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CHAPTER FIVE

When Marianne came to her senses she did not at first understand where she was. She lay on a surface so soft it felt like floating, surrounded by clouds of the palest rosy pink. It was as if she had been lifted up into the sunset. She tried to raise her hand to her swimming head and found that her wrist was held. Fingers moved and pressed and then released her; a voice said, "Drink this."

A glass was held to her lips; she swallowed automatically. The liquid was thick and rather sweet. Then the same voice said, "She will do. It was merely a swoon – or a pretty counterfeit of one."

The gruff masculine tones assured Marianne that she was still in the land of the living – and that, if she had died, Paradise was not quite what she had expected. The comment was answered by a woman's voice, soft and refined, but thrilling with indignation.

"Horace, how often must I tell you to refrain from such statements? You will strain our friendship if you persist."

This voice was the one Marianne had heard just before she fainted. The details of that amazing encounter came back to her. She opened her eyes and realized she was lying on a bed canopied in pink chiffon, the hangings held back by twists of silk roses. Turning her head, she saw the porcelain lady leaning over her.

"Are you better, my child?" she asked tenderly. "Roger has told me of the dreadful place in which he found you, and of… But I will not speak of that, and you must never recall it. How could I have rushed at you so! I blame myself. Naturally you are bewildered. You can know nothing of your true history."

A growl, so heavy with cynicism that it required no words, came from the tall, stout man standing beside the lady. His gold-rimmed glasses had slipped even farther toward the end of his nose. It required no great effort of intelligence for Marianne to deduce that it was he who had expressed doubt as to the genuineness of her faint. Had his fingers touched her hand? The fact that he was in the act of returning a gold watch to his pocket confirmed her theory that he might be a doctor. Whatever he was, he was plainly hostile toward her. Thankfully she turned her eyes to the gentle face of the lady.

"I don't understand, ma'am," she began.

The doctor – for such, Marianne soon discovered, he truly was – gave another snort of outrage. "Ignorant girl," he exclaimed, "you are addressing the Dowager Duchess of Devenbrook. Kindly use the proper -"

"Horace." The Duchess spoke gently but firmly. "One more word and I will ask you to leave."

"Honoria, you know I speak out of concern for you. The state of your health… The feverish excitement of this meeting – of the past few days -"

"But my anxieties are now relieved, in the joy of this meeting," the Duchess assured her. "I appreciate your concern, old friend, but I must insist that you keep still. The poor girl is confused enough. I will enlighten her. But first, a glass of wine – something to strengthen her -"

"A glass of wine will make her sick, or tipsy, or both," said a voice from the other side of the bed. Marianne rolled her eyes in that direction, feeling rather like a bird in a cage surrounded by cats. She was not surprised to see Carlton smiling down at her with his now familiar look of wry amusement. So bewildered was she that this first of her new acquaintances seemed almost like an old friend. She looked at him beseechingly, and he continued, "A bowl of soup might be more to the point. Sit up, Miss Ransom, and assure the Duchess of your good health. Then perhaps we can get on with this – er – discussion. I have an appointment this evening and would like to keep it. No, Duchess," he added, as that lady made a protesting gesture, "I beg you will not suggest that we leave you alone with the young lady. I, as your legal adviser, and Gruffstone, as your medical adviser, owe it to you and to ourselves to be present."

The Duchess agreed to this, but insisted on a brief interval of recuperation for Marianne first. The girl was certainly in need of attention. She had not taken the time to change her gown after the rough and tumble with Cyril, and the long dusty ride had improved neither her complexion nor her attire.

Under the lady's direction she was bathed, brushed, perfumed, and wrapped in a gown of the same delicate shell pink that filled the room. The unobtrusive luxury of her surroundings, from the huge marble bath to the gold-backed hairbrush wielded by the maid, were completely new to Marianne – but she found they were not at all difficult to get used to. She had never seen such a bedchamber. Pink, tulle, mother-of-pearl, and gilt covered every surface, and silk roses spilled in lavish profusion. It was obviously a girl's room, and as Marianne's strength returned she wondered who the lucky young lady could be. The wardrobe from which the maid took the pink tea gown was filled with equally beautiful garments. Though Marianne was too shy to voice the questions that had crowded into her mind, she began to formulate a hypothesis. Perhaps the Duchess had lost a beloved daughter or granddaughter, the original owner of the bedchamber and the lovely clothes.

