Marianne nodded dumbly. With a quick, violent gesture Maggie pulled the hood of the girl's cloak up to cover her head; but before the folds settled into place her hard, rough hands briefly stroked the golden curls. Then she turned to look at the driver of the hansom cab that had pulled up beside them. It was just as well Marianne did not see the look on the man's face as he studied her, or hear the brief exchange between Maggie and the driver. He thought, of course, that she was a streetwalker heading for home after a meeting with a generous patron. Still in a stupor she supplied the information that was demanded and sat like a wooden statue during the long, jolting ride. How she got into the house she could never remember; but seemingly she had wits enough to lock up, and undress. Not until she was in bed did the full reaction strike; she lay shivering, her teeth chattering, for what seemed like hours, until sleep, or unconsciousness, overcame her.
CHAPTER FOUR
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.