Authors: Linda Newbery
I set to. I work slowly and meticulously, with frequent pauses; it is important simply to stand and look. I spent long hours alone in my workshop and cottage; when I was not working, I wandered in the grounds or sat reading by the lake. But I was not always alone. Mr Farrow, as you may have found, likes to talk – especially late in the evening, and especially over a drink. On two or three occasions I was invited to dinner, and when Mrs Farrow and her daughters had retired to the drawing room, he and I drank brandy, and talked. – Ah, you have done the same? Yes, of course – he misses male company, in his house of women. I admit, Samuel, that I liked him – as, maybe, you do. Yes? I should rather say that I liked what I saw, for there was much that I did not see – was not allowed to see. Very occasionally he would come across to my workshop and talk to me there. He liked to see in progress the work he was paying for, to see it taking shape under his direction.
Mr Farrow, I thought at first, had every possible blessing. He had a devoted wife, two lovely daughters, a house built to his own specifications, and the wealth to furnish and maintain it. He was in good health, he had friends, influence and position.
But there was one thing he did not have.
A son.
The lack of a son and heir was a bitter disappointment to him. Oh, he has spoken of it? I see, yes. Yes, quite so. Whereas most men would – to use the trite phrase – count their blessings, he could not put aside the grudge that the one thing he most wanted, he could not have – and it could not be bought with money. I should go so far as to say that it was an obsession with him.
Worse, he allowed Mrs Farrow to believe that she was at fault, for failing to produce the son he so desperately wanted. I did not know the lady well, for she kept to herself. It was some unguarded remarks of her husband, when we were alone one evening, that suggested this to me. And then I noticed it whenever I saw them together. The formalities were observed, but, beneath, there was little affection. Mrs Farrow’s health was variable, and her husband, I am sorry to say, less than sympathetic.
The two young girls found it a novelty to have a stranger living in their grounds. With their governess, Miss Hardacre, it became their habit to walk across to my shed, and to watch me at work, when I allowed it. I did not, always. For Marianne, it was the simple pleasure of watching a figure taking shape in the stone, and of guessing at its finished appearance. She was very much intrigued by the emerging personalities, and sometimes liked to draw while I worked – for she has a notable talent, Samuel, as no doubt you have seen for yourself. Juliana often came with her, and at
other times besides. More and more frequently, she came alone. I wondered at the propriety of this, and whether I should discourage it; but I did nothing, and she continued to seek my company. Often, all she wanted was to sit by me, saying little. At other times she wanted to talk. After a while I sensed that something was troubling her deeply, something she had not confided to her mother, sister, or governess. One day, when she seemed particularly perturbed – indeed, she looked physically ill – I ventured to ask what was amiss, and if I could help her in some way. At first she would not speak, merely shaking her head in wordless grief. I persevered, and at last she did – hesitant, shivering, barely able to find the words – and, having told me, she became incoherent with weeping.
What she conveyed to me, Samuel, was that her father had been regularly coming to her bedroom during the night. He had – in short, he had used her as a substitute wife.
– Pardon me. I have shocked you. I know. I could hardly take in what I had heard – so obliquely did she convey this information, more delicately than I did just now. Forgive me – you have turned quite pale. Let me fetch you some water . . . Thank you, Richard. There. Shall I continue? Are you ready?
Well, then. My first thought was that she was deluding herself, that she was mistaken, that he had simply gone to her room to wish her an affectionate goodnight. But Juliana, as you will know, is not in the least given to exaggeration or dramatization. There was a pleading simplicity in her manner when she told
me, a need to be heard and understood – to be believed. Afterwards she sat quietly sobbing in the corner of my workshop. Everything in her demeanour convinced me that she had spoken the truth.
I was at a complete loss. What should I do? I am still not sure that what I did was at all adequate. I have questioned myself again and again as to whether I should have acted otherwise.
I soothed her, assured her that it was not her fault, and not a punishment, but that it was wrong, very deeply wrong of her father and that it must not be allowed to continue. She must tell her mother, I told her, without delay. I urged and urged her on this point, until I had her assurance that she would. Mrs Farrow might consider it best to remove herself and her daughters from the family home – she has parents, I believe, in Ireland. Surely, after hearing what Juliana had to tell her, this is what she would do – I fervently hoped so – yet you tell me that the two girls are still at home . . .
