The Wizard’s Daughter

by Barbara Michaels

  "Curse and… er…" Meeting Marianne's wide, apprehensive eyes, he amended the remark, which would undoubtedly have been unfit for a young lady's ears. "What are you waiting for?" he demanded. "Let us go and get this disgusting business over with."

  Marianne finished disentangling herself from the shawl that encumbered her limbs.

  "I am perfectly willing to oblige Her Grace in anything she asks," she said. "I have not the faintest idea what all this is about, but if it will settle what I already know to be true – that I am my father's daughter – then by all means let us get on with it."

  Ignoring the lawyer's proffered hand, she swept with dignity toward the door. She had to wait for him, however, since the others were nowhere in sight and she had not the slightest idea how to reach the room in question. With a gesture Carlton indicated the direction they were to follow, and they started along a seemingly interminable corridor. This terminated in a Grand Gallery, hung with oil paintings in heavy gold frames. So vast was this apartment that the Duchess and her escort, now visible at its farthest end, were well out of earshot. The lawyer spoke softly.

  "I begin to wonder if I have done you an injustice. Either you are a consummate actress, deserving of a far better position than the one you left so abruptly, or you are genuinely bewildered by all this."

  "How kind of you to give me the benefit of a doubt!"

  She meant to stare steadily ahead, but could not resist a glance at him. His smile gave his thin face a kindness and charm it had not had before. He was very much taller than she; she had to tilt her head to look up into his face. Perhaps that is why she stumbled, so that it was necessary for him to catch her arm. He continued to hold it as they went on.

  "Sarcasm does not suit you," he said. "Yet, if you are what you seem, you are certainly entitled to exhibit it. Well, to err is human; I am not often wrong, but… Tell me, Miss Ransom, have you ever played at table turning, or been present at a seance?"

  The touch of his hand was warm and firm without being in the least presumptuous. It stimulated a current of heat that ran through Marianne's entire body.

  "Why, yes," she replied. "Once, when Mr. Billings and his daughters came to visit, Amelia, the elder, proposed that we have a seance. It was most exciting. But then we found that Mary had been rapping on the floor with her shoe, and Amelia began to laugh, and… Oh! You don't mean to tell me that this experiment -"

  Again she stumbled, and since they were at that time descending a staircase, the lawyer's grip on her arm prevented what might have been a nasty fall.

  "Watch where you are going," he muttered.

  Marianne began to feel dizzy again. She attributed this sensation to the latest shock she had received, but had no intention of using it as an excuse for sympathy.

  "These slippers are too large." she said. "But I asked you -"

  "Not surprising that they should be. Her Grace insisted on purchasing them and the other garments without having the least idea of the appropriate sizes. She seems to have done remarkably well, in general. I suppose she will pretend that she obtained your dress size from the ghost of David Holmes."

  It was clear that he was trying to change the subject because he regretted the question that had given Marianne her first clue as to what was in store for her. Why, she thought, with a flare of anger, his soft words mean nothing. He does not trust me at all.

  At the foot of the staircase they turned to the left and followed another corridor into the depths of the mansion, coming, at last, to an open doorway.

  The first sight of the chamber within made Marianne gasp. It was not its magnificence that affected her, though the decor employed only the richest materials. There was not a trace of color in the room. Hangings, rugs, walls were of the same unrelieved white. Crystal chandeliers and sconces, ornaments of ivory and glass gave the room a frosty glitter that lowered the actual temperature by many degrees. Even the wood of the furniture had been overlaid in silver or mother-of-pearl.

  Marianne did not need to be told that this was the scene of her purported father's occult activities in Devenbrook House.

  A circular table in the exact center of the room, covered with snowy damask that fell in ample folds to the floor, was surrounded by several chairs upholstered in white velvet. The Duchess was already seated. With an imperious gesture she indicated that Marianne should take the chair at her right. The doctor moved along the wall loosening the heavy silver cords that held back ivory damask draperies. As each section of fabric fell into place across the window, the room sank deeper into an absence of light which was not so much darkness as an eerie, pallid shadow.

