Barbara Michaels - The Wizard’s Daughter

"Inspirational of what, precisely, one wonders?" Carlton mused aloud.

Any reply Marianne might have been tempted to make was forestalled by the announcement of dinner. As the youngest lady present, she was forced to bring up the rear; but this offered her the opportunity to admire the back of Mr. St. John's neck. It was an admirable neck, sturdy without being fleshy, squarely set on his fine shoulders.

After the meal was concluded, the ladies returned to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their port. Marianne wondered, as she often had, why men had to be left alone and what they talked about on such occasions. It seemed unlikely that Carlton and the vicar would have much to discuss.

At the Duchess's request Marianne went to the piano. She was still playing when the gentlemen came in; they had not lingered overlong. Though she continued to make her fingers ripple over the keys, she saw that St. John started toward her, his face alight with the appreciation of a genuine lover of music. However, he was caught by the Duchess, and it was Carlton who joined her at the instrument.

"Just give me a nod," he said, touching the music. "I am the most accomplished of page turners."

"There is no need," Marianne said sweetly. "That is the last page."

"Dear me, how embarrassing. I ought to have seen that, oughtn't I? Let us try a duet, then. I must do something to win back your respect."

"Do you sing?" Marianne asked.

"Magnificently. Here – do you know this?"

After a false start – for Marianne's attention was not entirely on the music – they launched into the song. Carlton had a pleasant baritone voice, rather deeper than she would have expected, and he sang with taste and feeling. The power of music over Marianne's sensibilities was strong enough to overcome her, even on this thrilling occasion; she was as startled and surprised as the others when the vicar jumped to his feet, exclaiming, "No!"

Seeing the sensation he had created, the vicar's cheeks darkened. "I beg your pardon," he said quietly. "Perhaps, Your Grace, we should discuss this another time."

The Duchess appeared quite calm, but those who knew her could tell by the rigidity of her pose and by the deadly courtesy of her voice how angry she was.

"There is nothing to discuss, if you meant what you said. I have asked you to perform your clerical duties and you have refused."

"Not that – never that." The burning sincerity of the young man's voice could not be denied. "Never, I hope, will I refuse to do my duty. What you wish, Your Grace, are prayers for the repose of a man's soul. That is a popish practice. I cannot condone it."

"Your are quite mistaken, Mr. St. John," the Duchess replied. "My beliefs also deny the existence of those myths, Hell and Purgatory; and if I were foolish enough to believe in them, I would never believe that the soul of David Holmes required my prayers to escape them. He is in heavenly bliss. I asked only for a memorial service. What can you object to in that?"

St. John had himself well in hand now. Only his clenched fists betrayed his emotion. "I object," he said, in a low, thrilling voice, "because Holmes was a heretic, condemned even by his own church."

"Then," said Carlton, leaning negligently against the piano, "you only bestow your prayers on the saint, Mr. St. John? Is there not more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner redeemed than -"

"I know my Bible as well as you, Mr. Carlton," the vicar interrupted. "I will gladly pray for that unfortunate, that misguided man. What I will not do is lend my countenance to a mockery of the Christian faith."

"You have not reconsidered, then," the Duchess said. "You do not believe in the principles of spiritualism?"

"I have reconsidered," was the reply. "I do believe." His voice rose. "I believe that the manifestations produced by such men as Mr. Holmes are actually moved by a spirit from Hell, sent by the Devil, for the purpose of deluding the credulous, and doomed to return to Hell when its evil intent is accomplished!"

"How dare you!" The Duchess, vibrating with wrath, rose to her feet. "Sir, the hour is late. You will, no doubt, wish to leave. I will order the carriage."

"I am deeply sorry to have offended Your Grace."

"It is too late to apologize."

"I do not apologize for my belief, I only express regret that the truth must harm those I respect and admire."

His sincerity was evident. The Duchess relaxed; she even smiled faintly.

"Well, well; I too was at fault. I should be more patient with human weakness. 'They have eyes, but see not…' David tried to teach me that."

The vicar's lips tightened. "Your Grace is too kind," he muttered.

"Only think of what I have said. It would please me so much, Mr. St. John; try, can't you, to find a way to reconcile with your conscience?"

The ghost of her old beauty and coquetry touched her as she held out a reconciling hand, and the young man's face showed that he was not unmoved.

"I will consider it, Your Grace. I will pray."

"I could not ask more. And now, good night."

Lady Annabelle followed him out; Marianne heard "Fluffy" and "sick" before the door closed on the pair.

The Duchess passed a hand over her brow. "Intolerance! None so blind as those who will not see! Sometimes I despair… Marianne. Come with me, child."

"Now?" Marianne's voice rose to a plaintive wail.

"Yes, now. I have waited long enough. I am perturbed. I need reassurance. Please."

"I'll try," Marianne mumbled.

Carlton was not invited to join them, but he went along anyhow, to a room which was in all essentials a replica of the white-swathed chamber in the London mansion. The Duchess's decision had been so sudden that the servants had not had time to prepare the room. Here Carlton proved his usefulness, for he had had the foresight to carry with him a candelabrum. This was set on the mantel, some distance from the table in the center of the room, and they all took their places. As soon as the silence demanded by the exercise descended, Marianne heard a sound that was certainly not supernatural.

"Someone is here," she exclaimed.

The sound, a sly, scuttling, ratlike scrabble, was repeated. Carlton leaped up and made a dash for a far comer of the room. A brief scuffle ensued; then Carlton pulled the wriggling form of the young Duke from behind the window draperies.

"How long have you been there?" he inquired in a conversational tone.

The calm voice had its effect on Henry; he stopped thrashing around and hung limp from Carlton's fist, which was clamped on his shoulder.

"All evening. You've been long enough about it, I must say."

"How many times have I told you…" The Duchess closed her mouth without finishing the sentence. She shook her head. "What a sad little snoop you are, Henry. Go to bed. Roger, call one of the servants – that wretched Victor – someone to take the boy away."

So Henry was handed over to a burly footman who promised to deliver him to his own room.

"You aren't faaaaair." His long howl echoed along the corridor.

They sat again. But there was no message, no mobility of the furniture – nothing – though they remained until the room grew cold and Marianne was nodding with fatigue.

The Duchess was disappointed but not distressed by their failure. She attributed it to the influence of a hostile mind. She referred, of course., to the vicar; but Marianne, catching Carlton's mocking eye, felt sure he radiated enough hostility to rout a regiment of friendly spirits, including that of David Holmes.

"I do not suppose," Carlton said, "that you are any sort of horsewoman, Miss Ransom."

"Why should you suppose that? I dote on riding."

They were sitting at the breakfast table, together with M. Victor, who remained resolutely in his chair nibbling on petrified toast, even though Carlton ignored him completely after the first curt greeting.