Set in Stone (11 page)

‘I hardly know,’ I replied, with an embarrassed little laugh. ‘It is not something I spend time contemplating.’

‘I sense that your own happiness takes second place to that of the two young ladies.’

‘What else is expected from a paid companion?’ I returned. ‘I am very fond of Marianne and Juliana, of course. Maybe excessively so.’ Immediately regretting this, I turned back to the page I was scrutinizing.

‘Please excuse me if I’m curious about you,’ Samuel persisted. ‘What keeps you here? What of your life before? You have told me so little. Do you have a family? In answer to your questions, I have told you all about mine – introduced you, in effect, to my mother, my sister – even to the dog. Do, please, return the confidence.’

It is in my nature to be secretive. This has never
presented a difficulty, since most people, I have found, are interested principally in themselves; it is easy enough to be considered a good friend, even a confidante, by the simple means of listening, and sympathizing. Someone in my position is rarely called upon to analyse her feelings, or give her views on the life she finds herself leading.

‘I have no family,’ I replied. ‘I am alone in the world. That is all you need know.’

‘I am sorry,’ he said.

‘Then you may spare your pity,’ I told him. ‘I am quite accustomed to my role in life.’

He looked likely to press for further details; then thought better of it, and sat gazing out of the window. Following his glance, I saw Juliana and Mrs Dearly strolling together along the lower lawn, Juliana carrying the boy in her arms.

‘Please,’ I told him, ‘don’t linger inside on my account. There is more congenial company to be found outdoors.’

To my amazement, I saw a smile twitch at the corners of his mouth.

‘Do I amuse you, Mr Godwin?’ I asked him sharply.

‘Only in that your disapproval of Mrs Dearly is so transparent,’ he replied, in what I considered an impertinent manner. ‘Your feelings are clearly read in your face.’

‘My conduct towards her has been entirely appropriate. I only wish she would show the same sense of decorum; yet I suppose that is hardly to be expected.’

He nodded. ‘You dislike her intensely – do you
not? You were firm on that point within moments of meeting her.’

‘I am mortified that you think my feelings so easily read,’ I returned.

Undeterred, he went on: ‘I would go so far as to say, you had made up your mind
before
meeting her. Am I right?’

‘Since you were present at luncheon, when the visit was discussed, that is hardly a remarkable deduction,’ I pointed out.

‘And nothing you see in the lady induces you to change your opinion?’ he persevered.

Rustling the pages of Marianne’s essay, I replied, ‘Neither her station in life, nor her conduct, entitles her to be considered a
lady
. Do you have some particular reason for this interrogation?’

‘Only this. Let me hazard a guess,’ said he. ‘You have reason to suspect that Mrs Dearly’s little boy, there, is not – as one would naturally assume – the product of her recent marriage. No – you believe that his sire is none other than our elusive sculptor, Gideon Waring. Am I right? Hence, your stern disapproval of his mother? And of Tommy himself, endearing though he is?’

‘You have a fertile imagination, Mr Godwin.’

‘I like to think so – but here, it is not imagination at work, but a simple piecing together of information,’ said Samuel. ‘Mr Waring left Fourwinds suddenly, after an altercation.’ He enumerated his points on his fingers. ‘Miss Hardacre, as she then was, also left in disgrace. Miss Hardacre had been in the habit of
visiting Mr Waring’s cottage. A little more than a year later, she returns with an infant son. What other conclusion can possibly be drawn?’

‘If you choose to spend your time gossiping with the servants,’ I said, with my eyes still on the page before me, ‘you will no doubt hear all manner of things.’

‘Oh, come – must you be so prim and frosty?’ he admonished me. ‘Is this not what you believe about the boy’s parentage – did Mr Farrow hint as much, when he engaged you in Miss Hardacre’s place?’

With a huff of impatience, I put down my pen. ‘Very well – yes, you are quite right, though I cannot see why it concerns you. It may be as well for you to know, now that Mrs Dearly has returned to the neighbourhood, that she is not welcome here – whether or not Mr Farrow is at home. This visit has been most unfortunate. He will, I know, be displeased when he finds out she is living nearby.’

Samuel made a steeple of his fingers and pursed his lips, looking ludicrously pompous. ‘But what if a misjudgement has taken place?’ he pursued. ‘What if Thomas’s father is not, after all, Gideon Waring – but Mr Dearly, the gardener?’

