Barbara Michaels - The Wizard’s Daughter

She left the young man looking downcast. Even if she had not had other things on her mind, she would not have been eager to go wandering off with him. His comment about his pupil's dullness had struck a sour note. He had no right to feel himself on such confidential terms with her.

As the day wore on, however, she almost regretted she had not accepted the tutor's offer, for the hours had to be filled somehow, and the Duchess was busy with household matters. There were always details of this nature to settle when she came north, since neither of the other ladies had the interest or the ability to deal with them. So Marianne read a little, walked a little, and looked at her pretty enameled lapel watch – the Duchess's latest gift – every fifteen minutes.

The day was unusually mild, so she finally settled down under the rose arbor with a piece of needlework. In that sheltered spot, situated to the south of the castle and shielded by plantings of firs, a few late roses lingered. Marianne passed an hour there. She had just decided that she could now go in and begin dressing for dinner when the sound of footsteps on the gravel path made her look up. For a moment she could hardly believe her eyes. What was Roger Carlton doing here?

So thoroughly had her new idol filled her thoughts that she studied the lawyer with a cool dispassionate eye and wondered how she could have found him handsome. Not that he was actually ugly. His height, his form, and the vigor of his walk were attractive enough. But dark-brown hair was so dull, compared to golden locks.

He came to a stop before her. "The servants told me I would find you here."

"Did they?" Marianne's voice was cool. "But I shan't be here for long. In fact, I was just about to go in."

"That would be a pity. You make such a charming picture – a golden-haired lady in a white gown, framed in clusters of roses. The roses are almost gone, of course, but a romantic imagination like mine can easily supply them."

"You are making fun of me," Marianne said, plunging her needle vigorously into the linen fabric and gathering her silks together.

"Not at all. I have as keen an eye for beauty as any man."

"What are you doing here? Business, I suppose."

"Your business." Carlton adjusted the crease in his fawn trousers and took a seat.

"Mine? But I have none."

"Perhaps business is not quite the right word. Your affairs, I should say."

"Well?"

Carlton reached out his hand and plucked a rose. He let out a little exclamation as the flower came into his hand. "A pity such beautiful flowers have thorns," he said, looking with mock dismay at a tiny bead of blood on his thumb.

"I am in a hurry," Marianne said. "What do you want to tell me?"

"But it can't be told in a sentence. I want to talk with you at length."

"Then it will have to wait. We are having a guest for dinner, and I must go and dress."

"Quite a royal 'we,' I must say. Who is this guest?"

"The… the clergyman," Marianne said. She would have given anything she owned not to blush, but she felt the warm, betraying tide of blood move across her cheeks.

"St. John?" To her annoyance Carlton threw his head back and let out a loud hearty laugh. "Where did you… Ah, but of course; yesterday was Sunday, and you -"

"And you," Marianne interrupted, "must have left London yesterday. Sunday travel, Mr. Carlton? How shocking!"

"Duty called," Carlton said solemnly.

"You are impossible! Please excuse me."

"Don't you even want to know what business I meant to discuss with you?"

"No. Unless…" Marianne had risen to her feet and started forward. Now she stopped. Quite without warning a terrible picture had flashed into her mind. She seemed to see Mrs. Jay lying on her bed, her hands crossed over her breast, and her eyes closed. The mental apparition was so vivid that she spun around, her curls flashing in the sunlight, her skirts billowing out. "Has something happened? Have you bad news?"

For once she was unaware of the lovely picture she presented, with emotion darkening her eyes and the sunlight caressing the graceful lines of her body and arms. The young lawyer took a long, shaken breath before replying.

"No, no. Not the sort of news you are dreading. It can wait."

"Well." In her relief Marianne smiled. Dimples, fluttering lashes, curving lips came into full play. "We will talk later, then. Tomorrow, perhaps."

Carlton nodded dumbly. With another gracious smile Marianne left him.

He sat under the rose arbor for some time, his brow furrowed, meticulously stripping the petals from the rose, careless of its thorns. When he finally returned to the house the ground beside his chair was strewn with the soft pink petals of the murdered flower.

It need not be said that Marianne dressed for dinner with unusual care. By the time she left her room she had tried on all the dresses she owned and reduced Annie to a state of quivering nerves. The results, however, were magnificent. Perhaps those few days in the theater had taught her something about creating an effect, or perhaps the basic instincts of a woman had warned her that the pastor would be more struck with virginal modesty than with ostentation. Her gown was the same one she had worn that fateful night at the opera, but with the trailing flowers and coquettish blue ribbons removed. It was now stark unadorned white, and Marianne's only ornament was a black velvet ribbon that supported the locket with the pictures of her parents.

Her lateness was not a matter of calculation, but the inevitable result of prolonged primping. Most of the others were assembled in the drawing room when she made her entrance.

The room was extravagantly lighted by lamps and candles and by two great fires. Such light is flattering; Marianne knew she was the cynosure of all eyes as she stood in the doorway. Her own eyes went straight to his face, ignoring all the others.

In the white collar and unrelieved black of his calling he was as handsome as ever. His pale skin and fair hair looked like a faded watercolor above the stark black, but there was nothing faded about his eyes; they caught fire as they met hers.

But the formalities had to be observed. Her first duty was to the Duchess; then a mocking curtsy to Carlton. Then came the moment she had been waiting for. He was much taller than she. She tipped her head back and gazed up at him as he took her hand.

The atmosphere was changed from pulsating romance to sheer farce by the entrance of Lady Annabelle.

"I am dining," she announced. "Heard you were here, vicar. Good to see you. Fluffy's been sick again."

"Her old trouble?" the vicar asked interestedly.

"Looks that way." Lady Annabelle pushed him down onto the sofa; took a seat beside him, and launched into an explicit description of Fluffy's symptoms.

St. John looked at Marianne. "I share Lady Annabelle's interest in our animal friends, Miss Ransom. Not a sparrow shall fall, you know."

"I am fond of animals too," Marianne assured him eagerly.

"So am I," said the Duchess. "But their ailments are not a suitable subject for drawing-room conversation. Later, perhaps, Annabelle. Mr. St. John, I believe you have done a great deal of good here since my last visit."

A courteous but decisive inquiry into parish charitable matters followed. Marianne sat in demure silence, admiring the animation of the young pastor's face as he described various needy cases. Finally, when the Duchess had finished her questions, Marianne said shyly, "I much enjoyed your sermon, Mr. St. John."

"Thank you, thank you." He beamed at her. "I hope I did not dwell too long on the Amalekites?"

A snort from Carlton won that gentleman a freezing stare from Marianne. She turned back to the vicar. "Not at all. I found it… inspirational."