The Wizard’s Daughter

by Barbara Michaels

  "Sit still," the doctor's voice exclaimed. "I tell you this is sheer delusion – absolute balderdash!"

  Marianne heard someone screaming. She was screaming. Varied sensations pounded at organs that had been shocked into renewed life after a period of interminable and chaotic darkness. In that darkness she had struggled, lost and alone, with some detestable adversary.

  A glass pressed to her lips and a sharp burning liquid filled her mouth. She choked and pushed the glass away, but the liquid etched a path down her throat and helped to restore her.

  She opened her eyes. An oil lamp stood on the table, casting eerie distorted shadows over the faces of the others. The doctor held the glass of brandy that had been forced against her lips. She recognized the taste now; the squire's breath had often smelled of it. Carlton held her by the arm.

  "What happened?" she whispered.

  "Her Grace would call it a trance, no doubt," Carlton said. "But this was not such a smooth performance as the other; were the questions too difficult for you?"

  "Enough, Roger," the doctor broke in. "Miss Ransom, can you remember nothing of what you said?"

  "No. It was horrible! Like dying… and being forced back into my body."

  The Duchess started to speak; her old admirer cut her off with a forceful gesture. "Be still, Honoria. Miss Ransom. You were in obvious distress from the first, writhing and moaning. Suddenly you began to shout, No, no, and went on until Roger here caught hold of you. Did something occur to upset you?"

  "It is wrong," Marianne said confusedly. "He told me… The Devil…"

  "Who told you?" the doctor demanded sharply.

  "Some other entity, obviously," the Duchess said. "There are elemental spirits, soulless creatures of chaos… Pudenzia is inexperienced, no doubt she has not yet learned to keep such intrusive spirits away."

  The calm description was so like an appraisal of a new housemaid that Marianne felt a hysterical desire to laugh. The sound came out as a moan, however, and the doctor said firmly, "Bed for you, young woman.

  I will come in to see you later. We will tell your maid you were taken ill, a fit of giddiness -"

  "Always thinking of appearances, Gruffstone," Carlton said with a sneer. "You fool, every servant in the house knows quite well what is going on. It's a wonder they haven't fled screaming into the night."

  The attitude of Marianne's maid, when she finally answered her bell, substantiated the lawyer's suggestion. Annie rolled her eyes till the whites showed every time Marianne moved, and once Marianne was in bed she literally ran from the room. The doctor had been waiting in the hall. Marianne heard him speak and Annie answer. She could not make out the words, but after an exchange or two, the maid's voice lost its nervous stammer. She even giggled.

  The doctor went through the usual routine, checking Marianne's pulse and inspecting her tongue. He then made her take a dose of a mild sleeping medicine.

  "You do believe me, don't you, sir?" Marianne asked pathetically. "I wasn't pretending; really I wasn't."

  Gruffstone's grim expression softened.

  "In all honesty, child, I don't know what to make of it. I assure you I am not leaping to conclusions. There is such a thing as…

  But I do not want to frighten you."

  It was the second time that day someone had expressed that sentiment; on the first occasion Carlton had frightened her, rather badly. Marianne looked apprehensively at the doctor.

  "Have you ever heard of a condition called hysteria?" Gruffstone asked.

  "Yes, of course. I was hysterical, for a few minutes, but I never -"

  "You don't understand what I mean. I use the term in its medical sense. It is a pathological nervous condition which may occur when there is a conflict between the natural impulses and the demands of duty, loyalty, or moral standards. Is that clear?"

  It is doubtful whether Marianne would have fully comprehended this description even if she had been fully alert. Now, with the effects of the sleeping draft creeping over her, she replied drowsily, "No, sir."

  "Well, well, never mind; perhaps," the doctor said, half to himself, "perhaps it is just as well you don't. Sleep, child; rest. You are at peace and need fear no harm. Do you believe in your heavenly Father and His abiding love? Do you say your prayers?"

  "Yes, sir. Always…" Marianne felt herself drifting off.

