Set in Stone (8 page)

Impatiently, I rolled over, rammed my face into the pillow and closed my eyes tightly; but sleep would not come.

At last I sat up, thinking that I may as well acknowledge defeat and spend the time profitably; turn on
my lamp, sit at my bureau and continue working at my sketch. On the point of rising from my bed, I was arrested by a sound in the gallery beyond my door.

A slow footfall came near; then seemed to pause. The hairs rose on the back of my neck, just as Monty’s hackles rose when, from his doormat observation post, he heard the tread of a possible intruder on our front path. I waited for a rap on my door, but none came. Silently, I stood; crept close; applied my ear to the keyhole. I heard a woeful sigh; then the footsteps moved on, more quickly. I heard the creak of a floor-board as the nocturnal wanderer passed towards the stairs.

The fear that had gripped me by the gateway, on my first approach, returned now with full force. In those taut-stretched seconds I could easily believe the place to be haunted by a restless or vengeful ghost. I had read stories in which newcomers to country houses find themselves witness to apparitions; in those moments I imagined myself as the central figure in such a drama. My hand on the doorknob, I paused to make certain the footsteps had passed away; rapidly, I removed it on hearing the return of the slow tread, which now quickened and seemed to approach my door almost at a run. Then, on a rising wail, a voice spoke:

‘Never sleep! Oh, I shall never sleep!’

I might have reflected that the phantom was expressing my own thoughts precisely, had I not been stirred into action by a realization that this was no supernatural manifestation, but Marianne, on another
of her strange roamings. At once I opened the door, and called her name softly. It must have been the beginning of dawn after all, for the dimmest of light revealed her to me, standing by the gallery railings. Clad in a white nightgown, with her abundant hair loose about her shoulders and tumbling down her back, she could, after all, have been taken for an apparition of the kind beloved by writers of sensation novels. But my next thought was of the physical danger she was in. She stood gazing up at the skylight; then, gripping the balustrade with both hands, she leaned over and gazed down at the vestibule two floors below. I caught my breath. If she leaned too far – if she lost her balance!

‘Marianne!’ I called again, more sharply. I moved carefully towards her, anxious not to startle her, for I feared precipitating disaster rather than averting it.

I trod so carefully that the floorboards gave scarcely a creak; she showed no sign of noticing my advance. Indeed, in spite of her complaint of not sleeping, I wondered if she were, in fact, asleep and dreaming; I had heard of such things. As soon as I drew close enough to be sure of securing her, I reached out, caught her wrist, and put my other arm around her shoulders, turning her away from the balustrade and the dangerous drop below. She spun round to face me.

‘Oh – oh!’ In shock, she was hardly able to breathe normally. For a moment she seemed about to faint; I held her, keenly conscious of the scent of her hair, its tickle against my face, and the firm smoothness of
flesh beneath the nightgown. Next instant I heard the opening of another door behind me; heard the words, ‘Is that you, Marianne?’ spoken by Charlotte; and she was with us.

‘I found her here,’ I offered; ‘she was walking in her sleep, I believe.’

Charlotte nodded. ‘Marianne?’ she said softly, with a touch on the other’s sleeve. ‘You are awake now? You know where you are?’

Marianne looked from Charlotte’s face to mine and back again; blinked several times, and swallowed with an effort. ‘I am sorry. I thought— Oh, but I am too late!’ She began softly to cry.

‘Come,’ said Charlotte. She looked at me over Marianne’s head. ‘We must take her back to her room. There is a couch there – I shall fetch my blankets and sleep there for the rest of the night, in case she should try to wander again.’

Together we shuffled along the gallery and down the stairs, supporting the weeping girl between us. On the first floor, the bedrooms were larger and spaced farther apart. We passed the room I knew to be Mr Farrow’s, with his dressing room next to it, hearing regular breathing from within; then Juliana’s room; and now Marianne’s, where the door stood open. We guided her to the bed, where, seated, she seemed gripped by a new distress.

‘You must not tell Father! Promise me you will not?’

‘Hush, dear.’ Charlotte stroked her hand. ‘Don’t upset yourself.’

‘No, no – you must promise – both of you!’ Marianne’s eyes searched my face in anguish.

‘I promise,’ I told her. Truly, I think I would have promised her anything she asked of me.