Marianne's restoration was completed by the suggested bowl of soup; in fact, she was able to eat quite a respectable amount of the food presented by a neat parlormaid dressed in black alpaca, with long streamers hanging from her white lace cap. So gentle was the Duchess's fond regard that Marianne's appetite was not inhibited in the slightest. Turning to her hostess as the servant removed the tray, she started to speak. Smiling, the Duchess put her finger to her lips.

"I have promised my good friends, Carlton and Gruffstone, that I will tell you nothing until they are present. Do you feel strong enough now to receive them?"

Marianne, completely awed at receiving such deference, indicated that she did.

The two gentlemen were admitted, and at the Duchess's suggestion they removed to an alcove at the far end of the room, which had been fitted up as a sitting room. The Duchess insisted that Marianne recline on a rose velvet chaise longue, and she tucked a fleecy shawl around the girl with her own aristocratic hands.

Though appreciating the kindness, Marianne was beginning to feel stifled by the unceasing attentions from a lady older than she and greatly her superior in rank. Having no longer any fears for her safety, she would have remonstrated, or at least demanded answers to the many questions that vexed her, but for one thing; her fear of distressing the Duchess. Her active imagination had by now filled in the details of the story she had invented to explain the peculiar circumstances in which she found herself. The dear old lady had lost a child, and her brain had been turned by the tragedy. Perhaps, Marianne thought pitifully, she believes I am her daughter returned from the grave! The doctor's concern confirmed this idea.

Convinced by the explanation she had woven from these hints – and ignoring the many holes in the fabric – Marianne allowed herself to be coddled. She was moved by genuine pity and gratitude, and was prepared to disillusion the unfortunate lady as gently as possible.

The doctor squeezed his large frame into a dainty little armchair It groaned as he shifted his weight. "Well?" he said belligerently.

"It is difficult to know how to begin," the Duchess murmured. "It will come as a shocking surprise to her."

"Allow me," Carlton said. Leaning in a negligent attitude against the window ledge, his arms folded, he viewed all of them with detached amusement. "How old are you, Miss Ransom?"

"Eighteen," Marianne replied, without thinking; and then, in surprise, demanded, "How do you know my name? And how did you find -"

"Never mind," was the reply. "The means by which I found you will be explained in due course; they are not important. You claim to be the daughter of a Squire Ransom of Yorkshire?"

"I am his daughter." Marianne sat upright. "What are you implying, sir?"

"Nothing to your disadvantage, I assure you." The young lawyer's eyes narrowed. Behind his constant, disconcerting amusement Marianne caught sight of another emotion, harder and more threatening. "The Duchess does not deny that you believe yourself to be the person you claim to be. What she denies -"

"Roger, you are doing this very badly," the Duchess exclaimed. "Naturally she would not remember any other life, having been adopted at such an early -"

"Adopted!" Marianne fell back against the cushioning pillows. "But… ma'am – Your Grace -"

"There can be no doubt about it." The Duchess patted the girl's limp hand. "You are the very image of my lost darling, my David."

Marianne felt as if her face had frozen into an expression of imbecilic surprise – mouth ajar, eyes wide.

"Your husband?" she asked.

A sharp intake of breath and a furious glare from the doctor warned her that she had made a faux pas. The Duchess merely smiled sadly. "No, my dear. David was my friend, my son in affection if not in name. I have mourned him for eighteen long years."

"It is impossible," Marianne stuttered. "I assure you -"

"David was in Yorkshire nineteen years ago; the Keighley circle was particularly prominent, and he -"

"He was all over England that year," the doctor interrupted rudely.

The Duchess waved a languid hand, dismissing this criticism. "I knew he had left a child. It Came To Me." Her impressive tone invested the statement with such significance that it might have been written in capitals. She turned to Marianne. "He would have married your mother had it not been for his tragic death. I am so happy that she found a good man to give her child a name; but now it is time for pretense to end. David's genius must not be lost."

