Copyright
Copyright © 2012, 1994 by Susanna Kearsley
Cover and internal design © 2012 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Series design by Kelly Eismann
Cover design by Susan Zucker
Cover images ©Irene Lamprakou/Trevillion Images, slovegrove/istockphoto.com, ranplett/istockphoto.com
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Originally published in the UK in 1994 by Corgi Books, an imprint of Transworld Publishers Ltd. Reprinted in 1995. Published in 2009 by Allison & Busby Limited, London.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kearsley, Susanna.
Mariana / by Susanna Kearsley.
p. cm.
I. Title.
PR9199.3.K4112M3 2012
813’.54—dc23
2011050596
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Author’s Note
Reading Group Guide
An Excerpt From The Shadowy Horses
About the Author
Back Cover
For Susan Shepherd
who led me down the road less traveled,
and for my sister Kathryn
who loved this book the best.
All day within the dreamy house,
The doors upon their hinges creak’d;
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek’d,
Or from the crevice peer’d about.
Old faces glimmer’d thro’ the doors,
Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices called her from without.
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “Mariana”
Chapter 1
I first saw the house in the summer of my fifth birthday.
It was all the fault of a poet, and the fact that our weekend visit with a favorite elderly aunt in Exeter had put my father in a vaguely poetic mood. Faced with an unexpected fork in the road on our drive home to Oxford, he deliberately chose the left turning instead of the right. “The road less traveled by,” he told us, in a benign and dreamy voice. And as the poet had promised, it did indeed make all the difference.
To begin with, we became lost. So hopelessly lost, in fact, that my mother had to put away the map. The clouds that rolled in to cover the sun seemed only an extension of my father’s darkening mood, all poetry forgotten as he hunched grimly over the steering wheel. By lunchtime it was raining, quite heavily, and my mother had given sweets to my brother Tommy and me in a vain attempt to keep us from further irritating Daddy, whose notable temper was nearing the breaking point.
The sweets were peppermint, striped pink and white like large marbles, and so effective at hindering speech that we had to take them out of our mouths altogether in order to talk to each other. By the time we reached the first cluster of village shops and houses, my face and hands were sticky with sugar, and the front of my new ruffled frock was a stained and wrinkled ruin.
I’ve never been entirely certain what it was that made my father stop the car where he did. I seem to remember a cat darting across the road in front of us, but that may simply have been the invention of an imaginative and overtired child. Whatever the reason, the car stopped, the engine stalled, and in the ensuing commotion I got my first watery glimpse of the house.
It was a rather ordinary old farmhouse, large and square and solid, set back some distance from the road with a few unkempt trees dotted around for privacy. Its darkly glistening slate roof sloped down at an alarming angle to meet the weathered gray stone walls, the drab monotony of color broken by twin redbrick chimneys and an abundance of large multipaned windows, their frames painted freshly white.
I was pressing my nose against the cold glass of the car window, straining to get a better look, when after a few particularly virulent oaths my father managed to coax the engine back to life. My mother, obviously relieved, turned round to check up on us.
“Julia, don’t,” she pleaded. “You’ll leave smears on the windows.”
“That’s my house,” I said, by way of explanation.
My brother Tommy pointed to a much larger and more stately home that was just coming into view. “Well, that’s my house,” he countered, triumphant. To the delight of my parents, we continued the game all the way home to Oxford, and the lonely gray house was forgotten.
I was not to see it again for seventeen years.
That summer, the summer that I turned twenty-two, is strong in my memory. I had just graduated from art school, and had landed what seemed like the perfect job with a small advertising firm in London. My brother Tom, three years older than myself, had recently come down from Oxford with a distinguished academic record, and promptly shocked the family by announcing his plans to enter the Anglican ministry. Ours was not a particularly religious family, but Tom jokingly maintained that, given his name, he had little choice in the matter. “Thomas Beckett! I ask you,” he had teased my mother. “What else could you expect?”
To celebrate what we perceived to be our coming of age, Tom and I decided to take a short holiday on the south Devon coast, where we could temporarily forget about parents and responsibilities and take advantage of the uncommonly hot and sunny weather with which southern England was being blessed. We were not disappointed. We spent a blissful week lounging about on the beach at Torquay, and emerged relaxed, rejuvenated, and sunburnt.
Tom, caught up on a rising swell of optimism, appointed me navigator for the trip back. He should have known better. While I’m not exactly bad with maps, I am rather easily distracted by the scenery. Inevitably, we found ourselves off the main road, toiling through what seemed like an endless procession of tiny, identical villages linked by a narrow road so overhung by
trees it had the appearance of a tunnel.
