Set in Stone (27 page)

‘Poor woman! But how did you receive this letter? Did she give it to you?’

‘She pushed it under the door of my room, on the night of her fatal fall. By the time I saw it, she was dead.’

‘But you showed no one the letter? You have kept it secret all this while? Surely, that was most irresponsible of you!’

‘It is easy for you to say that, Miss Agnew,’ said Eliza, raising her chin. ‘You were not there. What was I to do, then – confront Mr Farrow? Let everyone
know of his wife’s torment? Was it true, or was it not? How could I tell? I kept silent, and bided my time – for my first duty was to Juliana and Marianne. Surely you must understand that! Surely, in my position, you would have been concerned for them, above all else?’

‘Mrs Dearly’ – I made an effort at self-control – ‘is there any truth in this, any grain of truth? Tell me, please – who do you believe to be Thomas’s father? Is it Gideon Waring, or—?’

‘He is the son of Mr Ernest Farrow.’ She spoke the words calmly, holding my gaze. ‘I did not know it then, but I know it now.’

‘Good God! Poor, desperate woman! To doubt her own sanity – to take her life!’

Eliza nodded slowly. I looked down at the letter in my hand. ‘And the boy! Then he is—’ I curbed myself. ‘What is to become of him?’

‘He is to be hidden from view – I mean, under the guise of being my child – until he is old enough to be sent away to school. Then, arrangements will be made for him to be brought up as a young gentleman. Eventually, I am sure, he will be acknowledged as Mr Farrow’s son.’

‘But this is insupportable!’ Thrusting the letter back at her, I stood transfixed, staring at my surroundings, the dirt-streaked panes of glass, the thriving tomato plants, the ripening fruit, a watering can and a stack of flowerpots: all suddenly bright and unreal as though painted on a canvas. ‘His father’s son? His heir? What is to become of Juliana?’ I looked again at the child: at his dark hair which, now that I knew, was
so like his father’s; at his delicate features, so like his mother’s. But his mother was also his sister, and his father was also his grandfather, and I— My mind reeled, and I clutched at the potting bench for support. ‘Why did you show me that letter?’ I demanded.

‘Because, Miss Agnew, you have shown nothing but the deepest suspicion of my motives.’ She pulled the boy to her, so that he stood with his back against her knees; she fondled his hair, while he tugged at her restraining arm. ‘Now, perhaps, you see that concern for Juliana has been foremost in my thoughts. And for Tommy.’

I considered this. ‘You could have left Mr Farrow’s employment as soon as you discovered the truth. You could have exposed him. Instead, you have entered into a financial arrangement which I have no doubt benefits yourself and your husband as much as it benefits this unfortunate boy. Pardon me if I conclude that you have compromised your integrity.’

Later, reflecting on the startling information I had just been given, I had time to reconsider and to judge her less harshly; but at that moment, the veil that barely concealed our mutual hostility was flung back.

‘Well, you have been more than frank,’ she said, with her cold smile. ‘Let us see, then, how
you
will act, now that you know the truth. For surely you cannot continue to accept your wages, your bed and board, from such a man as Ernest Farrow. Will you leave Fourwinds? You speak to me of compromise – what, Miss Agnew, of your own position?’

The weather had changed; the period of unbroken sunshine had come to an abrupt end. A wind was stirring from the west, seeming to presage bad weather; the sky was heavy with cloud; the full crowns of the roadside trees writhed this way and that, their battered foliage producing a sound like that of a storm-tossed sea. As I walked uphill from the railway station, the gusts in my face seemed intent on forcing me back, so that I almost had to fight my way.

I was retracing the steps of my first journey, when I had set out so gladly from Staverton, all unknowing of what awaited me at Fourwinds. Then, I had been alert to every sensation; this time I marched, breaking into a run at intervals, barely noticing where I was in my fury. How to proceed when I confronted Mr Farrow I had not decided; but confront him I must, for I could not hide what I knew, could not pretend that it was otherwise.

‘Take care,’ Gideon had said, as his parting words; ‘I am concerned for your safety, Samuel. He is a dangerous man when roused to anger. Be very
careful if you make an enemy of him.’

I had promised to heed this advice, and to let him know what ensued. Most urgently I wanted to see Charlotte, for what had now emerged made our argument seem petty and foolish. I must tell her what I had discovered, for so decisively had she cast Gideon Waring as villain, that the truth would be even more startling to her comprehension than to mine.

