Barbara Michaels - The Wizard’s Daughter

"You are not to fuss," Marianne said, patting the thin hand that moved restlessly on the counterpane, as if seeking to take up the reins of authority once again. "I will leave you to rest now, and return later. I hope you will sleep."

She had no particular desire for food, or for Carlton's company, but she sensed that her presence was keeping the Duchess from the rest she needed.

Carlton was in the entrance hall, turning over a heap of papers and letters.

"The post has come," he said, glancing up. "And here is a letter for you."

"For me?"

"Why do you sound surprised? We are not cut off from civilization. This was forwarded from London."

Even before he handed it to her, Marianne suspected whom the letter was from. There could be only one correspondent. The sight of the handwriting confirmed her assumption.

Carlton, frowning over a letter he had just opened, did not appear to be paying attention, but when she thrust her mail, unread, into her bag, he inquired, "Don't you want to read it? Pray don't let my presence deter you."

"It can wait," Marianne replied. Mrs. Jay could not yet have received her letter, so this epistle, written when she was probably still in doubt as to her young friend's whereabouts, could hardly contain anything she wanted to hear. It was probably full of admonitions and advice.

"The Duchess has ordered me to take you riding," Carlton said, still glancing through his mail.

"You need not consider it an obligation."

"Ah, but I do. Run along and change; that will give me time to finish looking over my correspondence."

Marianne did as she was bid. When she had put on her riding habit she sat down to open Mrs. Jay's letter. There was no sense putting it off – and really she had no reason except her own uneasy conscience to anticipate that the contents might not be to her liking.

They were, however, even worse than she had expected. Mrs. Shortbody had apparently peppered her old friend with daily bulletins about Marianne's activities. Naturally she knew nothing of Marianne's brief career in the theater, or of Bagshot; but Mrs. Pettibone had reported her quondam governess's "insolence and brutality" to the employment agency, which had passed the report on to Mrs. Shortbody. The good landlady was too fair-minded to take this account at face value; Mrs. Jay acknowledged that she had reported Mrs. Pettibone to be an impossible woman, who could not keep help of any kind. All the same, Mrs. Jay felt bound to lecture Marianne at some length on the advisability of controlling her temper and facing adversity with Christian meekness.

"But this," she went on, "is of small consequence compared with the latest news I have from Mrs. Shortbody. She was unaware when Mr. Carlton first called upon her that he was in the employ of the Dowager Duchess of Devenbrook. Had she known, she would not have been a party to connecting you with such a person. Naturally you would not be aware of Her Grace's reputation, but, Marianne, you ought to know enough to inquire of those older and wiser before entrusting yourself to anyone not known to you personally! Heaven knows I am not one to give credence to vulgar gossip, and Her Grace's relationship with a certain gentleman now deceased was never proved; in any case that subject is not fit for your ears. What concerns me even more is the fact that she is known to be involved with a pagan cult condemned by all true -"

At this point Marianne crumpled the letter in her hand and threw it at the fireplace. Her cheeks were burning. Really, Mrs. Jay was outrageous! If she was so concerned about me, Marianne thought angrily, why didn't she offer me a home? Not that she had wanted to stay in that Yorkshire backwater, and as things turned out it was fortunate that she had not. But she had been hurt, at the time, that Mrs. Jay seemed so willing to be rid of her.

Outside the library she stopped and forced herself to wait till her temper had cooled. Not for all the world would she want Carlton to see her in a flaming rage. When her breathing had slowed down she turned the knob, and as she did so a voice boomed out, uttering a phrase that made her stand motionless and listen intently.

"… she will leave that wretched girl every penny she has. Her personal fortune is enormous, you know that."

The speaker was Roger Carlton, angry enough to speak more loudly than was his wont. The voice of the doctor replied.

"You don't know that she will do that. Surely you can remind her of her obligations toward the servants and charities she has always supported. In any case, my young friend, your duty is to see that she makes a will; it is not to approve or disapprove her choice of beneficiaries."

"Curse it, Gruffstone, don't remind me of my duty – even if I did the same to you!" Carlton's voice was calmer now. "Are you really sure that – that the situation is serious?"

"Her heart has been deteriorating for years," was the grave reply. "She has made a remarkable recovery from the last attack, but the end may come any day."

Silence ensued. Shocked and distressed at what she had heard, Marianne tried to decide whether to retreat as silently as she had come, or to warn the men of her presence by making a noise. Much as she resented Carlton's implication that she was a coldblooded, consciousless fortune hunter, she was ashamed of eavesdropping. She could not even throw the words back in his face without admitting that she had been listening.

"I suppose I knew it," Carlton said finally. "Instinct told me – but my feelings denied the truth. Of course you are right, Gruffstone. I have tried before to convince Her Grace to make her will. I will try again, more forcefully."

"But without frightening her," the doctor warned.

"I shall do my best. It won't be easy."

"I know that, my boy."

Marianne eased the door open a little farther. The two men were at the far end of the long room, their backs to her. Carlton sat with head bowed, his hands over his face. The doctor was patting his shoulder.

Marianne pulled the door closed, then rattled the knob vigorously. When she entered Carlton was sitting upright, his face a calm mask. The doctor's coattails were just disappearing through a door at the other end of the room.

"Ready?" Carlton asked coolly.

"Yes. I hope I have not kept you waiting."

"Not at all. I entertained myself by reading the papers. You may be interested to know that you have become famous, Miss Ransom."

"What do you mean?"

Carlton handed her a newspaper. "You are not familiar with this offensive publication, I daresay; only those of us who are brave enough to admit we enjoy scandal dare read it openly."

Marianne was familiar with the Daily Yell, though she should not have been; it was the squire's favorite newspaper, and he had not always remembered to remove it from her path.

She took the newspaper with a fine display of fastidious distaste. "Are you telling me that my name appears in this – this -"

"Rag," Carlton supplied. "Not your name, no. But there is no doubt as to who is meant. See here."

He folded the paper back and indicated a column with the charming title of "Aristocratic Antics." The paragraph in question did not, in fact, mention names. It referred, in the most revoltingly coy terms, to "a lady of decal degree, known for her probings into spiritual matters" and "the young and beautiful handmaiden of the occult, reputed to be descended from a gentleman well known to the royal courts of Europe as well as the boudoirs of the noble ladies of London…"

For the second time Marianne crumpled a sheet of paper and flung it away. "It suggests that I am the Duchess's…" She could not finish the sentence; her face was as hot as fire. "How dare they? Are there no laws?"

"There is no violation of law when no names are mentioned. Besides, would you care to fan this nasty little flame of innuendo into a roaring blaze of scandal by bringing the publisher to court?"