Marianne winced. It was not always so, as experience had taught her. “Well, this one was not!” she improvised. “In fact, he was the wickedest young man in the world, for all he was so handsome.”
“Aweel! What sort of wickedness did he do?” Jane asked eagerly.
“Aye!” Charlie broke in. “Was he a murderer?”
Marianne frowned. This story was becoming more difficult to tell than she had anticipated, and far from the simple tale she had initially embarked upon. “No, he wasn’t a murderer yet,” she told them, “but he did kick his horse every day and stole cherry tarts from children.”
Jane nodded. “That is right wicked. But did he love kittens?”
“No. In fact, he particularly disliked them.”
“Prob’ly he set dogs upon ‘em,” George put in.
“Wicked, wicked,” Jane sighed.
“Yes, he was,” Marianne continued, “and when he saw the lovely princess, he decided immediately he would have her as his own. At first, the princess was blinded by his fair face and thought him an honest young man. But one day, she saw him beat his servant, and decided to have nothing more to do with him.”
Now what? She searched her mind for something to add to the tale, something that would set it back in the direction she had first intended.
“The end?” asked George quizzically after a moment’s silence.
“Certainly not,” Marianne said, suddenly inspired. “The princess decided that the young man should be taught a lesson. She called upon her good fairy godmother to ask for some advice, and between the two of them they devised a plan— “
“I know! I know!” Jane interrupted, bouncing up and down. “They turned him into a poor horse, and he were made to pull wagons through town.”
It was not what Marianne had thought to say herself, but it seemed quite fitting. “What a bright little thing you are! That was the very thing. They treated him kindly, though, and did not make him work very hard, and at the end of three years, the fairy allowed him to— “
“No.”
It was little Becky who had spoken. Fascinated by this sudden outburst, Marianne saw that the little girl’s jaw was now set quite stubbornly. “No,” the child repeated in a low whisper. “The bad man stayed a horse the rest of his days, and the children was allowed to ride him up and down the town.”
Becky’s tone brooked no contradiction, nor did Marianne wish to interfere with the child’s newly found tongue. “Very well,” she nodded. “I can see you have heard the tale told another way.”
“Did the princess ever marry?” Jane asked.
“She did one day,” Marianne said. “She married a very nice young prince, who was not nearly so handsome as the first, but who allowed her to keep as many kittens as she wanted in the palace.”
Jane helped herself to another tart. “That was a lovely story, to be sure, Missus. And will the books have others like it?”
“Not precisely,” she smiled, “but I am certain we shall like some of them quite well.”
“Did that princess ever have babies?” Jane asked.
“Oh, yes. All princesses, each one lovelier and happier than the next.”
Jane looked up at Marianne, then glanced down at her middle. “Are you growin’ a baby?”
The boys leaned forward curiously, prompting a sudden blush of self-consciousness. Still, Marianne allowed herself a laugh. Such a question from any other quarter would have unnerved her altogether, but the children’s innocent curiosity cast it in a different light.
“I am indeed,” she answered. “Before Yule we shall have to stop spoiling these kittens, and spoil my little one instead.”
Jane nodded seriously, then fixed her with a questioning gaze. “Where’s the daddy then?”
Now Marianne was disconcerted. Look where her incautious talk had led her. “My baby’s papa is gone to heaven,” she said briefly. “Now, let us—“
“Then it will be wicked like us and must be sold,” Charlie said matter-of-factly, as he munched a tart.
Jane nodded. “Aye, ‘tis so,” she sighed.
“Whatever do you mean?” Marianne gasped.
“It’s what Auld Peg said. Babies without daddies are wicked and must be sold, like me and Becky. That’s how we come to Auld Peg.”
“Me and Charlie, too,” George informed her. “I could be a sweep or maybe a rag-picker.”
