"It probably was Violet," the Duchess said. "She will become accustomed to you in time. I know I can trust you, my dear, to greet her with no show of surprise or distaste."
With her mind at ease on this point, Marianne prepared for church. She chose one of her old black gowns, remorsefully acknowledging to herself that she had neglected this obligation while in London. On this day and on this occasion at least she would behave properly. Had not Mrs. Jay often admonished her that worldly vanity was out of place in the house of the Lord?
The Duchess was ready for her when she came downstairs, and they started off without waiting for any of the others. Marianne could understand that the Duke's mother and the eccentric Lady Annabelle might not attend church, but she wondered at the absence of the boy and his tutor. Naturally she did not ask why he was not present, and no explanation was forthcoming.
The village was small, with only an inn – the Devenbrook Arms – and a general shop besides a collection of grim-looking houses built of unadorned gray granite. The church was surprisingly large for such a poor place. Its rough Romanesque exterior struck Marianne as plain and unattractive, but she admired the interior, which, the Duchess explained, had been "restored" by her late husband. The restoration consisted of bright gilt paint on all the monuments, susceptible to this treatment and a series of garish stained-glass windows.
Marianne noticed several monuments of reclining knights – Devenbrook ancestors, no doubt. One conspicuous memorial had a life-sized effigy of a gentleman in Elizabethan ruff and hose leaning nonchalantly on his elbow as he faced the congregation, ignoring the meek-looking wife who lay beside him. Before him, like a frieze, ran an astonishing row of miniature kneeling figures, presumably his children. While waiting for the service to begin, Marianne counted them – there were sixteen altogether – and felt she could understand why the Lady Devenbrook of that era had not the strength to lift herself up on her elbow.
Seated as they were at the very front of the church, under the pulpit, Marianne's back was turned to the rest of the congregation, but she knew they were staring. They had certainly gaped openly as she walked down the aisle to her place. Yet the holy quiet of the church gave her a feeling of peace such as she had not known for many days. She relaxed, her eyes fixed dreamily on the worldly carved face of the Elizabethan Duke. His faint, cynical smile assured her that the mysteries of life and death were known to him; if she would only listen a little harder he would impart them to her. She was not at all surprised to hear a grave voice pronounce the words, "The wages of sin is death."
The Duchess shifted position and coughed. Marianne woke from her daze. The statue had not spoken; that was absurd. Yet surely she had heard the words… She looked up. The clergyman had mounted into the pulpit.
If Helen's face had launched a thousand ships, with all-male crews, this man might have inspired an equivalent female effort. His was the classic beauty of a face on an antique coin. To be sure, Marianne had never seen such a coin or such a profile, but she had read the phrase somewhere and it had struck her as the quintessential summary of what perfection must be. In fact, the pastor's good looks were not at all Greek. His forehead was broad and white, but instead of carrying on the straight unbroken line demanded by Attic notions of beauty his nose jutted out like the prow of a ship. His firm, chiseled lips might have been those of a sculptured Augustus or Alexander, but the shape of his chin was too pronounced for perfect handsomeness. Still, he was undeniably good-looking, and when a ray of sunlight struck his golden hair, giving it a glow like a halo, Marianne caught her breath.
She could never remember the content of that first sermon. She only knew that his solemn exhortation made her yearn to attain the Christian virtues he urged – whatever these might have been. Her suppressed feelings of guilt about so many of her recent actions would have made her receptive to any sincere sermon. The combination of male beauty, religious appeal, and a warm, passionate voice was almost too much for her. If the meeting had taken place in a revival tent, and the pastor had urged all sinners to come forward to the arms of Jesus, Marianne would have been the first one to reach the altar rail.
The dignified Church of England service allowed no such catharsis, so Marianne was forced to repress her feelings. After the service was over and the congregation began to disperse, she was scandalized to hear one parishioner remark, "Aye, aye, the laddie has a powerful call, nae doubt, but Ah niver know just what he's talking aboot."
