Authors: Linda Newbery
‘They seem to me rather curious, your three Winds,’ stated Mrs Vernon-Dale. ‘Almost clumsy, to my eye. I could have recommended you a sculptor every
bit as accomplished. Come, Mr Godwin, you are an artist, even if stone is not your medium – what is your opinion of them?’
‘I think they are quite extraordinary,’ I replied. ‘Pagan and classical both at once – and with such lively characterization that I feel I know each one personally.’
Mademoiselle Duchêne – who did seem rather easily amused – laughed at this fancy. ‘This is your artistic sensibility at work, Mr Godwin,’ she told me – and my name had never sounded more charming than when given French pronunciation. ‘I see only slabs of stone, attractively carved into human forms.’
‘I agree with Samuel,’ said Juliana – almost the first time she had spoken to the whole company. Everyone waited for her to say more, but she fell into an embarrassed silence.
‘You see,’ said Marianne, ‘we are extremely fond of our three Winds. Are we not, Juliana? We pay homage to them each day – even speak to them. You will think me very childish, but sometimes I have asked the North Wind to stop blowing, and to yield to the kindlier South!’
‘And so you have no West Wind to converse with?’ Annette Duchêne looked most entertained by the idea. ‘I hope you do not stand talking to a blank wall?’
‘No – but it is my deepest wish that the West Wind should be found.’ Marianne spoke so intently that all eyes turned to her. ‘Where is he, if not here? Roaming, gusting and blowing at will? The house cannot be at peace until the West Wind is safely in his place – until the blank is filled.’
‘Marianne, you have been reading too many novels – filling your head with nonsense,’ said her father, with an attempt at a laugh.
‘It is not nonsense,’ replied Marianne, quietly resolute.
‘So, Miss Farrow, you require this vagrant Wind of yours to be properly affixed to his wall, his wings clipped, his flight ended?’ proposed Annette Duchêne, entering into the conceit.
‘Yes!’ Marianne replied seriously. ‘I do.’
‘Well, Ernest,’ put in Mr Greenlaw, in a jovial tone, ‘I was about to say, that I am surprised you have kept the three pieces this dishonest fellow did complete – that you have given them such prominence. I think I should sooner have abandoned the whole project, or started again with a new sculptor—’
‘I agree,’ said stern Mrs Vernon-Dale; ‘a man like that is not to be encouraged. He has abused your patronage, Ernest. He should not be given the satisfaction of considering his work highly prized.’
‘– but I see now,’ continued Mr Greenlaw, ‘that Marianne and Juliana are so attached to these Wind figures that it would be a great pity to take them down, or destroy them.’
‘Destroy them?’ cried Marianne. ‘No!’
She looked wildly at me; I was reminded of her sleepwalking. I hoped fervently that this unfortunate discussion would not provoke another wandering fit tonight, while Charlotte was absent; but then I imagined her footsteps outside my door, myself rushing to her aid, my arm around her, her hair tumbling down her back, thick
and fragrant, the thinness of her nightgown – I felt myself almost giddied by these thoughts, and quickly called myself to attention.
‘Smash them to pieces?’ Marianne was saying. ‘No one could do them such violence – it is unthinkable!’
‘Of course it is, dear,’ Mrs Greenlaw soothed. ‘But don’t worry your pretty head. I’m sure no one would think of it.’
‘Did you never see the missing West Wind?’ asked Miss Duchêne. ‘Either the figure itself, or any sketch?’
This, I did not know – I looked from Marianne, who sat forward with lips parted, to her father, whose expression was quite the opposite, closed-in and tight.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘If there ever was a carving, or a sketch, I never saw it.’
‘Well, well.’ Mr Vernon-Dale had evidently tired of the subject. ‘I am quite sure that a competent sculptor can be found, if you are determined to continue. I can put you in touch with several, Ernest.’
The plates were cleared again; through dessert, cheese and fruit, the conversation moved to safer topics. It took three hints from Mr Farrow before Juliana led the ladies into the drawing room; Annette Duchêne’s skirt swished against my chair as she passed, and I caught a drift of her musky perfume. When the door was closed behind them, cigars were dispensed and port passed round. My employer asked Mr Eaton about a new stallion he was having shipped over from Ireland; the man needed little encouragement, and the conversation was all about horses and racing until we rejoined the ladies.
