Mariana

by Susanna Kearsley

  Our garden was actually quite small, but as I walked towards the fence, the boundary seemed to recede before me, until I found myself walking in a field of waving flowers, with the sunshine warm upon my shoulders and the air alive with the humming of contented insects. If I reached out a hand and brushed the tops of the flowers, I could smell the sweet and sudden release of their fragrance.

  I was quite far from the house now. When I turned to look behind me, it was nothing more than a small speck in the distance. As lovely and beckoning as the field of flowers was, I knew that my mother would be worried if I strayed too far. Reluctantly, I started back. It seemed an even longer walk this time, and I had to scramble over the fence to get back into the garden. When I finally arrived back the sunshine had faded, and the air was cool and damp. My mother was no longer sitting on the lawn.

  I went into the house, but there was no one there, either. It was quite empty, and desolate, the silence itself more disturbing than any eerie sound I could have imagined. Confused and terrified, I ran, half stumbling, up the street to a friend’s house and pounded urgently on the door. My friend answered the summons, but she was no longer a child like me—she was a grown woman, and she stood on the doorstep gazing down at me with pitying eyes.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Hasn’t anyone told you? Your mother died years ago…”

  The tears were still on my face when the dream ended. I could taste them as I lay there in the darkness, listening to the dripping of my bathroom taps and watching the shadow of the poplar dance across my blankets while I tried to calm the frantic beating of my heart against my ribs. When I could breathe normally again, I reached to switch on the reading lamp on my bedside table and sat up, pushing both hands through my damp, tangled hair and drawing them down to cover my eyes.

  It was only a dream, I told myself. You’re not a child anymore, you’re nearly thirty years old, and your mother isn’t dead. I picked up my dressing gown from the floor, where I’d discarded it before going to bed, and shrugged my arms into the sleeves, wrapping the belt around my waist as I shuffled out into the hallway. I would not sleep, I knew from experience, until I had shaken off the clinging memory of that dream. At times like these I often wished I had a television, like normal people, but I had given away my own set years ago. It had been too tempting a distraction from my work.

  Instead, I settled now for a late-night chat program on my portable radio and a soothing cup of cocoa. When that failed to work, I tried reading. A full hour later, still unable to shake my vague uneasiness and the dull, cold, unnamed fear that had wrapped its tight fingers round my heart, I gave in and picked up the phone, dialing the New Zealand number with an unsteady hand.

  My mother answered after eight rings, her voice distracted but carefully precise. Seconds later she was fully alert.

  “Julia? Is everything all right?”

  I had to admit, rather sheepishly, that it was, and explain that I was only calling to say hello, and to see how they both were.

  “At four o’clock in the morning?” My mother made the time calculation, sounding unconvinced.

  I sighed. “I had a nightmare, actually. I dreamt that you were dead.”

  “Oh, darling.” Her voice was like a hug over the telephone line. “How terrible. Well, I’m not dead, as it happens, and I’ve no intention of dying in the foreseeable future, so you can stop worrying.” I heard a faint rustling sound and knew that she was settling herself in her chair, propping pillows to cushion her back. “How are you enjoying life in your village?” she asked me. “Tommy tells us that your house is absolutely lovely, though he has his doubts about the plumbing…”

  Without waiting for a response, my mother plunged easily into a rather one-sided conversation that dealt mainly with the goings-on among our various relatives in Auckland, punctuated with periodic mumblings of an incoherent nature from my father, who was no doubt trying to read or nap beside her.

  “What’s that, Edward, darling?” she would ask him brightly. “Oh, yes, I mustn’t forget that. And then, Julia, she showed up wearing the most incredible hat…” And off my mother would go again, spinning out another gossip-laden anecdote, cleverly designed to make me forget the terror of my nightmare.

  My parents were really quite wonderful, I thought to myself, when I finally replaced the telephone receiver nearly an hour later. Stretching my arms above my head, I looked around the hallway with idle interest. My mother’s ploy had definitely worked. I was no longer afraid, nor apprehensive. I was also, unfortunately, no longer sleepy.

