Barbara Michaels - The Wizard’s Daughter

Her sense of guilt and shame about participating in the seances had not been entirely dispelled, but she appreciated the doctor's attempt to restore not only her body but her distracted mind. Most reassuring of all was her memory of praying with him. Surely no one possessed by a devil could repeat the Lord's Prayer. Once she had had a nursery maid who had told her horrible stories about ghosts and witches. The girl had been dismissed when her exercise in sadism had been discovered, but Marianne had never forgotten the gruesome tales. One of the worst had concerned a demon who had taken possession of a poor farmer's body and had occupied it without suspicion until a clergyman had spotted the intruder and forced him to betray himself by repeating the Lord's Prayer. The demon had said it backwards.

Folktales, repeated by an ignorant, superstitious woman? Oh, certainly; but in the past weeks Marianne had seen things she would once have dismissed as fiction. Perhaps the vicar's books would help to explain them. She opened the one she had brought with her and began to read.

"Can it be, that this is the beginning of Satan's last struggle, that on the imposition of hands the table is endued with power from the Devil? I merely ask, can it be?"

But the author obviously thought he knew the answer. Marianne read on, puckering her forehead over some of the more ponderously illogical sentences. So absorbed was she that, after all, she failed to hear the crunch of gravel. A shadow fell across the page; she looked up, with a startled scream, to see Carlton looming over her.

She made a belated attempt to hide the book. Carlton's eyebrows lifted and he twitched the volume neatly out of her hands.

"Good heavens," he said disgustedly, after a glance at the title, "where did you get this rubbish? No, let me guess. Who else but St. John?"

"How can you call it rubbish? You said yourself you do not believe that the spirits of the blessed dead return -"

"I don't believe anything returns," Carlton replied irritably. "But this is even worse than the Duchess's theories."

He turned over a few pages, scanned the print, and burst into a shout of laughter.

"Here we have the interrogator asking the spirit where Satan's headquarters are. 'Are they in England?' A slight movement of the table. 'Are they in France?' A violent movement. 'Are they at Rome?' The table seemed literally frantic… Really, Miss Ransom, how can you read such bigoted trash with a straight face?"

Marianne ought to have been offended. Instead his laughter made her feel better.

"Do you really think it is trash?"

"Of course. This is the worst possible thing for you, huddling here in the cold straining your eyes and your poor little conscience. Come for a ride. The exercise will do you good. At least it does me good, after a night of overindulgence."

"How can you say such a thing?" Marianne protested. But she took the hand he extended and allowed him to raise her to her feet.

"You had too much brandy for someone who is not accustomed to spirits," was the reply. "I suppose Gruffstone concluded that it was better for you to be tipsy than hysterical. However, the morning after is not pleasant. Hurry now; I will meet you downstairs in ten minutes."

It took Marianne longer than ten minutes, for she had to go to the kitchen to beg some carrots. Stella received the offering graciously.

"What a glorious day," Marianne exclaimed, removing her hat and lifting her face to the sun. "Thank you, Mr. Carlton. This is just what I needed."

"I have had considerable experience in these matters," Carlton replied.

They rode on in comfortable silence, side by side. Then Marianne asked, "Have you had any word about Maggie?"

"Hardly; I only dispatched the new information yesterday. I also requested my people to find out what Bagshot is doing just now."

"I am sure your concern on that point is unnecessary," Marianne said, with more confidence than she really felt.

"No doubt. At this moment I am much more concerned about another matter. Miss Ransom, have you considered what you are doing? How long do you plan to continue this masquerade?"

"You still think me a cheat, then." Marianne felt more weariness than anger.

"I don't know what you are! Gruffstone has another theory. I am forced to admit there may be some truth in it."

"Theory? Oh, yes. He said something to me last night, but I did not understand his meaning – something about hysteria. He was very kind."

"He is too inclined to take people at face value," Carlton replied cynically. "However, I respect his medical knowledge, and he tells me that there has been considerable research into this phenomenon of hysteria. Some fellow at the Salpetriere in Paris – Chariot?… Charcot, that was the name – at any rate, he and some others have learned that illnesses of certain patients are purely mental in origin, and can be cured by suggestion. These patients believe themselves to be ill, so they become ill. I suppose I am explaining it badly, for he bombarded me with medical terms I didn't understand; but the gist of it is simple enough. People believe what they want to believe, and some people are more susceptible to self-delusion than others."

"But there is nothing scientific about that! In any case," Marianne added haughtily, "I am not deluding myself."

"My dear girl, we all do, to varying degrees. The doctor believes that all men – and women – are basically good; the Duchess believes the spirits of the dead talk to her -"

"And what makes you so sure they are wrong?"

"That is my form of self-delusion," the lawyer said wryly. "That I know better than they. See here, Miss Ransom, I am not such a pompous fool as I sound. Most of what I have seen and heard about spiritualism strikes me as absurd, but I am not so dogmatic as to insist there may not be a germ of truth in it. Would you be willing to let me subject you to some kind of physical restraint the next time Her Grace insists on a performance?"

"What did you have in mind?" Marianne asked doubtfully.

"Nothing more than most mediums now accept. That you be bound to a chair – I promise I will only use the softest of cloths – which is bolted to the floor."

"Certainly," Marianne replied. "That seems reasonable."

"Also…"

"Well?"

The lawyer coughed self-consciously. "That you be searched. Oh, not by me! Lady Annabelle will oblige, I am sure."

"It sounds most disagreeable," Marianne grumbled. "However, if it will settle your doubts, I agree. Not that I am anxious to repeat the performance. Do you think the Duchess might give up -"

"Her seances? Never! Believe me, I would not ask you to go through another one solely to satisfy my curiosity; I only propose these means because I know you have not the strength to resist her demands. Those demands will not stop. Don't you realize that the anniversary of Holmes's death is less than a fortnight away? She will not rest until she receives some message from him."

Marianne shuddered. "It is wrong. I can't help but feel that."

"It is," Carlton agreed. For once his face and his voice were quite serious. "Wrong not to accept God's will; wrong to call those who are at peace back from their rest. Whether one believes that they come or not, the very demand is mistaken and harmful. Ah, I've had enough of this somber talk. Come, I will race you back to the road."

Marianne took off her hat and reveled in the wind's strong fingers running through her hair; but as she urged Stella on, she was pondering a new and startling idea. What if the Duchess were to receive a message from David Holmes telling her to abandon her attempt to reach him, to let him rest? Marianne had not the capability to perform such a trick; but if she had, she would have been sorely tempted to try it, as much for her kind friend's sake as for her own.