Set in Stone (33 page)

‘But—’

At that point, however, one of the carriage horses raised its head and whinneyed, and we saw, coming down the track from the house, Reynolds, with two of the visiting grooms.

‘I must go back,’ Charlotte said. Turning, she walked off fast, head down.

In perplexity, I gazed after her; considered following, then turned instead towards the lake.

There, in the still of late afternoon, the trees’ lush canopy held coolness and shade. There, sitting by the water’s edge, I reached a decision.

When I came back to the house, the guests had gone. Without seeing anyone on my way, I went to my room and changed out of my funeral garb, then wandered out to the lawn, smelling the warm grass, listening to the scream of swifts overhead. This summer had seemed everlasting. Not having known Fourwinds in any other season, I could only imagine it with the drawing-room doors thrown open, the curtains stirring in a breath of air, the garden seats arranged for shade beneath the cedar.

Piano music reached me faintly, so perfectly fitting the evening’s mood that I did not at first register that Juliana was in the drawing room, playing Chopin, her favourite. I remained where I was for a few minutes, listening, debating with myself. Then, deciding that I must act now or procrastinate for ever, I walked slowly indoors.

She looked up at me, with a faint smile, and continued playing. Taking my position by her right shoulder, I stood ready to turn the page. I looked at the tender nape of her neck, with the hair swept up; at the lustrous black of her dress which became her so well, bringing out the delicate shades of hair and skin; I saw how beautifully and surely her hands moved over the keys, so that the music seemed to ripple from her fingertips and hover in the air like scent.

When she finished the piece, she rested her hands in her lap, and looked up at me. ‘What would you like next? Will you choose?’

‘Thank you, no. I wish to say something. Something important.’

With a feeling of unreality, I took both her hands in mine; startled, she almost snatched hers back, then submitted. Kneeling beside her, I looked into her face. I felt that I was acting a part in a play; and this self-consciousness seemed to prompt my words.

‘Juliana,’ I began hoarsely. ‘Forgive my unseemly haste, for I know it is much too soon; you have had a great shock. But I must ask you, even though everything is in turmoil, and your feelings with it – perhaps
because
everything is so unsettled – I must put it to you that – would you do me the very great honour of – would you consent to be my wife? I have little to offer you – I mean in terms of wealth, security or status. Only the promise of my devotion, my everlasting regard. If you agree, you will make me the – the happiest of men.’

I had imagined this scene before, of course; and I felt sure of Juliana’s response. She would drop her eyes, protest astonishment, make modest objections, and then she would blushingly, tearfully accept, and we would break the news, to everyone’s delight and pretended surprise. Nothing could have prepared me for what she
did
say.

‘Don’t be silly, Samuel.’ She pulled her hands away from mine and patted my shoulder, making me feel like a favourite dog.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I don’t mean to seem rude,’ she said, half-turning away. ‘It’s very kind of you, but I know that your offer comes from a sense of duty, even self-sacrifice. It’s what Papa wanted, you know. Maybe you were aware of it?’

‘Yes – yes, I was. But . . .’ Aware of the ridiculousness of my position, I got to my feet and stood behind her chair as before, where at least she could not see my face. But she would not have that; she swivelled round to look up at me.

‘And so you plan to carry out his wishes, even though he is dead?’

‘No! It is only
because
he is dead – because he is no longer here to exert pressure,’ I told her, in truth rather unsure, ‘and I can act as if of my own accord.’

‘Have you spoken to Charlotte about this?’

‘No! I have spoken to no one. I suppose,’ I added, for I had only just thought of it, ‘I should have approached your Uncle Robert first, to ask his permission.’

‘I am very glad you did not, for he will be as reluctant a guardian as you would be husband, and would no doubt have thanked you for taking me off his hands. Samuel, I thank you for your good will. Your offer comes from the kindest of motives, and I am grateful – please do not think otherwise. But my answer is No. And I do not say it in any spirit of bashfulness, to induce you to try again. Nor do I mean to suggest any personal rejection.’ She hesitated. ‘You believe that this is my chance to become a respectable married woman – for you are the one man who knows
of my circumstances and yet is prepared to make this offer, even though it runs counter to your best interests.’

I began a half-hearted protest – for I was not as clear as she was that I had nothing to gain through this proposal – but she held up a hand to stop me.

