Barbara Michaels - The Wizard’s Daughter

"The spirit of someone who once lived. All those who have passed beyond were once on this plane. Perhaps next time she communicates she will tell us something of her history. The saint I am thinking of was a gently born Roman maiden who was martyred by Nero – or was it Diocletian? – because she refused to give up her – er – her maidenhood and her faith to marry a pagan."

"But," said Marianne doubtfully, "Mrs. Jay told me that the saints of the Roman church were pagan idols… or something of that sort."

"Mrs. Jay? Ah, yes, the vicar's wife. Well, my dear, I am sorry to say that many of our religious leaders are extremely narrow people. If they were not, they would not oppose spiritualism. Not that I believe in the Roman system of sainthood. That is a misunderstanding. Pudenzia was probably a sweet, innocent girl who is devoting her time in the next world to helping those less fortunate."

In such pleasant speculations they passed the time until dinner. Marianne knew very little of the complex hagiology of early Christianity; she found the legends enthralling. The number of beautiful maidens who had embraced martyrdom rather than submit to the embraces of pagan lovers was, if not legion, at least very extensive. After the Duchess had taken a glass or two of wine she even mentioned the word "virgin" in connection with the lovely young martyrs.

After dinner they played a few games of cards, but Marianne admitted that she found the motion of the train made her drowsy, so they retired early.

Marianne dropped off to sleep at once; but sometime later she found herself suddenly and unaccountably wide awake. She felt quite cozy in the cunning little bed and could not imagine what had awakened her. Across the way she heard the Duchess's regular breathing. She did not wish to strike a light, for fear of disturbing her companion, but ventured to sit up in bed and draw the curtain from the window.

They were in open countryside. The night was moonless and extremely dark. Yet Marianne sensed a haunting familiarity about the dim landscape, and she realized that their journey north must lead through Yorkshire. Was she now looking upon the land hallowed by memories of childhood?

She was never to know the answer. Strain her eyes as she might, she saw nothing except an occasional village or town, distinguished only by a few lights. Surely, she thought, the main line to Scotland must pass through York. But although she sat by the window for quite a long time, she saw nothing recognizable.

Finally she drew the curtain and lay down, composing herself to sleep – and wondering why it had not occurred to her, till now, that she would be so near her childhood home. So quickly had old memories been replaced by new impressions.

This time, when she fell asleep, she dreamed – dreamed that she was standing pilloried against the door of the quaint old village church while her former friends and neighbors gathered stones to throw at her. Leading the mob, her kindly face distorted, her voice shrieking curses, was Mrs. Jay. "Virgin!" she shouted, and threw a stone that hit Marianne full on the temple.

The express was due to arrive in Edinburgh before daylight, but naturally no one expected Her Grace the Dowager Duchess of Devenbrook to tumble out into the cold gray dawn. Her railway car was respectfully shunted onto a siding, and when the two women emerged, after a leisurely toilette and a hearty breakfast, they found the Duchess's carriage waiting. This was a much more splendid equipage than the carriage the Duchess was accustomed to use in London. Indeed, the arms on the door were so large and so brightly blazoned with crimson and gold that the noble lady seemed slightly embarrassed.

"Oh, dear, Henry has had the arms repainted again," she said with a sigh. "It is harmless enough, I suppose, but I really do not enjoy having my presence proclaimed so – so emphatically."

"Henry?"

"The thirteenth Duke of Devenbrook." The Duchess settled herself comfortably against crimson velvet cushions and motioned Marianne to join her. "We have a long drive ahead of us; make yourself comfortable and I will tell you about the family."

But before this promise could be carried out Marianne was distracted by the sights of the city, which she had not seen before; and seeing her interest the Duchess goodnaturedly pointed out various landmarks. Most impressive was the view of the Castle, its time-darkened stones brooding over the lower city like a great dragon.

Clouds gathered as they left the city behind them. A gentle drizzle began to fall. The Duchess then began the explanation she had promised.

"You must know that my husband was considerably older than I. He had been married twice before and had had several children. Only two of these survived, however.

The elder, Annabelle, is the child of Lady Helen Nicholson. This unfortunate lady produced only female offspring. All died in infancy except for Annabelle, and Lady Helen perished in childbirth. The Duke then wed the Honorable Miss Pilgrim, who finally presented him with a male heir. She passed on shortly afterwards. I often thought that if his mother had lived, Willy would have turned out differently…"

Marianne listened in morbid fascination to this mournful history.

"What happened to him?" she asked.

"Well… One must not speak ill of the dead; and no doubt Willy has learned the error of his earthly life of dissipation now that he has passed on. A mother's kindly guidance might have wooed him from his wild companions. I, alas, was too young to assume this role; Willy was only a few years younger than I, and he resented me. Drink, drugs, Sunday driving and – er – other evils were responsible for his premature death. Fortunately, at his father's insistence, he had married, though I fear he led the poor girl a sad life. At any rate he lived long enough to produce a son of his own. This lad, Henry, is the present holder of the title. He is only ten years old."

"He doesn't live with you, then?"

"No, his mother is of Scottish birth and she prefers to reside at Devenbrook Castle."

"His mother is still living?"

"Oh, yes. She is a very retiring person. Her unfortunate deformity… I suppose I had better warn you about that."

"I wish you would."

"It is not much, really; one soon becomes accustomed to it. She has a harelip, poor creature, and is morbidly self-conscious about it."

"I will be very careful not to take the slightest notice of it."

"I felt sure you would. You probably won't see a great deal of her; she spends most of her time in her own rooms. The castle is quite large, so Violet and Annabelle do not have to meet."

"Annabelle? Ah, yes, your stepdaughter. She does not care for her… her…" Marianne gave up trying to decipher this relationship. "… for the Duke's mother?"

"Oh, they seem to get along amicably enough," the Duchess replied. "But Annabelle is also, in her way, something of a recluse. She… Yes, I had better tell you about Annabelle's peculiarity."

"Please do," said Marianne.

"Annabelle keeps quantities of cats."

"But there is nothing peculiar about that,"

Marianne said, relieved. "I am very fond of pussycats."

"I myself have no objection to them, in moderation. But Annabelle's collection cannot by even the most generous interpretation of the word be considered moderate. I am forced to leave my poor little Pierre in London when I come north; Annabelle's fierce felines quite overwhelm him."

"So then the household consists of Lady Annabelle, Lady Violet, and her son the Duke," said Marianne, trying to get the proper titles as well as the names straightened out. She assumed, from what the Duchess had said, that the ill-fated "Willy" had predeceased his father, and that therefore his widow did not hold the titles of a Duke's wife. In this she was apparently correct, for the Duchess nodded.