Authors: Linda Newbery
However, I was puzzled by her request. ‘Why should a visit from your former governess require secrecy?’
‘Because, you see,’ Juliana said, ‘Papa would not like Eliza to come here. He dismissed her, and sent her away.’
‘He dismissed
her
, as well as Mr Waring?’
‘Yes,’ said Juliana, casting her eyes down at her
sketchpad; absently, she resumed drawing.
‘Was there any connection between the two dismissals?’
‘I am quite sure there was not,’ Juliana replied, not looking at me.
I began to feel a stirring of alarm for my own security; but quickly told myself that Mr Farrow was too fair and reasonable to discharge two of his employees without good reason. A solution came easily to mind.
‘Is it presumptuous of me to suspect that there was a – a romantic attachment between Mr Waring and your governess?’ I conjectured. ‘And that your father took exception to it?’
‘I cannot say what Father may have thought,’ Juliana answered; but a renewed crimsoning of her cheeks spoke otherwise.
‘As for keeping your secret,’ I continued, ‘I shall follow Charlotte’s lead; if she agrees, then so shall I. In return, can you tell me something?’
‘What is it?’
‘I should very much like to meet Gideon Waring. Do you know where I might find him?’
‘I would tell you, if only I knew,’ Juliana said, with a small sigh. ‘But unfortunately I have no idea where he went.’
Our conversation was put to an end by the arrival of Marianne, who had wearied of drawing, and wanted her sister to accompany her on a walk around the lake. ‘Do join us, Samuel!’
‘Perhaps – in a moment,’ I told her. ‘I must work here for a few more minutes.’
Completing my drawing of Queen Bess, which I thought good enough to please her mistress, I pieced together the new information I had received, and found that it added up to some rather interesting totals. After only a short while, I packed away my drawing materials and, instead of joining the two young ladies, made my way across the paddock to Yew Tree Cottage.
On Thursday at luncheon, Juliana waited until Alice had cleared away the dishes before mentioning, with studied casualness, that she expected a visitor that afternoon.
‘Oh? Who is it?’ Marianne asked eagerly.
There was a pause; then Juliana answered, with a touch of defiance, ‘Mrs Dearly.’
‘Dearly?’ repeated Marianne. ‘Oh, you mean our Eliza! How odd
Mrs Dearly
sounds – I shall always think of her as Eliza, or Miss Hardacre. But I thought she was in Hampshire?’
‘She lives nearby, now,’ Juliana told her. ‘She is at Rampions – almost our neighbour.’
‘At Rampions?’ I repeated. ‘Employed by the Vernon-Dales? I am most surprised to hear that.’
‘Why, Charlotte?’ asked Juliana.
What I
meant
was that Miss Hardacre had left Fourwinds under a cloud, so presumably without the good character reference which a family as eminent as the Vernon-Dales would require. Instead of broaching this topic, however, I said: ‘Because the Vernon-Dales
have no need of a governess. Their children are quite grown up, are they not?’
‘Yes – but Eliza is married now, and no longer a governess,’ Juliana replied. ‘Her husband, Matthew Dearly, who used to be at Oak Lodge, is head gardener at Rampions. It is an excellent advancement for him – the gardens there are very splendid.’
‘Is your father aware of her new situation?’
‘I don’t know – I suppose so,’ Juliana said, offhandedly.
Very rarely did I find cause for annoyance with Juliana; but now I
was
displeased with her, for delaying this announcement until such a late stage.
‘I am surprised you did not think to mention this sooner,’ I remarked, trying to conceal my pique.
‘You sly thing, Juley!’ Marianne said, her eyes shining. ‘Inviting Eliza here while Papa’s out of the way!’
‘You may think it very clever,’ I reproved, ‘but I should not need to remind you both that I am in charge of the household while your father is in London. What am I to say to him? Juliana, I am surprised at you for compromising me like this.’
‘Father need not know,’ Juliana said, uneasily meeting my gaze. ‘You won’t tell him, will you? And Mr Godwin has already promised not to.’
‘I see. So you have confided in Mr Godwin before you thought of telling me?’ This time I could not help sounding offended. Samuel was peeling an apple and affecting disinterest; but, glancing at him, I saw the flicker of his eye, and knew he was attending closely.
‘Oh, Charlotte! Please don’t be cross.’ Marianne got up and put an arm round me, like the impetuous little girl she sometimes still was. ‘We love you just as much as we ever did Eliza, don’t we, Juley? You know we do. You needn’t feel envious.’