If Charlotte had been present, I do not doubt that she would have poured and served the coffee, but in her absence the task fell to Juliana. Looking at her pale face and the worried expression she tried to conceal with frequent smiles, I realized how taxing she had found this evening. Determined to say something to cheer her, I remarked, as she handed me my cup and saucer, ‘I am glad to escape from the horse talk; I could not think of two sensible words to say.’ I had spoken in an undertone; Juliana rewarded me with a grateful smile. As I moved away towards the sofa, I heard Mrs Greenlaw whisper to Mr Farrow, more audibly than she could have intended, ‘Just look at the dear girl – she is quite head over heels! What a handsome couple they make! When may we expect an announcement?’
This remark startled me into consternation; and I confess that I distanced myself at once from Juliana, and sat beside Mrs Vernon-Dale. When, a little later, Mr Farrow indicated that Juliana should play the piano for us, it was Marianne who turned the pages of her score. Now, I could allow myself to sit and gaze without fear of drawing attention to myself. A pretty picture they made: Juliana, devoting her mind, eyes and fingers to Chopin, was more assured than she had been all evening; Marianne stood, poised and attentive by her side, her hair glinting copper in the pool of light from the lamp; in my mind I stored details of her pose, its litheness and unselfconscious grace, to draw later. At one point I glanced across at Mr Farrow, and saw him regarding his daughters with a look of
justifiable complacency and pride. Catching my eye, he looked quickly back at me with an odd expression – chin high, a taut smile that was almost a scowl – that I found hard to read: defiance? Warning? An acknowledgement that no man of flesh and blood could be immune to Marianne’s beauty, and that he had read my thoughts? Discomposed again, I attempted to hide it by joining in the clapping from the guests – for at that moment the last chord resounded around the room, and Juliana looked up, then down again, with a quick, tight smile.
‘Enchanting!’ proclaimed Mrs Greenlaw. ‘What delightfully accomplished daughters you have, Ernest! Marianne, will you not take your turn, and sing for us? I know you sing beautifully.’
Marianne declined, and soon the guests departed – Mr Greenlaw wringing my hand, and repeating his suggestion that I should go and dine with him and his wife – and, almost immediately after, the two girls wished me goodnight. No doubt they wanted to talk privately about the evening. About to retire to bed also, I found myself pressed to stay a while with Mr Farrow, and to drink brandy.
We returned to the drawing room. The night was warm, and the double doors still thrown open to the indigo night. I heard an owl call; its low, thrilling
whoowoo
stirred something within me, and I felt that I should rather walk outside alone, down to the lake, to look at the moon reflected there. I did not want to desert my employer, however, if he wanted to talk.
At first he said little; he poured generous measures
of brandy into balloon glasses, offered me a cigar, then reclined on the sofa, smoking, and looking at the ceiling. I wondered why he wanted my company, for in this contemplative mood he might have been content with his own. However, I was gratified that he felt no need to keep up a flow of talk. We smoked, and sipped our brandy, in quiet companionship.
‘Well, I think that went off very well,’ he remarked, after a while.
‘Indeed – the fare was excellent, and I am quite sure everyone enjoyed themselves.’
He looked at me through blue smoke-haze. ‘Not too dull for you? Mrs Greenlaw’s a terrible bore, of course, but her husband’s a sound fellow. If he wants you to paint their portrait, I’d strongly advise you to accept.’
‘Portrait painting is not my speciality,’ I pointed out.
‘He’s no connoisseur; he’d be easily pleased. But it’s up to you. Damn pity Charlotte couldn’t have been here this evening. She knows how to handle people, in her unobtrusive way. It put a strain on Juliana, I know. Still, she conducted herself well. You helped her a great deal, for which I’m grateful. And so, I’m sure, is she.’
I was beginning to feel wary of any mention of Juliana. ‘Are you afraid of a recurrence of her illness?’
He looked at me steadily. ‘Oh no. That’s quite in the past – she’s made a complete recovery. It was a – a malady of adolescence, that was all.’
‘A nervous complaint?’ I ventured, remembering what Charlotte had told me.
‘Of a very minor kind. You know what young girls are like. You’ve a sister, haven’t you?’
I nodded, though Isobel was of robust constitution.
‘Now, about tomorrow,’ my employer continued. ‘I have business to attend to, which will keep me at home. Would you accompany the girls to church? Juliana would be sorry to miss it. With Charlotte away, it will be just the three of you. I should be grateful.’
