Set in Stone (21 page)

She closed her eyes and shook her head rapidly. ‘No! Don’t ask it of me, Charlotte, please – don’t speak of this again! If, truly, you care for me, you will not.’

It was impossible to dissemble any longer; I must speak more directly. ‘Dearest,’ I said softly, still on my knees, ‘I believe I have guessed your secret – I think I know why you said, just now, that Samuel is too good for you, though you are wrong – quite wrong! If you tell me that – that what I believe to be true,
is
true, I think you will find your mind eased – we can talk together, you can unburden yourself. It has drained
you, nurturing this secret for so long – I am only sorry it took me so long to divine the truth.’

So still was she, that for a moment I thought she had stopped breathing.

‘I am right, am I not,’ I said gently, ‘that little Thomas Dearly is – is your own child?’

Still she seemed arrested in shock, and I doubted that she could have heard me. Although I did not want to, I was about to repeat what I had said, when she turned away from me with a flinging motion, and covered her face with both hands. As I embraced her, a sob broke from her, shaking her frame.

‘Juliana, my love! It is not your fault, what has occurred – most emphatically not your fault!’ I murmured. ‘Gideon Waring – that wicked man – ought to be taken out and shot, for abusing you so! And Eliza Dearly – I know she calls herself your friend, and she has the care of the boy – but she too has most appallingly misused your trust. My poor girl – what terrible torment you have suffered!’

For long moments she was unable to speak at all. Deep, soundless sobs racked her; she seemed to struggle for breath. Alarmed lest she should collapse, I was almost relieved when she began to weep openly, inconsolably. After fetching first a fresh handkerchief, and then a glass of water, I soothed her while she sobbed. At last, when she had quite exhausted herself, I urged her to lie down on the bed, and rang for a pot of tea, which I intercepted at the door so that Alice should not see her distress and wonder at the cause of it.

‘Charlotte,’ Juliana said at last in a broken voice, huddling into herself like a small child, ‘you are very kind, and I am half glad that you know. But it is impossible for you or anyone else to help me, so please don’t attempt it.’

‘I won’t believe that!’ I cried. ‘You must not blame yourself! You were hardly more than a child yourself. Blame him – blame
them
– never yourself. It was seeing that woman last week – seeing the child – that has brought it all freshly back to you. Oh, Juliana, if only I had been your companion then, instead of
her
– how different things would have been! But you must think of your own happiness now – your own future . . .’

‘I have no future,’ Juliana said, in a low, flat voice. ‘Only to spend the rest of my life in contemplation of what cannot be changed or put right. Only to carry on as I am. Yes, you are right, I have suffered – I suffer every day and every night in the knowledge of what has happened; and I can see no end to it, for the past cannot be undone.’

‘But, my dear, here is a chance of happiness – you must seize it with both hands!’ I exclaimed. ‘Here is Samuel, who will surely come to love you, if he does not already—’

‘No!’ Fretfully, Juliana turned her head away and put a hand over her eyes as though finding the daylight too much to bear. ‘Can’t you see – his presence here only adds to my anguish? Yes, if things had been different – yes, I could love him – maybe I
do
love him. But I am not worthy of him – never, never! Don’t you see, Charlotte, what you are suggesting? That I
should deceive a good man into marrying me, concealing the fact that I have borne a child? Are you truly proposing that he should be kept in ignorance? That lies and deceit should be the basis on which my marriage is to be built?’

‘No, I did not think that,’ I ventured, though this part of the plan was hazy in my own mind.

‘Then you have hardly thought at all. How can you have, Charlotte?’ Juliana remonstrated. ‘If you think such a – a hindrance – can be easily put behind me, you have no comprehension of my torments, for all you claim to understand me. How can you begin to know? I have hidden my feelings so very cleverly, have I not? Well enough to keep you in ignorance, you who thought you knew me? But how can I live, otherwise – without keeping my feelings in suppression? When I must spend every day in the knowledge that I have a darling little boy I can only be allowed to glimpse, and whom I hate as well as love – and when I know, know beyond all doubt, that I killed my own mother—’

‘Killed?’ I echoed. ‘How, killed? Juliana, what are you saying?’