‘Charlotte, you must promise, too! He will want to send me away, like Mama—’

Charlotte’s eyes flicked to mine. Then she busied herself with details: switching on the lamp, smoothing the pillows and coverlet. ‘Hush! Hush! You must get into bed – we shall talk in a moment. Mr Godwin, you had better leave us now. Thank you for your assistance.’

Self-conscious in the flare of lamplight, barelegged and in my nightshirt in front of the two young women, I did as Charlotte asked; but waited outside the room for her to reappear. After their voices had murmured for some minutes, she did so, and prepared to climb the stairs to fetch her blankets; but I intercepted her.

‘Charlotte! What did she mean by—?’

Raising a hand, she silenced me. ‘We cannot talk now. Come down early to breakfast. I shall tell you then.’

The night was long in passing, for sleep eluded me completely.

After her escapade, Marianne slept soundly for the remainder of the night. It is needless to relate that I did not, though I made myself as comfortable as possible on the couch at the foot of her bed, and must have dozed intermittently. From now on, I decided, this must be my regular sleeping place. The risk of Marianne wandering around the house, or even outside it, as I suspected she had done on at least one occasion, was too alarming to contemplate. A bed must be made up for me here; I should tell Mrs Reynolds at the first opportunity.

At my usual hour of rising, I returned to my own room to wash and dress, leaving Marianne to sleep on. I had not forgotten my obligation to Samuel; on the contrary, I had lain awake through the dawn hours preparing exactly what I should say to him. We met in the dining room, as arranged, before the rest of the house was astir. The table was set in readiness, but Alice had not yet brought in the hot dishes.

‘Mr Godwin,’ I began, as soon as we had
exchanged Good Mornings. ‘There are several things I need to explain to you.’

‘I should be grateful,’ said he. ‘I have a good many questions to ask.’

‘I am quite sure you have,’ I returned. ‘Let me begin by telling you that, as you must have guessed, Marianne has wandered in her sleep before. Most often, it is of short duration: she comes to her senses before leaving her own room, and I know of it only because she has confided in me. On occasion, though, she has left her room; even, I am afraid, ventured outside the house.’

‘She could easily come to harm!’ Samuel said, in great concern. ‘Last night – she could have fallen from the upper gallery. If she should wander outside, the risk is even greater – there is the lake, or she might stray so far as to lose herself in the darkness—’

‘Yes, yes,’ I replied, a little piqued by his assumption that I had not thought of these hazards for myself. ‘The disturbance has become more frequent of late, and that is why I have decided to supervise her more closely. From now on I shall sleep in her room, keeping the door locked from inside. I am a light enough sleeper to depend on waking if she rises from her bed.’

He nodded approval. ‘And the cause? Do you attribute it to the poor girl’s distress at the loss of her mother – is that when it began?’

‘I believe so. As you know, I was not here at the time, but from what I know of the circumstances, it must have been a terrible ordeal for such an impressionable girl.
Besides her mother’s death, there was her sister’s ill-health and lengthy convalescence.’

‘Are the two events related?’ Mr Godwin asked. ‘The mother’s death and the daughter’s illness? Is there, I mean, some hereditary disease in the family?’

‘Possibly,’ I replied, after a momentary hesitation. ‘Mr Farrow has hinted at it, though naturally the subject is a painful one. Shall we sit?’ – for we had stood till now at the window, looking out at the smoothness of lawn, the trees beyond, and the horses grazing in the paddock.

Although I had planned my subsequent speeches, I did not find it easy to continue.

‘The nature of the illness . . . ?’ Samuel prompted.

It was with reluctance that I went on. ‘Mrs Farrow, the girls’ mother, died in a tragic accident. It is not impossible that she took her own life, while – “while of unsound mind” is the phrase customarily used.’

‘What kind of accident?’

‘A fall.’ Again, I found the words hard to utter. ‘She fell from the upper gallery. Her neck was broken and she died instantly.’

Samuel’s mouth opened in a soundless O.

‘It was Marianne who found her,’ I continued. ‘It was in the early hours of the morning – while the rest of the household slept. Marianne, hearing some sound, emerged from her bedroom to see her mother standing by the railing. She called out in alarm, upon which Mrs Farrow leaned farther, and lost her balance; either that, or she deliberately threw herself into the stairwell.’

