She brushed her hair and pinned it up in a simple knot, then went to the wardrobe. Choosing another gown was not difficult, for they were all of them a sober black or gray and restrained in style—as befit a recent widow. Before too long, her toilette was complete, and a quick glance in the glass confirmed that she looked presentable.
When she joined her guests, she found Annie pouring out tea for them. As she nodded her dismissal to the servant, the reverend stood and bowed; meanwhile, his wife, far less constrained than he, took Marianne’s hands in hers and pressed them. She was a pleasant woman of middle years, rather tall like her husband, with a long homely face and a quick smile.
“How very lovely you are today, Mrs. Glencoe. Quite blooming, do you not think, Enos?”
The reverend silently smiled his agreement.
“You must not mind my husband, Mrs. Glencoe,” Mrs. Waller said with a laugh. “He has been busy thinking up tomorrow’s sermon, and it must always put him in a pucker to try to discover words of four syllables with which to obscure quite simple thoughts. Trust me, Enos, the folk hereabouts would like you the better for speaking to them plainly.”
“You make me sound an altogether priggish sort, Suzannah,” he returned mildly, smiling a little at her teasing. “Mrs. Glencoe will not know what to think of me.”
“Then best she judge for herself, I suppose,” his helpmeet laughed. “Do you think you will feel well enough to attend services this week, Mrs. Glencoe?”
Marianne looked down for a moment. She had stayed away from church since her arrival, unsure whether she was equal to carrying her role so far. In many ways her new life seemed more true than the old; however, she did not wish to put herself to that particular test just yet. Would she enter the church doors only to discover guilt and a sense of hypocrisy flooding her heart? She had merely opened a trunk earlier in the week, and it had become a Pandora’s box of emotions. Her life and happiness were so precious now, she could not bear to see them sullied again.
“It is difficult to say,” she demurred at last. “You see, I am so often unwell in the morning. One does not always know in advance,...”
“Oh, to be sure,” Mrs. Waller interrupted, her tone immediately contrite. “How thoughtless of me to ask such a thing. But you are feeling more the thing, are you not? I must say, your color is much improved since first you arrived here.”
At this remark, Marianne felt a rush of embarrassment flood to her cheeks. She did not in the least like discussing her delicate condition-certainly not considering its circumstances—in the presence of a clergyman, however ignorant he was of her true identity and history. She responded with a noncommittal nod, therefore, as she took a seat at Mrs. Waller’s side.
“I must tell you, Mrs. Glencoe,” Mrs. Waller went on hurriedly, handing her a cup of tea, “that our old friend Dr. Venables is returned to the village from Edinburgh. He has been away from the countryside this last month at least, has he not, Enos?”
“All of that, I imagine. We have missed him greatly, but I am sure it is to his credit that he travels to learn of new treatments and discoveries firsthand. Not only has he dedicated his talents to our poor parish, but he is one of the few physicians who does not deem it beneath him to perform surgery as well as diagnose. I only hope the villagers recognize how very fortunate we are to count such an excellent gentleman a part of our community.”
“I am certain they must be,” Marianne said, lowering her cup and stifling a sigh of disappointment. Surely the doctor of whom they spoke was a venerable old saint, not a golden-haired apparition with mischievous eyes. Annie had mentioned the doctor from time to time, as well, in terms of such awe as must confirm his identity as a graybeard.
The reverend and his wife exchanged a glance.
“There are those few who will always complain, however. Some who . . .” Mrs. Waller searched for a word, “some who are determined to be unhappy. And distrustful of strangers.”
“Is he so newly come to Waite then?” Marianne asked.
“No, no,” the reverend told her with an indulgent smile. “Dr. Venables has been here these ten years, quite as long as we.”
Marianne raised her brows. Did the village, for all its outward congeniality, consider her in the same suspicious light? Clearly, they must. “As long as that,” she murmured, “and still distrusted?”
