Set in Stone (19 page)

Listening, I tried to hear whether Juliana was at the piano indoors; its sound on the air would have completed the perfection of the evening. She had been playing earlier in the afternoon. I had not recognized the tune, but it was probably Chopin, her favourite – something minor key, part playful, part regretful. Its mood of longing had pulled me to the doorway of the drawing room, where I stood very still, watching her. She was alone; her face was still and serious, drawn into a pretty frown of concentration, her head bent; her lack of awareness of being observed added charm to the tableau. I could paint her like this, I thought; for today I felt my fingers itching with more pictures than I could hold in my head, my mind tingling with light and colour and atmosphere. If I did so, I should
want to paint the music, to have the air of the room filled with its tones, so that the observer could hear as clearly as see, could be saddened and gladdened and teased by it. Although I did not want to break the spell by letting Juliana see me, I loitered there, knowing that if I stepped forward into the room, she would reward me with a look of welcoming radiance.

Now, catching myself smiling all over again, I allowed myself to entertain the fancy that this, if I chose, could be my future. I saw myself as Juliana’s husband; imagined myself approaching my pretty wife at the piano, stooping to kiss her, inhaling the scent of her perfume, her hair; I would ask her to play my favourite piece, and she would gladly oblige.

Why not?

The idea was not of my own devising, but once planted in my mind it was proving difficult to dislodge. With it came the knowledge that, in this little scene, Fourwinds would be mine, or destined to be mine – for Juliana would inherit, and I with her. If we had a son, he would be heir to Fourwinds, and Mr Farrow’s purpose would be achieved, at one remove – for this conjectural son would be a Godwin, not a Farrow.

Why not? What is to stop you?
goaded my insistent inner voice.

I do not love her
, I answered at once.

No, you do not, but that can easily be overcome
.

But what of Marianne?

You must forget Marianne. She is not for you
.

But . . . but . . . I do not like this scheming way of thinking. It sits uneasily with thoughts of marriage
.

Do nothing. Be compliant. Accept what is offered you
.

This train of thought was disturbing, for I feared that persuasive inner traitor.

Leave me alone. Don’t tempt me like this
.

Briskly, matter-of-factly, I marshalled my arguments. I was only one-and-twenty, still young to be thinking of marriage; I had no means of supporting a wife; when I did consider it, I should marry for love, and for nothing less. Juliana was a pleasant, amiable girl; she would be a loving and devoted wife to – to whoever was lucky enough to win her . . .

Finding that I did not like this thought either, I called myself to attention, and set myself the task of mixing the precise shade of purplish-grey I needed for cold shadow on stone. I managed to concentrate for some while on the rendering of shade around the figure of the North Wind.

When I heard the clop of hooves and the rumble of wheels, I realized that the light had faded too much to continue. I began to put away my tubes of paint, leaving my brushes to soak in turpentine. The chaise bowled up to the door, and Charlotte alighted, thanking Reynolds for coming out so late to meet her. Hector, the pony, had seen me in the shadows; his ears pricked alertly towards me, like those of a gun dog.

‘Good evening, Charlotte! Let me take your bag.’ As I stepped forward, Reynolds touched his cap and drove on towards the stables. The tread of hooves quickened to a neat trot, fading beneath the trees; the warm smell of horsehide and sweat lingered behind. Charlotte and I stood smiling at each other.

‘I am happy to see you back,’ I told her. ‘I hope you’re not too tired after your journey?’

‘I am very glad to return. No, not tired at all.’

I felt then that I should very much like to speak to Charlotte alone – to tell her of all that had happened during her absence – but, of course, both girls clamoured for her company. My enquiries about the nature of her visit to Eastbourne were met with the same reticence as before; all she would say was that it was some business matter concerning a distant relative, something tedious, and not quite concluded. ‘I may be called upon to return there, at some time in the future,’ she added, ‘but it’s of no great importance, and need not concern us now.’

We had moved into the vestibule. I saw Charlotte’s eyes lift to the study door on the half-landing; and as if prompted by her glance, the door opened and Mr Farrow came down the stairs towards us.

‘So! You have come back. I hope you had a tolerable journey.’