‘You see, Samuel, I do not believe that a woman’s only chance of fulfilment is to be found in marriage. Yes, I might have embraced marriage, if things had been otherwise. But they are not, and I shall not. I have other blessings. I have Marianne; I have Charlotte; I am comfortably provided for. I have your friendship, Samuel, and I value it. But how do you think I should feel, if duty to me prevented you from marrying the person you love? Now, if you will excuse me, I shall go and change out of this gloomy black. Thank you for your kind and generous offer, but we will not speak of it again, and I shall not tell Marianne or Charlotte. Will you shake hands?’

We did so; and it was I who was left stammering, and blushing, and giving inadequate thanks, and Juliana who had shown gallantry. Pretending that
I
had been gallant, she released me from the obligation I had made myself.

When we reassembled downstairs, just before dinner, I was not sure how I should meet Juliana’s eye, and was thankful for a diversion created by – surprise of surprises – Charlotte. To the amazement of all three of us, she was dressed in a blouse of bright scarlet. So
accustomed was I to seeing her in drab grey, that it was as if a bird of paradise had alighted in our midst; I stared, we all stared. So self-conscious was she, that she might as well have been a walking pillar of flame.

‘Charlotte?’ I said, stepping towards her – indicating, with a sweep of my hand, the unfamiliar garment.

‘Oh, this?’ she said, plucking at her sleeve. ‘It was an impulse purchase, and I thought – I thought now might be a good time to wear it, after the sombreness of the day. But it was a mistake – on the very evening of the funeral! Perhaps I had better go up and change into something more suitable.’

‘No, it is very becoming!’ declared Marianne, standing back to survey the complete picture. ‘You make so little of yourself, Charlotte, but look at you now!’

Indeed, the vivid colour brought out the warmth of her hair – which was dressed with its usual severity – and of her lively brown eyes. I looked at her with affectionate amusement, and then at the other two. What a companionable group we made, I was thinking – and, with a pang of regret, that there would be few more such evenings, that my days here were numbered. My painting commission was over before it was properly begun, and Mr Robert Farrow would now be in a position to decide whether or not my employment as tutor should continue. I would be very surprised indeed if he thought it worthwhile to pay me to spend most of my time in idleness, with only the daily interruption of a drawing lesson. As soon as he reached that conclusion, Mr Jessop would pay me what I was owed, and I should have no reason to remain here.

I knew that my ill-judged proposal to Juliana had stemmed as much from my attachment to Fourwinds as from my misplaced sense of duty. If she had accepted, I should now – I knew it – have felt uneasily confined and compromised; but as she had not, I felt spurned, even bereft. It was not Juliana I had lost, but all three of my companions; for, on this peculiar evening, I felt that I loved them all equally, and should miss them most sorely. I should soon be gone from here, with only my memories, and my sketches and incomplete paintings which no one would want, to remind me of Fourwinds.

‘Well,’ said Marianne, after the coffee was served, ‘none of us has spoken of what must be foremost in all our minds. What next?’

She looked at me, then at Charlotte, but it was Juliana who answered. ‘What is the matter with us?’

‘The matter?’ Marianne repeated. ‘What do you mean? Don’t we have enough to perturb us?’

‘I mean, what is the matter with us?’ Juliana repeated. ‘We are waiting to carry out our duties. We are waiting for Uncle Robert, and Mr Jessop, to tell us how we are to live our lives, and how to manage our money, and how to keep this house in perfect order for Thomas – for the next generation of Farrows. We are to be custodians – caretakers. That is what our father has decreed: that is what, as dutiful daughters, we are required to do.’

‘Have you something else in mind, Juliana?’ Charlotte enquired.

‘I have.’ Juliana faced us resolutely. ‘Thomas is my
father’s son – his heir – but he is also
my
son. Surely I am entitled to express some opinion about his upbringing? I want Thomas with me. I want to see him grow up. Yes, it will bring shame upon me, but I care nothing for that. It is not my shame, but my father’s –
we
know that, even if no one else does.’

