The Wizard’s Daughter

by Barbara Michaels

"The head gardener. He has been there forever; he grew up with my husband, so it is impossible for me to pension him off against his will."

  "What is wrong with MacDonald?" Marianne asked resignedly.

  "Pure senility, my dear. He talks to himself – or rather, to imaginary companions. It is quite harmless, but I admit it can be disconcerting to have MacDonald round on one and shout, 'Take yerself off, ye wearisome auld besom!' He wasn't speaking to me on that occasion, but to his deceased mother. And, since he occasionally forgets where he is, he is apt to turn up in the strangest places – in one's closet, for instance, or peering in the parlor windows at odd hours of the evening."

  After this daunting description Marianne did not look forward to her stay at Devenbrook Castle. The only one who sounded comparatively normal was the young Duke, and Marianne knew only too well what ordinary lads of that age were apt to be like. A ten-year-old peer might be expected to be even more rowdy and undisciplined. Besides, she suspected that the Duchess might have omitted some flaw in the ducal person or personality – a passionate fondness for collecting snakes, or a withered arm, a la Richard III – in order to avoid overwhelming her guest with oddities.

  Contrary to her expectations, her first impression was distinctly favorable. The clouds shed their load of rain as they proceeded, so that brilliant bursts of sunlight illumined an increasingly rugged and impressive landscape. The stark purple mountains laced by white waterfalls and girdled with trees impressed Marianne deeply.

  Devenbrook Castle was framed by snowcapped peaks on three sides. The sun favored them with its appearance as they approached, and in its benevolent light the crenellated walls and pointed towers had the gaiety of a child's toy castle set on a bright-green mat and surrounded by trees and flower beds so improbably neat that they resembled paper cutouts. Marianne was unaware of the effort required to cultivate lawns and raise flowers in such rocky, infertile soil, but she was enough of a country girl to note that rocky promontories to the north and east protected the spot from the bitterest winter weather.

  Somehow Marianne was not surprised when the housekeeper, who hobbled out to greet them, turned out to be suffering from palsy and advanced deafness. She insisted on preceding them up the stairs to their rooms, which reduced their progress to the mournful solemnity of a funeral procession. Balancing on one foot as she waited for Mrs. Kenney to drag herself up to the next step, Marianne watched the Duchess's calm, deliberate pauses and advances with affectionate respect. Many employers insisted on only young, strong, well-favored servants, and ruthlessly dismissed any who succumbed to ill health or old age. Apparently any employee who served the Duchess faithfully could be sure of being kept on until he or she died of old age.

  When they finally reached the chamber that had been assigned to her, Marianne had to admit that whatever her infirmities, Mrs. Kenney ran the house beautifully. Her room was rather dark and gloomy, with every inconvenience of the pseudo-Gothic style, but it was spotlessly clean.

  "We must see to brightening this room," the Duchess said, with a disparaging glance. "It is enough to give one the shivers. You can help me select pretty fabrics, new carpets, furniture… Do you enjoy doing that?"

  "Oh, very much. But -"

  "My rooms are just next door. That is why I had you put here, close to me. Now you will want to refresh yourself and rest a little. I will come and fetch you when it is time to go down to tea. One could get lost in this gloomy old pile without a guide."

  She patted Marianne's cheek affectionately and started to leave. The housekeeper limped after her, but the Duchess waved her back. Putting her face next to the old woman's ear, she shouted, "My maid will take care of me, Mrs. Kenney; do attend Miss Ransom and make sure she has all she needs."

  Marianne wanted nothing so much as to be left alone, in order to arrange her thoughts and consider the new impressions that had crowded so fast upon her. But Mrs. Kenney would have walked unhesitantly over the edge of a cliff if the Duchess had suggested that she do so; she had been ordered to attend Miss Ransom, and attend she would, whether or not it suited Miss Ransom.

  Like a benevolent fairy godmother she summoned an army of little maids – who were most of them so young that they really did resemble the famous Scottish pixies or brownies – and set them to work. Marianne's trunks had already arrived. When every article of clothing had been neatly put away and a basin of steaming hot water awaited her ablutions, she tried to dismiss the housekeeper. She had a young, healthy voice and a good pair of lungs, and once she had gotten over her inhibition about shouting she had no trouble in making the housekeeper hear her.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Kenney. That will be all."

