The trip north was as far from Marianne's first experience of train travel as night is from day. The Duchess's private carriage had been attached to the engine of the Edinburgh express. It was furnished like an elegant drawing room, with soft sofas on which to sleep, and its own small kitchen. If Marianne had not felt the vibrations she would have found it hard to believe she was in a moving vehicle.
She had been in a daze all day. The Duchess had been too busy to answer questions; organizing a sizable household for a long journey on short notice had required considerable effort, and not until they actually boarded the train had the Duchess relaxed. At luncheon, served on board, they had been attended by two footmen, so there was no opportunity for private conversations. As soon as luncheon was over the Duchess announced that she intended to rest, and suggested that Marianne do the same.
Marianne was unable to follow this advice. Reclining on the couch she stared out the window, watching the landscape rush past, half obscured in a gray mist of rain. The grimy suburbs of London were replaced by green countryside, and then by the dark satanic mills of the industrial Midlands before the Duchess's regular breathing changed to a yawn and then to other sounds of waking.
Marianne turned. The car was quite dark. "Shall I call your maid, ma'am?"
"No, my child. Let us sit here in the shadows a while longer. Unless it troubles you?"
"Not at all," Marianne said. Indeed, she welcomed the darkness. It gave her courage for what must be done.
The Duchess anticipated her. "I know you must be full of questions. Believe me, the only reason why I have delayed this conversation was on your account. I want so much to have you understand and accept. It is necessary for us to speak at leisure, calmly; and until now there has been no proper time. Last night I was – oh, yes, I confess it! – I was overcome. This morning there was much to be done. But now the time has come. Ask, and I will answer."
It must be understood that although Marianne's father – or rather, let us say Squire Ransom, for the situation at present is far from clear – Squire Ransom tried to guard his speech in the presence of his daughter, Marianne was by no means ignorant of the more emphatic expletives of the English tongue. She had overheard a great deal. The Squire, in one of his rages, was audible at a considerable distance, and her playmates, Billy and Jack, had not always remembered to whom they spoke. Her self-control on this occasion can only be attributed to the respect she felt for the Duchess. What she really wanted to do was pound on the window with both fists and shout, "What the b- h- happened last night?"
Instead she said meekly, "Would you mind telling me, ma'am, what I said last night? You said then that I said something, but I don't remember what I said."
"What is the last thing you remember?" "The table began to rock. And Dr. Gruffstone remarked…no. First you told him to be still. Then he said something about arrant nonsense. Then he said my pulse was normal… and all the lights were turned on."
"You went into a trance state," the Duchess said. "Do you know what that is?" "I… Yes, ma'am. I think so." "In that condition another entity – a spirit – takes possession of the mind of the medium – you. Many mediums have spirit controls. These controls are intermediaries between the blessed ones who have passed on and those of us who wait on this side of the veil."
"I have read of such things," Marianne said. "A control is like a master of ceremonies. He introduces the ones who want to speak to us."
"Very good, my dear. A spirit control is very much like a master of ceremonies. He performs the introductions, refuses admittance to disruptive, malevolent spirits, and warns us when the performance must come to an end. Last night your spirit control came to us. Her name is Pudenzia."
"Oh, dear," Marianne gasped. "You mean, ma'am, that I said -"
"Not you. It was Pudenzia who spoke to us with your organs of speech. You were not there. That is why you cannot remember what happened. It is common in the trance state."
"Oh, dear," Marianne said again. "But – but, ma'am – how do you know I wasn't making it all up?"
This ingenuous query made the Duchess laugh. "My dearest child, the fact that you could ask such a question proves you are above such wickedness. Not that I ever thought you capable of it! However, if it will relieve your innocent mind, I will tell you that Pudenzia gave me certain information that you could not possibly have known."
"What information? Oh, do forgive me; I didn't mean to pry -"
"There can be no secrets between us now. Would you like to know exactly what you said?"
"Oh, yes! If you can remember."
"Every word is imprinted on my heart." There was a brief pause, fraught with emotion. Then the Duchess resumed. "It took us some time to realize that you were in a trance. Mr. Carlton was the first to note that your hand had become limp; then I observed the change in your breathing. I asked if you could hear me; you did not reply. I then asked if someone else was present. Your voice said: 'I am Pudenzia.' "
Marianne was thrilled. She felt no alarm because she could not really imagine that this had happened to her. It was like hearing a story about someone else.
"Was my voice different?" she asked eagerly.
"Oh, yes. It was slower; you spoke with difficulty, as if in a foreign tongue, and at first your words were halting, your sentences incomplete. I asked who Pudenzia was, and received no reply. Then I asked if someone wanted to speak to me. And Pudenzia said…"
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Forgive me my emotion. You have such a sympathetic nature you must have suspected that I have long been awaiting a message from… from David. For years I have tried to reach him, and have met with one heartbreaking disappointment after another. You see, Marianne, I am not so gullible as some people believe. I know there are many fraudulent mediums. A number of times I had received what purported to be David's words, but they never rang true; they never passed the tests I applied to them."
"Did you apply such tests last night?" Marianne asked.
"There was no need. The proof was given me. Your control, Pudenzia, told me there was a spirit who desired desperately to reach me. Never before had he found a vessel pure enough. That is most significant, don't you think? Then she said – and this, my dear, is the proof I speak of- she said, 'He carries the golden heart.' My dear, I gave David a locket of that very shape! He was wearing it when he disappeared. Now, Miss Marianne Ransom of Yorkshire could not possibly have known that."
"I certainly did not," Marianne replied, awed.
"So you see, I am convinced. These things take time and experience; you are still unskilled, and it would never do to force you beyond your strength. But when you have become accustomed to the trance state, then I may hope to hear David himself speak to me through your lips."