  Well, I told myself stoutly, if I was going to be up and awake, I might as well get properly dressed. I trudged back up the stairs and exchanged my dressing gown for a pair of jeans and a loose T-shirt, in honor of our recent spell of warm weather. As I brushed my hair in front of the mirror, my eyes fell on the small blackened key that still sat on the dressing table before me. Slowly, my forehead creasing in a studious frown, I set the hairbrush down and picked up the little key, weighing it thoughtfully in my palm.

  What hidden secrets was it waiting to unlock for me, I wondered? I remembered Mrs. Hutherson’s gentle, knowing face smiling at me yesterday across the kitchen table at Crofton Hall. It’s a kind of journey that you’ve begun, she had said. Closing my fingers around the key for a moment, I looked up at the resolute face in the mirror. There was no point in delaying the inevitable, I thought. It was time for me to take the next step on my journey. It was time to go back.

  Downstairs, I lit the candle I had used during my last experimental session and placed it squarely in the center of my table. It was beginning to grow faintly light outside, and the candle flame was less mesmerizing as a result, but I focused on it with an effort and concentrated, half closing my eyes. Time stopped, and wavered. The sound of my breathing was very loud in the quiet room.

  “Mariana!” Caroline’s voice was sharp, and I snapped my head up, instantly alert. My aunt smiled a little at my reaction, her voice softening. “You’ll be doing yourself an injury,” she warned me, “dreaming away like that. Did we wake you too early?”

  “I slept badly,” I excused myself with a minor lie, not caring to confess that my inattentiveness had been caused by thoughts of a certain dark-haired neighbor. I took a firmer hold on my knife and went on cutting vegetables for the broth that Rachel was simmering on the hearth.

  “It is uncommonly warm,” Rachel said, in my defense. “’Twould make anyone sluggish.” She stood up, away from the fire, her face flushed and moist, and cast a sly sidelong glance at Caroline. “I even saw you nodding at your prayers this morning, sister.”

  “I do not nod at prayer,” Caroline responded primly, but her eyes twinkled merrily, and she looked almost young as she returned Rachel’s teasing. “I was only being devout.”

  Rachel would have made comment on that, but before she could speak the words, the kitchen door opened and my uncle came into the room. In an instant the life disappeared from Caroline’s eyes, as though some unseen hand had passed across her face. My uncle did not notice the transformation. He was red-faced and uncomfortable from the heat, and his expression was sour.

  “This is the hottest day I have ever known,” he complained, wiping the beads of perspiration from his chin. “It is the heat of the devil himself. Mariana, fetch me a drink of ale, girl, and make haste with it.”

  I complied without saying a word, handing the cup to him and returning to my work. He drank the ale as an animal drinks, with a great noise, and set the cup down again on the table with satisfaction. His hard, gleaming eyes turned towards me.

  “You look tired, Mariana.”

  Caroline stirred in her corner by the hearth. “She slept ill, Jabez. ’Tis no great concern.”

  His eyes narrowed. “She wants exercise. A walk in the open air will cure her ills.” He addressed me in a tone that was almost kind. “When your work h
ere is finished,” he told me, “you may spend the rest of the morning out-of-doors. Walk down by the river, it will be cooler there.”

  I tried to hide my surprise at his words. It seemed such an odd and unlikely turnabout, for this man who had rarely permitted me out of his sight to suggest that I spend time away from the house, that I could scarce believe it. Even Caroline raised her eyebrows, though she wisely said nothing.

  Uncle Jabez turned to Rachel. “There will be guests for the midday meal,” he informed her. “Four others besides myself. For the meal I want a pigeon pie, with no fewer than two birds for each person, and a jug of the good cider from the cellar. Mariana can fetch the birds for you, before she leaves.”