She turned towards him, smiling. ‘Good evening, sir. Yes, I—’

‘Well, we have managed perfectly well by ourselves.’ He stood between Juliana and Marianne, his arms resting lightly on their shoulders. ‘We hardly noticed you were gone. Our dinner party went splendidly without you.’

My eyes were on Charlotte’s face; I saw her glad expression change to one of hurt rebuff, which she immediately concealed. ‘I am pleased to hear it,’ she replied.

‘
I
missed you!’ said Marianne, ducking away from her father, and taking Charlotte’s arm. ‘So did Juley! Let me tell you all about the guests, and the ladies’ dresses, and—’ She would have moved into the morning room, but her father said, ‘Don’t bore Miss Agnew with your chatter, Marianne.’

‘I am not bored,’ Charlotte replied.

Mr Farrow nodded. ‘Well, it’s good to see you back,’ he said.

‘Charlotte, you must be tired, and hungry besides,’ said Juliana. ‘I have asked Mrs Reynolds to have something ready.’

I wished I had thought of that myself – for Charlotte had looked after me better, when I had been the weary traveller. Fifteen minutes later she was seated in the dining room with a light meal of soup, bread and fruit.

Shortly after, at my urging, the two girls retired to bed, content that she was back under their roof. I stayed on, taking my chance for the private conversation I had wanted; but of course, the two subjects most occupying me could not easily be broached with Charlotte. Namely: the contrivances that seemed intent on pairing me with Juliana; and the determination I had formed, of travelling to Chichester at the first opportunity, to seek out Gideon Waring. Instead, I attempted to make up for Mr Farrow’s brusqueness.

‘Don’t take to heart what he said just now – for I could see you felt slighted. We all missed you sorely, especially at the dinner party. He felt your absence as much as we did, I am sure. This is just his way.’

Charlotte looked bleak for a moment. I understood how highly she prized Mr Farrow’s approval, and how keenly she felt any slight. Quickly she changed the subject, asking me about my impressions of the dinner guests, and how the drawing lessons were progressing, and whether there had been any more instances of sleepwalking on Marianne’s part.

‘No, I think not,’ I answered. ‘Juliana, at her own suggestion, has been sleeping in Marianne’s room, and neither has mentioned any disturbance. I’m sure, though,’ I added, ‘that all of us will sleep more soundly, now that you’re back with us.’

‘Thank you, Samuel, for all you have done during my absence. Knowing that you were here made me a good deal easier in my mind than I should have been otherwise.’

It struck me at once – this was the very first time she had dropped her reserve sufficiently to address me as Samuel. Secretly pleased, I protested that I had done nothing at all; and on that cordial note of mutual appreciation, we wished each other goodnight.

Upstairs in my room, I sat as usual with my windows thrown open to the air, for I loved to hear the night sounds: the owl that haunted the grounds, the baaing of sheep from the hillside, the little nameless squeaks and cries of small animals or birds about their nocturnal business. After a while, at the risk of attracting moths and other flying insects, I turned on the lamp, and fetched my sketchbook.

It had become my custom, for the half-hour or so before getting into bed, to work on a set of drawings
I did not intend anyone to see. Some were of Juliana, for I had become intrigued by the sadness that belied her habitual air of mild content. Most, though, were of Marianne, and from memory, for I would not risk discovery by putting pencil to paper in her presence.

Whilst in London, and a frequent visitor to galleries and exhibitions, I had become much interested in the work of Dante Gabriel Rossetti. My tutor at the Slade had been scathing on the one occasion when I mentioned this, condemning Rossetti for lack of technique and for sensationalism. He directed my attention instead towards Ingres, Stubbs, Reynolds and Gainsborough, but Rossetti’s paintings continued to attract me. More accurately, I should say that his women fascinated me, with their bold glances, their sensually curved lips, and their rippling manes of hair. Since I had come to Fourwinds, Rossetti’s Mary Nazarene, his Beata Beatrix, and his Damsel of the Holy Grail, had been replaced in my thoughts by Marianne. Marianne as I dreamed of her, Marianne as I tortured myself my imagining her: her flesh-tones, her wondrous hair, her peculiar intensity that seemed to impress her personality on mine. Maybe Marianne matched the ideal that these paintings had formed in my mind, and that was why I had immediately been attracted to her; or perhaps her beauty and personality had supplanted all other images, making me almost believe that Rossetti had her in mind while he gazed at his model.

