This vast, chilly expanse was occupied by three living creatures. One was as out of place as a bear in a boudoir; red-faced, corpulent, his wiry gray hair standing up on end, he stroked his bushy mustache with one finger and glared at Marianne through a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles that had come to rest on the bulbous tip of his nose. The other occupants suited the decor. One was a dog, or so Marianne deduced, though only a blue bow distinguished the front end from the back end of the mop of long white hair.
The lady who held the dog was a larger, living version of the Meissen shepherdess that stood on the mantel beside her. Snowy hair, exquisitely coiffed, framed a face from which all color had fled. Marianne had a confused impression of soft, pale fabrics, rich with lace and embroidery, enfolding her slender frame.
Carlton cleared his throat. Before he could speak the dog let out a sharp, piercing yelp, as if the lady's white hands had contracted around its body. Dropping the animal unceremoniously onto a nearby chair, the lady glided toward Marianne, her arms extended. The color had rushed hectically into her face.
"My darling child," she cried. "Found at last! So long lost, so happily returned to my arms. Found at last!"
It was too much for Marianne. Nervous apprehension, bewilderment – and the more prosaic fact that the Pettibone parsimony and the unpleasant table manners of Cyril had prevented her from eating that day – all combined to bring on an attack of giddiness. The room slipped to one side, the lady's face blurred into a featureless white oval, and she felt herself falling into darkness.
CHAPTER FIVE
When Marianne came to her senses she did not at first understand where she was. She lay on a surface so soft it felt like floating, surrounded by clouds of the palest rosy pink. It was as if she had been lifted up into the sunset. She tried to raise her hand to her swimming head and found that her wrist was held. Fingers moved and pressed and then released her; a voice said, "Drink this."
A glass was held to her lips; she swallowed automatically. The liquid was thick and rather sweet. Then the same voice said, "She will do. It was merely a swoon – or a pretty counterfeit of one."
The gruff masculine tones assured Marianne that she was still in the land of the living – and that, if she had died, Paradise was not quite what she had expected. The comment was answered by a woman's voice, soft and refined, but thrilling with indignation.
"Horace, how often must I tell you to refrain from such statements? You will strain our friendship if you persist."
This voice was the one Marianne had heard just before she fainted. The details of that amazing encounter came back to her. She opened her eyes and realized she was lying on a bed canopied in pink chiffon, the hangings held back by twists of silk roses. Turning her head, she saw the porcelain lady leaning over her.
"Are you better, my child?" she asked tenderly. "Roger has told me of the dreadful place in which he found you, and of… But I will not speak of that, and you must never recall it. How could I have rushed at you so! I blame myself. Naturally you are bewildered. You can know nothing of your true history."
A growl, so heavy with cynicism that it required no words, came from the tall, stout man standing beside the lady. His gold-rimmed glasses had slipped even farther toward the end of his nose. It required no great effort of intelligence for Marianne to deduce that it was he who had expressed doubt as to the genuineness of her faint. Had his fingers touched her hand? The fact that he was in the act of returning a gold watch to his pocket confirmed her theory that he might be a doctor. Whatever he was, he was plainly hostile toward her. Thankfully she turned her eyes to the gentle face of the lady.
"I don't understand, ma'am," she began.
The doctor – for such, Marianne soon discovered, he truly was – gave another snort of outrage. "Ignorant girl," he exclaimed, "you are addressing the Dowager Duchess of Devenbrook. Kindly use the proper -"
"Horace." The Duchess spoke gently but firmly. "One more word and I will ask you to leave."