"Oh, ma'am," Marianne began, not at all sure she liked this idea.
"You cannot imagine how great a gift you have given me. I was in despair. Heaven forgive me, I was beginning to doubt. I have you to thank for the greatest happiness I have known since my darling passed on."
"Oh," Marianne said.
She was unable to say more. Thrilling and mysterious as her new situation was, it carried such an awesome weight of responsibility that she felt unable to sustain it. The fact that she had no conscious control over her gift made the burden even more frightening. Torn between a pleasurable sensation of importance and the fear of failure, she was more inclined to fear than to enjoy. But there was no way for her to abdicate the responsibility. The Duchess's dependence made that fact impossible.
Now cheerful and refreshed, the Duchess ordered tea and caused the lights to be lighted. As they sipped the fragrant beverage and nibbled on sandwiches, the older woman said thoughtfully, "I have been wondering who Pudenzia was, in this life. The name is Latin, of course."
"More tea, miss?" said Wilton, the parlormaid. Marianne glanced curiously at the woman's well-schooled, impassive face, wondering what the servants thought of their mistress's obsessive hobby. She did not doubt that the servants' hall knew every detail of what had transpired on the previous evening.
"We will serve ourselves, Wilton," said the Duchess.
The maid withdrew, her eyes respectfully lowered, and the Duchess resumed as if there had been no interruption.
"I think I remember hearing, when I was in Rome some years ago, of a Saint Pudenzia."
"A saint!" Marianne exclaimed. "I don't understand. I thought Pudenzia was a spirit."
"The spirit of someone who once lived. All those who have passed beyond were once on this plane. Perhaps next time she communicates she will tell us something of her history. The saint I am thinking of was a gently born Roman maiden who was martyred by Nero – or was it Diocletian? – because she refused to give up her – er – her maidenhood and her faith to marry a pagan."
"But," said Marianne doubtfully, "Mrs. Jay told me that the saints of the Roman church were pagan idols… or something of that sort."
"Mrs. Jay? Ah, yes, the vicar's wife. Well, my dear, I am sorry to say that many of our religious leaders are extremely narrow people. If they were not, they would not oppose spiritualism. Not that I believe in the Roman system of sainthood. That is a misunderstanding. Pudenzia was probably a sweet, innocent girl who is devoting her time in the next world to helping those less fortunate."
In such pleasant speculations they passed the time until dinner. Marianne knew very little of the complex hagiology of early Christianity; she found the legends enthralling. The number of beautiful maidens who had embraced martyrdom rather than submit to the embraces of pagan lovers was, if not legion, at least very extensive. After the Duchess had taken a glass or two of wine she even mentioned the word "virgin" in connection with the lovely young martyrs.
After dinner they played a few games of cards, but Marianne admitted that she found the motion of the train made her drowsy, so they retired early.
Marianne dropped off to sleep at once; but sometime later she found herself suddenly and unaccountably wide awake. She felt quite cozy in the cunning little bed and could not imagine what had awakened her. Across the way she heard the Duchess's regular breathing. She did not wish to strike a light, for fear of disturbing her companion, but ventured to sit up in bed and draw the curtain from the window.
They were in open countryside. The night was moonless and extremely dark. Yet Marianne sensed a haunting familiarity about the dim landscape, and she realized that their journey north must lead through Yorkshire. Was she now looking upon the land hallowed by memories of childhood?
She was never to know the answer. Strain her eyes as she might, she saw nothing except an occasional village or town, distinguished only by a few lights. Surely, she thought, the main line to Scotland must pass through York. But although she sat by the window for quite a long time, she saw nothing recognizable.
Finally she drew the curtain and lay down, composing herself to sleep – and wondering why it had not occurred to her, till now, that she would be so near her childhood home. So quickly had old memories been replaced by new impressions.
This time, when she fell asleep, she dreamed – dreamed that she was standing pilloried against the door of the quaint old village church while her former friends and neighbors gathered stones to throw at her. Leading the mob, her kindly face distorted, her voice shrieking curses, was Mrs. Jay. "Virgin!" she shouted, and threw a stone that hit Marianne full on the temple.
The express was due to arrive in Edinburgh before daylight, but naturally no one expected Her Grace the Dowager Duchess of Devenbrook to tumble out into the cold gray dawn. Her railway car was respectfully shunted onto a siding, and when the two women emerged, after a leisurely toilette and a hearty breakfast, they found the Duchess's carriage waiting. This was a much more splendid equipage than the carriage the Duchess was accustomed to use in London. Indeed, the arms on the door were so large and so brightly blazoned with crimson and gold that the noble lady seemed slightly embarrassed.
"Oh, dear, Henry has had the arms repainted again," she said with a sigh. "It is harmless enough, I suppose, but I really do not enjoy having my presence proclaimed so – so emphatically."
"Henry?"
"The thirteenth Duke of Devenbrook." The Duchess settled herself comfortably against crimson velvet cushions and motioned Marianne to join her. "We have a long drive ahead of us; make yourself comfortable and I will tell you about the family."
But before this promise could be carried out Marianne was distracted by the sights of the city, which she had not seen before; and seeing her interest the Duchess goodnaturedly pointed out various landmarks. Most impressive was the view of the Castle, its time-darkened stones brooding over the lower city like a great dragon.
Clouds gathered as they left the city behind them. A gentle drizzle began to fall. The Duchess then began the explanation she had promised.
"You must know that my husband was considerably older than I. He had been married twice before and had had several children. Only two of these survived, however.