Once again she had to run the gauntlet of staring eyes, for the other parishioners waited for the lady of the manor to exit before they left their places. Marianne scarcely noticed. Still in a daze, she took her place in the carriage.
Well, that is done," the Duchess said. "Mr. St. John gives a good sermon, don't you think? But I fear he is over the heads of most of his hearers."
Mr. St. John. Marianne locked the name away in her memory. "I found him most inspiring," she murmured.
"Oh, I don't doubt his ability, or his fervor. They tell me he has made quite an impression on the congregation, particularly the young women." The Duchess smiled indulgently. "Ah, well, I would be the last to deny that truths are more palatable when they are pronounced by such well-shaped lips. I do hope he decides to take a wife soon, though. I do not believe in a celibate priesthood, and a bachelor clergyman is unsettling to the neighborhood."
It had never occurred to Marianne that this Christian hero might be a married man. The fear having been aroused and dispelled in the same breath, she tried to tell herself that it did not matter in the least to her. One might admire a man's eloquence, even his physical appearance, without being suspected of having vulgar designs upon him.
"I suppose I must ask him to dine one day soon," the Duchess continued. "Tomorrow evening, perhaps."
It was as well for Marianne that she had this new interest on which to exercise her thoughts, for without it she would have been very bored. The Duchess observed the Sabbath with strictness. No profane music was permitted, only hymns; no entertainment or travel to places of amusement was allowed. Marianne spent the day walking in the garden and listening to her hostess read aloud from a book of vaguely heretical theology. She was happy when evening came and she could retire to her room and the (probably illicit) pleasures of Wuthering Heights. No secret visitor disturbed her and she slept soundly.
When she awoke next morning she could not at first understand why she felt like leaping out of bed and dancing around the room. Then she remembered. Today the clergyman was coming to dine!
Though he could not be expected for hours, she took forever over her morning toilette and snapped at Annie because her hair would not curl properly. When she went down to breakfast she found M. Victor there and expressed surprise to find him lingering so late over his coffee.
"I was – er – that is, I had hopes of meeting you," the young man confessed, with a betraying blush.
The blush made the freckles that starred the bridge of his nose stand out vividly, and his blue eyes studied her with anxious interest. Marianne had never seen a visage that spoke so unmistakably of its owner's origin, and in her good spirits she could not resist teasing him.
"Ah, begorra, had you indeed?"
M. Victor's prominent jaw dropped. For a moment he looked as if he would protest. Then he let out a long sigh.
"Ah, faith, and it's found me out you have. And surely ye won't be betraying me to the Duchess, angel of kindness that you must be, with a heavenly face like the one you have on you?"
"I am sure Her Grace already knows," Marianne said, laughing. "She is the angel of kindness; if she has not objected to your masquerade so far, I don't see why she should now. But why pretend? Are you ashamed of being Irish?"
"Indeed it's proud I am to be a son of Erin! But… the world is a foolish place, bedad, and there's no denying that an Irish tutor does not have the prestige of a Frenchie."
"That may be true, monsieur… What am I to call you then?"
"Victor is me name; ind
eed, me lie is only a wee bit of a half-lie, for me dear mither was French. Call me Victor, without the monsieur, and you'll honor me for life."
"Thank you. But why were you hoping to meet me?"
"I wished to offer me services as a guide. I know this crumbling old bin like the back o' me hand. Bedad, there's little enough to do here but read the old histories of the place. So, if you would enjoy a tour of the premises, consider me your man."
"But aren't you supposed to be teaching?" Marianne asked innocently. "I would not want to take you from your duties."
Victor's eyes twinkled slyly. "All work and no play makes Henry a dull boy. It's a dull boy he is altogether, hardly worth me talents as a teacher."
"It is kind of you," Marianne said. "But not today. I have – uh – duties to perform."
She left the young man looking downcast. Even if she had not had other things on her mind, she would not have been eager to go wandering off with him. His comment about his pupil's dullness had struck a sour note. He had no right to feel himself on such confidential terms with her.
