Authors: Linda Newbery
Removed from Fourwinds, I was not quite my accustomed self. The encounter with my grandmother had shaken my equilibrium, reminding me sorely of my childhood. The sympathy I felt was not for the dying woman but for myself, for I owed her little enough. She had disposed of me. Yes, she had provided for me: had paid for my board and lodging, and had sent me to a mediocre boarding school; that, however, was chiefly for the sake of her conscience. She did not love me, did not want to acknowledge me as her relative; I had seen her only rarely. The life I had made for myself at Fourwinds owed nothing to her. There, in my known habitat, I was Miss Agnew, Charlotte: admirably filling my role, which required that I efface myself and think always of my two charges. So absorbed was I in their lives, that my own seemed of little importance. I permitted myself the somewhat complacent thought that Juliana and Marianne would
be missing me, for we had never before been parted. This dependence was mutual. I did not like being away from them, and was uneasy at the thought of conversation between them and Samuel Godwin without my presence. My disquiet, however, was more than that. Without Marianne and Juliana, away from the pattern of meal times, lessons and conversation, away from Mr Farrow, whose habits and foibles I knew so perfectly, I felt bereft: not only of them, but also of myself. Uprooted from my familiar surroundings, transplanted abruptly from open downland to this England-edge where the sea constantly fretted and eroded the land – who was I? If anyone had put such a simple question to me, I almost felt that I should be at a loss for an answer. The syllables of my name had become empty puffs of air, meaningless.
Slightly giddied, I continued to walk along the seafront. To outward appearances I must have presented exactly the same figure as usual: a slight, unremarkable young woman, plain of feature, and dressed in grey, quite without jewellery or other adornment. Within, however, I was gripped by a sense of bewilderment, almost of panic. What was I? – I was nothing. Here, I cared for no one, and nobody cared for me. What if, by some unthinkable circumstance, I should remain here, and never return to Fourwinds? I should be utterly alone. No friendly or respectful glances would come my way as I walked through the town; no one would notice me as I passed. Anonymous in the crowd, I should be lost.
Gripping the railing of a flight of steps that led
down to the beach, I felt overcome by faintness, and closed my eyes against the glare. After a few moments, I felt a grip on my arm, and warm breath close to my cheek.
‘You all right, miss? Been taken poorly?’ The face that looked into mine was round, rosy-cheeked, with tendrils of hair escaping from beneath a cap: it was the face of a mature woman with girlish looks. She carried a jug of milk. ‘Why not come and have a nice sit-down? Cup of tea’ll soon put you to rights. On the ’ouse, mind.’ She gestured towards a kind of caravan down on the beach, to which she had evidently been making her way; it had a striped awning, and deckchairs on the sand nearby. ‘Come on, duck, give me your arm.’
‘Thank you. I will.’ Suddenly I felt overwhelmed by affection towards this kindly soul. Someone had seen me after all; responded with fellow-feeling, and offered me help. She clucked her tongue in concern as she guided me down to the sand: ‘Steady, now – watch your step – that’s the way.’
By now feeling somewhat foolish, I sat in a deckchair until I had recovered. After drinking a second cup of tea, I insisted on paying for both, then bade farewell to my Samaritan, and walked along the very fringe of the waves, even though my shoes soon filled with grit and pebbles.
Here, I took myself firmly in hand. Far from becoming invisible, I had made an exhibition of myself, attracting the attention of strangers. Charlotte Agnew reasserted herself; she straightened her back
and lifted her chin, and looked the world levelly in the face. What had I been thinking of, to allow myself such foolish indulgence? Walking on, I took deep breaths, filling my lungs with salt-laden sea air, feeling strength and confidence returning.
My progress along the beach brought me close to a family group who sat on rugs, enjoying a picnic, sheltered by the edge of the promenade and by a canvas screen. They, of course, did not notice my glances. The group comprised a young mother dressed in white, a uniformed nursemaid, a tiny baby, swaddled, and placed in the shade of a screen, and a sailor-suited boy of maybe two years. This boy’s attention was intently fixed on a pair of donkeys giving rides to children farther along the beach; as I watched, he made a dash for freedom, toddling with arms outstretched, struggling for balance on shingles that shifted beneath his feet. ‘No, Teddie!’ called the mother in alarm; the nursemaid darted after him and led him firmly back, with a wry grimace, while he wriggled and wailed. Putting down the pastry she had been about to eat, the mother gathered the resisting boy into her arms and rocked him. ‘Be patient, Teddie! We’ll go and see the donkeys in a little while.’ In her place I should have put him aside with a harsh reminder to behave himself, but her face was soft with tenderness. Unaccountably perturbed, I turned away to the water’s edge.
