Therefore, I was not surprised when Mr Farrow’s jollity of manner, as he entered the morning room with news for us, smacked of desperation. ‘Here’s an invitation for the three of you, for this evening!’ he announced; looking round the room, and seeing only Marianne and myself: ‘Oh - where is Juliana?’
‘She has taken Queen Bess for a ride on the Downs,’ Marianne told him.
‘Well, tell her this as soon as she returns. Mrs Greenlaw invites you all to dinner at The Glebe, to meet a special guest of hers. I am not included - it is to be an evening for ladies only, she says! I shall order the gig for you at six.’
When Juliana returned from her ride, just after four, I greeted her with this news. Since our painful conversation in her bedroom, to which she seemed determined not to allude, she had resumed her demeanour of passive, almost somnolent quietness. She received the news of our engagement with resignation, if not much interest, and at six o’clock the three of us were ready in the vestibule.
Once before, in company with Mr Farrow and his daughters, I had dined with the Greenlaws. The Glebe, in Staverton, was a stolid Georgian manse set in gloomy shrubbery, and since the Greenlaws were both fond of antiques, we seemed to have retreated a hundred years or more into the past. Elegance rather than comfort determined the furnishings; in the drawing room there were a great many little tables, Queen Anne chairs, a grand piano, and a chaise longue. Squarely in occupation of the latter was a lady introduced as Mrs Sophocleous. She was a strikingly bizarre figure: although some fifty years of age, she wore her hair long and loose, and coal-black was most assuredly not its natural colour; her hooded eyes were darkened with kohl; her plump body was clad in a voluminous robe of deep purple, bordered with friezelike black; numerous necklaces and charms were draped around her neck, and the pudgy hand she extended was adorned with a heavy ring on every finger. ‘Delighted, I’m sure,’ she greeted each of us, in a throaty voice that came from deep in her capacious chest. She clasped our hands; hers, I noticed, were cold. Marianne’s she took longest to relinquish, gazing at her in fascination. ‘My dear, such a beautiful face!’ she pronounced. ‘You must be careful.’ Marianne, I saw, was spellbound.
‘Mrs Sophocleous is going to entertain us after dinner,’ Mrs Greenlaw informed us, bobbing about like a coot, ‘and I assure you, it will be something very special! Mr Greenlaw and my brother, Mr Eaton, have gone up to London to spend the night at their club, so no one will disturb us - we shall be all ladies together. Oh, such fun! And now here is Annette. You have not met my friend Mademoiselle Duchêne, have you, Miss Agnew? Annette - allow me to introduce Miss Charlotte Agnew.’
‘Enchantée,’ said the new entrant. Her name was instantly recognizable; both Samuel and Marianne had spoken of her after the dinner party at Fourwinds. Samuel had described her as very handsome. With a twinge of resentment, I saw that he was right; she was certainly a lady who knew how to make the best of her attractions. I caught a waft of expensive perfume; her gown, well cut and presumably French, showed off her figure to advantage, making Juliana and even Marianne look dowdy and provincial. Her presence made me uneasy, for Samuel had hinted that she aspired to become the second Mrs Farrow. Not for a moment did I believe that Mr Farrow could be actively seeking a marriage partner; but might he become prey, even a willing victim, to such a woman as this? No, it was unthinkable! The idea of another woman insinuating herself into our lives at Fourwinds was repugnant to me.
These thoughts occupied me throughout the ensuing dinner, in the north-facing dining room. Marianne chattered amicably; Mademoiselle Duchêne made a number of flattering remarks and enquiries about Fourwinds; Mrs Greenlaw, in her gushing way, steered the conversation; Juliana said very little, and Mrs Sophocleous even less.
‘She’s a medium, you know!’ Mrs Greenlaw told me, in a loud and penetrating whisper; for we were seated side by side. ‘She is quite a marvel. We are so lucky to be honoured with her presence this evening, for she is greatly in demand. Wait till after dinner, my dear - I promise you, you will be quite astonished!’
‘What manner of medium?’ I returned, in an undertone. Although Mrs Sophocleous could hardly avoid overhearing, she made no response, and continued to toy with the food on her plate. ‘Does she summon spirits?’ I enquired. ‘Communicate with the dead?’ Barely could I hide my scepticism; I had no time for this kind of flim-flam.
