The Wizard’s Daughter

by Barbara Michaels

  This was one of the few references she made to David Holmes. If she had not abandoned her belief in the girl's real origin, at least she had not dwelled on it. Whether this was calculation, avoiding a subject that might inspire her protegee to rebellion, or genuine indifference to the opinions of others, including the one most concerned, Marianne did not know – and did not really care, intoxicated as she was by the new pleasures of unlimited wealth. She managed to push the subject down to the uttermost depths of her waking mind.

  She was less successful in managing her dreams. The bespectacled, bearded young Freud was still studying at the Institute for Cerebral Anatomy; he would not invent the subconscious for another fifteen years. It is possible, however, that even the great Sigmund in his prime might not have been able to account satisfactorily for the quality and frequency of Marianne's dreams of David Holmes. Some were of such a nature that her puritanical superego (assuming that Freud was correct in identifying this feature) suppressed them altogether, leaving only an uneasy sense of malaise when the girl awoke.

  With a genteel murmur of inquiry Celeste knelt before her and Marianne lazily extended one slim bare foot. The first time the maid had put on her stockings she had been torn between embarrassment and amusement. She had never had a full-time personal attendant; one of the housemaids had helped her dress for special occasions, but most of the time she had taken care of herself. Now she accepted the service with complacent pleasure, so easily does one become accustomed to what one enjoys. Slippers, undergarments, layers of fine lawn petticoats tucked and frosted with lace; then the dress, which enveloped her in a cloud of soft white. Celeste hooked the dress up the back and fluffed out the skirt. Another murmur of inquiry; Marianne, turning to the full-length mirror, gave a kindly, patronizing nod.

  "It looks very well. Now my jewelry… please."

  She was still admiring her exquisite reflection when the Duchess entered, her little dog Pierre trotting along behind her. "You look lovely, my dear," she said.

  "So do you." Marianne's compliment was sincere. The Duchess's color was high and her eyes sparkled. No wonder, Marianne thought, that the doctor was willing to tolerate anything that made his old friend so happy.

  He was waiting for them when they entered the drawing room, looking quite distinguished in evening clothes. His mustache had been trimmed and his unruly hair ruthlessly subdued by an application of pomade. Pierre made straight for him and leaned against his ankles. White hairs adhered to the black broadcloth as if drawn by a magnet. An expression of mild anguish crossed the doctor's face, but he rose nobly to the occasion.

  "Good boy; nice little doggy… Ton my word, Honoria, you look no more than eighteen."

  "What a pretty compliment! I wish I could return it; but you look as grumpy as a bear. I trust that your scowl is produced, not by present company, but by the prospect of the evening's entertainment?"

  "You know I hate opera," was the candid reply. "Silly fools rushing about the stage shouting out secrets at the top of their lungs."

  "But the music," Marianne said. "That is the important thing."

  "Sounds like cats on a back fence, serenading the moon."

  Pierre barked sharply, as if in agreement. The Duchess laughed. "Never mind, it won't hurt you to suffer for one evening. What do you hear from John?"

  The doctor's face lit up. "Good news, I am happy to say. I received a letter yesterday. I had thought the wound was in his leg, where it might have been serious, you know, but it was only in his shoulder. He expects to be invalided home soon."

  "Splendid. We speak of Dr. Gruffstone's son, my dear," the Duchess explained. "Following his father's example, he qualified as a surgeon and went out to India with the Northumberland Fusiliers. He was wounded in the fighting in Afghanistan, and we were concerned about him… But where is Roger? We shall be late."

  Before she had time to become impatient the lawyer was announced. They went at once to the waiting carriage. Gruffstone and the Duchess walked ahead; that left Carlton with Marianne. He offered his arm. After a moment's hesitation, long enough to let him know she acted purely for conventional reasons, she took it.

  "Let us declare a truce," Carlton murmured.

  "Why should we? You obviously have the lowest possible opinion of me."

  "Ah, but as yet I have discovered no evidence to substantiate my suspicions."

  "No doubt you have tried to discover it."

