prompted this unwonted hospitality? Was it really all in honour of Samuel Godwin? If so, I wondered, slowly climbing the stairs, what role was he expected to play? Resident artist, protégé . . . or potential suitor for Juliana?

No! It was a ridiculous notion. Marianne might entertain the fancy if she chose, but I was not so foolish. I walked briskly along the corridor and rapped on Marianne’s door, to see if she were awake.

Occupied as my mind had been during the wakeful hours of the night, I now found even more to puzzle and absorb me.

I recalled my mother’s words, at home in Sydenham, when I told her of my good fortune. ‘Four Winds does sound a delightful place!’ she had remarked. ‘My only worry, Sam, is that you may find it too dull there, too quiet. You are accustomed to London, and to the company of your friends at the Slade – you will be lonely.’ Though I had dismissed her anxiety, my concern had been that my situation with the Farrows might lack the challenge – and the need to compete with my art-school fellows – necessary to develop my skills.

By now, however, I had formed a rather different picture. Fourwinds was delightful indeed, constantly surprising me with new discoveries: the face of a Green Man, almost hidden by carved leaves, in the arch of the door to the servants’ wing; the beauty and craftsmanship of a simple wooden bench in a corner of the garden; a window-catch shaped like a dragon.
Yet the harmonious setting, in which no detail had been overlooked, in which nothing was ugly or out of place, was at odds with the lives lived within its walls. I could no longer cross the vestibule, or climb the staircase, without seeing the broken, spread-eagled form of Mrs Farrow there, so vivid that I had to avert my eyes; without hearing Marianne’s cry as she witnessed her mother’s fatal plunge. I could no longer sit at Mr Farrow’s dinner-table without contemplating the dreadful loss he had suffered, and which he must face anew every day of his life. I could no longer look at Marianne – and of course I frequently
did
look at her, for my eyes tracked her every movement – without wondering what torment lay behind her beautiful eyes, or at Juliana, without speculating that the calmness of her manner hid mental disturbance of a less obvious kind. Having myself only recently sustained the shock of bereavement, I could appreciate that the spectacular manner of Mrs Farrow’s death could hardly have caused more distress to her husband and daughters.

The announcement of Saturday’s dinner party, at least, seemed to herald an end to formal grieving. ‘Well, you are in favour,’ Charlotte remarked, after Mr Farrow had given me the news.

Unsure of her tone, I looked at her askance. ‘You will be present?’

‘Of course,’ Charlotte replied. ‘It is my duty.’

I stifled a smile. How typical of Charlotte, to represent the promise of pleasure as merely an extension of her duties! For myself, I was looking forward to the
occasion, for it showed that my role here was not merely as art teacher and employee, but as valued member of the household. Mr Farrow had hinted that the Saturday dinner guests were wealthy and influential people: that, in other words, if they liked the work I did for
him
, further commissions or recommendations would be likely to follow.

Anyone observing me that afternoon as I conducted the daily drawing lesson would have considered that Samuel Godwin was a fortunate fellow indeed. Juliana, Marianne and I had arranged our stools in the shade of a holm oak; the weather was fair, my companions charming. Beyond the paddock, the grazing horses, and the trees in full summer beauty, the sweep of the Downs was hazed in blue. The gentlest of breezes cooled our faces; the burbling of skylarks and the scream of swifts filled the sky with those most exuberant of summer sounds.

Juliana had expressed a wish to draw the horses in the paddock, and in particular her white mare, Queen Bess. Charlotte, evidently considering by now that the girls were safe with me unchaperoned, had gone indoors to make arrangements for Saturday with Mrs Reynolds. Marianne had tired of our company, and had wandered down towards the lake, to draw the bulrushes by the little boathouse; and thus, for the first time, I found myself alone with Juliana.

As a pupil, she was inept. Horses are not the easiest subject, especially for someone with as little knowledge of their anatomy, and such poor powers of observation, as Juliana. I suggested that she execute
a series of rapid sketches, to free her style a little; but the bulbous joints, ungainly postures and stiff necks she produced on paper did no justice to the graceful animals before us. She was nothing, though, if not diligent. Where Marianne would have tossed her pencil aside and given up in disgust, Juliana toiled on, painstakingly trying to put my advice into practice. Our concentration – for I, too, was attempting to draw her favourite, although I know little of horses – was broken only by the occasional remark, or request for help from my pupil. I noticed that something seemed changed in her manner today, as if she were nourishing a secret excitement. Juliana – in complete contrast to her sister – was not given to outward displays of feeling; so when I say that her manner suggested excitement, I mean that she revealed it in small, private smiles, and occasional fidgets and murmurings as she surveyed her work.

