Barbara Michaels - The Wizard’s Daughter

"Girls can't play ball," Henry said.

"I can. Before I had to become a proper young lady I played with Billy Turnbull and Jack Daws, at home. Why don't we make a pact? I won't tell anyone about this if you will try to be my friend."

Henry was wise enough to see that this offer was to his advantage, since it committed him to nothing specific.

"All right," he said ungraciously. "Can I go now?"

"Yes. But if you ever use that passageway again I will not hold my tongue."

Henry departed as he had come, without further comment; but the last glance he gave Marianne held an inquiring, almost wistful quality that gave her hope that some good had been done. She had deliberately refrained from questioning the boy about any other tricks he might have played. If she could gain his confidence he might confide in her of his own free will.

To Marianne's surprise Carlton accompanied her to church next morning. He was waiting for her in the hall when she came down and handed her into the carriage with a solemn air perfectly suited to a Sunday morning. It was still raining.

"So Lady Violet changed her mind," Marianne said.

"No; she remained of the same mind. She never intended to go."

"I am sorry."

"You have been reading too many tracts," Carlton said. "You earnest Christians seem to feel that a single noble gesture from you should bring about instant conversion, and you become highly indignant when there is no such result. A long-seated timidity like that of the Lady Violet is not to be overcome in a day; if you really wanted to befriend her you would persist and not be discouraged by lack of immediate success."

"And what makes you suppose I will not persist? You do have a poor opinion of me!"

"Now you are becoming angry," Carlton said gravely. "Tut, tut, Miss Ransom. Try to adopt an attitude more becoming to the day and the occasion."

So Marianne had to swallow her wrath. "Why is not Dr. Gruffstone with us?" she asked. "I hope the Duchess is not worse."

"No, she does quite well. Gruffstone is a rational deist, or some such thing; he does not approve of organized religion, except for the lower classes."

Marianne had no comment to make on this absurd statement. With Carlton she could never be sure whether he was reporting a fact or embroidering it in his own peculiar way.

Going down the aisle of the church on Carlton's arm was almost as much of an ordeal as going alone; her self-possession was not improved when he said out of the corner of his mouth, "Practice, Miss Ransom, for the day of your nuptials. Aren't you glad the groom will be someone else?"

Nor was the sermon soothing. To be sure, the vicar was as handsome as ever, and he seemed to smile directly at her; but the text was the famous exhortation that had led to the hideous deaths of thousands of innocents: "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live." Naturally St. John did not advocate such a fate for those who dabbled in forbidden arts, but by the time he had finished painting a vivid picture of the flames singeing the screaming sinners, Marianne was almost inclined to think that being burned alive would be preferable. At least it had an end, whereas according to St. John the fires of Hell never went out.

The congregation found this sermon much more to its taste than the last one had been. Several of them were beginning to sway and groan in chorus by the time St. John finished with a thundering condemnation.

Carlton, who had sat with folded arms and impassive face throughout, did not comment until they had squelched through the mud and taken their places in the carriage.

"Ah, the comforts of religion. It is as well Her Grace was not well enough to attend. I fully expected some of the elderly faithful to suffer heart attacks on the spot."

"He would not have delivered that sermon if the Duchess had been there," Marianne said.

"No doubt you are right. He has enough self-interest to avoid such an error."

"Compassion, you mean."

"No, that is not what I mean. But you and I will never agree on that subject; enough of it. Have you given any thought as to what you will do a few days from now, when the Duchess calls on you to summon up the spirit of David Holmes?"

The seemingly abrupt change of subject left Marianne momentarily at a loss for words. It was not, in fact, a non sequitur; the fiery sermon had revived her distaste for spiritualism and reminded her of something she had tried not to think about.

"She may not ask it of me."

"Don't cherish that illusion. She lives for that moment. Indeed," Carlton added, his expression thoughtful, "I think she lives only for that moment. If she believes that Holmes waits for her on the other side…"

"Are you by any chance suggesting that I invent a message to that effect?"

"Little Miss Innocent is not quite so naive as she appears," Carlton jeered. "I was not about to suggest that, no; but don't be too surprised if the doctor comes to you with some such request."

"He would never do such a thing!"

"Don't be too sure. However, I admit that you are in a devilish difficult position. If there is no contact at all, the disappointment might literally break her heart. If Holmes greets her with the usual vague meandering about flowers and sunshine and peace on the other side, she may decide to join him forthwith. In fact, if you are considering a literary invention along those lines, I suggest you say that, while Holmes is happy to see her, he does not expect to meet her in heaven for many years to come."

"I could not do that," Marianne said wearily. "Even if I wanted to, I would not know how to make it convincing."

Carlton's hand, resting on his knee, clenched into a fist, as if he were trying to keep it from making a gesture foreign to his will.

"Something must be decided before the day comes," he said. "I cannot – I will not! – endure a repetition of what happened the last time."

"Which of the doctor's theories do you follow?" Marianne asked. "No doubt you have decided, despite the evidence of your own eyes – and hands – that I was responsible after all."

She thought Carlton flushed faintly at the reference to his fumbling at her skirt, but in the dim light it was hard to tell. Certainly his voice held no trace of embarrassment as he replied, "I have as yet reached no conclusion. But I am working on the problem, make no mistake about that."

Marianne was tempted to tell him about her nocturnal visit from Henry. However, it seemed unworthy to try to lift suspicion from herself by casting it on another. Besides, she had given her word not to tell.

Carlton said no more, and when they reached the castle he went off with only a brusque nod of farewell. Marianne went up to change her damp shoes. When she opened her door the first thing she saw was Henry, comfortably curled up in a chair by the fire.

"You were a very long time," he remarked. "I've been waiting for hours."

"You have no business being here at all," Marianne replied. "I thought I told you never to come into without knocking."

"I did knock."

Marianne could not help laughing. "Then let me amend my statement. You must not come in unless I answer your knock."

"I'm sorry." The apology, which she had not expected, and the ingratiating tone, warned Marianne not to pursue the lecture. "You said you would play something with me," Henry went on.

"Yes, but this is Sunday."

"Please. You said you would."

Marianne's childhood was not so far in the past. She could well remember the appalling dullness of Sunday afternoons, after Mrs. Jay had taken over her education. She could also remember the squire's foul temper on the mornings after all-night drinking sessions with his cronies, and she imagined that Victor was in no state to be useful to his pupil – assuming, of course, that the boy's account of his tutor's Saturday-night amusements was correct.