I hesitated, guessing how my appearance with Juliana on my arm would be interpreted by others besides Mrs Greenlaw. But I would also be Marianne’s legitimate escort . . . and besides, I saw that if I agreed to this, it would give me an advantage when I wanted to absent myself from Fourwinds for a day or two. ‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘It will be my pleasure.’
‘Thank you – I’m obliged.’ Mr Farrow swirled the amber liquid in his glass. ‘You’ll know a few people now, of course. That friend of the Greenlaws, Mademoiselle Duchêne – she’s a handsome woman. Stylish, but rather overdressed for my taste. Spends a lot of time in Paris, I hear. Of course, it’s hard for Juliana to put her in the same room as a woman of fashion like that.’
I nodded, wondering what he was leading to; but he fell silent, and continued smoking for some minutes, occasionally giving a sigh, whether of contentment or tiredness I could not tell. I sipped my brandy, and he sipped his; the clock ticked, and a moth blundered against the mantel.
‘There’s something I shall always regret, you
know,’ he said, after an interval. ‘I always wanted a son. Girls are fine in their way, but – well’ – he waved his cigar as if in explanation – ‘it’s not the same. They’ll marry, of course. A son, though – he’d inherit this place, have sons of his own. What’s the use of it all, without a son to leave it to?’
I watched him, thinking: Yes, I see where your thoughts are leading. If you marry Annette Duchêne – or any other eligible and attractive woman, young enough to bear children – you still have the chance of producing the heir you so badly want. I gave a murmur of assent, which was encouragement enough for him to continue.
‘Constance, you see,’ he went on, ‘lost a baby boy. My son. Stillborn. Four years after Marianne. After that, there was one miscarriage after another. Wretched business. A terrible drain on her strength. Eventually the doctors said there must be no more. Oh, I paid for all sorts of physicians, second, third and fourth opinions. The best doctors money could buy. But they were all agreed. Connie’s health wouldn’t stand it.’
‘I am sincerely sorry,’ I said in a low voice, ‘for your loss – and that Mrs Farrow suffered so greatly.’
He closed his eyes, lying back. ‘I am a fortunate man in many ways, Samuel. You can see that from everything I have around me. But that . . .’ He gave out a slow exhalation of smoke, then opened his eyes and looked at me. ‘It is the tragedy of my life.’
Unsure what to say to this, I began to stutter a reply, but he went on: ‘You’re a young man, fit, in your prime, with talent and a purpose in life – at your
age, everything seems yours for the taking. But it can turn sour, more quickly than you imagine. Things start to go wrong, there are obstacles you never dreamed of, you lose your direction and blunder off, and there’s no finding your way back. Don’t let it happen to you, Samuel. Marry, that’s my advice to you – marry, and have a son to carry on your name, a son you can be proud of.’
While he spoke, he turned away from me and lay back with his eyes half closed. I gazed at him through a veil of smoke, with the pleasantly warm, floating sense of having consumed more alcohol than I was used to – quantities of wine, port and now brandy. Urgently I wanted to say something profound, to contribute to the intimacy he seemed to be offering.
‘If I can be of any help, please say the word,’ I offered. My words slurred themselves together – and whatever did I mean? – but at the same time I felt a curious, heady freedom.
‘There’s only one thing you need do.’ His voice seemed to float towards me. ‘Stay with us. Stay with us here. I promise you, you will never regret it.’
Why should I want to leave? I caught myself up in confusion, unsure whether I had only thought this, or spoken it aloud; but abruptly, Mr Farrow seemed embarrassed by what he had just said.
‘Well, I won’t keep you from your bed,’ he told me, pushing himself upright. ‘It’s been a long day. Thank you for all you did this evening.’ He stoppered the decanter, stubbed out his cigar, and replaced the lid of the Havana box. ‘Goodnight, Samuel.’
I bade him farewell, but instead of ascending the stairs to my room, I went through the open door and walked out to the lawn, relishing my elevated mood, the touch of the night air on my face. Looking up at the dizzy spread of stars, I felt that I could release the hold of gravity and tumble into their depths. That sweep of sky ought to have made me feel minuscule, insignificant, but instead I was filled with a sense of my own importance. The grass seemed to bear me up springily; my head swam as though I were afloat on swelling waves; I felt peculiarly exultant, as if my well-being were assured from this point on, and I need do nothing but allow fate to sweep me, like a bobbing cork on a tide, from one piece of good fortune to the next. My father must have been a fool, to disparage me so; for here in contrast was a man who valued my qualities, and was generous with the praise and encouragement my own father had denied me.