Set in Stone (31 page)

Juliana, however, was firm. ‘Miss Agnew is completely in our confidence, Mr Jessop. Whatever you have to say to us, we will immediately relay to her; so she may as well hear it from your own lips.’

‘Very well – if you insist.’ Mr Jessop had no choice but to give way. First, he produced a large folder of papers, and spent a few moments laying them out on the table. Through the conversation that followed, he never once glanced in my direction, addressing all his remarks to Juliana and Marianne.

‘As you are no doubt aware,’ he began, after a few preliminary remarks, ‘your father was a wealthy man, who invested wisely and prudently. You will be more than adequately provided for.’

‘That is all we require,’ said Juliana, fumbling with her handkerchief, and glancing sidelong at Marianne, who gazed steadily at Mr Jessop and did not return the look.

‘However,’ the solicitor continued, ‘I have to tell you that your father has made two substantial changes to his Will since the, erm, sad death of your mother.’

‘I am not surprised by this,’ Juliana commented. ‘I imagine it is what a widower would be expected to do.’

He looked at her over the top of his spectacles. ‘I am sorry, Miss Farrow, but I ought to warn you that you
will
find it surprising. I think it likely that your father’s relatives may wish to contest the Will; it is even possible that you yourselves may wish to contest it, although, since I myself carried out the revisions and can guarantee that your father was in complete possession of his faculties, such an application is unlikely to succeed. This is why I was so anxious to see you today, in order to give you a few days to assimilate the, ah, information I am about to give you, so that it does
not come as a shock to you when your relatives are assembled for the, erm, funeral.’

Juliana gave a nod of acquiescence; Marianne merely looked baffled.

‘I wish to begin, Miss Farrow, Miss Marianne, by telling you how the Will stood before the recent changes,’ Mr Jessop proceeded. ‘During the lifetime of your, ah, late mother, the Will divided the major part of your father’s fortune among the three of you. There were, besides, a few small bequests to members of the family, none of which need concern us. What
does
concern us, however, is the provision your father made for this house, Fourwinds.’ He cast his eyes around the room, and upwards, seeming to encompass the whole dwelling in the sweep of his gaze.

‘Please go on.’ Juliana was pale, her hands clasped in her lap.

‘If your mother had outlived your father, she would have been entitled to live here for as long as she wished. At the time the Will was drawn up, there was of course a possibility that your mother might give birth to a son, who would, ah, naturally be your father’s heir. However, as we know, of course, the marriage produced no son.’

A quick, furtive glance was exchanged between Marianne and Juliana; Mr Jessop, occupied with his papers, did not see it.

‘So the house is left to Juliana?’ Marianne prompted, leaning over the table.

‘I am afraid not.’ Mr Jessop gave a small cough and adjusted his spectacles, while we all sat in
suspenseful silence. ‘Possession of the house, with all its land and effects, would go first to your father’s younger brother, er, Mr Robert Farrow, and in turn to
his
son, James.’

‘Sons! Sons!’ Marianne half turned from the table, as if about to rise to her feet and storm out. ‘Why must sons receive everything, and daughters nothing? So we are to be turned out of our house? Are we to beg on the streets?’

‘Hush, Marianne,’ I urged her. ‘Mr Jessop is not finished.’

The solicitor looked grave. ‘Indeed I have not. Please, Miss Marianne, do not anticipate what I have to tell you. You must remember that the Will I have been speaking of is the one drawn up before your mother’s death. Your father made two subsequent changes, which affect things materially. Of course you are not to be turned out of your home. Your father has not neglected you – of course he has not.’

‘Please tell us the rest,’ Juliana said, in a low voice.

‘The first revision,’ continued Mr Jessop, ‘removed all mention of your mother from the Will, and divided your father’s fortune between the two of you; provision for the house remained exactly as I have outlined. However, your father amended his Will for a second time, in June last year.’

Juliana looked intently at her clasped hands; I saw what an effort it cost to sit passively and demurely while these uncertainties hovered before her.

‘I have to tell you, Miss Farrow, Miss Marianne, that in this, the most recent version of the Will, your
father’s entire estate – money, investments, assets, this house, its land and all effects – is left to the, ah, child known at present as Thomas Dearly. I do not know if this name means anything to you. Ah, I see that it does.’

