Her awakening was a nightmarish repetition of the earlier recovery, and she wondered hazily if the entire episode, culminating in that shattering materialization, had been merely a feverish dream. The same rosy draperies surrounded her, the same fingers touched her wrist, the same gruff voice demanded, "Drink this."
Here, however, the pattern changed.
"Oh, do stop fussing, Horace," the Duchess exclaimed. "She needs only peace and rest. Such exhaustion often follows the trance state; I have seen it before."
"Balderdash!" was the emphatic reply. "Today's young ladies fall into a faint on the slightest provocation. Sheer affection and tight lacing, that is all. If I have said it once, I have said it a hundred times -"
"Yes, my dear doctor, you have," Carlton interrupted. "Do you feel that this is not a counterfeit swoon, then?"
At this Marianne closed her eyes and kept them closed. She was still giddy, but beneath her physical distress, a feeble anger stirred. They were all talking about her as if she were incapable of hearing or responding. Even the Duchess treated her like a new toy.
The discussion continued. The Duchess insisted that Marianne had not fainted, but gone into a trance; the doctor declared that her pulse rate and pallor and other symptoms were suggestive of a faint; and the lawyer interjected skeptical comments and questions. Finally the doctor let out a roar. "This must stop. We are bickering over this unfortunate young woman as if she were a bone and we a pack of hungry dogs… I beg your pardon, Honoria!"
"No, my dear, you are quite right."
"Then I beg of you, leave the girl in peace! I have given her a mild sleeping draft; she will probably not wake until tomorrow morning. I propose to perform the same service for you. The excitement is very bad for you, Honoria, very bad indeed."
"I am a little tired," the Duchess admitted. "But very happy, Horace; very happy."
"All the same, you need rest. Please go to your room and lie down. I will come to see you shortly."
"Only let me call her maid."
"I will do that when I have made sure she is sleeping. Promise me one more thing,
Honoria." "What?"
"No more of these experiments." "You know I cannot promise that." The doctor sighed. "Then promise you will do nothing without my prior approval.
If you care nothing for your own health, you have no right to risk the health of Miss Ransom."
This appeal had the desired effect. The Duchess murmured an agreement. Marianne felt a light hand brush her forehead, but she kept her eyes obstinately closed.
After the Duchess had gone out, Carlton said, "Is she asleep?"
A finger lifted Marianne's eyelid. An alarming sight confronted her: the doctor's face three inches from hers, every vein and wrinkle and grizzled hair magnified by proximity into a caricature of late middle age. Still determined to remain unresponsive, she managed not to resist his touch, or change her expression, and after a moment the inquiring finger was removed. Marianne was aware of the faint odors of tobacco, bay rum, and brandy. She had never before been so conscious of her sense of smell and was, in this case, unable to analyze the constituent elements or understand why she suddenly felt more at ease. These odors were, in fact, the ones she unconsciously associated with her father. In the Squire's case they were usually overlaid with a stronger smell of horse; but even in this diluted form they were obscurely comforting.
The doctor answered Carlton's question. "No, she is not asleep."
"Just as I thought!"
"Keep your voice down. In fact, you had better go."
"When you do."
"Good Gad, man, do you suppose the young woman requires a chaperone? I will stay until she drops off. I prefer not to leave her until I am certain she has no adverse reaction to the medicine I have given her. I know nothing of her medical history."
"But I want to talk to you."
"Do so, then. She cannot hear us if we keep our voices down."
Marianne felt a childish surge of triumph. She had not fooled the doctor with her pretense of unconsciousness, but he had underestimated the keenness of her hearing. She listened with all her might.
"I can't understand your coolness," the lawyer exclaimed. "We must rid the house of this – this conniving female instantly."
"Impossible."
"But she is -"
"I don't know who, or what, she is," the doctor interrupted. "And neither do you. I do know that even if we could evict her the effect on the Duchess might be disastrous. You hotheaded young fellows make me tired. Your legal training ought to have made you more circumspect."
"She is a cold, calculating imposter," the lawyer insisted. "I admit I had my doubts; but after that bit of legerdemain -"
"That is certainly one explanation of what occurred."
