Set in Stone (29 page)

I pushed him back in! I struck him away with an oar. I did not mean to kill him, it was not my intention – I thought he would swim to the shore, or haul himself out at the pier—

But perhaps it is best. Why should he live? Juliana cannot live while he is in the world. Now he is out of it.

Yes, we must have the lake dredged tomorrow. He will wait till then.

No, thank you – my mind is too active for sleep. I should prefer to stay here awhile – will you stay with me and talk, if you are not quite exhausted?

Gideon? You found Gideon Waring? Ah, and he – he knew of—? Poor man, how I have maligned him! – Yes, of course – that accounts for— I wish you had told me, on your return – Yes, yes – we have both received this same revelation, this same shock – How much I have failed to understand!

My father? Yes, Mr Farrow – he is – he
was
– my father – yes.

No, no, he never knew.

I had better explain. If you are not too tired? You are sure?

Samuel, we have urgent matters to discuss, and the most distressing things to confront – but first I must tell you what I have told no one else; what I have kept secret for so long that I have almost stopped acknowledging it as the truth – have scarcely even allowed myself to think of him as my father, nor the girls as my sisters—

Are you ready? A little warmer – not at all feverish? Very well, then:

My mother, Violet, worked as a maidservant at the Farrows’ house in Belgravia. That is the house which Mr Farrow later sold, in order to buy the land here. She was then eighteen; Ernest, the elder of the Farrows’ two sons, was nineteen. They were lovers. I will not say that he seduced her, though that must have been the case – my mother, on the one occasion I met her, was adamant that he loved her, and that she loved him. She spoke of him only in terms of the highest praise. He was away at Cambridge for most of that time; their liaison was a brief one, over a Christmas when he was at home.

She knew that it could lead nowhere. She accepted his advances in full knowledge of that.

When she found herself with child, he had already returned to Cambridge. She must be a strong-minded woman in many ways, my mother. She did not write to him, did not make any attempt to communicate the news that he was to be a father. She left the Farrows’ employment before her condition was discovered. She went home to my grandmother, who made arrangements for her to stay with a family in Devon until I was born, so that her ruination, as my grandmother saw it, could be concealed. It was never acknowledged that Violet had a daughter.

So – yes – poor little Thomas and I have this in common.

My grandmother made arrangements for my upbringing. Yes, that is correct: Mrs Newbold, the lady who has recently died. My mother sought employment elsewhere; she moved to Yorkshire, becoming a maidservant on a prosperous farm there. A few years later she married the son of that family, and took his name. He, in disgrace for some reason, was sent to Kenya, which is I believe the destination of many a wayward son, to seek his fortune by farming there.

No – I never saw my mother throughout the whole of my childhood. Our one meeting took place two years ago. I said that my grandmother brought me up, but it would be truer to say that she provided for me – she sent me to a drab boarding school, well out of her way. Widowed soon after my birth, she quickly remarried; a son was born of this marriage, and I was even more superfluous. Although I had relations in name, I have always felt myself to be quite alone in the world. That is what I have accepted; that is how I announce myself—

I know, Samuel, and I am very sorry. I should not have deceived you, for you have always been honest with me; but I hope you will understand. It is my way of preserving some pride.

Yes, my mother contacted me. I was working then as a pupil-teacher. She was on a brief visit from Kenya, where she still lives. We met briefly in Hyde Park, and have not communicated since. How odd it was to meet this woman, a complete stranger, without whom I should not exist! I am still not sure why she suggested that meeting, unless it was to assuage her guilty
conscience, or to have some current memory of me, for she has no other children. That day, I asked who my father was; she told me his name, and that I was the product of their passionate love. She was not ashamed of it, disastrous though the consequences had been for her. She told me that Ernest came from a wealthy family; although she warned me that he knew nothing of my existence, she thought that he might give me financial support, if I approached him and asked for it. I resolved to do no such thing, but was gripped by a powerful urge to seek him out, to see for myself what kind of man he was.

