Barbara Michaels - The Wizard’s Daughter

"Of course. Do you think well of his tutor, then?"

"M. Victor? Did you meet him too?"

"He came in pursuit of Henry."

The Duchess laughed ruefully. "You are tactful, Marianne, but I can read between the lines. The boy is so high-spirited he leads poor M. Victor quite a dance. As for the other matter – I am afraid the servants, like all uneducated people, look on spiritualism as an exercise of the Devil. They were terrified of dear David. I have strictly forbidden them to talk of such things in front of Henry, but of course they do; and Nanny is one of the worst offenders. A strict Presbyterian, and you know how they are!"

Marianne was silent. In her innermost heart she sympathized with the superstitious servants. She had found table-turning very entertaining as a parlor game; but when unseen forces flung objects about and invaded her own body, it was hard to think of such influences as benevolent. The only thing that made the business endurable was the Duchess's attitude. The Duchess was older and wiser and very kind; the Duchess accepted spiritualism; so spiritualism must be all right. So ran the unconsciously formulated syllogism that was to keep her involved in a pursuit from which every other instinct recoiled.

Devenbrook Castle had been modernized thirty years earlier, when the Gothic revival was in full flood. It was therefore a bizarre mixture of genuine medieval features, imitation medieval misapprehensions, and a few remnants of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century elements, which had somehow escaped the twelfth Duke's remodeling eye. The small parlor into which the Duchess led Marianne was an example of the last category. Called the rose parlor because its tall, wide windows opened onto a walled garden devoted to the cultivation of those flowers, its decor reflected the same theme: soft, comfortable furniture covered with pink brocade, a magnificent molded ceiling with floral swags and medallions showing beautiful ladies of myth and history, and a carved marble mantel. A fire burned on the hearth; before it, several chairs and a love seat surrounded a table on which the tea-things were already set out.

"Annabelle is not here, I see," the Duchess remarked. "We might as well begin; although she promised to join us I am never sure she will come."

Scarcely had she filled the cups, however, when the door was opened and a lady made her appearance.

She was so tall and so strikingly masculine in every physical aspect that if Marianne had not known whom to expect she would have taken the lady for a male in woman's garb. Lady Annabelle had heavy eyebrows that ran straight across her forehead, without a curve or a break between, and a perceptible mustache shadowed her upper lip. But instead of the tailored, mannish clothing such a woman might have favored she wore dainty, fragile garments dripping with lace and ruffles, which looked ridiculous on her tall, broad-shouldered frame. The ruffles were sadly tattered, and Marianne needed no explanation for this phenomenon, since Lady Annabelle was literally surrounded by cats.

One was draped over her shoulder, its paws resting on her flat bosom. Its tail bounced up and down with every step. She carried another in her arms, a red tabby with insolent yellow eyes; and Marianne's own eyes opened wide at the sight of it, for it was the largest cat she had ever seen, weighing a good thirty pounds. An indeterminate number of other felines accompanied this apparition, flowing in and out under her skirts like a living river of fur – gray, white, black, orange, yellow, and every conceivable permutation thereof. Eyes flashed and tails waved, and no one ever seemed to be stepped on, although Lady Annabelle paid no attention to her entourage.

Sitting down in an armchair she gave the Duchess an awkward nod and cradled the enormous red tabby in her lap.

"I am so happy you decided to join us, Annabelle," said the Duchess. "Pray allow me to present Miss Ransom."

"How do you do," said Lady Annabelle, in a deep bass growl. "Do you like cats?"

"I dote on them," Marianne replied promptly.

Lady Annabelle's wide mouth relaxed. "Sensible gel. So do I."

That fact hardly required mentioning. One cat was sharpening its claws on the lady's skirt and two others were sidling up to the tea table, their eyes fixed on the cream pitcher. The elephantine tabby in the favored position on Lady Annabelle's lap contemplated Marianne through slitted eyes.

"That is a very handsome creature you are holding," Marianne said politely. "I have never seen so large a cat."

"This is Horace. I named him after the doctor."

Marianne stared at Horace, who stared back at her with a look of profound boredom.

"Dr. Gruffstone?" she asked, wondering if the doctor had been pleased at the compliment.

"Yes. He does not resemble the doctor physically, but they have the same dignity of presence. Just push that plate of sandwiches closer to me, Miss Ransom. Horace is getting on in years – that is why I carry him – and he needs to eat frequently."

Marianne obliged. She was exceedingly diverted to see the lady feed sandwiches to Horace, who received the tidbits with an air of languid condescension. The lesser cats lined up and were rewarded with an occasional bite. Lady Annabelle continued to talk, explaining the genealogies, histories, and quaint habits of each cat in turn. Horace was the patriarch, having sired most of the other animals present.

After a while the Duchess interrupted; without such intervention Lady Annabelle would have gone on discussing cats all afternoon.

"Is Violet joining us, Annabelle?"

"Now the tabby with white paws, Angel Face… What? Violet? How should I know, Honoria? I doubt it; she never comes down when there are strangers here."

"How is she? I have not yet had time to call on her."

"The same," Annabelle said with a shrug. "Now Hector – the black – not the black with the white bib, the other black – Hector was ill last week. I think he ate a bad bit of fish. I gave -"

"And you, my dear. What have you been doing since I saw you last?"

"I have been embroidering," Lady Anna-belle said, in her queer gruff voice. "It was a pretty piece of Berlin work, Honoria; it had a basket of kittens on it. But Fluffy – that is the white one, Miss Ransom – Fluffy wound the yarn into a hopeless tangle. I feared for a time that she had eaten part of it, but -"

"Then your health has been good?"

"Yes, of course. I am never ill, Honoria, you know that."

"You are too thin, my dear. Won't you have a sandwich?"

"I believe," said Lady Annabelle, with great simplicity, "that Horace has eaten them all."

The door opened and the footman announced, "His Grace the Duke of Devenbrook."

The unkempt surly boy had undergone a surprising transformation. To be sure, he had outgrown his neat gray suit, so that his bony wrists protruded, and he was in need of a haircut, a fact that was even more apparent now that he had attempted to comb his hair. Still, Marianne appreciated the effort and thought complacently that it might be attributed to her cutting comments on Henry's manners. He made her a bow, then spoiled the effect by remarking, "You look much nicer in your frock."

In any other company this comment would have been the cause of spilled tea and exclamations of horror. The only one who appeared to be perturbed by it was the tutor, who had followed his charge at a respectful distance. He rolled his eyes heavenward. Then he bowed to the three ladies in turn. Each bow was a masterpiece of calculation, conveying abject reverence to the Duchess, courteous respect to Lady Annabelle, and respectful admiration to Marianne.

"Your Grace permits?" he inquired. "It were more respectueux to inquire first, but the Duke was anxious to pay his devoirs to Your Grace."