"What other explanation can there be?"
In his irritation the doctor forgot his own injunction to speak softly. "I can think of several. Assuming that the girl is innocent of deliberate trickery – no, no, hear me out! Consider the room itself. Holmes was accustomed to use it for his performances whenever he stayed with Honoria; who knows what devices he may have installed, unknown to her? That crystalline bust normally stands on the mantel. How it traveled from there to the table I cannot explain; but at least we can be sure it did not come from the spirit world."
"I am relieved to hear you admit it. You used to be the most outspoken skeptic -"
"And still am, I assure you. Spiritualism is a wicked, dangerous business. But the Duchess is not a skeptic, and it is her belief we must contend with. Only consider, young Roger, what one of the alternative explanations must be, and do not press me, I beg, to voice it aloud."
The silence that followed was so fraught with emotion that Marianne could almost feel it. She had no idea what the doctor meant; the drug he had given her was taking effect, and she was increasingly drowsy. But Carlton apparently did understand. After a moment he said, in tones of the most lively consternation, "You can't be serious."
"Only too serious. I tell you, we must proceed with caution. The health of our dear old friend must be our chief concern. Please allow me to be the judge of what is best for her."
"I must do so," the lawyer muttered. "But don't expect me to be civil to the wench."
"You needn't be civil, but if you speak of her in such terms to the Duchess, you will find yourself evicted from the house," was the doctor's dry response. "Be off with you now."
The lawyer's reply was unintelligible. Marianne felt as if she were being wrapped in blankets of soft wool, layer upon layer upon layer. Gradually hearing and touch were muffled; she could not have lifted her heavy lids if she had wanted to. Just as she was entering into the final failure of all sensation she seemed to hear a voice echo inside her head. "David," it said, and, "Father." Her lips shaped the words – and others – as she drifted away.
The following days were the happiest Marianne had known since her father's death. As in a fairy tale, she had been transformed from an impoverished orphan into the petted, pampered darling of a lady who possessed every possible charm – kindness, noble birth, and immense wealth. At first the girl objected when the Duchess showered her with gifts. The Duchess's reply was, "I am an old woman, my dear. Will you deprive me of what has become my chief pleasure in life?"
There was no possible reply to this but grateful acceptance. After all, Marianne told herself, even if the fairy tale ended like Cinderella's, on the stroke of some symbolic midnight, she would be no worse off than before. In this she was, of course, mistaken, but she was too inexperienced to know that the removal of luxury can be worse than the absence of that commodity, and even if she had known it she probably would not have had the strength of will to resist.
Her room was a bower of every pretty comfort money could buy. Delicate hothouse flowers filled the vases and were replenished daily. The sheets on the bed were of pale-pink silk, the toilet articles were backed with solid gold. Jars of steaming bathwater were hauled upstairs every evening by panting chambermaids – but of course Marianne never saw these unfortunates; the maid who attended her was a smart young Frenchwoman whose hands dealt magically with her luxuriant hair. Every evening she was bathed and dressed in one of her lovely new gowns; her hair was twisted with ribbons and posies, her throat and wrists hung with jewels. The only unpleasant part of this process was that she had to have her ears pierced. The squire had never thought of such a thing, and Mrs. Jay had not approved of vain adornment, so this operation had been neglected. But it was worth the pain to look forward to wearing the pearl and diamond and opal earrings the Duchess had given her.
One evening, several days after her arrival, she was seated before the fire wrapped in a dressing gown of pale-blue satin trimmed with feathers. Celeste, her maid, moved noiselessly around the room laying out the clothing she would presently put on. The gown was the most elaborate she had yet worn, voluminous folds of snowy tulle over a petticoat of heavy blue silk. A cascade of silk flowers fell from one shoulder across the front of the gown and down one side of the overskirt, which was drawn back in graceful folds over a soft bustle. Marianne's hair had been secured atop her head with a wreath of matching flowers; the skillfully arranged curls cascaded down her back. With this garment went long white gloves, a lace fan, and a parure of seed pearls. They were going to the opera. The Duchess had hailed Marianne's love of music as another proof of her parentage: "David was so sensitive to music!"
