The Wizard’s Daughter

by Barbara Michaels

  Seeing the sensation he had created, the vicar's cheeks darkened. "I beg your pardon," he said quietly. "Perhaps, Your Grace, we should discuss this another time."

  The Duchess appeared quite calm, but those who knew her could tell by the rigidity of her pose and by the deadly courtesy of her voice how angry she was.

  "There is nothing to discuss, if you meant what you said. I have asked you to perform your clerical duties and you have refused."

  "Not that – never that." The burning sincerity of the young man's voice could not be denied. "Never, I hope, will I refuse to do my duty. What you wish, Your Grace, are prayers for the repose of a man's soul. That is a popish practice. I cannot condone it."

  "Your are quite mistaken, Mr. St. John," the Duchess replied. "My beliefs also deny the existence of those myths, Hell and Purgatory; and if I were foolish enough to believe in them, I would never believe that the soul of David Holmes required my prayers to escape them. He is in heavenly bliss. I asked only for a memorial service. What can you object to in that?"

  St. John had himself well in hand now. Only his clenched fists betrayed his emotion. "I object," he said, in a low, thrilling voice, "because Holmes was a heretic, condemned even by his own church."

  "Then," said Carlton, leaning negligently against the piano, "you only bestow your prayers on the saint, Mr. St. John? Is there not more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner redeemed than -"

  "I know my Bible as well as you, Mr. Carlton," the vicar interrupted. "I will gladly pray for that unfortunate, that misguided man. What I will not do is lend my countenance to a mockery of the Christian faith."

  "You have not reconsidered, then," the Duchess said. "You do not believe in the principles of spiritualism?"

  "I have reconsidered," was the reply. "I do believe." His voice rose. "I believe that the manifestations produced by such men as Mr. Holmes are actually moved by a spirit from Hell, sent by the Devil, for the purpose of deluding the credulous, and doomed to return to Hell when its evil intent is accomplished!"

  "How dare you!" The Duchess, vibrating with wrath, rose to her feet. "Sir, the hour is late. You will, no doubt, wish to leave. I will order the carriage."

  "I am deeply sorry to have offended Your Grace."

  "It is too late to apologize."

  "I do not apologize for my belief, I only express regret that the truth must harm those I respect and admire."

  His sincerity was evident. The Duchess relaxed; she even smiled faintly.

  "Well, well; I too was at fault. I should be more patient with human weakness. 'They have eyes, but see not…' David tried to teach me that."

  The vicar's lips tightened. "Your Grace is too kind," he muttered.

  "Only think of what I have said. It would please me so much, Mr. St. John; try, can't you, to find a way to reconcile with your conscience?"

  The ghost of her old beauty and coquetry touched her as she held out a reconciling hand, and the young man's face showed that he was not unmoved.

  "I will consider it, Your Grace. I will pray."

  "I could not ask more. And now, good night."

  Lady Annabelle followed him out; Marianne heard "Fluffy" and "sick" before the door closed on the pair.

  The Duchess passed a hand over her brow. "Intolerance! None so blind as those who will not see! Sometimes I despair… Marianne. Come with me, child."

  "Now?" Marianne's voice rose to a plaintive wail.

  "Yes, now. I have waited long enough. I am perturbed. I need reassurance. Please."

  "I'll try," Marianne mumbled.

  Carlton was not invited to join them, but he went along anyhow, to a room which was in all essentials a replica of the white-swathed chamber in the London mansion. The Duchess's decision had been so sudden that the servants had not had time to prepare the room. Here Carlton proved his usefulness, for he had had the foresight to carry with him a candelabrum. This was set on the mantel, some distance from the table in the center of the room, and they all took their places. As soon as the silence demanded by the exercise descended, Marianne heard a sound that was certainly not supernatural.

  "Someone is here," she exclaimed.

  The sound, a sly, scuttling, ratlike scrabble, was repeated. Carlton leaped up and made a dash for a far comer of the room. A brief scuffle ensued; then Carlton pulled the wriggling form of the young Duke from behind the window draperies.

