Set in Stone (6 page)

A silence answered my question: Marianne looked at her sister, her lips parted; Juliana continued sewing, only the faint blush of her cheeks betraying emotion. She was always mild mannered, yet even she would surely have countered Marianne’s remark with a strong denial, unless – unless there were some truth in it.

It was not in Juliana’s nature to keep secrets; or so I had thought.

‘Surely your father can have mentioned no such plan!’ I exclaimed, looking from one sister to the other. ‘I would be more than astonished if he had.’

‘Of course not!’ Marianne replied. ‘But it’s obvious to anyone with eyes to see.’

‘Marianne!’ her sister reproved, snipping a thread.

‘Manners, Marianne,’ I said crisply. ‘I am certain that Mr Godwin himself has no such idea – so he must be as blind as I am to what you consider so obvious.’

Marianne turned a page of her book. Seating myself next to Juliana on the sofa, I felt nettled by this exchange. I thought I had the confidence of both sisters; particularly Juliana, who was sometimes, I thought, over-dependent on my company, seeing me almost as a substitute for her mother, though I was close to her own age. Now, it seemed, the introduction of a personable young man to our company had inspired them to collude in silly fantasies. With Marianne, I was used to wild imaginings, but her sister I credited with more practical sense.

‘You don’t believe me,’ Marianne observed.

‘I most certainly do not,’ I returned. ‘Marry Mr Godwin? I don’t understand how such a notion has entered your head. Nothing in Mr Godwin’s person or manner makes the idea objectionable; but why would your father make such an arbitrary choice? He cannot suppose Juliana to be incapable of attracting admirers without his interference. There must be plenty of eligible young men among his acquaintances.’

‘Yes! But when do we ever meet them?’ Marianne retorted, giving me a knowing glance, in which I read her absolute assurance that she was right. Juliana only bent more attentively over her needlework. It was true that I had already asked myself why the girls’ father had chosen to install Mr Godwin at Fourwinds; but this
theory was too outrageous to be seriously considered. If anyone were likely to contemplate marriage, it would more likely be Mr Farrow himself, still vigorous, handsome and in his prime, than his daughters. At this point I curbed my thoughts swiftly: he was only recently out of mourning for his late wife. How I felt for him! The merest sight of his girls, each in her own way so charming, must give him pain; every hour spent with them must remind him most sharply of his loss. It is a hard burden for any man to bear. The most doting of fathers, he would do anything likely to contribute to his daughters’ happiness; but, surely, he would not attempt to procure a husband for Juliana in this way, as if she were a plain spinster of thirty with no other hope of marriage?

No, no! I shook my head, endeavouring to clear it of such nonsense. Ernest Farrow liked to see himself as a patron of the arts. He was encouraging a promising young painter, just as he had encouraged his architect; and, later, the stone-carver Gideon Waring, ill fated though that project had turned out to be.

‘Juliana, I thought you would consider this idea of Marianne’s as unlikely as I do,’ I remarked. ‘What have you to say?’

She did not look up from her sewing. ‘To marry, and to have a home of one’s own, is the ambition of most young women.’

‘Is it yours, Charlotte?’ Marianne asked me, with a mischievous little smile.

‘You know it is not. Who should I marry?’

‘Papa won’t trouble himself to send for a husband
for
me
,’ she said, a little fretfully. ‘Juley is his favourite; anyone can see that. I’m sure I don’t know why.’

‘Oh, no,’ Juliana murmured, with a quick shake of her head.

‘Marianne, that is quite absurd!’ I replied. ‘You know your father is utterly devoted to both of you. Besides, you are far too young to be thinking of marrying.’

‘But Juliana is not,’ said Marianne.

I turned to her sister. ‘So you would not object to leaving Fourwinds, to marry and set up a home of your own?’

Honesty compels me to own that I was thinking principally of myself. My tenure here, of course, could not last indefinitely; I should be foolish to think so. Inevitably, Juliana would marry; if not soon, then within a few years; so would Marianne; and what need would there be for Charlotte Agnew? I did not like to think of it. I had made my life here; I had no other.

‘If I should be so blessed,’ said Juliana. She paused, and gave me a sidelong glance, a look of sweet tenderness. ‘If that should happen, Charlotte, if I should leave Fourwinds – I hope you would come with me. I could not bear to be parted from you.’

Such a dear, kind-hearted girl as she was, she had sensed my disquiet. I smiled my gratitude.

‘Nor I,’ said Marianne promptly. ‘I should insist on coming too. So, Juley, you and your husband will need quite a large house, to accommodate us all.’

‘There will be plenty of time to consider such matters,’ I told them, ‘
when
the occasion arises. That is not likely to be for some while.’

‘It’s a great pity that Mr Waring had to leave,’ Marianne remarked.

I gave her a stern glance. ‘Why, what has
he
to do with anything?’

‘We were talking of Juliana’s future husband.’ Marianne was in mischievous mood. ‘He would have suited her better than anyone, even though he had no money.’

‘I should hardly think so!’ I reproved.

She gave me a look of playfulness mixed with defiance, but did not defend herself.

Juliana blushed hotly. ‘Mr Waring was a good friend to me,’ she said, casting her eyes down. ‘I wish he were here still.’

‘While we are on the subject,’ I told them, lowering my voice, ‘I should warn you against speaking of Gideon Waring in Mr Godwin’s hearing. He – I mean Mr Godwin – is already curious, having seen the three Winds. We need only say that Mr Waring was working on the sculptures when your father found reason to dismiss him. That must suffice. I know how the servants gossip. We cannot prevent that, but it is a subject best avoided amongst ourselves.’

‘Miss Hardacre too,’ said Marianne. ‘Papa is very good at finding reasons to dismiss people, when it suits him to do so.’

