As Marianne sat on the window seat looking out, she could not help but be struck by the difference between the view before her and her memory of her last night in London: the eerie, distorted sounds, the blurred forms moving through veils of fog, and the sickening terror that had turned her into a walking puppet.
The view from the window was lovely – green lawns like emerald velvet, flower beds glowing with chrysanthemums and late roses, and beyond, the gleaming water of the Thames. Here at Richmond the water was not so foul as it was in the city, where it served as a watery trashbin for every form of debris. Mr. Pettibone was a successful merchant who had married money, and he lived up to his income.
Unfortunately the handsome house and grounds were the only attractive part of the position Marianne had been forced to accept. Her lips tightened as she heard sounds from the adjoining room, where Master Cyril Pettibone and Miss Abigail Pettibone were supposedly at their lessons. It was clear that Master Cyril was up to his usual tricks. She ought to go back and stop him from doing whatever he was doing to Abigail; in fact, she had soon learned that it was unwise to leave Master Cyril unsupervised for any length of time. But after four days of Cyril she simply had to get away from him occasionally. Having set sums for the two children, she had escaped into the night nursery to enjoy the illusion of privacy for a few moments. She was seldom allowed that luxury. After a long day with the children she was expected to serve as companion and errand girl for her mistress, doing everything from winding wool to playing whist when Mrs. Pettibone had no better partner.
Now she understood why there had been no competition for what had seemed such an ideal position. The only women who would accept a situation so poorly paid and so fraught with unpleasantness were the elderly and desperate; and Mrs. Pettibone would not have employed such a person. She wanted someone young and healthy enough to do the hard work she expected – and put up with Cyril. Mrs. Shortbody, who had accompanied Marianne to Mrs. Hunt's employment agency in Marylebone, had not been enthusiastic about the position. She had heard of the Pettibones, and had tried to warn Marianne with expressive nods and winks and frowns. But Marianne had been almost hysterically determined. Richmond was sufficiently distant from London to be safe, and she could begin work at once.
Marianne grimaced at the sound of a slap and a yelp from Abigail. Cyril was bullying his sister again, no other victim being at hand. She was not moved to interfere. Abigail was not as actively vicious as her brother, but she was a whining, unpleasant child. And Marianne had a great deal on her mind.
Being young and resilient, she had recovered from her experience, except for a certain degree of self-contempt for her own stupidity, and she was fully cognizant of how lucky she was to have come out of the experience as well as she had. The thing that worried her to the point of sleeplessness was the thought of Maggie. She had been too distracted that night to think coherently; not until the next day did she realize that Maggie had risked not only her job but her safety in coming to Marianne's defense. If Bagshot knew who had struck him down, neither moral scruples nor fear of retaliation would prevent him from crushing Maggie as he would have stepped on an insect. Marianne's only comfort was the hope that Bagshot had not seen his assailant, and that he would be too humiliated to admit what had happened. Maggie was not stupid; she had warned Marianne of her danger, surely she must realize that her own was even greater.
The hardest thing for Marianne to bear was her own impotence. The lowest of wage slaves herself, she had nothing to offer Maggie in the way of help or security. She could not even inquire about her without risking discovery for both of them.
Wrapped in these now familiar but nonetheless disquieting thoughts, Marianne had stopped listening to the increasing uproar from the next room. She was roused from her reverie by a loud strident voice – that of Mrs. Pettibone.
"Miss Ransom! What have you gotten to? How dare you leave the children alone? I employed you to teach them, not to – Oh, there you are. What, pray tell, are you doing here?"
Marianne turned from the window. Swollen with righteous indignation, and with well-fed flesh that even her tight corsets could not contain, Mrs. Pettibone stood in the doorway.
"I set them sums to do, Mrs. Pettibone," Marianne said. "I merely came in here to rest for a moment."
"I do not pay you to rest. Return to your duties at once." She stepped aside as Marianne came toward her, adding, "You of all people, Miss Ransom, cannot afford to be slack. You are far from succeeding in your task. You do not inspire from my darlings the respect and affection it is your duty to inspire. I wonder, Miss Ransom, if you are capable of inspiring it."
Marianne wondered too. She doubted that Cyril was capable of being inspired to any positive act or emotion. Certainly no governess could hope to control the boy when his mother was constantly pointing out her inadequacies. She looked steadily at Cyril, trying not to let her dislike show. Cyril had no such compunction; the smirk on his fat, pasty, freckled face made her itch to shake him.