  I made a small sound of protest, my eyes stricken, and Rachel looked up from her kettle of soup. “I will get the birds,” she told him. “Mariana is too softhearted. She does not like to wring their necks.”

  My uncle shrugged. “I do not care who kills the wretched things, so long as they are on my table at dinner.” He flicked a glance at his wife. “I trust you will tend to the child,” he said, “and keep it silent. I do not wish a squalling brat to ruin the appetite of my guests.”

  Caroline murmured something in reply, her head lowered submissively. I knew his unkind comment had wounded her deeply. Rachel had told me of her sister’s yearning to conceive a child, her years of barren unhappiness, and her joy when she had finally given birth to John. That Jabez did not share her pride in the child was a constant source of pain to her.

  “Johnnie is a fine child,” I heard myself saying. “I doubt that he would disturb anyone.”

  My uncle rested his cold blue eyes on my face once more. “You may go whenever you are ready,” he told me, his voice even. “And see that you promenade yourself well. I do not wish to see you back here before midafternoon.”

  He turned abruptly and left the room, with Caroline trailing like a pale shadow in his wake. Rachel looked at me with wondering eyes, and chided me softly. “You should not have spoken to him so. It is of no use to speak on my sister’s behalf, Mariana. She goes like a lamb to the slaughter.”

  “I know,” I said. “But I could not stop the words from coming.”

  “Well.” Rachel crossed the room to stand by the table. “’Tis no great harm done. And you will have an entire morning to cool your temper, from the sound of it. That ought to be a pleasant prospect for you.”

  I was pleased by the thought of a few hours out-of-doors, but my pleasure was tempered by irritation. My uncle did not want me to be in the house when his visitors arrived, that much was plain, and I was hard-pressed to contain my curiosity.

  “Rachel,” I asked casually, “who are the guests my uncle spoke of? Do you know them?”

  I had learned that Rachel could not lie easily. When she was unable to give a truthful answer, she would seek to deflect the question. She sought to deflect mine now, lowering her head so that the fall of bright hair hid her face from me. She chose her words slowly, and with care.

  “It is sometimes better,” she advised me, “to cover your eyes and stop up your ears, instead of asking questions.”

  I knew she would say no more about the matter, so I let the subject drop, taking my bowlful of vegetables over to the hearth and emptying it into the boiling pot.

  “Shall I go now?” I asked, rubbing my damp hands on my skirt.

  “Unless you want to fetch the pigeons from the dovecote,” Rachel said, then laughed at my expression. “Be off with you,” she ordered, in a brave imitation of my uncle, “and see that you promenade yourself well.”

  I was only too happy to comply. The sky was wide and inviting, and the grass was cool and sweetly refreshing under my bare feet as I walked across the undulating field towards the river. It was a short walk, only a mile or so, but I did not hurry it, letting my soul soak up the glorious sensation of freedom and lightness.

  Even the heat could not diminish me. The scorching heat of the sun had a cauterizing effect, burning away the sick and dying parts of my being so that the healthy parts of me could grow back, fuller and more vital than before. Closer to the river there was shade, a rich, deep shade provided by the flanking groves of thickly clustered trees that grew beside the idly flowing water.

  Here, the only sounds were those of nature—birds chattering in the highest branches, the gentle rustle of an unseen creature of the forest, and the sudden splash of a fish breaking the surface of the shallow river. It was, I mused, like entering the gardens of paradise after sojourning in the underworld. The plague and London seemed a long way off, and the dark halls of Greywethers even farther.

  I gathered the folds of my skirts in my hands and waded into the river, lifting the hem of my dress clear of the water. The rippling coolness washed my skin above the ankles, and I went no farther, turning instead to push my way upstream, enjoying the feel of the smoothly washed pebbles beneath my tired feet.

  I walked a goodly distance, splashing a little as I went and humming happily to myself, a tuneless ditty of my own invention. Coming to a place where the river bent in its course, and the trees grew still more thickly, I paused and ventured even deeper, raising my skirts accordingly.