‘How dreadful!’ Samuel said, in a shocked, small
voice. ‘And how do you know this, since it was before your employment here? From Marianne herself?’

‘No. I have heard it from Mrs Reynolds. It seems to have been decided in the family that the matter should not be spoken of, and delicacy forbids me to seek details from Mr Farrow or the girls. But you can conjecture, I am sure, as to the effect on sensitive young minds. And, of course, there is no way of stopping the servants from talking.’

‘Marianne, I imagine, must blame herself – she believes that she caused the accident, by startling her mother?’

‘That must compound her distress, I am quite certain. It is almost eighteen months since the tragedy occurred, but such a dreadful memory must be vivid and raw in Marianne’s mind, especially in dreams.’

‘And Mrs Farrow? Was she also prone to sleepwalking?’

‘Not that I have heard,’ I replied. ‘Neither Marianne nor Juliana has ever mentioned it. From Mrs Reynolds, I understand that Mrs Farrow was rather delicate – much confined to the house. I have seen her photograph, of course; she was a very handsome lady. Of the two girls, Juliana resembles her the more; Marianne takes after her father.’

‘So young to die! Such a terrible loss to the family!’ Samuel said, more to himself than to me; then he added, ‘What can Marianne have meant, last night – this morning, rather – when she spoke of her mother being sent away? Did Mrs Farrow go to a sanatorium, maybe, or a nursing home?’

‘I suppose that is possible,’ I replied. ‘But really, I cannot tell you. I am not aware that she ever did go away.’

Samuel gazed out of the window for some moments, absorbed in thought. My ears strained towards the servants’ wing for sounds of our breakfast arriving; strong coffee would revive us both, after the restless night.

‘In what particular way,’ he asked, turning to me abruptly, ‘was Mrs Farrow of unsound mind? Did Mrs Reynolds speak of it?’

‘Very little. She has given me the impression that Mrs Farrow was always rather reserved.’

Samuel frowned. ‘But now it is feared that
both
daughters may be following the same way? I am thinking of Juliana’s recent illness and convalescence. The nature of her illness – was it a mental disturbance of some kind?’

‘That is what I have been led to believe,’ I answered. ‘All I can say is that I know Juliana well, and that both girls are very dear to me. I have never seen any sign of instability in Juliana, nor of the over-wrought excitement we have both seen in Marianne. As you are aware, Juliana is far more placid in temperament than her sister. Maybe the period of rest, away from home, allowed her to adjust to her loss, and to face it in a way that still eludes Marianne.’

‘It strikes me as very odd,’ said Samuel, with a frown, ‘to send only one sister away, leaving the younger one in the house where the tragedy occurred! Where, every day, she must come across reminders not
only of the mother she has lost, but – each time she mounts the stairs or crosses the hallway – of the very place where the fatal fall took place! I don’t understand it.’

‘Yes, I cannot help but agree. No doubt Mr Farrow had his reasons. He would always act in the best interests of his daughters, of that I am quite certain.’

Samuel gave me a quizzical glance. ‘Your loyalty does you great credit! You have lived in Mr Farrow’s house for more than a year – you must know him well?’

‘It is not difficult to feel loyalty to such an employer,’ I answered promptly. ‘I know Mr Farrow as the most admirable of men and the kindest of fathers.’

At this point, Alice entered the room, pushing a trolley loaded with coffee pot and serving dishes. Seeing us seated and ready, she must have thought us impatient, or herself late, for she apologized profusely. ‘No matter,’ I assured her, glad of the interruption. However, there was to be no easy avoidance of Samuel’s further questioning, for Juliana was never down early, and Marianne likely to sleep peacefully for some while more.

At first he seemed preoccupied with examining everything on the table. He picked up a knife and smoothed two fingers over its handle; next he examined the salt cellar, and admired the lustre of a plate. ‘Everything so well chosen,’ he remarked; ‘so harmonious! Mr Farrow’s good taste, and attention to detail, is evident in everything I see – every door handle,
every plate and glass, every item of furniture – to say nothing of his willingness to pay for the best.’

‘You are right, of course,’ I said, though I could not see where this train of thought was leading.

He looked at me. ‘And yet there is one thing about the house that is incomplete, unfinished – and this, it seems, gives considerable distress to Marianne. I must know more about the stone-carver, Gideon Waring. Why was his work abandoned – such an important final touch, the carvings that give the house its name?’