I can assure you, Mr Godwin, that I have connections in the London art world which would be very much to your benefit, and would almost certainly result in further commissions and exhibiting opportunities. If you are interested in taking up my offer, please let me know as soon as possible. We shall then arrange a meeting at which we can discuss terms and remuneration.
In anticipation of further conversation, and with my heartiest good wishes,
Yours very sincerely,
Rupert Vernon-Dale
Chapter Thirty-four
Ashes, Earth and Dust
I read the letter quickly, then crumpled it up and stuffed it into my pocket, intending to discard it later. Mr Vernon-Dale, of course, had been unaware of Mr Farrow’s death when he sat down to write it.
We seemed to spend the next few days in a strange limbo-like state, awaiting first the inquest and then the funeral. I had much to do, beforehand, to persuade Charlotte that nothing would be gained from her admission that she had repelled Mr Farrow with an oar, nor by my confessing to pushing him away. Unable for Juliana’s sake to reveal our motives, we agreed to say, truthfully, that there had been a skirmish at the lake after Marianne, in search of her sister, had fallen in, and that everyone’s efforts - compounded by panic, confusion and darkness - had been to pull Marianne, Juliana and later Mr Farrow himself from the water. The Coroner confirmed that Mr Farrow had met his death by drowning, with possible heart failure occasioned by the shock of sudden immersion in cold water, and the verdict was of Accidental Death.
The funeral could now proceed, and it was a relief to busy ourselves with making arrangements for the grim occasion. Juliana and Charlotte spent hours addressing black-edged cards to Mr Farrow’s relatives and acquaintances. At meals, and when we found ourselves at leisure together, we spoke of little but the practicalities we were attending to. It was as if all feeling had withered inside us, and must wait until after the burial to be revivified. Of course, I experienced many a painful reminder of the days following my father’s death; try as I might to suppress them, I found myself heavy and subdued, little befitted to relieve the sufferings of my companions.
The burial service, at Staverton church, was attended by a great many people. Apart from the Vernon-Dales, the Greenlaws, Annette Duchêne, and various other acquaintances of Mr Farrow’s, there were a number of relatives, none of whom, of course, I recognized. The family, naturally, took precedence, and Marianne and Juliana were escorted by their Uncle Robert - who brought with him his wife, his son of some ten years and a younger daughter - to the front pew, alongside various great-aunts, great-uncles and the like. Charlotte, who could have given the girls more comfort than anyone else present, found herself separated from them, and took a seat next to me in a pew several rows back. We could only gaze at them in sympathy - so young and frail Marianne looked, so unfamiliar, dressed all in black; Juliana so grave and dignified - and offer them our silent sympathy.
My own father’s funeral was so recent that it seemed no time at all had elapsed since I sat between my mother and sister in the Sydenham church. On that occasion, while Mama and Isobel sobbed, I found it a torment to sit in silence and to contemplate the coffin which held my father’s worldly remains, while my mind replayed every impatient remark I had ever made to him, every piece of his advice I had discarded, every unkind thought I had harboured. Too late, too late, for one more word, one touch of his hand; he had slipped out of my reach.
Even now, as I gazed at the coffin, loaded with white lilies which filled the air with their scent, I found my eyes welling with unmanly tears. I felt that time had played a peculiar trick, that my father had died for a second time, and that if I gazed around the church I should find the pews occupied by my own family, and my father’s friends and business partners. As I pronounced the Amen, I was bidding farewell to my own father; yet in a way I was mourning the loss of Mr Farrow too. I was mourning the man I had thought him to be; the man who had shown me more esteem and respect than my own father had ever done. I had convinced myself that Mr Farrow was the father I might have chosen for myself. Now, my disillusionment was bitter.
Kneeling for the prayers, I reflected that I might have listened more carefully to my father, to his insistence that my painting was a waste of time. He had been both right and wrong. Right: because although I should never have acknowledged it to him, nor, till now, to myself, I had not the talent to be more than mediocre; I was more enamoured of the idea of being an artist, than of art itself. Wrong: because the world does not know the difference. If first Mr Farrow, then Mr Vernon-Dale, chose to pluck an unexceptional painter from obscurity, and to broadcast the opinion that his work was of value, then it was generally believed to be so. Why should I not, like the Emperor in his new clothes, take advantage of such gullibility?
