Fortune's Mistress

by Comstock, Mary Chase

  Marianne often thought back to the dream she had had the night of Felicity’s birth. Unlike other dreams, it did not fade. She could remember every detail, and recalling it summoned a lifting of spirits which helped her face the unknown future. Looking at her child, she knew that self-forgiveness had been accomplished, for who could regret pain which ended in such bliss?

  Though quite tiny, Felicity seemed to thrive. She was alert and good-natured and, though Marianne recognized that untoward parental conceit must account for the notion, she was almost certain the child already recognized her own name.

  The doctor had called only briefly in the weeks which ensued, and his absence tore at Marianne’s heart. Neither he nor she had endeavored to mention the events that prefaced the night of Felicity’s birth, but she knew the encounter with Stratford and the story of her past still hung between them. At the time, her history had seemed to prompt only Venables’s sympathy, never his condemnation, yet now she wondered. Why did he suddenly have so little time for her? He was, she knew, too good a man to despise her; that was undoubtedly the reason, despite her best efforts, she had fallen in love with him. Part of the reason, she amended, as the image of his face rose before her.

  She sat one cold afternoon just before Yule, rocking her baby before the fire. The kittens, now almost cats, sprawled on the hearth, occasionally stretching, but for the most part seeming to revel in sheer laziness.

  “Mrs. Glencoe?” Annie peeped in the doorway.

  “Yes, Annie? What is it?”

  “ ‘Tis Dr. Venables, wanting to know if you are at your leisure.”

  Marianne’s heart fluttered at the mention of his name. She had almost given up hope of seeing him again, and she felt her pulse quicken at the mere mention of his name.

  “Tell him to come in,” she said, attempting unsuccessfully to keep the excitement from her tone.

  The doctor entered a moment later, bearing a basket. He smiled warmly at her and the child, and she felt an answering smile on her own lips. His manner seemed somehow lighter than it had for some time, and reminded her of their first encounter.

  “And how fare my ladies today?” he asked brightly.

  Marianne laughed. “That depends on what is in the basket,” she said. “If you have brought me a family of orphaned hedgehogs to mother, I vow I shall send you back out into the cold.”

  He uncovered the basket and set it at her side. “Jane and Becky have sent you some greens for Yule. They are very sparse in these parts,” he went on, “not perhaps what you are used to.”

  “They are lovely,” she smiled as she breathed in their heady fragrance, “and all the more so when I think how the dears must have worked to find them.”

  Venables paused for a moment, before saying, “I bring you news as well.”

  These words were spoken with a gravity which alerted her at once. She ceased rocking and looked at him, her heart pounding with sudden trepidation.

  His eyes searched her face. “I do not know,” he said hesitantly, “whether its import will occasion relief or distress. But it is something I cannot in good conscience keep from you.”

  In her arms, Felicity stretched and yawned, oblivious to the tension which hung in the air. Marianne rose and set the baby in her cradle. “Whatever it is, I must hear it,” she said quietly. She turned to face Venables and folded her hands before her. “Rest assured, there is little to which I am now unequal.”

  She seated herself once again and waited, images of doom crowding her head.

  “I must tell you,” he began, “how reluctant I am to bring this matter to your attention, for it will put you in mind of events I am sure you had far rather forget.”

  Marianne felt her heart grow chill. So her fears were justified. It was all over for her.

  “The gentleman who lately caused you such distress— “

  “Stratford,” she whispered. “Go on.”

  “I do not know what he was to you,” Venables said wretchedly, “but you must know the worst: he is dead.”

  Dead. Stratford was dead. Marianne sank back in her chair, the tension of the past weeks suddenly drained from her. Though relieved beyond measure, she found herself speechless, and could but stare.

  “I should have known of the event sooner,” Venables went on, “but it was an odd circumstance, you see. The day after the storm, a farmer found Stratford’s horse wandering loose. Rather than reporting the incident to the magistrate, he accepted it as his good fortune, and said nothing of the matter. Stratford’s body was found only this morning, at the bottom of the cliffs by the sea. We can only conjecture that he was thrown there and died almost immediately.”

  He looked to Marianne, hoping, it seemed, to detect some reaction. She felt the tears of relief form in her eyes and come spilling down her cheeks.

  “My Marianne,” Venables murmured sadly, kneeling by her side. “Forgive my clumsiness. I had not thought...”