She had sat upright to say this; her red-rimmed eyes almost glittered as she gazed at me. Almost in fear, I shrank back, and she gave a humourless laugh.

‘Oh – I don’t mean that I pushed her to her death. I am not a murderer. But I killed her all the same – she died because of me. The shame and disgrace were too much to bear. I told her! I told her – and she took her own life in the shock of that knowledge. I often think that the only course left open to me – if only I
were brave enough – is to follow her by taking my own.’ Her face contorted as though for a fresh bout of weeping.

‘Juliana, my love!’ I implored her. ‘You must not think so, not for a moment – it is a – a dreadful distortion!’ I moved towards her; but swiftly she regained her self-control, rose from the bed and surveyed her face in the mirror. Fiercely she began to work at her half-complete hairstyle, tugging at the brush, wincing.

Aghast, I watched. Her reddened eyes caught mine in the mirror; at first her gaze flickered away, then returned to meet mine, unafraid. ‘Leave me now, Charlotte,’ she commanded. ‘I must be left alone.’

Outside, I stood by the door in indecision and dismay. My plan, designed to bring her comfort and hope, could scarcely have gone more badly awry. What mischief had I wrought, all unintending?

Fourwinds

3rd July, 1898

Dear Mrs Dearly
,

To my consternation, I have recently discovered that your husband has taken employment with Mr Vernon-Dale, and that this has brought you back from Petersfield, where I had thought you were settled. I am surprised that you have not had the consideration to inform me of this move
.

I am most concerned that my daughter should not come into contact, whether accidentally or by intention, with yourself or with the child. She is, as you know, of a nervous disposition, and such a meeting would cause her unnecessary distress. I must therefore ask you never to come near Fourwinds or to enter its grounds, and if you should chance to see my daughter in Staverton or its environs, to take every means of avoiding an encounter
.

The payments will continue, under the terms of our
agreement, on the assumption that these conditions will be met. As you probably know, I am a close acquaintance of Mr Vernon-Dale, and could if necessary take measures which would render your husband’s employment insecure. I am confident that you will take heed of my request and avoid any such unpleasant eventuality
.

I trust that you, your husband and the boy are in good health
.

Yours sincerely
,

Ernest Farrow

Artists, as I was discovering at every social encounter, cannot quite be taken seriously unless they exhibit signs of a volatile temperament. Plenty of my fellows at the Slade did their best to live up to this model; as for myself, I could not change my nature, and saw no reason for adapting my behaviour. If anyone mistook my quiet nature for dullness, why, let them – my inner thoughts were my own, and I did not find myself dull company.

Now, though, I found myself consumed by a passion large enough to match anyone’s expectations of artistic instability. I could not rest – could scarcely trust myself to speak to anyone in the household – until I had been to Chichester and sought out that villain, Waring.

I informed Mr Farrow that I wished to spend a night away from Fourwinds. Although puzzled, he did not question me further; and when I explained to Charlotte, I avoided telling an outright lie by saying, ‘I have had a letter from my friend Chas, from the Slade. He has asked me to join him and another mutual friend in Brighton.’

‘I see,’ she said. ‘I suppose you are tired of our company here.’

‘Not at all,’ I told her. I had come to find her in the garden, where, in a rather becoming straw boater, she was snipping rose-stems for the dining table. Their sun-warmed scent was around us as we spoke, and a turtledove crooned from the cedar’s shade. I could not resist adding, ‘You have only just returned from the seaside yourself! You cannot begrudge me the same pleasure.’

She straightened. ‘My trip was not for
pleasure
, Mr Godwin.’ I noticed the return to formality. ‘Do you imagine I have been cavorting in the waves, or playing with bucket and spade?’

‘Well! Since you have told us almost nothing, you must pardon the mistake,’ I told her.

‘It’s possible that I might have confided in you.’ She flicked an earwig from its rose-petal nest. ‘But your sudden haste to leave makes private conversation impossible.’

‘I am at your service,’ I said, pantomiming listening, hand cupped to ear.

‘No, no.’ She bent again to select a tightly furled bud. ‘Don’t let me detain you from your friends.’

‘Charlotte,’ I said, urged by some rash impulse, ‘let me be honest with you. I misled you just now. I’m sorry. It’s true that my friends have invited me to Brighton. But I’m not going there.’

