Mariel

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  Opening the door to the hallway, she heard the muffled sound of voices from the first floor. The scent of dinner cooking drifted lazily along the corridor. She smiled as she recognized the scent of roast beef. Mrs. Puhle had been preparing all her favorite meals in the hopes of easing the sorrow of being confined to her room.

  “No more,” Mariel whispered to herself.

  She touched the banister on the staircase. The warmth of its patina, worn by many hands over the centuries, welcomed her. She ran her fingers along its silken texture, and a flare of frustration flew through her. The feeling was too familiar. Although she could discern more through her fingertips with each passing day, it only reminded her that she would be dependent on this for the rest of her life.

  Fiercely, she shook off such depressing thoughts. She might not be able to do what she could before the accident, but she was determined to discover what she could do. With care, she dropped her foot to the first riser. Her fingers tightened on the banister as she put her weight on that foot and stepped to the next stair. Fear boiled in her stomach while she sightlessly descended the stairs she once had taken at a run.

  At the bottom, she silently congratulated herself. She waited to hear if anyone else had noticed her performance, but it seemed that the foyer was empty. That surprised her. At this time of day, it usually was busy. She smiled. This was perfect. She did not need an audience.

  Again she closed her eyes to recreate the scene burned into her memory. The door to the drawing room waited—only a few paces to her right. Trying to walk normally, she stepped toward the room. Her smile faded when she could not find the door, then she chuckled. Of course. She could not touch the wall. She stood in the wide doorway.

  Her questing fingers found the doors. She drew them together. The doors closed easily, but she did not latch them. Years ago, she and Georgie had tried to see how the lock worked. Ever since that failed experiment, the doors had not been secured because it was questionable whether they could be unlocked again.

  From beyond the open windows, the fresh scent of newly cut grass surged through the room. Sunshine smelled warm on the stones closest to the ceiling-high windows. The room had been cleaned during the last few days. Mariel could discern the oil the maids used to dust the furniture. She wondered if these aromas had been in existence all along or if she was discovering something new.

  A soft yip intruded into the silence. Involuntarily she turned toward the sound, which came from the doors opening onto the terrace. “Muffin?” she whispered.

  The dog bumped against her leg, and she groped to find its head. With a laugh, she found its tail first. Holding out her hand, she ordered, “Here, Muffin.” Instantly she felt its head butt her palm.

  She dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around Muffin’s soft furry body. Pressing her face into the fur, she breathed in the rich aromas of the grass where the dog had been playing. Muffin’s puff of breath struck her face seconds before the velvet-coated tongue touched her cheek. Slowly she stood, not wanting to let the tears in her useless eyes overflow in the midst of her excursion.

  “Later, Muffin,” she whispered.

  As the sound of the dog’s paws on the floor disappeared into the distance, she sighed. She could not understand how everything had remained the same—everything but her eyes. The temptation for self-pity flooded her, but she tried to ignore it.

  Crossing the room, she touched the smooth keys of the piano. Her longing to be lost in the complicated harmonies grew. She drew out the stool and gingerly sat on it. Although it made no difference in the darkness surrounding her, she closed her eyes. Instantly her memory supplied the scene her eyes were unable to show her.

  Her fingers settled on the keys. The melody flowed from her head through her fingers to the piano. A cascade of music filled the room. Soaring chords crashed into the ceiling to resound back through her. Her hands chased the piece as she became immersed in the beauty of the sound.

  When the final notes faded into silence, she placed her head on her folded arms on the music platform over the keys. She felt sapped and somehow rejuvenated. It was her favorite piece. For more than a year, she had worked to perfect it. Today she had played it through with no mistakes.

  “I should have guessed you would choose Bach.”

  “Ian!” She rose to turn to the door. Her smile brightened as she raised her hands to him. The sound of his uneven steps warmed her heart. “Where have you been?”

  He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. Quickly, he examined her. As the doctor had said, there had been no permanent damage from the superficial wounds she had suffered. Mariel remained as lovely as ever. He admired the lacy blouse tucked into her black sateen skirt. Despite his intentions, his hands slipped around her slender waist and drew her to him.

  Instantly, her smile faded. She turned her face from his. Putting her fingers on his arms, she pushed him away. He took a step toward her, but she whirled to flee. Her escape was halted abruptly when she bumped into a marble-topped lyre table. It rocked violently as she fought to keep the statue on top of it from crashing to the floor.

  Other hands helped hers right the sculpture. She felt Ian’s eyes on her and knew exactly how his face turned down with displeasure. When she stood next to him, it did not seem she could not see him. So often in the past months they had spoken lovingly and in anger. Those strong emotions were imprinted in her heart to be recalled with ease.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly. She did not want to argue with him. Since the accident, all they had done was disagree. It would be pleasant to speak kindly again to each other.

  “You are welcome.” His reply sounded as stilted as her words. “Sit down, Mariel. I want to talk to you.”

  Her hand reached for the settee. Her lips tightened as she sat. He had not answered her question of where he had been. Without asking, she knew what he would not say. He had been here. He had waited for her to become so frustrated with her self-imposed prison that she would force her way out of it. She suspected he was smiling with satisfaction.