‘You have just now pointed out strong reasons to the contrary. You need only consider the dates involved. Thomas Dearly is a little over a year old – which means he was born in May last year. Eliza Hardacre left here just before Christmas – her marriage, in Hampshire, must have taken place between then and the birth. In other words, although
her child was certainly conceived out of wedlock, her marriage took place in time to avoid further disgrace.’

‘And is it impossible,’ he said, smiling, ‘that she had been courting her husband while she was employed here? Would that not be a more likely explanation?’

‘Only if her behaviour were even more reprehensible than I believe it to be,’ I replied crisply. ‘Even
she
would surely not keep company, as one might put it, with two men at once!’

Samuel smiled at this. ‘So,’ he went on, ‘you are quite certain of her liaison with Mr Waring?’

‘Mr Farrow left me in little doubt of it,’ I told him. ‘Besides, Marianne—’

His attention sharpened. ‘Yes?’

‘Suffice it to say that Marianne – who, you must remember, was only fourteen at this time, a mere child – has a – how shall I put this? – a precocious awareness of things that no child ought to be exposed to.’

‘She has told you this?’ said he.

‘In so many words. No wonder the poor girl is distressed.’

He looked puzzled. ‘But Marianne showed no reluctance to entertain Eliza this afternoon. She seemed delighted, especially with the little boy.’

A glance silenced him. ‘I know Marianne far better than you do, Mr Godwin,’ I assured him. ‘You must take my word for it that Miss Hardacre proved herself completely unsuited to the teaching and supervision of young girls. That is why I am so anxious that her visit here must not be repeated. Mr Farrow does not wish his daughters to come under the influence of
such a disreputable person. Her past cannot be forgotten, merely because she now presents herself as a respectable married woman – for which she ought to consider herself very fortunate. Mr Matthew Dearly must be a forgiving man indeed.’

Infuriatingly, Samuel laughed. ‘You would prefer her to be a penniless outcast, it appears – to suffer for her sin? You would like her to grovel at the workhouse door, or beg for scraps by the roadside?’

‘On the contrary. I should never wish such misfortune on anyone, and certainly not on her blameless little boy,’ I told him. ‘But I do wish she did not give herself such airs – it is her assumption of superiority I find intolerable.’

He looked at me with a knowing smile.

‘You think yourself very clever, I see,’ I retaliated. ‘What is the meaning of that complacent look?’

He only smiled the more; and I may as well acknowledge that he would have won over a woman of less resolve. His face was flushed with the beginnings of sunburn, for he had unguardedly been walking without a hat; he looked the picture of ease and contentment.

‘I was merely thinking,’ he said, ‘that your pride in your charges does you credit. A sister could not show more devotion than you do towards Marianne and Juliana. And therefore you are bound to dislike Miss Hardacre, for your jealousy of her is transparent.’

‘
Jealous?
’ I retorted. ‘
I?
You are gravely mistaken if you think I could possibly feel any envy of – of that—’

‘You bear her a grudge,’ he insisted, ‘because of the affection shown to her by both girls. You do not like to think that she once occupied your place, and still occupies their thoughts.’

This was provoking beyond measure. Deciding to remove myself to my room, I stood, and collected up my papers. ‘Well, Mr Godwin,’ I told him, ‘if you have quite finished entertaining yourself in this fashion, by analysing my character, you must excuse me. I have work to do, even if you do not.’

It gave me great satisfaction to sweep out of the room, leaving him staring after me.

I had left my curtains open while I slept. The exuberance of birdsong woke me; it was already full daylight, although a glance at the mantel clock told me that the hour was barely past five. Slipping out of bed, I went barefooted to the open window, and looked out.

My spirits lifted in response to the glory of the midsummer morning. The lawn, and the lake beyond, were hazed in gold; the smooth line of the Downs beyond was misty pale. A fox trod stealthily across the grass – pausing to look this way and that, to sniff the air, before walking on unhurried, as if the world were spread out for his pleasure. I saw the narrow muzzle, the delicate tread of his paws, the rich copper of fox-fur against grass; almost, I fancied, I smelled the sharp, feral tang of him.

