The Wizard’s Daughter

by Barbara Michaels

  "I can safely do so, I suppose, since we are in sight of the village. Remember my advice, Miss Carlton, and don't go dashing off after your egret plumes."

  He lifted his hat, made her a genteel bow, and trotted off down the road.

  Realizing that Stella was moving uneasily as she sensed her rider's agitation, Marianne calmed herself. She did not regret trying to slap Carlton; she only regretted missing. She waited until he had vanished around a turn in the road before following. By the time she reached the first houses of the village he was out of sight.

  There were few people abroad, despite the unseasonably mild weather. The cottage windows were tightly sealed. Presumably the hard-working peasants had no time to enjoy nature. The men would be at work, the women tending children and preparing the evening meal. The only signs of activity were at the Devenbrook Arms. Marianne could see through the open gates into the innyard, where a coach and horses stood waiting for some traveler. This reminded her of Bagshot and of Carlton's warning. Ridiculous, she told herself angrily. Bagshot would not dare to show his face in such a small place as this, where every stranger was immediately observed.

  The houses thinned out; only the church and the vicarage, a neat stone house somewhat larger than the others, remained to be passed before she turned into the drive leading to the castle. Though she had convinced herself she was in no danger, she felt nervous and had lifted the reins, preparatory to urging Stella into a trot, when she saw the church doors open and a familiar form appear. The sunlight caught its cap of golden hair and set it aglow.

  Without any conscious intent on her part, Marianne's hands tightened and Stella came to a stop. The vicar saw her at the same time. Lifting a hand as if to ask her to wait, he quickly descended the steps and came toward her.

  He had to speak to me, Marianne thought, her heart pounding. He saw me stop – why was I so forward? – and felt obliged to greet me. But the glow of pleasure on St. John's face made her hope that this depressing idea was wrong.

  "What a welcome and unlooked-for surprise," he exclaimed. "If I thought the Almighty concerned himself with such trivial matters, I would almost believe this meeting to be an answer to prayer."

  Marianne did not quite like being considered trivial, but the speech was otherwise so gracious she decided to overlook that part of it.

  "It is a pleasure to see you, Mr. St. John. I hope you are well?"

  "Splendid, thank you. But you are wondering why I stopped you."

  "Not at all," Marianne murmured.

  "I wished, first, to apologize for the unpleasantness that marred what was otherwise a delightful evening."

  "You have no need to apologize. I am only sorry -"

  "No, no, the fault was mine. I was too abrupt. Her Grace was quite right in accusing me of a lack of tolerance. I assure you, I have been berating myself ever since."

  Indeed, Marianne could now see the delicate strains of sleeplessness and worry marking his eyelids. They only made him look more romantic.

  "I hate to see you in distress," she said impulsively. "The Duchess is the kindest woman in the world; if you go to her and tell her you have changed your mind -"

  "But I cannot. I have not." He looked up at her, his hand resting on Stella's neck. "That is where my trouble lies, Miss Ransom. You do understand, don't you?"

  "I am not sure -"

  "Prayers for the dead – that is sheer popery!" His eyes glowed with a fiery light. "Her Grace may call it a memorial service, but she wants more, more than I can in conscience give. Yet I might be tempted to do something of the sort if I sincerely believed that she had abandoned her heathen practices. Oh, Miss Ransom, I must say this, hard as it is – I must warn you. Do not, I beg you, participate in those actions which can only endanger your immortal soul."

  Before the burning intensity of his look Marianne's eyes fell. She would like to have disclaimed any knowledge of what he meant, but she could not; those clear eyes seemed to see straight into her heart.

  "I owe her so much," she murmured.

  "She took me in when I was friendless, poor -"

  One more minute and she would have confessed the whole shameful story. But Mr. St. John did not give her the opportunity.

  "You owe her gratitude, companionship, devotion. But your soul you owe to no man – or woman," he added punctiliously.

  Marianne wanted to promise anything he asked. His voice thrilled her; mind, heart, and soul responded. But her buried streak of obstinacy made her say, "I can't see that there is any harm in it."

