The Wizard’s Daughter

by Barbara Michaels

  With some difficulty she dragged a table in front of the panel and put a bowl of flowers on top of it. If someone tried to come in, table or bowl or both would fall, and the crash would awaken her.

  Complacently pleased with her morning's work, she changed her dusty frock and went to see how the Duchess was doing.

  The long day dragged. Since it was too wet to ride, Marianne spent most of the time with the Duchess, reading and talking and embroidering. The doctor had forbidden card games as being too exciting. Dismissed while the Duchess napped, Marianne was so bored she even went looking for Henry, thinking she might offer to play a game with him. The schoolroom was deserted; one of the servants told her His Grace was with his mother.

  She did not look for Carlton. She went to the library thinking she might find an entertaining book, and peeped into the billiard room – solely out of curiosity, to see what it was like – not looking for Carlton. When one of the footmen, mistaking her intentions, informed her that the gentlemen had gone out, Marianne replied haughtily that she had no interest in the whereabouts of the gentlemen. She went into the music room and relieved her feelings by banging out a series of emphatic polonaises and marches.

  By the time she finished practicing, the gentlemen had returned, or so she was told by another overzealous servant. Marianne told him that she had not the slightest interest in the subject. She returned to the Duchess's room, hoping that the vicar might have been moved to make another pastoral call. But apparently the rain had dampened his ardor, for he never came.

  The Duchess urged her to join the gentlemen for dinner. She refused, feeling that if she could not be amused she might as well be useful, but she was glad to be dismissed when the doctor came up to sit with his friend. She was so bored she was even beginning to think regretfully of the seances. They had been alarming, but they had not been dull.

  Moving aimlessly around her room in search of something to occupy her mind, she picked up her writing portfolio and sat down with it on her lap. She was sorry she had not kept a diary, as so many young ladies did; at least she would have more interesting things to write about than who danced with whom at the last ball, and what color ribbons she had selected for her new gown. But perhaps, she reflected, the only people who have time to write in their diaries are the ones to whom nothing ever happens.

  The rain hissed against the windows. It was just the sort of night to write a long, intimate letter to a friend. But she had no such friends. The only girls she knew were casual acquaintances, daughters of the squire's friends and neighbors.

  Marianne yawned. Tomorrow was Sunday. She could look forward to that, at any rate. She wondered whether Lady Violet meant to go to church with her. The next move was certainly up to the lady; it would be rude of her to press further.

  Absently she opened the portfolio, and there before her, like a scrap of her conscience that had taken visible form, was the letter from Mrs. Jay, which she had crumpled and hurled at the fire.

  Her receptivity toward suggestions of the uncanny was now so keen that she stared at the paper with dilating eyes. Then common sense asserted itself. So her aim had not been as good as she thought. The letter had fallen to the floor, Annie had found it, had smoothed it out and put it neatly away. That was the explanation, of course.

  Still, the reappearance of the letter was a salutary reminder of her duty. She owed Mrs. Jay an explanation that would relieve the old lady's fears and justify her own behavior. She had been wrong to respond to its criticism with anger. Mrs. Jay was moved solely by concern for her, she knew that.

  She forced herself to finish the part of the letter she had left unread. It was more of the same – lectures on the evils of spiritualism. Mrs. Jay did not use the vicar's arguments. Hers was a robustly rational attitude that deplored the activity because it was a denial of the quite adequate and comforting explanations offered by traditional religion. Naturally she said this at much greater length, and it was not until the very end of the letter that she added a single sentence that caused Marianne to uncurl her pretty mouth (a gesture she had unconsciously acquired from Carlton) and pay close attention.

  "I find myself not so well as I would like; but at my age, Marianne, one must expect some infirmities."