A shudder coursed through Marianne. That little children should be told they were wicked! That they should be told such lies! She took a breath before she spoke. “Then you must know it is false, Jane, for you have said Old Peg was a liar. Oh, it is all lies. Charlie, George, forget what you have heard. All babies are good and sweet—let us say no more about it.”
Jane pursed her lips. “What about them two?” she asked, indicating the boys with a jerk of her head. “D’you suppose they was born good and turned wicked later?”
“Of course they were! It is all mistakes that are made, not sins committed. And I do not believe they are quite wicked now,” she went on, “merely bored.”
“Aye, that’s it,” Charlie nodded, “though we get some fun from watchin’ old Haggerty over t’ the reverend’s. He says things as makes us laugh.”
George chuckled. “Only today he swore he would toss us on the coals and make us into shoes for the old white horse.”
Marianne could only imagine what sort of tricks they must have been up to prompt such a threat. “Perhaps,” she said tentatively, “you should come here to learn your letters, like Jane and Becky.”
The boys wrinkled their noses, but before they could object to this plan, Jane pronounced, “That wouldna do at all!”
Charlie and George glanced to the doorway just then, and Marianne followed their gaze. There stood the doctor, his arms folded and a grim expression cast over his features. How much had he heard, she wondered? None of it was to the good, she knew. He had asked her to teach the little girls their letters, not fill their heads with ideas society would never accept. Their words merely reflected what all the world thought, and she had called the world a pack of liars—and so they were. Her chin lifted a fraction. He could take issue with her if he so desired, but she would not take back a word.
“Good afternoon,” he said, nodding to her. “Come, children, you have imposed on Mrs. Glencoe long enough. Say your thank yous and come along.”
Jane and Becky stood and straightened their frocks before each dropped in a little curtsey. The boys likewise struggled to their feet and executed enthusiastic, if angular, bows.
“Thank you for the fine story,” George said.
“And the tarts,” his brother added.
“Missus Glencoe says she will tell us more stories, Dr. Venables,” Jane told him. “That is kind in her, d’you not think?”
“Very kind indeed,” he concurred briefly. “Now come along. Mrs. Maiden has tasks for you all.”
Marianne watched the children troop out with a mixture of relief and chagrin. She did not know quite how to characterize what had just passed, nor what to expect from the doctor. Perhaps he would not let them come again. Her heart sank. She would miss them.
“You did not tell me you were a miracle worker,” the doctor said quietly when they were left alone.
She stole a glance at him and was relieved to see the ghost of a smile tracing his lips. “I do not believe I have seen Charlie and George so still,” he said, “and they were not asleep. And was that little Becky’s voice I heard as I came in?”
So he had been there that long. She nodded, unsure how to respond. The silence that interposed was past bearing. “I am sorry, doctor. I did not mean to say such things. That is, I did, but—“
“Mrs. Glencoe, Mrs. Glencoe,” he whispered. Then he took her hand in his and, raising it to his lips, kissed it as if it were the dearest thing on earth.
Chapter Eleven
It had, in fact, been Mr. Haggerty’s much aggrieved tale of George’s and Charlie’s mischief which had sent Dr
. Venables in search of the boys. Their antics had resulted in a day’s work undone for the poor fellow, and his resulting wrath was understandable. Venables had followed their trail (marked by various and sundry complaints likewise vexing) from the Wallers’ all the way to Rosewood Cottage. When he had reached his destination, however, the sound of Mrs. Glencoe’s voice as she told her tale had transfixed him. The fairy tale, while diverting enough on its surface, spoke volumes of experience and pain, and was overlain by a mantle of wisdom.
And when she had answered the children’s oddly sorted questions, the passion in her voice had etched itself on his heart. He knew that, in listening to what had passed, he had been granted the privilege of viewing a window to her soul. But it was a dark window, and only a few vague shapes were visible there.
Only one who had been accused of wickedness, accused unjustly, would rise thus to the defense of the innocent. Others might voice such sentiments. Those who felt them were rare. He knew this from the world. He knew it from himself.