I worked at my drawing, concentrating on the glint of eye-white, the lips softly parted, the texture of hair. I could possess her in this way, if in no other.

Footsteps in the corridor outside barely disturbed my concentration; I assumed it to be Charlotte, on her way to her room. When the steps paused at my threshold, I listened more keenly. After a pause came a light rapping at my door – yes, Charlotte it could only be, come with some query, or some important reminder.

And so my smile was for Charlotte as I opened the door.

It was Marianne who stood there – in a long white nightgown, a fringed shawl of peacock blues and greens thrown over it, her hair loose about her shoulders, and her eyes – the eyes I had just been trying to capture with line and shade – looking brightly into mine. Had it not been for the intentness of those eyes, I should have suspected her of sleepwalking again. I found myself thinking of Ophelia, in the Millais painting – beautiful drowned Ophelia, clutching her posy of wild flowers, her hair floating on the water.

‘Samuel, let me come in.’ She was almost past me – quickly I stretched out an arm to the door-frame, barring entry.

‘You cannot!’ My heart was beating so powerfully that I felt sure Marianne must hear it.

‘I want to show you something.’ She held, not a posy, but her sketchbook. ‘Please, Samuel, don’t be stuffy. It’s important.’

The gallery was in darkness; the household was asleep; the only light came from the lamp on my bureau. ‘What is it?’

‘Let me in – I’ll show you.’

I hesitated; no one need know. ‘Very well – but only for a moment. It is not seemly, Marianne, for you to visit me here, and at this hour – you know that.’ I dropped my arm, and as she entered, quickly crossed the room to close my own drawing pad, which lay open on the bureau.

She made a small sound of derision at my warning. ‘I saw your light – I knew you were still up. What are you doing, so late?’

‘Reading,’ I lied. I saw her eyes flickering round my room with interest, resting on each of my possessions in turn. ‘Now, what is it that cannot wait till morning?’

She flicked open her sketchbook, and held it out to me. ‘I wanted to show you this. The West Wind. I know you are just as intrigued as I am. I meant what I said at dinner, Samuel – the West Wind must be found! Everything will go amiss, until he is in his place.’

She gazed at me earnestly – almost passionately. Not for the first time, I found myself wondering if she could really be in her right mind; this seemed such an obsession with her.

‘He?’ I queried. ‘You are sure of that?’

‘Oh yes.’

Taking her drawing, I carried it over to the lamp to study it. She waited in silence. I looked up at her; looked back at the page.

‘You see,’ she offered, ‘when I picked up your sketch the other day, I saw that you had been trying to guess – but you had made him female, and quite different in character.’

‘You looked at my sketch?’ For a dizzying instant I thought myself discovered; then gratefully remembered that the drawings of her were in a separate book, which never left my room.

‘Yes.’ She coloured slightly. ‘You left it lying on the bench while you went to fetch something. I did not think you would mind.’

I did mind; but could hardly reprimand her, in the knowledge that I had been identically tempted by
her
sketchings. ‘My attempt was all wrong, you say – how can you know that?’

‘Because . . .’ She came nearer, and gestured towards the book in my hand.

I turned the page and looked. ‘When did you draw this?’

‘Some while ago – when Mr Waring was with us.’

‘And you copied this? From a sketch of his? Or – from the carving itself?’

She darted me a look in which fear and daring were mingled. ‘Yes. I have seen it.’

‘So a carving exists? You have seen it here? Marianne, you have never told me that – though I am certain I’ve asked you. Where was it?’

‘I did see! Why won’t you believe me? No one else did. Gideon was . . . secretive, about his carvings. He would never let Papa see the pieces until they were finished. But he let me watch him in his workshop. He never minded.’

‘Why was that?’ I asked sharply.

‘Because I was interested. I loved to watch him at work. His hands – how skilled they were, how clever.
The same way I love to watch you paint, now,’ she said simply, ‘when you don’t object.’

She was standing a little too close. My senses were so full of her that I could hardly breathe. If I moved my hand towards her, I could entwine it in her hair, trace with my finger the smooth line of her neck – I swallowed, making an involuntary gulping sound – surely she could not be unaware? With one movement I could draw her to me, let my arms enfold her strong, supple body, I could inhale the perfume of her skin, her hair, I could—