The elder, Annabelle, is the child of Lady Helen Nicholson. This unfortunate lady produced only female offspring. All died in infancy except for Annabelle, and Lady Helen perished in childbirth. The Duke then wed the Honorable Miss Pilgrim, who finally presented him with a male heir. She passed on shortly afterwards. I often thought that if his mother had lived, Willy would have turned out differently…"
Marianne listened in morbid fascination to this mournful history.
"What happened to him?" she asked.
"Well… One must not speak ill of the dead; and no doubt Willy has learned the error of his earthly life of dissipation now that he has passed on. A mother's kindly guidance might have wooed him from his wild companions. I, alas, was too young to assume this role; Willy was only a few years younger than I, and he resented me. Drink, drugs, Sunday driving and – er – other evils were responsible for his premature death. Fortunately, at his father's insistence, he had married, though I fear he led the poor girl a sad life. At any rate he lived long enough to produce a son of his own. This lad, Henry, is the present holder of the title. He is only ten years old."
"He doesn't live with you, then?"
"No, his mother is of Scottish birth and she prefers to reside at Devenbrook Castle."
"His mother is still living?"
"Oh, yes. She is a very retiring person. Her unfortunate deformity… I suppose I had better warn you about that."
"I wish you would."
"It is not much, really; one soon becomes accustomed to it. She has a harelip, poor creature, and is morbidly self-conscious about it."
"I will be very careful not to take the slightest notice of it."
"I felt sure you would. You probably won't see a great deal of her; she spends most of her time in her own rooms. The castle is quite large, so Violet and Annabelle do not have to meet."
"Annabelle? Ah, yes, your stepdaughter. She does not care for her… her…" Marianne gave up trying to decipher this relationship. "… for the Duke's mother?"
"Oh, they seem to get along amicably enough," the Duchess replied. "But Annabelle is also, in her way, something of a recluse. She… Yes, I had better tell you about Annabelle's peculiarity."
"Please do," said Marianne.
"Annabelle keeps quantities of cats."
"But there is nothing peculiar about that,"
Marianne said, relieved. "I am very fond of pussycats."
"I myself have no objection to them, in moderation. But Annabelle's collection cannot by even the most generous interpretation of the word be considered moderate. I am forced to leave my poor little Pierre in London when I come north; Annabelle's fierce felines quite overwhelm him."
"So then the household consists of Lady Annabelle, Lady Violet, and her son the Duke," said Marianne, trying to get the proper titles as well as the names straightened out. She assumed, from what the Duchess had said, that the ill-fated "Willy" had predeceased his father, and that therefore his widow did not hold the titles of a Duke's wife. In this she was apparently correct, for the Duchess nodded.
"Quite right. Then there are the servants, of course. Henry's dear old Nanny is something of a tart. She was also Willy's nurse, and I assure you, when I was a timid young bride she quite terrified me. Oh, and M. Victor, Henry's tutor. A pleasant-enough young man, except for his insistence on being French."
"Oh." Marianne was not quite sure what this meant. If M. Victor was French, as his name and title implied, there did not seem to be any harm in his insisting that he was.
"Oh, and I must warn you about MacDonald," the Duchess went on.
"Who is he?"
"The head gardener. He has been there forever; he grew up with my husband, so it is impossible for me to pension him off against his will."
"What is wrong with MacDonald?" Marianne asked resignedly.
"Pure senility, my dear. He talks to himself – or rather, to imaginary companions. It is quite harmless, but I admit it can be disconcerting to have MacDonald round on one and shout, 'Take yerself off, ye wearisome auld besom!' He wasn't speaking to me on that occasion, but to his deceased mother. And, since he occasionally forgets where he is, he is apt to turn up in the strangest places – in one's closet, for instance, or peering in the parlor windows at odd hours of the evening."
After this daunting description Marianne did not look forward to her stay at Devenbrook Castle. The only one who sounded comparatively normal was the young Duke, and Marianne knew only too well what ordinary lads of that age were apt to be like. A ten-year-old peer might be expected to be even more rowdy and undisciplined. Besides, she suspected that the Duchess might have omitted some flaw in the ducal person or personality – a passionate fondness for collecting snakes, or a withered arm, a la Richard III – in order to avoid overwhelming her guest with oddities.
Contrary to her expectations, her first impression was distinctly favorable. The clouds shed their load of rain as they proceeded, so that brilliant bursts of sunlight illumined an increasingly rugged and impressive landscape. The stark purple mountains laced by white waterfalls and girdled with trees impressed Marianne deeply.
Devenbrook Castle was framed by snowcapped peaks on three sides. The sun favored them with its appearance as they approached, and in its benevolent light the crenellated walls and pointed towers had the gaiety of a child's toy castle set on a bright-green mat and surrounded by trees and flower beds so improbably neat that they resembled paper cutouts. Marianne was unaware of the effort required to cultivate lawns and raise flowers in such rocky, infertile soil, but she was enough of a country girl to note that rocky promontories to the north and east protected the spot from the bitterest winter weather.
Somehow Marianne was not surprised when the housekeeper, who hobbled out to greet them, turned out to be suffering from palsy and advanced deafness. She insisted on preceding them up the stairs to their rooms, which reduced their progress to the mournful solemnity of a funeral procession. Balancing on one foot as she waited for Mrs. Kenney to drag herself up to the next step, Marianne watched the Duchess's calm, deliberate pauses and advances with affectionate respect. Many employers insisted on only young, strong, well-favored servants, and ruthlessly dismissed any who succumbed to ill health or old age. Apparently any employee who served the Duchess faithfully could be sure of being kept on until he or she died of old age.
When they finally reached the chamber that had been assigned to her, Marianne had to admit that whatever her infirmities, Mrs. Kenney ran the house beautifully. Her room was rather dark and gloomy, with every inconvenience of the pseudo-Gothic style, but it was spotlessly clean.