  "How long have you been there?" he inquired in a conversational tone.

  The calm voice had its effect on Henry; he stopped thrashing around and hung limp from Carlton's fist, which was clamped on his shoulder.

  "All evening. You've been long enough about it, I must say."

  "How many times have I told you…" The Duchess closed her mouth without finishing the sentence. She shook her head. "What a sad little snoop you are, Henry. Go to bed. Roger, call one of the servants – that wretched Victor – someone to take the boy away."

  So Henry was handed over to a burly footman who promised to deliver him to his own room.

  "You aren't faaaaair." His long howl echoed along the corridor.

  They sat again. But there was no message, no mobility of the furniture – nothing – though they remained until the room grew cold and Marianne was nodding with fatigue.

  The Duchess was disappointed but not distressed by their failure. She attributed it to the influence of a hostile mind. She referred, of course., to the vicar; but Marianne, catching Carlton's mocking eye, felt sure he radiated enough hostility to rout a regiment of friendly spirits, including that of David Holmes.

  CHAPTER TEN

  "I do not suppose," Carlton said, "that you are any sort of horsewoman, Miss Ransom."

  "Why should you suppose that? I dote on riding."

  They were sitting at the breakfast table, together with M. Victor, who remained resolutely in his chair nibbling on petrified toast, even though Carlton ignored him completely after the first curt greeting.

  "Will you join me in a hearty gallop, then?" Carlton inquired.

  Marianne gave him a sweet smile. "Unfortunately I am engaged. M. Victor has promised to show me the castle and tell me thrilling tales about the family."

  M. Victor choked on a crumb and turned crimson in the face before he got his breath back. Finally he managed to gasp, "Honored… I had hoped, indeed," and a few other phrases indicative of pleasure – and surprise. Marianne did not mind. She wanted to make sure Carlton knew he was being snubbed.

  To her annoyance he did not appear to be at all hurt.

  "After luncheon, then. You cannot mean to spend the entire day roaming these dusty halls; a few hours of it will make you anxious for some fresh air, I assure you."

  Marianne was forced to agree to the appointment. She knew the lawyer's sudden interest in her equestrian skills was only a device to get her alone so he could discuss the business he had mentioned. She assumed he had discovered, or believed he had discovered, something to her detriment, so she was not particularly anxious to hear it.

  At Victor's suggestion she changed her fresh muslin gown for something more practical. The uninhabited parts of the castle were dusty and unheated.

  At first Marianne rather enjoyed the tour. The Great Hall of the old keep, with its minstrels' gallery and ten-foot fireplaces, was thrillingly Gothic in character. It was in the Portrait Gallery, beyond the Hall, that she first noticed a change in Victor's behavior.

  Most of the pictures were old, the newer portraits having been scattered through the other rooms. Some were so ancient that the features of the fifteenth- and sixteenth-century Devenbrooks could scarcely he made out. Victor had not exaggerated when he boasted of knowing the family legends. Many were tales of desperate deeds and desperate men, dark rumors of revenge, treachery, and murder.

  They came to a full-length portrait of a woman, or rather a sort of Scottish Fury; a voluminous plaid draped her stately form, her dark hair writhed around her head as if blown by a gale, and in her upraised hand she held a trunkless
head. Gouts of painted blood dripped from this ghastly trophy, whose eyes were fixed in a horrid stare.

  "Good heavens," Marianne exclaimed. "How dreadful!"

  "The fourth Duchess, nee Lady Flora MacMonihan," said Victor. "Known before her marriage as the Iron Maiden of Monihan. The reference is to an antique device of torture -"

  "I have heard of it." Averting her eyes, Marianne would have moved on. Victor caught her arm.

  "Don't you want to hear about the lady? The head is of her former lover, Angus MacGonigal, who had annoyed her by abandoning her for another. They say she had it sent to the home of his betrothed and served up to the girl at dinner. She went raving mad."

  "No wonder." Marianne shuddered. Victor casually slipped an arm around her waist.

