Set in Stone (20 page)

‘Marianne,’ I said, and making a stern effort to master myself, I took a step back, colliding awkwardly with the chest of drawers, ‘you must go now. Goodnight.’ I stepped round her, moving towards the door. ‘I hope you will sleep well. Thank you for showing me this,’ I added, realizing that I still held her book. ‘Maybe I shall borrow it another day, if you agree. I should like to make a copy.’

‘Keep it now!’ Following me, she paused in the doorway. ‘I want you to look at the other drawings there. Samuel, please?’

‘Of course, if that is what you wish.’

She left without wishing me goodnight, as if suddenly anxious to be gone. I waited while she ran lightly down the stairs towards her own room; then closed my door, went to the window and inhaled deeply. Marianne! Breathing out, I pronounced her name soundlessly. Blood was pulsing fast through my veins; I was tingling and hot; to tell the simple truth, I was on fire with longing. This, as I have said, can be
an almost comical state when observed in others – how mercilessly Chas and I had teased Johnny for his lusting after the furniture-shop girl! But, experienced like this, urgent and insistent, it called upon some deep, powerful instinct – an instinct that seemed to make me one with the night outside, with the stars in their courses, with the unseen creatures that lived and spawned and fought and died. What compelled their actions was the same irresistible force that stirred every part of me now. It was almost a torture to stand here, attempting to calm myself by will alone, when my blood and my heart and all my senses yearned for fulfilment.

I went to the washstand and splashed cold water over my face, hands and neck, soaking my shirt in the process. Roughly towelling myself, I paced the floor a few times; then remembered that Marianne’s room was directly underneath, and that she might hear. She could already be in bed: I pictured her abundant hair spread on a pillow, her eyes closed, her body warm in sleep – then let out a groan as I tried, against hope, to banish such thoughts from my mind.

Her drawings. I would look at her drawings, and apply my mind sternly to composition and execution. Sitting at my window, I took up the book she had handed me, and opened it at its first page.

She had been right to say that my imagined version of the West Wind was very little like hers. Allowing for the roughness of her technique, she had caught something of Waring’s style – the clean line, the simplicity, the animation. My West Wind had been a benign
female zephyr, rather anodyne, lacking the character of her brothers and sister. The figure Marianne had drawn certainly did not lack personality. He was male – I had supposed that balance and symmetry required a female, but he was emphatically male – less ethereal than his brother the East, more solidly muscled, more human. It was the face that demanded attention. Possibly, what I saw was attributable more to Marianne’s heavy-handedness than to the sculptor’s intent: a face that could have belonged to a medieval gargoyle, a face contorted with malice and scheming. Even the posture suggested creeping, spying, and furtiveness. I looked and looked, and saw that with his opposing pairs of Winds – if Marianne’s rendering was at all accurate – Waring had created various contrasts: not only the obvious warmth and coldness, but also youth against age, fear against aggression, innocence against cynicism. More than ever I longed to see the original of this, the living – for I could not avoid thinking of it as living – stone. Had Mr Farrow, I wondered, seen it and disapproved? Rejected it, even – asked Waring to start again? Could that be the cause of the rift – rather than, as Charlotte supposed, Waring’s liaison with Eliza Hardacre?

I turned the page, turned again, and again. Marianne must have drawn the sketches that followed in the grip of feverish obsession, even hallucination. She had drawn the stone figure not once, but many times; the pages seemed to tell a story. In her clumsy drawing, the gargoyle figure rose from his stone background and became a living, breathing man; he stole
up on the benign female figure of the South Wind, he gripped and overcame her, he twisted her to face him, he clasped a hand over her mouth – I caught my breath, unable to believe what I saw in the final drawing. I saw male and female body locked together; I saw grasping hands, spread legs, a humped back; I saw the act of coupling, grossly delineated—

In revulsion I turned away; then looked back, trying to make sense of what Marianne had drawn.

How could she have imagined such a thing?

Immediately the answer supplied itself:
She had not imagined
. Charlotte’s words floated into my mind: ‘Marianne has seen things that no child ought to be exposed to.’ And I knew that I was looking at Gideon Waring and Eliza Hardacre, as Marianne must have seen them – must, surely, have stumbled across them, caught unawares in careless fornication.