"Have you finished the sums, Cyril?" she asked.
Cyril turned to his mother. "She didn't say 'Master Cyril,' Mother. Isn't she supposed to say -"
"Certainly she is," Mrs. Pettibone said sharply. "Miss Ransom, how often must I-"
"I forgot," Marianne said.
"Don't forget again. I want you to take the children for a walk now. It is too fine a day for them to be inside."
"The sums -"
"Do as I tell you. Cyril has worked quite hard enough for today. As I have repeatedly told you, Cyril is delicate. Too much mental effort can bring on brain fever."
Cyril grinned. He looked, Marianne thought, like one of the turnip faces children carved on Guy Fawkes Day, all wide mouth and pale, doughy face. He had every reason to look pleased. Not only was he excused from the sums, which he undoubtedly had not done, but the walk would give him a chance to practice his favorite activity – tearing something to shreds. If Cyril could not find an animal or bird on which to operate, he would tear the petals off flowers.
"Very well," Marianne said. "Children -"
"Put on your jacket, Cyril," Mrs. Pettibone interrupted. "And heavier boots. Must I constantly remind you of your responsibilities, Miss Ransom?"
After a prolonged period of idiotic, meaningless wrangling, Marianne finally got the children out of the house, and Mrs. Pettibone returned to the drawing room to harass the housemaid.
Watching Cyril chase his sister, brandishing a stick, Marianne thanked heaven she had only two young Pettibones to watch over. Three of the same species would have left her gibbering. Really, she thought, trying to find some humor, however ironic, in the situation, the Pettibones were like another species, made of flour and water, like underbaked gingerbread people. She had seen very little of Mr. Pettibone, but he appeared to be as doughy as the rest of the family, like a great bag of suet pudding molded into shape by his trousers and coat, his small gray eyes as blank as currants in his pale face.
The two children plodded along ahead of her. Overfed and underexercised, they did not even run like normal children. Cyril made a dark, squat blot on the grass. His legs were like sausages stuffed into his tight trousers. Abigail, wearing a blue velvet coat – Marianne knew she would be blamed for every spot on that coat – emitted squeals of terror as her brother pursued her. She had reason to be afraid. Cyril had no imagination, his routine never varied, and both Abigail and Marianne knew what it would be. First he would trip his sister, then he would fall on her, inflicting as many bruises as he could before someone dragged him off. If scolded, he would claim that the fall had been an accident.
The fall duly followed. Abigail's shrieks rose to high heaven. Marianne caught Cyril by the collar and jerked him to his feet. No wonder Mrs. Pettibone insisted on a young governess. Cyril was a solid mass of bone and fat.
As she lifted him, he kicked out at her. This was another unvarying part of the performance, and Marianne had learned to watch for it, though not before her shins had acquired several livid bruises.
She stepped briskly aside and Cyril, caught off balance, landed with a thud on his well-padded posterior. Abigail was still on her back, kicking like an overturned beetle and screaming like an engine whistle.
Marianne looked about for a weapon. Really, it was like dealing with a pair of mad dogs! They had reached the edge of a small copse of trees that bounded one side of the property, and although Mrs. Pettibone inspected this grove daily and lectured the gardener about any negligence, there were sometimes a few fallen branches to be found. On this occasion she was lucky. She was able to pick up a stout stick, which she held in one hand as she addressed Cyril.
"Get up and leave your sister alone."
Like a dog, Cyril had an instinctive skill in judging how far he could go. Something in Marianne's voice and expression – not to mention the stout stick – told him he had lost this round. He got to his feet, eyeing her balefully, and Marianne knew she would have to be on her guard the rest of the day.
She lifted Abigail up. The little girl's eyes were quite dry, but her nose was running. It usually was running. The concept of allergies was far in the future, so Marianne had attributed Abigail's running rose to general ghastliness, and indeed, who is to say she was wrong? She wiped the nose, dusted off the blue velvet coat as best she could, and they went on, with Abigail clinging close to her side.