"We must see to brightening this room," the Duchess said, with a disparaging glance. "It is enough to give one the shivers. You can help me select pretty fabrics, new carpets, furniture… Do you enjoy doing that?"
"Oh, very much. But -"
"My rooms are just next door. That is why I had you put here, close to me. Now you will want to refresh yourself and rest a little. I will come and fetch you when it is time to go down to tea. One could get lost in this gloomy old pile without a guide."
She patted Marianne's cheek affectionately and started to leave. The housekeeper limped after her, but the Duchess waved her back. Putting her face next to the old woman's ear, she shouted, "My maid will take care of me, Mrs. Kenney; do attend Miss Ransom and make sure she has all she needs."
Marianne wanted nothing so much as to be left alone, in order to arrange her thoughts and consider the new impressions that had crowded so fast upon her. But Mrs. Kenney would have walked unhesitantly over the edge of a cliff if the Duchess had suggested that she do so; she had been ordered to attend Miss Ransom, and attend she would, whether or not it suited Miss Ransom.
Like a benevolent fairy godmother she summoned an army of little maids – who were most of them so young that they really did resemble the famous Scottish pixies or brownies – and set them to work. Marianne's trunks had already arrived. When every article of clothing had been neatly put away and a basin of steaming hot water awaited her ablutions, she tried to dismiss the housekeeper. She had a young, healthy voice and a good pair of lungs, and once she had gotten over her inhibition about shouting she had no trouble in making the housekeeper hear her.
"Thank you, Mrs. Kenney. That will be all."
The wrinkled old face split in a smile. "Why, miss, what a nice clear voice you have! It is amazing how some people will whisper and mumble their words."
"Thank you."
"Yes, indeed. A pleasure to have a nice young lady in the house."
"Thank you. And now -"
"I hope you will enjoy being here. You don't mind ghosts, do you?"
After her first gasp of surprise Marianne was strongly tempted to laugh. Since apparently her new mission in life was to reach as many of what Mrs. Kenney called ghosts as she possibly could, she could hardly complain of their presence.
"No," she shouted.
"That's good. Ours are very well behaved. They do not bother people at all. Just take no notice of them."
"How many are there?" Marianne asked.
"Let me see." Mrs. Kenney counted on her fingers. "There is the first Duke, of course, but one hardly ever sees him, he only stalks the battlements during thunderstorms. You will not want to go there in bad weather. And his daughter, Lady Lucy, whom he pushed down the stairs one night in a fit of temper. That is why he walks, you understand. And the young gentleman who was poisoned by the second Duke while -"
"Never mind," Marianne yelled. "I shall do just as you suggest and ignore them all."
"None of them come here." Mrs. Kenney stood firmly in the exact center of the room, as if she had taken root there. "This was the bedchamber of the former Duke – Her Grace's husband – and he would never allow that sort of thing."
"Oh." Marianne glanced uneasily at the heavy oak bedstead with its somber hangings of brown velvet. "He… he slept in that bed?"
"Aye, and died in it, God rest his soul," said the housekeeper, confirming Marianne's worst suspicions. "He was a hard man, but a good master."
If such a combination is possible, Marianne thought to herself. She had heard enough horrors; she doubted that she would be able to sleep in that dismal bed. Having tried every other means of dismissing the housekeeper, she calmly began to undress. This had the desired effect. When the old lady had finally backed out, Marianne blew out her breath in a long sigh. She removed her gown and hung it up. Standing in her chemise and petticoats, she began to bathe her face and arms, which were in need of attention after the long ride.
The warm water was soothing. She had begun to relax, even to contemplate the dreadful bed with wry amusement, when something like a small explosion made her gasp and shrink back, the dripping washcloth pressed to her breast. Her door had opened with a resounding crash. Standing in the opening was a child.
Marianne concluded, correctly, that this must be the Duke. He was tall for his age, but rather delicately built. Lank dark hair hung limply around his thin face. Big, wide-set brown eyes regarded Marianne with intense, unchildlike concentration.
The washcloth was dripping down Marianne's front. She tossed it back into the basin and reached for the dress she had taken off.
"How dare you enter without knocking!" she demanded.
"How dare you speak to me that way!" The boy marred the arrogance of his speech by stamping his foot like an angry child. "Don't you know who I am?"
"I assume you are the Duke of Devenbrook," Marianne replied. "If you are, you ought to know that no gentleman would burst into a lady's room uninvited."
"I wanted to see you. They say you are a witch. I have never seen a witch before."
"How absurd." Marianne could not help laughing. "Do I look like a witch?"
"No." The boy shook his head solemnly. "Witches are old and ugly. You are very pretty."
No female could fail to be disarmed by this speech. Marianne realized that the boy was more childish than he appeared. He was undoubtedly badly spoiled, but he seemed to be without malice; she was not confronting another edition of Cyril Pettibone. All the same…
"Really, Your Grace," she said. "You are too old to behave like this. I look forward to meeting you formally, but now -"
A voice was heard from the hall outside.
"Henri! Henri! to where have you gotten yourself? Come to me at once, Henry – tout de suiter
Henry, Duke of Devenbrook did not move or even turn his head; he simply took a deep breath and bellowed, "Here I am!"
Rapid footsteps thudded down the hall, and in the open doorway appeared, momentarily, the form of a thin young man with red hair and extremely large mustaches of the same color – obviously the French tutor in pursuit of his errant charge. Marianne had only a glimpse of this apparition before it let out a shriek of consternation and fell back out of sight.
"Ah, begorra… Er – I should say, mon Dieu, quel contretemps! Mademoiselle, pardon-nez-moi. … This enfant terrible, he has led me into a situation tres maladroit. Henri, remove yourself, immediatement!"