If
I
were shocked by what I saw here, what impression must it have made on her tender young mind?

I slapped the book shut, feeling that I was in possession of something incriminating, something filthy. What could be Marianne’s motive in bringing it to me? Why did she wish me to know what she had seen? Was there, perhaps, a kind of bravado in it, a wish to show me that she was not a child? I recalled her fear that the West Wind was gusting free; that it must be recaptured and fixed in place on its wall. Did she feel
herself
at risk, while it roamed?

I let out an appalled exclamation; I stood, sat on my bed, stood again; I was quite beside myself with the shock of realization.

It was Waring she feared; it must be. In her torment she had confused him with the Wind of his creation. Had he – had he dared to force his attentions on
her
, taking advantage of her innocent interest? Good God – the thought was not to be tolerated! And was
this
, then, the reason for his dismissal?

I paced my room; I sweated; I was nauseous with loathing and impotent with anger; my fists clenched in futile aggression.

And part of my anger was turned against myself. Had I not – only now – been indulging, even enjoying, my own aching desire? For an instant I felt the same revulsion for myself as I did for Gideon Waring; I felt tainted with his lasciviousness. Yet I could not quite call it lasciviousness; there was such pure, instinctive, single-mindedness in my yearning that I could not believe it harmful, either to myself or to the unwitting Marianne.

But
this
. . .

Eventually, slowly, I undressed for bed. I was certain I should not sleep, but was woken by early birdsong, my head teeming with images of faces and bodies, twining, grappling and writhing. That grinning gargoyle visage leered at me, mocking and triumphant.

My feelings on returning to Fourwinds were very much mixed.

Having looked forward to everything being exactly as I left it, of course I was disappointed. Juliana, though evidently much happier than when I had left her, was so irrevocably changed in my view that I hardly knew how to look at her. Samuel I planned to manipulate for my own ends, or rather for Juliana’s. Mr Farrow seemed intent on demonstrating that I had not been missed at all; it was his way, I suppose, of showing disapproval. As for myself: I was not quite the person who had departed only a few days ago, though I had determined to say and do nothing with regard to my changed circumstances. Only Marianne, full of chatter and excitement at my return, was quite as I expected.

Naturally, they were curious, all of them (Marianne overtly, the others with more discretion), about how my time had been spent in Eastbourne, and who I had seen there. Fobbing them off with vague replies, I diverted the conversation to what had happened at
home during my absence, and was gratified to learn that the dinner party had given enjoyment to all concerned. Juliana, indeed, looked as though she had more to tell me, when we were alone. However, after I had given them their presents, the two girls retired to bed, leaving me with Samuel.

Having spent so much time alone in Eastbourne, I was glad indeed to see him again. Looking at his kind grey eyes, his nose a little reddened by the sun, and a dab of green paint on one cheek (for he had been painting by the north front when I arrived in the pony-chaise), I felt a rush of affection that almost made me forget my own deviousness. Dear boy: he was such an innocent, so open in his nature, so good-hearted! Although only a year his senior, I felt decades older in worldly wisdom and scepticism.

He told me a little more of the dinner guests, and of his attendance at church with the two girls. ‘But how I ramble on!’ he concluded. ‘I am tiring you – I am sorry.’

‘Not in the least,’ I assured him; and, almost involuntarily, reached out a hand to smudge away the paint-mark from his cheek. He seemed to stop himself from flinching; then regarded me with surprise, as well he might. ‘Pardon me,’ I said, flustered; ‘I could not help it – there is paint on your cheek which I have been longing to wipe away. But I am afraid the mark is still there.’

‘It is oil paint,’ he said, with a little laugh. ‘Thank you, Charlotte – you treat me, I see, like one of your charges – like a little boy who bears the remains of
his meals on his face. I have some turpentine in my room; that will remove it.’

‘Well, it is late.’ I rose to my feet. ‘Has Marianne been sleeping soundly? You have made no mention of any disturbance.’

He assured me that she had, that Juliana’s bed was made up in her room and that I could retire to my own; and we parted for the night. As soon as I had unpacked my few things, looking with some bemusement at the scarlet blouse, which I consigned to a hanger at the very back of my wardrobe, I felt overcome with tiredness, almost too weary to prepare for bed.

