The Wizard’s Daughter
Barbara Michaels
From the author of "The Master of the Blacktower", this is the story of a young orphan girl who possesses the gift of second sight. Fate brings her to the home of a wealthy duchess, where the ghostly presence of her own father calls to her from beyond.
Barbara Michaels
The Wizard’s Daughter
© 1980
PROLOGUE
She was the most beautiful woman of her time. Fashionable ladies tried in vain to imitate the elegance of her slim figure, her gliding walk, her exquisite auburn hair. Once she had been a humble little Spanish girl attending convent school in Paris. Now she was every inch an Empress; and most men would have quailed before the fury in her eyes as she stood in the majesty of offended pride, her plumy fan snapping, the priceless lace at her breast trembling with each sharp breath.
"You dare, sir, to complain of the group that has assembled to honor you – the wealth and nobility of France?"
The gentleman she addressed was tall and slight, almost boyish in appearance. He was the only man in that glittering crowd who did not wear a gold-braided uniform or the ribbon of some distinguished Order. His only unusual feature was his thick wavy hair, so fair that it shone like silver in the light of the hundreds of candles. Yet his features showed no alarm, only courteous regret. He spread his hands in an apologetic gesture and murmured, "Your Imperial Highness, I am aware of the condescension you and the Emperor do me, a poor citizen of the United States. It is not I, it is those I serve who insist that this is not a theatrical performance. They will not appear to any group larger than six or eight. And even then, you understand, I cannot guarantee results."
A concerted gasp went up from the watching throng. They knew their Empress; and they were not surprised when, after a moment of frozen silence, she turned on her heel and swept out of the room, so rapidly that the footmen in their powdered wigs and satin knee breeches had barely time to open the doors before she reached them.
A soft cough broke the appalled silence, and all eyes turned toward the short, stout man who stood facing the young American. His uniform was the most elaborate in the room – gold epaulets, rows of ribbons covering his breast, a court sword whose hilt blazed with rainbow jewels. Fierce black mustaches and a neat beard masked half his face. He had been, in his time, adventurer, gambler, exile, and dealer in dubious trades; but he was now the self-proclaimed Emperor of France, and his courtiers waited apprehensively to see how he would deal with the impertinent nobody who had insulted the Empress.
For a moment they studied one another, the slight young visitor and the most powerful man in Europe.
"Clear the room," said Napoleon III.
Six people remained – the Duchess of Alba, Prince Murat, the Comte Tasher de la Pagerie, General Espinasse, the Emperor himself- and Mr. David J. Holmes, private citizen of the United States of America, on whose behalf the noble courtiers had been dismissed and the Empress humiliated. Yet Mr. Holmes was not a diplomat or a millionaire or a famous painter, novelist, or musician. What precisely he was might be difficult to define.
At the Emperor's suggestion he seated himself and proceeded with the activity that had already made him notorious enough to warrant an invitation to the imperial court. Matters had not gone far before Napoleon, his hard black eyes even blanker than usual, sent for the Empress. Eugenie did not dare disobey, but her lovely face was decidedly sullen as she took her place in the circle that had formed around the table.
Her pouting lips relaxed and her eyes widened as a pale, luminous cloud began to form a few inches above the tabletop. It shaped itself into a hand – a man's hand, blunt-fingered, short, and square. The fingers curled in a quick, impatient gesture, then seemed to reach out. The bizarre object glided slowly across the table toward the Duchess of Alba, who shrieked and shrank back.
"Moi, je n'ai pas peur." Despite her brave claim, Eugenie's slim white hand trembled slightly as she extended it. The disembodied object changed course, as if it had heard and understood. Its outstretched fingers touched those of the Empress. She changed color visibly, then, with a sudden convulsive movement, clasped the dreadful thing in her hand.
For a space nothing could be heard except the measured tick of the enameled porcelain clock. Even breath was suspended. Then, as quickly as it had formed, the ghostly hand was gone. From Eugenie's throat came a painful whisper. "Papa. C'etait mon pere." She hid her face in her hands.