This was one of the few references she made to David Holmes. If she had not abandoned her belief in the girl's real origin, at least she had not dwelled on it. Whether this was calculation, avoiding a subject that might inspire her protegee to rebellion, or genuine indifference to the opinions of others, including the one most concerned, Marianne did not know – and did not really care, intoxicated as she was by the new pleasures of unlimited wealth. She managed to push the subject down to the uttermost depths of her waking mind.
She was less successful in managing her dreams. The bespectacled, bearded young Freud was still studying at the Institute for Cerebral Anatomy; he would not invent the subconscious for another fifteen years. It is possible, however, that even the great Sigmund in his prime might not have been able to account satisfactorily for the quality and frequency of Marianne's dreams of David Holmes. Some were of such a nature that her puritanical superego (assuming that Freud was correct in identifying this feature) suppressed them altogether, leaving only an uneasy sense of malaise when the girl awoke.
With a genteel murmur of inquiry Celeste knelt before her and Marianne lazily extended one slim bare foot. The first time the maid had put on her stockings she had been torn between embarrassment and amusement. She had never had a full-time personal attendant; one of the housemaids had helped her dress for special occasions, but most of the time she had taken care of herself. Now she accepted the service with complacent pleasure, so easily does one become accustomed to what one enjoys. Slippers, undergarments, layers of fine lawn petticoats tucked and frosted with lace; then the dress, which enveloped her in a cloud of soft white. Celeste hooked the dress up the back and fluffed out the skirt. Another murmur of inquiry; Marianne, turning to the full-length mirror, gave a kindly, patronizing nod.
"It looks very well. Now my jewelry… please."
She was still admiring her exquisite reflection when the Duchess entered, her little dog Pierre trotting along behind her. "You look lovely, my dear," she said.
"So do you." Marianne's compliment was sincere. The Duchess's color was high and her eyes sparkled. No wonder, Marianne thought, that the doctor was willing to tolerate anything that made his old friend so happy.
He was waiting for them when they entered the drawing room, looking quite distinguished in evening clothes. His mustache had been trimmed and his unruly hair ruthlessly subdued by an application of pomade. Pierre made straight for him and leaned against his ankles. White hairs adhered to the black broadcloth as if drawn by a magnet. An expression of mild anguish crossed the doctor's face, but he rose nobly to the occasion.
"Good boy; nice little doggy… Ton my word, Honoria, you look no more than eighteen."
"What a pretty compliment! I wish I could return it; but you look as grumpy as a bear. I trust that your scowl is produced, not by present company, but by the prospect of the evening's entertainment?"
"You know I hate opera," was the candid reply. "Silly fools rushing about the stage shouting out secrets at the top of their lungs."
"But the music," Marianne said. "That is the important thing."
"Sounds like cats on a back fence, serenading the moon."
Pierre barked sharply, as if in agreement. The Duchess laughed. "Never mind, it won't hurt you to suffer for one evening. What do you hear from John?"
The doctor's face lit up. "Good news, I am happy to say. I received a letter yesterday. I had thought the wound was in his leg, where it might have been serious, you know, but it was only in his shoulder. He expects to be invalided home soon."
"Splendid. We speak of Dr. Gruffstone's son, my dear," the Duchess explained. "Following his father's example, he qualified as a surgeon and went out to India with the Northumberland Fusiliers. He was wounded in the fighting in Afghanistan, and we were concerned about him… But where is Roger? We shall be late."
Before she had time to become impatient the lawyer was announced. They went at once to the waiting carriage. Gruffstone and the Duchess walked ahead; that left Carlton with Marianne. He offered his arm. After a moment's hesitation, long enough to let him know she acted purely for conventional reasons, she took it.
"Let us declare a truce," Carlton murmured.
"Why should we? You obviously have the lowest possible opinion of me."
"Ah, but as yet I have discovered no evidence to substantiate my suspicions."
"No doubt you have tried to discover it."
