‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘was Mr Waring a tall, handsome man, with a tanned face and light hair?’
Reynolds grinned. ‘Not sure as I’d call him handsome, miss - though there’s one at least would think so.’
His wife gave him a warning glance.
‘Hair, face - yes, that could be him,’ he finished.
‘Then he has been here! You haven’t heard anything, have you, in the village?’ I included Mrs Reynolds in my question, as well as Alice, who was filling a jug of hot water from the urn, and the kitchen maid, preparing vegetables.
‘Not a word,’ Mrs Reynolds replied. ‘And folks would talk, if he showed his face. Specially now the other one’s come back,’ she added with a sniff.
This I took to indicate Mrs Dearly, for whom I knew she had little regard. ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ I said, and turned to the two maids.
‘Nothing, miss,’ they assured me.
‘If you should see him - any of you - will you be sure to tell him to leave the premises or, if he will not, to come to the house?’ I looked for assent at each in turn. ‘Of course, you should inform me or Mr Farrow at once. And please, Mrs Reynolds, be so good as to warn all the servants, both in and outside the house.’
All of them nodded gravely. Proceeding to the dining room, I was joined there by Samuel and, shortly, by Marianne. With a meaningful look at Samuel, I reminded him not to mention his encounter in Marianne’s presence; he gave a nod of understanding, and we talked instead about Mr Farrow’s return, and our plans for the day.
While we were serving ourselves, Alice re-entered. ‘The post’s just arrived, miss, and there’s this letter for you.’
With some surprise, I took the envelope she handed me. I assumed the letter to be from Mr Farrow, with some forgotten instruction, perhaps, but the envelope was addressed in copperplate handwriting I did not recognize. Who could be writing to me? As far as I was aware, no one knew of my whereabouts, other than the inhabitants of Fourwinds. Perplexed, I sat at my place, opened the envelope, and read its contents; then, immediately, I read them again. With a quick glance at each of my companions, I refolded the letter and slid it back into its envelope, which I laid beside my plate.
‘What is it, Charlotte?’ asked Marianne. ‘Aren’t you going to tell us?’
‘Not bad news, I hope?’ Samuel half rose to his feet.
‘Nothing of importance,’ I answered, regaining my composure. I gestured to Samuel to sit. ‘But I’m afraid I must leave Fourwinds for a day or two.’
‘Leave?’ cried Marianne, as though it were quite out of the question. ‘But where to, and why?’
My hesitation must have been clear. ‘I am called upon to go to - to Eastbourne. This matter need not detain me there for long. I shall return as soon as I can. It’s fortunate that your father will be home later today,’ I added to Marianne. ‘I shall write him a letter of explanation, then pack my bag.’
‘So, this is all you’re going to tell us?’ Marianne exclaimed. ‘That you’re going to Eastbourne? What is it that takes you there?’
‘A business matter,’ I told her. ‘Would you please pass the salt?’
Marianne would not be put off. ‘A business matter that makes you turn quite pale? Come, Charlotte, this won’t do! What business have you got in Eastbourne?’
Samuel held up a hand to restrain her. ‘Please! Let Miss Agnew collect herself.’
‘I have told you all that it is necessary for you to know,’ I answered. ‘It is a distant family matter, that is all.’
Both of them looked at me quizzically; Samuel was first to speak. ‘I understood that you had no family, Charlotte.’
‘That’s what you’ve always told us!’ Marianne reproached.
‘Immediate family I have none,’ I answered. ‘I have only one or two very distant relations I have not seen for many a year.’
She looked sceptical. ‘Yet they are able to summon you at a moment’s notice?’
‘Marianne, that is enough,’ I told her. ‘I shall write a letter to your father giving all necessary explanation. Please allow me to finish my breakfast in peace.’
As soon as the meal was completed, I went to Juliana’s room, and found her sitting in her window seat, still in her peignoir. The face she turned to me, reluctantly, and only after I had addressed her three times, was puffy and tear-stained.
‘Juliana, what is amiss?’ I implored, hurrying to her side. ‘What has upset you?’
She let me hug her, but turned again to gaze out of the window. ‘Forgive me, Charlotte. I am very low in spirits today.’
