Authors: Linda Newbery
Well, you may have forgotten us, but we haven’t forgotten you. Life goes on here much as usual – but soon we will be disbanding for the summer, and we are making plans. I shall be heading for the Aegean, for a few weeks of sustained hard work beneath the sun’s hot rays, while acquainting myself with the local wine. Johnny will be travelling up to Scotland to don a kilt and stalk the heathery hills while he awaits the start of the grouse season and permission to blast poor defenceless birds out of the sky, barbarian that he is. But first -
We are reluctant to set off on our travels without reacquainting ourselves with our dear, lost, lamented Godwit. Johnny, you may remember, has an aunt and uncle in Brighton, and we are planning to spend next weekend there before parting for the next few weeks. Brighton is not far from you – does your employer let you out, now and again? Can you plead with him that you need a rest from your strenuous labours, your back-breaking toil, the relentless pressure of your duties? That you would benefit from the refreshment of sea air, a dip in the briny, convivial company and an evening in an alehouse?
Come, Sam, do say Yes. If your answer is No, Johnny and I will be forced to conclude that you have forsworn our company for ever, and that you regard our devoted friendship as the merest trifle to be cast aside on a whim
.
Your friend – neglected, dejected, but I hope not rejected -
Chas
I should not have picked up Marianne’s sketchbook when I found it lying on the oak settle in the vestibule – but on an impulse I did, and was shocked by what I saw as I flicked back its cover.
This
was what had occupied her during our unsuccessful still-life lesson that morning;
this
accounted for her huddled position in the bay window, and her mischievous expression. In watercolours, she had painted a double portrait, of Juliana and me – not skilled, but recognizable enough. We were seated together at the table, our heads close, and Marianne’s brush – agile, if not subtle – had caught a moment in which I appeared to be explaining something to my pupil, turned towards her, pencil in hand and lips parted in speech, while she in turn gazed back at me with a fawning expression which I can only say I had never noticed in reality. The picture did not disturb me, though, as much as its caption. Underneath the drawing, Marianne had written in a flowing hand,
Betrothed
, and had added a border of hearts entwined with flowers.
It was only Marianne’s jest, I felt sure of that; yet the mere suggestion was enough to perturb me. Her vantage point – observing me and her sister so closely engaged in discussion, from across the room – had put the foolish notion into her head. I knew from my sister Isobel and her friends that young girls will amuse themselves with such nonsense. Yes, I hoped that was all – fervently hoped that Juliana did not share the notion that my attention to her was anything other than that of drawing master to pupil. Replacing the sketchbook precisely where I had found it, I consoled myself with this thought: that if Marianne imagined me to be romantically interested in her sister, she must be quite unaware that she herself figured so largely in my daydreams.
The household being busily occupied in preparation for the evening’s dinner party, I was able to put the matter out of my mind; but it returned in force later.
Charlotte’s absence was keenly felt by everyone. By Mr Farrow, who had needed her to welcome the guests and ensure that all ran smoothly; by Marianne, who wanted advice on dress and hairstyling; by Juliana, who, simply, never wanted to be without her; and lastly, by myself, for I should have appreciated her quiet guidance in this unfamiliar social situation. As it was, Charlotte had evidently done all she could beforehand: arranging the menu and the seating plan with Mrs Reynolds, and hiring two extra maidservants, one to help in the kitchen and another to wait at table with Alice.
The guests, some of whom had been strolling around the garden, assembled in the drawing room, where the large doors stood open to the evening air. There were six of them: the Vernon-Dales and the Greenlaws, all of whom I had met briefly at church; a stylish lady introduced as Annette Duchêne, who was the Greenlaws’ house guest; and a Mr Eaton, Mrs Greenlaw’s brother, a horse-breeder. I felt myself under scrutiny as I joined them, and was introduced to the two I had not already met. More, I seemed to be the subject of interested speculation; indeed, I suspected that the evening’s main purpose was to bring me into the society of these people. Mr Farrow had, evidently, boasted of my ability – and, even, of my reputation as a painter sure to make my mark in the coming years. He had every faith in the soundness of his investment; pride and ambition made me content to trust his judgement, and eager to accept his valuation of my worth.
‘Mr Godwin – we are so pleased of this chance to become better acquainted!’ said Mrs Vernon-Dale, a formidable woman of fifty, steelily masculine of feature, and clad in a stiffly beaded dress which gave the appearance of armour. ‘I’m so looking forward to seeing your work. Have you exhibited much?’