Henry, knowing full well that his tutor would not dare to enter, grinned broadly. He looked like any normal, mischievous ten-year-old boy, and Marianne was tempted to join in his amusement. However, the situation had to be resolved; she could hardly stand there all afternoon in a state of dishabille chatting with Henry while his tutor shouted apologies and imprecations from beyond the door. She solved the problem by putting on her dress.
"Monsieur," she called, "you may enter now. I am… er… I have… That is to say, you have my permission to enter."
The tutor's head appeared around the doorframe. One eye was wide open, the other tightly closed – this, apparently, the best concession to the proprieties he could make. When he saw that Marianne was dressed, the other eye opened.
"Mademoiselle, you forgive -?"
"Certainly, monsieur," Marianne replied graciously. "It was not your fault."
"I will hope for the honor of presenting myself in due course," said the tutor confusedly. "At the present -"
Marianne's patience was wearing thin. "Take him away," she said, gesturing.
"Mais certainement, mademoiselle."
Henry's triumphant smile had faded when he saw himself outmaneuvered. Now his lower lip protruded and his dark brows drew together.
"No! I am not finished talking. Leave me alone, Victor."
The tutor backed off a few steps. Marianne thought that if she were the boy's mother she would prefer to employ a more forceful person. Perhaps dukes were not subject to the rules that governed children of lesser rank. Well, she at least had no intention of putting up with any more of Henry's nonsense.
"This is quite enough, Your Grace," she said firmly. "If you wish me to treat you like a gentleman, then behave like one. If you wish to behave like a child, I will take you by the ear and put you out."
Henry and his tutor gasped, in chorus. M. Victor's face took on a look of such horror that Marianne wondered if she had indeed committed a form of lese majesty, and would be condemned to the castle dungeons.
Then the boy's angry flush faded. He made Marianne a queer little bow.
"You are right, miss," he said gravely. "My apologies. Well, come, Victor, why are you standing there gaping?"
He stalked out, his head held high in a comical assumption of manly dignity. With a shrug and an apologetic gesture the tutor followed his charge. Neither of them bothered to close the door. Marianne did so, with a decided slam. Finding a heavy iron bolt on the inside of the door, she pushed it home. The servants might wonder, but she was past caring. Really, what a household!
She finished her ablutions in peace and put on a clean frock. She was then able to unbolt the door before ringing for assistance in finishing her toilette.
Celeste had been left in London on board wages, like most of the servants. Only the Duchess's personal maid and a few others who were needed to attend them on the journey had been brought along. The Duchess had been apologetic – "We quite rusticate in the country, my dear, I assure you; you will have no need of elaborate toilettes." But Marianne had been relieved to be rid of the French maid, whose sophistication made her feel awkward and immature. However, the fashions of the time necessitated some assistance in dressing; it was impossible for even an agile young woman to reach all the buttons and laces that held her clothes together.
When Marianne rang she was not sure who would answer. She was pleased to find that the respondent was not Mrs. Kenney but one of the young maids who had helped unpack for her. The girl was extremely shy, and her dialect was so thick Marianne could barely understand her, but she was deft and eager to please.
When Marianne was ready, Annie – for such was the girl's name – informed her that the Duchess was waiting for her in her own rooms, and indicated a door half hidden by a heavy tapestry, which Marianne had not noticed before. This led, by way of a small dressing room, into the Duchess's boudoir.
Bright chintzes, modern furniture, and a profusion of flowers made this chamber much more cheerful than Marianne's. The Duchess greeted the girl with a kiss and suggested that they go down at once.
"I think I have persuaded Annabelle to join us," she said. "She always requires to be coaxed, but of course she is curious about you."
"I hope that she does not believe I am a witch," Marianne said with a smile.
"My dear child, what an extraordinary thing to say! Oh – I see. Which of the servants has had the impertinence to say such a thing to you?"
"It was not one of the servants. It was Master Henry – that is to say, the Duke. But he -"
"Henry will do." The Duchess's face was stern. "How does it happen that you have met the boy?"
Marianne was sorry that her thoughtless speech had led into such unforeseen complications. But she had been forced to tell the truth, once the initial faux pas had been made, in justice to the innocent housemaids.
"He came to see me. He meant it as a joke, ma'am; I assure you, I was more amused than anything."
"Oh, dear. I trust there was no… unpleasantness?"
"We were both very pleasant," Marianne replied cheerfully.
"I hope you won't think badly of the lad for intruding. He is a good boy, but because of his delicate health he is not always disciplined as he should be."
"Of course. Do you think well of his tutor, then?"
"M. Victor? Did you meet him too?"
"He came in pursuit of Henry."
The Duchess laughed ruefully. "You are tactful, Marianne, but I can read between the lines. The boy is so high-spirited he leads poor M. Victor quite a dance. As for the other matter – I am afraid the servants, like all uneducated people, look on spiritualism as an exercise of the Devil. They were terrified of dear David. I have strictly forbidden them to talk of such things in front of Henry, but of course they do; and Nanny is one of the worst offenders. A strict Presbyterian, and you know how they are!"
Marianne was silent. In her innermost heart she sympathized with the superstitious servants. She had found table-turning very entertaining as a parlor game; but when unseen forces flung objects about and invaded her own body, it was hard to think of such influences as benevolent. The only thing that made the business endurable was the Duchess's attitude. The Duchess was older and wiser and very kind; the Duchess accepted spiritualism; so spiritualism must be all right. So ran the unconsciously formulated syllogism that was to keep her involved in a pursuit from which every other instinct recoiled.