Napoleon's exotic career had included some years in the United States. He had not wasted his time; among other things, he was a skilled amateur magician and a good poker player. The expressionless face necessary to financial success in this latter activity had often stood him in good stead. It did not change now; but for once his opaque, squinting eyes had a rather pensive look. He nodded. "Yes," he said. "There was a certain physical peculiarity. It was the hand of Don Cipriano."
From the homely farm kitchens of Pennsylvania to the drawing rooms of fashionable London and the salons of Paris Mr. David J. Holmes of America, twenty-two years old, had carried his message: There is no death, there is only change; the spirit lives forever. It is the one message all the world aches to hear, the colonel's lady and Mollie O'Grady, and the Empress of France. On Friday the thirteenth of May, 1857, Mr. Holmes carried the good tidings to the imperial court of France.
Napoleon was not the first or the last to be convinced that Holmes's powers were genuine, but he was certainly one of the shrewdest and most cynical converts. Perhaps he wondered, in the light of later events, whether Holmes's spirit guides had informed him on that eventful May night that he had less than five years to live. But, to be sure, when a man is convinced of the existence of a world after death, the date of his passing cannot be of much concern to him.
CHAPTER ONE
"Fifty pounds! But, dear Mrs. Jay, I was told that poor dear papa had left nothing at all. Fifty pounds is a great deal of money!"
Marianne's blue eyes sparkled; her silver-gilt curls, escaping from the net, glittered like imprisoned sunbeams; and the dimples that had dazzled so many susceptible Yorkshire youths returned to the places they had abandoned a week earlier, after the death of Squire Ransom.
Mrs. Jay's lips tightened as she viewed her godchild with something less than her usual doting fondness. She did not blame Marianne for the tossing curls or the dimples. The child had mourned her father properly; indeed, Mrs. Jay privately conceded, she had shed more tears for that rude, crude male creature than he had earned.
Perhaps Squire Ransom would have displayed more fatherly interest in a son, who, in good time, might have shared his interests: hunting, drinking, gambling, and… Mrs. Jay's thoughts came to a dead halt. The year was 1880, and Victoria had been on the throne for over forty years; the widow of a clergyman could not even contemplate the squire's favorite hobby without wincing. There was no acceptable euphemism for it.
In any event, the late Mrs. Ransom had not produced a red-faced, thick-set male infant to mirror its father's appearance. (Even in his declining years the squire looked alarmingly like a huge overdressed baby, especially when drink had smoothed out the lines in his moon of a face.) Instead she had born a girl, a delicate pink-and-white creature so unlike her sire that she might have been a changeling from fairyland. Within a few months the dark fuzz common to most infants had been replaced by a cap of soft silvery curls, and the ambiguous newborn blue of the baby's eyes had turned to a startling shade of aquamarine. And she had been as good as she was lovely; instead of howling vigorously when the baptismal water expelled the demons, as so many babies did, the little Marianne had opened her eyes wide and smiled.
Almost eighteen years ago… Mrs. Jay's grim expressio
n as she remembered that perfect day, a day of soft sunshine and gentle breezes, when she had stood as sponsor to the child and her beloved husband had performed the ceremony of baptism. Dear Mr. Jay, now passed to his heavenly reward. She had never addressed her husband by his first name, and still thought of him in formal terms.
Then she realized that Marianne had seen her frown, and that fresh tears had flooded the sea-blue eyes. Young girls were supposed to be full of sensibility and tender emotion, but some of Mrs. Jay's original ill humor remained, and she spoke more sharply than was her wont.
"It is not a great deal of money, Marianne. I only wish it were."
She did not add, as she might with reason have done, that eight pounds of the fifty had been her own contribution, from a life savings that could ill afford any diminution. The remainder of the sum had been made up of similar contributions from neighbors and friends. Squire Ransom had left his orphaned daughter nothing but debts.