  The birds startled me, rising from the trees without warning in a panicked, beating cloud that dipped and shifted in perfect unison against the burning sky, and then was gone. The noise was like a blast of cannon fire in that still place, and in alarm I lost my footing, falling backwards into the water with a loud splash and an unladylike oath. Pushing the wet hair from my eyes, I looked to see what had so frighted the birds, my own heart pounding an echo of their flight.

  At first, I could see only shadows. Until one of the shadows moved, and became real, and the greenwood parted to reveal a tall dark rider on a gray horse, moving with leisured grace along the riverbank towards me.

  Chapter 20

  Richard de Mornay reined Navarre to a smooth halt a few feet from the lazily flowing water and leaned an elbow on the horn of his saddle, regarding me with interest over the horse’s broad neck.

  “Good morrow, Mistress Farr.” He swept the wide-brimmed hat from his dark head and presented me with a fair imitation of a bow. “I did not know that you numbered swimming among your many accomplishments.”

  To return a proper curtsy from my position would have appeared ridiculous. Besides, he was laughing at me, and I resented it. I rose swiftly to my feet and tossed my head proudly. “I have a multitude of talents, my lord,” I told him curtly, spreading my skirts to survey the damage.

  “Of that I have no doubt.” A thoughtful expression replaced the laughter in his eyes, and he swung himself from the saddle, gathering the reins in one large hand. “You have wetted your dress,” he said, as though it were a revelation. “You must walk in the sun to dry it.”

  I stubbornly held my ground. “I do not wish to walk in the sun. I find the coolness of the woods refreshing.”

  “You must walk in the woods, then. Come, let me help you.”

  He extended his free hand towards me, his eyes challenging mine. After a moment’s consideration, I placed my hand in his and let him assist me in stepping out of the water onto the riverbank. It was welcome assistance, I was bound to admit, since the wet fabric of my dress weighed heavily against my legs and threatened to drag me back into the river. When at last I stood upright, I released his hand as though it were a snake, breaking the warm contact.

  “Thank you, Sir Richard,” I told him sweetly. “You are most kind.” Taking my leave of him, I began once more to walk upstream, on land this time, feeling less than graceful in my dripping gown but keeping my head held high.

  “’Tis no trouble.” Richard de Mornay fell easily into step beside me, leading the horse behind us. “You will not mind, surely, if I walk with you. I would be less than a true soldier if I let a lady walk through the woods unattended.”

/>   I attempted a casual demeanor. “I did not know you were a soldier.”

  “I come from a family of soldiers.” He smiled, but it was a smile without humor. “Brave knights and gallant cavaliers, and me the only one remaining to champion the family’s honor.”

  “Then I need not fear to lose my virtue in your company.” It was a bold statement, and I knew it. He turned amazed eyes in my direction and laughed outright, a pleasant sound that echoed in the secluded wood.

  “You are a brazen wench.” He grinned. “No, you need not worry. I’ll not demand the lordly privileges of my estate. I’ve never yet had cause to force a woman to my will.”

  I looked up at his handsome, laughing face and did not doubt that he spoke the truth. Perhaps it was my own intentions that worried me, and not his…

  “Tell me,” he went on, changing the subject, “how fares your uncle? He must be ill indeed to let you venture forth like this. In truth, ’tis but the second time I have seen you walking on your own. Come, tell me, why did he let you off the lead this morning?”

  I smiled at the expression. “He sent me from the house by his own order,” I explained. “He fears, he told me, for my health.”

  “Ay,” he said dryly, “he is a most compassionate man. ’Tis why he uses his household so civilly.”

  I glanced at him. “You do not like my uncle, I perceive.”

  “I find him cruel and callous,” he said, with a shrug of his broad shoulders, “and there is little love lost between us.”

  I nodded understanding. “He told me once that the devil dwells in you.”

  “No doubt he does believe it. And what do you think, Mariana Farr?”