Fortune's Mistress

by Comstock, Mary Chase

  Marianne sat mutely. Though she would have liked to unburden herself to someone, she knew it was not possible. The only sound was the hissing of the teakettle and the sputter of fire. Maggie waited calmly, and at last poured the boiling water into the pot and set it on the hearth to brew.

  Marianne swallowed hard. “It is ... I cannot ...” Her voice trailed off.

  “Do not trouble yourself,” the old woman told her. “You’ve enough on your shoulders. You’ll bear up well enough, I can see—but I also see you suffer where you shouldn’t.”

  Marianne looked into the old woman’s eyes. Maggie could not possibly know or understand her burdens, yet her eyes conveyed a sympathy which belied that fact.

  “You have not asked me for advice,” Maggie said as she poured the tea, “but I shall give you some just the same. It is as the poet said, ‘Let the dead past bury its dead, and fear ye not to speak the truth.’ Now drink up your tea and think on what I have said.”

  Marianne sat transfixed. “How is it,” she asked hollowly, “you know to say this to me?”

  The old woman shrugged and looked into the flames. “It is no secret. I listen to what my heart tells me, to what your heart tells me.”

  “That is no answer,” Marianne whispered.

  The old woman looked up and caught her eye. “Trust me. It is like the weather outside. There will be a few more stormy gusts before the sun shines through, but shine it will, mistress. A little while longer, then you may dare to be happy.”

  Marianne felt the tears prick at her eyes. She brushed them away quickly with the back of her hand.

  “You know, to cry is not a bad thing always,” the woman told her. “It is sometimes a better medicine than any man has yet devised.”

  Marianne shook her head. “But I am not sad . . . not precisely sad. Wrought up, I suppose, and longing for the end of strife. I thought if I came so far I might have peace, but now it is broken up.”

  “If it’s strife you’re meant to have, why it will find you in London or the wilds of the west country. You cannot outrun it. Only change its guise sometimes.” She laid a warm hand on Marianne’s icy one. “But I suspect there’s more to what’s troubling you than merely strife. You are stronger than that, my dear. It is your life about to change again. There are some of us whom souls are sent to—souls whom we teach, and those we learn from.”

  “Of course,” Marianne said, sipping at the fragrant tea and thinking of the children who had lately occupied her attention. And her baby would soon be there. That would be change.

  “Aye,” Maggie nodded. “It is a change for a babe to go from womb to breast, but I see more than that on your road ahead.”

  Life’s road had already been fraught with so many twists and unexpected detours. Marianne sighed. “No peace in sight?” she asked.

  Beside her, Maggie patted her hand once more. “Not all change is bad, you know. And I do not need to read your tealeaves to see your future. There is one drawn to you like moth to flame. He cannot fight it, though I sense he tries. You are a key for him, and he for you. If you would be wise,” she said, “look into your heart and see what’s true.”

  Chapter Twelve

  In the days that passed, the weather grew cooler still. The wind carried on it the scent of dry leaves, although most had already fallen and become part of the fading landscape. To Marianne, it seemed that the sky itself was more meek than it had been the days before. All through the garden, the vestiges of flowers grew more brown and ragged, offering nothing but the hope of spring. The garden was a part of her now, a reflection, and her work there had helped her make the transition from the old life to the new. Within its confines, she had transformed herself from a gilded butterfly to a country matron.

  As she strolled among the tattered flowerbeds, she looked down at her hands. It was satisfying to see they had in a very short time acquired some roughness. They were no longer remnants of a life of ease, white and useless. They had spaded dirt, weeded, planted bulbs. Come April, she reflected, living things would spring to life because of her work. She felt an intense sense of accomplishment at the notion.

  Though the year was ending, the promise of new life sustained her. As her babe grew within her, as each movement brought fresh evidence of its progress, she felt a corresponding sense of being alive. The old was a cast-off shell, a husk that might be scattered and blown away by the new wind that breezed through her life. She was no longer troubled by snatches of the past in her dreams. She had packed away her mementos in the attic, and determined not to look into those trunks again.

