"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.
CHAPTER SEVEN
On Thursday evening Marianne went through the routine of dressing for dinner with less than her usual pleasure in that sybaritic exercise. It had been a dreary, wet day, and darkness had descended early. She could hear the steady beat of the rain against the curtained windows, though the bright lights and blazing fire created a small inner world of comfort.
Her gown had been finished that afternoon by a harried Madame LeFarge, the most fashionable dressmaker in London. It was of pale-blue brocaded tulle with panels of satin bordered with pearls across the bodice and down the full skirt. Marianne contemplated her reflection with satisfaction. She had never looked so well. Yet a tiny frown marred the smoothness of her white forehead.
Over her shoulder reflected in the glass, she saw the face of her maid. The Frenchwoman's unlined cheeks and neat dark hair did not in the slightest resemble that other face she had once seen similarly reflected; but the memory stabbed painfully into Marianne's conscience., and she dismissed Celeste. After the maid had gone she did not sit down; to do so would have crumpled her gown, and besides, she was unaccountably restless. She began pacing up and down the room.
It was the first time she had been alone since early morning, and her thoughts were not pleasant companions. Guilt had haunted her since that night at the opera. The sight of Bagshot – if it had been he, and not a fear-inspired vision – had reminded her of Maggie. In the beginning she had been unable to help the woman who had risked so much to save her, that was true; but since the change in her fortune she had done little to locate Maggie, when she could very well have done more.
Not that it would have been easy. The Duchess hated any reference to that part of Marianne's past; an expression of pain would cross her face if Marianne referred to it, even obliquely, and she would change the subject. Yet, Marianne knew, she owed it to Maggie to risk the Duchess's displeasure, even the possibility of dismissal from her gilded cage. (Now why had she thought of that metaphor?) The truth was that the Duchess's gentle inflexibility was harder for her to combat than the antagonism of the two men. It was like a steel blade muffled in ermine.
The doctor was at least open and unsubtle. Besides acting as the Duchess's medical adviser he had the status of an old and valued friend – possibly, Marianne surmised, of an old admirer, who had accepted the crumbs of friendship in lieu of the forbidden fruits of love. (Marianne's figures of speech, like those of the age in which she lived, were often trite.) At any rate, the doctor was on a familiar footing in the household and was welcome at any time. Whether he had been coming more frequently on her account, Marianne did not know. For the first few days the Duchess had insisted that he stop by to make sure she had fully recovered from her fainting fits. The doctor did so without much enthusiasm; in fact his examinations consisted of peering into her eyes, listening to her pulse, and asking her to put her tongue out and say "ah." After three such visits he bluntly informed the Duchess that her protegee was in the rudest possible health and in no need of further attention. Yet somehow he managed to drop in for tea or some other meal almost every day. He had been in the house that morning. Marianne had not seen him, but she had heard him; he and the Duchess had been shut up in the library together for some time, and apparently they had had a disagreement, for when the old gentleman left he had stormed down the hall with the heavy stride of a charging elephant and had slammed the door before the butler could get to it.
Practicing in the music room next to the library, Marianne had heard these explosive expressions of annoyance and had been amused. Now, when combined with other hints, the incident took on a new and possibly alarming significance.
She had been told to wear her lovely new dress, but when she had asked what the occasion might be the Duchess had been evasive. "A few friends" were coming in after dinner. "No formal meeting," but "I want you to look your best."
Marianne might be young and easily intimidated, but she was not stupid. Today was Thursday; she remembered the snatch of conversation she had overheard at the opera and felt sure that Lady Morton would be one of the friends referred to. She had an equally strong suspicion of what might be expected of her. Despite the Duchess's promise to Dr. Gruffstone, Marianne was certain that she had not heard the last of spiritualism and the exercise of her own supposed psychic gifts.
She had tried not to think about the seance, which had ended with the startling materialization of David Holmes's face, cloudily crystalline as ectoplasm. The experience had been frightening – and yet it had had a certain fascination. Marianne had not been quite truthful about her own experiments with the occult. The encounter she had mentioned had been only one of many such attempts; table turning was a popular parlor game, with the additional thrill of the mysterious and forbidden. Marianne had also read all the articles on the subject in the newspapers and periodicals to which the squire had subscribed.
Not that anything had ever happened. Once, indeed, when she had tried to involve Billy and Jack in a midnight seance near the graveyard, they had been transfixed by a series of unearthly howls from the direction of the Ransom monuments. Jack had collapsed in a fit of speechless terror. Billy, a born skeptic, had investigated and found Mrs. Jay's cat atop a tombstone, summoning prospective lovers.
Yet Marianne had never quite given up a belief in the spirit world. Mrs. Jay, to be sure, denounced the practice as heretical. But Marianne could not see why. The Christian faith taught that the soul survived in a better world; why was it impossible, or evil, to reach such spirits? Perhaps she herself had psychic powers, even if she was not David Holmes's daughter.
She was interrupted at this point in her reasoning by the arrival of the Duchess, exquisitely attired and glittering with diamonds, who asked if she was ready to go downstairs.
The questions Marianne had been asking herself were fermenting in her mind. She did not dare interrogate the Duchess directly, so she tried an oblique approach.
"Are your guests coming for dinner, ma'am?"
Even that seemingly innocuous question had an unfortunate effect. The Duchess's brows drew together.
"Two only. The others will join us later."
"I beg your pardon for asking. I only wondered -"
"And you had every right to wonder." The old lady's sunny smile returned. "I was not vexed with you, child. My dear old Gruffstone has put me in a bad humor, and I hate being at odds with him. If only he were not so blindly prejudiced!"
"Oh, dear," Marianne said involuntarily.
Perhaps deliberately the Duchess misinterpreted her exclamation of distress.
"There is no reason for you to be disturbed. The other dinner guest I asked on your account, after Gruffstone had insisted… Well. Can you guess who it is?"
It was not difficult for Marianne to guess. Her circle of acquaintances in London was very limited and she could not imagine that the Duchess would invite her former landlady or her former employer to dine.
"Mr. Carlton," she said.
"How clever you are! Aren't you pleased? Don't you think him very handsome?"
"He is certainly handsome."