  For a brief time the Duchess sat quietly, her head bowed as if in prayer. Then she lifted her eyes toward Marianne and the girl felt a cold, unpleasant thrill run through her. The strange light stripped colors of their warmth; the old woman's face was as bloodless as that of a corpse. Only her eyes burned with fanatical fervor. Not until much later was Marianne able to understand the emotion that filled them. It was hunger – insatiable, greedy desire. Though she did not fully comprehend, the intensity of that desire could not help but fill her with the gravest sensations.

  "Do you understand what we are doing, my dear?" the Duchess inquired.

  The gentle, familiar voice was reassuring – but it was also startling, coming from that frightening face. Marianne felt peculiar. The blood seemed to be slowing in her veins, her heart to beat less rapidly.

  "No," she murmured.

  "Open your heart," the Duchess whispered. "Invite them to enter. They are there, just beyond the veil of the senses – thronging, hoping for contact. Empty your mind and heart of all but thoughts of love."

  Marianne did not find it difficult to empty her mind. Indeed, her thoughts seemed to be dissolving into an inchoate mass. It was rather a pleasant sensation.

  "One moment." Carlton's deep voice cut through the fog that filled her head. "I would like to see Miss Ransom's hands on the table."

  "Roger, Roger." The Duchess shook her head sadly. "Very well; we will clasp hands."

  She extended her shapely white fingers. Marianne took one of her hands and the doctor took the other. The girl's right hand was clasped by Carlton.

  Thinking thoughts of love was not as easy as Marianne had supposed. Dutifully she first considered her father and tried to squeeze out a tender memory or two. All she could conjure up was a vision of the Squire as she had last seen him, flat on his back in bed, with the counterpane rising to a hump over his stomach and his ruddy face peering around it like a harvest moon behind a winter hill.

  Deciding that her father had not the face or the figure to inspire romantic visions, Marianne tried to think of something else. Very faintly, through the thickness of window glass and curtains, she heard a trill of birdsong. After that the silence was absolute. Her ears began to ring.

  Two loud, distinct raps echoed through the stillness. The Duchess's hand contracted, squeezing Marianne's fingers painfully, but neither pressure nor sound disturbed her dreamlike reverie. In a voice vibrant with repressed emotion the Duchess said, "Is someone here?"

  A single rap replied. Then the table began to move.

  It tilted violently once and then settled into a steady rocking motion. Marianne had the sensation of swaying in tempo with it.

  The lawyer's hand was like a vise, locking hers, but she scarcely felt his touch. Her head had become detached from her body. It was floating several inches above her neck. The sensation was very odd. She heard a soft moan and wondered if it had come from her neck or her head.

  "She is going into a trance," the Duchess exclaimed, in a thrilling whisper. "Marianne, can you hear me?"

  A sharp staccato creak replied.

  "For pity's sake, Honoria," the doctor exclaimed.

  "Be still! Marianne… whoever you are … speak to me!"

  Marianne tried to oblige. No words came from her lips. She was floating in a crystalline underwater world, lifted up by the limpid liquid, swaying with the gen
tle current. The table continued to rock, until all at once, with the impact of a thunderbolt, something flashed in the dim light and fell, striking the tabletop with a solid thump. The table stopped moving. On it lay a small carved bust barely eight inches in height, with the frosty glitter of ice. Despite the dimness of the room and the transparency of the rock crystal, Marianne recognized the carved features. The empty eyes seemed to stare directly into hers; the delicate mouth was curved in a smile. The carving, which had apparently materialized in midair over the table, was of David Holmes.

  Marianne made a rude, gurgling sound and, for the second time in an hour, fainted.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Her awakening was a nightmarish repetition of the earlier recovery, and she wondered hazily if the entire episode, culminating in that shattering materialization, had been merely a feverish dream. The same rosy draperies surrounded her, the same fingers touched her wrist, the same gruff voice demanded, "Drink this."

  Here, however, the pattern changed.