  Even though each day took her closer and closer to her baby’s birth, she could not help but face the change in weather with spirits slightly flagging. Dark winter days filled only with reading and needlework would pass far more slowly than those filled with bright sunlight and fresh air. Given the almost daily visits by the four children, however, there was little chance of boredom. She recognized now what a godsend the children and their lessons represented.

  They had not come today, for Becky and Jane had the sniffles and Mrs. Maiden, noting the uncharacteristic quiet of the boys, diagnosed them as sickening as well. Marianne knew well enough that her present condition demanded she keep her distance from them, but she missed the children more than she had thought possible. Though they drained her reserves of energy with their liveliness and questions, they brought with them a camaraderie as well, a sense of belonging she had missed through most of her life.

  Sometimes the doctor came along when they called to take their lessons; other times he sent them on their own. When he did come, he listened to their recitations with grave attention, and often brought books for her own enjoyment.

  These were not, she was happy to note, of such an improving nature as might prove to be a burden to her. They were, for the most part, accounts of travel to strange lands, but there were novels and some poetry as well. They took her away, not only from her current surroundings, but from her past as well, and she was glad of them.

  There was, however, no repetition of the preference she thought he had sometimes evidenced for her. His eyes seemed always to be upon her, but that was all. He said very little and rarely stayed long. Whether it was the presence of the children or something else, she could not believe it was merely her imagination that he had become more guarded in her presence.

  Maggie must have been wrong in her predictions and assessments, she concluded. It had been so easy, sitting in the woman’s rustic cottage drinking tea, to believe every word that was spoken. It was not like Marianne to be so incautious as to believe the solitary fate of her heart might change. She was glad to know she had kept her own counsel.

  Marianne was relieved, too, at the doctor’s change in manner. For the most part. The wise part. Something deep inside, however, was overcast by the shadow of disappointment. She was both chagrined and surprised to discover that the whisper of a tendre had found its way into the withered region of her heart. Dr. Venables’s image had begun to find its way there all too often. It was a good thing, she knew, that she had discovered her inclination and uprooted it like a deceptively pretty little weed which might, unchecked, work its tendrils into her well-guarded sensibilities.

  She knew she could never again, in good faith, encourage any man’s attention; neither could she, for her child’s sake, reveal her past, regardless of how understanding such a man might appear to be. She had received the cut direct often enough to know that there was no forgiveness in the eyes of society. She must be content with the life she had created for herself and with her independence, a dear achievement.

  Still, when she did not guard against the occasion, her thoughts returned again and again to the doctor. It seemed ironic that, as she and Venables came to know one another better, their encounters should grow increasingly formal. She would not have guessed that the smiling gentleman who had charmed her in the stone circle could grow so distant. Perhaps it was her increasing size, she thought wryly. Each morning her gla
ss reminded her that she could not consider herself to be the object of flirtation; she looked, she was certain, like an ungainly ship under full sail. Any attention which came her way must surely be interpreted as that displayed for ailing grandams.

  Marianne wandered idly to the corner of the garden where an old apple tree leaned against the wall. The withered vestiges of its fruit hung from the upper branches and a pair of noisy blackbirds were making a feast there. All of nature seemed to have its place here. She had been unaware of it in London, where growing things were trained to the will of gardeners, and even the birds seemed as unremarkable and quiet as staid footmen.

  “Meow!”

  Marianne peered up into the gnarled branches. Just above her head, little Falstaff clung desperately, his eyes squeezed shut and his claws tenaciously gripping the bark. Half-grown now, his awkward legs trembled from this untoward exertion. The most adventurous of the three kittens, he often hazarded the varied entertainments the little garden offered, and, just as often, went missing for hours at a time.