‘Very pleased to see you again.’ Her husband was gruff, moustached, slightly stooping, and I guessed that he would feel more at home with rifle or golf club in his hand, rather than a crystal glass. ‘I hope we’ll be able to have a proper chat later.’
‘
Enchantée!
’ Miss Annette Duchêne was, as I have already said, a very striking woman – fashionably
dressed, with dark hair twined up into a clasp-and-flower arrangement on top of her head, and a dress of rose silk that bared a great deal of her shoulders and bosom. She took my hand and gave me a fleeting glance which I can only describe as flirtatious.
‘I do hope you’ve settled here happily, Mr Godwin?’ Her hostess, Mrs Greenlaw, was far more matronly, encased in tight burgundy satin. ‘Do you have family of your own? Shall you be at church tomorrow? Maybe you’d care to join us for sherry afterwards?’
Mr Greenlaw wrung my hand in a strong grip. ‘Good evening – good evening. You must come and dine with us some time. Your work here keeps you busy, I suppose? Do you do portraits? I’ve been thinking of commissioning one for some while – you know the sort of thing – my wife and I and the dogs, house in the background?’
And finally Mr Eaton the horse-breeder, a tall man with black, bristling eyebrows that seemed to compensate for thinning hair: ‘Pleased to meet you. From London, are you? A Slade man? Finding it a bit quiet here in the Downs, I suppose?’
Our number was completed, of course, by the three Farrows. Juliana was dressed in dove-grey, a shade that was all wrong for her, emphasizing the pallidity of her complexion; her hair was dressed simply, even demurely, and she wore only small pearl earrings for adornment. Over her dress she wore a light beaded shawl, which she kept tugging more closely about her neck and bosom. Marianne, by contrast, had chosen a dress that perfectly suited her colouring: a silk gown
of dark fir-green. Her hair was arranged in an artfully casual style that twisted up some of its abundance into jewelled combs, while a few long tresses – gloriously chestnut against the green – tumbled about her shoulders. She looked quite enchanting; my eyes were irresistibly drawn to her. Impertinent young madam that she was, she boldly looked me up and down as she entered the room, assessing my turnout, and gave me a private nod and smile that said:
Yes, I see you have made an effort. Well done – you will do nicely!
I returned the look, expressing approval of her dress and coiffure in what I hoped was a brotherly or even an avuncular manner, although I feared that my fascination with her must be written on my face for all to see. Juliana, beside her, remained unaware of this unspoken communication. Her fingers fumbled at the edge of her thin shawl. She was ill at ease in this social situation; indeed, one might have thought that Marianne was the elder sister, Juliana the debutante.
Finally, Mr Farrow himself. Presiding, he cut an impressive figure – the black and white of dinner jacket and dress shirt giving him a dramatic, almost flamboyant appearance, with his florid colouring, strong features and thick hair. It struck me anew that he was a handsome man, still in his prime, and with status and wealth besides. While I was thinking this, I noticed Annette Duchêne’s eyes resting on him appreciatively.
He might remarry; indeed, it was more than likely. This had crossed my mind before, in connection with Charlotte; but here was an altogether different prospect. I would have wagered, too, that the possibility was not far
from Mademoiselle Duchêne’s thoughts. Aha, I thought: if Charlotte were here, she would find a formidable rival in this stylish mademoiselle, with her coquettish glances and teasing smiles! I would have been much diverted by seeing them seated at the same table, so strikingly contrasted in dress and demeanour.
As we moved through to the dining room, I found myself partnered with Juliana. She looked up at me shyly as I pulled back her chair, then cast her eyes down, as was customary with her. She had not revived in spirits since Charlotte’s departure. Although I should have preferred to sit next to Marianne, it was perhaps as well for my composure that I did not; and I determined that if Juliana did not enjoy the evening, it would not be through want of effort on my part. I made myself attentive, engaging her in conversation. There was little competition from her neighbour to the right, Mr Eaton, who was delivering a monologue to Mrs Greenlaw about breeding stock and bloodlines. Following this thread, I made a remark to Juliana about the comfortable paces and excellent manners of her mare, Queen Bess, and asked where she went on her rides. While she answered me, my gaze returned to Marianne, who seemed bored by the comfortable Mr Greenlaw; she looked boldly back at me, noted my solicitousness towards Juliana, and smiled approval. Only then did I remember what I had seen in her sketchbook; I felt my face flush with heat. The sharp-eyed miss noticed that too, of course; made her own interpretation, and was highly pleased.