Eyes alight, cheeks pink, she stared into space as if she saw a vision invisible to the others.

"Genius?" Marianne repeated.

"Have you never heard," the Duchess asked, "of David Holmes?"

She might have been asking, "Have you never heard of Ludwig van Beethoven?" Or "Mr. Charles Dickens?"

A vague memory stirred in Marianne's mind, but she could not pin it down. Gaping like a fish, she shook her head.

"Are you familiar," the lawyer inquired coolly, "with table turning? Spiritualism? The occult?"

"Charlatanism," the doctor added in a growl. "Hocus-pokery, paganism… Oh, very well, my dear Honoria, I will say no more."

"You have already said quite enough," the Duchess reproved him. She looked at Marianne. "Your father, my dear, was a man gifted with unique spiritual powers, a prophet equal to the great men of the Bible. The world's finest medium."

Marianne was familiar with the words the lawyer had mentioned. The spiritualist phenomenon had spread like wildfire from its humble beginnings in 1851, in a small town in Massachusetts. Five years later no fashionable London gathering was complete without an attempt at table turning. Ghostly hands and luminous trumpets pervaded the parlors of the wealthy, raps and thumps echoed through the darkened drawing rooms. Yorkshire had its own circle, and although the initial enthusiasm of devotees had been dimmed by exposures of flagrantly fraudulent mediums, giggling girls still played with planchettes and summoned the spirits of Julius Caesar and Pocahontas. As a clergyman's widow, Mrs. Jay disapproved of what she considered a frivolous, heathen practice. Whenever she ran across a newspaper story about haunted houses or spiritualism she gave Marianne stern lectures about the evils of dabbling in such matters.

Had she but known, her attitude was bound to inflame Marianne's curiosity as a healthy hoot of laughter would not have done; for, the girl reasoned, if spiritualism were merely an idle fad, the vicar's lady would not have been so angry about it.

Thanks to this clue she was able to remember that she had read about David Holmes in a magazine article devoted to spiritualism, but she was unable to recall the details of his career. She said as much.

The lawyer replied. "Mr. David Holmes was barely nineteen when he came to this country, after considerable success as a medium in his native land. He was the son of a coal miner and his wife, from the state of Pennsylvania -"

"His mother," the Duchess said, "was descended from the Dukes of Argyll."

"So she claimed," Carlton said dryly.

"The second sight," the Duchess murmured. "Her Celtic heritage…"

The lawyer waited politely for her to finish, but she did not go on. After a moment he continued, "David Holmes was a delicate boy, subject to fits of- er – fits. His person was handsome, his personality engaging. He took no money for his performances, but he never lacked wealthy patrons who gave him every luxury.

"When he came to England he immediately became the rage. Moving ever upward in society, he was the darling of the royal courts of England, and the imperial court of Russia. At one time he was actually engaged to marry a young relative of the Czar's. For reasons which were never made public, that affair fell through."

"He loved another," the Duchess murmured.

"Whatever the reason, Mr. Holmes left St. Petersburg," the lawyer went on. "He proceeded to Rome, where he was accused of heresy and expelled from the city. He had always been a devout Roman Catholic, and he was palpably distressed at learning that his religious superiors frowned on his activities. He lost his powers altogether. He announced to the world that his spiritual guides had departed for a period of one year. He was received sympathetically by his friends in England…"

Here the lawyer shot a glance at his patroness, but she appeared not to notice. Her face had a rapt, dreaming expression.

"The year was almost over," Carlton said, "when Mr. Holmes went for a walk one winter night. He was never seen again. His cloak – have I mentioned that he habitually wore a long black cloak rather than an overcoat? – this garment was found next day entangled in the roots of a tree that hung over a rapidly rushing river near the spot where he had last been seen. Though inquiries were prosecuted with the greatest vigor, no other trace of him was ever discovered, and it was concluded that he must be presumed drowned. Since he left no heirs and no property, there were no legal complications. The coroner's jury agreed on a verdict of misadventure; but there were those who hinted that he had taken his own life, in despair over the failure of his spiritual powers."