Sunlight filtered through the branches onto the well-trimmed path they followed. Nothing on Mrs. Pettibone's property was allowed to grow naturally; even the undergrowth was restrained. Yet the grove did shelter animal life, the only place on the property, where it could live, and Mrs. Pettibone did not allow traps to be set because of the children. For this reason the grove was Cyril's favorite walk. He was too slow to catch a normal bird or animal, but occasionally he would find one that was sick or hurt; and in spring – oh, bliss! – there were often nestlings fallen to the ground.
On the first day of Marianne's employment they had gone walking in this grove. Cyril had run ahead of her while she was trying to console the howling Abigail – and nursing the pain of her bruised calf. When she caught up with him, he had found a small animal. There had not been enough left of it for her to identify its species; in fact, after the first appalled glance she had turned aside and been sick, not because of the condition of the creature – as a country girl she had seen animals mangled in various unpleasant ways – but because of the fact that Cyril had obviously enjoyed mangling it.
Now she quickened her pace slightly, dragging the reluctant Abigail with her, as Cyril ran ahead. She was so tired, physically and emotionally, that even slow movement was an effort. With incredulous disbelief she remembered spring mornings when she had run like a deer through the fresh green grass. It seemed like centuries ago.
The angry cries of the birds warned her of what was happening, and suddenly, quite without warning, a great wave of fury swept away her fatigue. Dropping Abigail, she bounded forward, around the curve in the path that had hidden Cyril from her sight.
The bird was a robin. How Cyril had managed to catch it she never knew; perhaps it was old and sick and ready to die… but not at Cyril's hands. Its breast heaved and its beak opened and closed as Cyril jerked the feathers from its tail.
Marianne was on him so quickly he had no chance to escape. In the relief of allowing the suppressed rage of days to show, she felt abnormally alert; as she plucked the bird from his hands she thought it did not appear much hurt, and she placed it carefully to one side before twisting her hand in Cyril's collar and dragging him down the path, far enough from the bird so that no carefully calculated kick could strike it.
What she did next was done quite deliberately. She stood still for several long moments, automatically avoiding Cyril's kicks, while she contemplated her intentions. Then she sat down on a picturesque, moss-covered log, and arranged Cyril over her knee.
Country bred, she was much stronger than her fragile appearance led people to expect, and on this occasion anger lent power to her muscles. The stick came down with a thoroughly satisfactory thwack on the seat of Cyril's trousers; and the first blow astonished him so much that he stopped squirming, so the succeeding blows landed right on target. In an era where regular caning, on the naked backside, was an accepted part of educational training, the beating she gave Cyril was trivial, but he shrieked as if he were being skinned alive. He was unaccustomed to physical chastisement and, like most bullies, did not even try to defend himself against a stronger opponent.
How long Marianne would have gone on spanking him if nothing had happened to stop her is debatable. However, the interruption occurred before she had gotten her anger out of her system. A cry of outrage, louder even than Cyril's howls, echoed through the grove. Marianne, who had been watching the dust rising from Cyril's trousers with genuine enjoyment, looked up to see that she had an audience – not only Mrs. Pettibone, but a strange gentleman.
Marianne released Cyril, who rolled away like a hedgehog, and rose to face her employer.
"I must ask you to accept my notice," she said coldly. "Effective immediately."
"Notice? Notice?" The words were barely intelligible; Mrs. Pettibone – as she was to tell her husband later – was gasping with motherly indignation. She took a few deep whooping breaths and recovered herself sufficiently to continue. "You give me notice? I give you one hour in which to remove yourself! How dare you, you… I shall give you in charge! Not an hour, not five minutes
… Cyril, darling, come to Mama."
Cyril started to snivel. He crawled to his mother.
"She hit me. She beat me, Mama. I'm bleeding, Mama. Cyril hurt!"
Mrs. Pettibone caught Cyril to the maternal bosom. Fixing Marianne with one last, terrible look, she swept away. She had forgotten Abigail. The child stood with one finger in her mouth for a few seconds; then she scuttled off after her mother.
Reaction left Marianne shaking. She dropped back onto the log. What had she done? Back to London, with its manifold terrors, and the specter of Bagshot hovering over her.
"It was worth it," she said aloud.
"I certainly hope so," said a voice. "I have never seen bridges more thoroughly burned."
After the first quick look, Marianne had completely forgotten the strange gentleman, who had effaced himself behind a tree trunk, from which vantage point he had watched the confrontation with considerable interest. She had thought herself alone; the shock of hearing a stranger made her start. An even greater shock ran through her when the gentleman stepped out from behind the tree, and she recognized him. The Alhambra, the table to the right of the stage, on the last night… She had thought him handsome then – a dark, Byronic hero.