  To do Marianne justice, this statement made her feel bad for a full thirty seconds. To do her even more justice, she would have been thoroughly overcome if she could have seen Mrs. Jay, or known the hours of agonized debate that had resulted in that single understated comment. Mrs. Jay had finally concluded that the shock to her darling's sensibilities might be lessened if she received a well-chosen hint about the event that could not now be far away. But the words conveyed nothing of the physical pain or mental distress that had prompted them; and perhaps Marianne cannot be blamed for dismissing the sentence with a shrug. To be sure, Mrs. Jay was no longer young. Some infirmities had to be expected…

  However, she was moved to pick up her pen and dash off a few lines of reassurance. The letter was a skillful blend of candor and tactful omissions. She admitted that the Duchess dabbled in spiritualism, but did not mention her own participation. She assured Mrs. Jay that she herself had not the slightest belief in that pernicious doctrine. She described the vicar at length without going into detail about his reasons for condemning table turning, for some instinct told her that Mrs. Jay would be as disgusted by demons as she was by spirits. All in all, Marianne was pleased with the letter when she read it over. She added a final sentence. "I do hope your rheumatism is better; you must take care of yourself and not do too much."

  With a pleasant consciousness of duty done, she prepared for bed. Whether it was the idea of the approaching Sabbath – when no evil spirits are allowed to walk abroad – or the thought of her good old friend, she felt a peace of mind that had been foreign to her for many days. Still, she did not neglect to lock her door and, after a moment of silent debate, to leave a candle burning. The small, valiant flame dipped and swayed in the draft. Its vagrant movements were the last thing she saw before she fell asleep.

  She woke with a start to find the room in darkness. At first she thought the unpleasantness of a bad dream must have roused her. It had been a horrid, confused mixture of the varied miseries she had suffered since arriving in London. In it she had seemed to pass, with the swift, unhindered movement of a bodiless spirit, through a dreadful twilight country of bare twisted trees and half-seen monsters, all wearing human faces:

  Mrs. Pettibone and her sadistic son; Bagshot, mouthing curses; Wilson, the sinister manager of the supper club; and, worst of all, dear Mrs. Jay, who had shaken her fist and shrieked out threats of hellfire and eternal damnation.

  This last terrible vision lingered even after she awoke. The limp white hands of her old friend still hovered above her head.

  Marianne felt the bedclothes pressing down on her. She was awake… and the hands still hung luminous in the darkness. A clammy sweat dampened her brow. She was too frightened to move or scream.

  A low, wavering moan sounded, mounting to a scream. It came again, louder and more peremptory; and then, all at once, Marianne was fully awake and furious. With a lunge she sat up and snatched, not at the pale spectral hands, but at a point just beyond where they ended in darkness. Her fingers closed over a solid, human arm. She pulled with all her strength.

  The moan ended in a yelp of surprise and pain, and something fell heavily across her lap. In fumbling for a better hold, Marianne lost her grip on the intruder, who immediately rolled off the bed. She heard him blundering around the room, but made no attempt to recapture him. Instead she found her candle and struck a light.

  She had known, as soon as her fingers touched the thin, boyish wrist, who her tormentor was. The flaring candlelight caught the young Duke on his way to the hidden passage. It gaped open. The table she had placed before it stood to one side, and Marianne cursed her own stupidity; anyone coming by way of the stairs would naturally carry a light, and as soon as the panel slid to one side he would see
the obstacle.

  Remembering the boy's propensity to fall into a fit when he was startled, Marianne did not shout at him, as she wanted to do, but spoke in a firm, quiet voice.

  "You are fairly caught, Henry. Sit down, if you please."

  Henry hesitated long enough to make her wonder what on earth she would do if he fell to the floor frothing and writhing. Then, with a sullen swagger, he threw himself into a chair, crossed one leg over the other, and stared at her defiantly.

  "You weren't frightened at all," he said. "How did you know it was me?"

  "It was I," Marianne corrected. "I wasn't frightened, but I might have been; it was a cruel, malicious thing to do. Why did you do it?"

  "I thought it would be fun."

  "And how did you evade M. Victor? He should not allow -"

  "He has gone out. I suppose he is down at the Devenbrook Arms, getting drunk, as usual."

