Set In Stone - EXTRACT

Samuel, a young artist, has recently arrived at a country house called Fourwinds, on the South Downs, and has become fascinated by the younger daughter of his employer.

Marianne! As so often, my circling thoughts settled on her. A small sigh escaped my lips as I conjured her - her glances, her long-limbed movement, the swirl of her hair. My bedding seemed unbearably hot and restricting; I flung back the covers altogether, and lay on my back, gazing at the ceiling. I struggled between a yearning for sensuous fantasies, and the knowledge that such thoughts must be curbed in their infancy.

Marianne was barely a year older than my sister Isobel; she was my pupil, and I her teacher. My role, I began to feel, would be far easier if she had turned out to be plain of feature and dull of brain. I must control myself, must stop indulging my wanton desires; yet the heat of my blood and the prickling of my skin allowed no restraint.

I rolled over, rammed my face into the pillow and closed my eyes tightly; but sleep would not come.

At last I sat up, thinking that I may as well spend the time profitably; turn on my lamp, sit at my bureau and continue working at my sketch. On the point of rising from my bed, I was arrested by a sound in the gallery beyond my door.

A slow footfall came near; then seemed to pause. The hairs rose on the back of my neck. I waited for a rap on my door, but none came. Silently, I stood; crept close; applied my ear to the keyhole. I heard a woeful sigh; then the footsteps moved on, more quickly. I heard the creak of a floorboard as the nocturnal wanderer passed towards the stairs.

In those taut-stretched seconds I could easily believe the place to be haunted by a restless or vengeful ghost. I had read stories in which newcomers to country houses find themselves witness to apparitions; in those moments I imagined myself as the central figure in such a drama. My hand on the door-knob, I paused to make certain the footsteps had passed away; rapidly I removed it on hearing the return of the slow tread, which now quickened and seemed to approach my door almost at a run. Then, on a rising wail, a voice spoke:

"Never sleep! Oh, I shall never sleep!"

I might have reflected that the phantom was expressing my own thoughts precisely, had I not realised that this was no supernatural manifestation, but Marianne, on another of her strange roamings. At once I opened the door, and called her name. The dimmest light revealed her to me, standing by the gallery railings. Clad in a white nightgown, with her abundant hair loose around her shoulders and tumbling down her back, she could have been taken for an apparition of the kind beloved by writers of sensation novels. But my next thought was of the physical danger she was in. She stood gazing up at the skylight, then, gripping the balustrade with both hands, she leaned over and gazed down at the vestibule two floors below. I caught my breath. If she leaned too far - if she lost her balance!

"Marianne!" I called again. I moved carefully towards her, anxious not to startle her, for I feared precipitating disaster rather than averting it.

I trod so carefully that the floorboards gave scarcely a creak; she showed no sign of noticing my advance. Indeed, in spite of her complaint of not sleeping, I wondered if she were, in fact, asleep and dreaming; I had heard of such things. As soon as I drew close enough to be sure of securing her, I reached out, caught her wrist, and put my other arm around her shoulders, turning her away from the balustrade and the dangerous drop below. She spun round to face me.

"Oh - oh!" In shock, she was hardly able to breathe normally. For a moment she seemed about to faint; I held her, keenly conscious of the scent of her hair, its tickle against my face, and the firm smoothness of flesh beneath the nightgown. Next instant I heard the opening of another door behind me; heard the words, "Is that you, Marianne?" spoken by Charlotte; and she was with us.

"I found her here," I offered; "she was walking in her sleep, I believe."

Charlotte nodded. "Marianne?" she said softly, with a touch on the other's sleeve. "You are awake now? You know where you are?"

Marianne looked from Charlotte's face to mine and back again; blinked several times, and swallowed with an effort. "I am sorry. I thought - Oh, but I am too late!" She began softly to cry.

"Come," said Charlotte. She looked at me over Marianne's head. "We must take her back to her room. There is a couch there - I shall fetch my blankets and sleep there for the rest of the night, in case she should try to wander again." ...

.... We guided her to the bed, where, seated, she seemed gripped by a new distress.

"You must not tell Father! Promise me you will not?"

"Hush, dear." Charlotte stroked her hand. "Don't upset yourself."

"No, no - you must promise - both of you!" Marianne's eyes searched my face in anguish.

"I promise," I told her. Truly, I think I would have promised her anything she asked of me.

"Charlotte, you must promise, too! He will want to send me away, like Mama - "

Charlotte's eyes flicked to mine. Then she busied herself with details: switching on the lamp, smoothing the pillows and coverlet. "Hush! Hush! You must get into bed - we shall talk in a moment. Mr Godwin, you had better leave us now. Thank you for your assistance."

Self-conscious in the flare of lamplight, bare-legged and in my nightshirt in front of the two young women, I did as she asked; but waited outside the room for her to reappear. After their voices had murmured for some minutes, she did so, and prepared to climb the stairs to fetch her blankets; but I intercepted her.

"Charlotte! What did she mean by - "

Raising a hand, she silenced me. "We cannot talk now. Come down early to breakfast. I shall tell you then."

The night was long in passing, for sleep eluded me completely.

Copyright Linda Newbery 2006

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This page last updated 7 September, 2006