Devenbrook Castle had been modernized thirty years earlier, when the Gothic revival was in full flood. It was therefore a bizarre mixture of genuine medieval features, imitation medieval misapprehensions, and a few remnants of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century elements, which had somehow escaped the twelfth Duke's remodeling eye. The small parlor into which the Duchess led Marianne was an example of the last category. Called the rose parlor because its tall, wide windows opened onto a walled garden devoted to the cultivation of those flowers, its decor reflected the same theme: soft, comfortable furniture covered with pink brocade, a magnificent molded ceiling with floral swags and medallions showing beautiful ladies of myth and history, and a carved marble mantel. A fire burned on the hearth; before it, several chairs and a love seat surrounded a table on which the tea-things were already set out.
"Annabelle is not here, I see," the Duchess remarked. "We might as well begin; although she promised to join us I am never sure she will come."
Scarcely had she filled the cups, however, when the door was opened and a lady made her appearance.
She was so tall and so strikingly masculine in every physical aspect that if Marianne had not known whom to expect she would have taken the lady for a male in woman's garb. Lady Annabelle had heavy eyebrows that ran straight across her forehead, without a curve or a break between, and a perceptible mustache shadowed her upper lip. But instead of the tailored, mannish clothing such a woman might have favored she wore dainty, fragile garments dripping with lace and ruffles, which looked ridiculous on her tall, broad-shouldered frame. The ruffles were sadly tattered, and Marianne needed no explanation for this phenomenon, since Lady Annabelle was literally surrounded by cats.
One was draped over her shoulder, its paws resting on her flat bosom. Its tail bounced up and down with every step. She carried another in her arms, a red tabby with insolent yellow eyes; and Marianne's own eyes opened wide at the sight of it, for it was the largest cat she had ever seen, weighing a good thirty pounds. An indeterminate number of other felines accompanied this apparition, flowing in and out under her skirts like a living river of fur – gray, white, black, orange, yellow, and every conceivable permutation thereof. Eyes flashed and tails waved, and no one ever seemed to be stepped on, although Lady Annabelle paid no attention to her entourage.
Sitting down in an armchair she gave the Duchess an awkward nod and cradled the enormous red tabby in her lap.
"I am so happy you decided to join us, Annabelle," said the Duchess. "Pray allow me to present Miss Ransom."
"How do you do," said Lady Annabelle, in a deep bass growl. "Do you like cats?"
"I dote on them," Marianne replied promptly.
Lady Annabelle's wide mouth relaxed. "Sensible gel. So do I."
That fact hardly required mentioning. One cat was sharpening its claws on the lady's skirt and two others were sidling up to the tea table, their eyes fixed on the cream pitcher. The elephantine tabby in the favored position on Lady Annabelle's lap contemplated Marianne through slitted eyes.
"That is a very handsome creature you are holding," Marianne said politely. "I have never seen so large a cat."
"This is Horace. I named him after the doctor."
Marianne stared at Horace, who stared back at her with a look of profound boredom.
"Dr. Gruffstone?" she asked, wondering if the doctor had been pleased at the compliment.
"Yes. He does not resemble the doctor physically, but they have the same dignity of presence. Just push that plate of sandwiches closer to me, Miss Ransom. Horace is getting on in years – that is why I carry him – and he needs to eat frequently."
Marianne obliged. She was exceedingly diverted to see the lady feed sandwiches to Horace, who received the tidbits with an air of languid condescension. The lesser cats lined up and were rewarded with an occasional bite. Lady Annabelle continued to talk, explaining the genealogies, histories, and quaint habits of each cat in turn. Horace was the patriarch, having sired most of the other animals present.
After a while the Duchess interrupted; without such intervention Lady Annabelle would have gone on discussing cats all afternoon.
"Is Violet joining us, Annabelle?"
"Now the tabby with white paws, Angel Face… What? Violet? How should I know, Honoria? I doubt it; she never comes down when there are strangers here."
"How is she? I have not yet had time to call on her."
"The same," Annabelle said with a shrug. "Now Hector – the black – not the black with the white bib, the other black – Hector was ill last week. I think he ate a bad bit of fish. I gave -"
"And you, my dear. What have you been doing since I saw you last?"
"I have been embroidering," Lady Anna-belle said, in her queer gruff voice. "It was a pretty piece of Berlin work, Honoria; it had a basket of kittens on it. But Fluffy – that is the white one, Miss Ransom – Fluffy wound the yarn into a hopeless tangle. I feared for a time that she had eaten part of it, but -"
"Then your health has been good?"
"Yes, of course. I am never ill, Honoria, you know that."
"You are too thin, my dear. Won't you have a sandwich?"
"I believe," said Lady Annabelle, with great simplicity, "that Horace has eaten them all."
The door opened and the footman announced, "His Grace the Duke of Devenbrook."
The unkempt surly boy had undergone a surprising transformation. To be sure, he had outgrown his neat gray suit, so that his bony wrists protruded, and he was in need of a haircut, a fact that was even more apparent now that he had attempted to comb his hair. Still, Marianne appreciated the effort and thought complacently that it might be attributed to her cutting comments on Henry's manners. He made her a bow, then spoiled the effect by remarking, "You look much nicer in your frock."
In any other company this comment would have been the cause of spilled tea and exclamations of horror. The only one who appeared to be perturbed by it was the tutor, who had followed his charge at a respectful distance. He rolled his eyes heavenward. Then he bowed to the three ladies in turn. Each bow was a masterpiece of calculation, conveying abject reverence to the Duchess, courteous respect to Lady Annabelle, and respectful admiration to Marianne.
"Your Grace permits?" he inquired. "It were more respectueux to inquire first, but the Duke was anxious to pay his devoirs to Your Grace."
"I am sure he was," the Duchess said dryly. "Well, Henry, have you been a good boy?"