Now all she could think was that Bagshot had tracked her down. Her first mindless instinct was to flee; and she had actually turned, poised for running, before common sense returned. For whither could she flee? There was no refuge nearby. Mrs. Pettibone would be happy to assist any enemy of hers.
Turning back, she faced her adversary, as she thought him. Her chin was high and her shoulders were straight, but the pallor of her face and the terror that darkened her blue eyes were not lost on the man who watched her.
"Return to Mr. Bagshot and tell him to leave me alone," Marianne said. "If he persecutes me, I will proclaim his infamy to the world. There is a law in England to protect the weak and helpless."
The unknown gentleman's lips pursed in a silent whistle. Then he began to laugh. "Good heavens, you are naive, to talk of the protection of the law to a legal practitioner. Never mind; I now perceive your difficulty. It arises, I assure you, from a misapprehension. So Mr. Bagshot is connected with your sudden disappearance, is he? I need not ask how; his pursuits are notorious." Then, seeing that Marianne's anxiety prevented her from following his meaning, he added, slowly and clearly, "I do not know Mr. Bagshot personally. I am not in his employ. He did not send me to find you. I am acting for another person, who wishes only to help and protect you. Will you allow me to take you to that person?"
Marianne eyed him distrustfully, and after a moment he went on, "Here is my card. If you like, I will drive you to the house of your friend, Mrs. Shortbody; she has seen my credentials and will assure you that I am respectable."
Marianne took the card he held out to her. The name, Roger Carlton, meant nothing to her; but there is something inherently conventional about a printed name and a calling card. Somewhat reassured, though far from convinced, she began walking toward the house. Carlton followed.
"I see no reason why I should trust you," she said. "Once in your carriage…"
He grinned and twirled a nonexistent mustache.
"…I will whip up the horses and carry you off to a fate worse than death! My dear young lady, it appears to me that you have no option but to trust me."
They neared the house. As if in emphatic punctuation of Carlton's last comment, the front door opened and Marianne's portmanteau landed with a thud on the steps. It was followed by a rain of miscellaneous garments.
Marianne let out a shriek of indignation and began to run. Grinning more broadly, Carlton went after her. He was amused to observe that the threat of damage to her wardrobe could arouse a female even more than a threat to her person. He had sobered, however, by the time they reached the house, and when Mrs. Pettibone appeared, her arms full of Marianne's property, he spoke sternly.
"One moment, madam! I am this lady's attorney, and I assure you that you are accountable in law for any damage to her belongings. She must be given time to pack them and remove them."
Mrs. Pettibone, who had been on the verge of tossing the remainder of Marianne's things onto the steps, was visibly affected by this reference to the law. She looked so foolish standing there with her arms loaded down like a slovenly housemaid that Marianne almost laughed.
Mr. Carlton took out his watch and glanced at it. "One hour," he said.
It did not take Marianne as long as that.
She was as anxious to leave as Mrs. Pettibone was to be rid of her. Carlton stayed with her while she gathered up her possessions and good-naturedly helped her carry her boxes out. No one else offered to do so.
Waiting on the circle before the house was a carriage. It was the most elegant equipage Marianne had ever seen, drawn by a pair of matched gray horses whose coats shone like satin. The carriage itself was varnished to a high degree, and painted a rich but subdued green. On the door was a gilded and enameled coat of arms.
The sight of the carriage stopped Marianne for a moment. Mrs. Jay's tutelage had not emphasized the ancient and honorable art of heraldry, so she was unable to read the charges on the shield; but upon seeing the coronet emblazoned above, she realized it could not belong to a mere "Honorable." So, with the dismal feeling that the last bridge had indeed been burned, she allowed herself to be helped into the coach. When Carlton asked if she wished to be driven to Mrs. Shortbody's, she replied wearily, "What difference does it make? Take me where you will."
Carlton shook his head in exasperation. "How very dramatic you are! Well, I refuse to drive any distance with a quivering, nervous female who may burst into hysterical screams at the slightest provocation. Here – Wilkins…" The coachman, having stowed away Marianne's boxes, came to the door of the carriage, his hat in his hand. "Sir?" he said.
"Are you familiar with the Honorable Percival Bagshot?" Carlton asked.
