Fortune's Mistress

by Comstock, Mary Chase

  “Before I knew it,” she went on wearily, “we had found ourselves in an empty chamber. That is when he— he forced me to his will.” She swallowed hard and shut her eyes. “I was so stupid, so horribly stupid. How could I not have seen—?”

  Venables chafed her hand between his. “Hush, my love,” he said. He felt his jaws tighten as he saw the tears shining on her eyelashes. He felt an anger, greater even than he had felt for Stratford, rise up in him. He had not known de la Roche, but had certainly heard of him in his younger days. The man had, in fact, been something of a hero to that debauched set to which he had himself once belonged. He shuddered now to think of it.

  “When he had done with me,” Marianne continued in a hollow voice, “he had his carriage drop me just beyond my own home. I was confused and distraught— I did not keep my secret long. My mother has sharp eyes and soon knew something was amiss. My parents were not prepared to hear my revelations with . . . equanimity, and I was still too headstrong to long bear what I viewed as their tyranny and rancor. They kept me locked away in my room until they could discover whether or not I was increasing—thank God I was not!

  “One night, I ran away. In a matter of days, I was back with the marquis. There was no other place to go. He kept me for a year or so, then I formed other liaisons. I made my way in the world as only a woman in my fallen state could. Through sin.”

  As he listened to Marianne’s story, he recognized it. He had heard it before, as had everyone in the ton. That the subject of it should prove to be one so gentle and good, that she should have been sinned against by all and sundry, tore his heart. No, he thought—regardless of self-condemnation, she knew nothing of sin. He stroked her hand and her hair, as the candle guttered in its holder. He knew he would tell her his story when the time was right. It would do nothing to raise him in her opinion, but at least then, she would know what sin was.

  When Marianne slept at last, spent by the turmoil of her confession, he left her again to Mrs. Bridges’s care, then stepped out into the corridor and followed it down the stairs to the kitchen. The fire still glowed, and a kettle sat warming at the hearthside. In the shadows, he could see Maggie, staring into the embers.

  “I will brew us a tisane, doctor,” Maggie said, as he entered. A linen bag hung from her waist, and he watched as she procured from this several small bags he supposed to contain herbs. When she had stirred them into an earthenware pot, she turned to him and indicated a low bench by the fireside. “Come join me here,” she said.

  He did as she suggested, waiting quietly until the tea had brewed. At last, she poured out a cup of fragrant, steaming liquid and held it out to him. He took it from her and breathed deep. Almost at once, he felt soothed and refreshed. She was a redoubtable woman, this Maggie.

  “I am glad you are here for this birth,” he told her. “I have wanted to see you at work for some time. Your reputation borders on mythic, you know.”

  She shrugged away the compliment. “Time will tell. I do not think this will prove the most difficult I have seen, as first births go.”

  “I am by no means convinced of that,” he said ruefully. “Mrs. Glencoe has undergone a shock this afternoon. I am glad there was . . .”

  “Aye. It is another woman she is in need of this night. Men have not been good to her, you see.”

  He looked at her sharply. Her eyes sparkled back at him, as if she read his thoughts.

  “She’s told me nothing in words. I have only read what is in her face, and in her heart. You have done the same, have you not? The pain of the past is written there clear enough for those who will see.”

  True, he had perused that mysterious text since he had first met the lady, but to little avail. This night’s revelation only made the matter more thorny.

  “I am not certain,” he said slowly, “what I have read there.”

  In the darkness, her low chuckle sounded like a dry leaf crumbling. “You need not hold back with me, doctor. It is the tradition of healers, you know, that they may speak freely with one another. Or are you still so much of that other world that your lips will not let ‘scape an honest word?”

  What she implied was true. Venables had done what he could to exorcise the demons of his life in the ton, but it was still a part of him in the form of reticence and closely guarded secrets. For all he had tried to be free of the past, her words brought him reeling back. Outside, the wind howled mournfully. “What would you know of that world?” he asked.