Mr Vernon-Dale’s letter was in the pocket of the old jacket I had been wearing when the post was delivered. I had not thrown it away, thinking I might show it to Charlotte later. Now, I found myself reconsidering my hasty dismissal of the offer it contained. Circumstances had deprived me of job and home; why should I not seize this new chance? I should need money; I should need a home; I did not want to return lamely to my mother, admitting failure in my first attempt at independence; above all, I did not want to leave the three young women who had become, each in her own way, so dear to me. Yet, if I accepted Mr Vernon-Dale’s offer, I should know myself to be an opportunist.
We stood for the hymn; my hand brushed against Charlotte’s, and - tentatively - she clasped my fingers, giving me a sidelong glance. She, who missed nothing, had observed my tears, and must have thought they were for Mr Farrow; maybe they were. I returned the smallest of smiles, and for a moment we stood hand in hand. Of course, I must discuss my predicament with Charlotte. She would understand and advise; she would know what was best. As for her own situation - she had not yet made her revelation to Marianne and Juliana, who already had enough to assimilate.
We filed out of the church and gathered around the newly dug grave. Jackdaws cawed from the tower while the coffin was lowered in, earth scattered over it, and heads bowed for the final prayers; Marianne sobbed, Juliana stood pale and resolute. The new grave would soon be given its covering of turf, and its headstone put into position, where it would endure for measureless centuries into the future, crusted over, like the others beneath the ancient yew, with moss and lichen. Mr Farrow’s final resting place would draw no attention to the manner of man he had been: passers-by, troubling to stop and decipher the mossy letters, would conclude that here was a loving family man, felled in his prime. To this we must all come, no matter how feverishly our hearts beat out the rhythm of our lives. Who could know what other stories, what lusts and desires, loves and aspirations and disappointments, crumbled with the bones beneath the grave-mounds?
At last this part of the ordeal was over; but there was more to come. The family party was driven, in several carriages, to Fourwinds; sherry and sandwiches, cakes and tea were served; more condolences offered. Throughout all this, Juliana performed the duties of hostess, conducting herself with quiet restraint. She had, however, another trial to endure - the reading of the Will. Now, I had the chance to observe the girls’ Uncle Robert (Charlotte’s half-uncle too, though he was not aware of it), at closer quarters. Five years or so younger than Ernest, he was very similar to him in feature, although with none of his brother’s physical impressiveness. The likeness, however, was strong enough to disturb me; it was as if a less substantial Ernest Farrow, a shadow of himself, had returned to mingle with his funeral guests. The arrival of these strangers - to me - was newly unsettling, for what changes might they wish to impose?
Charlotte and I, while the family assembled with Mr Jessop in the dining room for the formal reading of the Will, walked together down to the stable yard, where the carriages stood ready to convey our guests back to the railway station. The horses had not been unharnessed, but had been given nosebags to sustain them for their return journeys, w
hile the grooms and drivers took refreshment in the servants’ quarters. The homely sounds of snortings, the occasional pawing of a hoof, the creak of harness and the jingle of bits, were soothing in their way. Charlotte and I wandered between the horses, admiring them - they were all black, of course, groomed to perfection, their summer coats so fine and glossy that the sunlight struck blues and purples from the sheen. I thought of the colours I should need on my palette, and how difficult it would be to reproduce what nature supplied so bountifully.
Mr Farrow’s hunter, Guardsman, was upset by the intrusion into his domain. Turned out in his paddock, he paced this way and that along the fence, stamping up a cloud of dust from the bare ground; he pushed his chest into the rails as he turned, and shook his mane with annoyance, glaring defiance at the newcomers. Such vibrant energy, so pointlessly expended! - for by evening the yard would be empty again, and everything as accustomed.