Although I slept heavily, I was awake at my usual early hour, my mind very much occupied. Full of purpose, I washed and dressed. With my new resolution strong in my mind, I must lose no time.

Since my revelation on the beach at Eastbourne, in all the hours I had spent worrying and brooding, I had concluded that Samuel must, after all, marry Juliana. It was abundantly clear now that Mr Farrow had brought him to Fourwinds with precisely that end in view. No doubt there would be considerable enticements: Mr Farrow would provide Juliana with a generous dowry, and would build Samuel’s reputation as a painter. Juliana’s objections to such a marriage could, I felt, be overcome, if she believed Samuel to be genuinely attached to her. Samuel, for his part, would not marry Juliana unless he came to love her;
but this, I felt, could be brought about, with a little unobtrusive guidance from myself.

Unless I broached the subject at the first opportunity, I should be assailed by doubt. After breakfast, having arranged with Marianne that her studies would recommence at ten o’clock in the morning room, I went to find Juliana where I could speak to her alone. Having slept in the bed made up for her next to Marianne’s, she had returned to her own room to dress her hair.

‘So, my dear, how are you?’ I began. ‘I was so pleased last night to see you in better spirits than when I left.’

She was seated at the dressing table, hairbrush in hand. ‘Maybe a little,’ she replied, with the smallest of smiles.

‘Please, let me.’

She turned to face the mirror; I stood behind her, and with gentle strokes took over the brushing. Such straight, silky hair she had, the colour of ripened wheat; so delicate in its fineness, each strand so easily broken. I must take great care.

‘Mama used to do that for me, when I was a little girl,’ Juliana said, half drowsily, soothed by the sweep of the brush. ‘Do you remember your mother, Charlotte?’

‘Hardly at all.’

‘You tell us so little about yourself!’ Her eyes in the mirror met mine. ‘What do you remember? Surely you must have happy memories of her?’

‘None that I can recall. I was so young when she passed away.’

‘Poor Charlotte!’ Her gaze in the mirror was warm with feeling. ‘To have lacked a mother’s love! And yet you are so kind, almost motherly yourself. You ought to marry, and have children of your own.’

‘I see no possibility of that,’ I said brusquely; this was not what I wanted to discuss.

‘Do you not, Charlotte?’ Her reflected glance flicked up at me, almost mischievous. ‘Do you not have tender thoughts of someone very near? Do you never let yourself dream?’

She was referring to her father, of course; I was disturbed by her supposition, but she could hardly be more wrong. ‘I don’t know who you can mean,’ I prevaricated, ‘but, I assure you, I am far too sensible to do anything of the sort.’ Picking up a hairpin, I held it between my teeth, while I twisted and coiled a lock of hair. ‘Before I left for Eastbourne, you remember that we talked about Samuel.’

‘Yes?’ She looked at me alertly.

‘You spoke of your concern,’ I reminded her, ‘that he might wish to marry you.’

‘Marry me?’ As though the subject had never been mentioned between us, she gave me another quick upward glance, then cast her eyes down. ‘Yes. Of course I remember,’ she replied; I saw the faint colour that rose to her cheeks, and knew that I had material to work on. She continued, ‘Samuel is a good man, Charlotte – too good for me. At the dinner party, he could hardly have been kinder or more attentive. He saw my unease, and did all he could to smooth my path. I cannot express the gratitude I felt.’

‘I hope you have told him?’ Securing the strand of hair, I began brushing out the next.

‘Yes, I have thanked him,’ she said, still flushing; ‘inadequately, I am sure.’

‘He is, as you say, so good-hearted, so considerate, so affectionate – I should think any young lady would think herself lucky to be escorted by him,’ I told her.

Juliana was sharp enough to see my purpose. ‘Charlotte! What I have just said – I meant only to commend his qualities, nothing more. Surely you cannot be taking Papa’s side – conniving against me? You cannot!’ She turned her head away, so that the mirror showed me only her profile. ‘Not when you have promised me your help!’

Kneeling by her chair, I looked into her face. ‘Juliana – please believe me, when I tell you that your interests are dearer to me than anyone’s. I am thinking of your happiness when I say this – that if you could only give Samuel some encouragement—’