The Wizard’s Daughter

by Barbara Michaels

  Sitting down in an armchair she gave the Duchess an awkward nod and cradled the enormous red tabby in her lap.

  "I am so happy you decided to join us, Annabelle," said the Duchess. "Pray allow me to present Miss Ransom."

  "How do you do," said Lady Annabelle, in a deep bass growl. "Do you like cats?"

  "I dote on them," Marianne replied promptly.

  Lady Annabelle's wide mouth relaxed. "Sensible gel. So do I."

  That fact hardly required mentioning. One cat was sharpening its claws on the lady's skirt and two others were sidling up to the tea table, their eyes fixed on the cream pitcher. The elephantine tabby in the favored position on Lady Annabelle's lap contemplated Marianne through slitted eyes.

  "That is a very handsome creature you are holding," Marianne said politely. "I have never seen so large a cat."

  "This is Horace. I named him after the doctor."

  Marianne stared at Horace, who stared back at her with a look of profound boredom.

  "Dr. Gruffstone?" she asked, wondering if the doctor had been pleased at the compliment.

  "Yes. He does not resemble the doctor physically, but they have the same dignity of presence. Just push that plate of sandwiches closer to me, Miss Ransom. Horace is getting on in years – that is why I carry him – and he needs to eat frequently."

  Marianne obliged. She was exceedingly diverted to see the lady feed sandwiches to Horace, who received the tidbits with an air of languid condescension. The lesser cats lined up and were rewarded with an occasional bite. Lady Annabelle continued to talk, explaining the genealogies, histories, and quaint habits of each cat in turn. Horace was the patriarch, having sired most of the other animals present.

  After a while the Duchess interrupted; without such intervention Lady Annabelle would have gone on discussing cats all afternoon.

  "Is Violet joining us, Annabelle?"

  "Now the tabby with white paws, Angel Face… What? Violet? How should I know, Honoria? I doubt it; she never comes down when there are strangers here."

  "How is she? I have not yet had time to call on her."

  "The same," Annabelle said with a shrug. "Now Hector – the black – not the black with the white bib, the other black – Hector was ill last week. I think he ate a bad bit of fish. I gave -"

  "And you, my dear. What have you been doing since I saw you last?"

  "I have been embroidering," Lady Anna-belle said, in her queer gruff voice. "It was a pretty piece of Berlin work, Honoria; it had a basket of kittens on it. But Fluffy – that is the white one, Miss Ransom – Fluffy wound the yarn into a hopeless tangle. I feared for a time that she had eaten part of it, but -"

  "Then your health has been good?"

  "Yes, of course. I am never ill, Honoria, you know that."

  "You are too thin, my dear. Won't you have a sandwich?"

  "I believe," said Lady Annabelle, with great simplicity, "that Horace has eaten them all."

  The door opened and the footman announced, "His Grace the Duke of Devenbrook."

  The unkempt surly boy had undergone a surprising transformation. To be sure, he had outgrown his neat gray suit, so that his bony wrists protruded, and he was in need of a haircut, a fact that was even more apparent now that he had attempted to comb his hair. Still, Marianne appreciated the effort and thought complacently that it might be attributed to her cutting comments on Henry's manners. He made her a bow, then spoiled the effect by remarking, "You look much nicer in your frock."

  In any other company this comment would have been the cause of spilled tea and exclamations of horror. The only one who appeared to be perturbed by it was the tutor, who had followed his charge at a respectful distance. He rolled his eyes heavenward. Then he bowed to the three ladies in turn. Each bow was a masterpiece of calculation, conveying abject reverence to the Duchess, courteous respect to Lady Annabelle, and respectful admiration to Marianne.

  "Your Grace permits?" he inquired. "It were more respectueux to inquire first, but the Duke was anxious to pay his devoirs to Your Grace."

  "I am sure he was," the Duchess said dryly. "Well, Henry, have you been a good boy?"