Before him on the path, the children walked in pairs, Jane and Becky hand in hand, huddled together against the wind. George and Charlie, however, clasped theirs behind them, whistling tunes up into the trees, affecting innocence. For all the trials they might occasion, he agreed with the lady. He knew there was no true wickedness in any child. When her listeners had prattled on about the selling of children, a wound had opened in his heart. Mrs. Glencoe’s words were balm.
What was it he felt for her? he wondered. He realized he knew little of her, little he could articulate. But what was it Pascal had said? La coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point. The heart has reasons of which reason knows nothing. In the past he had known a great deal about many women: their families, their fortunes, their likes and dislikes. He had known them to a nicety. Everything and nothing.
Of Mrs. Glencoe he knew nothing— and everything. Everything that mattered. She was kind and intelligent and wise. She had suffered, and went on bravely. She was beautiful, but unself-conscious. Their short acquaintance had opened for his perusal a full biography of her soul.
Unless he exercised great care, he knew he would find himself in love with her. Perhaps he already was. But that was beside the point. It would be the height of selfishness to intrude on her. Like him, she had found a refuge from the world in these hills, and it was ill conceived to think he had any right to insinuate himself on her privacy.
But there was a distinct pang as he thought of keeping his distance from her. Now that he had admitted to himself what his feelings might be, the notion nagged like a sore tooth he could not leave alone.
The children, he noticed, were now walking much closer together. That was unusual as, for the most part, the girls had kept their distance from Charlie and George. They seemed to exchange a word or two, then more. Not more mischief, he hoped. He had counted on Jane and Becky to be quiet additions to his household, peaceful foils to their noisome counterparts. He had even hoped they might confer some of their own docility on his other charges. He prayed that the opposite might not be true.
He quickened his step to catch up, but found they fell to silence at his approach. He did note, however, that Becky glanced to Jane, who in turn hissed at the boys and put a finger to her lips. What such complicity might betoken, he dared not guess.
“How are your studies progressing?” he asked Jane.
“I know my letters,” she said with pride, “and Missus says I shall soon have words and stories.”
“Capital! That is very good indeed.”
“I should like to have stories in my head for the dark nights,” she said wistfully. “I could whisper them to Becky when we are lonely.”
Poor little mite! he thought with a pang. “That would be well, but you must know, most people read stories from books.”
She frowned. “They are very hard to carry about, though. Besides, if they were in my head, no one could steal them from me.”
He felt his heart lurch at these words. “You needn’t worry about that anymore, Jane. You know no one will steal from you here.”
“Aye, I know that well enough, but who knows what tomorrow might bring?” she asked philosophically. “You might chuck us out, same as another. Books would be a might burden on the road, and in such weather as this.”
He took her by the shoulders and knelt by her side, despite the damp of the road. “Believe me, Jane. I do not find treasures merely to cast them aside.”
She managed a smile for him, an expression which did not seem to reflect her being wholly convinced. He was about to reassure her, but now Charlie tugged at his sleeve. Dr. Venables looked into a pair of worried brown eyes.
“Please, doctor,” he asked, “what d’you do with them that’s not treasures?”
Dr. Venables had been planning to deliver a lecture to the boys in private, but now he wondered what effect it might have. Convince them of their wickedness? That he could not do. He deliberated a moment longer.
“Tell me, boys. Have you ever heard the phrase ‘a diamond in the rough’?” he asked.
Charlie looked to George. They shook their heads.
“It means that sometimes,” he said slowly, “appearances are deceiving. Do you see this ring?”
He held out his hand before the children. On it, a diamond set in gold sparkled in the waning light. “This belonged to my great-grandfather. It sat many years in a vault, growing dull and tarnished. When I first saw it, I thought it a worthless trifle, but when it was polished, it proved to be quite valuable. Beneath the grime and years was a diamond waiting to sparkle. You two are the same.”