There was another fact unknown to Marianne that Mrs. Jay could not explain. As a Christian woman her fortitude ought to have been equal to the task, but it was not. She had only recently learned of the malignant thing that was gnawing at her life and would soon end it; she had faced the fact and the increasing pain without flinching. But she could not tell her darling of her approaching death. It had tried her faith to a degree she would not have believed possible,, not because she was afraid of dying, even in the dreadful manner experience had told her she could expect, but because just at the time when she might have hoped to be of use to the girl, who was as dear to her as a daughter, she could offer no help. She had no means of her own. If she took Marianne into her tiny home, within three months the girl would have to face the prospect she faced now, with the additional burden of having watched her old friend die an agonizing death. No. Better for Marianne to take the necessary action at once.
"You have no notion of money, naturally," she went on. "How could you have, when your father, despite his advantages of age and masculine intelligence, spent his income faster than it came in?"
"He spent generously on my account," Marianne said. "I cannot reproach him for extravagance when he denied me nothing."
"Hmph." Mrs. Jay said no more, but she had her own opinions about the squire's generosity. She had long been a reluctant observer of human nature, and she suspected that Squire Ransom's willingness to spend money on his daughter was an effort to make up for his neglect in other areas.
"At any rate." she said, more cheerfully, "you are well equipped with clothing and other necessities. That will not be a charge on your wealth. Did not Mrs. Maclean complete your new winter wardrobe only last week?"
"She completed it," said Marianne calmly, "and she is presently removing it."
"I beg your pardon?"
"One can hardly blame her. It appears the garments were not paid for. She hopes to alter them in order to resell them."
"Yes, yes, I understand. But what a callous thing to do!"
"Not at all. She has her living to earn."
Mrs. Jay lifted her hands helplessly. The girl's calm acceptance dismayed her. She would have attributed it to the indifference of shock had not Marianne displayed considerable emotion over other matters. She could only conclude that the child did not understand the desperation of her plight, so desperate that even the loss of a few pieces of clothing constituted a major disaster. The bare necessities for the approaching winter would make a sizable hole in the fifty pounds.
The golden fall sunlight pouring in the open windows gave no hint of the bleak months ahead, but it showed, with pitiless accuracy, how badly the squire had neglected his family home. The drawing room's decay was all the more apparent now that the furniture had been carried off by creditors. Fifty years earlier the walls had been hung with imported yellow damask. Bright unfaded squares, where paintings had once hung, contrasted painfully with the shredded remains of the once lovely fabric, stained with damp from the leaking roof. The hardwood floors had been gouged by hunting boots and stained by spilled wine. Over the years Mrs. Jay had mourned the room's deterioration, but on this occasion its ruin seemed to her like viewing the corpse of an old friend. She had not had the courage to inspect the rest of the house, having come only to escort Marianne home with her. Fortunately – for she could not afford to keep a carriage – the cottage was within walking distance, at the near end of the village. Billy Turnbull waited outside with his pony cart for Marianne's boxes and personal possessions. Mrs. Jay reflected, wryly, that his services might not have been needed after all.
They were sitting side by side on one of the window seats. Every stick of furniture in the room had been removed, and through the open doors Mrs. Jay could hear the heavy footsteps and rough voices of the carters who were even then carrying away the last of the squire's property. The late-afternoon sunlight caressed Marianne's curls. No painted saint had ever had such a halo; as the breeze stirred the loosened tendrils they sparkled and flashed. Even her swollen eyelids, reddened by weeping, could not mar the girl's exquisite prettiness, and the somber black frock, hastily dyed by Mrs. Jay, set off her slim figure and delicate coloring. She sat quietly, hands folded in her lap, thick golden lashes shadowing her cheeks; and Mrs. Jay, watching her, felt a pang even more severe than the gnawing ache she had lived with for months. How could she let this child, her heart's darling, go out into the world alone? Her beauty made her even more vulnerable than an ordinary young girl of good family would be. Mrs. Jay reluctantly conceded that the squire had kept his daughter's innocence untarnished; he had not brought his – er – women friends to the house, and even in his cups he was careful of his language. He had once kicked a drinking companion clear through the window when the man forgot himself and bellowed out a vehement "damn."