  "Then you know he will watch over you.

  Say with me: 'Our Father which art in Heaven…"'

  The doctor sat with her for some time after her voice had died away. When he left she was sleeping peacefully, with a contented smile on her face.

  Next morning she felt perfectly wretched. Squire Ransom could have told her what ailed her: the aftereffects of a combination of wine, brandy, and laudanum, which would have affected even a practiced toper. Marianne did not know why she felt so terrible, but she forced herself to dress and go down to breakfast. After a few cups of strong tea and a piece of dry toast she began to feel that she might live through the day. But she was still tired and queasy when she crept out to the garden and took her seat under the rose arbor. She had slept late, the morning mist had been burned away by the sun and it was a fine, brisk day.

  Marianne had brought her needlework with her, in the pretty embroidered bag she had made under Mrs. Jay's supervision. But the bag concealed a less innocent object than her Berlin work. She had brought it to this distant spot, braving the chilly air, so that she could read without fear of discovery. There was no way of approaching her without crossing a stretch of gravel, and she hoped the sound would alert her in time for her to hide the volume.

  Her sense of guilt and shame about participating in the seances had not been entirely dispelled, but she appreciated the doctor's attempt to restore not only her body but her distracted mind. Most reassuring of all was her memory of praying with him. Surely no one possessed by a devil could repeat the Lord's Prayer. Once she had had a nursery maid who had told her horrible stories about ghosts and witches. The girl had been dismissed when her exercise in sadism had been discovered, but Marianne had never forgotten the gruesome tales. One of the worst had concerned a demon who had taken possession of a poor farmer's body and had occupied it without suspicion until a clergyman had spotted the intruder and forced him to betray himself by repeating the Lord's Prayer. The demon had said it backwards.

  Folktales, repeated by an ignorant, superstitious woman? Oh, certainly; but in the past weeks Marianne had seen things she would once have dismissed as fiction. Perhaps the vicar's books would help to explain them. She opened the one she had brought with her and began to read.

  "Can it be, that this is the beginning of Satan's last struggle, that on the imposition of hands the table is endued with power from the Devil? I merely ask, can it be?"

  But the author obviously thought he knew the answer. Marianne read on, puckering her forehead over some of the more ponderously illogical sentences. So absorbed was she that, after all, she failed to hear the crunch of gravel. A shadow fell across the page; she looked up, with a startled scream, to see Carlton looming over her.

  She made a belated attempt to hide the book. Carlton's eyebrows lifted and he twitched the volume neatly out of her hands.

  "Good heavens," he said disgustedly, after a glance at the title, "where did you get this rubbish? No, let me guess. Who else but St. John?"

  "How can you call it rubbish? You said yourself you do not believe that the spirits of the blessed dead return -"

  "I don't believe anything returns," Carlton replied irritably. "But this is even worse than the Duchess's theories."

  He turned over a few pages, scanned the print, and burst into a shout of laughter.

  "Here we have the interrogator asking the spirit where Satan's headquarters are. 'Are they in England?' A slight movement of the table. 'Are they in France?' A violent movement. 'Are they at Rome?' The table seemed literally frantic… Really, Miss Ransom, how can you read such bigoted trash with a straight face?"

  Mariann
e ought to have been offended. Instead his laughter made her feel better.

  "Do you really think it is trash?"

  "Of course. This is the worst possible thing for you, huddling here in the cold straining your eyes and your poor little conscience. Come for a ride. The exercise will do you good. At least it does me good, after a night of overindulgence."

  "How can you say such a thing?" Marianne protested. But she took the hand he extended and allowed him to raise her to her feet.

  "You had too much brandy for someone who is not accustomed to spirits," was the reply. "I suppose Gruffstone concluded that it was better for you to be tipsy than hysterical. However, the morning after is not pleasant. Hurry now; I will meet you downstairs in ten minutes."

  It took Marianne longer than ten minutes, for she had to go to the kitchen to beg some carrots. Stella received the offering graciously.