  “More than enough to see it is bounded by hypocrisy on the one side, and fear on the other,” she returned tartly.

  “Hypocrisy, yes. There can be no denying that,” he agreed. “But fear? How do you mean?”

  “What we all fear: that we are human.” She stared into the fire for a long moment. “The quality— they act as if true feelings were not for such as they,” she went on, “as if this life were but a game to out-dance death. They blind themselves to the truth: their sparkles and fine ways are nothing. In the end, we all suffer the same fate, countess or scullery maid.

  “Now, you and Mrs. Glencoe are different, though you’ve sprung from that world,” she said with a sharp glance at him. “The shadow of the past is still upon you, but you’ve come through hell, the both of you, and see sometimes with clearer eyes.”

  “Only sometimes?” he asked.

  “Aye,” she nodded. “Neither one of you can see what’s written plainly before you, what even little children can see.”

  He remained silent, hoping she would say more. Perhaps this strange woman knew as well as he what was written in his heart and Marianne’s, but he sensed that direct questions would not serve him here. Maggie seemed content to let the silence hang between them for the moment, though she did not take her eyes from him. He busied himself building up the fire, for the room had grown quite chill.

  When he had addressed this task, he found himself anxious for further conversation, and unnerved by what had been left unsaid. “You criticize my reticence,” he said quietly, “yet you will do no more than talk in riddles. Tell me what more you know, Maggie, if it is honesty you value.”

  “Aye, I value it well enough,” she said. “You have caught me out— not many do. As for riddles, that is the shape my knowledge comes in. I do not always know what it means myself, and must often guess.” She looked up from the fire and caught his eye. “Very well. I do not have leave to tell you all, but I will say what I may.

  “I look at your face and the mistress’s, and I see you’ve traveled much the same path, and ended at the same spot: regret. Aye, but there’s the need for forgiveness, too, more for yourself than others. Is that a riddle now, or do you think I speak more plain?”

  Venables felt his heart start at these words. True, she did not speak in terms a stranger would have been able to interpret; as for their application to his and Marianne’s various histories, her words held true. Still, he frowned in consternation, feeling as if he knew both more and less than he had before.

  He heard just then the sound of Mrs. Bridges’s step in the passage. “Come quick,” she called to them. “ ‘Tis the mistress in a mortal bad way. She be tossing about and talking wild.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Venables tore up the stairs, while Maggie followed at a less hurried pace. When he gained the chamber he sought, he was greeted with the sight of Marianne thrashing wildly, as if caught in the throes of a nightmare.

  “I do not know what’s come over her,” Mrs. Bridges said in apprehension. “She was sleeping peacefully enough, then woke with a start, saying it was all to pieces here, and she must fly.”

  Joining them, Maggie took the lady’s arm and, leading her away, said, “Pay it no heed, Mrs. Bridges. I have seen it thus more than once. It is the pain and the fright with these first children. Do go to bed and rest yourself now. I shall call, if you are needed.”

  When they were left alone, Maggie went on, “‘Tis better if we are left in peace to our work. Sally Bridges is no gossip, but s
till ‘tis best if the mistress has her privacy. Households run better where there’s nothing to repeat.”

  Venables nodded, and crossed to the bed to take stock of the situation. As he approached, Marianne turned her head away from him, tears still glistening on her lashes. He knelt and caressed her forehead.

  “I am being punished for my folly and sin,” she whispered. “I thought I could outwit fate. I thought I could be happy.”

  “Poor soul,” Maggie whispered.

  “Mrs. Glencoe sustained a nasty shock this afternoon,” he explained quietly as he chafed Marianne’s wrist. “Sometimes the full effects of such shocks are not immediately realized. It is bad enough her child is come early, but her mind seems disordered as well.”

  Venables was far more distraught than his calm manner indicated. To hear the despair in her voice, see the tears streaming down her face, to know the pain the night held in store for her, was overwhelming. If only he might bear some part of the burden.