What should be done, how the situation might be resolved, I had no notion. All I knew, as anger and urgency propelled me through the dusk, was that something was surely coming to an end, and that it was something I had come to cherish: my situation at Fourwinds, my intense involvement with its inhabitants, with the place itself, and its mysteries. But, in truth, Fourwinds was already changed to me. Beneath its immaculate surfaces, corruption lurked unchecked. I had been lured and seduced by its charms, but must now destroy what I had come to love.

The gates were open, their hinges creaking and sighing in the wind. There stood the house, foursquare to the darkening sky; the North Wind would be frowning at me, though I could not see him. Beckoned by soft lights from the vestibule, I experienced a collision of emotions that struck me almost physically in the chest, bringing me to a standstill. This was not my home, and never would be, once I had done what I must do; yet as I stood looking, I had to resist the most powerful attraction – almost that, I imagined, of a man returning to his beloved, to a love not yet consummated, and all the more
compelling because desire lay rather in expectation than in fulfilment.

Hardening my resolve, I told myself that this was Mr Farrow’s house, built to his design, to his tastes, bought with his money, and that Juliana was his victim, Thomas scarcely less so, and that my own presence here was a part of his scheme. I marched on up the driveway, mounted the steps and tugged at the bell pull.

Alice opened the door, surprised to see me there, so late and so wind-blown. Letting me in, she shut the door quickly against the gale. ‘Mr Godwin! Good evening – we had thought you must be staying on in Brighton after all. Do come in – what a night this is!’

So preoccupied was I, as to have forgotten that Brighton was believed to have been my destination. I muttered something about mistaking the time of a train, and fobbed off her enquiries about food and drink. ‘Is Mr Farrow at home?’ I demanded.

‘Yes, sir. He is in his study.’

The door to the drawing room opened; Charlotte came to greet me. I stepped towards her, and clasped her hand.

‘Charlotte! I—’

‘I am glad you are back, Samuel – I have longed to see you—’ Her expression was of unutterable relief; the effect on me was to produce a strong desire to weep, and to rage, and to be soothed by her. Indeed, I found it impossible to meet her gaze, for fear that she would read the conflicting emotions that battled to control me.

‘But you are upset – what has happened?’ she asked, her eyes searching my face.

‘Nothing! Nothing at all – I must – I must speak to Mr Farrow – excuse me—’

‘But wait until— You are tired, and it is late, and I—’

With an incoherent sound of protest, I broke away, and mounted the stairs two at a time to the half-landing. I rapped loudly on the door and, without waiting for permission, burst into Mr Farrow’s study.

He was at his desk; what he found there to occupy him at this hour of the night, I had no idea. He looked up from his papers, surprised at the manner of my entry, but unsuspicious.

‘Samuel?’ he greeted me. ‘You are back with us – and in a great hurry! Is something wrong? What can I do for you?’

‘I don’t know,’ I blustered. ‘But maybe you had better start by telling the truth.’

He stared at me in great puzzlement. ‘I don’t understand. What is amiss?’

‘Amiss? Amiss? You pretend not to understand? When you know full well that
every
thing is amiss!’ I marched over and leaned with both hands on the desk, thrusting my face towards his. Offended, he pushed back his chair.

‘Calm yourself, Samuel – sit down, and let us talk rationally. What has upset you so? Maybe I can be of help—’

‘It is not myself I have come to talk about. I have
no favours to ask of you – merely that you admit what you have done!’

‘Whatever has come over you, to make you speak so wildly? Have you been drinking?’ He sniffed; but, finding no lingering fumes of alcohol, gestured me to back off. ‘Sit down, if you are staying. Though you have burst in without ceremony, we can at least be civilized.’

‘Civilized! You talk to me about being civilized! You – how – you—’

‘If there is something comprehensible you wish to say, by all means say it. If not, I suggest you retire to bed.’

He
was the one who had been drinking. His voice was unslurred, but a cut-glass tumbler stood on his desk, a third full; a whisky bottle stood beside it.

‘Yes! You have— I – I
know
!’ I spluttered. ‘Surely you—’

My inarticulacy seemed to give him relief. ‘You are tired, Samuel. I will overlook your rudeness, for it is quite out of character – we will talk tomorrow. Mrs Reynolds will provide you with a meal before you retire. Now, goodnight.’ He gave me a nod and a stiff smile, then pretended to return his attention to one of the ledgers before him; but I saw that there was a tremor in his hand.