  "Yes." The Duke flung himself into a chair and reached for a piece of plum cake. M. Victor looked wistfully at the love seat where Marianne was sitting, but did not have the courage to sit beside her. Instead he lowered himself into a chair, where he sat perched on the very edge, as if the respect he showed the company were in reverse ratio to the amount of space he occupied.

  Much later Marianne was to describe the occasion as resembling, in its spirit of genteel chaos, a similar tea party in Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.

  "The Duchess kept asking Henry questions which he did not bother to answer; he never took his eyes off me and I felt sure he expected me to sprout bat wings and fly up the chimney at any moment. Lady Annabelle talked to the cats and to me about the cats and paid no attention to anything else that was said. As for M. Victor, the cats immediately converged on him. They must have sensed that he was terrified of them. But he was too much in awe of Lady Annabelle to say so. They climbed up his trouser legs and drank his tea and snatched the cakes from his hand as soon as he took them. He sneezed a great deal."

  Henry finished off the cakes. No one reproved him for making a pig of himself or for scattering crumbs all over the carpet. When the food was gone he jumped up, interrupting the Duchess in the middle of a question.

  "I'm going now. This is dull. I thought she would do something exciting. Come on, Victor, I want to play chess."

  "I shall retire as well," Lady Annabelle announced. She rose, still holding Horace, who had not moved during the entire affair except to open his mouth when food was placed next to it. "The pussycats need their exercise; and I fear Fluffy is going to be sick."

  Fluffy promptly proved her premonition to be correct.

  After they had gone and a footman had tactfully dealt with Fluffy's misdemeanor, the Duchess sighed. "Poor Annabelle. Being accustomed to her I forget how eccentric she must appear to a stranger. But there is no harm in her. And we all have our foibles, don't we?"

  "Very true," Marianne agreed. To her, Lady Annabelle had appeared to be not merely eccentric but almost simple-minded. However, spinster ladies of peculiar habits presented no problem to a family that could afford to keep them safely tucked away somewhere. The girl wondered whether the Duchess's real concern was not for the boy, whose behavior also left a great deal to be desired. It would indeed be a tragedy if the last heir to one of the oldest dukedoms in England were lacking some of his wits.

  "If you will excuse me," the Duchess said, "I believe I will dine in my room tonight. I have letters to write and business matters to deal with. Would such an arrangement suit you? We do not usually dine en famille; Henry is really too young, and his mother…"

  "A tray in my room would suit me admirably. I am a little tired."

  "Amuse yourself as you like," the Duchess said. "The music room and the library are in this wing, but I advise you not to explore farther than that tonight. The older parts of the castle are dreary and a little frightening after dark."

  "Please don't worry about me."

  "Then I will say good night. Oh – I usually attend church in the village. The people like it; but you need not join me tomorrow unless you like."

  "I would be glad to go to church," Marianne said eagerly. Indeed, her variegated career in London had prevented her from attending divine service, and her conscience was troubling her on that point.

  When the Duchess had gone, Marianne wandered about the room examining the paintings and the pretty ornaments. She had not been strictly accurate when she said she was tired; mental and emotional fatigue she did indeed feel, but physically she was more in need of exercise than of rest, after a long, cramped ride. Deciding to walk in the garden for a while, she found that the long windows were actually French doors, and so let herself out onto the terrace.

  Here she walked for some time, admiring the changing sunset
light on the high mountains that could be seen beyond the wall.

  The Duchess's abrupt decision to leave London for this remote Scottish castle had not troubled her initially. She had no idea what matters, business or personal, might have motivated such a decision. Now that she had met most of the members of the household she was ready to eliminate natural affection as a motive. The Duchess was not related by blood to any of them, so it was no wonder that her strongest emotion toward one and all was a sense of responsibility. Certainly duty might have prompted this visit, but the more Marianne thought about it, the more she was inclined to suspect another reason. This was where David Holmes had died. Now that the first tenuous contact had been made, the Duchess hoped that proximity to the scene of his last days on earth would strengthen the tie.