  Marianne moaned and reached for his arm. “You must promise me something,” she murmured.

  “Anything,” he said softly.

  “If I should die tonight—“

  “No! You will not die. Do you not see? Why, Maggie and I are with you. Together we can— “

  “But if I should die,” she went on implacably, “promise you will send my baby to my sister. Promise me?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I promise. Now, do not fret yourself further.”

  “Olivia will love it as I would have done,” Marianne whispered weakly, “treat it as I would have, never speak a word of reproach, for my past is not the baby’s fault, you know.”

  “Of course not,” Venables said soothingly.

  “Do the sins of the mother pass to the child, do you think?”

  “Of course not,” he assured her. “Babies are good and sweet—like kittens. Do you not remember telling the children?”

  She wrenched away from him then, caught up in pain so severe her skin seemed paler than the very sheets. Her hands clutched at the edges of the featherbed beneath her, till her knuckles showed white. A moment later she relaxed again.

  “It is good for me to suffer, I think,” she murmured. “Perhaps heaven will look kindly on my child.”

  They had a long night of it and into the dawn. By the time it was done, both Maggie and the doctor were glad to admit the benefit of the other’s expertise. They were worn to a frazzle, for once labor had begun it became clear the child’s position was breech. Here, Venables was doubly glad of Old Maggie’s years of experience, for she undertook not only to guide the baby safely into life, but reassure him as well that all was going as well as it might. When it was done, she wrapped the baby, a healthy though small girl, and laid her beside her mother.

  It was now well past dawn, and it had been some time since Marianne had spoken. Whether from exhaustion or sheer desperation of spirit mattered not; Venables was beside himself with worry for her, relieved there was none other it would be his task to reassure this night. He felt for her pulse: it was faint, but steady.

  “She will do well enough,” Maggie said confidently. “She is tired and overwrought. The best cure for that is sleep, as I am sure you will agree. I shall go below to prepare some strong beef tea with plenty of marrow for her; it is quite a restorative.”

  When she left, Venables sank into the chair at Marianne’s side. She was breathing peacefully now, and her forehead was no longer furrowed. He prayed Maggie would be right in her assessment. Prayer was all he had left.

  * * * *

  In her dream, Marianne walked in a field of bright flowers, and all about her, little girls danced in the sunlight, garlands in their hair. In the sky above, white clouds scattered and amassed, taking the shapes of lambs prancing on a blue field. It was a paradise of sweetness, the air alive with light. Never since childhood had Marianne enjoyed such an overpowering sense of serenity and well-being.

  When her child was born, she thought with a smile, this was just such a place to bring her to play and be happy. She reached down to feel where the babe rested beneath her heart, then froze. She was not pregnant? What had become of her child?

  “Welcome, my Marianne.”

  The voice was near her, but at first she could not see whence it came. The brightness of the air began to gather and take shape, and in a moment she found herself confronted with a lady, both grave and smiling.

  “Do I know you?” Marianne asked.

  The lady nodded. “We have met before, but I daresay you do not remember. Sit with me here, and we shall talk a moment.”

  Marianne shook her head. “But I must find my baby, you see. I cannot imagine where it has got to, for it isn’t even born yet.”

  “Look below,” the lady said.

  Then it seemed as if the grass parted beneath her feet, and she looked down into her chamber at Rosewood. A dark-haired woman lay in the bed, and Dr. Venables and Old Maggie stood at her side. A baby was tucked at the woman’s side, sleeping peacefully.

  “You see. All is well with the child. With your daughter.”

  Marianne did not understand, but she nodded. “Who is the woman?” she asked.

  “Do you not recognize her?”

  The woman was pale, almost to death. The doctor put a hand to her throat for a moment, then said something to Maggie, who nodded and left the chamber. Then it was clear.

  “She is ... that is, it is I.”

  The lady nodded.

  “Am I dead then?”