‘Oh, she is very versatile!’ replied our hostess. ‘I have seen her go into a trance and speak in voices - quite alarming! I first met her at my friend Lady Brocklehurst’s in Godalming, you know, and there she summoned spirits with a Ouija board. You know, it is all the rage in some circles! Quite fascinating, you know, the Life Beyond, and all that we cannot be aware of. Sometimes she uses a crystal ball - sometimes she simply places her hands on a person’s head, and is able to see into their future. You look doubtful, Miss Agnew, but let me assure you that before this evening is out, you will be quite convinced! You see how silent she is - she is preparing herself, mentally, for the strain ahead.’
This gave me cause for concern: not for myself, for nothing short of the materialization of my late grandmother would persuade me that the dead could rise from their graves, but for Juliana and Marianne, both of whom were susceptible in their different ways. To protect them, I decided to treat the session ahead of us as a parlour game.
While we drank our coffee, a corner of the drawing room was prepared according to Mrs Sophocleous’s very precise instructions. All the blinds were drawn; a single candle was lit. Screens were produced, and swathed in purple velvet; a circular table was fetched, and covered with a black chenille cloth. Finally, a large and throne-like carver chair was placed in position, and Mrs Sophocleous settled herself into it with much wafting and draping of her ample robe. The rest of us were ushered into a semicircle, facing her.
‘Well,’ I said brightly, ‘who is to be the first victim?’
Mrs Sophocleous fixed with me a hard stare, and Mrs Greenlaw whispered, ‘You must not speak, my dear, until she is ready; it disturbs her concentration. She must have absolute quiet. She will choose, in her own time.’
Reaching into a large tapestry bag on the floor beside her chair, Mrs Sophocleous brought out a black veil, which she arranged over her head so that it obscured all of her face except for her mouth and chin; then a glass ball, which she put in the centre of the table. Marianne watched with rapt attention, Juliana with no more than mild interest; Annette Duchêne, I guessed by the quick, amused darting of her eyes, shared my cynicism, but was prepared to humour Mrs Greenlaw.
Moments passed; Mrs Sophocleous closed her eyes and began to breathe deeply; I suppressed a most uncharacteristic urge to laugh, and had to disguise it by coughing. Then her eyes opened in a wide, unblinking stare. With a theatrical gesture, she extended a bangle-clad arm in Juliana’s direction, and beckoned her with a forefinger. Nervously, Juliana stepped forward. ‘Kneel,’ commanded the medium; Juliana did so, and the plump beringed hands were placed one each side of her head. Again, the eyes were closed, the trance-like breathing continued for some moments; then a thin, reedy voice issued from somewhere inside the matronly form.
‘Yes, I see,’ said the voice; ‘yes, it is coming to me. I am reading the deepest desires of your heart, my pretty one. Let me gaze into my ball…’ She removed her hands, turned in her chair, and replaced them on each side of the glass sphere, as though transferring thoughts from Juliana’s head into its depths. ‘Yes - yes - the pictures are forming. You are leaving church, walking down the aisle on the arm of a handsome young man - I see guests, I see white flowers, their scent fills the air - and it will be soon, very soon!’
‘Can you see the man? Who is he? Can you describe him?’ Marianne burst out, on the verge of leaping up to question the ball herself.
‘Hush!’ reproved Mrs Greenlaw.
‘That is all,’ said the childlike voice, and Juliana, visibly shaken, returned to her place. Marianne shot me a triumphant look; I gave the slightest
shake of my head. The woman was a charlatan. She had only this evening met Juliana; most young women of nineteen or so would naturally look forward to marriage; what could be remarkable in guessing that?
‘Who next?’ Mrs Greenlaw whispered. ‘We shall not all be so lucky. She will not have the psychic energy to look into each of our minds.’
After Mrs Sophocleous had refreshed herself with more deep breathing and a few groans, she stared and beckoned at Annette Duchêne.
‘Alors! My turn!’ The lively mademoiselle settled herself with a flourish of skirts. ‘Shall it be marriage for me, too, I wonder?’
Mrs Sophocleous frowned sternly as she pressed her hands to each side of Mademoiselle Duchêne’s stylish coiffure; then she spoke, and the voice was different this time, that of a hoarse old woman: ‘I have you, yes, I have you, though you think I cannot - you like to enjoy admiration wherever you go. Everyone you meet has a high opinion of you, and that high opinion is shared by yourself—’ At this, Annette Duchêne let out a giggle; she tried to look round for a reaction (and it was lucky she could not see mine, for I fear that my expression must have revealed my satisfaction), but the beringed hands held her firm. ‘You are ambitious, yes, I see that - you are looking to rise in the world. Let me look into my glass… Yes, yes. It will happen, but not as you think. And you must wait, be patient - patience is not in your nature, but you must be prepared to wait.’