  "I tell you these manifestations are of the Devil! Have you read that splendid pamphlet, Table-moving Tested and Proved to be the Result of Satanic Agency} Or Tableturning, the Devil's Modern Masterpiece?"

  "No," Marianne admitted.

  "The table confessed," Mr. St. John said solemnly, "that it was moved by the spirit of a lost soul sent from Hell."

  "Oh, dear."

  "Will you read these books if I give them to you?"

  "Yes; but -"

  "Wait here. Wait only a moment."

  Any other man would have looked foolish running at such a pace, his coattails flapping; but Mr. St. John – his admirer thought -even ran beautifully. He vanished into the parsonage; in a moment he came pelting back, waving several small volumes.

  "Here," he panted, pressing them into her hand. "Read and heed the blessed words in them. Read and pray, my dear Miss Ransom. And if you should ever require spiritual guidance, I am at your service – at any hour of the day or night."

  A thrill ran down Marianne's spine. "Thank you," she said. "I… I must go now."

  "Yes, you must." The young man stepped back. "I have kept you too long. But it was well done, if my words bear fruit. Remember."

  "I will."

  He looked as if he would have said more, but a burst of distant laughter from the inn made him recollect himself. He made her a formal bow and turned to return to the house.

  Stella looked inquiringly at her new mistress. "May we go on now?" she seemed to say. Marianne said absently, "Yes, Stella, go on, do," and they trotted sedately off, with Marianne's head craned to watch the vicar until he disappeared inside.

  Stella knew her way home, which was fortunate, because her rider was daydreaming.

  They had passed into the drive before Marianne realized it would never do to let the Duchess see the books the vicar had given her. She thrust them into the front of her jacket. They made an unseemly bulge, but at least their titles were not visible.

  She found one of the grooms waiting by the front steps, sent, he said, by Mr. Carlton, who had promised she would be along directly. After an affectionate farewell to Stella, Marianne crossed both arms awkwardly over her breast to hide the books and made a dash for her room. She thrust the dangerous little volumes into her wardrobe under a heap of undergarments, and just in time – a tap at the connecting door heralded the arrival of the Duchess.

  "Well," she exclaimed, smiling, "from your appearance, my dear Marianne, I would conclude that you have spent a happy, busy day."

  "I lost my hat," Marianne said.

  The Duchess laughed outright. "I heard about that. Roger pretended to be annoyed at the trick you played on him, but I could tell he was greatly entertained. Don't concern yourself, child; he has sent one of the menservants out to look for your hat, and if it is not found we well get you another. I would sacrifice a dozen hats to see you looking so bright and healthy."

  "You are too kind," Marianne said miserably. She felt as if the offending volumes were out in plain sight, blazoning their messages aloud.

  "Not at all." The Duchess patted her cheek. "What do you say to a cup of tea here in your room, and a little rest? My dear old Gruffstone has arrived, so we will be seven for dinner. I sometimes allow Henry to dine when Horace is here; they are so fond of one another. And one can't exclude M. Victor, he is so sensitive… And Annabelle, of course. I only hope she will not bring half a dozen cats. A bientot, then, my child."

  She
went out, leaving Marianne no opportunity to speak even if she had wanted to – which she did not. As she watched the maids running in and out with trays of tea and cakes, buckets of hot water, warm towels, and other luxuries, she felt like a racehorse being groomed – and bribed – for the evening's performance.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Marianne was not looking forward to the dinner party. The presence of one man whom she had tried to slap and another whom she had not only slapped, but struck with her fist, was enough to promise discomfort. Add to them Dr. Gruffstone, who thoroughly disapproved of her, the Duke, the most accomplished little Paul Pry of all time, Lady Annabelle and her cats…

  Yet the meeting turned out to be surprisingly successful. Dr. Gruffstone met her kindly, taking her hand and asking with concern how she felt. "Have you been sleeping?" he inquired. "You appear a little pale."

  "This is not your consulting room, Horace," the Duchess said with a smile. "You medical men, always seeing symptoms where there are none! Marianne has had a long day in the fresh air and feels splendid, don't you, my love?"