  Marianne shivered. The sun had dropped behind the mountains. The air was chill. She turned back to the house, finding that during her absence someone had lighted the lamps in the parlor and in the corridor beyond. No more modern form of lighting would reach this remote place for years to come, Marianne supposed; she found the familiar candles and oil lamps comforting, reminding her as they did of the home of her youth and of Mrs. Jay's cottage.

  A now-familiar pang of guilt touched her as she remembered her old friend. Really, she must write Mrs. Jay. Roger Carlton had mentioned that he had spoken with Marianne's former landlady and – what was the phrase he had used? – "assured her of his bona fides." But that was no guarantee that Mrs. Shortbody had been relieved of concern on her behalf, or had written to reassure Mrs. Jay. Really, Marianne thought guiltily, it is too bad for me. Mrs. Jay had always told her that one of her worst faults was procrastination. "You seem to think if you postpone a difficulty long enough, it will disappear," she had remarked sarcastically. "It is much more likely, Marianne, that the difficulty will grow larger and less amenable to a solution."

  I will write tonight, Marianne promised herself. Perhaps in the library I may find writing materials.

  This apartment was not difficult to find, for the comforting lights ended abruptly just beyond its entrance. The door had been left open, no doubt on her account, and the room was adequately lighted. It was like a fairy tale "Beauty and the Beast," in which the captive maiden was attended by thoughtful but invisible spirits.

  This was not entirely a comfortable thought, nor was the chasm of blackness at the end of the hall a comfortable sight. The Duchess had not exaggerated when she said the castle was a dreary place at night. As Marianne stood looking curiously into the dark, wondering what lay farther along the corridor, she heard a faint dry rustling and fancied the darkness shifted as if something lumbered stealthily toward her. She fled into the library.

  It would have taken a thousand wax tapers to illumine the vast room properly; it was two stories high, with row upon row of books on both levels, the upper one reached by an iron staircase. Chairs and tables of all kinds were scattered about, but the room was so large it looked scantily furnished. There was light enough, however, for Marianne to see that a nearby table held an assortment of volumes which, by their neat bindings, appeared to be more modern than the crumbling leather tomes on the shelves.

  Sure enough, she found among these books several familiar authors, and finally selected Persuasion and Wuthering Heights to take upstairs with her. She also looked for writing paper, but found none. Then it occurred to her that she had only to ring for a servant and ask for anything she desired. She was not yet accustomed to this luxury. The management of the squire's household had been anything but efficient, and the servants had had a tendency to treat their young mistress with more affection than deference.

  With a bright fire on the hearth and dozens of candles, her room looked less forbidding than before. Marianne settled herself in a chair and opened Wuthering Heights.

  Marianne's reading had been more catholic than her old friend Mrs. Jay suspected. That good lady had kept her supplied with moralistic tales. The only modem writers of whom she approved were Scott and Dickens and Miss Austen, and the only essays Marianne was allowed to read were sermons of stupefying dullness. She had never been exposed to "that pernicious doctrine of women's rights," or to the novels of Balzac or George Eliot. But she had picked up certain other novels from her governesses. None of these were really pornographic, they were merely sensational, ranging from Lady Audley's Secret and the Gothic horrors of Mrs. Radcliffe to Jane Eyre, which latter volume Mrs. Jay had condemned as unwomanly and immoral.

  Marianne had loved Jane Eyre. She had been at a loss to understand her friend's condemnation, for it seemed to her a wonderfully moral story. Indeed, she was not at all sure that she would have had the strength to resist Mr. Rochester. But she had never managed to lay her hands on Wuthering Heights.

  Yet this volume is not, perhaps, the most soothing fare for a young lady of imaginative temperament alone at night in an ancient castle. So immersed was Marianne in the fatal love of Cathy and Heathcliffe that she jumped and let out a shriek when the door opened, admitting Annie and a footman carrying her dinner. This was laid out upon a table, and the pair were about to withdraw when Marianne remembered she wanted to write a letter. She asked Annie to fetch pen and ink, adding that the girl need not return at once; she could bring the writing materials when she came to carry away the tray.