"Honoria, you know I speak out of concern for you. The state of your health… The feverish excitement of this meeting – of the past few days -"
"But my anxieties are now relieved, in the joy of this meeting," the Duchess assured her. "I appreciate your concern, old friend, but I must insist that you keep still. The poor girl is confused enough. I will enlighten her. But first, a glass of wine – something to strengthen her -"
"A glass of wine will make her sick, or tipsy, or both," said a voice from the other side of the bed. Marianne rolled her eyes in that direction, feeling rather like a bird in a cage surrounded by cats. She was not surprised to see Carlton smiling down at her with his now familiar look of wry amusement. So bewildered was she that this first of her new acquaintances seemed almost like an old friend. She looked at him beseechingly, and he continued, "A bowl of soup might be more to the point. Sit up, Miss Ransom, and assure the Duchess of your good health. Then perhaps we can get on with this – er – discussion. I have an appointment this evening and would like to keep it. No, Duchess," he added, as that lady made a protesting gesture, "I beg you will not suggest that we leave you alone with the young lady. I, as your legal adviser, and Gruffstone, as your medical adviser, owe it to you and to ourselves to be present."
The Duchess agreed to this, but insisted on a brief interval of recuperation for Marianne first. The girl was certainly in need of attention. She had not taken the time to change her gown after the rough and tumble with Cyril, and the long dusty ride had improved neither her complexion nor her attire.
Under the lady's direction she was bathed, brushed, perfumed, and wrapped in a gown of the same delicate shell pink that filled the room. The unobtrusive luxury of her surroundings, from the huge marble bath to the gold-backed hairbrush wielded by the maid, were completely new to Marianne – but she found they were not at all difficult to get used to. She had never seen such a bedchamber. Pink, tulle, mother-of-pearl, and gilt covered every surface, and silk roses spilled in lavish profusion. It was obviously a girl's room, and as Marianne's strength returned she wondered who the lucky young lady could be. The wardrobe from which the maid took the pink tea gown was filled with equally beautiful garments. Though Marianne was too shy to voice the questions that had crowded into her mind, she began to formulate a hypothesis. Perhaps the Duchess had lost a beloved daughter or granddaughter, the original owner of the bedchamber and the lovely clothes.
Marianne's restoration was completed by the suggested bowl of soup; in fact, she was able to eat quite a respectable amount of the food presented by a neat parlormaid dressed in black alpaca, with long streamers hanging from her white lace cap. So gentle was the Duchess's fond regard that Marianne's appetite was not inhibited in the slightest. Turning to her hostess as the servant removed the tray, she started to speak. Smiling, the Duchess put her finger to her lips.
"I have promised my good friends, Carlton and Gruffstone, that I will tell you nothing until they are present. Do you feel strong enough now to receive them?"
Marianne, completely awed at receiving such deference, indicated that she did.
The two gentlemen were admitted, and at the Duchess's suggestion they removed to an alcove at the far end of the room, which had been fitted up as a sitting room. The Duchess insisted that Marianne recline on a rose velvet chaise longue, and she tucked a fleecy shawl around the girl with her own aristocratic hands.
Though appreciating the kindness, Marianne was beginning to feel stifled by the unceasing attentions from a lady older than she and greatly her superior in rank. Having no longer any fears for her safety, she would have remonstrated, or at least demanded answers to the many questions that vexed her, but for one thing; her fear of distressing the Duchess. Her active imagination had by now filled in the details of the story she had invented to explain the peculiar circumstances in which she found herself. The dear old lady had lost a child, and her brain had been turned by the tragedy. Perhaps, Marianne thought pitifully, she believes I am her daughter retur
ned from the grave! The doctor's concern confirmed this idea.
Convinced by the explanation she had woven from these hints – and ignoring the many holes in the fabric – Marianne allowed herself to be coddled. She was moved by genuine pity and gratitude, and was prepared to disillusion the unfortunate lady as gently as possible.
The doctor squeezed his large frame into a dainty little armchair It groaned as he shifted his weight. "Well?" he said belligerently.
"It is difficult to know how to begin," the Duchess murmured. "It will come as a shocking surprise to her."
"Allow me," Carlton said. Leaning in a negligent attitude against the window ledge, his arms folded, he viewed all of them with detached amusement. "How old are you, Miss Ransom?"