  "Getting…" Marianne decided not to pursue this line of investigation. Curiosity got the better of her, and she inquired rather ingenuously, "How did you do that?"

  "Gloves, coated with phosphorus," Henry answered readily. He pulled these objects from his pocket and dangled them from his hand. In the gloom they had a perceptible glow; but, like all enlightened viewers of a conjurer, Marianne wondered how she could ever have been deceived by such a simple trick.

  "I got the idea from A Young Person's Guide to Science," Henry went on. "There are lots of other good things in that book. Would you like to see it?"

  "Yes, I would." Marianne was decidedly interested; but seeing that Henry was now quite at ease, and indeed rather proud of his ingenuity, she thought she had better not encourage him any more. Returning to her lecturing tone, she asked reproachfully,

  "What would your dear mama say if she knew you had done this?"

  A singularly unpleasant, unchildlike smile came over Henry's face. "She would like it. She hates you."

  "Hates me? You must be mistaken. Why should she hate me?"

  "You are very pretty," Henry said. "And the vicar admires you."

  Marianne was silenced momentarily. Consternation, lingering anger, pleasure at the compliment, and hurt – for she had really hoped that the unhappy Lady Violet would be her friend – gave way to an overwhelming pity.

  "I am sorry if she doesn't like me," she said gently. "I like her very much, and would like to be of service to her. And to you, Henry. I know it is dull for you here. I am bored too, sometimes; perhaps we could do things together. I am very good at playing ball, and marbles."

  "Girls can't play ball," Henry said.

  "I can. Before I had to become a proper young lady I played with Billy Turnbull and Jack Daws, at home. Why don't we make a pact? I won't tell anyone about this if you will try to be my friend."

  Henry was wise enough to see that this offer was to his advantage, since it committed him to nothing specific.

  "All right," he said ungraciously. "Can I go now?"

  "Yes. But if you ever use that passageway again I will not hold my tongue."

  Henry departed as he had come, without further comment; but the last glance he gave Marianne held an inquiring, almost wistful quality that gave her hope that some good had been done. She had deliberately refrained from questioning the boy about any other tricks he might have played. If she could gain his confidence he might confide in her of his own free will.

  To Marianne's surprise Carlton accompanied her to church next morning. He was waiting for her in the hall when she came down and handed her into the carriage with a solemn air perfectly suited to a Sunday morning. It was still raining.

  "So Lady Violet changed her mind," Marianne said.

  "No; she remained of the same mind. She never intended to go."

  "I am sorry."

  "You have been reading too many tracts," Carlton said. "You earnest Christians seem to feel that a single noble gesture from you should bring about instant conversion, and you become highly indignant when there is no such result. A long-seated timidity like that of the Lady Violet is not to be overcome in a day; if you really wanted to befriend her you would persist and not be discouraged by lack of immediate success."

  "And what makes you suppose I will not persist? You do have a poor opinion of me!"

  "Now you are becoming angry," Carlton said gravely. "Tut, tut, Miss Ransom. Try to adopt an attitude more becoming to the day and the occasion."

  So Marianne had to swallow her wrath. "Why is not Dr. Gruffstone with us?" she asked. "I hope the Duchess is not worse."

  "No, she does quite well. Gruffstone is a rational deist, or some such thing; he does not approve of organized religion, except for the lower classes."

  Marianne had no comment to make on this absurd statement. With Carlton she could never be sure whether he was reporting a fact or embroidering it in his own peculiar way.

  Going down the aisle of the church on Carlton's arm was almost as much of an ordeal as going alone; her self-possession was not improved when he said out of the corner of his mouth, "Practice, Miss Ransom, for the day of your nuptials. Aren't you glad the groom will be someone else?"

  Nor was the sermon soothing. To be sure, the vicar was as handsome as ever, and he seemed to smile directly at her; but the text was the famous exhortation that had led to the hideous deaths of thousands of innocents: "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live." Naturally St. John did not advocate such a fate for those who dabbled in forbidden arts, but by the time he had finished painting a vivid picture of the flames singeing the screaming sinners, Marianne was almost inclined to think that being burned alive would be preferable. At least it had an end, whereas according to St. John the fires of Hell never went out.

