Set in Stone (3 page)

‘Most assuredly he is,’ I agreed.

‘He is not at home this evening?’

‘He is; but he has already retired. I’m afraid we had quite given you up until tomorrow. Please, begin,’ I told him, indicating his plate.

Mr Godwin picked up his knife and fork, but stopped there.

‘Miss Agnew,’ he began tentatively, ‘I think I ought to tell you that when I first came across Marianne – I beg your pardon, I mean the younger Miss Farrow – she seemed in great distress. I met her at some distance from the house – wandering, quite alone, and crying out in anguish. I thought at first she was being attacked, or threatened in some way—’ He broke off. ‘But I see that you are not surprised by this information?’

‘Thank you for your kind concern, Mr Godwin,’ I replied. ‘It is good of you to share it with me. As you are aware, Mr Farrow has engaged you principally to teach his elder daughter, Juliana. Juliana is very different in character from her sister; you will find her quiet and amenable. Marianne, on the other hand, is somewhat excitable, as you have seen.’

‘Excitable, indeed!’

‘It is merely a phase – it will pass. But you need not concern yourself unduly. She has not always been thus afflicted; it seems to be a malaise of adolescence. She has an over-active imagination – that is all.’

‘
All
, Miss Agnew? What is to be more feared than the excesses of imagination? Where can anyone be less easily helped than when lost in fear? For the mind can produce terrors to eclipse anything found in the material world. Can nothing be done to help her?’

‘A doctor is in regular attendance,’ I told him, rather crisply. ‘She has the best possible care. Her welfare is my responsibility; yours is for her drawing and painting. Here at Fourwinds, where everyone knows her ways, she is in little danger of harming herself.’

‘And yet she suffers such torment. Poor girl!’ I saw sympathy flare in his grey eyes.

‘It was unfortunate,’ I continued, ‘that you first met her in this over-stimulated state. She is otherwise an agreeable and most charming girl.’

Still he had not taken one mouthful. ‘I cannot help thinking that Mr Farrow might have warned me of this, when he interviewed me in London,’ he remarked, ‘since Miss Farrow is to be my pupil. He gave no hint of it.’

‘I suppose he did not wish to give unnecessary alarm. In the present circumstances, Marianne has become a little over-excited. It is probable that from now on she will be quite herself, and you will see only the pleasant, attentive young woman who left us just now. Come, please begin your meal.’

He began to eat; at first with polite reserve, apparently conscious of himself as the only diner; then with appreciative eagerness.

‘What did you mean, Miss Agnew,’ he asked me after a few mouthfuls, ‘when you referred just now to the present circumstances?’

‘I meant, of course, your arrival,’ I told him. ‘We are an isolated household here, Mr Godwin. We see few visitors. The sisters spend most of their time in each other’s company, and in mine. They rarely meet men; especially, I may say, young men. Juliana, you will find, is a mature and sensible young woman, but Marianne is very different. She is an impressionable girl; her imagination is fed by stories and romances; she likes to indulge in daydreams. It would not be surprising if, thrown into the company of a personable young man, she were to behave, let us say, inappropriately. You see, I know her well. We must trust you, Mr Godwin, to keep within the bounds of propriety.’

He understood me at once. A deep blush crept over his face; he looked at me in consternation, seemed about to speak, but said nothing. Why, I thought, he is hardly more than a boy. Then something even more startling occurred; my own face, as though in sympathy with his discomfiture, began to flush hotly. Averting my gaze from his, I busied myself with wiping an imaginary smear from my wineglass. I am not given to blushing; it is my pride to be always discreet, detached, the perfect employee, almost invisible when I choose to be. At this moment I was far from invisible, with my face flaming like a beacon.

‘Miss Agnew, you have my word that—’ he began, but was interrupted by the opening of the door. Marianne burst in, followed by Juliana.

‘Here he is, Juley!’ said Marianne, almost pushing her sister towards us.

Composing myself, I carried out the introductions. Juliana, very self-conscious, very pale, looked wan and lifeless next to her sister’s vivacity. She gave only the most fleeting smile as she shook Mr Godwin’s hand, and enquired whether he found his room satisfactory. He, I saw, was intrigued by the contrast between the two. Juliana, as told to me by Mrs Reynolds, and confirmed by the photograph in Mr Farrow’s study, resembled her mother; Marianne, with her vivid colouring and stronger features, took after her father.