As the day wore on, however, she almost regretted she had not accepted the tutor's offer, for the hours had to be filled somehow, and the Duchess was busy with household matters. There were always details of this nature to settle when she came north, since neither of the other ladies had the interest or the ability to deal with them. So Marianne read a little, walked a little, and looked at her pretty enameled lapel watch – the Duchess's latest gift – every fifteen minutes.
The day was unusually mild, so she finally settled down under the rose arbor with a piece of needlework. In that sheltered spot, situated to the south of the castle and shielded by plantings of firs, a few late roses lingered. Marianne passed an hour there. She had just decided that she could now go in and begin dressing for dinner when the sound of footsteps on the gravel path made her look up. For a moment she could hardly believe her eyes. What was Roger Carlton doing here?
So thoroughly had her new idol filled her thoughts that she studied the lawyer with a cool dispassionate eye and wondered how she could have found him handsome. Not that he was actually ugly. His height, his form, and the vigor of his walk were attractive enough. But dark-brown hair was so dull, compared to golden locks.
He came to a stop before her. "The servants told me I would find you here."
"Did they?" Marianne's voice was cool. "But I shan't be here for long. In fact, I was just about to go in."
"That would be a pity. You make such a charming picture – a golden-haired lady in a white gown, framed in clusters of roses. The roses are almost gone, of course, but a romantic imagination like mine can easily supply them."
"You are making fun of me," Marianne said, plunging her needle vigorously into the linen fabric and gathering her silks together.
"Not at all. I have as keen an eye for beauty as any man."
"What are you doing here? Business, I suppose."
"Your business." Carlton adjusted the crease in his fawn trousers and took a seat.
"Mine? But I have none."
"Perhaps business is not quite the right word. Your affairs, I should say."
"Well?"
Carlton reached out his hand and plucked a rose. He let out a little exclamation as the flower came into his hand. "A pity such beautiful flowers have thorns," he said, looking with mock dismay at a tiny bead of blood on his thumb.
"I am in a hurry," Marianne said. "What do you want to tell me?"
"But it can't be told in a sentence. I want to talk with you at length."
"Then it will have to wait. We are having a guest for dinner, and I must go and dress."
"Quite a royal 'we,' I must say. Who is this guest?"
"The… the clergyman," Marianne said. She would have given anything she owned not to blush, but she felt the warm, betraying tide of blood move across her cheeks.
"St. John?" To her annoyance Carlton threw his head back and let out a loud hearty laugh. "Where did you… Ah, but of course; yesterday was Sunday, and you -"
"And you," Marianne interrupted, "must have left London yesterday. Sunday travel, Mr. Carlton? How shocking!"
"Duty called," Carlton said solemnly.
"You are impossible! Please excuse me."
"Don't you even want to know what business I meant to discuss with you?"
"No. Unless…" Marianne had risen to her feet and started forward. Now she stopped. Quite without warning a terrible picture had flashed into her mind. She seemed to see Mrs. Jay lying on her bed, her hands crossed over her breast, and her eyes closed. The mental apparition was so vivid that she spun around, her curls flashing in the sunlight, her skirts billowing out. "Has something happened? Have you bad news?"
For once she was unaware of the lovely picture she presented, with emotion darkening her eyes and the sunlight caressing the graceful lines of her body and arms. The young lawyer took a long, shaken breath before replying.
"No, no. Not the sort of news you are dreading. It can wait."
"Well." In her relief Marianne smiled. Dimples, fluttering lashes, curving lips came into full play. "We will talk later, then. Tomorrow, perhaps."
Carlton nodded dumbly. With another gracious smile Marianne left him.
He sat under the rose arbor for some time, his brow furrowed, meticulously stripping the petals from the rose, careless of its thorns. When he finally returned to the house the ground beside his chair was strewn with the soft pink petals of the murdered flower.