‘What will happen to him, poor fellow?’ I asked. ‘There will be no use for him here.’
‘He will have to be sold, I suppose,’ said Charlotte. ‘It is generous of you, Samuel, to give your sympathy to a horse. This handsome animal is well trained and well bred; expert care has been lavished on him all his life. He will find a suitable new owner, I am sure. It is tempting,’ she added, ‘to think that more care goes into the breeding of valuable horses than of human beings. What of you and I?’
I had no reply to this. ‘Poor Juliana!’ I said instead. ‘What torment she must be facing now, while Mr Jessop reveals the irregularities of her father’s life. Thank God the family will never know - I assume they will not - the whole truth.’
‘No. It will be Mrs Dearly whose reputation suffers - a risk she must have been prepared to take. As for Mr Farrow - many a man in his position has a mistress, an illegitimate son. Few can behave as barbarously as he has done - but that secret must stay for ever hidden, for Juliana’s sake. Oh, it is so unfair! He has died, and died horribly, but he has ruined her life!’
We paused by the paddock fence; Guardsman stopped for long enough to push his nose into my chest and let me stroke his cheek before resuming his restless patrol. Much as I wanted to refute what Charlotte had said, I could think of no answer.
‘Do you know anything of the girls’ Uncle Robert, who is to be their guardian?’ I asked her.
‘From what Juliana tells me, he is busy with his own affairs in London, and his young children. He has never taken much interest in the girls, and is unlikely to do so now, as long as they are provided for.’
‘So, you will stay here, with Marianne and Juliana?’
‘Stay at Fourwinds?’ she replied. ‘No, that is quite impossible! Do you not see?’
‘But, then…’ I faltered. ‘You cannot leave, surely - leave your sisters? When do you plan to tell them? You cannot intend to leave them in ignorance of what you have told me? Surely, Charlotte, you will not!’
She threw me an anguished glance. ‘I am unable to decide what is best, though I go over and over it in my mind. Is it fair, to give the poor girls another shock, and such a startling one?’
‘But you must! It would be the one thing to give them stability, security - to know that you will be with them - I am surprised you can think of leaving!’
‘I have built my life here on a misconception,’ she said flatly. ‘I have deceived them, I have deceived you, and worse still I have deceived myself.’
‘But—’
At that point, however, one of the carriage horses raised its head and whinneyed, and we saw, coming down the track from the house, Reynolds, with two of the visiting grooms.
‘I must go back,’ Charlotte said. Turning, she walked off fast, head down.
In perplexity, I gazed after her; considered following, then turned instead towards the lake.
There, in the still of late afternoon, the trees’ lush canopy held coolness and shade. There, sitting by the water’s edge, I reached a decision.
When I came back to the house, the guests had gone. Without seeing anyone on my way, I went to my room and changed out of my funeral garb, then wandered out to the lawn, smelling the warm grass, listening to the scream of swifts overhead. This summer had seemed everlasting. Not having known Fourwinds in any other season, I could only imagine it with the drawing-room doors thrown open, the curtains stirring in a breath of air, the garden seats arranged for shade beneath the cedar.
Piano music reached me faintly, so perfectly fitting the evening’s mood that I did not at first register that Juliana was in the drawing room, playing Chopin, her favourite. I remained where I was for a few minutes, listening, debating with myself. Then, deciding that I must act now or procrastinate for ever, I walked slowly indoors.
She looked up at me, with a faint smile, and continued playing. Taking my position by her right shoulder, I stood ready to turn the page. I looked at the tender nape of her neck, with the hair swept up; at the lustrous black of her dress which became her so well, bringing out the delicate shades of hair and skin; I saw how beautifully and surely her hands moved over the keys, so that the music seemed to ripple from her fingertips and hover in the air like scent.
When she finished the piece, she rested her hands in her lap, and looked up at me. ‘What would you like next? Will you choose?’
‘Thank you, no. I wish to say something. Something important.’
With a feeling of unreality, I took both her hands in mine; startled, she almost snatched hers back, then submitted. Kneeling beside her, I looked into her face. I felt that I was acting a part in a play; and this selfconsciousness seemed to prompt my words.