Watching, I was alert to the glances criss-crossing in all directions. Marianne was looking at Mr Godwin with a complacent, almost proprietorial air; he, repeating his compliments about the house, was turning from one sister to the other; Juliana, venturing to give him only the shyest of glances, now lifted her eyes and looked at me directly, in what looked like a plea for help.

‘Come, now,’ I said briskly. ‘It is late, and you have had a long and tiring journey, Mr Godwin. Let us retire – if you have finished your meal. We shall make each other’s acquaintance more fully in the morning.’

Fourwinds
,
Near Staverton
,
Sussex

15th June, 1898

Mrs W. G. Godwin,
3 Parkside Avenue,
Sydenham,
London

Dearest Mother
,

Although my journey took rather longer than expected, I have arrived safely at Fourwinds, and have been made welcome
.

This is a most unusual house, not at all what I imagined. It was apparent when I met him in London that Mr Farrow is immensely proud of his home, and I see now that this pride is more than justified. It has been built to his own specifications, and is intriguing in every detail
.

It stands in a very isolated spot, far from any other habitation; clearly Mr Farrow is a man who enjoys seclusion, although of course he could not have imagined that he would live here as a widower, Mrs Farrow having passed away quite recently. My approach – though in semi-darkness – was through woodland and then a small park. You would like the outside of the house. It is grandly simple, half tiled in the local style, with an entrance porch, in the shape of a Gothic arch, leading to heavy double doors; there are gabled windows on the second floor (where my room is located), and tall brick chimneys. Such, at least, was my impression tonight; a fuller exploration of the house, garden and grounds must wait till morning
.

Inside is where my surprise began, for here Mr Farrow has exhibited very modern tastes. Instead of furnishing his house in the usual dark wood and rich fabrics, he has chosen everything light and plain. A double oak staircase curves up to a gallery above, hung with paintings which I have not yet had time to examine. Most surprisingly, there is a skylight, so that standing in the entrance hall one has an unencumbered view of the stars – for tonight is moonlit and starry, as you may have observed. The whole building seems full of space, as if a larger house has been concealed within an outer shell so traditional as to fit easily into its surroundings. There is electric lighting in all the rooms – so you see it is very up to date indeed. When I expressed surprise – and appreciation of the convenience, for one simply has to flick a switch to have a whole room illuminated at once – Miss Agnew, of whom more in a moment, told me that Mr Farrow is proud to own the first house in the vicinity to be powered by electricity
.

Fourwinds is a testimony to its owner’s interest in architecture and the arts. Even my room – in which I sit writing this – is not some cramped attic cell but is generously proportioned, furnished in white and cream, with a bureau, tiled wash-stand, fireplace, and plenty of space for my belongings. Someone has thoughtfully put a vase of evergreens on my bureau, which is maybe an odd choice for summer, but I have yet to see whether there is a flower garden
.

As for the inhabitants of Fourwinds: I must wait till tomorrow to meet Mr Farrow again, as he had already retired for the night, but I was greeted by Miss Charlotte Agnew, an agreeable person who is employed here as governess-companion, and his two daughters, both of them charming young ladies and very well mannered. We are all looking forward to commencing our studies tomorrow. I must confess that I am a little anxious, but will do my best to fulfil Mr Farrow’s requirements
.

I hope you will enjoy your few days with the Gardiners; I shall write my next letter to you there, with of course a fuller account once I have properly acquainted myself with the household here. Please give my love to Isobel – and, to Monty, a big pat and an extra brushing from me. I miss him most sorely, as of course I do you and Isobel, dearest Mother
.

Your loving son
,

Samuel

Completing and sealing my letter, I retired for the night, but sleep would not come. As I lay in bed, increasingly wakeful, I found myself assailed by childish homesickness, longing for my family, my dog Monty, and the friends I had left behind at the Slade. Inevitably, my thoughts soon turned to my father. The shock of loss came new and raw each time I thought of him. Death always surprises us, even when it is anticipated; and my father’s death had been brutally sudden. A strong man in his late forties, scarcely affected by even the most trifling illness, he had been working as usual in his office when he had suffered an abrupt dyspepsia, and had died almost in an instant.