– Yes, I did so immediately. My mother had told me the location of the Farrows’ Belgravia home, and next day I went there. I found that the Farrows were no longer in residence. The new occupant, Lady Merriby, told me that Ernest Farrow had been the previous owner of the house – which, as I saw for myself, was a very substantial one – but that he had sold up after the death of his parents, to build himself a new house in Sussex. Lady Merriby had his forwarding address, which she gave me.

At once resigning from my post, I came to Staverton. I had not enough money to support myself, so took employment at the Cross Keys—

Oh? Did he? Yes, it
is
true – working in the kitchen and waiting at table. It was hard work, more strenuous than I was accustomed to, over long hours and for low pay, but I had at least bed and board. More importantly, I was in a position to gather news of Mr Farrow, and of his new house, Fourwinds, which had excited
much local interest. I learned of the recent tragic loss of his wife, and that he had two daughters. My half-sisters! No sooner had I learned of their existence than I longed to meet them. I had no intention of disclosing my identity, and in fact no further plan than to satisfy my curiosity. However, within the course of a few days I overheard several very intriguing conversations, beginning with news of a scandal. I learned that the governess, Miss Eliza Hardacre, had been keeping company with a male employee of Mr Farrow’s; both she and he had fallen out of favour, and were dismissed.

Here was an opportunity, the best I should ever have! On my first free afternoon, I presented myself at Fourwinds, where I asked to see Mr Farrow. He was still, of course, in mourning for his late wife, and I – I –
then
, I felt for him most piteously, and for my sisters. Giving away nothing of my background, I said that I had heard of the vacancy for a governess, and offered my services. He was a little suspicious at first, but I was able to reassure him as to my suitability, and gave him character references from my school. I did not see either of my half-sisters on that occasion, and had to return to the Cross Keys in a fidget of agitation. The house itself, this beautiful house, so lovingly built, so perfectly crafted, had cast a spell on me, Samuel, as I believe it did with you, when you first saw it. I yearned to see it again, to examine every room, every aspect, almost as strongly as I longed to meet its inhabitants – my secret family, as I ventured to think of them. I had to wait almost a week before I received a letter
offering me the post. Mr Farrow explained that the role I was to fill was partly that of governess, partly companion, in view of the sad loss of the girls’ mother.

Yes. Charlotte Agnew is my real name. I had no choice but to use it, because of the need to procure a character reference. If the name Agnew had meant anything to Mr Farrow, I should have attempted to pass it off as coincidence; it is not an uncommon name. He made no comment, and I continued in my deception. Presumably, since her status in his parents’ home was a lowly one, he knew my mother only as Violet.

My first impression? I could not help gazing at him in fascination – which I attempted to conceal. He struck me as a handsome man – I tried in vain to see any resemblance to my own unremarkable face. His manner was charming, reassuring. He seemed so – so
solid
– there in the stylish house he had built to his requirements, surrounded by all the accoutrements of wealth and stability. Yet he must be my father, for Violet had been adamant that he was her only lover before she was married; he was the great passion of her youth. I could not feel bitter towards him for the life of comfort he led; for, if he had known of my mother’s predicament, who is to say that he would not have done all he could to help her?

And now I was to work for him, live in his house, come into daily contact with my sisters!

At first, of course, only Marianne was at home; Juliana, I understood, was convalescing with a relative. While I got to know one half-sister, I eagerly awaited
the return of the other; and in June she came home. I, of course, was ready to believe whatever I was told. Now, it is abundantly clear that both girls had been scared into silence by their father, for never a hint was given of the real circumstances. As for me, I played my role to such perfection that I am quite certain no one in the house has ever guessed at my motives. In fact, I should have found them hard to explain, even to myself. You must remember, Samuel, that I have never known a family of my own; have never had sister or brother, though I longed for them. And here were two charming young women who not only accepted me, but needed me; the loss of their mother was still raw and shocking. As you cannot help but notice, Juliana has come to depend on me – more than is healthy for her, I fear. I am almost mother to my own sister. Relationships, as you see, are somewhat confused in this household.