  Carlton's greeting, too, was pleasant. "I am happy to report that the lost treasure has been found," he said lightly. "Your hat is being refurbished and will be returned to you by morning, plumes and all."

  To be sure, Victor sulked, but he did not dare do it ostentatiously. Marianne thought she was the only one who noticed his reproachful and pleading looks until Carlton said sotto voce, "Have you been forced to put our Irish Frenchman in his place? I trust he did not make rude advances to you."

  "How absurd," Marianne said haughtily.

  But the big surprise was Lady Annabelle, who appeared on time, without cats, and wearing quite a nice gown from which most of the cat hairs had been removed. It was obvious that the doctor was the cause of her transformation. To say that she fawned on him or flirted with him would be inaccurate; rather, she courted his approval and hung on his pronouncements. There was no denying that the plain, aging man radiated a strong aura of fatherly authority when he chose. Even Henry was on his best behavior.

  When the ladies retired to the drawing room, Marianne felt an immediate change in the atmosphere. It originated with the Duchess, who showed signs of increasing agitation as time wore on and the men lingered in the dining room. Marianne offered to play, but was refused, though in a kindly fashion. Lady Annabelle, removed from the doctor's presence, relapsed into a peaceful doze.

  Finally a burst of laughter from Carlton heralded the appearance of the gentlemen. They sauntered into the drawing room with the smug sleepy look of men who had drunk quite a quantity of good port.

  "What a long time you have been," the Duchess exclaimed. "I hope you were not telling stories – you know the kind I mean – in front of Henry, or that you did not let him drink with you."

  "He had a single glass of port," the doctor said, giving Henry a paternal pat on the shoulder. "He must learn to handle his wine like a gentleman, Honoria; he is growing up."

  Henry's chest swelled visibly.

  "Well and good; but it is time for him to go to bed now," said the Duchess.

  "Oh, no, not yet! I'm too old to be sent off to bed like a baby. Besides, I want to see the table turning."

  The doctor's face lost its good humor and became thunderous. "Honoria, you gave me your word -"

  "I did nothing of the sort! In any event I refuse to discuss it in front of Henry. Monsieur Victor, assert your authority."

  "Certainement, madame la duchesse." Said Victor, with a look of utter incompetence. "Henri -"

  "No, I won't. I want to stay."

  "Off with you, young man," the doctor said. "I intend to test your progress in Latin tomorrow, and I promise you you will need your wits about you."

  "But… Oh, very well."

  The doctor beamed approval. Marianne was not so sanguine; she had caught a familiar expression on Henry's face and suspected he had some scheme in mind.

  He went off quietly, however, with Victor trailing after him. Then Gruffstone turned to the Duchess.

  "Honoria, have you been up to your tricks? I told you -"

  "You told me and I chose to dismiss what you said. What – am I some dependent of yours, that I must obey your every whim? Are you Socrates or Solon, always right? Either you participate or you remove yourself, Horace. There are no other possibilities."

  "I do participate then," said the doctor heavily. "With profound misgivings. I warned you, Honoria."

  "So you did. We will adjourn to the other room now. Annabelle, will you join us?"

  "Yes, I think so," Lady Annabelle replied, yawning. "That is, if Dr. Gruffstone approves."

  "Certainly," the doctor said with a sigh. "The more, the merrier."

  The White Room had been prepared. A fire blazed on the hearth and the draperies had been drawn. A screen shielded the firelight.

  Marianne's pulse was fast as she took her place, and Carlton must have felt it when he clasped his fingers around her wrist; he gave her a strange look, but said nothing. The circle of hands was formed, Lady Annabelle participating as if this were no new thing for her.

  She was the calmest of them all, and for once Marianne found her bovine placidity soothing.

  "What is going to happen?" she inquired. "Will David come at last, do you suppose?"

  "Perhaps," the Duchess replied.

  "Well, if the girl is his daughter -"

  "Please, Annabelle. You know the rules. No more talking."

  Scarcely had this last request been made when there was a sharp rap, seemingly from under the table. The Duchess's fingers clamped down on Marianne's hand.

  "They are strong tonight," she murmured.

