Barbara Michaels - The Wizard’s Daughter

There were few people abroad, despite the unseasonably mild weather. The cottage windows were tightly sealed. Presumably the hard-working peasants had no time to enjoy nature. The men would be at work, the women tending children and preparing the evening meal. The only signs of activity were at the Devenbrook Arms. Marianne could see through the open gates into the innyard, where a coach and horses stood waiting for some traveler. This reminded her of Bagshot and of Carlton's warning. Ridiculous, she told herself angrily. Bagshot would not dare to show his face in such a small place as this, where every stranger was immediately observed.

The houses thinned out; only the church and the vicarage, a neat stone house somewhat larger than the others, remained to be passed before she turned into the drive leading to the castle. Though she had convinced herself she was in no danger, she felt nervous and had lifted the reins, preparatory to urging Stella into a trot, when she saw the church doors open and a familiar form appear. The sunlight caught its cap of golden hair and set it aglow.

Without any conscious intent on her part, Marianne's hands tightened and Stella came to a stop. The vicar saw her at the same time. Lifting a hand as if to ask her to wait, he quickly descended the steps and came toward her.

He had to speak to me, Marianne thought, her heart pounding. He saw me stop – why was I so forward? – and felt obliged to greet me. But the glow of pleasure on St. John's face made her hope that this depressing idea was wrong.

"What a welcome and unlooked-for surprise," he exclaimed. "If I thought the Almighty concerned himself with such trivial matters, I would almost believe this meeting to be an answer to prayer."

Marianne did not quite like being considered trivial, but the speech was otherwise so gracious she decided to overlook that part of it.

"It is a pleasure to see you, Mr. St. John. I hope you are well?"

"Splendid, thank you. But you are wondering why I stopped you."

"Not at all," Marianne murmured.

"I wished, first, to apologize for the unpleasantness that marred what was otherwise a delightful evening."

"You have no need to apologize. I am only sorry -"

"No, no, the fault was mine. I was too abrupt. Her Grace was quite right in accusing me of a lack of tolerance. I assure you, I have been berating myself ever since."

Indeed, Marianne could now see the delicate strains of sleeplessness and worry marking his eyelids. They only made him look more romantic.

"I hate to see you in distress," she said impulsively. "The Duchess is the kindest woman in the world; if you go to her and tell her you have changed your mind -"

"But I cannot. I have not." He looked up at her, his hand resting on Stella's neck. "That is where my trouble lies, Miss Ransom. You do understand, don't you?"

"I am not sure -"

"Prayers for the dead – that is sheer popery!" His eyes glowed with a fiery light. "Her Grace may call it a memorial service, but she wants more, more than I can in conscience give. Yet I might be tempted to do something of the sort if I sincerely believed that she had abandoned her heathen practices. Oh, Miss Ransom, I must say this, hard as it is – I must warn you. Do not, I beg you, participate in those actions which can only endanger your immortal soul."

Before the burning intensity of his look Marianne's eyes fell. She would like to have disclaimed any knowledge of what he meant, but she could not; those clear eyes seemed to see straight into her heart.

"I owe her so much," she murmured.

"She took me in when I was friendless, poor -"

One more minute and she would have confessed the whole shameful story. But Mr. St. John did not give her the opportunity.

"You owe her gratitude, companionship, devotion. But your soul you owe to no man – or woman," he added punctiliously.

Marianne wanted to promise anything he asked. His voice thrilled her; mind, heart, and soul responded. But her buried streak of obstinacy made her say, "I can't see that there is any harm in it."

"I tell you these manifestations are of the Devil! Have you read that splendid pamphlet, Table-moving Tested and Proved to be the Result of Satanic Agency} Or Tableturning, the Devil's Modern Masterpiece?"

"No," Marianne admitted.

"The table confessed," Mr. St. John said solemnly, "that it was moved by the spirit of a lost soul sent from Hell."

"Oh, dear."

"Will you read these books if I give them to you?"

"Yes; but -"

"Wait here. Wait only a moment."

Any other man would have looked foolish running at such a pace, his coattails flapping; but Mr. St. John – his admirer thought -even ran beautifully. He vanished into the parsonage; in a moment he came pelting back, waving several small volumes.

"Here," he panted, pressing them into her hand. "Read and heed the blessed words in them. Read and pray, my dear Miss Ransom. And if you should ever require spiritual guidance, I am at your service – at any hour of the day or night."

A thrill ran down Marianne's spine. "Thank you," she said. "I… I must go now."

"Yes, you must." The young man stepped back. "I have kept you too long. But it was well done, if my words bear fruit. Remember."

"I will."

He looked as if he would have said more, but a burst of distant laughter from the inn made him recollect himself. He made her a formal bow and turned to return to the house.

Stella looked inquiringly at her new mistress. "May we go on now?" she seemed to say. Marianne said absently, "Yes, Stella, go on, do," and they trotted sedately off, with Marianne's head craned to watch the vicar until he disappeared inside.

Stella knew her way home, which was fortunate, because her rider was daydreaming.

They had passed into the drive before Marianne realized it would never do to let the Duchess see the books the vicar had given her. She thrust them into the front of her jacket. They made an unseemly bulge, but at least their titles were not visible.

She found one of the grooms waiting by the front steps, sent, he said, by Mr. Carlton, who had promised she would be along directly. After an affectionate farewell to Stella, Marianne crossed both arms awkwardly over her breast to hide the books and made a dash for her room. She thrust the dangerous little volumes into her wardrobe under a heap of undergarments, and just in time – a tap at the connecting door heralded the arrival of the Duchess.

"Well," she exclaimed, smiling, "from your appearance, my dear Marianne, I would conclude that you have spent a happy, busy day."

"I lost my hat," Marianne said.

The Duchess laughed outright. "I heard about that. Roger pretended to be annoyed at the trick you played on him, but I could tell he was greatly entertained. Don't concern yourself, child; he has sent one of the menservants out to look for your hat, and if it is not found we well get you another. I would sacrifice a dozen hats to see you looking so bright and healthy."

"You are too kind," Marianne said miserably. She felt as if the offending volumes were out in plain sight, blazoning their messages aloud.

"Not at all." The Duchess patted her cheek. "What do you say to a cup of tea here in your room, and a little rest? My dear old Gruffstone has arrived, so we will be seven for dinner. I sometimes allow Henry to dine when Horace is here; they are so fond of one another. And one can't exclude M. Victor, he is so sensitive… And Annabelle, of course. I only hope she will not bring half a dozen cats. A bientot, then, my child."

She went out, leaving Marianne no opportunity to speak even if she had wanted to – which she did not. As she watched the maids running in and out with trays of tea and cakes, buckets of hot water, warm towels, and other luxuries, she felt like a racehorse being groomed – and bribed – for the evening's performance.