  The wrinkled old face split in a smile. "Why, miss, what a nice clear voice you have! It is amazing how some people will whisper and mumble their words."

  "Thank you."

  "Yes, indeed. A pleasure to have a nice young lady in the house."

  "Thank you. And now -"

  "I hope you will enjoy being here. You don't mind ghosts, do you?"

  After her first gasp of surprise Marianne was strongly tempted to laugh. Since apparently her new mission in life was to reach as many of what Mrs. Kenney called ghosts as she possibly could, she could hardly complain of their presence.

  "No," she shouted.

  "That's good. Ours are very well behaved. They do not bother people at all. Just take no notice of them."

  "How many are there?" Marianne asked.

  "Let me see." Mrs. Kenney counted on her fingers. "There is the first Duke, of course, but one hardly ever sees him, he only stalks the battlements during thunderstorms. You will not want to go there in bad weather. And his daughter, Lady Lucy, whom he pushed down the stairs one night in a fit of temper. That is why he walks, you understand. And the young gentleman who was poisoned by the second Duke while -"

  "Never mind," Marianne yelled. "I shall do just as you suggest and ignore them all."

  "None of them come here." Mrs. Kenney stood firmly in the exact center of the room, as if she had taken root there. "This was the bedchamber of the former Duke – Her Grace's husband – and he would never allow that sort of thing."

  "Oh." Marianne glanced uneasily at the heavy oak bedstead with its somber hangings of brown velvet. "He… he slept in that bed?"

  "Aye, and died in it, God rest his soul," said the housekeeper, confirming Marianne's worst suspicions. "He was a hard man, but a good master."

  If such a combination is possible, Marianne thought to herself. She had heard enough horrors; she doubted that she would be able to sleep in that dismal bed. Having tried every other means of dismissing the housekeeper, she calmly began to undress. This had the desired effect. When the old lady had finally backed out, Marianne blew out her breath in a long sigh. She removed her gown and hung it up. Standing in her chemise and petticoats, she began to bathe her face and arms, which were in need of attention after the long ride.

  The warm water was soothing. She had begun to relax, even to contemplate the dreadful bed with wry amusement, when something like a small explosion made her gasp and shrink back, the dripping washcloth pressed to her breast. Her door had opened with a resounding crash. Standing in the opening was a child.

  Marianne concluded, correctly, that this must be the Duke. He was tall for his age, but rather delicately built. Lank dark hair hung limply around his thin face. Big, wide-set brown eyes regarded Marianne with intense, unchildlike concentration.

  The washcloth was dripping down Marianne's front. She tossed it back into the basin and reached for the dress she had taken off.

  "How dare you enter without knocking!" she demanded.

  "How dare you speak to me that way!" The boy marred the arrogance of his speech by stamping his foot like an angry child. "Don't you know who I am?"

  "I assume you are the Duke of Devenbrook," Marianne replied. "If you are, you ought to know that no gentleman would burst into a lady's room uninvited."

  "I wanted to see you. They sa
y you are a witch. I have never seen a witch before."

  "How absurd." Marianne could not help laughing. "Do I look like a witch?"

  "No." The boy shook his head solemnly. "Witches are old and ugly. You are very pretty."

  No female could fail to be disarmed by this speech. Marianne realized that the boy was more childish than he appeared. He was undoubtedly badly spoiled, but he seemed to be without malice; she was not confronting another edition of Cyril Pettibone. All the same…

  "Really, Your Grace," she said. "You are too old to behave like this. I look forward to meeting you formally, but now -"

  A voice was heard from the hall outside.

  "Henri! Henri! to where have you gotten yourself? Come to me at once, Henry – tout de suiter

  Henry, Duke of Devenbrook did not move or even turn his head; he simply took a deep breath and bellowed, "Here I am!"