The boys looked at him in disbelief, and Jane was unkind enough to make a scornful little noise. “I saw a glimpse of your sparkle today,” he went on, “in Mrs. Glencoe’s drawing room. You were well behaved and polite, as I have never before seen you. After what I had just heard from Mr. Haggerty, I was unprepared for such a display.”
The boys hung their heads, and the doctor allowed the silence to hang in the air a moment. “Mayhap,” Charlie ventured at last, “Missus brings out the shine in us?”
“Mayhap,” the doctor nodded, “in all of us.” Glancing up at the sky, he went on, “Let us hurry along then, before it rains again.”
* * * *
As soon as the doctor and the children were out of sight, Marianne took a shawl and dashed out the door in the opposite direction. Despite the wild weather, she needed a ramble in the late autumn fields to clear her head and soothe her heart. The path she followed led away from the stone circle, and that was just as well, for it now held a memory which would likely obscure her thoughts.
The hills rolled before her one after another, dotted with brush and gorse, and she wound her way between them, following the path of a small stream. The air and landscape were fresh from the storm, but they did little to calm her. The echoes of her own voice speaking to the children twined themselves into an unsteady, shifting memory of what had passed.
The words she had spoken were so flagrantly unconventional, so incautious, she trembled to recall them. How much of herself must she have revealed? No facts, of course— but her spirit had been laid bare all the same. One as perceptive as Dr. Venables must surely read something of her secrets there. Further contact with him had revealed him as far more than the lighthearted flirt she had first encountered. He was a man of knowledge and depth, one who was both learned and, in a way, naive. Still, he had not reacted in the way she feared.
Her hand still burned from his kiss. Breathless, she sank down on a low stone wall and pressed her hand against a cool cheek. His gesure was not mere gallantry— her heart told her that much—but what could he have meant by it? She did not like to think. Men had been easily smitten by her in the past, and here was a man alone, with few for company and conversation. If, incomprehensibly, he did share certain sympathies with her, it could be he was in danger of fancying himself in love with her. That would never, never do. She had made no plans for such a contingency
, had never allowed for the possibility. Oh, what was she to do?
“Good morrow, mistress.”
She looked up, surprised to see that Maggie had joined her, silent as a cat. She had not encountered the herb woman since their first meeting, though she had intended to find her direction.
“You’ve not been drinking the tea I prescribed— I can see it in your eyes. And what has brought such a fevered look to you?”
Marianne thought she discerned a twinkle in the old woman’s eyes, almost as if she suspected what had sent her out into the inclement weather.
“As ever,” she returned with a brief smile, “it is life.”
Maggie nodded her head sagely. “Life spins a tangled skein, I know well enough. Come sit by my fire and have a sup of tea with me. The wind is almost spent, and I think there will be but one more shower this day.”
Maggie led her around a bend in the stream to a grove where a small thatched cottage stood, like a picture from a book of fairy tales. Inside, a low heath fire burned, and from the rafters hung row after row of fragrant herbs, dried and bundled together. The old woman bade her sit down before the hearth, while she set the kettle to boil.
Marianne glanced about the cottage. All was neat and orderly. A bright curtain was drawn back by a ribbon to reveal an alcove with a bed. A few pieces of clothing hung from pegs on the wall. Against one wall stood a table, by far the largest piece of furniture in the dwelling. On it lay a pile of fresh cuttings, a roll of twine, a mortar and pestle, and several jars and bottles. Most interesting, however, was a shelf overflowing with books. The light was too dim to peruse their titles, but they looked old and well used.
“You shall see them another time,” Maggie said, following her gaze. Marianne blushed, suddenly conscious that she had been staring quite rudely.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I did not mean to— “
Maggie shook her head. “‘Tis nothing. I’d do the same myself.” She took a seat across from her guest and crumbled some herbs into the teapot. “This path has led many a troubled soul to Maggie’s door,” she remarked quietly as she prepared the tea. “Do you wish to speak, or leave your troubles to the silence?”
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