‘Oh? You have some secret assignation?’ She still sounded disapproving.

‘Not an assignation – but a quest.’ I looked around
to check that no one was within earshot. ‘I am going in search of Gideon Waring.’

‘Gideon Waring?’ Charlotte seemed to receive the name as a blow; her eyes, round and startled, gazed at me from beneath her hat brim. ‘You cannot mean that!’

‘I can, and I do. I have been making enquiries, and believe I know where to find him. It appears he is in Chichester, and must have travelled from there that day I saw him by the lake.’

‘In Chichester! So close!’ Charlotte said, though Chichester was half a day’s journey away. ‘I must urge you to abandon your plan – go to Brighton, if you will, meet your friends, but don’t waste your thoughts, or your time, on Gideon Waring! That man is a brute – believe me, for I know more than you do. What can you hope to gain by meeting him?’

Here I faltered, for I could not tell her my true purpose – if, indeed, I knew what that was. The truth was that the sculptor both intrigued and repelled me; but delicacy forbade me to mention Marianne’s drawings, or what I suspected. At the very least, I wanted to extract a promise that he would never again come near Fourwinds, or Marianne; but I knew too that when I confronted Waring, I should scarcely resist laying violent hands on him.

‘I have my reasons,’ I told her. ‘However regrettable his conduct has been, his work is fascinating. I want to meet the man who shaped our three Winds – to talk to him. I want to discover what has happened to the fourth. You know how much it would put
Marianne’s mind at rest, if the West Wind could be found, and put in position.’

‘Yes,’ said Charlotte, ‘but you are taking too much upon yourself – interfering in Mr Farrow’s concerns, and without his permission. Mr Waring’s departure from here was acrimonious, and whatever brought him here that morning cannot have been above board. To be perfectly frank, it is no business of yours. Mr Farrow will find another sculptor in good time.’

‘Maybe he will,’ I said obstinately, ‘but I am intent on going, and nothing you say is likely to sway me.’

‘I urge you, do not go!’ Charlotte repeated. ‘Don’t go near the man! He has proved himself untrustworthy – he will lie to you – he will turn you against Mr Farrow, against all of us!’

‘I repeat – you may protest all you like, but my mind is quite made up that I shall go. And, as you told me, you have never met Mr Waring, so how can you be so sure?’

‘I have my reasons,’ said Charlotte quietly.

‘And I have mine. You must permit me, I think, to do as I please with my spare time? You are governess to Marianne – not, though, to me.’

I had ventured too far. Charlotte faced me with an audible
humph
, her eyes blazing. In her efforts to cut the best blooms, she had ventured off the lawn and into the flowerbed, treading carefully on the dry, crumbled soil; she now began to extricate herself, lifting her skirts, and would, I suspected, have marched off and left me. However, the fabric of her dress had snagged itself on a rose thorn; turning to examine the
impediment, she only succeeded in entrapping herself more thoroughly. Pulling herself free would badly rip her clothing.

‘Here, let me,’ I said, with a touch of amusement, for I knew how it would enrage her to accept my assistance. I bent, and carefully released her skirt, and the petticoat beneath, from the sharp grip of the thorn. In her effort to twist away from me, she almost overbalanced; one arm wavered, while the other hand clasped the bunch of roses. I took the bouquet from her – snagging my thumb as I did so on a thorny stem – gripped her free hand and steadied her as she stepped onto the lawn. Glaring balefully, she almost snatched the roses back from me, and smoothed the folds of her dress.

‘If you persist, I shall tell Mr Farrow,’ she said – not giving me a word of thanks.

‘Very well,’ I told her. ‘You must do as you think best.’

As I strode across the lawn to the house, I looked down at my thumb, and saw a dark drop of blood oozing from the skin.

Without speaking to anyone else, I asked Reynolds to drive me to the station. I preferred to avoid either giving explanations or telling lies. Since Charlotte’s return from Eastbourne, I could not but notice that Juliana was newly saddened, though I had no idea why. As for Marianne: since giving me her sketches, she had seemed embarrassed, barely meeting my eye.
Unsure what, if anything, to say, I returned her book to her room while she was out of doors.