  Rapid footsteps thudded down the hall, and in the open doorway appeared, momentarily, the form of a thin young man with red hair and extremely large mustaches of the same color – obviously the French tutor in pursuit of his errant charge. Marianne had only a glimpse of this apparition before it let out a shriek of consternation and fell back out of sight.

  "Ah, begorra… Er – I should say, mon Dieu, quel contretemps! Mademoiselle, pardon-nez-moi. … This enfant terrible, he has led me into a situation tres maladroit. Henri, remove yourself, immediatement!"

  Henry, knowing full well that his tutor would not dare to enter, grinned broadly. He looked like any normal, mischievous ten-year-old boy, and Marianne was tempted to join in his amusement. However, the situation had to be resolved; she could hardly stand there all afternoon in a state of dishabille chatting with Henry while his tutor shouted apologies and imprecations from beyond the door. She solved the problem by putting on her dress.

  "Monsieur," she called, "you may enter now. I am… er… I have… That is to say, you have my permission to enter."

  The tutor's head appeared around the doorframe. One eye was wide open, the other tightly closed – this, apparently, the best concession to the proprieties he could make. When he saw that Marianne was dressed, the other eye opened.

  "Mademoiselle, you forgive -?"

  "Certainly, monsieur," Marianne replied graciously. "It was not your fault."

  "I will hope for the honor of presenting myself in due course," said the tutor confusedly. "At the present -"

  Marianne's patience was wearing thin. "Take him away," she said, gesturing.

  "Mais certainement, mademoiselle."

  Henry's triumphant smile had faded when he saw himself outmaneuvered. Now his lower lip protruded and his dark brows drew together.

  "No! I am not finished talking. Leave me alone, Victor."

  The tutor backed off a few steps. Marianne thought that if she were the boy's mother she would prefer to employ a more forceful person. Perhaps dukes were not subject to the rules that governed children of lesser rank. Well, she at least had no intention of putting up with any more of Henry's nonsense.

  "This is quite enough, Your Grace," she said firmly. "If you wish me to treat you like a gentleman, then behave like one. If you wish to behave like a child, I will take you by the ear and put you out."

  Henry and his tutor gasped, in chorus. M. Victor's face took on a look of such horror that Marianne wondered if she had indeed committed a form of lese majesty, and would be condemned to the castle dungeons.

  Then the boy's angry flush faded. He made Marianne a queer little bow.

  "You are right, miss," he said gravely. "My apologies. Well, come, Victor, why are you standing there gaping?"

  He stalked out, his head held high in a comical assumption of manly dignity. With a shrug and an apologetic gesture the tutor followed his charge. Neither of them bothered to close the door. Marianne did so, with a decided slam. Finding a heavy iron bolt on the inside of the door, she pushed it home. The servants might wonder, but she was past caring. Really, what a household!

  She finished her ablutions in peace and put on a clean frock. She was then able to unbolt the door before ringing for assistance in finishing her toilette.

  Celeste had been left in London on board wages, like most of the servants. Only the Duchess's personal maid and a few others who were needed to attend them on the journey had been brought along. The Duchess had been apologetic – "We quite rusticate in the country, my dear, I assure you; you will have no need of elaborate toilettes." But Marianne had been relieved to be rid of the French maid, whose sophistication made her feel awkward and immature. However, the fashions of the time necessitated some assistance in dressing; it was impossible for even an agile young woman to reach all the buttons and laces that held her clothes together.

  When Marianne rang she was not sure who would answer. She was pleased to find that the respondent was not Mrs. Kenney but one of the young maids who had helped unpack for her. The girl was extremely shy, and her dialect was so thick Marianne could barely understand her, but she was deft and eager to please.

  When Marianne was ready, Annie – for such was the girl's name – informed her that the Duchess was waiting for her in her own rooms, and indicated a door half hidden by a heavy tapestry, which Marianne had not noticed before. This led, by way of a small dressing room, into the Duchess's boudoir.

  Bright chintzes, modern furniture, and a profusion of flowers made this chamber much more cheerful than Marianne's. The Duchess greeted the girl with a kiss and suggested that they go down at once.

  "I think I have persuaded Annabelle to join us," she said. "She always requires to be coaxed, but of course she is curious about you."