  "Yes, indeed, and I will go on trying. But why should that interfere with our truce? You don't want to distress Her Grace, and neither do I… unless it should become necessary. Who knows, perhaps that occasion will never arise. In the meantime, let us try to be civil."

  "Very well," Marianne said sweetly. "You will find, sir, that I have covered my tracks with diabolical cleverness." Then, as they neared the other couple, she went on without even a breath, "Are you fond of opera, Mr. Carlton? The human voice is my favorite instrument."

  The Duchess beamed to see her young friends on such good terms.

  This was the first time Marianne had been out, except for occasional visits to shops, and these had been rare; most tradesmen were more than happy to attend Her Grace with whatever wares she cared to examine. She had been looking forward to the evening, and at first it lived up to her expectations. A luxurious carriage, a gorgeous gown, a handsome escort, a box in the select upper circle of the Opera House – no girl could have asked for more, and Carlton behaved impeccably. The Duchess liked to arrive early, so most of the other boxes were unoccupied when they took their places. Gradually these began to fill. So absorbed was Marianne in the decor and the fine gowns worn by the other ladies that it was some time before she realized that she was increasingly the focus of curious glances. Not until one ugly old lady wearing a coronet leveled an opera glass straight at her did she notice she was being watched. She shrank back.

  Carlton, who was nothing if not observant, remarked, "That is Lady Morton. Looks like a horse, doesn't she? And has the manners of one."

  He did not trouble to lower his voice. Marianne thought the Duchess must have overheard, but although she glanced quickly, almost furtively, at the girl, she did not break off her conversation with Gruffstone. Marianne had no one to appeal to but Carlton.

  "Why is she staring at me?" she whispered.

  "As I said, she had the manners of a plowhorse. She would wonder who you were even if she had not heard about you. And I fancy she has heard a great deal."

  "From you?"

  Carlton laughed softly. "Come, Miss Ransom, you can hardly suppose that I would sink so low as to gossip with Lady Morton. Nor can you be so naive to think that the Dowager Duchess of Devenbrook can take a beautiful unknown young lady into her household without creating a stir. Servants will talk."

  Marianne's eyes grew round with surprise. "They will?"

  The lawyer returned her stare. After a moment he shook his head. "You are too good to be true, Miss Ransom. Be still now and listen to the pretty music."

  When the lights went up after the first act, Marianne sat in a daze of delight. She had never heard music so superbly performed before. She turned to the Duchess with her face alight and exclaimed, "It was wonderful! How can I ever thank you for such enjoyment?"

  "Your pleasure is thanks enough," the Duchess replied affectionately. "Would you care for an ice? Or would you like to stroll, to stretch your limbs? Roger will accompany you."

  "Alas, I fear that Roger will have no such opportunity," the lawyer replied with a sly smile. "The old lady was probably out of her seat before Patti hit her last high C."

  With his enigmatic speech he rose lazily to his feet, just in time to greet the woman who had appeared in the door of the box.

  In the days of Queen Victoria's predecessors the opera often served as just another social gathering. The gentry visited one another's boxes during the intervals and continued loud conversations during the actual performance, to the annoyance of the genuine music lovers present. The influence of Victor
ia's solemn young German prince, equally fond of music and of decorum, had halted this; but Lady Morton was a survival of an earlier age and, as the lawyer had predicted, she was at the door of her friend's box the moment the last strains of music died. Barely acknowledging the Duchess's greeting and introductions – "My young friend Miss Ransom" – she settled into the chair Carlton had vacated and fixed Marianne with a bold stare.

  The stare was even more formidable at close range, and its effect was increased by Lady Morton's extreme strabismus. Not only did she squint, but one eye was turned so far to the left of its normal position that only a white orb confronted the victim. The only thing that saved Marianne from nervous paralysis was the fact that Lady Morton undoubtedly did look like a horse – not just any horse, but a wall-eyed, evil-tempered old stallion who had been the tyrant of the Squire's stables till he died of extreme old age.