As I stood gazing out at the calm aquamarine surface that was barely ruffled, the merest frills of waves hardly disturbing the pebbles, for the tide was
full in, I found myself puzzling again over the conversation I had had yesterday with Juliana, and her strange insistence that she ought not to marry. The cause of her tearfulness could only be the visit from Eliza Dearly and the infant Tommy. Why, though, should she be so upset by the new proximity of the governess she had been fond of, possibly even as fond as she now was of me? And why should Eliza Dearly’s happily married state provoke so firm a resolution in Juliana to remain a spinster? Try as I might, I was at a loss to understand. Could it be a delicate revulsion against what she had witnessed of the liaison between Eliza and Gideon Waring? Yet if that were the case, why invite Eliza to Fourwinds at all? And she had shown no aloofness of manner towards the former governess. On the contrary, she had been in a fluster of delight, and hardly able to take her eyes off little Tommy—
Tommy! Barely could I prevent myself from smiling as I pictured the charming little boy, and recalled Juliana’s tender face as she carried him. It seemed she was deeply attached to the child; I thought of her furtive excitement before the visit, her low spirits after—
The answer slipped into my mind as cleanly as a penny into a slot machine. Although I always prided myself on missing nothing, I had missed everything. A cold frisson of shock trembled through me, although the sun was still hot. I startled myself by exclaiming aloud; stumbled, and almost overbalanced.
It was impossible – unthinkable – unendurable –
and yet, and yet, though every fibre of feeling rebelled—
– it made clear sense – supplied all answers, filled all gaps—
Juliana, not Eliza Dearly, was the boy’s mother.
No, no! How could my mind even admit such a grotesque possibility? It was preposterous – intolerable! My mind reeled; every instinct in me struggled to repel the notion. I turned and walked along the shore, the pebbles and the waves blurring hotly before my eyes. How could I entertain such a thought, about my beloved Juliana?
Every instinct recoiled; yet each moment supplied an answer to a puzzling question. Each new thought convinced me that I must be right.
I walked and walked, until I was hot and almost feverish. If this were so, how thoroughly I had been taken in! By Mr Farrow, and most of all, by Juliana herself! I thought I had Juliana’s trust; believed I was her confidante – but how much she had hidden from me!
Now, dizzied and shocked, yet forcing myself methodically to re-examine the situation, I realized that Juliana’s illness and convalescence away from Fourwinds, attributed to a nervous disorder, had coincided with Tommy’s birth.
What, then, of Eliza Dearly, and her role in this? I found that I had even more to condemn than before. If my surmising were correct (and it
must
be correct), she had most grievously abused her position of trust at Fourwinds by allowing Juliana to be corrupted by
that most wicked of men, Gideon Waring. Indeed, when I realized that Juliana must have been barely seventeen at the time of the child’s conception, scarcely more than a child herself, I was filled with such disgust that I must have protested aloud, for a passer-by turned to look at me before moving on hastily, as though I were a madwoman. How vile, how reprehensible their conniving must have been! For how else could a well-brought-up young girl find herself so irredeemably compromised, without being manipulated by two older people she ought to have been able to trust?
‘Juliana!’ I murmured. ‘What is to be done?’
No answer presented itself. Instead, I found myself marvelling at how much Juliana had concealed. What troubling thoughts must possess her daily, yet she had managed to keep me in ignorance! Any feelings of reproach I felt towards the poor girl were quickly suppressed as I realized what a burden of guilt and shame must be her lot. Clearly, I must return; most urgently I must find a way of letting her know that I had guessed her secret. Most assuredly she would find comfort in that.
What of Samuel Godwin? How did this affect his position?
Could Marianne have guessed rightly? Had Mr Farrow brought the unsuspecting young man to live at Fourwinds, not for his artistic ability, but in order for him to confer respectability on Juliana, by marrying her? I turned this idea over and over in my mind, considering it from all angles. Was it possible? No
doubt Samuel, if he complied, could benefit from such an arrangement: I knew Ernest Farrow well enough to appreciate that once he had decided on a course of action, he planned everything. If Samuel Godwin were his choice, he had chosen well; Samuel could be as good, as kind, as considerate a husband for Juliana as she might have chosen for herself.