  "I hope that she does not believe I am a witch," Marianne said with a smile.

  "My dear child, what an extraordinary thing to say! Oh – I see. Which of the servants has had the impertinence to say such a thing to you?"

  "It was not one of the servants. It was Master Henry – that is to say, the Duke. But he -"

  "Henry will do." The Duchess's face was stern. "How does it happen that you have met the boy?"

  Marianne was sorry that her thoughtless speech had led into such unforeseen complications. But she had been forced to tell the truth, once the initial faux pas had been made, in justice to the innocent housemaids.

  "He came to see me. He meant it as a joke, ma'am; I assure you, I was more amused than anything."

  "Oh, dear. I trust there was no… unpleasantness?"

  "We were both very pleasant," Marianne replied cheerfully.

  "I hope you won't think badly of the lad for intruding. He is a good boy, but because of his delicate health he is not always disciplined as he should be."

  "Of course. Do you think well of his tutor, then?"

  "M. Victor? Did you meet him too?"

  "He came in pursuit of Henry."

  The Duchess laughed ruefully. "You are tactful, Marianne, but I can read between the lines. The boy is so high-spirited he leads poor M. Victor quite a dance. As for the other matter – I am afraid the servants, like all uneducated people, look on spiritualism as an exercise of the Devil. They were terrified of dear David. I have strictly forbidden them to talk of such things in front of Henry, but of course they do; and Nanny is one of the worst offenders. A strict Presbyterian, and you know how they are!"

  Marianne was silent. In her innermost heart she sympathized with the superstitious servants. She had found table-turning very entertaining as a parlor game; but when unseen forces flung objects about and invaded her own body, it was hard to think of such influences as benevolent. The only thing that made the business endurable was the Duchess's attitude. The Duchess was older and wiser and very kind; the Duchess accepted spiritualism; so spiritualism must be all right. So ran the unconsciously formulated syllogism that was to keep her involved in a pursuit from which every other instinct recoiled.

  Devenbrook Castle had been modernized thirty years earlier, when the Gothic revival was in full flood. It was therefore a bizarre mixture of genuine
medieval features, imitation medieval misapprehensions, and a few remnants of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century elements, which had somehow escaped the twelfth Duke's remodeling eye. The small parlor into which the Duchess led Marianne was an example of the last category. Called the rose parlor because its tall, wide windows opened onto a walled garden devoted to the cultivation of those flowers, its decor reflected the same theme: soft, comfortable furniture covered with pink brocade, a magnificent molded ceiling with floral swags and medallions showing beautiful ladies of myth and history, and a carved marble mantel. A fire burned on the hearth; before it, several chairs and a love seat surrounded a table on which the tea-things were already set out.

  "Annabelle is not here, I see," the Duchess remarked. "We might as well begin; although she promised to join us I am never sure she will come."

  Scarcely had she filled the cups, however, when the door was opened and a lady made her appearance.

  She was so tall and so strikingly masculine in every physical aspect that if Marianne had not known whom to expect she would have taken the lady for a male in woman's garb. Lady Annabelle had heavy eyebrows that ran straight across her forehead, without a curve or a break between, and a perceptible mustache shadowed her upper lip. But instead of the tailored, mannish clothing such a woman might have favored she wore dainty, fragile garments dripping with lace and ruffles, which looked ridiculous on her tall, broad-shouldered frame. The ruffles were sadly tattered, and Marianne needed no explanation for this phenomenon, since Lady Annabelle was literally surrounded by cats.

  One was draped over her shoulder, its paws resting on her flat bosom. Its tail bounced up and down with every step. She carried another in her arms, a red tabby with insolent yellow eyes; and Marianne's own eyes opened wide at the sight of it, for it was the largest cat she had ever seen, weighing a good thirty pounds. An indeterminate number of other felines accompanied this apparition, flowing in and out under her skirts like a living river of fur – gray, white, black, orange, yellow, and every conceivable permutation thereof. Eyes flashed and tails waved, and no one ever seemed to be stepped on, although Lady Annabelle paid no attention to her entourage.