  "What a glorious day," Marianne exclaimed, removing her hat and lifting her face to the sun. "Thank you, Mr. Carlton. This is just what I needed."

  "I have had considerable experience in these matters," Carlton replied.

  They rode on in comfortable silence, side by side. Then Marianne asked, "Have you had any word about Maggie?"

  "Hardly; I only dispatched the new information yesterday. I also requested my people to find out what Bagshot is doing just now."

  "I am sure your concern on that point is unnecessary," Marianne said, with more confidence than she really felt.

  "No doubt. At this moment I am much more concerned about another matter. Miss Ransom, have you considered what you are doing? How long do you plan to continue this masquerade?"

  "You still think me a cheat, then." Marianne felt more weariness than anger.

  "I don't know what you are! Gruffstone has another theory. I am forced to admit there may be some truth in it."

  "Theory? Oh, yes. He said something to me last night, but I did not understand his meaning – something about hysteria. He was very kind."

  "He is too inclined to take people at face value," Carlton replied cynically. "However, I respect his medical knowledge, and he tells me that there has been considerable research into this phenomenon of hysteria. Some fellow at the Salpetriere in Paris – Chariot?… Charcot, that was the name – at any rate, he and some others have learned that illnesses of certain patients are purely mental in origin, and can be cured by suggestion. These patients believe themselves to be ill, so they become ill. I suppose I am explaining it badly, for he bombarded me with medical terms I didn't understand; but the gist of it is simple enough. People believe what they want to believe, and some people are more susceptible to self-delusion than others."

  "But there is nothing scientific about that! In any case," Marianne added haughtily, "I am not deluding myself."

  "My dear girl, we all do, to varying degrees. The doctor believes that all men – and women – are basically good; the Duchess believes the spirits of the dead talk to her -"

  "And what makes you so sure they are wrong?"

  "That is my form of self-delusion," the lawyer said wryly. "That I know better than they. See here, Miss Ransom, I am not such a pompous fool as I sound. Most of what I have seen and heard about spiritualism strikes me as absurd, but I am not so dogmatic as to insist there may not be a germ of truth in it. Would you be willing to let me subject you to some kind of physical restraint the next time Her Grace insists on a performance?"

  "What did you have in mind?" Marianne asked doubtfully.

  "Nothing more than most mediums now accept. That you be bound to a chair – I promise I will only use the softest of cloths – which is bolted to the floor."

  "Certainly," Marianne replied. "That seems reasonable."

  "Also…"

  "Well?"

  The lawyer coughed self-consciously. "That you be searched. Oh, not by me! Lady Annabelle will oblige, I am sure."

  "It sounds most disagreeable," Marianne grumbled. "However, if it will settle your doubts, I agree. Not that I am anxious to repeat the performance. Do you think the Duchess might give up -"

  "Her seances? Never! Believe me, I would not ask you to go through another one solely to satisfy my curiosity; I only propose these means because I know you have not the strength to resist her demands. Those demands will not stop. Don't you realize that the anniversary of Holmes's death is less than a fortnight away? She will not rest until she receives some message from him."

  Marianne shuddered. "It is wrong. I can't help but feel that."

  "It is," Carlton agreed. For once his face and his voice were quite serious. "Wrong not to accept God's will; wrong to call those who are at peace back from their rest. Whether one believes that they come or not, the very demand is mistaken and harmful. Ah, I've had enough of this somber talk. Come, I will race you back to the road."

  Marianne took off her hat and reveled in the wind's strong fingers running through her hair; but as she urged Stella on, she was pondering a new and startling idea. What if the Duchess were to receive a message from David Holmes telling her to abandon her attempt to reach him, to let him rest? Marianne had not the capability to perform such a trick; but if she had, she would have been sorely tempted to try it, as much for her kind friend's sake as for her own.