‘No! We will talk
now
!’ I leaned towards him, thumping my clenched hand on the desk. Even in my anger I saw the flicker of doubt in his eye as he reached out to steady the glass and bottle.

‘Very well – since you will not be denied.’

‘I will not! You will hear me. I have found out, Mr Farrow, that things here are not as they seem – I have found out that Juliana has been most foully abused, and by yourself—’

I saw him flinch at my words; knew that they had struck home.

‘And,’ I continued, ‘that Thomas Dearly is the product of this – this godless union—’

‘How dare you!’ He rose to his feet, his face pinched tight with anger. ‘You presume to thrust your way into my study, at this late hour, and to accuse me of – of something so repellent that I cannot bring myself to give it words! Take care what you say, Samuel, or you will regret it. You have found out certain things – yes, you must have been asking questions, and prying, and drawing your dramatic conclusions. But let me assure you they are quite wrong! And I must warn you – do not repeat what you have just said,
do not
– or the consequences will be serious indeed.’

‘Do you deny it?’ I cried. ‘Do you deny that Juliana gave birth to a son?’ I clenched my hands; I had to hear him confess.

He sat, picked up a pen and put it down again; the muscles around his mouth tightened. ‘That part, regrettably, is true. Juliana, poor girl, must have told you, though I have urged her to forget the boy and to put the past behind her. You are aware, of course, that I dismissed the sculptor, Gideon Waring, from my employment? The child is his. Surely you must have guessed.’

‘That is a lie! Yes, I suspected, just as you
intended. But I have met the man – I have spoken with him – I know that you have used him as – as your scapegoat—’

He looked startled. ‘Oh – you’ve met him, have you? Charlotte told me the fellow had come sneaking back. Well, of course he denies his perversion! Is that not to be expected?’

‘No!’ I shouted. ‘
You
are the denier! I am as certain as I can be that he has never fathered a child, and is never likely to—’

‘What can you mean?’ Farrow demanded.

‘I mean, Mr Farrow, that I have seen Gideon Waring, and have formed the highest opinion of him, both as an artist and as a man. I have also seen that another man is his close companion – he is the last person to act as you accuse him, forcing his attentions on an innocent girl—’

I stopped there, wishing I had sooner bitten my tongue out than make this revelation. In my effort to supply proof, I had given Mr Farrow a piece of potent ammunition; he seized upon it at once.

‘Ah, so that’s it!’ His eyes gleamed with triumph. ‘He’s one of
that
sort, is he? I wonder I did not guess. And you – another of the same, I don’t doubt – no wonder he wheedled his way round you, flattered you, and I shall not ask what else has passed between you, for it would disgust me to know of it –
that
, Samuel, is the man I dismissed from my employment. And who would question my right to do so? A fellow that carries on in that perverted way – what will he not do? Faugh!’ He almost spat with contempt.

I was wavering: not because I believed what Mr Farrow was saying, for his argument contradicted itself at every turn, but because his defences were so formidable. Who – other than I – would doubt him? Armoured, as he was, with money, status, respectability, and above all, the confidence that his word would be accepted?

‘What you have just said is nonsense,’ I forged on, ‘regarding both myself and Mr Waring. Perversion – you dare to accuse
him
of perversion? I repeat –
you
are the father of Juliana’s child, I am certain of it, and if you have any courage at all, you will admit it, instead of attempting to use a blameless, honourable man as your scapegoat. I have never exchanged a word with Juliana on the subject, but I know it is true. You have used your own daughter, used her to breed the son you so desperately wanted, in the most callous and heartless way possible. How you intend to account for the unfortunate boy, I cannot imagine.’

‘Sit down, Samuel.
Sit down
.’ He rose to his feet again; he leaned towards me, and for a second his physical presence was so powerful that, in spite of myself, I obeyed. ‘That’s better,’ he went on. ‘No need for hysterics. Now, let us talk some sense. My daughter has an illegitimate son – that much we agree. Through no fault of her own, she is compromised. She is befitted by temperament and inclination for marriage. How, though, can she marry? Either the existence of her son must be kept secret from any prospective husband – a deception to which she would never agree – or a considerable financial incentive must be offered.
That, and other inducements besides. This, Samuel, is why I have brought you to Fourwinds.’