Barbara Michaels - The Wizard’s Daughter

She was about to ring the bell again when Annie finally came. Amusement mingled with Marianne's annoyance when she saw that Annie's companion was the same stalwart young footman. He was carrying an armful of firewood as well as a bucket of steaming water. Annie had a breakfast tray, which she handed Marianne at arm's length.

After the fire was blazing, Marianne asked the young man his name. He started as if she had shouted at him, but managed to answer that his name was John.

"Thank you, John," Marianne said. "You may go now. I want to talk to Annie."

Annie's eyes opened so wide the white showed all around her dilated pupils. Twisting her hands in the folds of her apron, she backed off until she was as far from Marianne as she could get without actually leaving the room.

"Stop being so silly, Annie," Marianne said impatiently. "You look as if you expect me to sprout horns and a tail. I am only human, like yourself. Why are you afraid of me?"

"They say…" Annie began. Words failed her.

"They? Who? The other servants? Who is spreading wild stories about me?"

Annie shrugged, her eyes rolling wildly, and Marianne realized it was useless to try to get anything coherent out of her. If those who listen to rumors were capable of analyzing their origins, they would not believe them in the first place.

"The Duchess has been conducting seances for years," Marianne persisted. "You aren't afraid of her. Why me?"

Annie knew the answer to that one. "You're his daughter, miss. The wizard's daughter."

"No, I am not!" The vehemence of the statement startled Marianne almost as much as it did Annie. It was the first time since the suggestion had been made that she had denied it with perfect conviction. She went on, "I am a poor orphan from Yorkshire whom the Duchess has befriended – not so different from you, you see. I would like to be your friend."

"Yes, miss." Annie continued to crumple her neat white apron, but she appeared less nervous.

"All right, you may go," Marianne said with a sigh. She had done all that she could. "I am sure your sweetheart is still waiting for you outside, to protect you from me."

"Oh, miss, he's not my sweetheart." Annie giggled.

"If he is not, it is your fault; I saw how he looked at you. Run along, now."

Annie bobbed a curtsy and obeyed. Cheered by what appeared to be at least moderate success in overcoming the girl's fear, Marianne ate her breakfast with good appetite and then washed and dressed. She put on one of her old dresses, for she had a project in mind.

It was possible that someone had opened her door during the night, allowing the cat to slip in. The sighing of wind and rain would have concealed any sound. But there was another possibility. As she knew from her reading, old castles were replete with secret passages, hidden rooms, and other such features. Indeed, young Henry had bragged of his familiarity with the passageways that honeycombed the castle walls.

Marianne set about the search with the optimism born of ignorance that is characteristic of the young. An older, wiser person would have told her she had little chance of success. Even if such devices existed, a certain degree of expertise was necessary to discover them. Older, wiser persons are constantly annoyed by the unwarranted success of the young and ignorant; and such was the case in this instance. Since the entire room was paneled, the search took quite some time and Marianne was beginning to be bored when one of the Tudor roses on a panel by the fireplace yielded to the pressure of her fingers and the panel itself slid quietly to one side.

More excited than frightened, Marianne lighted a candle and thrust it into the aperture that had opened before her. The light showed the beginning of a flight of stone steps leading sharply downward. The steps were less than six inches wide and so steep that only a cat could have used them comfortably.

She was not a cat – or a careless, agile, small boy; the steep pitch of the stairs was more than she cared to attempt. Furthermore, she had no idea where the steps led. She might find herself in some cul-de-sac from which exit was impossible. And what if the door closed and she was unable to discover the catch that would release it? Marianne shivered dramatically, picturing herself pounding desperately on the locked panel until lack of air finally overcame her and she sank into a deathly sleep. This contingency was, of course, most unlikely. The Duke could not be the only one who knew the network of secret passages, and if she turned up missing, a search would certainly be thorough and immediate. All the same, Marianne was not inclined to risk it. Even a few minutes in imprisoning, dusty darkness and she would scream herself into a fit. No, she would not explore. But she could try to make sure no one else used that entrance.

With some difficulty she dragged a table in front of the panel and put a bowl of flowers on top of it. If someone tried to come in, table or bowl or both would fall, and the crash would awaken her.

Complacently pleased with her morning's work, she changed her dusty frock and went to see how the Duchess was doing.

The long day dragged. Since it was too wet to ride, Marianne spent most of the time with the Duchess, reading and talking and embroidering. The doctor had forbidden card games as being too exciting. Dismissed while the Duchess napped, Marianne was so bored she even went looking for Henry, thinking she might offer to play a game with him. The schoolroom was deserted; one of the servants told her His Grace was with his mother.

She did not look for Carlton. She went to the library thinking she might find an entertaining book, and peeped into the billiard room – solely out of curiosity, to see what it was like – not looking for Carlton. When one of the footmen, mistaking her intentions, informed her that the gentlemen had gone out, Marianne replied haughtily that she had no interest in the whereabouts of the gentlemen. She went into the music room and relieved her feelings by banging out a series of emphatic polonaises and marches.

By the time she finished practicing, the gentlemen had returned, or so she was told by another overzealous servant. Marianne told him that she had not the slightest interest in the subject. She returned to the Duchess's room, hoping that the vicar might have been moved to make another pastoral call. But apparently the rain had dampened his ardor, for he never came.

The Duchess urged her to join the gentlemen for dinner. She refused, feeling that if she could not be amused she might as well be useful, but she was glad to be dismissed when the doctor came up to sit with his friend. She was so bored she was even beginning to think regretfully of the seances. They had been alarming, but they had not been dull.

Moving aimlessly around her room in search of something to occupy her mind, she picked up her writing portfolio and sat down with it on her lap. She was sorry she had not kept a diary, as so many young ladies did; at least she would have more interesting things to write about than who danced with whom at the last ball, and what color ribbons she had selected for her new gown. But perhaps, she reflected, the only people who have time to write in their diaries are the ones to whom nothing ever happens.

The rain hissed against the windows. It was just the sort of night to write a long, intimate letter to a friend. But she had no such friends. The only girls she knew were casual acquaintances, daughters of the squire's friends and neighbors.

Marianne yawned. Tomorrow was Sunday. She could look forward to that, at any rate. She wondered whether Lady Violet meant to go to church with her. The next move was certainly up to the lady; it would be rude of her to press further.

Absently she opened the portfolio, and there before her, like a scrap of her conscience that had taken visible form, was the letter from Mrs. Jay, which she had crumpled and hurled at the fire.