‘Oh! Must I?’ The recipient of this news, dismissed, rose to her feet, not in the least abashed by what she had heard. ‘Alors, she has read me as clearly as the pages of a book; I can hide nothing. Whose turn next?’
‘Mine!’ breathed Marianne; but Mrs Sophocleous, after resting for a few minutes as before, turned her gaze and her summoning finger towards me.
Sitting firm, I shook my head. ‘No. Not I.’
‘Come, child, do not be afraid,’ she urged, in cooing tones.
‘I am not afraid of what you might say to me. I do not choose to participate.’
‘Please do, Charlotte! I want to know what she sees for you, even if you do not!’ cajoled Marianne; but I was steadfast, and sat firm in my chair.
Why did I not put myself forward? My protective instincts were strongly aroused; I should have foreseen that hearing whatever nonsense this ridiculous woman pretended to read from inside my head would have prevented her from choosing Marianne. My only excuse is that by this time I had decided she was a harmless impostor, and had nothing but banalities to reveal.
We all waited. Mrs Sophocleous’s hooded eyes closed again; her chest rose and fell with deep breathing; for a moment I thought she had fallen asleep. Then the eyes opened and fixed on Marianne, who, in a flurry of excitement, rushed obedient as a spaniel to kneel by her feet.
‘Oh, you are beautiful indeed.’ This time the voice was startling: loud, breathy, and with an unaccountable Italian accent. ‘Beware, my dear - such beauty carries danger with it. You will always attract eyes, and thoughts. There is one now who longs for you, who dreams of you, who yearns to clasp you in his arms. And there will be others less honourable in their intentions. But you have something besides - you know it, do you not? - you have the gift, the gift of second sight. It disturbs you, you try to fight it, but you must not. I shall look into the glass, I shall see what I can read there.’ She caressed a lock of Marianne’s hair, twirling it in her fingers; she turned and gazed, clasping the orb; she seemed to recoil, then bent closer, examining it again. ‘Take care, my beauty,’ she continued, the voice becoming high and agitated, the accent more pronounced; ‘for I see that your curiosity will lead you into danger, and very soon - a wind is rising, you are one with it, you will go where it blows you - you are searching for something lost, something hidden, yes, and you will find it— But oh! Beware—’
Abruptly Marianne rose to her feet. ‘No! No more!’ She struggled away from the table, crashed into a chair, overturning it, and backed against a sideboard on the other side of the fireplace. At once Juliana was beside her: ‘Hush! Hush, Marianne, it is only make-believe - you must not take it to heart…’
Annette Duchêne was righting the toppled chair, and Mrs Greenlaw soothing the medium, who sat with eyes rolling, mouth open and panting, a hand clutched to her chest. ‘Quickly! Ring the bell,’ Mrs Greenlaw told me. ‘Summon Emily - bid her fetch smelling salts and camomile tea. It is harmful to break the thread - she is in shock.’
I did as she asked, though my concern was more for Marianne than for Mrs Sophocleous’s palpitations, which were, I had no doubt, part of the performance. Marianne’s distress was genuine: she continued to stare at the older woman as though unable to break some psychic grip. ‘Marianne!’ I told her sharply. ‘Come and sit down. Come, we shall drink tea.’
‘I cannot!’ Her hands were over her mouth; she spoke between spread fingers. ‘Oh, Charlotte, she knows! She knows more than she has said - she saw that I shall find the West Wind! But the danger - she is right, I know she is right, and I fear it! I cannot tell what is hidden in my own mind, and it terrifies me sometimes - she read that, so accurately—’
‘Come, come!’ Assisted by Juliana, I led her towards the chaise longue, where she slumped as though exhausted. ‘You must take no heed, dearest,’ I told her, ‘for it is only nonsense. Something lost, something to be found? A million people would find their own truth in that. It is the merest chance—’
‘But the Wind! She spoke of the Wind!’ Marianne whispered.
‘She meant it metaphorically, I am sure,’ I told her. ‘Don’t upset yourself, dear. It is only a game.’
She looked at me, wide-eyed. ‘But you chose not to play. You were wise, Charlotte - for now what shall I do?’