  "They are," Carlton agreed. "Your Grace, may I suggest that we take the usual precautions to make sure no one is tapping with his, or her, foot? Unconsciously, of course."

  The Duchess nodded impatiently and moved so that the sole of her slipper rested lightly on Marianne's left foot. Carlton placed his foot, not so lightly, on her right shoe.

  Two more raps echoed. The table lifted and dropped down.

  "We will communicate in the usual way," the Duchess said. She began to recite the alphabet, intoning each letter slowly and solemnly, like a litany. When she reached the letter G, another rap sounded. By this means the phrase "Good evening" was spelled out. A snort from the doctor's end of the table greeted this courteous remark.

  "Be quiet," the Duchess snapped. "Will the spirit who is present indicate its name?"

  This time the alphabetic method produced the letters "puden," and the Duchess exclaimed, "Pudenzia! Is it you?" A vehement rap confirmed this.

  "Who the blazes is that?" Lady Annabelle inquired.

  "Never mind. This takes too long," the Duchess said. "I trust you skeptics will have no objection to our reverting to written letters so long as we all keep our hands in plain sight?"

  No one objected, though it was clear that the men were not in favor of the suggestion. Marianne flexed her fingers. Her left hand had gone quite numb from the pressure of the Duchess's grasp.

  From a drawer under the table the Duchess produced a printed list of the letters of the alphabet and an ivory stylus. As she began to run the point of the stylus down the list, Marianne saw the advantage of the process. The stylus could move much more quickly than the voice could pronounce the letters.

  After the first few letters had been designated by means of the familiar raps, Marianne lost track of what was being spelled. The affair confounded her; it was so brisk and matter-of-fact, rather like writing out a telegram; yet she could not understand where the raps were coming from. Carlton's suggestion that someone was tapping with a foot was ridiculous. The sounds were too sharp and distinct to have been produced by leather on wood or carpeting.

  "Most interesting," the Duchess said, after an interval. "Did the rest of you follow that?"

  "No," Carlton said.

  "It is as I thought," the Duchess said, repressed excitement coloring her voice. "Pudenzi
a says she was a Christian maiden in early Rome under Diocletian, to be precise."

  "Poor old Diocletian," said the incorrigible Carlton. "He and Nero are blamed for everything that went wrong with the Christians. I suppose the lady was martyred?"

  "If you cannot be serious, Roger, you will have to leave."

  "I beg your pardon."

  "Pudenzia refuses to speak of the manner of her death. Quite understandable. She says that we must think of love, not hate; of life, not death."

  "A very pretty, pious, pointless sentiment," Carlton muttered under his breath.

  Apparently the Duchess did not hear this. She went on. "She is your control, Marianne."

  "My what?" Marianne looked alarmed. Up to that point she had found the process only mildly bewildering. She was not the focus of attention; all she had to do was sit and listen. "I don't understand. I don't know what to do."

  "You have done very nicely so far," said Carlton, in the barely audible murmur he had adopted, designed for her ears alone.

  "I think we have spent enough time on the alphabet," the Duchess said. "If you will darken the room, Roger, we will try for more direct contact."

  The lawyer did as he was directed, extinguishing one candle after another until the only light came from the fire. At the Duchess's order he drew the screen closer, so that the room was in almost total darkness. He stumbled over something on his way back to the table, and Marianne thought she heard a rude word, quickly stifled. He had barely taken his place before the Duchess said, "We are waiting, Pudenzia. Show us a sign."

  At the rim of the table a pallid glow appeared and gradually took form. At first it was only a thick, short column of pale luminescence. Then, with a bizarre suggestion of sprouting, five stumps appeared and lengthened into fingers and thumb.

  Lady Annabelle coughed. "Quite nice," she said approvingly. "May I touch it? Will it shake hands with us?"

  The table began to rock wildly, as if offended by the suggestion. Carlton swore again without bothering to muffle his voice; Marianne deduced that he had tried to leave his place and had been soundly rapped by a table leg. Her mouth was dry with excitement and fear. In the darkness she seemed to see the vicar's earnest face with its halo of sunlit hair. "I beg you, Miss Ransom, that you will not take part…" Was she responsible for the raps, for the phantom hand?