At this point Marianne crumpled the letter in her hand and threw it at the fireplace. Her cheeks were burning. Really, Mrs. Jay was outrageous! If she was so concerned about me, Marianne thought angrily, why didn't she offer me a home? Not that she had wanted to stay in that Yorkshire backwater, and as things turned out it was fortunate that she had not. But she had been hurt, at the time, that Mrs. Jay seemed so willing to be rid of her.
Outside the library she stopped and forced herself to wait till her temper had cooled. Not for all the world would she want Carlton to see her in a flaming rage. When her breathing had slowed down she turned the knob, and as she did so a voice boomed out, uttering a phrase that made her stand motionless and listen intently.
"… she will leave that wretched girl every penny she has. Her personal fortune is enormous, you know that."
The speaker was Roger Carlton, angry enough to speak more loudly than was his wont. The voice of the doctor replied.
"You don't know that she will do that. Surely you can remind her of her obligations toward the servants and charities she has always supported. In any case, my young friend, your duty is to see that she makes a will; it is not to approve or disapprove her choice of beneficiaries."
"Curse it, Gruffstone, don't remind me of my duty – even if I did the same to you!" Carlton's voice was calmer now. "Are you really sure that – that the situation is serious?"
"Her heart has been deteriorating for years," was the grave reply. "She has made a remarkable recovery from the last attack, but the end may come any day."
Silence ensued. Shocked and distressed at what she had heard, Marianne tried to decide whether to retreat as silently as she had come, or to warn the men of her presence by making a noise. Much as she resented Carlton's implication that she was a coldblooded, consciousless fortune hunter, she was ashamed of eavesdropping. She could not even throw the words back in his face without admitting that she had been listening.
"I suppose I knew it," Carlton said finally. "Instinct told me – but my feelings denied the truth. Of course you are right, Gruffstone. I have tried before to convince Her Grace to make her will. I will try again, more forcefully."
"But without frightening her," the doctor warned.
"I shall do my best. It won't be easy."
"I know that, my boy."
Marianne eased the door open a little farther. The two men were at the far end of the long room, their backs to her. Carlton sat with head bowed, his hands over his face. The doctor was patting his shoulder.
Marianne pulled the door closed, then rattled the knob vigorously. When she entered Carlton was sitting upright, his face a calm mask. The doctor's coattails were just disappearing through a door at the other end of the room.
"Ready?" Carlton asked coolly.
"Yes. I hope I have not kept you waiting."
"Not at all. I entertained myself by reading the papers. You may be interested to know that you have become famous, Miss Ransom."
"What do you mean?"
Carlton handed her a newspaper. "You are not familiar with this offensive publication, I daresay; only those of us who are brave enough to admit we enjoy scandal dare read it openly."
Marianne was familiar with the Daily Yell, though she should not have been; it was the squire's favorite newspaper, and he had not always remembered to remove it from her path.
She took the newspaper with a fine display of fastidious distaste. "Are you telling me that my name appears in this – this -"
"Rag," Carlton supplied. "Not your name, no. But there is no doubt as to who is meant. See here."
He folded the paper back and indicated a column with the charming title of "Aristocratic Antics." The paragraph in question did not, in fact, mention names. It referred, in the most revoltingly coy terms, to "a lady of decal degree, known for her probings into spiritual matters" and "the young and beautiful handmaiden of the occult, reputed to be descended from a gentleman well known to the royal courts of Europe as well as the boudoirs of the noble ladies of London…"
For the second time Marianne crumpled a sheet of paper and flung it away. "It suggests that I am the Duchess's…" She could not finish the sentence; her face was as hot as fire. "How dare they? Are there no laws?"
"There is no violation of law when no names are mentioned. Besides, would you care to fan this nasty little flame of innuendo into a roaring blaze of scandal by bringing the publisher to court?"
"Good heavens, no!"
"Most of his victims feel the same. As for the implication, surely you must have realized that evil minds would place that interpretation on the Duchess's kindness to an unknown young woman. There was considerable scandal regarding her relationship with Holmes. I need not add that there was no foundation for it -"
"You need not. I could never believe such a thing of her! Why, she thought of him as a son."
"As to that…" Carlton's eyebrows lifted. Then he shook his head and made a sour face. "Listen to me! Her Grace's feelings are none of my business, and her actions are beyond criticism. Oh, the devil with this; let us go out and let some fresh air blow the filth from our minds."
Marianne enjoyed the ride, but it did not free her mind of the discomfort induced by Mrs. Jay's letter, and reinforced by the newspaper column. What a sad world it was, when a woman like the Duchess could be suspected of such things. Though it went against all her instinct of natural affection and common sense, she could admit the bare possibility that she might be the daughter of David Holmes. The suggestion that the Duchess might be her mother never took the slightest hold on her imagination, much less her reason. Yet the suggestion made her feel contaminated.
Carlton was also abstracted – and no wonder, Marianne thought. Fond as she was of the Duchess, she knew her affection was nothing compared to the feelings of someone who was virtually a foster son and who must face the imminence of the final parting from one he loved. She could not even give him, and herself, the comfort of sharing grief without confessing her reprehensible behavior.
Even more distressing was the thought that the Duchess might be planning to leave her money. It surprised her a little that a woman of such efficiency in other matters should not have made her will, but she supposed there were reasons; it was not a subject to which she had given any thought. Under happier circumstances she would have been pleased and grateful for a small remembrance. Now she could not accept so much as a penny without incurring the scorn of those who suspected her.
Eventually Carlton roused himself from his reverie and sought relief in baiting her.
"I wonder," he said guilelessly, "what has become of poor Pudenzia?"
"Who? Oh." Rallying, Marianne replied haughtily, "Since I was never aware of that – er – person's existence, I can hardly be responsible for her actions."
"Oh, yes, I had forgotten. A medium is not supposed to be conscious of remarks made by her control. That is the right word, is it not?"
"So I have been told."