“By a few,” Mrs. Waller admitted. “But you must know, that is not our case. Even though Enos and I are late arrivals, the family is known in these parts. The living here was held by an uncle for some twenty-five years. When he passed away, Enos was invited to take his place.”
The reverend leaned forward and brushed a stray lock of graying hair off his broad forehead, in a gesture that reminded Marianne of an earnest schoolboy.
“Let me tell you a story our uncle once told me, Mrs. Glencoe,” he said kindly. “Uncle Erasmus once officiated at the funeral of a man who died here at the ripe age of eighty-four. But for the first month of his life, the deceased had lived in this village his entire span of years. However, when a neighbor stepped forward to speak the eulogy, he opened it thus, ‘Gracious Lord, we pray you will embrace this stranger to our soil…’“
He broke off with a laugh, “An extreme case, perhaps, and it did take place some years ago, but you take my meaning. There are some, most, who will embrace the stranger to their hearts, and others who will always consider strangers…well, strangers.”
Marianne looked from the husband to the wife. She certainly did not crave society for herself, nor even necessarily the goodwill of her neighbors. But a slight frisson of discomfort traced her spine. Not quite fear, yet akin to it. Distrust could lead to curiosity, and she did not, for her child’s sake, wish her facade of respectability to be subjected to scrutiny.
“In whom, then,” she asked after a long moment, “do they place their trust in matters of health, if not the doctor?”
Reverend Waller shook his head. “It depends on the ailment, of course. Most seek out the doctor, and he is quite willing to accept whatever they have to offer from their gardens or stock in payment. There are many who still call on Old Maggie, a so-called wise woman of these parts. I’m afraid some view the doctor in light of an upstart rival to her practice, one who ignores old wisdom. The two of them seem to rub along well enough, though, and even consult one another from time to time, or so I am told. You will see the old girl about, I am sure.
“But, pray, do not fret yourself with such fears,” he went on. “You are not breaking into the order of the community, usurping power as it were, as poor Dr. Venables does. No one will think you an intruder.”
“Merely an outsider,” she said evenly. “And my child?”
Mrs. Waller touched her arm, and said softly, “A child born in Waite belongs to everyone— even the hardest of skeptics.”
Marianne looked down, following her guest’s gaze, and realized her hands were clasped protectively around the slight swell beneath her breasts. She released her breath, allowing her hands to unclench, and folded them demurely on her lap.
Giving her husband a significant look, Mrs. Waller said, “Pray, Mrs. Glencoe, let us, you and I, take a turn in your lovely garden. All too soon it will have faded, and I should like to store up pictures of it to take me through the winter. I think perhaps Enos would like to sit quietly for a while, and contemplate his words of wisdom for this Sunday.”
* * * *
“You must forgive me, Mrs. Glencoe,” Mrs. Waller began as soon as they had left her husband behind. “How unthinking I was just now. I know you will come to services as soon as you are able. It is merely that I am anxious to see more of you. There are so few here with whom I can chat so comfortably as I can with you. It is good to at last have a friend.”
Marianne took her hand and squeezed it. She had not thought what a lonely life Mrs. Waller must live with her quiet husband. It would be such a blessing to share a friendship, but Marianne feared an intimacy might arise—and that intimacy might promp
t her to reveal more of herself than was wise.
From behind a trellised screen came the rasping sound of scissors, as one of the servants snipped away at herbs in the kitchen garden. The scent of freshly cut mint and marjoram wafted toward her on the breeze.
“It smells heavenly,” Mrs. Waller sighed, breaking the awkward silence. “I have had little luck with herbs in my own garden.”
“These were cultivated by some earlier tenant,” Marianne told her, “so I can take no credit. They have proved a godsend, however—these last weeks, I find myself craving more seasoning in my food. Mrs. Bridges thinks me quite heathen, I am afraid, when I season her good plain food with pinches of this and that.”
“I am sure she cannot,” Mrs. Waller assured her. “She must know the fancies of women in your condition are to be humored.”
“Perhaps, but I am afraid I shall soon test her patience. Some years ago, I tasted an Indian dish called curry. I did not care for it at the time, for it is quite fiery you know, but I find myself unaccountably longing for it now.”