  She shook her head and tried to smile. “It is not that,” she said through her tears. “You are not to think ... It is just I am overcome to finally know…Thank God, he is gone!”

  Venables reached up to touch her face. “I wish you will say no more,” he said. “I assure you, what I have heard in this matter thus far, is entirely forgot. I wish you will put it from your mind.”

  She looked down at him, and felt the love stream forth. If he would have it that way, she felt not the least desire to protest. What was it Maggie had said? Let the dead past bury its dead. She was right. Marianne might at last turn her back on the dead past and, if she could, think no more on it.

  “But I wish to tell you something of my own past,” he went on, “for I think it may help you to sort the oddly tangled threads of fate, to show that you know nothing at all of sin.” He allowed his words to drift into silence.

  He stood and paced distractedly a few moments, then stopped, and faced her. “There stands before you,” he said, “one who has in his life done great harm. Irreparable, so I once thought.”

  “Hush,” she said softly. “You need not— “

  “But I must. I have never told this story before, but I beg you will listen to me. Surely you will understand my need to tell it.”

  His gaze and manner were so full of earnest entreaty, she swallowed hard and nodded.

  “You will have guessed,” he began, “that my origins are far from this tranquil countryside. My father was a baron, and my mother the daughter of an earl. As an only child, I was indulged past all endurance. Whatever I wanted, I had. Whatever I did was praised out of all reason. I was raised, in short, to believe that the sun rose and set for my convenience.

  “Not surprisingly, I grew up quite wild. Those tendencies of youth which are repressed in young women were fostered, even encouraged, in men. When I came on the town, a more dissolute excuse for a man could not have been found. I gamed and drank and kept company with those as bad as I.

  “Shortly after my first season on the town, I repaired to Ravenshead, a hunting lodge we kept in the country. I took several like-minded companions with me. We did little hunting, for the most part drank and rode wild about the countryside, worrying the cattle and making life difficult for the farmers thereabout.

  “We had been late at an inn one night, playing cards and drinking rum. We should have slept away our debauch there, but instead rode recklessly through the fields as dawn was beginning to break.” He shook his head. “I remember the trees crashing by as I rode, and laughing as the twigs raked at my coat. I broke through into a clearing. I was on them before I knew it.”

  Marianne looked at him, her eyes wide with the import of what he was telling her. He knelt by her side.

  “Children,” he whispered. “Little girls gone a-maying. They scattered before me, their flowers flying, but one of them fell. I could not stop my horse in time and rode her down.”

  He said nothing more for a moment. The silence around them reverberated with the horrible scene he had just depicted. Marianne lay a hand on
his head and stroked it, as if he were a small boy.

  “The child, you see, was Annie.”

  “Annie,” she gasped. “But how—?”

  “She has never remembered anything of the incident. Her parents died the next year, and I took her into my care.”

  “Renounced a barony and devoted your life to medicine,” she whispered.

  “I have done what I could. Powers greater than I have used me for their tool. I follow the dictates of my heart, knowing it is inspired by the will of Heaven.” He looked at her speakingly. “And Heaven has granted me love.”

  She pressed her hands to her cheeks, entirely at a loss. Of despair she knew a great deal, but of happiness almost nothing. How must she respond? He knew the worst of her; indeed they knew the worst of one another. At her side, he picked up a small leather-bound volume from the table and riffled through it.

  “When first we met,” he said softly, “we quoted lines from The Tempest. But we neglected the bard’s best words.” He found his place and read to her, “ ‘Let us not burthen our remembrances with a heaviness that’s gone.’ The nightmare is over for both of us. I pray you will let go the past, Marianne, and accept me as your future.”

  She knew that if she tried to speak, she would sink once more into tears, so full was her heart. She could picture the years ahead, full of children, their own and those who were drawn to them to be mended. Years full of laughter and love. She raised her eyes to him and nodded. He took her hands and drew her to him. She came without demure. In the firelight’s glow, they held one another calmly, lovingly, with faithful expectation of a lifetime spent thus.

  Those who looked down from above smiled in approval, as they watched the future unfold against a dim horizon of years. They saw sisters reunite, small cousins meet and embrace, and a hundred hearts open like flowers in the grace these lives endowed. From the cradle, Felicity murmured in her sleep, basking in the golden light of forgiveness.