On my left I had Mrs Vernon-Dale, whose
conversation with Mr Farrow, throughout the soup and the fish course, was all about her plans to extend and landscape the garden at Rampions. A new greenhouse was to be added, and a conservatory to the house, and the kitchen garden extended. Mr Farrow took only polite interest in this, until Mr Vernon-Dale, seated opposite, interrupted. ‘Has Marguerite told you about the head gardener I’ve taken on? Capital fellow. Dearly, his name is. Matthew Dearly. Used to work for the Radcliffes at Oak Lodge.’
‘No – surely not!’ my employer said brusquely. ‘Their gardener moved away to – er, Hampshire, wasn’t it? I believe Francis Radcliffe mentioned that.’
‘That’s true – he did, but he’s back again,’ said Mr Vernon-Dale. ‘I can tell you he’s transforming the place. Already licked those lazybones under-gardeners into shape.’
I watched Mr Farrow closely. He picked up the decanter, refilled Annette Duchêne’s glass, then called to Alice for more wine. ‘Conservatory, you say?’ he continued to Mrs Vernon-Dale. ‘Have you found a good architect?’
‘Matthew Dearly? Hasn’t he married that young woman who used to be governess here?’ Mrs Greenlaw asked the table at large.
‘Yes, yes – they’ve moved into our Orchard Cottage. Did you know that your old governess is married now, with a child of her own – a fine little boy?’ Mr Vernon-Dale said genially to Marianne.
Juliana made an abrupt, almost involuntary movement, dropped her napkin to the floor and began to
fumble; I went to her assistance, retrieving it. Alice returned with the wine and moved from place to place, collecting the fish plates.
‘We have heard something about it,’ Marianne said, with perfect composure. ‘I am very happy for her.’
Mrs Vernon-Dale narrowed her mannish features into a frown. ‘Didn’t she leave here rather suddenly though, Ernest?’ she asked Mr Farrow. ‘Weren’t you displeased with her for some reason?’
‘Aha!’ cried Annette Duchêne, leaning forward. ‘I detect a mystery! Come, let us hear more!’
‘It was only a trifling matter,’ Mr Farrow said lightly. ‘Nothing I propose to bore you all with.’
‘Governesses,’ Marianne cried, ‘should expect to be governess all their lives, do you not think? They must not expect to find themselves husbands or bear children, like other women.’
No one knew how to receive this bold remark until Annette Duchêne burst into a peal of mirth: ‘You are very droll, Miss Farrow!’ Others laughed politely, the meat course was brought in, and the awkward moment passed. Mrs Vernon-Dale continued talking to Mr Farrow about the design of her conservatory and the plants she planned to cultivate in it; but as soon as the vegetables had been served, everyone’s glasses filled, and the sirloin of beef pronounced excellent, her husband introduced another dangerous topic.
‘What news of that sculptor fellow, Ernest? I see that your west wall is still blank. Did the scoundrel really make off with the last of your carvings? I hope you had not paid him.’
‘What is this?’ demanded the alert Mademoiselle Duchêne. ‘Another mystery? A vanishing sculptor, a stolen carving?’
Mr Farrow explained briefly; while he did so, I glanced at Juliana, who drank half a glass of wine very quickly, then looked embarrassed when the maid hastened to refill her glass.
‘But what will you do?’ burst out the impetuous French lady. ‘You cannot have only three of four Winds! Another sculptor must be found!’
‘That,’ said my employer, ‘would not be easy. Another sculptor, yes. One who could complete the series without giving the effect of dissonance – I do not know where he is to be found.’
His eye fell on me as he spoke – maybe he was thinking that, with my Slade background, I should number armies of stone-carvers among my friends. Knowing as I did that Waring himself was to be found in Chichester, not twenty miles away, I felt that this intelligence must be written on my face; but I shook my head sadly, and sipped at my wine. Of course, there were sculptors among my Slade acquaintances, my friend John Hickford for one. I thought of the letter I had received this morning from Chas, with its invitation to Brighton. I could easily put Mr Farrow in touch with a dozen or more sculptors, or at any rate student sculptors, but I was not yet ready to give up the search for Gideon Waring.