"Yes." The Duke flung himself into a chair and reached for a piece of plum cake. M. Victor looked wistfully at the love seat where Marianne was sitting, but did not have the courage to sit beside her. Instead he lowered himself into a chair, where he sat perched on the very edge, as if the respect he showed the company were in reverse ratio to the amount of space he occupied.
Much later Marianne was to describe the occasion as resembling, in its spirit of genteel chaos, a similar tea party in Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.
"The Duchess kept asking Henry questions which he did not bother to answer; he never took his eyes off me and I felt sure he expected me to sprout bat wings and fly up the chimney at any moment. Lady Annabelle talked to the cats and to me about the cats and paid no attention to anything else that was said. As for M. Victor, the cats immediately converged on him. They must have sensed that he was terrified of them. But he was too much in awe of Lady Annabelle to say so. They climbed up his trouser legs and drank his tea and snatched the cakes from his hand as soon as he took them. He sneezed a great deal."
Henry finished off the cakes. No one reproved him for making a pig of himself or for scattering crumbs all over the carpet. When the food was gone he jumped up, interrupting the Duchess in the middle of a question.
"I'm going now. This is dull. I thought she would do something exciting. Come on, Victor, I want to play chess."
"I shall retire as well," Lady Annabelle announced. She rose, still holding Horace, who had not moved during the entire affair except to open his mouth when food was placed next to it. "The pussycats need their exercise; and I fear Fluffy is going to be sick."
Fluffy promptly proved her premonition to be correct.
After they had gone and a footman had tactfully dealt with Fluffy's misdemeanor, the Duchess sighed. "Poor Annabelle. Being accustomed to her I forget how eccentric she must appear to a stranger. But there is no harm in her. And we all have our foibles, don't we?"
"Very true," Marianne agreed. To her, Lady Annabelle had appeared to be not merely eccentric but almost simple-minded. However, spinster ladies of peculiar habits presented no problem to a family that could afford to keep them safely tucked away somewhere. The girl wondered whether the Duchess's real concern was not for the boy, whose behavior also left a great deal to be desired. It would indeed be a tragedy if the last heir to one of the oldest dukedoms in England were lacking some of his wits.
"If you will excuse me," the Duchess said, "I believe I will dine in my room tonight. I have letters to write and business matters to deal with. Would such an arrangement suit you? We do not usually dine en famille; Henry is really too young, and his mother…"
"A tray in my room would suit me admirably. I am a little tired."
"Amuse yourself as you like," the Duchess said. "The music room and the library are in this wing, but I advise you not to explore farther than that tonight. The older parts of the castle are dreary and a little frightening after dark."
"Please don't worry about me."
"Then I will say good night. Oh – I usually attend church in the village. The people like it; but you need not join me tomorrow unless you like."
"I would be glad to go to church," Marianne said eagerly. Indeed, her variegated career in London had prevented her from attending divine service, and her conscience was troubling her on that point.
When the Duchess had gone, Marianne wandered about the room examining the paintings and the pretty ornaments. She had not been strictly accurate when she said she was tired; mental and emotional fatigue she did indeed feel, but physically she was more in need of exercise than of rest, after a long, cramped ride. Deciding to walk in the garden for a while, she found that the long windows were actually French doors, and so let herself out onto the terrace.
Here she walked for some time, admiring the changing sunset light on the high mountains that could be seen beyond the wall.
The Duchess's abrupt decision to leave London for this remote Scottish castle had not troubled her initially. She had no idea what matters, business or personal, might have motivated such a decision. Now that she had met most of the members of the household she was ready to eliminate natural affection as a motive. The Duchess was not related by blood to any of them, so it was no wonder that her strongest emotion toward one and all was a sense of responsibility. Certainly duty might have prompted this visit, but the more Marianne thought about it, the more she was inclined to suspect another reason. This was where David Holmes had died. Now that the first tenuous contact had been made, the Duchess hoped that proximity to the scene of his last days on earth would strengthen the tie.
Marianne shivered. The sun had dropped behind the mountains. The air was chill. She turned back to the house, finding that during her absence someone had lighted the lamps in the parlor and in the corridor beyond. No more modern form of lighting would reach this remote place for years to come, Marianne supposed; she found the familiar candles and oil lamps comforting, reminding her as they did of the home of her youth and of Mrs. Jay's cottage.
A now-familiar pang of guilt touched her as she remembered her old friend. Really, she must write Mrs. Jay. Roger Carlton had mentioned that he had spoken with Marianne's former landlady and – what was the phrase he had used? – "assured her of his bona fides." But that was no guarantee that Mrs. Shortbody had been relieved of concern on her behalf, or had written to reassure Mrs. Jay. Really, Marianne thought guiltily, it is too bad for me. Mrs. Jay had always told her that one of her worst faults was procrastination. "You seem to think if you postpone a difficulty long enough, it will disappear," she had remarked sarcastically. "It is much more likely, Marianne, that the difficulty will grow larger and less amenable to a solution."
I will write tonight, Marianne promised herself. Perhaps in the library I may find writing materials.
This apartment was not difficult to find, for the comforting lights ended abruptly just beyond its entrance. The door had been left open, no doubt on her account, and the room was adequately lighted. It was like a fairy tale "Beauty and the Beast," in which the captive maiden was attended by thoughtful but invisible spirits.
This was not entirely a comfortable thought, nor was the chasm of blackness at the end of the hall a comfortable sight. The Duchess had not exaggerated when she said the castle was a dreary place at night. As Marianne stood looking curiously into the dark, wondering what lay farther along the corridor, she heard a faint dry rustling and fancied the darkness shifted as if something lumbered stealthily toward her. She fled into the library.
