Sally Cheney - The Wager

Mrs. River was disapproving of such tittle-tattle, naturally, and dismissed Alice’s opinion as the silly romanticism of a child. Now, though, as she stood facing the young woman in question, she could not help but admit that the adventuress of last night and this sweet young thing with crumbs on her fingers and a tiny smear of strawberry on her chin might not have been the same person.

This morning Miss Trenton was dressed in a light smock with a homey pinafore over it. Her hair was mussed and her eyes looked tired and red. Mrs. River felt her moral outrage being replaced by motherly compassion. Had she been wrong?

It was a new idea for Mrs. River.

She had been the unquestioned authority on every subject here in Kingsbrook for so long that she had almost forgotten the concept of “being wrong.”

“Excuse me. I found these things still out. I know it is terribly late and I certainly was not expecting breakfast, but I thought, since they were here…Oh, I—I hope they were not being reserved for someone!” Marianne stammered, as guiltily as if Mrs. River had surprised her stashing the house silverware in her undergarments.

“It is quite all right, Miss Trenton. You are welcome to anything on the sideboard, or Jenny will prepare something fresh for you if you would like.”

“Oh, no,” Marianne gasped, apparently appalled by the suggestion that something be prepared especially for her. “This is fine. The strawberries are very good, and if I can just take this second muffin up to my room, I will get out of your way.”

The girl fumbled with the muffin, attempting to wrap it in a napkin, reducing it to little more than a mass of crumbs.

“Here now,” Mrs. River said. Marianne looked up in astonishment, for the woman’s voice sounded kind and helpful.

Tears sprang to the girl’s eyes. She understood the housekeeper’s coolness of yesterday, knowing now the reason Mr. Desmond had brought her here. They all thought she was a tart. And perhaps she was, she thought miserably.

She had been unhappy staying with Uncle Horace, always lonely, sometimes even mistreated, but she had never been as frightened and confused as she was here now. Never since her mother’s death had she needed a comforting arm more.

“Oh, my dear,” Mrs. River cooed, the last barrier of disapproval melted by the tears in the girl’s eyes. The housekeeper stepped forward and put her arm around Marianne’s shoulders, and the young woman collapsed against her bosom.

Dismissing Marianne’s mature gown of last night, the impression she had given of flirting with Mr. Desmond, Mrs. River concluded she had made a deplorable mistake, that the young woman was here as the ward of her master, doubtless suffering from the recent loss of one or both of her parents. The tears were easily explained, and Mrs. River had only to gently pat the girl’s back as she wept. “Hush, now,” she said softly after several minutes.

Marianne, who had imagined her grief to be depthless, was surprised to find herself running out of tears. She sniffled, and Mrs. River withdrew her handkerchief from her waist and offered it to her. Like a dutiful child, Marianne blew into it heartily and felt herself even further recovered.

“Better?” Mrs. River asked.

Marianne nodded, hiccupping pitifully. “A little,” she said. “I am sorry….”

“Tut tut, child. I understand completely.”

Marianne looked into the woman’s face and was relieved to see she did not understand at all. Whatever trouble Mrs. River was imagining, it was not Marianne’s seduction and fall from innocence.

“Now you go on up to your room and wash your face and brush your hair. It is almost noon, and by the time you come down again Jenny will have a nice bowl of soup ready for you.”

The soup was delicious. Eaten in the privacy of a little nook in the kitchen, it was the most delicious meal Marianne could remember having in this place. Mrs. River was in and out of the kitchen several times, seeing to household affairs, entering again just in time to see Marianne mop up the last drop with her slice of bread.

“There now,” the housekeeper said, wiping her hands on her apron as if she had finished some taxing chore. “Mr. Desmond—”

Marianne jerked her head up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as she looked around wildly. “Where? Where is Mr. Desmond?” she cried.

“Not here. Not here,” Mrs. River said soothingly. Goodness, the girl was as skittish as a thoroughbred colt. “I was only going to say Mr. Desmond left early this morning. He said he would be away for a few days and that you are to enjoy free access to the house and the park while he is away, so I merely wondered what you would like to do now?” The housekeeper smiled, and Marianne smiled back, though hers was a little weak and trembling.

“I do not know,” she said, genuinely at a loss.

“Well, you cannot stay tucked away in your room until the master returns,” Mrs. River chided.

But Mrs. River’s suggestion sounded very attractive to Marianne. She hurried back to her room and spent most of the day there, and the first half of the next. But by then she was growing bored and restless, indeed, and had quite caught up on her sleep.

“So you have come down at last?” Mrs. River said in greeting the next afternoon.

Marianne flushed slightly. “What are you going to do today, Mrs. River?” she inquired timidly.

“Why, I am going to shell peas for Mrs. Rawlins and set Alice to polishing the glassware,” the housekeeper replied.

“May I help?” Marianne offered.

So Mrs. River and she shelled peas, and then Marianne and Alice polished crystal under the housekeeper’s watchful gaze. Marianne took supper that night in the servants’ quarters and for the first time felt quite comfortable, almost jolly here at Kingsbrook.

By the next day she was ready to explore the estate. “Might I go about on the grounds?” she asked Mrs. River.

The woman smiled. “Indeed you may, child. A breath of fresh air will do you a world of good.”

Mrs. River pulled a loosely woven shawl from a hook and gently pushed Marianne toward the open doorway. She pointed out the walkway and suggested a route that would take her past the most charming sights of the Kingsbrook estate.

Marianne carefully put her foot outside the door, as if she was testing the frigid waters of some mountain spring before plunging in. She took another step. As soon as she was across the threshold, Mrs. River, with a soft chuckle, shut the door behind her.

At first Marianne wandered at random. After an excursion or two across meadows and flower beds left her with a muddied hem and a torn seam, she found that following the flagstone walkway was definitely the path of least resistance. And Mrs. River had been correct: whoever had plotted the route had done so with an eye to displaying all of the charms of the lovely estate.

The dense woods appeared to be clogged with a riot of ferns, mosses and ivy. The meadows were bejeweled with dahlias and delphiniums, and wild orchids and red campion were placed to achieve exactly the right balance and effect.

The pathway took Marianne across an arched wooden bridge over the bubbling brook. She saw another deer and wondered if the animals were treated as pets on Mr. Desmond’s lands. She did not have a lump of sugar with her, but was quite certain the delicate doe would have taken it from her hand if she had.

She was watching her footing carefully because the trailblazer, in what must have been a moment of irrepressible mischief, had laid the path stones perilously close to the bank of the stream, when she looked up and found herself standing in front of a squat stone enclosure. Walking around to inspect it, she discovered it to be open to the air, with pillars of stacked stones supporting a sloping slate roof. It was evidently a gazebo, with the same primitive quality as the landscape and as painstakingly created.