"Never!" The Duchess had been listening after all. Her cheeks flushed with indignation. "Those were vile rumors, Roger. David's faith forbade suicide."

A violent creak of the doctor's chair preceded his comment. "My dear, many of his own friends felt he had killed himself. They accused the Church of hounding him to death."

"Equally absurd!" the Duchess cried. "These so-called friends were jealous of me, because I had his company and his confidence. He had been in cheerful spirits and was eagerly anticipating the return of his powers. Why, that very evening, he told me we would have a confidential chat about it after he returned from his walk."

"He was staying with you?" Marianne exclaimed. "Here?"

"No. Devenbrook Castle, in Scotland, was the scene of David's last days on this plane." She took the girl's hand in both of hers. "My dear, I hope this sad tale has not distressed you. Death, as David taught me, is only a doorway into a better world."

Marianne was not at all distressed – at least, not in the way the Duchess meant. It was difficult for her to feel any emotion over a father she had never known, particularly when she very much doubted that the relationship had existed. However, she squeezed the hand that clasped hers so kindly and tried to assume an expression of appropriate melancholy.

"Your Grace," she began timidly.

"You must not be so formal. My darling David called me by my name."

"I could not possibly do that!"

"Perhaps not. But something warmer, something closer. Aunt Honoria? Or…"

Marianne was overcome with a sudden shocking desire to giggle, as other alternatives popped into her mind. Grannie Honoria? Mother Honoria? Horrified at herself, she bit her lip. She had never been encouraged to indulge in fits of temperament and did not recognize incipient hysteria resulting from a series of stupefying shocks. She was, however, aware of the meaningful glances exchanged by the two men. It was clear to her now that not only did they doubt the Duchess's belief in her parentage, but that they suspected her of being an adventuress – quick to take advantage of an elderly lady's sad obsession. She resolved to do nothing to confirm such unworthy suspicions.

"Please," she murmured. "With respect – I don't feel just now that I can…"

"I quite understand." The Duchess squeezed her hand. "Time will solve that problem, as it will solve so many others."

Again the doctor and the young lawyer looked significantly at one another. As if that look had communicated their silent agreement, the lawyer said firmly, "Duchess, far be it from me to mar your happiness at this moment, but it is my professional duty to be practical. You are prepared to accept this young – er – lady as David Holmes's daughter, without proof, without the slightest evidence -"

"Only look at her!" the Duchess exclaimed.

Carlton shook his head. "You forget, I never knew Mr. Holmes. In my opinion the photographs of him show no striking resemblance to Miss Ransom. And even if they did -"

"Horace." The Duchess turned impetuously to her old friend. "You knew David, knew him well."

The doctor's chair had been emitting a series of alarming creaks – evidence, Marianne suspected, of mental perturbation displaying itself in physical discomfort.

"The only resemblance I can see is in her coloring," he growled.

"Precisely." The Duchess's hand brushed Marianne's hair. "That rare, unmistakable shade of pale gold. David was the only other person I have known who had hair of that color."

"No evidence." Again the lawyer shook his head. "Now, Your Grace, pray let me proceed without interruption. I admit that Doctor Gruffstone was struck, when he first saw Miss Ransom, by the resemblance you insist upon. This carries some weight, in view of his – er – personal feelings about the matter; he was the first to declare that such a fancied resemblance was not enough in itself. Therefore, I took it upon myself to make certain inquiries – or rather, since the doctor was then at liberty, he was good enough to make them for me. He has just returned from Yorkshire."

"You dared!" The Duchess half rose. There had been a certain regality even in her ordinary manner, but now Marianne saw the true nature of the result of centuries of noble ancestry. "Roger, you are my trusted adviser and the son of my old friend, but you have gone too far. How dare you act without my knowledge!"

"I dare because it is my duty. Will you wait to hear what I have to say? After that you may dismiss me. That is your privilege. But I request – nay, I insist – upon being allowed to carry out my responsibility toward you so long as I am in your service."

Marianne held her breath as the two confronted one another, the current of antagonism between them almost visible. Carlton's rocklike imperturbability was as impressive in its way as the flaming anger of the lady. And, as flame may touch a rock and then retreat, leaving it unscratched, the Duchess's anger subsided.