  When Annie returned she was accompanied by the same young footman, who was carrying a heavy can of hot water for Marianne's bath. In other households this work was properly that of a housemaid. This was not significant in itself; but Marianne noticed that Annie kept as far from her, and as close to the young man, as she possibly could. The girl had been friendly enough, in her shy way, before; Marianne wondered what had happened to change her. But she thought she knew. The story of her being a witch had spread through the servants' hall.

  So she let Annie go instead of requesting that the girl help her prepare for bed. Assuming a warm woolen dressing gown, she sat down at the table, dipped her pen in the inkwell, and began to write:

  "My dear Mrs. Jay. Knowing that you must have been concerned about me, I take pleasure in writing to inform you that I am well, and am now in the most fortunate situation. The Dowager Duchess of Devenbrook – a lady of the highest character – has taken me into her household…"

  The words had flowed fluently until then; but Marianne came to a sudden halt as she realized she would have to be more specific about her role in the Duchess's household.

  To tell Mrs. Jay the truth was out of the question. The vicar's widow had condemned the awful heresy of spiritualism in no uncertain terms. On the other hand, lying was a sin.

  Marianne nibbled the end of her pen in considerable agitation, seeking a compromise between unpalatable truth and out-and-out falsehood. Finally her worried frown smoothed out and she began to write again.

  "… as her companion. Her Grace is a widow and childless; she treats me quite as a daughter, and I hope I am of service to her."

  Upon rereading this, Marianne was satisfied. She had spoken the literal truth, and if a few salient facts had been omitted… Well, surely it would also be a sin to worry poor Mrs. Jay unnecessarily.

  The difficult part of the letter having been dealt with, she wrote on easily, describing the appointments of the London house and the private railway carriage with considerable enthusiasm. She was pleased to be able to add, "We attend church services tomorrow. I will be thinking of you, dear Mrs. Jay. I hope your health is good and that you will find time to write me. A letter addressed to Devenbrook Castle will find me for some weeks to come, I believe."

  With a feeling of virtuous accomplishment she sealed and addressed the letter. Tomorrow she would ask the Duchess how it could be sent to the post.

  Rising to return to her chair by the fire, she was suddenly aware of how quiet the room was. There was no clock, so she had no idea of the time. The fire was dying and the candles had burned low. She felt a chill for which the cooling air was not entirely responsible, and reminded herself that she was not a
lone and isolated; the Duchess's room was next door.

  A sound from the direction of her own door made her whirl around. In the silence the slightest creak was magnified. The source of the noise was not hard to find: the heavy iron handle was moving. Transfixed, Marianne stood glaring as the handle reached its lowest point and the door began to open. The aperture was no more than the merest slit, however, before the door closed again and the frightened girl heard soft footsteps retreating.

  It was several seconds before she could move. Now that the unseen visitor had departed, she thought of several innocent explanations for its presence; one of the servants, coming to see if she required anything more; or the young Duke, hoping to find her engaged in mysterious rites. She ran to the door and threw it open. If the boy had ventured to peek into her room she would give him a good lecture.

  The corridor was empty of any human presence. Most of the candles had gone out. At the far end, where a window slit admitted a flood of moonlight, something moved. A pale diaphanous substance veiled a more solid but indistinguishable form; it flashed briefly luminous in the bleached light, and then was gone. Marianne's straining ears heard a ghost of sound, like a faint sigh of wind. But there was no wind. The night was calm.

  Marianne bolted her door. But she lay awake a long time, with the covers over her head, until exhaustion sent her to sleep.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Marianne would have preferred not to admit her foolish fancies of the night, for reason came with the dawn and assured her that what she had seen was no disembodied spirit from beyond the grave,, but one of the eccentric denizens of Devenbrook Castle – possibly the Duke's unfortunate mother, too shy to show her face, but quite humanly curious about the newcomer. However, she slept late and did not manage to unbolt her door before the maid arrived with her hot water. So the Duchess was notified, and the story came out, for the Duchess leaped to the conclusion that the Duke had been paying unauthorized calls again and Marianne felt she had to admit the truth.