‘I am not envious,’ I replied, though in truth I was a little irked that she had not said
more than
. ‘The point is that you know full well that your father would not welcome Miss Hardacre here – I mean Mrs Dearly,’ I amended. ‘If I allow it, he will hold me to blame.’
‘Then, if he finds out, we’ll tell him it was Juley’s idea,’ Marianne returned, ‘and that you knew nothing of it – which is quite true.’
If I am honest, my curiosity about my predecessor soon got the better of my peevishness, though I continued to make a show of disapproval. At half past three, Eliza Dearly arrived in a pony-chaise, driven by a young man in shirtsleeves and a peaked cap. My charges hastened to greet her; I, however, waited in the vestibule, from whence I watched with utter incredulity as she lifted a small boy down from the chaise seat. While she gave her driver instructions as to what time he should return, Marianne took the infant from her, all but smothering it with exclamations and cooings, while Juliana gazed at it fondly.
My heart was beating fast as I shrank back behind the curtains. Of course, she had the child now; even the lowliest servant at Fourwinds knew this, although Juliana had made no reference to it. Not for a moment had I imagined that she would have the temerity to bring it here! It was improper enough for her to visit
during Mr Farrow’s absence; bringing that child with her was nothing short of outrageous. Juliana, surely, could not have intended that?
While I loitered there, uncertain how to react, Marianne took the toddling boy by the hand, in the manner of a doting aunt, and led him towards the lawn. What a happy party they looked, the four of them!
Decisive intervention was called for, I knew; duty told me to step forward and inform the visitor that, in Mr Farrow’s stead, I must ask her to leave the premises. In my hesitation, however, I was lost. Nothing in Mrs Dearly’s demeanour showed any hint of her former disgrace; on the contrary, an observer might think her an established friend of the family, with every right to come visiting whenever she chose. Her confidence stripped me of mine.
In these first few moments, I formed the opinion that my predecessor gave herself airs. She was, I estimated, two or three years older than I, and tolerably handsome. She wore a high-necked blouse of striped fabric, a narrow, belted skirt and a broad-brimmed hat; crossing the few yards to the lawn, she twirled a parasol, talking all the while. ‘Well, my dears, you’re both looking the picture of health! How good it is to see you after so long – and to find myself back at Fourwinds! Who would have thought that your governess would return in such style? I declare, the place has not changed one bit – I could almost fancy that we are about to resume our lessons! What happy times we had, did we not? Tommy, Tommy, what do
you think of this splendid house?’ she addressed the child, who, unsurprisingly, offered no opinion.
Stepping forward, I asserted my presence. Mrs Dearly surveyed me boldly.
‘Oh!’ Juliana was ruffled for a moment; then she turned to her guest. ‘Eliza – this is Charlotte, Miss Agnew, who now fills your place. Charlotte, may I introduce you to Mrs Dearly?’
‘Welcome to Fourwinds,’ I said, formally, and without cordiality. ‘As I expect you are aware, Mr Farrow is away from home, and unable to greet you himself.’ It would have taken a keener sensibility than Mrs Dearly’s to hear the implied reproof; and subsequent conversation confirmed that this first impression was not mistaken.
We shook hands. Mrs Dearly gave me a condescending smile, while her gaze swept over my unremarkable features, and my plain grey dress. Look what you are, her smile seemed to say, and look how comfortable
I
am. Steadfastly I held her gaze. How could she, with her past, presume to intimidate
me
?
‘Oh, and here is Mr Godwin,’ cried Juliana, attempting to cover any awkwardness in the situation with uncharacteristic vivacity. ‘Mr Godwin, come and be introduced.’
There was far more warmth in the smile and the handshake Eliza Dearly offered our young artist; her eyes lingered on his face and form. ‘Well, Mr Godwin, I suppose you know you are quite the talk of the neighbourhood?’ she simpered. When Samuel expressed surprise, she went on: ‘Oh yes! Everyone
is agog to see your paintings. Mr Farrow is a generous patron, is he not? I can only hope that this project turns out more successfully than his last.’ She raised her eyes to the North Wind, who glowered above us as if displeased with the warmth of the midsummer day. ‘Has the missing statue ever been found, or is the west wall still blank? Ah, the artistic temperament must be treated with caution. Do you not agree? Mr Godwin, are
you
temperamental? Do you fly into rages, or brood darkly for days on end?’