‘Please, Marianne!’ Juliana, glanced up, still flushed. ‘You will make Charlotte anxious for her own position, and there is no need for her to feel doubt on that score. No one could suit us more perfectly than you do, Charlotte. You are almost a member of the family.’

At this comparison with my predecessor, I have to admit that I felt a glow of satisfaction, almost of self-righteousness; but Miss Hardacre, like Mr Waring, was not someone I wished to hear mentioned.

‘Your father would never dismiss anyone without good reason,’ I added, ‘and I sincerely hope I shall never give him cause for displeasure. Marianne, it is time for your French lesson. Where are your books?’

‘I shall fetch them. But you needn’t worry about Samuel,’ she assured me. ‘I am quite sure he isn’t a gossip.’ She uncurled her legs, knocking her book carelessly to the floor; then she stood, stretching both arms above her head. ‘Oh, I feel so restless today! Charlotte, you will find me an inattentive pupil, I am afraid.’

She was quite right: I did; though her distraction was matched by my own.

Orchard Cottage
,
Rampions
,
Near Staverton
,
Sussex

22nd June, 1898

My dearest Juliana
,

I must apologize for the delay in replying to your last, since you have told me how you look forward to my letters. You would be forgiven for thinking me very neglectful. However, you will see that we have been very much occupied of late, and you will see why, for you must be surprised by the address I have given. Yes, we have come to live at Rampions, not five miles from Fourwinds! We have been so very lucky! We had thought ourselves quite settled in Petersfield, but then the head gardener at Rampions became ill and was forced to retire, and so Mr Vernon-Dale was looking for a replacement. The groom there, with whom Matthew was friendly, wrote with the news
,
and Matthew applied immediately. It is a wonderful advancement for him, with four under-gardeners to supervise, and the splendid grounds of Rampions, and most importantly we have for our home the gardener’s cottage, which is as comfortable and well appointed a dwelling as I could hope for, and quite sizeable – indeed I prefer to call it a villa, with its own vegetable plot behind and flower garden in front. Rampions is so very grand that I think everyone who comes here must be quite astonished by its splendour. I must say that I am very glad to find myself once again in Sussex, not because I was in the least unhappy in Hampshire – how could I be with Matthew for a husband, and darling little Thomas? – but because it brings me back to the place I know and love best. And, dearest Juley, it returns me to the vicinity of Fourwinds, and to you and dear Marianne. I know that your father has appointed a new companion for you in my place, but I hope that you have not entirely transferred your affections and that there is still room in your heart for your Eliza. I flatter myself that there is. Mrs Matthew Dearly has a very different ring to it than Miss Eliza Hardacre, does it not? I am still the very same person, however, and quite unchanged in my devotion to you and your sister, even though I am now a married woman with husband and home of my own
.

Now, Juley, how shall I come to visit you? For your father would be averse to my visiting Fourwinds. Indeed, as he was so instrumental in helping us to remove to Hampshire, it will displease him to learn that we have now made altogether different arrangements for ourselves – though maybe he need not learn
immediately,
if you understand my meaning! It would
give me the greatest pleasure to welcome you to my new home; but I am quite sure your father would not permit that either. If he still travels to London, as used to be his wont, to deal with his business affairs, and stays there for a few nights, maybe you would let me know, so that I could arrange for one of the grooms here to drive me to Fourwinds? I can hardly wait to see you again, and I am sure that you must be longing to see Thomas – Tommy, as we call him. He is such a delightful child, pretty, playful and sunny-tempered. Thank you so much for the toy bear you sent for his first birthday. He plays with it devotedly
.

I wonder whether you have any news of Mr Waring? I have not heard a word of him since our paths separated so abruptly – but this and other news can wait until we have the chance to spend a few hours in each other’s company
.

With affectionate best wishes, dearest Juley, to you and to Marianne
,

Your devoted friend
,

Eliza

At Fourwinds, spending so much time alone, I had ample time to examine my motives. What did I think I was doing, in my efforts with pencil and paintbrush, with oils and washes?

I could only discover a strong desire to make my mark on the future, to achieve something memorable that would outlast my life. But how could this be done? Why, among the countless millions of humans that thronged the Earth, should I believe myself to be set apart by some special gift? Did I seriously believe that I had the talent to outshine the countless unremarkable painters who squinted and stared, who mixed their colours, who dabbed and brushed and smeared their marks on canvas in the naive belief that it would grant them immortality? Was it only conceit on my part, a childish desire for fame and admiration?

I knew only that without the compulsion to draw and paint, to render on paper or canvas what I saw about me, I should consider my life to be quite without purpose.

The Farrows went to church in Staverton on Sunday, and I with them. Before and after the service, I was introduced to several people; my arrival at Fourwinds had caused, it seemed, a flurry of interest. I supposed that life in this quiet country place was so uneventful that change of any kind provoked comment and speculation. At these encounters, Mr Farrow introduced me as ‘an artist of great promise’, ‘an immensely talented young painter’, and other such heady descriptions. I did not choose to question his judgement; rather, I began to believe it myself, to think that there must be some latent spark of genius in my work which was apparent to him, if not to me.

Strangely, however, he seemed completely wrong in his assessment of his daughters’ abilities. Whenever we spoke of the drawing lessons, his concern was all for Juliana, for her need to regain health and spirits. Yet, from the start, it was evident to me that Marianne was the one with artistic promise. Juliana had a fussy, hesitant approach, over-concerned with correctness: I should have to work hard, I saw, to make the best of a very modest talent. Marianne, on the other hand, had boldness, a feeling for place, and a style that could be termed slapdash but which needed only a little discipline to smooth its roughness.