"Yes, indeed, and I will go on trying. But why should that interfere with our truce? You don't want to distress Her Grace, and neither do I… unless it should become necessary. Who knows, perhaps that occasion will never arise. In the meantime, let us try to be civil."
"Very well," Marianne said sweetly. "You will find, sir, that I have covered my tracks with diabolical cleverness." Then, as they neared the other couple, she went on without even a breath, "Are you fond of opera, Mr. Carlton? The human voice is my favorite instrument."
The Duchess beamed to see her young friends on such good terms.
This was the first time Marianne had been out, except for occasional visits to shops, and these had been rare; most tradesmen were more than happy to attend Her Grace with whatever wares she cared to examine. She had been looking forward to the evening, and at first it lived up to her expectations. A luxurious carriage, a gorgeous gown, a handsome escort, a box in the select upper circle of the Opera House – no girl could have asked for more, and Carlton behaved impeccably. The Duchess liked to arrive early, so most of the other boxes were unoccupied when they took their places. Gradually these began to fill. So absorbed was Marianne in the decor and the fine gowns worn by the other ladies that it was some time before she realized that she was increasingly the focus of curious glances. Not until one ugly old lady wearing a coronet leveled an opera glass straight at her did she notice she was being watched. She shrank back.
Carlton, who was nothing if not observant, remarked, "That is Lady Morton. Looks like a horse, doesn't she? And has the manners of one."
He did not trouble to lower his voice. Marianne thought the Duchess must have overheard, but although she glanced quickly, almost furtively, at the girl, she did not break off her conversation with Gruffstone. Marianne had no one to appeal to but Carlton.
"Why is she staring at me?" she whispered.
"As I said, she had the manners of a plowhorse. She would wonder who you were even if she had not heard about you. And I fancy she has heard a great deal."
"From you?"
Carlton laughed softly. "Come, Miss Ransom, you can hardly suppose that I would sink so low as to gossip with Lady Morton. Nor can you be so naive to think that the Dowager Duchess of Devenbrook can take a beautiful unknown young lady into her household without creating a stir. Servants will talk."
Marianne's eyes grew round with surprise. "They will?"
The lawyer returned her stare. After a moment he shook his head. "You are too good to be true, Miss Ransom. Be still now and listen to the pretty music."
When the lights went up after the first act, Marianne sat in a daze of delight. She had never heard music so superbly performed before. She turned to the Duchess with her face alight and exclaimed, "It was wonderful! How can I ever thank you for such enjoyment?"
"Your pleasure is thanks enough," the Duchess replied affectionately. "Would you care for an ice? Or would you like to stroll, to stretch your limbs? Roger will accompany you."
"Alas, I fear that Roger will have no such opportunity," the lawyer replied with a sly smile. "The old lady was probably out of her seat before Patti hit her last high C."
With his enigmatic speech he rose lazily to his feet, just in time to greet the woman who had appeared in the door of the box.
In the days of Queen Victoria's predecessors the opera often served as just another social gathering. The gentry visited one another's boxes during the intervals and continued loud conversations during the actual performance, to the annoyance of the genuine music lovers present. The influence of Victoria's solemn young German prince, equally fond of music and of decorum, had halted this; but Lady Morton was a survival of an earlier age and, as the lawyer had predicted, she was at the door of her friend's box the moment the last strains of music died. Barely acknowledging the Duchess's greeting and introductions – "My young friend Miss Ransom" – she settled into the chair Carlton had vacated and fixed Marianne with a bold stare.
The stare was even more formidable at close range, and its effect was increased by Lady Morton's extreme strabismus. Not only did she squint, but one eye was turned so far to the left of its normal position that only a white orb confronted the victim. The only thing that saved Marianne from nervous paralysis was the fact that Lady Morton undoubtedly did look like a horse – not just any horse, but a wall-eyed, evil-tempered old stallion who had been the tyrant of the Squire's stables till he died of extreme old age.
The ensuing conversation – or rather, inquisition – was notable as an example of how rude an elderly titled lady could be without being reprimanded or cut dead. It began with an inquiry into Marianne's family.