  "Ah, they were barbaric times, to be sure. Not like -"

  "Sir!" Marianne pulled away from him. "What are you doing?"

  " 'Tis begging your pardon I am. The place is chilly and I thought -"

  "You thought wrong. I have seen enough." She turned and started back the way they had come. With an agile leap Victor barred her path.

  " 'Tis shorter by the way I'll be showing you. Ah, now, don't pout at me, that's a darling; I'll be behaving myself after this."

  His manner left a great deal to be desired, but he did not try to touch her; and since Marianne was uncertain of the precise path they had taken, she decided to follow him.

  They passed through the heavy oak door at the end of the Portrait Gallery. Victor shut it carefully behind them and proceeded along a stone-flagged corridor lighted only by narrow slits high in the wall.

  " 'Twas the passage to the old kitchens and scullery. Indeed but the food must have been icy cold before it reached the Banqueting Hall."

  He continued to chatter, interspersing bits of historical information with courteous warnings about broken flagstones and other impediments to walking. The darkness imperceptibly thickened as they went on, but Marianne was caught completely off guard when he suddenly turned and folded her in his arms, pressing her against the cold stone wall.

  "Come, now, it's private we are, and no one to see us at all, at all. Give us a little kiss to start, me darling, and then we'll -"

  Momentarily Marianne was paralyzed, not so much by what was happening but by her memory of what had happened in the past. However, the tutor's breath, though far from pleasant, was not heavy with wine fumes; his fumbling hands had not the maniacal strength of Bagshot's. Turning her head to avoid his wet lips, Marianne freed one hand, doubled it into a fist, and brought it down on Victor's cheek.

  He let out a howl of pain and relaxed his hold. Marianne twisted away. Three quick steps brought her to the door which she could dimly see through the gloom. She threw her weight against it; after a moment's resistance it yielded, admitting a flood of light from the windows in the hall beyond. This she recognized as a portion of the more modern wing, not far from the main staircase. This path had indeed been the shortest way back; Victor had been truthful on that score., at least.

  "Wait." The tutor's voice, close behind her, made her turn quickly. She was no longer afraid, for a hearty scream would undoubtedly fetch help. What a contemptible-looking creature he was, nursing his cheek with one hand, his shoulders bowed and his eyes narrowed.

  "Stand back," she said. "I don't want you near me."

  "And no doubt you'll be off to Her Grace and tell her what happened."

  "No doubt."

  Victor made a sudden move. Marianne opened her mouth, prepared to cry out for help. But he made no attempt to seize her. In a way, what he did was worse. He dropped to his knees and clasped his hands. Marianne saw, with a thrill of disgust, that his eyes were overflowing with tears. He burst into a tempestuous appeal, of which, between his brogue and his sobs, she understood only the gist. He groveled, he apologized abjectly, he assured her no such thing would ever happen again. It was her fault, because her beauty had driven him mad; but it was his fault since nothing could excuse such vile, unmanly conduct. He begged her not to have him dismissed from his position.

  The young Duke needed him, his "poor old mother in Killarney" would die of starvation and heartbreak…

  "Oh, do stop it," Marianne exclaimed. "Stand up and act like a man instead of a baby, and perhaps…"

  Victor's sobs cut off. His tears had been genuine enough; his face was drenched, and when he wiped at his eyes with his dusty hands, trails of mud ran down his cheeks.

  "Is it granting me mercy you are?"

  "Well…" Seeing his eyes again overflow and his lips tremble, Marianne said disgustedly, "I will say nothing of this so long as there is no repetition of it. Only keep away from me in future."

  She left him still on his knees babbling protestations of undying but respectful gratitude.

  Ludicrous as the performance had been, Marianne had no impulse to laugh. She had been thoroughly repelled, and when, on reaching her own room, she saw that the sleeve of her dress bore the marks of the tutor's dirty hand, she stripped it off so quickly she burst half the buttons.

  It was later than she had thought. She was still scrubbing vigorously at her face and arms when Annie knocked to tell her luncheon was served.