Mrs Sophocleous had recovered sufficiently to rise regally to her feet, and was being escorted from the room by her hostess. She stopped by the chaise longue, and gave me a disdainful look. ‘I must warn you, madam, that your scepticism risks serious harm to the sensitive girl there in your charge. She needs guidance, she needs understanding, she needs a confidante in tune with her temperament. And that, I am afraid, she will not find in you. You believe I am a fraud, do you not - a mere entertainment, an after-dinner diversion? Yet you feared submitting to my power. And now you encourage this girl to deny what she feels, what she knows! It is dangerous; you are unaware how dangerous it is; but it is dangerous. If she suppresses these feelings, these urges, she will only harm herself.’ She gave me a curt nod, and laid a hand on Marianne’s head. ‘I have spoken. Now I must take my leave of you - for it has exhausted me, as it has exhausted her. Goodnight.’
With this, she swept out, Mrs Greenlaw scuttling in her wake. Annette Duchêne looked at me and raised one eyebrow; I found an unexpected ally there. ‘Well!’ she exclaimed in an undertone. ‘I should very much like to see her on the Paris stage. Come, Miss Farrow - she was very flattering to you, was she not? Quite taken by your pretty looks! If I were you, I should remember that part of her verdict, and forget the rest.’
Marianne took no heed, but looked wildly about. ‘We must go. Take me home, Charlotte, please.’
‘Yes, it is quite late enough,’ I said, rising to my feet. ‘I shall summon Reynolds.’
As we wished Mrs Greenlaw goodnight, I had to curb my tongue, though my thanks for the entertainment were sharp-edged. I had arrived at The Glebe with one distraught girl on my hands; departing, I had two.
Chapter Twenty-six
North Walls
In good time for the appointed hour, I made my way to 4 North Walls. It was set in a terrace fronting a narrow street, a stone’s throw from the cathedral. My mood, as I approached, was very different from the fury of indignation that had brought me to Chichester. Now, bemused and curious, I hardly knew what I expected to find.
My knock on the door was answered not by Waring but by his companion, whose name, I soon learned, was Richard Hobday; he was Waring’s working partner. There was no female presence in evidence; neither of wife nor servant. I had hoped to find Gideon War
ing alone; but Hobday was unobtrusive, for the most part silent, and, I soon learned, completely in Waring’s confidence.
Inside, the place was simply furnished: a single room with a kitchen area behind; a fireplace with two wooden chairs facing it; a deal table and bench; a rag rug. A meal of bread, cheese and sausage was set on the table, with a jug of ale, and knives and mats for three. Much to my surprise, in view of Waring’s guardedness earlier, I was urged to share the meal: ‘Please join us. It is only a simple supper - not what you are accustomed to at Fourwinds - but you are welcome. Please, sit.’
His manner seemed changed; I wondered why. Maybe he had decided that I was not, after all, a spy sent by Mr Farrow. By now, indeed, I was so confused that I could not have explained what my motive was - only that I wanted to hear what he had to say, and to find out, if I could, what business Richard Hobday had had at Fourwinds. And it occurred to me now that Waring’s reason for inviting me to eat could only be to find out what he could from me. I must be on my guard. Yet, whatever secrets he was guarding, he was the creator of the Winds I so admired - could I revere the sculptor, and despise the man? I did not think it possible.
While we began to eat, Gideon Waring asked me whether I had found lodgings for the night, and I replied that I had, in Eastgate Square; then I mentioned something that had struck me earlier. ‘Mr Waring, when we spoke by the cathedral, you referred to yourself as a craftsman. I should rather call you an artist. Do you not think of yourself as such?’
A glance passed between him and Hobday - this happened often, I subsequently noticed, this fleeting, wordless communication - before he replied:
‘I make no distinction, Mr Godwin. A craftsman is an artist, an artist a craftsman. The world may make a distinction; I do not. I am a carver of letters and embellishments by trade, a sculptor by inclination. I am paid for one, often not for the other - that is the only difference. Maybe, when I was younger, I had aspirations of finding recognition as a sculptor. But working as I do, following in the long tradition of masonry, working in the same places, handling the very same stone that has been handled by generations of masons, stretching back to medieval times - I find that humbling. To call myself an artist would be to set myself apart, to draw attention to myself. I do not require that. The work is enough. I do not put my name to it, for it needs no name. I am prolonging the achievement of others, preserving the spirit of the place. Their names are not known - only those of the master masons, and they were men of near genius - why should I wish for mine to be? It is of no matter.’
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