  “Now what mischief have you found, my little one?” she crooned, gazing up at him.

  “Meow!” came his plaintive response.

  She sighed and shook her head. “This is a sad predicament indeed! Let us see if I can contrive to rescue you.”

  She stood on tiptoe and reached upward, straining to touch the kitten. Just as she was within reach, he scuttled upward further, mewing piteously and twitching his tail. She stepped up on a twisted root and struggled to gain an inch or two. It made her a trifle dizzy to stand thus, reaching up for so long, but the imp was so close! Not close enough, however. She lowered her arms and leaned her head for a moment against the trunk of the tree. As she rested there, and allowed her body to relax, she was suddenly seized with a violent cramp in her back.

  The pain seared through her, and the suddenness of it sent a tremor of fear up her spine. The kitten was forgot. What could be wrong? Her dizziness growing, she sank to her knees. Now the heady smell of apples where they had fallen to the ground and begun to rot sent an intense wave of nausea through her. She pulled a lavender-scented handkerchief from her sleeve and breathed through it, succeeding only to make matters worse.

  “Mrs. Glencoe! What is amiss?”

  Vaguely, she heard the gate flung open, then footsteps hurrying toward her across the lawn. In a moment, she felt an arm about her shoulders and a hand at her wrist.

  “Be still and take slow, deep breaths.”

  Venables knelt at her side, his eyes dark with concern. He said nothing more for the moment, but merely held her. She leaned back against his shoulder, drawing strength from his solidity. Her heart, which had been beating rapidly, began to slow, but she still felt far from well.

  Struggling to rise, she groaned, “I must get away from these apples. The smell of them is making me ill.”

  “When you feel equal to it,” he said, “let me know, and I shall carry you indoors.”

  She shook her head weakly. “That will not be necessary,” she protested. “Please, just allow me another moment to collect myself.”

  Glancing about, he saw that the French doors to the drawing room were closest and slightly ajar. “Please, madam,” he said softly. “You must permit me what gallantry occasion grants a mere doctor.”

  Lifting her in his arms against her slight protests, he made in the direction of the house. She seemed little heavier than a kitten, and the way she curled into his arms and rested her head against his shoulder reminded him of a sleepy child being carried off to the nursery. Still, he was not altogether unaware of the softness of her form, or the scent of verbena which drifted up to him. He steeled himself against such wayward thoughts and made his way as quickly as he might toward the house. When he reached the doors, he pushed one of them open with his boot and set her gently down on a sofa.

  He watched anxiously as she leaned gingerly back into the cushions and shut her eyes. “Tell me what happened,” he said after a moment. “You looked quite gray a moment ago, but your color is returning.”

  Briefly, she described what had taken place in the garden, her voice edged with anxiety. “I do not mean to make much of such a small thing, and it is passing now, but it was such a very violent pain. Tell me, doctor,” she asked, as she concluded her narrative. “Ought I to be alarmed?”

  He shook his head and smiled at her, hoping to dispel the fear he saw reflected in her large eyes. “I suspect it is merely one of the many difficulties that men are spared. It is quite common for expectant mothers to suffer such painful spasms. Your back is not accustomed to carrying the extra weight.”

  “Ah,” she sighed. “I had begun to wonder if there were not some price to be paid for the little miracle housed within me! And there is worse to come, unless I have heard amiss.”

  “Unfortunately, that is quite true,” he told her. “But do not forget, I have seen many babes born. They are indeed miracles, full of the future. Yours will be no different. Nature has thus contrived to make the memory of the pain of labor fade quickly—once the mother has laid eyes on her precious packet.”

  “And very wise is nature,” she returned with some asperity, “else women would never be persuaded to bear more than one!”

  “Very likely not,” he agreed judiciously. “Shall I order some tea for you, while I rescue little Falstaff? It was he, was it not?”

  “Heavens!” she cried. “I had forgot all about the scamp. Oh, please do!”