“Another reason to celebrate Dr. Venables’s return, Mrs. Glencoe. I seem to recall he has traveled in the East—perhaps he will have an idea of how it is made.”
“Ah! But is the gentleman to be trusted?” Marianne asked with mock incredulity. “We must not forget poor Rapunzel’s mother.”
Mrs. Waller looked at her blankly.
“Surely you remember the old tale,” Marianne said, a little chagrined at having spoken her odd thought aloud. “The queen, who was with child, found herself suffering a formidable hunger for rampion— which, as luck would have it, grew only in the garden of a neighboring witch. The bargain they struck is not one I would care for.”
“Of course, the rash promise! I had forgot all about that story,” her new friend laughed. “But I hardly think the doctor will demand your firstborn child in exchange for a dish of curry. I cannot guarantee, however, he will not seek to enlist your help in one of his many charitable projects.”
“What do you mean?”
In the distance just then, the unhurried clop and whir of a horse and curricle could be heard drawing near.
“I believe that may be the doctor now,” Mrs. Waller announced. “I shall call to him—then you may see for yourself.”
Chapter Five
Mrs. Waller approached the fence and, leaning over it, waved a hand. “Dr. Venables!” she cried. “Do stop a moment with us.”
As the curricle slowed to a halt, Marianne stepped back, feeling suddenly and unreasonably shy. It was foolish, she knew, but the notion of slipping silently and quickly away appealed to her enormously. She had not felt thus when she first met the Reverend Waller and his wife, but the nature of that acquaintance could remain as distant as she liked. With a doctor it would necessarily be different. Regardless of the man himself, the inevitable relationship between patient and doctor was sure to encompass an uncomfortable combination of emotional distance and invasive physicality— very like those connections which had ruled her life these last years. Taking a deep breath, she made a deliberate effort to fold her hands calmly in front of her, and assume at least the appearance of composure.
“Good morning, my dear Mrs. Waller!” the doctor’s voice came through the shrubbery. Marianne felt her pulse race as she recognized the voice. Her gentleman of the stone circle and the doctor were indeed one and the same. But how could that be? Vanished were the visions of the venerable, gray-bearded physician, but how might the gentleman who had flirted and spoken of fairies step into that rigid role? It did not seem possible.
“You look very like a blossom, Mrs. Waller, peeking from among those blooms,” the doctor went on. “Be careful of those who would gather you up!”
“And a very odd sort of blossom that must be,” Mrs. Waller replied with tart good humor. It seemed she was accustomed to his flirtatious manner. “Perhaps you ought take to spectacles before long. But come, you must make the acquaintance of our new neighbor, Mrs. Glencoe.”
Mrs. Waller turned and took Marianne by the hand, leading her to the gate, just as the doctor came through it. He surveyed her with sparkling eyes, and a smile flooded his face, hiding his scar in its creases.
“My pleasure, Mrs. Glencoe.”
Marianne nodded mutely as he took her hand in his and pressed it warmly. For a fleeting moment, she had expected him to bow over it, but the gallant gentleman of yesterday had, it seemed, assumed country manners.
Though the doctor released her hand almost at once, his eyes caught hers in a clear, direct way and held them. Immediately, she felt as if she were being studied in these new surroundings, assessed, though she knew not quite how. Perhaps he was casting her in another light, as she was him, in the face of reality.
“I had already planned to call here today or tomorrow,” he said with a smile, “for I must look in on your Annie, but I am glad to be made known to you.”
She noticed he avoided saying he was glad to “make her acquaintance,” for that would have denied their former meeting. Mrs. Waller would never know that they had previously encountered one another, and for some reason Marianne was glad of it.
“So, you have been returned but a day and already the local gossips have been hard at work, doctor,” Mrs. Waller laughed. “London will not have prepared you for these parts, Mrs. Glencoe. I would not be surprised to learn Doctor Venables not only knew which of his patients is employed in your household, but has also heard a variety of appraisals of your own situation.”