  Ian watched her innately graceful movements. In just this short excursion, she had regained her smooth steps and the butterfly-light motions of her wrists. He sat opposite her in the overstuffed chair. Leaning toward her, he asked, “How are you doing, Mariel?”

  “If you mean, have I recovered from the accident, I can say I have no more pain. If you mean, am I pleased with falling prey to your tricks, the answer is no.”

  “You did not have to leave your room,” he stated reasonably.

  “No?” Her hands swept wide to encompass the house. “I have not been beyond those walls in two weeks. Now that I will no longer scare children with my mummylike bandages, I can wander where I will, right?”

  He grinned. “Exactly.”

  “Wrong!” she snapped. “Coming from my room to here, I managed, but it showed me how helpless I truly am.” Her voice softened as she added, “I never knew there were so many endless hours in a day.”

  “You must get out of the Cloister.”

  “How?”

  He scowled as he heard the pain in the single word. As he feared, Mariel was still ready to give in to her infirmity. “You can ride in the carriage. Most ladies of your class have a coachman. It is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “I have no place to go to.”

  “I find that hard to believe. You never stayed at home before.”

  Her hands folded in her lap. When he took one and placed something in it, her fingers moved along the slender, smooth surface. In shock, she gasped, “This is your cane, Ian.”

  “One of them. I want you to have it. With it, you can find your way around easier.”

  In horror, she released it. The clatter of its ivory clasp against the floor did not enter her mind as she envisioned herself using it. She did not want to have to use something like that. Only old men and beggars depended on canes.

  She did not realize she had verbalized her thoughts until she was jerked to her feet.
Ian’s rage washed over her as his fingers bit into her skin beneath the fine lace of her shirtwaist.

  “You are going to learn now how much you need this.”

  “Ian—”

  He handed her the cane again. “Prove me wrong, Mariel. Prove to me that you aren’t the woman I thought you were. Show me you have no courage.”

  Mariel tightened her fingers around the staff. She would try, but not for the reason he thought. Only by doing this could she keep him from shouting at her. With her head aching from her exertion today, she wanted to go to her room and rest. If this is what it took to do that, she would cooperate.

  Listening to his instructions, she tried to visualize what he was saying. She bit her lip when he told her this was how he had seen the blind walking in London. Although she wanted to screech out her revulsion at the word “blind,” she concentrated on what she must do. It sounded simple, but quickly she learned how wrong she had been.

  “Stop thinking with your eyes,” he urged. “Think with your fingers. They can show you what is before you.” As the cane crashed into the door, sending anguish along her arm, he repeated, “Think, Mariel. You must use your other senses.”

  “How can I think when you are babbling?”

  He fought to keep his voice steady as laughter filled him. This was the Mariel he loved, feisty, refusing to accept defeat. If he could find a way to keep this one here and force the sorrowful waif to leave forever, he would have won the battle.

  Mariel tried to concentrate as he suggested, but her mind and feet refused to work in unison. She tripped again and again. When the cane tapped against the stairs, she paused. Taking a deep breath, she put her hand on the banister and stepped up. Instantly, she swayed.

  Strong arms caught her before she could fall. She pressed her face against Ian’s neck as she shook with fear. His hands moved along her back, holding her closer than was necessary. Breathing in his scent, which brought memories of the love they had shared so briefly at the parsonage, she could not convince her body to move away from him. Only when his hands loosened did she realize how intent he was on having her continue with this lesson.

  “Try again,” he ordered.

  “Ian, I’m tired.” She dropped to sit on the stairs. The variegated shades of the stained glass window played over her, tinting the cream of her blouse.

  “Once more, honey.”

  She shoved the cane at him. “No, I said. I am tired.” Her lips tightened into a scowl. “Why can’t you understand I will not be able to do everything I did before?”

  “Because it isn’t true!”

  “Do you ride to the hunt?” she taunted. Her pain forced her to strike out at him. “No! You drive your carriage, but I have never seen you on horseback.”

  Cursing, he dropped the cane. It clattered down the stairs to roll to a stop in the center of the foyer. Staring at Mariel’s determined face, he did not notice the door opening. Walter Collins bent to pick up the cane, but said nothing as he silently watched the conflict on the stairs.

  Ian grasped Mariel’s shoulders and lifted her to her feet. She groped for the railing. “Help me!” she gasped.

  In a low voice, he retorted, “Help yourself!”

  “Ian!” Desperation crept into the single word.

  He stubbornly said nothing. If she did not realize how much she needed to be independent, she would be confined to Foxbridge Cloister the rest of her life. He watched as her fingers clutched the banister to steady her.

  Only when she was sure she would not fall did she snarl, “Get out of my home, Ian Beckwith-Carter! I hate you! I hate you, and I want you to leave.”

  “If you feel that way, Mariel, then maybe you are right. Maybe you should stay in this house and never come out again. Maybe you should pretend that you are of no use to anyone. I thought you had learned a lesson today, but I clearly was wrong. If you continue to act this way, you soon will be exactly as helpless as you wish.”

  Her fears exploded. “Stop it, Ian! You don’t know what I feel!”