  "Oh, do stop fussing, Horace," the Duchess exclaimed. "She needs only peace and rest. Such exhaustion often follows the trance state; I have seen it before."

  "Balderdash!" was the emphatic reply. "Today's young ladies fall into a faint on the slightest provocation. Sheer affection and tight lacing, that is all. If I have said it once, I have said it a hundred times -"

  "Yes, my dear doctor, you have," Carlton interrupted. "Do you feel that this is not a counterfeit swoon, then?"

  At this Marianne closed her eyes and kept them closed. She was still giddy, but beneath her physical distress, a feeble anger stirred. They were all talking about her as if she were incapable of hearing or responding. Even the Duchess treated her like a new toy.

  The discussion continued. The Duchess insisted that Marianne had not fainted, but gone into a trance; the doctor declared that her pulse rate and pallor and other symptoms were suggestive of a faint; and the lawyer interjected skeptical comments and questions. Finally the doctor let out a roar. "This must stop. We are bickering over this unfortunate young woman as if she were a bone and we a pack of hungry dogs… I beg your pardon, Honoria!"

  "No, my dear, you are quite right."

  "Then I beg of you, leave the girl in peace! I have given her a mild sleeping draft; she will probably not wake until tomorrow morning. I propose to perform the same service for you. The excitement is very bad for you, Honoria, very bad indeed."

  "I am a little tired," the Duchess admitted. "But very happy, Horace; very happy."

  "All the same, you need rest. Please go to your room and lie down. I will come to see you shortly."

  "Only let me call her maid."

  "I will do that when I have made sure she is sleeping. Promise me one more thing,

  Honoria." "What?"

  "No more of these experiments." "You know I cannot promise that." The doctor sighed. "Then promise you will do nothing without my prior approval.

  If you care nothing for your own health, you have no right to risk the health of Miss Ransom."

  This appeal had the desired effect. The Duchess murmured an agreement. Marianne felt a light hand brush her forehead, but she kept her eyes obstinately closed.

  After the Duchess had gone out, Carlton said, "Is she asleep?"

  A finger lifted Marianne's eyelid. An alarming sight confronted her: the doctor's face three inches from hers, every vein and wrinkle and grizzled hair magnified by proximity into a caricature of late middle age. Still determined to remain unresponsive, she managed not to resist his touch, or change her expression, and after a moment the inquiring finger was removed. Marianne was aware of the faint odors of tobacco, bay rum, and brandy. She had never before been so conscious of her sense of smell and was, in this case, unable to analyze the constituent elements or understand why she suddenly felt more at ease. These odors were, in fact, the ones she unconsciously associated with her father. In the Squire's case they were usually overlaid with a stronger smell of horse; but even in this diluted form they were obscurely comforting.

  The doctor answered Carlton's question. "No, she is not asleep."

  "Just as I thought!"

  "Keep your voice down. In fact, you had better go."

  "When you do."

  "Good Gad, man, do you suppose the young woman requires a chaperone? I will stay until she drops off. I prefer not to leave her until I am certain she has no adverse reaction to the medicine I have given her. I know nothing of her medical history."

  "But I want to talk to you."

  "Do so, then. She cannot hear us if we keep our voices down."

  Marianne felt a childish surge of triumph. She had not fooled the doctor with her pretense of unconsciousness, but he had underestimated the keenness of her hearing. She listened with all her might.

  "I can't understand your coolness," the lawyer exclaimed. "We must rid the house of this – this conniving female instantly."

  "Impossible."

  "But she is -"

  "I don't know who, or what, she is," the doctor interrupted. "And neither do you. I do know that even if we could evict her the effect on the Duchess might be disastrous. You hotheaded young fellows make me tired. Your legal training ought to have made you more circumspect."

  "She is a cold, calculating imposter," the lawyer insisted. "I admit I had my doubts; but after that bit of legerdemain -"

  "That is certainly one explanation of what occurred."

  "What other explanation can there be?"