Only a life of service to God kept Mrs. Jay from cursing His cruelty. If she had only had a year – one little year! She could have used the time to prepare the girl for useful work, or even found her a husband – a gentle young curate or honest tradesman. Her hands clasped tightly and her lips moved in silent prayer. "Thy will be done," she told herself, and half believed it.
A voice separated itself from the general uproar upstairs. It grew louder and more strident as the speaker descended the stairs.
"Take care, you stupid girl, you are letting the flounces touch the floor. If they are dusty you shan't have supper tonight. Now the sash is trailing. How can you be so incompetent? I rue the day I ever took you on. Be careful of the turn there."
Through the open double doors which gave onto the hall Mrs. Jay saw the mute object of these reproaches stagger by. Presumably it was one of Mrs. Maclean's apprentices, but her identity could only be surmised, for she was virtually concealed by a towering stack of dresses. Her own skimpy homespun skirts and heavy shoes looked like an ambulatory gray column under that rainbow assortment: pink ruffles, like cream stained by floating strawberries, a flounce of green gauze the precise shade of young spring leaves, heaps of ice-blue satin and mandarin-yellow silk.
The anonymous bearer shuffled past and disappeared. Her figure was replaced, in the doorway's frame, by the much more substantial shape of Mrs. Maclean. The village dressmaker's skill with the needle was not matched by her personal taste; her brown taffeta gown was trimmed with flounces of a shrieking purple, and her bonnet of the same brown taffeta had birds' wings on either side. Her face was bright red and shining with perspiration; it formed a perfect circle, unbroken except for her false front of auburn hair. Draped carefully over her arms was a ball gown of coral faille, its ivory Sicilienne scarf and train folded up over the full skirt. Atop this elegant heap were a pair of white kid gloves, an ivory fan, and – toes turned in pathetically – two little satin slippers.
Marianne emitted a small, quickly suppressed sound, like the squeak of a mouse under a cat's claws. Her eyes were fixed on the coral-colored heap, and her lower lip trembled. She had tried to harden herself to her loss, but seeing this favorite gown her fortitude had given away; and althoug
h Mrs. Jay deplored the exhibition of sensibility over anything as frivolous as a ball gown, she could not help remembering how Marianne had looked in the dress the one and only time she had worn it. Sir Albert Martin's ball, only last month… Marianne had been the undoubted belle, despite the presence of several haughty young ladies from the metropolis of York. Sir Albert's son and heir had been assiduous in his intentions. Mrs. Jay had hoped…
But the loss of Marianne's inheritance had deprived her of that means of being relieved of the poverty that was its result. Sir Albert and the other country gentry would never permit their sons to marry a penniless girl.
Mrs. Maclean paused, her squinting eyes avoiding those of the two women sitting in the window.
"There are two more boxes," she said abruptly. "I shall return for those directly."
"Very well," Marianne said.
That was all she said; but Mrs. Maclean gathered the stiff folds more closely to her bosom as she correctly appraised the girl's hungry look.
"I will lose a great deal of money," she grumbled. "I must sell these at a loss, supposing I am fortunate enough to find a purchaser. Perhaps…" She hesitated for a moment, and then, remembering that Marianne would not patronize her establishment again, and that the vicar's widow had never been a good customer, she added belligerently, "I will take the blue coat and muff as compensation."
Marianne's yelp of distress was quite audible this time. Mrs. Jay rose to her full height, swollen with righteous indignation.
"You most certainly will not. The coat and muff were purchased in London, they were not made by you. Come, Marianne; we had better go through your wardrobe to make sure nothing was stolen."
Mrs. Maclean retreated as the vicar's widow advanced on her.
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