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.