  In his irritation the doctor forgot his own injunction to speak softly. "I can think of several. Assuming that the girl is innocent of deliberate trickery – no, no, hear me out! Consider the room itself. Holmes was accustomed to use it for his performances whenever he stayed with Honoria; who knows what devices he may have installed, unknown to her? That crystalline bust normally stands on the mantel. How it traveled from there to the table I cannot explain; but at least we can be sure it did not come from the spirit world."

  "I am relieved to hear you admit it. You used to be the most outspoken skeptic -"

  "And still am, I assure you. Spiritualism is a wicked, dangerous business. But the Duchess is not a skeptic, and it is her belief we must contend with. Only consider, young Roger, what one of the alternative explanations must be, and do not press me, I beg, to voice it aloud."

  The silence that followed was so fraught with emotion that Marianne could almost feel it. She had no idea what the doctor meant; the drug he had given her was taking effect, and she was increasingly drowsy. But Carlton apparently did understand. After a moment he said, in tones of the most lively consternation, "You can't be serious."

  "Only too serious. I tell you, we must proceed with caution. The health of our dear old friend must be our chief concern. Please allow me to be the judge of what is best for her."

  "I must do so," the lawyer muttered. "But don't expect me to be civil to the wench."

  "You needn't be civil, but if you speak of her in such terms to the Duchess, you will find yourself evicted from the house," was the doctor's dry response. "Be off with you now."

  The lawyer's reply was unintelligible. Marianne felt as if she were being wrapped in blankets of soft wool, layer upon layer upon layer. Gradually hearing and touch were muffled; she could not have lifted her heavy lids if she had wanted to. Just as she was entering into the final failure of all sensation she seemed to hear a voice echo inside her head. "David," it said, and, "Father." Her lips shaped the words – and others – as she drifted away.

  The following days were the happiest Marianne had known since her father's death. As in a fairy tale, she had been transformed from an impoverished orphan into the petted, pampered darling of a lady who possessed every possible charm – kindness, noble birth, and immense wealth. At first the girl objected when the Duchess showered her with gifts. The Duchess's reply was, "I am an old woman, my dear. Will you deprive me of what has become my chief pleasure in life?"

  There was no possible reply to this but g
rateful acceptance. After all, Marianne told herself, even if the fairy tale ended like Cinderella's, on the stroke of some symbolic midnight, she would be no worse off than before. In this she was, of course, mistaken, but she was too inexperienced to know that the removal of luxury can be worse than the absence of that commodity, and even if she had known it she probably would not have had the strength of will to resist.

  Her room was a bower of every pretty comfort money could buy. Delicate hothouse flowers filled the vases and were replenished daily. The sheets on the bed were of pale-pink silk, the toilet articles were backed with solid gold. Jars of steaming bathwater were hauled upstairs every evening by panting chambermaids – but of course Marianne never saw these unfortunates; the maid who attended her was a smart young Frenchwoman whose hands dealt magically with her luxuriant hair. Every evening she was bathed and dressed in one of her lovely new gowns; her hair was twisted with ribbons and posies, her throat and wrists hung with jewels. The only unpleasant part of this process was that she had to have her ears pierced. The squire had never thought of such a thing, and Mrs. Jay had not approved of vain adornment, so this operation had been neglected. But it was worth the pain to look forward to wearing the pearl and diamond and opal earrings the Duchess had given her.

  One evening, several days after her arrival, she was seated before the fire wrapped in a dressing gown of pale-blue satin trimmed with feathers. Celeste, her maid, moved noiselessly around the room laying out the clothing she would presently put on. The gown was the most elaborate she had yet worn, voluminous folds of snowy tulle over a petticoat of heavy blue silk. A cascade of silk flowers fell from one shoulder across the front of the gown and down one side of the overskirt, which was drawn back in graceful folds over a soft bustle. Marianne's hair had been secured atop her head with a wreath of matching flowers; the skillfully arranged curls cascaded down her back. With this garment went long white gloves, a lace fan, and a parure of seed pearls. They were going to the opera. The Duchess had hailed Marianne's love of music as another proof of her parentage: "David was so sensitive to music!"