"I can think of many reasons," the Duchess retorted. "Women have strange fancies when the prospect of motherhood blesses them. If, let us say, the lady lost her own child and found another to take its place… Or if she knew the unfortunate mother and pitied the girl's situation… Oh, there are a dozen reasons! So you found no one, my poor Gruffstone, who could testify that the child was actually born of Mrs. Ransom?"
Her eyes sparkled with the anticipation of victory. The doctor's grim look softened into a smile as he bowed in sardonic acknowledgment.
"So far, my dear Honoria, you win. It was impossible even to discover the name of the physician who attended upon Mrs. Ransom in York."
"But there must be someone," the lawyer insisted angrily. "What of the friend or relative Mrs. Ransom was visiting at the time?"
The look the doctor turned on his young friend was comically like that of a large shaggy dog who has done something naughty.
"Dead," he replied.
"The nurse?"
"Dead."
The lawyer struck the table sharply with his clenched fist. "I tell you, this is absurd. We are going about it backward. The burden of proof does not rest on us, to find evidence that Miss Ransom must be her mother's child; it rests with her to prove she is -"
"With me?" Marianne exclaimed angrily. "I am attempting to prove no such thing, sir. I deny it. I do not believe…"
Her firm denials died on her lips as she encountered the Duchess's steady regard. The faded blue eyes were gentle, smiling, and confident.
"But you are the last person who would know," the Duchess said softly. Then, with apparent irrelevance, she went on, "I perceive, my dear, that you are wearing a pretty old-fashioned locket. Would it, by any chance, contain portraits of your parents?"
"How did you know?" Marianne exclaimed.
It was, in fact, a reasonable deduction. Such lockets were common, and those who had been bereaved often wore trinkets containing locks of hair or pictures of the deceased. The Duchess smiled complacently.
"It Came To Me," she said. "May I see it, my child?"
Marianne unfastened the chain and handed the locket to the Duchess, who pressed the catch that opened it. Her faint smile deepened. Still holding Marianne's locket, she drew from the soft lace at her throat a similar jewel, though this one, unlike Marianne's plain gold ornament, was a creation of jet and enamel and tiny diamonds. Opening it, she turned the two lockets and held them side by side.
The portrait of the Squire had been done years before by a local miniaturist, to match the painting of his pretty brown-haired wife. Even then he had been the epitome of John Bull – ruddy-faced, coarse of feature – and the questionable skill of the painter had not flattered him. Mrs. Ransom had suffered less in the process of being transferred to ivory, but the face might have been that of any young lady of fashionable prettiness.
Beside these two commonplace, if amiable, faces, lay that of a young man. No question, in this case, of the painter's skill; he had caught to perfection the blue eyes that shone like aquamarines, the halo of pale-golden hair, the delicate, almost feminine mouth.
There was no need to comment. After a moment the Duchess returned Marianne's locket and replaced her own in its hiding place next to her heart. Even the lawyer looked shaken.
"After all," the Duchess said calmly, "there is no need for all this fuss, is there? I am satisfied; Miss Ransom is entitled to her own opinion and shall not be forced to change it against her will; and as for you two silly men, I don't care what you think! If I had decided to assist some deserving young lady who found herself in difficulty, you would both admire me for my kind heart. Perhaps I may form an organization for that purpose. There is certainly need of it, if half the sad stories I hear are to be believed. I have chosen to begin my patronage with Miss Ransom. What is wrong with that?"
The effect of this speech on the two gentlemen amused Marianne. Unable to deny its killing logic, yet totally unconvinced, they exchanged looks of mutual disgust. The lawyer was the first to recover his speech.
"What is wrong," he said, "is your state of mind, Duchess. So long as you are convinced that this young person is David Holmes's child -"
"My state of mind is my own affair," the Duchess interrupted, with such cold dignity that even Carlton was silenced. Seeing the effect of her reproof she smiled at him in a kindly fashion. "Come, Roger, let us be friends. You have been most helpful, and I am deeply in your debt. Cannot we leave it at that?"
Such affable condescension, Marianne thought, must have its effect; and indeed the young man's lips twitched as though he wished to return the lady's smile. But he was more stubborn than she had realized.
He shook his head.
"I must point out to Your Grace -"
The Duchess cut him off by rising to her feet. "Very well, if you persist, there is one way of proving I am right. I had wished to give Miss Ransom time to adjust to the change in her condition, but in order to convince you two, I will beg her cooperation in a brief… experiment."
"I cannot refuse you anything," Marianne replied. "After your kindness…" She might have added, "and your insistence," for the force of the lady's rank and conviction were indeed difficult to withstand. Instead she finished, "But I do not understand what sort of experiment you mean."
The lawyer let out a heartfelt groan and slapped his forehead with his open hand. A lock of dark hair tumbled becomingly across his brow.
"I believe I do," he exclaimed. "For the love of heaven, Your Grace, you cannot intend -"
"Indeed I do, if Miss Ransom is willing. It is your own fault, Roger; if you were not so unreasonable, this would not be necessary. Let us adjourn to the White Room."
Carlton turned to the doctor. "Gruffstone, can't you forbid this farce?"
The doctor rubbed his nose with his knuckle, apparently in order to assist the deep cogitation that wrinkled his brow. At last he said reluctantly, "Perhaps, after all, Carlton, this may be a way out, eh? You know my sentiments; they are in accord with your own. If the experiment should fail, as it must, why then… Eh?"
This enigmatic speech left Marianne in deeper confusion than before, but the others seemed to understand. The Duchess laughed merrily.
"You are not a skeptic, Horace, you are completely close-minded. Come along, then."
She took his arm, making, at the same time, a beckoning gesture to Marianne, and the two older people left the room. Carlton, abandoned by his ally, swept his hair from his brow in a gesture positively Byronic.
"Curse and… er…" Meeting Marianne's wide, apprehensive eyes, he amended the remark, which would undoubtedly have been unfit for a young lady's ears. "What are you waiting for?" he demanded. "Let us go and get this disgusting business over with."
Marianne finished disentangling herself from the shawl that encumbered her limbs.
"I am perfectly willing to oblige Her Grace in anything she asks," she said. "I have not the faintest idea what all this is about, but if it will settle what I already know to be true – that I am my father's daughter – then by all means let us get on with it."
Ignoring the lawyer's proffered hand, she swept with dignity toward the door. She had to wait for him, however, since the others were nowhere in sight and she had not the slightest idea how to reach the room in question. With a gesture Carlton indicated the direction they were to follow, and they started along a seemingly interminable corridor. This terminated in a Grand Gallery, hung with oil paintings in heavy gold frames. So vast was this apartment that the Duchess and her escort, now visible at its farthest end, were well out of earshot. The lawyer spoke softly.