After the seventh village, Tom shot me an accusing sideways look. We had both inherited our mother’s Cornish coloring and finely cut features, but while on me the combination of dark hair and eyes was more impish than exotic, on Tom it could look positively menacing when he chose.
“Where do you suppose we are?” he asked, with dangerous politeness.
I dutifully consulted the map. “Wiltshire, I expect,” I told him brightly. “Somewhere in the middle.”
“Well, that’s certainly specific.”
“Look,” I suggested, as we approached village number eight, “why don’t you stop being so pigheaded and ask directions at the next pub? Honestly, Tom, you’re as bad as Dad—” The word ended in a sudden squeal.
This time, I didn’t imagine it. A large ginger cat dashed right across the road, directly in front of our car. The brakes shrieked a protest as Tom put his foot to the floor, and then, right on cue, the engine died.
“Damn and blast!”
“Curates can’t use language like that,” I reminded my brother, and he grinned involuntarily.
“I’m getting it out of my system,” was his excuse.
Laughing, I looked out the window and froze.
“I don’t believe it.”
“I know,” my brother agreed. “Rotten luck.”
I shook my head. “No, Tom, look—it’s my house.”
“What?”
“My gray house,” I told him. “Don’t you remember, that day the cat ran onto the road and Daddy stalled the car?”
“No.”
“On the way back from Auntie Helen’s,” I elaborated. “Just after my fifth birthday. It was raining and Daddy took the wrong turning and a cat ran onto the road and he had to stop the car.”
My brother looked at me in the same way a scientist must look at a curious new specimen, and shook his head.
“No, I don’t remember that.”
“Well, it happened,” I said stubbornly, “and the car stalled just here, and I saw that house.”
“If you say so.”
The car was running again now, and Tom maneuvered it over to the side of the road so I could have a clearer view.
“What do you think it means?” I asked.
“I think it means our family has bloody bad luck with cats in Wiltshire,” Tom said. I chose to ignore him.
“I wonder how old it is.”
Tom leaned closer. “Elizabethan, I should think. Possibly Jacobean. No later.”
I’d forgotten that Tom had been keen on architecture at school. Besides, Tom always knew everything.
“I’d love to get a closer look.” My voice was hopeful, but Tom merely sent me an indulgent glance before turning back onto the road that led into the village.
“I am not,” he said, “going to peer into anyone’s windows to satisfy your curiosity. Anyway, the drive is clearly marked ‘Private.’”
A short distance down the road we pulled into the car park of the Red Lion, a respectable half-timbered pub with an ancient thatched roof and tables arranged on a makeshift terrace to accommodate the noontime crowd. I stayed in the car, preparing to take my shift as driver, while Tom went into the pub to down a quick pint and get directions back to the main road.
I was so busy pondering how great the odds must be against being lost twice in the same spot, that I completely forgot to ask my brother to find out the name of the village we were in.
It would be another eight years before I found myself once again in Exbury, Wiltshire.
***
This time, the final time, it was early April, two months shy of my thirtieth birthday, and—for once—I was not lost. I still lived in London, in a tiny rented flat in Bloomsbury that I had become rooted to, in spite of an unexpectedly generous legacy left to me by my father’s aunt Helen, that same aunt we’d been visiting in Exeter all those years earlier. She’d only seen me twice, had Auntie Helen, so why she had chosen to leave me such an obscene amount of money remained a mystery. Perhaps it was because I was the only girl in a family known for its male progeny. Auntie Helen, according to my father, had been possessed of staunchly feminist views. “A room of your own,” Tom had told me, in a decided tone. “That’s what she’s left you. Haven’t you read Virginia Woolf?”
It was rather more than the price of a room, actually, but I hadn’t the slightest idea what to do with it. Tom had stoutly refused my offer to share the inheritance, and my parents maintained they had no need of it, being comfortably well-off themselves since my father’s retirement from surgical practice. So that was that.
I had quite enough to occupy my time, as it was, having shifted careers from graphic design to illustration, a field I found both more interesting and more lucrative. By some stroke of luck I had been teamed early on with a wonderfully talented author, and our collaboration on a series of fantasy tales for children had earned me a respectable name for myself in the business, not to mention a steady living. I had just that week been commissioned to illustrate a sizable new collection of legends and fairy tales from around the world, a project that excited me greatly and promised to keep me busily employed for the better part of a year. I was on top of the world.