"Now sir," was the reproachful reply, "you know us don't associate with such as he. Her Grace would never -"
"That will do," Carlton interrupted. "Well, Miss Ransom?"
Marianne was too vexed at his insulting comments to appreciate his efforts to reassure her. "Proceed, sir," she said haughtily. "Only spare me your conversation during the drive and I will endure what befalls me."
Her companion looked as if he wished to slam the carriage door, but the coachman performed that office and then mounted the box. They were off; and despite her lingering apprehension Marianne could not help feeling relieved at seeing the last of Pettibone Manor.
Carlton observed her request to the letter. He did not utter a word, and although there were many questions Marianne wanted to ask, pride prevented her from beginning a conversation. Her nervousness increased as the city closed in around them. The dirt and grime, the pinched faces of beggars, and the raucous, vulgar shouts of street vendors brought back only too vividly the scenes from which she had fled.
After the usual delays the carriage left the teeming streets and turned into a drive flanked by high stone columns. No house was visible, only clusters of tall chimneys lifting up over the tops of the evergreens that lined the drive.
Though the Ransom family was of good blood, they and their country neighbors had no claim to noble titles or great wealth. One really cannot blame Marianne for being aroused to the liveliest feelings of apprehension by the grandeur that surrounded her from the moment the carriage passed between the gilded iron gates. When it stopped before the facade of a mansion so large that its farthest wing was dwarfed by distance, only courage and her newborn sense of fatalism enabled her to accept Carlton's hand and descend from the conveyance.
Carlton, on his part, was not unmoved by her pallor and the coldness of the hand he held. Knowing Bagshot by reputation, he had some comprehension of her feelings. But his sympathy was diluted by his masculine impatience with female vapors and by other antagonistic sentiments of which Marianne knew nothing. He also realized that the quickest way of relieving the girl's fears was to show her what awaited her. In silence, therefore, he led her to the door.
It appeared that they were expected. Before Carlton could ring, the door was opened by a butler of impressive proportions and dignified visage. Carlton delivered his hat into the possession of this personage.
"Her Grace…?"
"Awaits you in the small blue parlor," replied the butler.
A footman in powdered wig and green satin knee breeches opened a door to the right. The entrance hallway, floored in a pattern of green malachite and yellow marble, was so large it seemed to take forever to cross it. Carlton took Marianne's arm, more in the manner of a warder leading a prisoner than that of a gentleman escorting a lady. He propelled her through the door; it closed smoothly behind them.
Marianne found herself in a room even larger than the hall; dazedly, she wondered what the size of the large blue parlor might be. The walls were hung with damask. Chandeliers like frozen waterfalls tinkled in the breeze of the closing door. All the furnishings, from the curved and gilded loveseat upholstered in blue velvet to the innumerable porcelain and crystal ornaments scattered about, were of the lightest and most delicate nature. The pale colors and vast, shimmering expanse of waxed flooring created an impression of cold, though fires blazed at either end of the room.
This vast, chilly expanse was occupied by three living creatures. One was as out of place as a bear in a boudoir; red-faced, corpulent, his wiry gray hair standing up on end, he stroked his bushy mustache with one finger and glared at Marianne through a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles that had come to rest on the bulbous tip of his nose. The other occupants suited the decor. One was a dog, or so Marianne deduced, though only a blue bow distinguished the front end from the back end of the mop of long white hair.
The lady who held the dog was a larger, living version of the Meissen shepherdess that stood on the mantel beside her. Snowy hair, exquisitely coiffed, framed a face from which all color had fled. Marianne had a confused impression of soft, pale fabrics, rich with lace and embroidery, enfolding her slender frame.
Carlton cleared his throat. Before he could speak the dog let out a sharp, piercing yelp, as if the lady's white hands had contracted around its body. Dropping the animal unceremoniously onto a nearby chair, the lady glided toward Marianne, her arms extended. The color had rushed hectically into her face.
"My darling child," she cried. "Found at last! So long lost, so happily returned to my arms. Found at last!"
It was too much for Marianne. Nervous apprehension, bewilderment – and the more prosaic fact that the Pettibone parsimony and the unpleasant table manners of Cyril had prevented her from eating that day – all combined to bring on an attack of giddiness. The room slipped to one side, the lady's face blurred into a featureless white oval, and she felt herself falling into darkness.