‘Why? Are you unwell?’ I placed a hand on her forehead. ‘Maybe you’re a little feverish. Should I summon Dr Fletcher? Return to bed, and I shall ask Alice to bring you something on a tray.’
‘Thank you, Charlotte,’ she said softly, ‘but I am not unwell, and have no need of a doctor. Allow me a little time to recover myself - that is all I need.’
‘Is it—?’ I paused. ‘Have you got your monthly visitor?’
She hesitated, then replied: ‘Yes. Yes, it is no more than that. I shall feel better soon.’
‘I wish I could spend longer with you, dear,’ I said, ‘but I must go and pack my bag. I am called away.’
‘Called away?’ She looked at me in alarm. ‘By whom?’
For explanation I gave the same account as I had provided downstairs, receiving in response the same bafflement.
‘Must you go?’ she implored me, searching my face. ‘How shall I manage without you?’
‘I must - but it will not be for long,’ I assured her. ‘Please don’t fret, dearest. I shall be back as soon as I can. Mr Godwin is here, and your father will be home today. Why not rest on your bed until you feel quite well?’
‘Charlotte’ - she took my hand, and gazed at me earnestly - ‘dear Charlotte, you are my only ally - you know how I depend on you! I want you to promise me something. Will you?’
‘If I can, dear - what is it?’
She looked down. ‘I want you to speak privately to Samuel. He must not marry me. For his own sake, he must not. Will you make sure he never entertains the idea?’
In amazement I stared at her: at her parted lips, and her eyes, wet and shiny with tears. I smoothed back a strand of hair from her hot face.
‘But, Juliana, this is quite absurd! Whatever has got into your head?’ I tried in vain to read her expression. ‘You cannot mean that Mr Godwin has made advances to you? Surely not, on so slight an acquaintance!’
‘No - no!’ She almost smiled. ‘No, Samuel is quite innocent. This is Papa’s idea. Do you not see?’
Puzzled, I shook my head. ‘I confess, I do not! I was astonished when Marianne first mentioned it. As for broaching the subject with Mr Godwin himself, what would be my purpose, when I am quite sure that no notion of marriage has ever occurred to him? I might seem to be urging him to consider it, rather than dissuading him. I don’t mean that he is unaware of you as an eligible young woman; he has eyes in his head. But he is your father’s employee, newly arrived here, and he has no means of supporting a wife, even if he wished to.’
Besides, I could have added, it is your sister who draws his gaze with her wild beauty; Marianne is the one who fascinates and intrigues him. This I had observed, the very first time the three had sat together at their drawing lesson; and I had seen it, since, every time Samuel was in the same room with Marianne. His eyes followed her, almost guiltily; whenever he was not looking at her, it seemed only with a conscious effort to direct his attention elsewhere. Yes, he was Mr Farrow’s employee, and Marianne still a child; but how could an artist’s eye not be attracted to such exceptional beauty?
It might have given Juliana some comfort to be informed of this; or it might not.
‘Please, Charlotte!’ Juliana persisted. ‘You do not believe me, but you will come to see I am right.’
‘Very well,’ I conceded. ‘But not yet. You must tell me as soon as you see yourself in imminent danger of
being married against your will, and I shall confront Mr Godwin then. Meanwhile, I shall be alert to any signs.’
If I were ever required to act on these words, I should have been truly amazed; but Juliana was pathetically grateful, and thanked me over and over again.
‘The last time we discussed this subject,’ I reminded her, ‘you seemed certain that marriage, and a comfortable home of her own, is every woman’s desire. Have you changed your mind on that point? Is it Mr Godwin himself you object to? Do you have a different husband in mind? Or is it simply that you resent being pushed into a marriage not of your own choosing? - though I have yet to be convinced that your father has any such plan. Or do you have other reasons besides?’
Juliana reddened; detaching herself from me, she rose from the window seat to look at herself in the mirror. Seeming dissatisfied with what she saw, she turned away, picked up a brooch, put it down again, and fiddled with the other items on her dressing table.
‘No, it is not Samuel Godwin I object to,’ she said quietly. ‘He is kind, attentive, gentle - and quite handsome enough. Indeed, I think I might come to love him - if - if there were no other considerations. And certainly I have no other husband in view. I really think, Charlotte, I had better not marry at all.’