  She had not expected that Victor would have the effrontery to appear for luncheon., nor did he. This was an informal meal when no visitors were present; the family came or not as they pleased. Lady Annabelle was always accompanied by one or more cats when she attended the meal. Today Marianne was glad to see that her companion was the enormous red Horace. He at least could be trusted to remain in his mistress's lap.

  The Duchess studied Marianne with an expression of concern, and the girl squirmed self-consciously. Perhaps the Duchess did have psychic powers and could read her mind! But, as it turned out, the lady was thinking of another matter entirely.

  "I fear this is dull for you," she said. "We will have to plan some outings. I only wish there were young people in the neighborhood with whom you might associate. Dr. Gruffstone is coming today or tomorrow, but he is not the gayest of companions. Roger, cannot I persuade you to stay for a few days and help entertain Marianne?"

  "Thank you," the lawyer replied smoothly. "You tempt me. In fact, I had already arranged to go riding with Miss Ransom this afternoon."

  Marianne had forgotten this arrangement, and she might have tried to get out of it but for the Duchess's response.

  "What a splendid idea! I had thought of suggesting it, but it would be quite unsafe for her to venture out alone. Of course one of the grooms could accompany her, but this is much more suitable."

  With the scheme thus approved, Marianne had no choice but to smile and say she was looking forward to it.

  After the meal she went up to change into her riding habit. She was halfway up the stairs when a head popped out from between two of the carved banisters, with such an unnerving effect that only a firm grip of the handrail kept her from falling. She was irresistibly reminded of the painting of Lady Flora and her dreadful trophy. Then she saw that the head belonged to the young Duke, and that he was standing on a chest in the hall below.

  "I gave you a start, didn't I?" he inquired complacently. "I did that to Annie once and she fell all the way down the stairs backwards. It was great fun."

  "Annie did not find it great fun," Marianne replied with some asperity. "Nor will you, if you get your head caught between those posts and can't remove it."

  "I got it in. I can get it out."

  "So you think. I once saw a young rascal get caught in just such a way, between two iron railings. He got his head in, all right, but it required two large constables and a crowbar to get him out."

  "Oh." Henry tried to withdraw his head. An expression of alarm crossed his face when he found himself momentarily caught; Marianne watched with un-Christian satisfaction. Then the boy turned slightly, freeing his ears, and made good his escape. He looked thoughtful, however, and Marianne hoped she had put an end to this particular sport.

  She continued up
the stairs. Henry swung over the rail and followed. "Where are you going?" he asked.

  "Riding, with Mr. Carlton."

  "I will come along."

  "Shouldn't you be at your studies?"

  "Oh, I don't have to study. I am really quite clever, you know."

  "I am sure you are." Marianne paused at her door, knowing that Henry would follow her in unless she dismissed him in no uncertain terms. "But you cannot come with us."

  "Why not?" "I don't want you."

  Henry's lower lip began to swell like a rising blister.

  "You had better let me come. If you don't, I will tell my grandmother that you let Victor hug you and kiss you."

  "What?" Marianne gasped. "You dreadful little… Were you following us this morning?"

  "I do that a lot," said the Duke. "I'm very good at it. I practice in the woods, walking like Natty Bumppo; not a twig snaps."

  "But sneaking – eavesdropping – that is most dishonorable!"

  "But very interesting. People do the most amazing things when they think they are alone. This place is full of secret passages, you know. I have explored them all."

  He took an apple from his pocket and juggled it as he spoke. Something about the restless gesture and the animation of the boy's face gave Marianne an unexpected feeling of sympathy. He seemed to have no companions of his own age and very few occupations; and if Victor was his preceptor it was no wonder Henry's notions of honorable behavior were deficient.

  "If you followed us you must have seen that I did not allow M. Victor to do anything," she said.

  "You hit him a good one," said the Duke admiringly. "I didn't know you were so strong. But Victor is a poor weak sort of fellow. I'd have come to rescue you if you had needed rescuing," he added. "The place where I was… it's a little hard to get out of it in a hurry."