  He opened the connecting door and made his request to Annie, who happened just then to be passing by. Then he proceeded through the French doors into the garden once again, leaving her deep in thought.

  Though Marianne had not before today discussed her condition with the doctor— nor indeed had he pressed her to do so— his manner and smile when he did so just now seemed to reflect far more than just professional interest. His anxiety was as real as hers, and when he had, for a moment, let down his guard, he seemed unaccountably to share in her joy. What sort of man, she wondered, rejoiced in the mere notion of new life, in the quickening of a child not his own? She could not begin to understand him, but it was little wonder that one such as he pursued his life and dreams beyond the brittle cynicism of the ton, where children were merely security for ancient titles and the building of fortunes.

  The doctor returned a moment later, bearing the prodigal on his shoulder. He set the kitten back in the basket with his siblings, where he curled into a ball and went to sleep, apparently unrepentant.

  “I do not wish to unnecessarily concern you, Mrs. Glencoe,” he said when he had seated himself, “and I recognize you are not my patient. But it is important for you to begin paying more attention to your symptoms and act on them accordingly. Ladies who have led quiet lives, as you seem to have done, tend to be more delicate, more prone to discomforts, than those who are used to exertion. I believe that Old Maggie will attend you very well when your time comes, but in the interim you must be careful. Do not over-tire yourself. Do not go farther than your voice might be heard, should you be overcome again. And,” he added with a twinkle, “you must be sure to ask for assistance the next time you are called upon to rescue a kitten.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Of course, you are right. I have undergone some similar dizziness in the past, and a little nausea, but not quite so violent as today. I rather think the pain must have made everything else seem worse. I must thank you for your concern.”

  “Nonsense,” he said brusquely. “It is my work.” He patted her hand. Against his own, it seemed tiny, like that of a doll. “Besides, it is I who must thank you. During these dreary days of applying poultices and setting bones, it is not often the occasion arises that I may exercise my dusty sense of chivalry.”

  “Nor,” she replied with a slight smile, “have I been much accustomed to being rescued in quite such a dashing manner!”

  “Ah, so all your rescues have been commonplace?”

  “They tend to be,” she said archly, “when one is f
orced to perform them herself.”

  He would like to have pursued this interesting comment when the door opened and Annie entered, balancing a tray carefully. It was laden not only with a pot and cups, but a plate of scones, marmalade, and cream, as well. “Cook thought you might be in need of sustenance, ma’am. She declares you are too thin.”

  “Take it away, Annie,” her mistress said, turning from the sight. “I could not …”

  The doctor looked at her narrowly. “Perhaps later then. Just set the tray on the table, Annie. Your cook is a wise woman, Mrs. Glencoe,” he told her. “In my experience, thin mamas bear thin babies, and we cannot have that. Annie, I have left my bag in the garden. Will you fetch it for me?”

  When Annie had set about this errand, he once more directed a critical eye at Marianne. “Have you been eating regularly and well?”

  “As well as I am able,” she responded. “Sometimes, I must confess, I feel as if I will eat everything in the pantry—the curry you were so kind to bring did not see the end of that day, I can assure you— but there are other times I am not equal to a single bite.”

  He pressed his lips together into a frown. Women, he knew, suffered from a variety of odd humors during these last months. Chances were that all was well. Still, it was best in these matters to be prudent. “I hope you will not think me impertinent, but I think it would be wise if I conducted an examination—just to be certain all is progressing normally. These late months of a pregnancy can sometimes be difficult.”

  Marianne leaned back into the sofa and shut her eyes for a moment. It was foolish to think she could go much longer without the doctor’s suggesting such an examination, and certainly not after the state in which he had discovered her today. If anything were amiss, she must learn what it was. Still, the notion of submitting to such a procedure rattled her at her core. She was haunted by that fear, foolish or not, that signs of her past could be read on her body. What if he could spot some telltale sign, could perceive her past?