"You are correct, Roger. Proceed."

The lawyer's face relaxed into its habitual expression of bored amusement. He seemed almost embarrassed at his display of genuine feeling.

"I have not heard Dr. Gruffstone's report myself. I had hoped that we could wait to hear it before communicating with Miss Ransom -"

"You mean," the Duchess interrupted, with a note of humor, "you hoped you would not be required to communicate with her after you had heard it."

"Quite right." Carlton returned her smile. "As it turned out, I was forced to precipitate action. Learning that Miss Ransom had disappeared without warning or explanation from – er – her place of employment, I felt I ought to find out what had become of her. One of the persons at – er – that place was acquainted with her address -"

"Maggie!" Marianne exclaimed. "Was it Maggie? Did you see her? Is she safe?"

"I am not familiar with the person to whom you refer," the lawyer replied, looking at her in surprise.

"She helped me to escape. I have been so worried about her! If he learned that she had actually attacked him, struck him down, to defend me…"

"Attacked Bagshot?" The lawyer forgot his professional reserve and grinned broadly. Then, remembering himself, he covered his face with his hand and smoothed out the smile. "Never mind, we are wandering off the subject."

"But Maggie," Marianne insisted. "I must find out where she is and make sure she is safe."

"Never fear, my child," the Duchess assured her. "Anyone who helped you can be sure of my goodwill. Oh, dear, I do hate to think of what you must have gone through! Who is this Bagshot person?"

"No one to whom you need give the slightest thought," Carlton told her. "I assure Miss Ransom that I will endeavor to locate this – er – Maggie person. I have the greatest interest in interviewing her." The gleam of malicious curiosity in his eyes assured Marianne that this was probably correct, and that Maggie would be assisted, if for the wrong reasons.

"If I may be allowed to resume?" Carlton asked. "Thank you, Miss Ransom. The person from whom I obtained your London address was of the male sex. You probably know to whom I refer."

Marianne nodded. She should have known Carlton could not have obtained her address from Maggie. Wilson was the only one who knew it.

Methodically Carlton resumed his report.

"From Mrs. Shortbody, your landlady, I learned that you had recently come from Yorkshire. I was able to convince her of my bona fides, though naturally I did not explain the reason for my inquiries. She is under the impression that there is a small legacy involved." He added, with a meaningful look at Marianne, "Nor did I feel it was necessary to tell her where I had recently seen you."

Marianne's cheeks burned. "Thank you for that," she murmured.

"Oh, no thanks are required, I assure you. At any rate, I took Gruffstone with me the next time I visited the place to which we have been referring so obliquely; as things turned out, it was your last night there, though of course we did not know that. Having seen you, he rushed off to Yorkshire like a knight of old following the Grail, and I did my duty by returning nightly to – er – that place. It was a great sacrifice on my part, of course."

The wicked twinkle in his eye did not escape Marianne; but the Duchess took him quite seriously.

"I am deeply in your debt, Roger. I know your sober habits."

"Your Grace is too kind. To resume – when Miss Ransom failed to appear for two nights running, I returned to Mrs. Shortbody, and after a prolonged inquisition I managed to ascertain that she knows nothing of Miss Ransom's family history. She is a friend of a friend and has no acquaintances in Yorkshire."

"But she knows Mrs. Jay, and Mrs. Jay has known me since I was a baby," Marianne exclaimed. "If there were any mystery concerning any real parentage, surely Mrs Jay -"

"I did not speak to Mrs. Jay, I spoke to her friend. I am convinced that if there is a secret concerning your parentage, Mrs. Shortbody knows nothing about it."

Marianne was forced to admire his impartiality. Though he was clearly against her, he had assessed the evidence fairly.

And why, she wondered suddenly, should I think of him as against me? I agree with him. I am not the daughter of that strange unknown man. I am my father's child. The Duchess has got it all wrong.