  The ensuing conversation – or rather, inquisition – was notable as an example of how rude an elderly titled lady could be without being reprimanded or cut dead. It began with an inquiry into Marianne's family.

  "Ransom. I once knew a Harold Ransom. He was up at Christ Church with my brother."

  "That would not be a connection of mine," Marianne replied.

  "There are Ransoms in Devonshire."

  Marianne shook her head. The lady's squint became positively malignant. "Then where the devil are you from, miss?"

  There being no way of evading this demand without rudeness, Marianne replied, "Yorkshire, Lady Morton."

  "What part of Yorkshire?"

  Marianne had no legitimate reason for wishing to avoid these questions. Nevertheless, they made her squirm, and that streak of obstinacy which her golden curls and soft blue eyes masked so effectively rebelled against Lady Morton's impertinence. She gave the lawyer an anguished glance, but he merely smiled more broadly, enjoying her discomfiture.

  Mercifully the Duchess herself came to the rescue, breaking up the tete-a-tete by introducing the other visitors who had crowded the box to bursting point. "Lord Ronald… The Honorable Miss Ditherson… Lord Willoughby…" All were of the Duchess's generation, and all were as curious as Lady Morton. But they were not so ill-bred, and the sheer number of them, which forced conversation to become general, saved Marianne from further questions. She saw that the Duchess had drawn Lady Morton away; they were speaking softly but urgently.

  The warning bell sounded and the visitors rose to leave. Lady Morton was, of course, the last to go, and thus Marianne was enabled to overhear a snatch of conversation between the two ladies. "I promise you I will arrange it; shall we say Thursday?" the Duchess asked.

  Lady Morton nodded, and shot a glance at Marianne. "Don't forget, Honoria. If anyone has a claim to matters involving our dear departed -"

  But instead of a name Lady Morton emitted a grunt of pain, clutching her side and glaring indignantly at Lord Ronald, who had passed her on his way out. The elderly nobleman went on, unaware. He, as Marianne could see, had never come within touching distance of Lady Morton. If the idea had not seemed so ludicrous she would have sworn that the Duchess's elbow had jabbed into her old friend's ribs.

  "Dear me, what a crush," said the Duchess, her color a trifle high. "William" – addressing the footman, who was closing the door on Lady Morton – "deny us, please, in the next interval; this is really too much, it interferes with one's enjoyment of the music."

  Thanks to this directive the remainder of Lucia di Lammermoor passed without interruption, and the second interval was spent in quiet conversation. Yet Marianne was increasingly distracted by an odd sense of being watched, not by the stares of casual curiosity seekers, but by something more intense and more inimical. So strong had her discomfort become by the end of the opera that she was scarcely aware of the music and could hardly wait to leave.

  The crush down the stairs and across the lobby was so great that she had to cling closely to Roger Carlton's arm. He treated her as he would treat any rather boring young lady to whom he was obliged to be polite. They had almost reached the exit when she saw it – a face, distinct as a carved and tinted mask, staring directly into her eyes over the backs of the crowd ahead. The features had burned themselves into her memory: the sallow, lined skin, the piercing black eyes, the twisted, evil smile.

  Marianne shrieked and clutched at her escort. Her voice was drowned in the general noise; only Carlton heard it and only he felt the frantic grasp of her hands. Thinking she had slipped or been rudely shoved, he tightened his grasp; but when he glanced at her he could see that something more serious had occurred.

  "What the devil…? I beg your pardon. Are you ill?"

  "It was he," Marianne gasped. "I should have known. I felt him all evening, staring…"

  "Who?"

  "Mr. Bagshot."

  "Where?"

  "There, by the door." But when she looked again, the evil face had vanished.

  Carlton surveyed the crowd. He shook his head.

  "I don't see him. The opera is not his type of entertainment, Miss Ransom. Are you sure it was not your imagination?"

  "No, no! I tell you, I saw him! And he recognized me!"

  "Hush," Carlton said. "No talk of this before the Duchess, do you hear me? It would distress her. I assure you, you are in no danger from -"

  "A figment of my imagination?"