Quite unable to understand her, I comforted her as best I could, promising to return for a final goodbye when I had packed my bag. The timing of the solicitor’s summons could hardly have been more unfortunate.
Chapter Sixteen
At the Cross Keys
By mid-morning Charlotte had gone, driven to the station by Reynolds. Her departure, with Mr Farrow also absent, left me mindful of my responsibility for the girls, and thankful that Mrs Reynolds was on hand, lest any crisis should occur which required female superintendence. I had meant to begin the first of my paintings of the house, positioning my easel on the lower lawn; but now I changed my plan, feeling that I ought to keep the girls within my sight. There was really no cause for unease, but my early-morning encounter with the man I took to be Waring, and my awareness that Juliana was very much out of sorts today, urged me towards caution.
I did not feel it appropriate to take my pupils down to the lake today - for no more rational reason than that my undignified scramble out of the water was still fresh in my mind. Using the fierce heat as an excuse, I set up a still-life arrangement in the morning room: a bowl of fruit, a jug and a crumpled napkin. We all set to work with our watercolours; the subject, however, failed to engross any of us. ‘Oh, this is so dull!’
Marianne burst out; and though I pointed out that many a Dutch master had been amply stimulated by compositions such as this, I privately shared her impatience. Helping Juliana, whose efforts with watercolour were even less adept than her pencil drawings, I left her sister to work alone, which she preferred.
As Juliana’s tutor, I could feel satisfied that I was making some progress; but as Marianne’s, I could not. She showed an obstinate reluctance to be guided, wanting to find her own way; only unwillingly did she let me see her work. She had no patience at all, and resisted all my attempts to make her slow down, to look and to see. It was evident that she did not respect my judgement as she had respected Gideon Waring’s. Her question as to whether I was a ‘real artist’ had gone unanswered, but she perturbed me with her implication that I was not. Soon, her huddled absorption - seated in the corner of the bay window, so that I could not glance over her shoulder - told me that she had turned her attention to something other than my arrangement on the table.
‘Oh, I do hope Charlotte won’t be away for long!’ Juliana kept saying. ‘It feels so strange, not to have her here with us - I don’t like it.’
I probed a little, asking whether they had any idea of the mysterious relative whose demands on Charlotte seemed so urgent, and whether she had been called away like this before, but both sisters seemed as puzzled as I. Time weighed heavily on our hands. Juliana’s mind was clearly not on her work; in fact, she seemed to have been weeping, and looked likely to sob again at any small provocation. I was a little surprised that Charlotte’s absence should affect her so piteously - for, after all, she had left us only for a night or two. I made myself particularly attentive to Juliana, guiding her hesitant efforts with wash and brush, praising any small success. Before long, Marianne announced that she was tired of drawing, and intended to continue with a French translation she had begun with Charlotte. She left to fetch her books, but did not return.
Soon Juliana, too, excused herself. ‘Would you mind if we finished the lesson a little early, Mr Godwin? I confess that my heart is not in it - which is no reflection on your teaching, but rather on my own distraction. I am feeling a little low and lethargic today.’
I offered my sympathy and asked if I should fetch Mrs Reynolds, but Juliana assured me that a short walk outside would refresh her, and declined my offer of company. I put away the painting materials, and went outside, where I could at least keep her in view. Slowly, pensively, she made her way along the east side of the house, pausing to pluck off the withered head of a rose, and to scatter its petals on the grass. Reaching the south terrace, she moved down to the garden seat beneath the cedar. I hesitated, not wanting to intrude; turned, and almost bumped into Marianne, not having realized she was close behind me. Good: she could offer her sister comfort, where I could not. There was no sign of her French reader; she still had her sketchbook in her hand. She dodged aside; as she passed, she gave me a strange little smile, evidently thinking she had caught me at something furtive.
At that moment I saw Reynolds walking in his stiff-legged manner up from the stables, and remembered my intention of asking for the key to the cottage. Having now examined the building, and ascertained that it was quite empty, I had no real need to return; but I used the excuse to intercept him. He seemed surprised by my request, but assured me that the cottage key was available from the harness room, and that I could have access at any time I wished.
I thanked him, and asked: ‘When Mr Waring left here, did you have any idea where he went?’