  The congregation found this sermon much more to its taste than the last one had been. Several of them were beginning to sway and groan in chorus by the time St. John finished with a thundering condemnation.

  Carlton, who had sat with folded arms and impassive face throughout, did not comment until they had squelched through the mud and taken their places in the carriage.

  "Ah, the comforts of religion. It is as well Her Grace was not well enough to attend. I fully expected some of the elderly faithful to suffer heart attacks on the spot."

  "He would not have delivered that sermon if the Duchess had been there," Marianne said.

  "No doubt you are right. He has enough self-interest to avoid such an error."

  "Compassion, you mean."

  "No, that is not what I mean. But you and I will never agree on that subject; enough of it. Have you given any thought as to what you will do a few days from now, when the Duchess calls on you to summon up the spirit of David Holmes?"

  The seemingly abrupt change of subject left Marianne momentarily at a loss for words. It was not, in fact, a non sequitur; the fiery sermon had revived her distaste for spiritualism and reminded her of something she had tried not to think about.

  "She may not ask it of me."

  "Don't cherish that illusion. She lives for that moment. Indeed," Carlton added, his expression thoughtful, "I think she lives only for that moment. If she believes that Holmes waits for her on the other side…"

  "Are you by any chance suggesting that I invent a message to that effect?"

  "Little Miss Innocent is not quite so naive as she appears," Carlton jeered. "I was not about to suggest that, no; but don't be too surprised if the doctor comes to you with some such request."

  "He would never do such a thing!"

  "Don't be too sure. However, I admit that you are in a devilish difficult position. If there is no contact at all, the disappointment might literally break her heart. If Holmes greets her with the usual vague meandering about flowers and sunshine and peace on the other side, she may decide to join him forthwith. In fact, if you are considering a literary invention along those lines, I suggest you say that, while Holmes is happy to see her, he does not expect to meet her in heaven for many years to come."

  "I could not do that," Marianne said wearily. "Even if
I wanted to, I would not know how to make it convincing."

  Carlton's hand, resting on his knee, clenched into a fist, as if he were trying to keep it from making a gesture foreign to his will.

  "Something must be decided before the day comes," he said. "I cannot – I will not! – endure a repetition of what happened the last time."

  "Which of the doctor's theories do you follow?" Marianne asked. "No doubt you have decided, despite the evidence of your own eyes – and hands – that I was responsible after all."

  She thought Carlton flushed faintly at the reference to his fumbling at her skirt, but in the dim light it was hard to tell. Certainly his voice held no trace of embarrassment as he replied, "I have as yet reached no conclusion. But I am working on the problem, make no mistake about that."

  Marianne was tempted to tell him about her nocturnal visit from Henry. However, it seemed unworthy to try to lift suspicion from herself by casting it on another. Besides, she had given her word not to tell.

  Carlton said no more, and when they reached the castle he went off with only a brusque nod of farewell. Marianne went up to change her damp shoes. When she opened her door the first thing she saw was Henry, comfortably curled up in a chair by the fire.

  "You were a very long time," he remarked. "I've been waiting for hours."

  "You have no business being here at all," Marianne replied. "I thought I told you never to come into without knocking."

  "I did knock."

  Marianne could not help laughing. "Then let me amend my statement. You must not come in unless I answer your knock."

  "I'm sorry." The apology, which she had not expected, and the ingratiating tone, warned Marianne not to pursue the lecture. "You said you would play something with me," Henry went on.

  "Yes, but this is Sunday."

  "Please. You said you would."

  Marianne's childhood was not so far in the past. She could well remember the appalling dullness of Sunday afternoons, after Mrs. Jay had taken over her education. She could also remember the squire's foul temper on the mornings after all-night drinking sessions with his cronies, and she imagined that Victor was in no state to be useful to his pupil – assuming, of course, that the boy's account of his tutor's Saturday-night amusements was correct.