Yes. I shall finish.
When I had calmed Juliana, and extracted yet another promise that she would tell her mother without delay, I escorted her back to the house. Then – and this is where I may have acted with unfortunate haste – I sought out her father, and told him that I could not continue to work and live on his premises.
He wanted to know why. I told him.
Immediately he flew into a rage – and if you have never seen Mr Farrow lose his temper, believe me that it is alarming to behold. He accused me of making
up the most obscene slander against him; he accused me of behaving scandalously with Juliana myself; he accused me – and here I received another shocking revelation – of getting her with child, and making up malicious fabrications to conceal my disgrace. He told me that our arrangement was at an immediate end; that I must leave the cottage immediately, and that if I was found anywhere on his grounds by the next morning, he would not answer for my safety. He gestured towards the rifle he kept in a case on his study wall, oiled and ready for use.
– I am sorry. Yes. You see the effect he still has on me. I am not easily roused to anger, Samuel, I am not in the least a violent man, but I truly believe I could have killed him. Maybe I should not have restrained myself, for what restraint had he shown?
Poor Juliana, poor innocent girl. My heart went out to her – if it was true that she was with child, her plight was even more desperate than I had supposed. As I left the house, I hesitated, wondering still whether I ought to approach Mrs Farrow myself; but I glanced through the morning-room window, and saw Juliana seated with her mother on a sofa. Their postures were eloquent – Mrs Farrow was stooped, her face buried in both hands; Juliana, leaning against her, was weeping inconsolably – it was a heart-rending tableau. I could not possibly intrude into their distress; besides, I was aware that any intervention on my part could be misrepresented by Farrow as evidence of guilt. Propelled by impotent fury, I went back to my cottage and wondered what to do next.
To be brief: by next morning I had packed up my belongings, and arranged to be conveyed here by a local carter. I left my three completed carvings behind in the workshop, but the fourth – the West Wind, which I had only half done – I took with me. The stone having been paid for by Mr Farrow, I intended to return it when my carving was finished. I imagined that he would discard or destroy the other three – hence my astonishment when I learned from Richard that they are in place on the house walls, as intended.
I knew I could find work in Chichester, and soon did – but I have an outhouse here for storing my own projects, and in my leisure hours I completed the West Wind. Then I hired another carter to deliver it to Fourwinds. I don’t know what Farrow has done with it – but I fulfilled my part of the bargain. I made him his Four Winds.
Soon after I arrived here, I met Richard, working here in the cathedral. We have become dear companions to each other – I think you understand. Hearing my story, he was curious about my Wind carvings, and travelled to Fourwinds with the sole intention of seeing them – expecting that, if they still existed at all, they would have been left in my workshop. Not finding them there, he approached the house, and saw my North, East and South in their intended positions – and the west wall, still blank. He returned to the cottage and workshop to look again for the West Wind – I had given him my key, which I had not returned – but he found no sign of it.
As for Juliana, I am deeply grieved to hear that
she and Marianne are still living with their father. I have reproached myself many a time for leaving so hastily, before ensuring that they were safe from him – I should have stayed, I should have done more. But I felt sure that their mother would take them away – make whatever arrangements could be contrived to remove them from—
– What? Dead? Mrs Farrow? When did this happen? But that is – pardon me, a moment – I – I— Good God! But this is— Are you quite sure?
By Friday, missing Samuel more than I had anticipated, I awaited his return with a mixture of eagerness and foreboding. I longed to hear that he had been unable to find Gideon Waring, and hoped he had been so discouraged as to give up his search; also, I was most anxious to restore harmony between Samuel and myself. Several times I found myself planning what I should say to make amends for my brusqueness.