  “No. Just resting after a long travail.”

  She watched as the doctor sat at the bedside and smoothed her hair. He did not look at her with contempt, though she remembered now what had been revealed to him. It seemed, in fact, that there was love in his eyes. She must be mistaken, though. No man alive could hear what he had and…

  “You are not mistaken,” the lady said softly. “He loves you, and you him. It is yourselves you do not love, and whom you must forgive. That is the task I must send you back to perform. The rest does not matter.”

  Below the scene began to fade, and with it the airy landscape which had surrounded her. The rest was sleep.

  Marianne blinked awake. A candle flickered at the bedside table, almost spent. In its light, she could see Dr. Venables nodding in a chair, a book open in his lap. He looked no more than a tired little boy in the soft light. It was a comfort to see him there. Outside, the storm had stilled at last, and she felt at peace. Pain was a mere memory now.

  She felt a stirring at her side, and peeped beneath the coverlet. There was her baby, curled like a rosebud in a downy blanket. She was so tiny! And so perfect! Her head was crowned with wisps of dark curls. The soft line of brows perched above her eyes. Her fingers curled into little pink fists. Her chest rose and fell like a leaf on the lapping edge of a pond.

  Marianne smiled. She is really mine, she thought. Mine to love. Mine to teach. Mine to share joy with. She glanced at the doctor. His eyes were open now and he, too, was smiling, though wearily. He shut his book and set it on the table.

  “How do you fare?” he whispered.

  “Well,” she returned, and meant it. “Is she not perfection?”

  He nodded. “She is indeed a beautiful child. One would never know to look at the two of you that there was ever a moment of anxiety.” He yawned and stretched for a moment. “What will you call her?”

  She did not hesitate. She had known the name in her heart for a long time. “Felicity.”

  “It is a good choice.” He stood and looked down at them with the edge of a smile. “And this was a good night’s work.”

  The gray light of morning streamed in the window. “What is the time?” she asked.

  “Nearly ten, I should imagine. Try to go back to sleep, if you can. Or would you like me to send Annie or Maggie to you?”

  She shook her head. “Let them rest.”

  Next to her little Felicity stirred and opened her eyes. They were as blue as the summer sky. She saw only h
erself there, not a hint of Cheswick. “Is it all right if I hold her?”

  The doctor laughed. “I should think it very odd if it were not! Here, let me help you to sit up.”

  He slipped his arm behind her shoulders and piled more pillows behind her. Then he lifted the baby into her arms. She curled into her mother’s arms as if into a comfortable nest, closed her eyes, and slept again.

  “I shall leave the two of you alone for a bit,” he said softly.

  “Please don’t!” she begged. “What if she should wake? I shall not know what to do!”

  “You must do what comes naturally. Besides, I think she will sleep for some time yet. She has had a tiring time of it as well. Just hold her and let her grow accustomed to you. Talk to her, or sing if she awakens. You will do very well.”

  Chapter Twenty

  For Marianne, the days that passed were full of peace, and the role of motherhood sat as easily on her shoulders as sunlight on the hillside. Felicity was a delight to her heart. Every time Marianne looked at the child, she felt as if a gift from heaven had fallen to her. Her tranquility was marred only by the notion that, though Stratford seemed to have quit the vicinity entirely, he might somehow have contrived to make good on his threat to destroy her happiness. At times, the anxiety was so overwhelming, she set about packing trunks and preparing to leave, then stopping when she realized with a sinking heart that she had no other place to go.

  When the Wallers called as soon as she was equal to receiving them, however, she began to hope that Stratford had indeed departed the neighborhood without event. They had remarked on nothing other than the child’s beauty and expressed their concerns for her well-being.

  The children came calling as well. The little girls held Felicity, singing softly to her, while the boys tried their luck at amusing the baby with such toys as they had contrived to make for her. As these were a carved soldier and a kite, they found little success in this endeavor and, often as not, amused themselves playing with the kittens instead.