"Ransom. I once knew a Harold Ransom. He was up at Christ Church with my brother."
"That would not be a connection of mine," Marianne replied.
"There are Ransoms in Devonshire."
Marianne shook her head. The lady's squint became positively malignant. "Then where the devil are you from, miss?"
There being no way of evading this demand without rudeness, Marianne replied, "Yorkshire, Lady Morton."
"What part of Yorkshire?"
Marianne had no legitimate reason for wishing to avoid these questions. Nevertheless, they made her squirm, and that streak of obstinacy which her golden curls and soft blue eyes masked so effectively rebelled against Lady Morton's impertinence. She gave the lawyer an anguished glance, but he merely smiled more broadly, enjoying her discomfiture.
Mercifully the Duchess herself came to the rescue, breaking up the tete-a-tete by introducing the other visitors who had crowded the box to bursting point. "Lord Ronald… The Honorable Miss Ditherson… Lord Willoughby…" All were of the Duchess's generation, and all were as curious as Lady Morton. But they were not so ill-bred, and the sheer number of them, which forced conversation to become general, saved Marianne from further questions. She saw that the Duchess had drawn Lady Morton away; they were speaking softly but urgently.
The warning bell sounded and the visitors rose to leave. Lady Morton was, of course, the last to go, and thus Marianne was enabled to overhear a snatch of conversation between the two ladies. "I promise you I will arrange it; shall we say Thursday?" the Duchess asked.
Lady Morton nodded, and shot a glance at Marianne. "Don't forget, Honoria. If anyone has a claim to matters involving our dear departed -"
But instead of a name Lady Morton emitted a grunt of pain, clutching her side and glaring indignantly at Lord Ronald, who had passed her on his way out. The elderly nobleman went on, unaware. He, as Marianne could see, had never come within touching distance of Lady Morton. If the idea had not seemed so ludicrous she would have sworn that the Duchess's elbow had jabbed into her old friend's ribs.
"Dear me, what a crush," said the Duchess, her color a trifle high. "William" – addressing the footman, who was closing the door on Lady Morton – "deny us, please, in the next interval; this is really too much, it interferes with one's enjoyment of the music."
Thanks to this directive the remainder of Lucia di Lammermoor passed without interruption, and the second interval was spent in quiet conversation. Yet Marianne was increasingly distracted by an odd sense of being watched, not by the stares of casual curiosity seekers, but by something more intense and more inimical. So strong had her discomfort become by the end of the opera that she was scarcely aware of the music and could hardly wait to leave.
The crush down the stairs and across the lobby was so great that she had to cling closely to Roger Carlton's arm. He treated her as he would treat any rather boring young lady to whom he was obliged to be polite. They had almost reached the exit when she saw it – a face, distinct as a carved and tinted mask, staring directly into her eyes over the backs of the crowd ahead. The features had burned themselves into her memory: the sallow, lined skin, the piercing black eyes, the twisted, evil smile.
Marianne shrieked and clutched at her escort. Her voice was drowned in the general noise; only Carlton heard it and only he felt the frantic grasp of her hands. Thinking she had slipped or been rudely shoved, he tightened his grasp; but when he glanced at her he could see that something more serious had occurred.
"What the devil…? I beg your pardon. Are you ill?"
"It was he," Marianne gasped. "I should have known. I felt him all evening, staring…"
"Who?"
"Mr. Bagshot."
"Where?"
"There, by the door." But when she looked again, the evil face had vanished.
Carlton surveyed the crowd. He shook his head.
"I don't see him. The opera is not his type of entertainment, Miss Ransom. Are you sure it was not your imagination?"
"No, no! I tell you, I saw him! And he recognized me!"
"Hush," Carlton said. "No talk of this before the Duchess, do you hear me? It would distress her. I assure you, you are in no danger from -"
"A figment of my imagination?"
Carlton shrugged. Marianne said no more. Bitterly she realized that she could not even relieve her fears by speaking of them. The Duchess must not be worried, the doctor was antagonistic to her, and Carlton was… probably right. Perhaps the fleeting, frightening glimpse had only been a phantom of her uneasy mind.