What, now, should I do with this knowledge? Keep it to myself, for Juliana’s sake? Encourage Samuel, connive to throw them into company together, extol her virtues to him, and his to her? At this point, however, a new question arose in my mind: was Samuel as innocent as I supposed, and quite unaware of the scheme? Surely, yes; I had spent enough time in his company to form a reliable judgement of his character, and could not believe him capable of deviousness or cunning.
While my thoughts raced, I continued to walk in one direction along the tide’s edge, then to retrace my steps in the other, so that my feet almost wore a groove in the pebbles. It was not possible for me to leave Eastbourne yet; now that I was here, I was obliged to wait until the business with my grandmother was concluded.
It would not be long. The nurse had assured me of that.
Leaving the beach at last, my head still teeming with possibilities, I walked back to Sussex Esplanade, stopping on the way to purchase a large bunch of carnations from a flower seller on the street corner. Reluctance slowed my pace. It was not my intention
to stay long; my duty fulfilled, I should not return until the morning. Yet it was with a feeling of surrender that I knocked on the door for the second time, and was conducted again to the sick room.
It was alarming to see a person so close to death. My grandmother’s features retained their hawkishness. Her mouth was slightly open; her lids fluttered and her eyes rested on me for a second. In her look I read reproach, as though she were affronted at being brought to such an undignified extremity. Quietly her attendant moved around the room: filling a water glass, adjusting the turn of the sheet, arranging my carnations in a vase and placing them on a chest of drawers opposite the bed, not so close that their perfume would overwhelm the sleeper. Her tasks completed for the moment, she sat by the bed and folded her hands, apparently prepared to keep vigil for as long as necessary. I, on the contrary, was already impatient to leave, although I felt that form required me to sit a little longer.
‘You have not seen your great-aunt for some while?’ the nurse asked me gently.
‘Not for several years,’ I replied, not adding that I barely recognized her.
‘There is no one else you can summon to keep you company? You are Mrs Newbold’s only relative?’
‘No. She has a son, though I do not know of his whereabouts.’ Why had my grandmother’s staff not told her this? ‘I expected him to be in attendance.’
She looked at me in surprise. ‘You do not know? You were not aware that her son was a soldier in Africa
– that he was killed last year, in the Transvaal?’
No, I did not know. Concealing my ignorance as best I could, pretending that the heat, and the shock of this sudden illness, had made me confused and forgetful, I soon excused myself, and left my grandmother in the care of her nurse and servants. She led a comfortable life here. My feet trod thick, well-brushed carpet; there were paintings on the walls in heavy gilt frames; glass-fronted cabinets displayed collections of silverware and china, and a chandelier twinkled in the hallway.
The death of the uncle I had never seen (half-uncle, to be accurate) explained the solicitor’s letter, and why I had been summoned. As far as I could tell, I was now my grandmother’s only relative in this country. Some spirit of contrition, or maybe some whim, must have urged her to instruct the solicitor to trace and contact me, after all the years of estrangement. It was too late: she could summon me to her bedside, but was powerless to command any feeling of sorrow or loss.
In the morning the blinds were down. The maid looked tearful as she opened the door to me. ‘Oh, miss – you’re too late!’
Quickly the nurse came to meet me, extending a sympathetic hand. ‘I am so sorry, Miss Agnew. Your great-aunt has passed away, not half an hour ago. Please accept my condolences.’
Slade,
London
Friday, 1st
Dear Godwit
,
What’s become of you, you scoundrel? Are you so busy that you can’t spare a minute to write? I’ve given up expecting to hear from you. Can only assume that your new life there, buried in the South Downs in your rustic retreat, is so fascinating that you’ve completely forgotten your friends at the Slade, who bade you a fond and tearful farewell such a short while ago. Johnny says you must be completely engrossed with the young ladies there, and that’s your reason for neglecting us – we can think of no other explanation. What a job you have fallen into! Hard work it must be indeed, spending every day in feminine company, guiding their delicate hands, nourishing them with morsels of praise. We are agog to hear full descriptions of your pupils, and how you get on with them. Every morning we bound towards the
letter-rack in the happy expectation of finding a letter, even a postcard, from you – and every time we slink away downcast and quite flat-footed with disappointment
.