"Eighteen," Marianne replied, without thinking; and then, in surprise, demanded, "How do you know my name? And how did you find -"
"Never mind," was the reply. "The means by which I found you will be explained in due course; they are not important. You claim to be the daughter of a Squire Ransom of Yorkshire?"
"I am his daughter." Marianne sat upright. "What are you implying, sir?"
"Nothing to your disadvantage, I assure you." The young lawyer's eyes narrowed. Behind his constant, disconcerting amusement Marianne caught sight of another emotion, harder and more threatening. "The Duchess does not deny that you believe yourself to be the person you claim to be. What she denies -"
"Roger, you are doing this very badly," the Duchess exclaimed. "Naturally she would not remember any other life, having been adopted at such an early -"
"Adopted!" Marianne fell back against the cushioning pillows. "But… ma'am – Your Grace -"
"There can be no doubt about it." The Duchess patted the girl's limp hand. "You are the very image of my lost darling, my David."
Marianne felt as if her face had frozen into an expression of imbecilic surprise – mouth ajar, eyes wide.
"Your husband?" she asked.
A sharp intake of breath and a furious glare from the doctor warned her that she had made a faux pas. The Duchess merely smiled sadly. "No, my dear. David was my friend, my son in affection if not in name. I have mourned him for eighteen long years."
"It is impossible," Marianne stuttered. "I assure you -"
"David was in Yorkshire nineteen years ago; the Keighley circle was particularly prominent, and he -"
"He was all over England that year," the doctor interrupted rudely.
The Duchess waved a languid hand, dismissing this criticism. "I knew he had left a child. It Came To Me." Her impressive tone invested the statement with such significance that it might have been written in capitals. She turned to Marianne. "He would have married your mother had it not been for his tragic death. I am so happy that she found a good man to give her child a name; but now it is time for pretense to end. David's genius must not be lost."
Eyes alight, cheeks pink, she stared into space as if she saw a vision invisible to the others.
"Genius?" Marianne repeated.
"Have you never heard," the Duchess asked, "of David Holmes?"
She might have been asking, "Have you never heard of Ludwig van Beethoven?" Or "Mr. Charles Dickens?"
A vague memory stirred in Marianne's mind, but she could not pin it down. Gaping like a fish, she shook her head.
"Are you familiar," the lawyer inquired coolly, "with table turning? Spiritualism? The occult?"
"Charlatanism," the doctor added in a growl. "Hocus-pokery, paganism… Oh, very well, my dear Honoria, I will say no more."
"You have already said quite enough," the Duchess reproved him. She looked at Marianne. "Your father, my dear, was a man gifted with unique spiritual powers, a prophet equal to the great men of the Bible. The world's finest medium."
Marianne was familiar with the words the lawyer had mentioned. The spiritualist phenomenon had spread like wildfire from its humble beginnings in 1851, in a small town in Massachusetts. Five years later no fashionable London gathering was complete without an attempt at table turning. Ghostly hands and luminous trumpets pervaded the parlors of the wealthy, raps and thumps echoed through the darkened drawing rooms. Yorkshire had its own circle, and although the initial enthusiasm of devotees had been dimmed by exposures of flagrantly fraudulent mediums, giggling girls still played with planchettes and summoned the spirits of Julius Caesar and Pocahontas. As a clergyman's widow, Mrs. Jay disapproved of what she considered a frivolous, heathen practice. Whenever she ran across a newspaper story about haunted houses or spiritualism she gave Marianne stern lectures about the evils of dabbling in such matters.
Had she but known, her attitude was bound to inflame Marianne's curiosity as a healthy hoot of laughter would not have done; for, the girl reasoned, if spiritualism were merely an idle fad, the vicar's lady would not have been so angry about it.
Thanks to this clue she was able to remember that she had read about David Holmes in a magazine article devoted to spiritualism, but she was unable to recall the details of his career. She said as much.