With a sense of bewilderment, I tried to understand that I would never again hear his gruff
Good morning
, or smell the pervading aroma that hung around him, a comforting masculine blend of pipe-smoke, tweed, and carbolic soap. I could not comprehend that he was gone for ever.

Yet relations with my father had not been harmonious. This sense of lingering regret, even of guilt, of
unfinished conversations and unresolved disputes, haunted me with unease. I grieved, not because he was dead, but because I could not sincerely mourn his loss.

If it were not for my father’s death, I would not now be lying wakeful in an unfamiliar room. I should have stayed on at the Slade College of Art, where I had enrolled, against my father’s wishes, with the rather unworldly aim of earning my living as a painter when my studies were completed. His death left us – my mother, my fourteen-year-old sister Isobel, and myself – adequately but not amply provided for. Although our home, in a quiet part of Sydenham, was left to my mother, we were compelled to live more economically than we were accustomed to, and I found myself, at the age of one-and-twenty, contemplating the role of provider. This was not at all at my mother’s insistence – she, on the contrary, bravely urged me to continue at the Slade, even though our finances could barely support it – but at my own. It was a duty I felt towards my father, who had worked all his life to achieve prosperity for his family. My artistic aspirations were forced into second place, behind the need to support the household.

As a student of fine art, I knew that any qualification I might gain would be singularly useless when it came to earning a living in the realms of business or commerce. I could, I suppose, have exploited my father’s connections to find myself a position in the City, but my heart was not in it. It was with a feeling of hopelessness that I was turning the pages of the
newspaper when a small advertisement caught my attention.

Art tutor required for two young ladies at a quiet country residence in Sussex. Generous salary and comfortable accommodation offered to a suitably qualified person. Impeccable references essential.

The address which followed was not in Sussex, but of a hotel in Kensington. I wrote a letter of application and was invited to present myself. To be brief: I did so, and was interviewed at the hotel by Mr Farrow himself. I took an instant liking to him – to his openness and directness, to his decided expression of his tastes and opinions – and I do not think it unreasonably arrogant to suggest that he liked me in return. He examined very closely the portfolio of drawings, sketches and watercolours I had brought with me, and asked a great many questions about my background, education and upbringing.

My answers, and my references from the Slade, evidently passed muster; two days later, I received a letter offering me the position at Fourwinds, at one hundred pounds per annum, in addition to board and residence. I realized from fellow students, and from my examination of the Persons Wanted columns, that this was rather more than I could reasonably have hoped for.

Gratifying though this was, I wondered that more suitably experienced candidates had not presented themselves; for, although I could provide evidence of
my skill with pencil and paintbrush, I was completely untried as a tutor. However, the thought of the money I should be able to send home to Mama and Isobel, the assurance of a regular income, and the thought of the free hours I should have in the Sussex countryside for my own artistic endeavours, swept away my doubts, and convinced me that I was extremely fortunate.

At the interview, Mr Farrow had told me only the briefest details of his daughters: that their ages were nineteen and sixteen, that their mother had died only recently, and that a governess-companion was in residence. Now, though, the three young women had entered my consciousness in their own right, and were no longer the faceless abstractions of my imagination. Already I found myself intrigued by three very different personalities. Miss Agnew, whose role in the household was similar to my own, I saw as a possible ally. At first – from the severity of her dress, her straight brown hair parted in the centre and pulled back into a bun, and the plainness of her features – I had assumed she was a good few years older than I. When she sat and talked with me in the dining room, however, and I observed her at close quarters, I lowered my estimate to perhaps two-or three-and-twenty. Her skin was fresh and young, her eyes bright and keen as a wren’s. I saw that here was a young woman who, conscious of her status, wished to draw no attention to herself through feminine adornment. And what of that startling moment when, observing
the treacherous flushing that heated my face, she had blushed scarlet in response, and for a moment seemed as bashful as a schoolgirl? I could not think what had provoked such embarrassment, other than an awareness that she had embarrassed
me
.