Juliana’s eyelids fluttered, but she said nothing.

‘Thomas Dearly!’ Marianne burst out. ‘And what of us? Do we count for nothing in our father’s regard? So we
are
to be homeless, after all?’

‘Most certainly not, Miss Marianne. Let me reassure you on that score.’ The solicitor aligned his papers. ‘The child known as Thomas Dearly is presently less than two years old. He is your father’s, ah, illegitimate son; I am sorry if this, erm, information comes as a shock to you. I understand that the boy is currently in the charge of your father’s erstwhile employee, Mrs Matthew Dearly, formerly Eliza Hardacre. Detailed arrangements have been made for his welfare, supervision and education until he comes of age, at which time he is to take the name of Farrow and to be acknowledged as your father’s son and heir. I should add that a handsome provision is also made for Mrs Dearly, in recognition of, er, the services she has provided.’

‘Thomas is to inherit everything – Juliana and myself, nothing?’ Marianne exclaimed.

‘Not quite nothing,’ Mr Jessop answered. ‘You are to continue to live here at Fourwinds, where all your needs will be met; you will each receive an annual allowance. Officially, until you each come of age, you will be under the guardianship of your uncle, Mr Robert Farrow.’

‘Uncle Robert?’ said Marianne. ‘But he will not want to be troubled by us – we scarcely see him from one year’s end to the next! And if he is to be denied the house, when he must have expected to inherit it, it will be a most unwelcome burden!’

‘We will listen first to all Mr Jessop has to say,’ said Juliana. ‘There will be plenty of time later to think of the implications.’

‘Indeed. I was about to, er, add that Miss Juliana Farrow is to receive a settlement of ten thousand pounds on the occasion of her marriage. May I – ah – I hope it is not presumptuous of me to assume that such a happy event is imminent? After a suitable period of mourning, naturally?’

‘No,’ Juliana answered, her voice barely audible; she looked down at her clenched hands. ‘Please make no such assumption.’

‘What of me?’ Marianne asked. ‘Am I to be given ten thousand pounds?’

‘There is no mention of any such settlement. I inferred from these terms that Mr Farrow, ah, expected your sister to marry in the near future, and made this stipulation accordingly. I apologize if I am mistaken in that.’

Marianne turned to her sister. ‘There, Juley! You can marry Samuel, and make him a rich man in the process!’

‘I imagine that is what Papa had in mind,’ Juliana said, in a voice which betrayed no emotion.

‘Samuel?’ queried Mr Jessop.

‘Samuel Godwin, a young artist,’ I told him. ‘He
is – was – a protégé of Mr Farrow’s, who considered him very promising.’

‘Ah, so he has presented himself as a suitor?’ said the solicitor. ‘Yes, I see.’

‘Juley, you ought to be pleased!’ Marianne said, a touch peevishly. ‘This is a piece of good luck, is it not?’

‘Luck?’ said Juliana, in a fierce undertone. ‘You must forgive me if I do not see anything in my present situation that can be viewed as
good luck
.’

Marianne drew back, offended. ‘I meant only to help. You are to marry Samuel – it is what Papa decided. Samuel will be ready enough to fall in with the plan, I am sure, for he is incapable of deciding anything for himself.’

The solicitor looked from one to the other, then back at his papers. ‘This is all so very sudden – you will need time to, erm, assimilate this information at your leisure. You are shocked, of course; you need time to adjust to your sad loss. Miss Farrow evidently does not wish to contemplate marriage, while she finds herself so, ah, tragically, so unexpectedly in mourning.’

‘Indeed not,’ Juliana said resolutely, with a glance at me.

Marianne stood; with her eyes blazing and hair loose and wild around her face, she made an imposing figure. ‘You are quite wrong, Mr Jessop, to suppose us sorrowfully afflicted by our father’s death. I cannot speak for Juliana, but I can speak for myself. I am glad he is dead. I hated my father.’

‘Hush, dear! You don’t mean it!’ Juliana clutched at her arm in an effort to pull her back to her seat;
Marianne, with a gesture of impatience, resisted. Pushing her chair away from the table, she went to the fireplace, from which new position she faced us defiantly. The solicitor glanced at me for the first time since we had entered the room, obviously considering it my job to cope with feminine hysterics. I rose and went to Marianne; almost violently she shook me off.