Having expected him to say that he did not, I was surprised when he answered promptly: ‘He put up at the Cross Keys a few nights, that much I do know. Where he went after, I couldn’t say.’
‘The Cross Keys?’
‘Big coaching inn, by Waverley Cross.’ Seeing my unrecognizing expression, he added: ‘Staverton road, then left on the Portsmouth turnpike.’
‘But he’s not there now?’
‘Shouldn’t ‘a thought so. Good while back, this was.’
‘And how far is it to the Cross Keys?’
‘Five mile or thereabouts.’
I thanked him, immediately wondering how soon I could make my way to the Cross Keys; for that must surely be Mr Waring’s current lodging place, whatever Reynolds thought. My opportunity came sooner than expected, when I joined the two young ladies for luncheon.
‘Will you ride this afternoon, Juley?’ Marianne asked her sister, who was still pale and untalkative, and eating little.
‘I don’t think so,’ Juliana answered.
‘Poor Queen Bess!’ Marianne continued. ‘She will consider herself quite neglected!’
‘ You could take her out for an hour or so, Marianne, if you wish,’ said her sister.
‘Oh no - you know I am not fond of riding, and it is far too hot. I should melt quite away.’
‘I think I shall rest in my room this afternoon,’ Juliana said, after Alice had come in for the plates. ‘I did not sleep well last night, and am fatigued.’
‘I shall sit with you,’ said Marianne. ‘I can complete my translation while you sleep.’
And thus they effectively dismissed me from their company. On an impulse, I said: Juliana, would you allow me to borrow Queen Bess this afternoon?’
‘I did not know you were a horseman, Samuel.’ Marianne leaned towards me with her customary eagerness. ‘Why not take Guardsman, Father’s horse? He is standing idle in the paddock, and is far more sui
table for a gentleman to ride.’
‘I make no claim to horsemanship!’ I said hastily. ‘I have no more than rudimentary skill - and would not presume to ride your father’s horse without his permission. I have a mind to explore the surrounding area - it will help me with the paintings your father has commissioned,’ I prevaricated, ‘and it would be very pleasant to do it on horseback. Queen Bess would suit me admirably - I am not heavy, and she would carry me easily. Is she quiet and well mannered?’
‘Yes, indeed! She is perfectly amenable, and you are most welcome to borrow her.’ Juliana seemed pleased to oblige. ‘She will be glad of the outing. I have rather neglected her these last few days. I am only sorry that we have not thought of offering you a horse before now. It is very remiss of us.’
I found Reynolds and bade him saddle the mare for me - finding out, meanwhile, that his only assistant in the stable yard was a heavy, slow-witted fellow who bore no resemblance to the golden-haired man I had seen by the lake that morning, thus eliminating the possibility that it was a groom I had encountered. Soon I was riding out through the gates, past the place where I had first met Marianne. In comparison with the anxiety I had felt then, I now seemed so established at Fourwinds, that home, Sydenham, the Slade and my friends there had all but faded from my consciousness.
As I had told the girls, I was no horseman, but I felt comfortable enough on Queen Bess’s back. She was willing and obedient, as befitted a lady’s horse; a stronger-mettled steed would have taxed my abilities and left me no time to contemplate the simple pleasure I felt in the sun on my face, the regular clop of hooves, and the woods and hedgerows heavy with midsummer growth on either side of the track. The air was heady with new-mown hay; the meadow next to the track was shorn and pale, with haycocks stacked in rows; thistledown drifted on the merest breath of air beneath the trees, and a thrush sang from a tall elm. I could easily have felt myself drowsed and lulled by the quiet of the afternoon, had not my errand pressed me forward.
The Cross Keys was soon reached. It was a low, sprawling building of flint and tile, spanning an archway which led through to a stable yard behind. A collie dog basked in the sunshine; there were, at this hour of the afternoon, few people about. I dismounted, tied the mare’s reins to a wall-ring, and entered a low-ceilinged tap room. Two gentleman farmers, as I took them to be, sat over a late dinner of pies and potatoes; the innkeeper, aproned and drying his hands on a towel, came to see what I wanted. Wishing him good afternoon, I ordered a pint of ale and sat with it at the serving bar before asking my question.
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