It need not be said that Marianne dressed for dinner with unusual care. By the time she left her room she had tried on all the dresses she owned and reduced Annie to a state of quivering nerves. The results, however, were magnificent. Perhaps those few days in the theater had taught her something about creating an effect, or perhaps the basic instincts of a woman had warned her that the pastor would be more struck with virginal modesty than with ostentation. Her gown was the same one she had worn that fateful night at the opera, but with the trailing flowers and coquettish blue ribbons removed. It was now stark unadorned white, and Marianne's only ornament was a black velvet ribbon that supported the locket with the pictures of her parents.
Her lateness was not a matter of calculation, but the inevitable result of prolonged primping. Most of the others were assembled in the drawing room when she made her entrance.
The room was extravagantly lighted by lamps and candles and by two great fires. Such light is flattering; Marianne knew she was the cynosure of all eyes as she stood in the doorway. Her own eyes went straight to his face, ignoring all the others.
In the white collar and unrelieved black of his calling he was as handsome as ever. His pale skin and fair hair looked like a faded watercolor above the stark black, but there was nothing faded about his eyes; they caught fire as they met hers.
But the formalities had to be observed. Her first duty was to the Duchess; then a mocking curtsy to Carlton. Then came the moment she had been waiting for. He was much taller than she. She tipped her head back and gazed up at him as he took her hand.
The atmosphere was changed from pulsating romance to sheer farce by the entrance of Lady Annabelle.
"I am dining," she announced. "Heard you were here, vicar. Good to see you. Fluffy's been sick again."
"Her old trouble?" the vicar asked interestedly.
"Looks that way." Lady Annabelle pushed him down onto the sofa; took a seat beside him, and launched into an explicit description of Fluffy's symptoms.
St. John looked at Marianne. "I share Lady Annabelle's interest in our animal friends, Miss Ransom. Not a sparrow shall fall, you know."
"I am fond of animals too," Marianne assured him eagerly.
"So am I," said the Duchess. "But their ailments are not a suitable subject for drawing-room conversation. Later, perhaps, Annabelle. Mr. St. John, I believe you have done a great deal of good here since my last visit."
A courteous but decisive inquiry into parish charitable matters followed. Marianne sat i
n demure silence, admiring the animation of the young pastor's face as he described various needy cases. Finally, when the Duchess had finished her questions, Marianne said shyly, "I much enjoyed your sermon, Mr. St. John."
"Thank you, thank you." He beamed at her. "I hope I did not dwell too long on the Amalekites?"
A snort from Carlton won that gentleman a freezing stare from Marianne. She turned back to the vicar. "Not at all. I found it… inspirational."
"Inspirational of what, precisely, one wonders?" Carlton mused aloud.
Any reply Marianne might have been tempted to make was forestalled by the announcement of dinner. As the youngest lady present, she was forced to bring up the rear; but this offered her the opportunity to admire the back of Mr. St. John's neck. It was an admirable neck, sturdy without being fleshy, squarely set on his fine shoulders.
After the meal was concluded, the ladies returned to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their port. Marianne wondered, as she often had, why men had to be left alone and what they talked about on such occasions. It seemed unlikely that Carlton and the vicar would have much to discuss.
At the Duchess's request Marianne went to the piano. She was still playing when the gentlemen came in; they had not lingered overlong. Though she continued to make her fingers ripple over the keys, she saw that St. John started toward her, his face alight with the appreciation of a genuine lover of music. However, he was caught by the Duchess, and it was Carlton who joined her at the instrument.
"Just give me a nod," he said, touching the music. "I am the most accomplished of page turners."
"There is no need," Marianne said sweetly. "That is the last page."
"Dear me, how embarrassing. I ought to have seen that, oughtn't I? Let us try a duet, then. I must do something to win back your respect."
"Do you sing?" Marianne asked.
"Magnificently. Here – do you know this?"
After a false start – for Marianne's attention was not entirely on the music – they launched into the song. Carlton had a pleasant baritone voice, rather deeper than she would have expected, and he sang with taste and feeling. The power of music over Marianne's sensibilities was strong enough to overcome her, even on this thrilling occasion; she was as startled and surprised as the others when the vicar jumped to his feet, exclaiming, "No!"
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