  “I don’t? You feel like a burden on everyone you know. You wonder if you ever will be of any use to this world. You pray that this is all a nightmare, and that you will wake soon to laugh in the morning light.” When he saw the astonishment on her face, he laughed bitterly. “You are not the first one to lose your dreams. How I longed to become a missionary and take the truth to those in need of my teachings. To assist those who needed me. Instead, when my friends left England I spent the time in my room, waiting for my leg to heal and praying I could die. I didn’t, and neither will you.” He shook her sharply. “First you have to stop feeling sorry for poor little Mariel.”

  “Stop it!” she cried again. “Save your sermons for Sunday, Reverend!”

  Silence dropped between them as he slowly stepped away from her. “Good day, Mariel. I have been calling on you regularly. If you wish to see me again, I trust you will remember how to find your way to my house.”

  “Ian!” she called as she heard his footsteps descending the stairs. She followed, nearly falling. The concentration required to remember to place her feet cautiously left no room for other thoughts. Now, all of her mind was centered on Ian. She did not want him to leave.

  Her fingers settled on a coat sleeve. “Lady Mariel?” came Walter’s voice.

  With a half-articulated sob, she pushed herself away from him and grasped the doorknob to swing open the huge door. Her fingers lifted her skirts as her feet remembered the way along the steps leading to the driveway. Dust blew in her face to choke her. The clatter of the carriage driving away silenced her calls to Ian.

  She felt hands on her shoulders. When she heard Walter urge her to return to the house, she fought the tears rolling along her face through the dust. Placing his arm awkwardly around her shoulders, he led her up the steps. A strange feeling of having been comforted like this before rushed through her.

  Into her mind came the day a lifetime ago when she had been mourning the loss of a rabbit she had found injured in the hedgerow. She had tried to save it, but she had found it too late. It simply slipped away from her, sleeping to escape its pain. That day Georgie had been the one to ease her grief. He told her how it was better for the rabbit to die than to suffer endlessly. From anyone else, she would not have accepted such fatalistic phrases. Georgie had never lied to her, even when the voices within him taunted him to some misdeed.

  Walter gave her that same unquestioning comfort. He made no judgments, only that it was better that she rested after her difficult day. When Phipps came rushing toward her, he stepped back to allow the woman to help Lady Mariel to her room.

  He held the cane in his hand as he watched the women go up the stairs. For a second, he thought of breaking it, or throwing it in the trash. Then he placed it in the umbrella stand by the door. It leaned drunkenly as he walked out of the house. He decided to walk into the village. Without the automobile, there was little for him to do at the Cloister. No one had spoken yet of him having to leave. He hoped they would not. There was more he wanted to do here.

  Phipps hushed Mariel as they walked slowly along the hallway. “Don’t worry, my lady. Rosie is with Mrs. Puhle. We thought it best she not get in your way this afternoon.”

  “We? You were part of Ian’s plan, too?”

  “It was necessary to get you out of your room. I thought his plan was an excellent one.”

  “I’m sure you did.” She tugged away from her friend. Dropping to her bed, she pulled a pillow over her head. From that stuffy haven, she growled, “You two must have had a grand time while I reeled to the drawing room.”

  “We were very proud of you, my lady, if that is what you want to hear.”

  “So proud that Ian continues to insist I do more?”

  Phipps demanded, “What else could you expect from him? He wants to see you embrace life again.”

  “He could have the decency to—to …” Her voice faded away as she raised her head. When the bed moved, she rolled onto her back to t
alk to the other woman.

  “Is pity what you want? You won’t get that from Reverend Beckwith-Carter.”

  Bitterly, she stated, “I don’t want to hear about how he has overcome his own difficulties. I don’t want sainthood.”

  “You are impossible!” In a tone Mariel had never heard her use, Phipps stated, “I did not want to do this now, but I must. I am giving you my notice, Lady Mariel.”

  “Notice?” Mariel sat up and nearly fell off the edge of the bed. She moved to the center and groped for her companion’s hand. “But, Phipps, why?”

  Sorrow tinted the older woman’s voice. “I did not think you would know. You have been accustomed to doing things exactly as you wish. When you could not have your way, you had a tantrum. A very ladylike one, I will admit. Now, when something has happened you cannot change, you are acting the same way. Polite folk call it headstrong. I will tell you I do not want to work for a spoiled brat any longer.”

  “That’s not fair!”

  “Most things aren’t.”

  Mariel rose and felt her way across the room to the window overlooking the gardens to the west. She opened it and leaned on the thick sill. The fresh brine of the sea washed over her. All her happiest memories contained that succulent scent. She closed her eyes to dam the tears behind her lids.

  Ian. She did not want to lose him. No one understood why she acted as she did. If she allowed their love to grow, she was afraid he would ask her again to make their relationship permanent, whether he truly wanted to or not. She wanted to break the ties between them he felt obligated to maintain.

  Gentle hands stroked her loosened hair. She whirled to find solace against Phipps’s full shelf of bosom. As she sobbed against the wool of her companion’s jacket, the older woman calmly massaged the tense muscles of her back. She did not urge her to stop crying. She let Mariel release some of the pain, which grew with each day.