Suddenly impatient at being indoors, I dressed quickly, crept down the stairs, unlocked the front door and let myself out. I stopped in the porch to put on my shoes, which I had left off till now to avoid waking sleepers in the bedrooms I passed.

The air was as cool and refreshing as spring water.
As soon as my lungs filled with it, and my feet trod the dewy grass, I felt elated; coming out so long before the house was awake, I was claiming these early hours for my own, a delicious secret I shared with the creatures who inhabited them. I made my way down to the lake, and stood on its nearest shore, looking out at the water’s surface, where the faintest of mists lingered. The shore was fringed, for the most part, with rushes; at the farthest end, sheltered by willows, a small landing-stage had been constructed, with a boathouse and wooden jetty. A moorhen with her brood of chicks bobbed across the water, quickly vanishing into the safety of rushes; I heard the
cra-a-ark
of some other unseen bird.

I stooped to dabble my fingers. Here the sand sloped invitingly into the water, which was clear of weed, and would, I estimated, be deep enough for swimming. At once the idea was irresistible. I glanced around, rather as the fox had done, to ensure that no one was near; quickly I threw off my clothes, laid them on a log-seat, and waded in. Sandy mud oozed between my toes; the shock of cold water against skin now repelled, rather than invited me; but it would be weak-willed to change my mind. Gasping with the unexpected chill, I plunged my head under the surface and pushed away in the first strong strokes. Yes! At once I was exhilarated, filled with pleasure in the cool caress of the water, the powerful thrust of my arms and legs, the complete absorption of mind and body.

I swam the length of the lake, towards the boathouse and jetty, some fifty yards; then turned again. Here I
paused to tread water, aware of the commotion I had made, of my rough intrusion into this tranquil place. As the ripples in my wake subsided, and I made only the small movements necessary to keep myself afloat, I listened intently to the lake’s own sounds: barely discernible movements in the rushes, stirrings of willow leaves in the faintest sigh of the breeze, the melodious phrases of a thrush close at hand; and behind it all, the swelling, joyous cacophony of birds from the trees and woods farther off.

I find that I cannot understand what happened then – how, so suddenly, the atmosphere of the place seemed to change. I felt a soft touch against my ankle, a feathery, brushing sensation; there was water-weed here, which I had not seen. As I moved away, I found my legs threshing more of the stuff, which seemed intent on tangling itself about me. Fibrous and strong, it did not yield easily to my kicking, and for a second – I am sure it was no more than that – I was gripped by a fear that I should find myself held firm and pulled underwater. What can I have been thinking? – of marine legends, I suppose, tales of sirens, of deathly music and of drowned sailors – but in another moment I had freed myself, and was swimming again. Although I should have been able to laugh at my discomfiture, to resume my pleasure in being alone in such surroundings, I found that I could not. Above me was golden sunlight and birdsong, but my mind was occupied with what might lurk unseen in the depths beneath my flailing legs. I could almost feel the blubbery touch of fish mouths against my limbs, the slime
of eely creatures that might rise from the mud at the lake’s bottom, the bloated touch of drowned flesh – all I can say is that, overcome with an unease that amounted almost to horror, I struck out for shore as fast as I could swim.

As soon as my feet met the sandy bottom I pushed myself upright, wading, splashing out of the shallows; then I looked around me, thinking that I had truly taken leave of my senses for those bewildering moments. The sun struck warm on my skin; a turtle-dove crooned in the willows; what danger could I possibly have feared? My best course, I decided, would be to re-enter the water and swim for a few more minutes, until I felt calm. But at that point, looking down, I noticed a scarlet trickle of blood from my right foot, issuing from a small gash near the ankle. In my haste, I must have struck against some rock or obstruction underwater, though I had been quite unaware of any painful collision. I sat on the log-seat, pushing aside my heaped clothes, to examine the wound; it bled profusely, though it did not appear deep, and now I felt the stab of pain, which made me wonder that I had not noticed it before.

A pocket handkerchief would soon staunch the flow, if I had one about me. I reached for my jacket – and realized, in the same instant, that I was not alone.

Across the lake, a man stood watching me. He was half concealed by the thick reed-bed on that side of the lake, so that I could see him only from the waist up – clad in a white shirt, with sleeves rolled up, and
a tan-coloured waistcoat. He was so still and silent that I wondered for how long he had been standing there – whether he had seen my wild dash from the lake.