Seeing her absorbed in her own thoughts, the lawyer waited, with somewhat ironic courtesy, for her to return to the discussion. As Marianne continued to muse, trying to assess her real feelings, she recalled something the Duchess had said earlier, and all at once the true meaning of the casual comment dawned on her. The angry blood rushed into her face. She could not bring herself to accuse the Duchess, who had been so kind to her, so she turned her rage on a more suitable object.

"How dare you imply such things about my mother!" she shouted at Carlton.

He burst into a disconcerting shout of laughter.

"I wondered when that would strike you. No one really believes that your mother's honor is in question, Miss Ransom."

"Oh, no, my dear," the Duchess exclaimed. "Or, at least, if any such thought passed through my mind, let me apologize. I never knew the name of David's sweetheart. I am sure that if he had known about you, he would have married her at once. Perhaps only his passing prevented that. Finding herself alone in her pitiable state, your dear young mother must have been forced to give you up for adoption. That is all I meant."

The illogic of the statement and the apology failed to occur to Marianne. She could accept with relative complacency the idea that some unknown girl had committed the unforgivable sin, so long as Squire Ransom's wife was left with her reputation intact.

"Get on with it," the doctor said irritably.

"I will if I am allowed," the lawyer replied with some acerbity. "I trust there will be no further interruptions. To return, then, to what I was saying. Mrs. Shortbody, persuaded at last that Miss Ransom would hear something to her advantage, directed me to Richmond. Learning, to my surprise, that Dr. Gruffstone had – in my opinion most unadvisedly – let slip the state of our inquiries to Your Grace…"

"Stupid," the doctor muttered. He gnawed at his mustache. "Devilish stupid of me. Sorry."

"Now, Horace, when have you ever been able to hide something important from me?" the Duchess asked with an affectionate smile. "I knew you were trying to conceal something; and in view of the fact that I have been searching for David's daughter for several years, naturally I was able to guess the nature of the secret."

"However it came about, the fat was in the fire," Carlton said. "Her Grace insisted that I locate Miss Ransom at once. I found matters in Richmond in such a state that it seemed best to remove her. And so, here she is, and I am most curious to learn the results of the good doctor's investigations."

All eyes – including Marianne's – turned expectantly toward the doctor.

His chair gave off a perfect fusillade of creaks. Fearing for the dainty object – in which she had already, unconsciously, begun to have a proprietary interest – Marianne was relieved when he pulled himself out of it and began to stalk up and down the room. She realized that she was awaiting the doctor's statement with as much suspense as were the others. Which was ridiculous! She knew her own parentage.

"The evidence." Gruffstone said, "is inconclusive."

"What on earth do you mean?" Carlton demanded.

"Just what I say." The doctor continued to pace. "The young lady was born in York -"

"I was born at Wulfingham, in my – in Squire Ransom's house," Marianne exclaimed.

"Your mother was on a visit to York when – as she claimed – you were born a month before your time," the doctor said shortly. "I have here a signed affidavit to that effect, by a former servant, one of the housemaids." Irritably, as if he hated what he had to do, he flung a crumpled paper onto the table.

The young lawyer snatched it up and began to read. He had obviously not expected this development, and for once his countenance expressed his true feelings – chagrin and suspicion.

"It was difficult to obtain the facts," the doctor continued. "Particularly when, as I believed, it was necessary to conceal my reasons for demanding them. Few of the servants who were alive at that time are to be found. Mrs. Ransom's maid, who might have been useful, has been dead for ten years. Those few who remained in Mr. Ransom's employ departed for other positions after his estate was settled. Many of the older villagers remember Miss Ransom and her parents quite well, but naturally they were never admitted to the confidence of the Squire and his lady. If there was a secret, it was well kept."

"That is precisely the nature of a secret," the Duchess said. "It should not be common knowledge. If Mrs. Ransom desired to have the child adopted as her own, she would make sure that few people, if any, knew the truth."

"No doubt," the doctor agreed gloomily.

"Oh, nonsense," Carlton exclaimed. With a pettish gesture he threw the affidavit back onto the table. "It seems to be in order, but it tells us nothing. Why should Mrs. Ransom endeavor to conceal the fact that she had adopted a child?"

"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.

"I begin to wonder if I have done you an injustice. Either you are a consummate actress, deserving of a far better position than the one you left so abruptly, or you are genuinely bewildered by all this."