Marianne turned on Charlotte. ‘Juley is right! But we must live elsewhere – we must leave Fourwinds and make a life of our own. Of course Juliana must have Tommy, but she cannot bring him here – cannot continue sleeping in the very room where—’

‘Yes. I understand,’ Charlotte said. She looked from Marianne to Juliana, then at me. ‘There is something I have not yet told you – any of you.’ We all gazed at her expectantly. ‘I have inherited a house,’ she told us, looking at each of us again, with a kind of defiance. ‘A house in Eastbourne. It would not suit us to live there—’

‘
Charlotte!
’ exclaimed Marianne.

Charlotte held up a hand to silence her. ‘But I could sell it, for a considerable sum, I am informed. We could use the proceeds to buy ourselves a house elsewhere – a house in a country village, maybe, where no one will know us. Then Fourwinds could be let, until such time as Thomas is old enough to make a decision about its future – for it must still be his, according to the terms of the Will.’

‘I knew you had not told me everything!’ I reproached her.

‘Oh, Charlotte!’ said Juliana. ‘Why have you not told us this before?’

Marianne, though, was too caught up in this new idea to wait for explanations: she sat forward, clapping her hands. ‘A house of our own! How delightful! We could live there all alone, the three of us –
four
of us, with Thomas. No one will disturb us – we can keep chickens, and maybe a cow, and beehives, and you can have Queen Bess, Juley – what could be nicer? We will be completely happy. And do let’s live near the sea, Charlotte – I should love to live by the sea—’

I turned to the window. I should be best occupied packing my bags without delay, and making my arrangements.

‘Oh yes,’ said Charlotte to Marianne, with a laugh in her voice – something I had seldom heard till now – ‘and I suppose you will soon be thinking of cheese-making and maypole dancing, to complete this bucolic picture?’

‘But,’ Juliana said, ‘there is someone we must not forget.’

We all looked at her.

‘Who?’ said Marianne.

‘Samuel, of course!’ replied her sister, turning to me, with a slight flush crimsoning her cheeks. ‘You may prefer to make other plans, Samuel – but maybe you would consider throwing in your lot with ours?’

Marianne’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘I am sorry! How could I not think of you, after all you have done for us? Do say yes, Samuel. How delightful! And you two – does this mean . . . ?’

I stared at Juliana in confusion, wondering whether she had reconsidered my offer; but she gave
me the smallest of smiles, and replied to her sister, ‘No, I wish to make one thing clear. There is to be no question of marriage between Samuel and me – for I was aware of Papa’s connivings, as I think we all were. Everyone must understand that. We must be free to choose our own ways in life.’

Charlotte regarded me thoughtfully, and I wondered if she guessed what had taken place.

‘Oh well, if you refuse outright, Samuel will be free to marry someone else,’ Marianne said. ‘Do say yes, Samuel – do say you will come with us! You could not leave us now, could you?’

‘No,’ I said, laughing. ‘I don’t believe I could.’

‘What fun!’ Marianne gave a little clap of her hands. ‘How unconventional we shall be – three young ladies, one young man and one little boy, and none of us married! What will the world think of us?’

‘We need not concern ourselves with that,’ said Juliana. ‘We shall be together, and away from here, and that is all I care about.’

‘Samuel is an artist. That will explain it,’ Marianne said gaily. ‘Artists are allowed to break with convention.’

‘Charlotte? We are racing ahead, too fast – what do you think of all this?’ I gave her a searching look; she caught my expression, and read the question it conveyed.

‘Well, there is a great deal to discuss and decide,’ she said, with deliberate slowness. ‘And of course we will need to discuss this with Uncle Robert, who may have objections. But I think Juliana is quite right. We
must find our own direction. We have been controlled for too long by our father.’

I looked at her; saw that she had conquered the indecision that had overcome her earlier; saw that her scarlet blouse was a fanfare heralding change.

‘
Our
father?’ said Marianne, into the baffled pause that followed.

Withdrawing, leaving them to the exclamations, the reproaches and the wondering that followed Charlotte’s revelation, I stepped out into the dusk.

I looked up at the sky, at the first emerging stars. As my eyes adjusted, I saw more and more of them – tiny and faint, they appeared, yet astronomers tell us that each one is a separate sun like our own. How unimportant we humans are, how minuscule, when set against the vast, incomprehensible scale of the cosmos! And yet how strong the pulse of our little lives, how vitally experienced, how sharp the pangs of joy and of anguish! How constantly we revolve around one another, held in our orbits like planets round a sun; how dizzily we would spin off into space if these holds were loosened.