‘Juliana,’ I began hoarsely. ‘Forgive my unseemly haste, for I know it is much too soon; you have had a great shock. But I must ask you, even though everything is in turmoil, and your feelings with it - perhaps because everything is so unsettled - I must put it to you that - would you do me the very great honour of -would you consent to be my wife? I have little to offer you - I mean in terms of wealth, security or status. Only the promise of my devotion, my everlasting regard. If you agree, you will make me the - the happiest of men.’
I had imagined this scene before, of course; and I felt sure of Juliana’s response. She would drop her eyes, protest astonishment, make modest objections, and then she would blushingly, tearfully accept, and we would break the news, to everyone’s delight and pretended surprise. Nothing could have prepared me for what she did say.
‘Don’t be silly, Samuel.’ She pulled her hands away from mine and patted my shoulder, making me feel like a favourite dog.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I don’t mean to seem rude,’ she said, half-turning away. ‘It’s very kind of you, but I know that your offer comes from a sense of duty, even self-sacrifice. It’s what Papa wanted, you know. Maybe you were aware of it?’
‘Yes - yes, I was. But…’ Aware of the ridiculousness of my position, I got to my feet and stood behind her chair as before, where at least she could not see my face. But she would not have that; she swivelled round to look up at me.
‘And so you plan to carry out his wishes, even though he is dead?’
‘No! It is only because he is dead - because he is no longer here to exert pressure,’ I told her, in truth rather unsure, ‘and I can act as if of my own accord.’
‘Have you spoken to Charlotte about this?’
‘No! I have spoken to no one. I suppose,’ I added, for I had only just thought of it, ‘I should have approached your Uncle Robert first, to ask his permission.’
‘I am very glad you did not, for he will be as reluctant a guardian as you would be husband, and would no doubt have thanked you for taking me off his hands. Samuel, I thank you for your good will. Your offer comes from the kindest of motives, and I am grateful - please do not think otherwise. But my answer is No. And I do not say it in any spirit of bashfulness, to induce you to try again. Nor do I mean to suggest any personal rejection.’ She hesitated. ‘You believe that this is my chance to become a resp
ectable married woman - for you are the one man who knows of my circumstances and yet is prepared to make this offer, even though it runs counter to your best interests.’
I began a half-hearted protest - for I was not as clear as she was that I had nothing to gain through this proposal - but she held up a hand to stop me.
‘You see, Samuel, I do not believe that a woman’s only chance of fulfilment is to be found in marriage. Yes, I might have embraced marriage, if things had been otherwise. But they are not, and I shall not. I have other blessings. I have Marianne; I have Charlotte; I am comfortably provided for. I have your friendship, Samuel, and I value it. But how do you think I should feel, if duty to me prevented you from marrying the person you love? Now, if you will excuse me, I shall go and change out of this gloomy black. Thank you for your kind and generous offer, but we will not speak of it again, and I shall not tell Marianne or Charlotte. Will you shake hands?’
We did so; and it was I who was left stammering, and blushing, and giving inadequate thanks, and Juliana who had shown gallantry. Pretending that I had been gallant, she released me from the obligation I had made myself.
When we reassembled downstairs, just before dinner, I was not sure how I should meet Juliana’s eye, and was thankful for a diversion created by - surprise of surprises - Charlotte. To the amazement of all three of us, she was dressed in a blouse of bright scarlet. So accustomed was I to seeing her in drab grey, that it was as if a bird of paradise had alighted in our midst; I stared, we all stared. So selfconscious was she, that she might as well have been a walking pillar of flame.
‘Charlotte?’ I said, stepping towards her - indicating, with a sweep of my hand, the unfamiliar garment.
‘Oh, this?’ she said, plucking at her sleeve. ‘It was an impulse purchase, and I thought - I thought now might be a good time to wear it, after the sombreness of the day. But it was a mistake - on the very evening of the funeral! Perhaps I had better go up and change into something more suitable.’
Set In Stone Page 25