  Carlton shrugged. Marianne said no more. Bitterly she realized that she could not even relieve her fears by speaking of them. The Duchess must not be worried, the doctor was antagonistic to her, and Carlton was… probably right. Perhaps the fleeting, frightening glimpse had only been a phantom of her uneasy mind.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  On Thursday evening Marianne went through the routine of dressing for dinner with less than her usual pleasure in that sybaritic exercise. It had been a dreary, wet day, and darkness had descended early. She could hear the steady beat of the rain against the curtained windows, though the bright lights and blazing fire created a small inner world of comfort.

  Her gown had been finished that afternoon by a harried Madame LeFarge, the most fashionable dressmaker in London. It was of pale-blue brocaded tulle with panels of satin bordered with pearls across the bodice and down the full skirt. Marianne contemplated her reflection with satisfaction. She had never looked so well. Yet a tiny frown marred the smoothness of her white forehead.

  Over her shoulder reflected in the glass, she saw the face of her maid. The Frenchwoman's unlined cheeks and neat dark hair did not in the slightest resemble that other face she had once seen similarly reflected; but the memory stabbed painfully into Marianne's conscience., and she dismissed Celeste. After the maid had gone she did not sit down; to do so would have crumpled her gown, and besides, she was unaccountably restless. She began pacing up and down the room.

  It was the first time she had been alone since early morning, and her thoughts were not pleasant companions. Guilt had haunted her since that night at the opera. The sight of Bagshot – if it had been he, and not a fear-inspired vision – had reminded her of Maggie. In the beginning she had been unable to help the woman who had risked so much to save her, that was true; but since the change in her fortune she had done little to locate Maggie, when she could very well have done more.

  Not that it would have been easy. The Duchess hated any reference to that part of Marianne's past; an expression of pain would cross her face if Marianne referred to it, even obliquely, and she would change the subject. Yet, Marianne knew, she owed it to Maggie to risk the Duchess's displeasure, even the possibility of dismissal from her gilded cage. (Now why had she thought of that metaphor?) The truth was that the Duchess's gentle inflexibility was harder for her to combat than the antagonism of the two men. It was like a steel blade muffled in ermine.

  The doctor was at least open and unsubtle. Besides acting as the Duchess's medical adviser he had the status of an old and valued friend – possibly, Marianne surmised, of an old admirer, who had accepted the crumbs of friendship in lieu of the for
bidden fruits of love. (Marianne's figures of speech, like those of the age in which she lived, were often trite.) At any rate, the doctor was on a familiar footing in the household and was welcome at any time. Whether he had been coming more frequently on her account, Marianne did not know. For the first few days the Duchess had insisted that he stop by to make sure she had fully recovered from her fainting fits. The doctor did so without much enthusiasm; in fact his examinations consisted of peering into her eyes, listening to her pulse, and asking her to put her tongue out and say "ah." After three such visits he bluntly informed the Duchess that her protegee was in the rudest possible health and in no need of further attention. Yet somehow he managed to drop in for tea or some other meal almost every day. He had been in the house that morning. Marianne had not seen him, but she had heard him; he and the Duchess had been shut up in the library together for some time, and apparently they had had a disagreement, for when the old gentleman left he had stormed down the hall with the heavy stride of a charging elephant and had slammed the door before the butler could get to it.

  Practicing in the music room next to the library, Marianne had heard these explosive expressions of annoyance and had been amused. Now, when combined with other hints, the incident took on a new and possibly alarming significance.

  She had been told to wear her lovely new dress, but when she had asked what the occasion might be the Duchess had been evasive. "A few friends" were coming in after dinner. "No formal meeting," but "I want you to look your best."

  Marianne might be young and easily intimidated, but she was not stupid. Today was Thursday; she remembered the snatch of conversation she had overheard at the opera and felt sure that Lady Morton would be one of the friends referred to. She had an equally strong suspicion of what might be expected of her. Despite the Duchess's promise to Dr. Gruffstone, Marianne was certain that she had not heard the last of spiritualism and the exercise of her own supposed psychic gifts.