He had made no arrangement to be met at the station, but on Friday afternoon, needing to make some small purchases in Staverton, I asked Reynolds to harness the pony and drive me into town. Marianne came with me, but Juliana declined to accompany us, saying that she intended to exercise Queen Bess for an hour or two, for she had lately resumed her habit of riding out in the afternoons. Pleased at this sign of improving spirits, I did not press her. The excursion was carefully timed; on completing my errands, I suggested to Reynolds, as if on impulse, that we should call at the railway station to see if Samuel was on the afternoon train. Of course, Marianne believed
Samuel to have been in Brighton; in spite of my threat to tell Mr Farrow that he had lied, and was going to Chichester, I had kept this knowledge to myself.
The train duly arrived, disgorged two elderly passengers, then, with a hiss of steam, moved off. Marianne watched in dismay as it rounded the bend.
‘Where is he?’ she cried in distress. ‘Where is Samuel? Oh, Charlotte, he is lost to us! He will never come back – I know he will not – we should never have let him go. Why must everybody leave us?’
‘How you exaggerate!’ I told her. ‘There will be a simple reason. His friends have persuaded him to stay on for the evening, and catch the late train home. Yes, that will explain it.’
However, as we crossed the dusty forecourt, I felt a tug of disappointment on my own account; I wanted Samuel safely back with us. Reynolds, hearing the news, was displeased, complaining that he would have to return later. ‘Might as well keep Hector between the shafts day and night, the amount of to-ing and fro-ing that’s been called for lately,’ he grumbled, as we took our seats. He picked up the whip, clucked his tongue, and we moved off, soon leaving the town behind us. The vista opened before us: the ridge of downs to our left, the pastures dotted with sheep, and the dusty chalk of the tracks, for the ground was parched after weeks without rain.
It was then that I had the idea of making another call that had been very much on my mind.
‘Reynolds,’ I called out, before the impulse left me, ‘I should like to call at Rampions on the way home. Could you take us there, please?’
Marianne clutched at my arm. ‘Rampions? Oh, Charlotte, must we? I – I want to go home.’
‘I wish to speak to Eliza Dearly,’ I told her. ‘I shall not take more than a few minutes – then we will go home directly. Why should that upset you?’ – for dismay was written all over her face.
‘No – no, I am not in the least upset,’ she said, recovering quickly. ‘It is just that – you know – are you sure it is wise? Papa does not like us to see Eliza.’
‘Then you may blame me,’ I replied. ‘You need not speak to her; you need not even get down from the chaise.’ As Reynolds guided Hector into the lane that led to Rampions, the pony shook his mane with impatience, having thought his head was pointing for home. I told Reynolds to take us to the gardener’s cottage, which was reached through a side entrance beyond the very grand gates which led to the mansion.
Orchard Cottage, which was, indeed, somewhat larger than one would expect a cottage to be, was set in an area walled off from the extensive gardens, walks and orchards surrounding the mansion. We pulled into a yard enclosed by various outbuildings: tool sheds, stables and the like. A few chickens pecked about, but there was no one to be seen.
Marianne tried once more to deter me. ‘Please, Charlotte, can’t we go home? I – I am not feeling well – it must be the heat.’
This was so transparent an excuse, and I was by now so determined, that I told her to wait in the chaise, and climbed down to go in search of Eliza.
Through a doorway in a high brick wall I saw a
formal kitchen garden, with symmetrical narrow paths, pear trees trained over hooped arches, and three greenhouses in one corner. Two young gardeners were bent over their tasks, one weeding a vegetable bed, the other picking pea pods and laying them in a trug. Neither of these was old enough to be Matthew Dearly. On looking back towards the cottage, I saw that its front door stood open. I approached, down a flagged path bordered with pinks and marigolds, and rapped on the door. Inside, a narrow passageway, its floor covered with a rag rug, led to two more doors: one leading to a kitchen; the other, presumably, to a parlour.
Low voices were heard murmuring from that room. After a moment Eliza Dearly, in a flowered dress and apron, appeared from within, leaving the door ajar.
‘Yes?’ She did not seem surprised to see me; but then she could easily have glanced out of the window and seen Reynolds, Marianne and the chaise. Neither did she sound at all friendly. Of course, I had been markedly aloof with her when she visited Fourwinds.