‘I
do
mean what I say,’ she burst forth again. ‘You know I do! When you’ve had time to get over this shock, Juley, you will share my relief. I hated him! He used and controlled us, and he is trying to control us now – to make us fulfil his wishes. Thomas, Thomas is all that matters to him, or ever did! Thomas is the son he always wanted – Thomas counts for everything, and we for nothing – we have no home to call our own, we must live here with Thomas’s permission . . .’

I had to quieten her, for Juliana’s sake. Anxious as to what she might reveal, I went to Marianne and put an arm round her shoulders. Fortunately for us all, her voice faltered; she broke into a storm of weeping, and became incoherent.

‘Juliana, please ring the bell and order tea and cake for Mr Jessop,’ I said. ‘I shall take Marianne into the morning room.’ With an arm round her shoulders, I guided her through the door.

I had to know. Words must be found to ask the question, though I dreaded to hear it answered.

We sat together in the cushioned recess. Alice had just brought in a vase of flowers; the room was fresh and feminine, with its willow-leaf curtains, its curved
stone fireplace, its white plaster frieze with a design of leaves and berries. I had always imagined that Constance Farrow, sitting here with her sewing, looking out at the lawn, must have thought herself the most fortunate of women. Now I could guess at the anguish she must have suffered, the self-reproach, the sense of failure that must have possessed her. I had misjudged her, as surely as I had misjudged
him
– the man I thought I knew so well, the father I had thought I loved.

‘I am not sorry!’ Marianne blazed at me. ‘I will not apologize for what I said, for I meant it!’

‘Marianne – forgive me, but I must know. Did your father – did he ever force his attentions on you?’

I feared her answer, but when it came, it was not what I had expected.

‘No, never!’ She faced me, with her head high. ‘I feared it – thought it inevitable – and then I felt that he must love me less than Juley, that I am not good enough for him, not his special girl the way she is, and I hate him for leaving me out!’ Her eyes brimmed over with fresh tears. ‘Sometimes I even think I hate
her
, for dominating his attention as she does! I must be mad, Charlotte, must I not, to think such a thing? Not right in my wits?’

Of course, I told her, over and over again, as I had tried to impress on Juliana earlier in the day, that none of what had happened was her fault, and that her father, not she, must take all blame; but meanwhile my thoughts were churning. He had infected them all; the seeds he had sown so wickedly were springing
up as live green shoots; he was dead, but what of his leavings?

All this while, Samuel, assisted by Reynolds and the stable-boy, had been busy down at the lake. When Mr Jessop had at last departed, and both Marianne and Juliana, exhausted by the traumas of the day and the night, had gone to their rooms to rest, I went in search of him.

I found him sitting alone beneath a willow tree. Near him, on the bank, was an object the size of a human body, shrouded in green. My heart thudded in my chest; for an instant I thought that a second corpse had been found in the lake. Then I realized that of course this was the West Wind statue; Marianne, before the solicitor arrived, had been exultant, telling me that it had been found. I thought of the obsession that had gripped her for so many months: that the inhabitants of the house would never rest at peace until the final sculpture was in place on the west wall. It was surely too late for that, but maybe its finding would give the poor girl some comfort.

‘Samuel?’ I called, from some paces off. ‘Surely you cannot have managed that alone?’

He looked at me, his face mud-streaked, tired and haggard. With a painful wrench, I knew how dear he had become to me, now that we must surely part company.

He gave a rueful laugh. ‘I did not. It took the combined efforts of Reynolds, Jack and myself,
together with Hector pulling with all his might, to haul it to shore. They have gone back to the stables, and I don’t know what to do. Look at this.’

I stared at the figure on the grass, barely identifiable as a human form to match our other three Winds; it was coated with green, slimy weed, studded with black snails, infested with small wriggling things, here and there matted into clots of oozing blackness. Only the face was discernible; Samuel must have attempted to clear it, though the features still had a green cast. Staring, I ventured closer, then drew back with a start of revulsion. The face was hideous – grotesque, slimed, leering like a gargoyle, but still a face that I recognized, a face I knew as well as my own: it was the face of Ernest Farrow.

‘How . . . ?’ I faltered, believing for a bemused second that my father’s body, as though cursed for his sins, had turned to stone underwater, and that the corpse in Staverton mortuary was that of some other man.