Meanwhile, I had become interested in the outbuildings on the opposite side of the paddock, behind the stables. Usually, from the house and garden, these buildings were concealed behind the stable block, but our present vantage point brought them into view. The stables, new and with every modern convenience, had been built at the same time as the house; but the ivy-covered cottage I was looking at, together with some tumbledown structures nearby, obviously pre-dated the recently built Fourwinds. These outbuildings, I assumed, had belonged to the earlier dwelling, the old house of which Charlotte had told me.

‘That,’ I remarked, noticing the inky dark of the yew tree that partly obscured the roof, ‘is Yew Tree Cottage, I presume?’

The effect on Juliana was instantaneous. A deep flush reddened her cheeks; she turned her head so that the brim of her hat shielded her face from me; but too late. I had seen.

‘Yes, it is.’

I could not think why the mere pronouncing of its name should cause such consternation, but here was my chance – away from Charlotte’s controlling presence – to ask some pertinent questions.

‘Mr Waring, the sculptor, used to live there, did he not? Is it inhabited now?’ I put to her – though the place wore such a neglected, shut-up look that this did not seem likely.

‘It has stood empty since Gideon – I mean, Mr Waring – left us,’ Juliana answered.

‘And he went away quite suddenly, I understand? Before the Four Winds project was completed?’

‘Did Charlotte tell you that?’

‘Yes. But she gave no reason for his sudden departure.’

To my surprise, Juliana said, without prompting: ‘It was my father’s doing. He took against Mr Waring for nothing at all! He would not be satisfied until he had driven him from the premises.’

‘He must have had some good reason, surely?’

Juliana merely shook her head, not seeming to trust herself to speak.

‘You were aware of this at the time?’ I enquired.

‘Yes, I—’ Again her cheeks flushed deeper. ‘I liked Gideon Waring, you see. I thought of him as my friend. Father did not know – he would have forbidden it – but Miss Hardacre and I used to come across to his workshop, to watch him and to talk with him. And sometimes I came alone.’

‘Miss Hardacre?’

‘Our governess, before Charlotte came. She went away, too – to be married.’

‘So,’ I said, ‘your father must have had some particular objection to your acquaintance with Mr Waring?’

‘I do not know what it was. When he found out, Father was angry. And then Gideon left very suddenly – I did not even have the chance to wish him farewell. I was so sorry – I—’ She looked at me sidelong, with evident consternation at saying so much, but plunged on: ‘I felt his loss very keenly. He was such an . . . interesting man. And kind, too— Oh, if only he were here now! I miss him so.’

‘I see.’ I sketched on for a few moments, thinking over this revelation. Clearly my own company did not make up for the loss of Gideon Waring’s; but Juliana had spoken with such uncharacteristic impetuousness that I did not think she intended to slight me.

‘You say that your governess went away to be married,’ I ventured. ‘You don’t mean that she became Mrs Waring?’

‘Oh, no! No! That was only—’ Visibly, she checked herself. ‘Eliza – Miss Hardacre, as she was – is very happily married to Matthew Dearly, a gardener. They lived for a while in Petersfield, but have lately come
back to Sussex – Matthew Dearly has taken up employment with Mr Vernon-Dale.’

‘Vernon-Dale?’ I repeated. I had been introduced, briefly, to the Vernon-Dales at church; they were among the guests Mr Farrow had invited to dinner on Saturday.

‘Yes, the Vernon-Dales, at Rampions. It is a grand house and estate not far from here – you will no doubt see it. Might I . . . ?’ Juliana glanced at me, then away.

‘Yes?’ I prompted.

She took a deep breath. ‘Mr Godwin – might I ask a favour of you?’

‘Of course you may. What is it?’

‘I should like you to keep a secret from Papa. You see’ – she gave me a look of beguiling openness – ‘I plan to invite Eliza to visit me, while he is away.’

It could not escape my notice that heightened colour and animation gave Juliana a glow her features lacked in their customary repose. The delicacy of her skin, the pale-gold gleam of the tendrils of hair escaping from her brimmed hat, the direct gaze of her blue eyes, made a pretty picture indeed. Marianne’s looks were so striking that she easily eclipsed her sister when they were together; but, alone, Juliana had charms enough to command male attention.