Barbara Michaels - The Wizard’s Daughter

Marianne noticed several monuments of reclining knights – Devenbrook ancestors, no doubt. One conspicuous memorial had a life-sized effigy of a gentleman in Elizabethan ruff and hose leaning nonchalantly on his elbow as he faced the congregation, ignoring the meek-looking wife who lay beside him. Before him, like a frieze, ran an astonishing row of miniature kneeling figures, presumably his children. While waiting for the service to begin, Marianne counted them – there were sixteen altogether – and felt she could understand why the Lady Devenbrook of that era had not the strength to lift herself up on her elbow.

Seated as they were at the very front of the church, under the pulpit, Marianne's back was turned to the rest of the congregation, but she knew they were staring. They had certainly gaped openly as she walked down the aisle to her place. Yet the holy quiet of the church gave her a feeling of peace such as she had not known for many days. She relaxed, her eyes fixed dreamily on the worldly carved face of the Elizabethan Duke. His faint, cynical smile assured her that the mysteries of life and death were known to him; if she would only listen a little harder he would impart them to her. She was not at all surprised to hear a grave voice pronounce the words, "The wages of sin is death."

The Duchess shifted position and coughed. Marianne woke from her daze. The statue had not spoken; that was absurd. Yet surely she had heard the words… She looked up. The clergyman had mounted into the pulpit.

If Helen's face had launched a thousand ships, with all-male crews, this man might have inspired an equivalent female effort. His was the classic beauty of a face on an antique coin. To be sure, Marianne had never seen such a coin or such a profile, but she had read the phrase somewhere and it had struck her as the quintessential summary of what perfection must be. In fact, the pastor's good looks were not at all Greek. His forehead was broad and white, but instead of carrying on the straight unbroken line demanded by Attic notions of beauty his nose jutted out like the prow of a ship. His firm, chiseled lips might have been those of a sculptured Augustus or Alexander, but the shape of his chin was too pronounced for perfect handsomeness. Still, he was undeniably good-looking, and when a ray of sunlight struck his golden hair, giving it a glow like a halo, Marianne caught her breath.

She could never remember the content of that first sermon. She only knew that his solemn exhortation made her yearn to attain the Christian virtues he urged – whatever these might have been. Her suppressed feelings of guilt about so many of her recent actions would have made her receptive to any sincere sermon. The combination of male beauty, religious appeal, and a warm, passionate voice was almost too much for her. If the meeting had taken place in a revival tent, and the pastor had urged all sinners to come forward to the arms of Jesus, Marianne would have been the first one to reach the altar rail.

The dignified Church of England service allowed no such catharsis, so Marianne was forced to repress her feelings. After the service was over and the congregation began to disperse, she was scandalized to hear one parishioner remark, "Aye, aye, the laddie has a powerful call, nae doubt, but Ah niver know just what he's talking aboot."

Once again she had to run the gauntlet of staring eyes, for the other parishioners waited for the lady of the manor to exit before they left their places. Marianne scarcely noticed. Still in a daze, she took her place in the carriage.

Well, that is done," the Duchess said. "Mr. St. John gives a good sermon, don't you think? But I fear he is over the heads of most of his hearers."

Mr. St. John. Marianne locked the name away in her memory. "I found him most inspiring," she murmured.

"Oh, I don't doubt his ability, or his fervor. They tell me he has made quite an impression on the congregation, particularly the young women." The Duchess smiled indulgently. "Ah, well, I would be the last to deny that truths are more palatable when they are pronounced by such well-shaped lips. I do hope he decides to take a wife soon, though. I do not believe in a celibate priesthood, and a bachelor clergyman is unsettling to the neighborhood."

It had never occurred to Marianne that this Christian hero might be a married man. The fear having been aroused and dispelled in the same breath, she tried to tell herself that it did not matter in the least to her. One might admire a man's eloquence, even his physical appearance, without being suspected of having vulgar designs upon him.

"I suppose I must ask him to dine one day soon," the Duchess continued. "Tomorrow evening, perhaps."

It was as well for Marianne that she had this new interest on which to exercise her thoughts, for without it she would have been very bored. The Duchess observed the Sabbath with strictness. No profane music was permitted, only hymns; no entertainment or travel to places of amusement was allowed. Marianne spent the day walking in the garden and listening to her hostess read aloud from a book of vaguely heretical theology. She was happy when evening came and she could retire to her room and the (probably illicit) pleasures of Wuthering Heights. No secret visitor disturbed her and she slept soundly.

When she awoke next morning she could not at first understand why she felt like leaping out of bed and dancing around the room. Then she remembered. Today the clergyman was coming to dine!

Though he could not be expected for hours, she took forever over her morning toilette and snapped at Annie because her hair would not curl properly. When she went down to breakfast she found M. Victor there and expressed surprise to find him lingering so late over his coffee.

"I was – er – that is, I had hopes of meeting you," the young man confessed, with a betraying blush.

The blush made the freckles that starred the bridge of his nose stand out vividly, and his blue eyes studied her with anxious interest. Marianne had never seen a visage that spoke so unmistakably of its owner's origin, and in her good spirits she could not resist teasing him.

"Ah, begorra, had you indeed?"

M. Victor's prominent jaw dropped. For a moment he looked as if he would protest. Then he let out a long sigh.

"Ah, faith, and it's found me out you have. And surely ye won't be betraying me to the Duchess, angel of kindness that you must be, with a heavenly face like the one you have on you?"

"I am sure Her Grace already knows," Marianne said, laughing. "She is the angel of kindness; if she has not objected to your masquerade so far, I don't see why she should now. But why pretend? Are you ashamed of being Irish?"

"Indeed it's proud I am to be a son of Erin! But… the world is a foolish place, bedad, and there's no denying that an Irish tutor does not have the prestige of a Frenchie."

"That may be true, monsieur… What am I to call you then?"

"Victor is me name; indeed, me lie is only a wee bit of a half-lie, for me dear mither was French. Call me Victor, without the monsieur, and you'll honor me for life."

"Thank you. But why were you hoping to meet me?"

"I wished to offer me services as a guide. I know this crumbling old bin like the back o' me hand. Bedad, there's little enough to do here but read the old histories of the place. So, if you would enjoy a tour of the premises, consider me your man."

"But aren't you supposed to be teaching?" Marianne asked innocently. "I would not want to take you from your duties."

Victor's eyes twinkled slyly. "All work and no play makes Henry a dull boy. It's a dull boy he is altogether, hardly worth me talents as a teacher."

"It is kind of you," Marianne said. "But not today. I have – uh – duties to perform."