Marianne looked at the doctor curiously.
“I am afraid Mrs. Waller has the right of it, Mrs. Glencoe,” he said, shaking his head ruefully. “Indeed, I had not been one half hour in my own parlor before three worthy ladies had called to advise me that I must look in on you before long. I hope you are not offended by their forwardness?”
“Not at all,” Marianne was able to reply after a moment. “It is true, I am used to living a quiet sort of life, quite unremarked on by my neighbors— but I am sure it was very kind in them to show interest in a solitary widow.”
Something in the doctor’s gaze forced Marianne to avert her eyes at the untruth of her statement. No one else had questioned her veracity— why should he? Oh, how she would like to remain unremarked upon the rest of her days! How odd if anyone should discern that these last weeks had been the happiest, most serene she had experienced in many years. However, the less said, she decided, the fewer suspicions raised.
“And have you been well?” he asked, still studying her face.
Indeed she had been for the most part, but now that Marianne had used the excuse of ill health to avoid Mrs. Waller’s invitations to attend services, she hardly felt she could say as much in the lady’s presence. Still, it would never do to tell such an untruth to the doctor, for who knew what odd remedies he would insist she imbibe?
“Well enough,” she replied in tones she hoped, rather wryly, Mrs. Waller would interpret as long-suffering. “It is good of you to concern yourself with Annie, when you are so recently returned, doctor. Perhaps you will call again when you are more at your leisure?”
The doctor glanced quickly in the direction of Mrs. Waller, then smiled again at Marianne. “I must own my schedule is quite full today, and it will grow dark sooner than I would like.”
So, the gentleman’s intuition was not to be faulted. How singular! “Thank you,” she murmured.
“Tomorrow afternoon will do very well, however,” he continued, “if it will not interrupt your household schedule. Annie is a particular favorite of mine, and I have found something I think will alleviate some of the distress of her infirmity.”
It seemed odd that one of his class should interest himself in a servant. She hoped indeed it was no more than professional concern, but her past had made her distrustful of the motives of all men. Bereft of a likely excuse, however, she could not but agree to his proposal, and breathed a sigh of relief as the conversation returned to other subjects. For the next several minutes
, the doctor and Mrs. Waller engaged in a conversation of inconsequentials, for little of note appeared to have taken place since last these two met, and it was not long before Marianne was left once again with her friend.
“It seems I have escaped my first encounter unscathed,” Marianne commented as they returned their steps toward the house. Mrs. Waller looked at her narrowly. “From your earlier warning, I had thought to be embroiled in a dozen worthy projects by now.”
“Perhaps I exaggerated a little,” Mrs. Waller replied with a smile, “but did you not note the appraising eye with which he observed you? To be sure, he is already formulating questions to ask when he calls tomorrow, which will ascertain the best use of you in his charitable undertakings.”
Marianne raised her eyebrows. “Are not such things more rightly your husband’s concern?” she asked.
Mrs. Waller sighed. “Enos is a good man,” she said quietly, “but his interests are . . . intellectual. I am sorry he did not find a living which placed him close to a university. His mental powers, I am afraid, are frustrated here. There are few to appreciate his fine sermons; poor Enos had far rather delineate fine points about the nature of God than puzzle long over the nature of man in this world God made.”
From where they stood in the garden, they could see Reverend Waller bent over the book he had brought with him, oblivious to his surroundings.
“Do not mistake me,” Mrs. Waller continued hastily. “I do not mean to criticize my husband. He is who he is, and I make amends where I can for his lack of interest in the village. I merely feel sorry his life fell thus. And for his people, too. They are not ...” She paused a moment. “They are not well suited, he and they.”
The nature of God and man. The duties of each person toward his fellows. These were questions Marianne had pondered very little during her youth, and assiduously avoided in her adulthood. The one thing her darker musings had led her to believe, however, was that if there were in fact a God, he had no love for women, and little for any other creature. She sighed. Another thought she must keep to herself.
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