‘I am sorry to disappoint you,’ said Samuel. ‘I have never felt that I should be tolerated if I did. From what I have seen of Gideon Waring’s work, I have the greatest admiration for it and for him; but I don’t understand why artists should expect to behave any differently from other people.’
‘Ah, then I wonder if you are genuinely an artist!’ Mrs Dearly admonished him. ‘Everyone knows that true artists have volatile temperaments. I shall be very disappointed if you never rage, sulk or fly into a jealous passion.’
Her tone was teasing, but Juliana answered with all seriousness: ‘Mr Waring never raged or sulked. He was the most even-tempered man I have ever known.’
‘And
he
was a genuine artist,’ said Marianne. ‘No one could doubt that.’
‘Indeed, he was even-tempered; but who knows what depths of passion lurked beneath?’ answered Mrs Dearly, with a look of intolerable knowingness.
This was not to be endured. ‘I think, Juliana,’ I said, though really my point was directed at Mrs Dearly,
who seemed to have no inhibitions at all, ‘we had better find another topic of conversation. You know that we do not talk of Mr Waring.’
Mrs Dearly gave me a haughty look, as though the lowliest kitchen maid had dared to advise her betters. My gaze fell on the little boy on all fours on the grass, who was staring, eyes and mouth round with astonishment, at a bee that buzzed in prospecting spirals close to his head. Marianne swished the insect away, and the child sat up, waving a plump hand in imitation. He was, I have to concede, a pretty and engaging boy, with straight dark hair and alert eyes; but conversation about
him
was not to be encouraged, either.
‘Tea will be served in the garden, under the cedar tree,’ said Juliana, breaking the awkward pause.
‘How delightful!’ Mrs Dearly adjusted her hat. ‘I am so longing to hear all your news!’
Chairs and a table had already been set out on the south lawn, beneath the cedar’s spreading branches. Alice brought tea, bread-and-butter and cake, crockery and hot water; Juliana had made arrangements with the domestic staff without consulting me, and I wondered whether she had also ensured their silence. My demure miss was revealing depths of deviousness I had never suspected.
We settled ourselves in the shade. Samuel proved to have an unexpected affinity with little Thomas, taking on the task of amusing the boy. Soon he got down on all fours behind his chair, hiding all of himself but his hands, which he shaped to represent various kinds of animal: elephant, donkey and chicken, each
accompanied by the appropriate sound. The little boy stared, frowned, broke into disarming chuckles, and crawled behind the seat in evident expectation of finding a whole menagerie concealed there. Against my better judgement, I found myself smiling indulgently. It was unfair, of course, to blame this innocent child for the wantonness of his conception.
While Juliana gave her attention to this game, Mrs Dearly chatted on, eagerly questioned by Marianne, and I had no need to do anything but listen. Here was a young lady so pleased with herself that she felt everyone else must share her absorption; she talked endlessly about Rampions, the number of staff employed there, the gardener’s cottage (which she referred to as a villa), her vegetable garden, and how admirable a wife her husband found her. Before twenty minutes had passed, I had heard quite enough. Excusing myself, I said that I had matters to attend to indoors, and wished her a stiff farewell.
It was pleasantly cool in the house. Seating myself at the bureau in the morning room, I began to read Marianne’s French composition. Although the errors sprinkled liberally throughout her work made me tut, I was soon absorbed; so much so that I gave a start of surprise when a voice spoke close behind me.
‘What, back at your work already?’ It was Samuel, looking over my shoulder. ‘Surely you needn’t shut yourself inside on such a glorious afternoon?’
Recovering, I turned to face him. ‘Thank you, Mr Godwin, I am quite purposefully occupied. I tire of too much leisure. You seemed very taken with Mrs Dearly’s
boy,’ I remarked. ‘Are you fond of small children?’
‘I am, rather,’ he replied, looking for a moment quite wistful. ‘A cousin of mine has a little boy of Tommy’s age – he reminded me of family days at home.’ He sat on the chaise longue, and reclined there for a moment without speaking; I steered my thoughts back to the composition, until Samuel asked me, quite without prelude, ‘Are you happy here, Charlotte?’
Startled, I replied, ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Miss Agnew, I should say,’ he amended. ‘You appear – as Miss Agnew – to be the perfect employee: discreet, quietly mannered, considerate. Pardon my impertinence, but it is Charlotte I am enquiring about – not Miss Agnew the employee. What of her? Is she happy here?’