But the dependency is twofold. Juliana depends on me; I depend on her, and on Marianne, and on my role here. I have become the person everyone believes me to be, and I can be no one else. I cannot bear the thought of separation from my sisters. Especially now that – now that – everything has changed, Samuel, even before tonight – I – I hardly know—

Yes, so much to— I cannot believe—

Thank you. Thank you, Samuel. I cannot tell you how much your friendship means to me.

Yes, it used to be my amusement to imagine myself living here as his rightful daughter; to think of how
things might have been if my mother had been his social equal, and if he had been older when they fell in love. Still, by coming here and making myself useful, I have earned his respect, and shaped my life around his. At last I have found a place where I am needed and wanted. I have taken pleasure in observing his habits, in getting to know his tastes and his preferences, in finding him reserved and melancholy as befitted a man who had so recently lost his wife; a man who spent hours by himself, who kept a quiet watch over his daughters and their well-being; a man of dignity and feeling. Almost, you might think, I fell in love with him myself: fell in love with my father, and could not have wanted a better.

But now all is changed – I have found out—

– Yes, yes – I hardly know how to – the poor girls—

– Yes, my discoveries have irrevocably changed my view of him – I cannot bear to see him, to think of— And now? Now I do not know what is to become of us, any of us – for I have killed him, for Juliana, for all of us.

I have killed our father.

I could not sleep. I made only a token gesture of lying on my bed; but was soon astir, unable to slow the racing of my brain, and the whirlwind of impressions that fought for dominance.

Standing at my open bedroom door, I listened for sounds of restlessness elsewhere in the house, but heard only the wind, whose temper gradually abated to fitful gusts. Charlotte had looked in on Marianne and Juliana before retiring to bed; she confirmed that both – restored by hot baths and warm drinks – were sleeping quietly. No creak of floorboard from Charlotte’s room betrayed wakefulness there, either. Stepping quietly out to the gallery, I stood by the railings, looking down at the closed door of Mr Farrow’s bedroom. There was a terrible absence, a void – for a moment I fancied that, without Mr Farrow at its centre, the house, fragile as a blown egg, would crack its shell and fly apart, sending us all spinning out into darkness, to the four winds.

Gripping the railing, I thought of his poor wife, Constance, releasing her hold on life, letting herself
fall. From what Charlotte had told me, and from what I had already discovered, I knew that Ernest Farrow had driven his wife to her death as surely as he had abused his daughter. I should feel no sympathy for him; I should be glad he had drowned. And yet I could not shake off a sense of loss that only added to my bewilderment.

Activity was the only means of ignoring the turmoil in my head. As soon as day began to break, I dressed – indeed, there had been little point in undressing – and let myself out of the house. I was determined that, in order to avoid additional distress for the girls, I must find Mr Farrow’s body myself. Or, maybe, I wanted to assure myself that he was dead – for I could not believe it, could not let myself assume that his tough and resilient spirit would have given in so easily. If, though, he had drowned in the lake, I must convince Charlotte that the responsibility was not hers; or at least not hers alone. Had I not thrust him away myself, with more than necessary force?

Low cloud loured; the sky was grey and wind-tossed; the willows swayed, lashing the water. Reluctantly I made myself approach the jetty, and walk out. The rowing boat was moored there, where Charlotte had left it; I looked along the banks in both directions, but saw nothing. Incongruously, from somewhere in the trees beyond the boathouse, a nightingale was pouring out its full-throated song: a song of choking plaintiveness and yearning. In ordinary circumstances I would have stopped to listen, tried to see the unremarkable little bird that produced
such mesmerizing music. But now I tried to close my ears, and to think about what I must do.

The pit of my stomach chilled with the dread that had seized me before, for I knew that I should have to enter the lake again, dive under the cold waters and search for a body in the murk. Maybe I need not? Maybe it would be better to wait until full daylight, and enlist the help of Reynolds and the stableboy? But this excuse failed to convince even myself.