The lawyer replied. "Mr. David Holmes was barely nineteen when he came to this country, after considerable success as a medium in his native land. He was the son of a coal miner and his wife, from the state of Pennsylvania -"
"His mother," the Duchess said, "was descended from the Dukes of Argyll."
"So she claimed," Carlton said dryly.
"The second sight," the Duchess murmured. "Her Celtic heritage…"
The lawyer waited politely for her to finish, but she did not go on. After a moment he continued, "David Holmes was a delicate boy, subject to fits of- er – fits. His person was handsome, his personality engaging. He took no money for his performances, but he never lacked wealthy patrons who gave him every luxury.
"When he came to England he immediately became the rage. Moving ever upward in society, he was the darling of the royal courts of England, and the imperial court of Russia. At one time he was actually engaged to marry a young relative of the Czar's. For reasons which were never made public, that affair fell through."
"He loved another," the Duchess murmured.
"Whatever the reason, Mr. Holmes left St. Petersburg," the lawyer went on. "He proceeded to Rome, where he was accused of heresy and expelled from the city. He had always been a devout Roman Catholic, and he was palpably distressed at learning that his religious superiors frowned on his activities. He lost his powers altogether. He announced to the world that his spiritual guides had departed for a period of one year. He was received sympathetically by his friends in England…"
Here the lawyer shot a glance at his patroness, but she appeared not to notice. Her face had a rapt, dreaming expression.
"The year was almost over," Carlton said, "when Mr. Holmes went for a walk one winter night. He was never seen again. His cloak – have I mentioned that he habitually wore a long black cloak rather than an overcoat? – this garment was found next day entangled in the roots of a tree that hung over a rapidly rushing river near the spot where he had last been seen. Though inquiries were prosecuted with the greatest vigor, no other trace of him was ever discovered, and it was concluded that he must be presumed drowned. Since he left no heirs and no property, there were no legal complications. The coroner's jury agreed on a verdict of misadventure; but there were those who hinted that he had taken his own life, in despair over the failure of his spiritual powers."
"Never!" The Duchess had been listening after all. Her cheeks flushed with indignation. "Those were vile rumors, Roger. David's faith forbade suicide."
A violent creak of the doctor's chair preceded his comment. "My dear, many of his own friends felt he had killed himself. They accused the Church of hounding him to death."
"Equally absurd!" the Duchess cried. "These so-called friends were jealous of me, because I had his company and his confidence. He had been in cheerful spirits and was eagerly anticipating the return of his powers. Why, that very evening, he told me we would have a confidential chat about it after he ret
urned from his walk."
"He was staying with you?" Marianne exclaimed. "Here?"
"No. Devenbrook Castle, in Scotland, was the scene of David's last days on this plane." She took the girl's hand in both of hers. "My dear, I hope this sad tale has not distressed you. Death, as David taught me, is only a doorway into a better world."
Marianne was not at all distressed – at least, not in the way the Duchess meant. It was difficult for her to feel any emotion over a father she had never known, particularly when she very much doubted that the relationship had existed. However, she squeezed the hand that clasped hers so kindly and tried to assume an expression of appropriate melancholy.
"Your Grace," she began timidly.
"You must not be so formal. My darling David called me by my name."
"I could not possibly do that!"
"Perhaps not. But something warmer, something closer. Aunt Honoria? Or…"
Marianne was overcome with a sudden shocking desire to giggle, as other alternatives popped into her mind. Grannie Honoria? Mother Honoria? Horrified at herself, she bit her lip. She had never been encouraged to indulge in fits of temperament and did not recognize incipient hysteria resulting from a series of stupefying shocks. She was, however, aware of the meaningful glances exchanged by the two men. It was clear to her now that not only did they doubt the Duchess's belief in her parentage, but that they suspected her of being an adventuress – quick to take advantage of an elderly lady's sad obsession. She resolved to do nothing to confirm such unworthy suspicions.
"Please," she murmured. "With respect – I don't feel just now that I can…"
"I quite understand." The Duchess squeezed her hand. "Time will solve that problem, as it will solve so many others."
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