So Marianne did not ring for help in preparing for bed. Since the bath was neatly concealed behind a screen, she had no hesitation in hopping into it; if the doctor came into the room, she would still be private. She took her time, enjoying the comfort of the hot water, and then put on the flannel nightgown she had to warm before the fire, covering it with a heavy dressing gown.
She was toasting her feet and reading Wuthering Heights, which she had neglected for the past few days, when the doctor knocked.
"Nothing much wrong with you," he said, after examining her. "Have you trouble sleeping?"
"Not often."
"A glass of wine, perhaps, if you are wakeful."
"I can't drink wine," Marianne said. "The other evening I felt quite faint and giddy after dinner."
"During the seance?" The doctor laughed shortly. "No wonder."
"I don't think it was that. Indeed, the symptoms improved as the evening wore on; but it was not until much later, when I had taken some food and several cups of tea, that I felt quite myself again."
'Hmph. Let me see your tongue once more."
Gravely he examined the protruding member and then shook his head.
"If you have an ailment it is not of the body. Did you take any wine tonight?"
"Yes; the Duchess insisted that I take a glass with her."
"And you feel no such symptoms as you felt last night?"
"No."
"Then it cannot have been the wine," the doctor said. "No doubt you are suffering from nervous strain; that would not be surprising. The Duchess wants me to give you some medicine, so…" From his bag he took a bottle of dark-brown liquid. "A mild sedative in case you find yourself wakeful. You probably will not need it; but at least I can tell Her Grace, when she asks, that I duly prescribed for you. It will be our little conspiracy, eh?"
He smiled and took his leave. Marianne was not as reassured by his comments as she ought to have been. The big brown bottle on the table seemed to wink and grimace at her as the firelight reflected dully from its glass surface. Having medicine prescribed suggests that medicine is needed, no matter what the verbal disclaimers.
She read for a little longer, but found that the descriptions of desolate heaths and wailing ghostly voices did nothing to relieve her nerves. So she got into bed and blew out the candle, and fell asleep almost at once.
Later, however, she seemed to wake – or rather, to come halfway out of slumber into a state midway between unconsciousness and dreaming. The fire had died to a bed of coals that gave no light, but the room was alive with small sounds and movements – rustlings and soft creakings and a distant whistling wail, like that of a rising wind.
Marianne could not decide whether she was awake or dreaming of waking. She tried to remember whether she had locked her door after the doctor left. Somehow the question did not seem important. She concluded that she must be dreaming, stimulated by the eerie prose of Miss Bronte, and was about to woo slumber again when the bed vibrated with the fall of a heavy weight upon it.
Fully, shockingly awake, Marianne tried to pull her body up and away from the object that pressed the bedclothes tight against her lower limbs. She was on the verge of hysteria – not the medical state the doctor had described, but a good, old-fashioned screaming fit – when one particular sound reached her ears and produced a miraculous cure for her nerves. It was a low, rumbling purr.
Marianne stretched out her hand. It brushed a soft, furry surface.
There is no more soothing sound than a cat's purr; when the animal walked up the length of the girl's body and settled down next to her she wrapped both arms around its warm bulk and let the purring sing her to sleep.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Until the following morning Marianne did not know, or care, which of Lady Annabelle's pets had given her such a fright. She was awakened by a small head pushing against her chin and claws kneading her chest. She opened her eyes. The face confronting her had a pink nose, blue eyes, and white fur.
"Fluffy," Marianne said drowsily.
Fluffy meowed. She jumped off the bed and marched to the door, where she meowed again and stared demandingly at Marianne. The girl lost no time in responding; she was well aware of Fluffy's delicate constitution, and did not want to be responsible for any untoward accidents.
She let the cat out and watched it saunter down the hall, its tail waving.
The room was so dark she thought it must be very early, but when she looked at her watch she saw that it was after eight o'clock. The sounds she had heard in the night had not been the product of nightmare after all; the wind still howled around the eaves and drove rain against the windowpanes. The air felt damp and chilly. Marianne hopped back into the warm bed and gave the bellpull a determined yank. She had let Annie off often enough; this morning she wanted hot tea and hot water and a hot fire.
Annie was in no hurry to respond, however. The warmth of the blankets and the monotonous, soothing beat of the rain made Marianne drowsy. She was remembering her nocturnal fears and smiling at her own fancies when a thought occurred to her – one that should have occurred long before. How had the cat gotten into her room?
That alarming question dispelled the last vestiges of drowsiness. She could not remember whether she had locked her door, but it had most certainly been closed. Or had it? Perhaps the latch had not caught and the cat had pushed the door open. Marianne found that hard to believe, though. The doors were several inches thick, of wood so hard it was almost petrified. Fluffy was not a massively muscled cat like Horace, she was one of the smaller of Lady Annabelle's pets. Furthermore, Marianne realized, the door had been firmly shut that morning; she had had to twist the knob to open it for Fluffy. There seemed no way around the conclusion that at some time during the night the door- or a door – had been opened by a human hand.
She was about to ring the bell again when Annie finally came. Amusement mingled with Marianne's annoyance when she saw that Annie's companion was the same stalwart young footman. He was carrying an armful of firewood as well as a bucket of steaming water. Annie had a breakfast tray, which she handed Marianne at arm's length.
After the fire was blazing, Marianne asked the young man his name. He started as if she had shouted at him, but managed to answer that his name was John.
"Thank you, John," Marianne said. "You may go now. I want to talk to Annie."
Annie's eyes opened so wide the white showed all around her dilated pupils. Twisting her hands in the folds of her apron, she backed off until she was as far from Marianne as she could get without actually leaving the room.
"Stop being so silly, Annie," Marianne said impatiently. "You look as if you expect me to sprout horns and a tail. I am only human, like yourself. Why are you afraid of me?"
"They say…" Annie began. Words failed her.
"They? Who? The other servants? Who is spreading wild stories about me?"
Annie shrugged, her eyes rolling wildly, and Marianne realized it was useless to try to get anything coherent out of her. If those who listen to rumors were capable of analyzing their origins, they would not believe them in the first place.
"The Duchess has been conducting seances for years," Marianne persisted. "You aren't afraid of her. Why me?"
Annie knew the answer to that one. "You're his daughter, miss. The wizard's daughter."
"No, I am not!" The vehemence of the statement startled Marianne almost as much as it did Annie. It was the first time since the suggestion had been made that she had denied it with perfect conviction. She went on, "I am a poor orphan from Yorkshire whom the Duchess has befriended – not so different from you, you see. I would like to be your friend."