It would have taken a thousand wax tapers to illumine the vast room properly; it was two stories high, with row upon row of books on both levels, the upper one reached by an iron staircase. Chairs and tables of all kinds were scattered about, but the room was so large it looked scantily furnished. There was light enough, however, for Marianne to see that a nearby table held an assortment of volumes which, by their neat bindings, appeared to be more modern than the crumbling leather tomes on the shelves.
Sure enough, she found among these books several familiar authors, and finally selected Persuasion and Wuthering Heights to take upstairs with her. She also looked for writing paper, but found none. Then it occurred to her that she had only to ring for a servant and ask for anything she desired. She was not yet accustomed to this luxury. The management of the squire's household had been anything but efficient, and the servants had had a tendency to treat their young mistress with more affection than deference.
With a bright fire on the hearth and dozens of candles, her room looked less forbidding than before. Marianne settled herself in a chair and opened Wuthering Heights.
Marianne's reading had been more catholic than her old friend Mrs. Jay suspected. That good lady had kept her supplied with moralistic tales. The only modem writers of whom she approved were Scott and Dickens and Miss Austen, and the only essays Marianne was allowed to read were sermons of stupefying dullness. She had never been exposed to "that pernicious doctrine of women's rights," or to the novels of Balzac or George Eliot. But she had picked up certain other novels from her governesses. None of these were really pornographic, they were merely sensational, ranging from Lady Audley's Secret and the Gothic horrors of Mrs. Radcliffe to Jane Eyre, which latter volume Mrs. Jay had condemned as unwomanly and immoral.
Marianne had loved Jane Eyre. She had been at a loss to understand her friend's condemnation, for it seemed to her a wonderfully moral story. Indeed, she was not at all sure that she would have had the strength to resist Mr. Rochester. But she had never managed to lay her hands on Wuthering Heights.
Yet this volume is not, perhaps, the most soothing fare for a young lady of imaginative temperament alone at night in an ancient castle. So immersed was Marianne in the fatal love of Cathy and Heathcliffe that she jumped and let out a shriek when the door opened, admitting Annie and a footman carrying her dinner. This was laid out upon a table, and the pair were about to withdraw when Marianne remembered she wanted to write a letter. She asked Annie to fetch pen and ink, adding that the girl need not return at once; she could bring the writing materials when she came to carry away the tray.
When Annie returned she was accompanied by the same young footman, who was carrying a heavy can of hot water for Marianne's bath. In other households this work was properly that of a housemaid. This was not significant in itself; but Marianne noticed that Annie kept as far from her, and as close to the young man, as she possibly could. The girl had been friendly enough, in her shy way, before; Marianne wondered what had happened to change her. But she thought she knew. The story of her being a witch had spread through the servants' hall.
So she let Annie go instead of requesting that the girl help her prepare for bed. Assuming a warm woolen dressing gown, she sat down at the table, dipped her pen in the inkwell, and began to write:
"My dear Mrs. Jay. Knowing that you must have been concerned about me, I take pleasure in writing to inform you that I am well, and am now in the most fortunate situation. The Dowager Duchess of Devenbrook – a lady of the highest character – has taken me into her household…"
The words had flowed fluently until then; but Marianne came to a sudden halt as she realized she would have to be more specific about her role in the Duchess's household.
To tell Mrs. Jay the truth was out of the question. The vicar's widow had condemned the awful heresy of spiritualism in no uncertain terms. On the other hand, lying was a sin.
Marianne nibbled the end of her pen in considerable agitation, seeking a compromise between unpalatable truth and out-and-out falsehood. Finally her worried frown smoothed out and she began to write again.
"… as her companion. Her Grace is a widow and childless; she treats me quite as a daughter, and I hope I am of service to her."
Upon rereading this, Marianne was satisfied. She had spoken the literal truth, and if a few salient facts had been omitted… Well, surely it would also be a sin to worry poor Mrs. Jay unnecessarily.
The difficult part of the letter having been dealt with, she wrote on easily, describing the appointments of the London house and the private railway carriage with considerable enthusiasm. She was pleased to be able to add, "We attend church services tomorrow. I will be thinking of you, dear Mrs. Jay. I hope your health is good and that you will find time to write me. A letter addressed to Devenbrook Castle will find me for some weeks to come, I believe."
With a feeling of virtuous accomplishment she sealed and addressed the letter. Tomorrow she would ask the Duchess how it could be sent to the post.
Rising to return to her chair by the fire, she was suddenly aware of how quiet the room was. There was no clock, so she had no idea of the time. The fire was dying and the candles had burned low. She felt a chill for which the cooling air was not entirely responsible, and reminded herself that she was not alone and isolated; the Duchess's room was next door.
A sound from the direction of her own door made her whirl around. In the silence the slightest creak was magnified. The source of the noise was not hard to find: the heavy iron handle was moving. Transfixed, Marianne stood glaring as the handle reached its lowest point and the door began to open. The aperture was no more than the merest slit, however, before the door closed again and the frightened girl heard soft footsteps retreating.
It was several seconds before she could move. Now that the unseen visitor had departed, she thought of several innocent explanations for its presence; one of the servants, coming to see if she required anything more; or the young Duke, hoping to find her engaged in mysterious rites. She ran to the door and threw it open. If the boy had ventured to peek into her room she would give him a good lecture.
The corridor was empty of any human presence. Most of the candles had gone out. At the far end, where a window slit admitted a flood of moonlight, something moved. A pale diaphanous substance veiled a more solid but indistinguishable form; it flashed briefly luminous in the bleached light, and then was gone. Marianne's straining ears heard a ghost of sound, like a faint sigh of wind. But there was no wind. The night was calm.
Marianne bolted her door. But she lay awake a long time, with the covers over her head, until exhaustion sent her to sleep.