Ordinarily, I’d have celebrated my good fortune with my family, but since my parents were halfway round the world on holiday and Tom was occupied with Easter services, I had settled for the next best thing and spent the weekend with friends in Bath. On the Monday morning, finding the traffic on the main road too busy for my taste, I detoured to the north and followed the gentle sweep of the Kennet River towards London.
It was a cool but perfect spring day, and the trees that lined the road were bursting into leaf with an almost tropical fervor. In honor of the season, I drove with the windows down, and the air smelled sweetly of rain and soil and growing things.
My arthritic but trustworthy Peugeot crested a small hill with a protesting wheeze. Gathering speed, I negotiated a broad curve where the road dipped down into a shallow valley before crossing over the Kennet via a narrow stone bridge. As I bumped across the bridge, I felt a faint tingling sensation sweep across the back of my neck, and my fingers tightened on the wheel in anticipation.
The most surprising thing was that I wasn’t at all surprised, this time, to see the house. Somehow, I almost expected it to be there.
I slowed the car to a crawl, then pulled off the road and stopped altogether, just opposite the long gravel drive. A large ginger cat stalked haughtily across the road without so much as glancing at me, and disappeared into the waving grass. Three times in one lifetime, I told myself, even without the cat, was definitely beyond the bounds of ordinary coincidence.
Surely, I reasoned, whoever owned the house wouldn’t mind terribly if I just took a casual peek around…? As I hesitated, biting my lip, a flock of starlings rose in a beating cloud from the field beside me, gathered and wheeled once above the gray stone house, and then was gone.
For me, that was the deciding factor. Along with my mother’s looks, I had also inherited the superstitious nature of her Cornish ancestors, and the starlings were a good-luck omen of my own invention. From my earliest childhood, whenever I had seen a flock of them it meant that something wonderful was about to happen. My brother Tom repeatedly tried to point out the flaw in this belief, by reminding me that starlings in the English countryside were not exactly uncommon, and that their link to my happiness could only be random at best. I remained unconvinced. I only knew that the starlings had never steered me wrong, and watching them turn now and rise above the house, I suddenly made a decision.
I grabbed my shapeless green anorak from the seat beside me and stepped out of the car, nearly tumbling into the ditch in my eagerness. I wasn’t exactly dressed to go visiting, I admitted, tugging the anorak on over my jeans and ro
ugh sweater—but that couldn’t be helped. I ran a hand through my hair in a hopeless attempt to smooth the short, unruly curls, but the damply blowing wind spoiled my efforts.
Now, I thought, what excuse to use? Directions? A glass of water? Trouble with the car? I glanced back at the dented and battered Peugeot and nodded. Car trouble, I decided. Anyone would believe that. Mentally rehearsing my lines, I crossed the road and started up the gravel drive. A cracked and weathered signboard bearing the words “Strictly Private” in faded red paint hung dejectedly from a nail in a nearby tree. Undaunted, I soldiered on, hoping that my footsteps didn’t sound as crunchingly loud to the people inside as they did to my own ears.
The house looked exactly as I remembered it—the same red chimneys with their clay chimney pots; the same symmetrically positioned white windows, four panes over four; the same rough-hewn gray stone walls under the steep slate roof. The only thing different was the door. I had always imagined it to be brown, but now I saw that it was clearly dark green, standing out in sharp contrast to the massive stone portal that surrounded it.
My knocking echoed heavily with a dull and hollow sound. Three times I bruised my knuckles against the heavy wood, before finally conceding that no one was coming to answer the door.
Which meant there was nobody home. And, I told myself happily, since there was nobody home, it followed that no one would be disturbed if I went round to the back of the house and looked in a few windows. Having thus rationalized my trespassing, I retraced my steps to the drive and followed it round the north side of the house.
Here the drive ended abruptly at a squat, low-slung stone building with a weedy thatched roof. Presumably this had once been the stables, but the bumper of a car protruding from one of the open stalls left no doubt as to its present use.
The view from where I stood, looking across the level farmlands and gently undulating downs, broken here and there by clusters of dark-green trees and wild shrubs, was truly beautiful. There was no yard as such, although a tumbled heap of stone a hundred feet or so behind the house looked as if it might once have been part of a boundary wall. And though I had counted three oaks, a fruit tree, and several shrubs at the front, the only bit of vegetation growing close against the back wall of the house was a solitary poplar with gnarled bark, its silvery-green branches trembling in the breeze.
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