  As the party assembled in the White Room that evening, Marianne was struck by the difference in atmosphere from the preceding night. Then darkness and mystery and distress had filled the air. Tonight, thanks to Carlton, the affair had the brisk efficiency of a scientific experiment.

  Lady Annabelle had agreed to cooperate, even though her offer of the cat Horace, as a sniffer out of evil spirits, had been firmly declined. In the music room next to the parlor she searched Marianne, while the Duchess looked on. She was surprisingly efficient, shaking out each petticoat as it was handed to her, and running light fingers over Marianne's body once the girl had removed all her clothing except her drawers and bodice. She even asked Marianne to unpin her hair.

  "That is that," she announced, motioning Marianne to resume her clothing. "I can testify, Miss Ransom, that you have no infernal devices about you. How silly this is! No self-respecting animal would engage in such a performance."

  "Animals have no souls," the Duchess said.

  "I am not convinced of that," Lady Annabelle retorted. "I can tell you, at any rate, that if my cats don't go to Heaven I won't go there either."

  She stalked out of the room. The Duchess smiled apologetically at Marianne.

  "She is such a strange mixture of child and woman. Thank you, my dear, for taking this so well."

  "Candidly, it is a relief to me," Marianne replied, tying the strings of the last petticoat. The Duchess helped her into her gown, it having been decided that the servants should not be involved in the affair.

  "I don't blame you for being confused," she said. "Or for doubting your own powers. It is frightening at first, and I would not have pushed you as I have, but… There is a reason, Marianne."

  "The anniversary?" Marianne asked.

  She had no need to be more specific. For the tormented woman there was only one date in all history worthy of remembrance. "You know, then," the Duchess said.

  "Mr. Carlton told me."

  "Marianne, I must hear from him – I must! I will go mad if that day passes without some word. I know this is hard for you; but I will repay you, child, never fear. I will make sure you have -" She caught sight of Marianne's face and began murmuring apologies.

  "No, I didn't mean that. I know you need no reward. Forgive me."

  "Of course. Please don't distress yourself."

  There was a knock on the door – Carlton, impatiently demanding whether it took all night to tie a few ribbons and button half a dozen buttons.

  The Duchess had accepted Carlton's suggestion of restraints. She had insisted on only one point: total darkness. It was well known, she said, that the vibrations of light were hurtful to the discarnates.

  Marianne was led to an armchair, upholstered in the seat and back,
but with legs and arms of plain wood. After asking if she was comfortable and receiving an affirmative reply, Carlton proceeded to fasten her wrists to the arms of the chair. Her ankles were tied together and bound to the cross-piece. When Carlton rose after performing this last task, his face was redder than usual. Marianne had felt herself blushing too; it was the first time since childhood that a man's hands had touched her lower extremities, and although Carlton had been quick and respectful, the pressure of his fingers had felt… strange. Marianne wondered what the vicar would have said about that slightly indelicate act. She forced the thought from her mind.

  It would not do to think of the vicar now.

  Carlton turned to the doctor, who had been watching morosely. "Would you like to test the fastenings, Gruffstone?"

  "My dear boy, don't be ridiculous. You are sure the chair itself is firmly anchored?"

  "I did not have the heart to ask that bolts be driven into this beautiful old flooring," Carlton replied. "But the chair is extremely heavy; I doubt that a slight woman like Miss Ransom could budge it. However, I intend to remove any doubts on that score by sitting here beside her." And he drew up a low stool with a petit-point floral scene and sat down at Marianne's feet.

  "Quite satisfactory," the doctor replied. "Er – Honoria?"

  The Duchess was flushed with excitement. "Quite, quite," she said impatiently. "Get on with it, Horace. The lights, if you please – and draw that screen closer to the fire."

  She took her place at the table, turning her chair slightly so as to face Marianne. Lady Annabelle took another chair; her hands moved restlessly, as if stroking an imaginary cat. The doctor dealt with the lights.

  "Curse it," came his plaintive voice, from the darkness that followed the extinction of the last candle. "I can't see a thing, Honoria.