"How kind of you to give me the benefit of a doubt!"

She meant to stare steadily ahead, but could not resist a glance at him. His smile gave his thin face a kindness and charm it had not had before. He was very much taller than she; she had to tilt her head to look up into his face. Perhaps that is why she stumbled, so that it was necessary for him to catch her arm. He continued to hold it as they went on.

"Sarcasm does not suit you," he said. "Yet, if you are what you seem, you are certainly entitled to exhibit it. Well, to err is human; I am not often wrong, but… Tell me, Miss Ransom, have you ever played at table turning, or been present at a seance?"

The touch of his hand was warm and firm without being in the least presumptuous. It stimulated a current of heat that ran through Marianne's entire body.

"Why, yes," she replied. "Once, when Mr. Billings and his daughters came to visit, Amelia, the elder, proposed that we have a seance. It was most exciting. But then we found that Mary had been rapping on the floor with her shoe, and Amelia began to laugh, and… Oh! You don't mean to tell me that this experiment -"

Again she stumbled, and since they were at that time descending a staircase, the lawyer's grip on her arm prevented what might have been a nasty fall.

"Watch where you are going," he muttered.

Marianne began to feel dizzy again. She attributed this sensation to the latest shock she had received, but had no intention of using it as an excuse for sympathy.

"These slippers are too large." she said. "But I asked you -"

"Not surprising that they should be. Her Grace insisted on purchasing them and the other garments without having the least idea of the appropriate sizes. She seems to have done remarkably well, in general. I suppose she will pretend that she obtained your dress size from the ghost of David Holmes."

It was clear that he was trying to change the subject because he regretted the question that had given Marianne her first clue as to what was in store for her. Why, she thought, with a flare of anger, his soft words mean nothing. He does not trust me at all.

At the foot of the staircase they turned to the left and followed another corridor into the depths of the mansion, coming, at last, to an open doorway.

The first sight of the chamber within made Marianne gasp. It was not its magnificence that affected her, though the decor employed only the richest materials. There was not a trace of color in the room. Hangings, rugs, walls were of the same unrelieved white. Crystal chandeliers and sconces, ornaments of ivory and glass gave the room a frosty glitter that lowered the actual temperature by many degrees. Even the wood of the furniture had been overlaid in silver or mother-of-pearl.

Marianne did not need to be told that this was the scene of her purported father's occult activities in Devenbrook House.

A circular table in the exact center of the room, covered with snowy damask that fell in ample folds to the floor, was surrounded by several chairs upholstered in white velvet. The Duchess was already seated. With an imperious gesture she indicated that Marianne should take the chair at her right. The doctor moved along the wall loosening the heavy silver cords that held back ivory damask draperies. As each section of fabric fell into place across the window, the room sank deeper into an absence of light which was not so much darkness as an eerie, pallid shadow.

For a brief time the Duchess sat quietly, her head bowed as if in prayer. Then she lifted her eyes toward Marianne and the girl felt a cold, unpleasant thrill run through her. The strange light stripped colors of their warmth; the old woman's face was as bloodless as that of a corpse. Only her eyes burned with fanatical fervor. Not until much later was Marianne able to understand the emotion that filled them. It was hunger – insatiable, greedy desire. Though she did not fully comprehend, the intensity of that desire could not help but fill her with the gravest sensations.

"Do you understand what we are doing, my dear?" the Duchess inquired.

The gentle, familiar voice was reassuring – but it was also startling, coming from that frightening face. Marianne felt peculiar. The blood seemed to be slowing in her veins, her heart to beat less rapidly.

"No," she murmured.

"Open your heart," the Duchess whispered. "Invite them to enter. They are there, just beyond the veil of the senses – thronging, hoping for contact. Empty your mind and heart of all but thoughts of love."

Marianne did not find it difficult to empty her mind. Indeed, her thoughts seemed to be dissolving into an inchoate mass. It was rather a pleasant sensation.

"One moment." Carlton's deep voice cut through the fog that filled her head. "I would like to see Miss Ransom's hands on the table."

"Roger, Roger." The Duchess shook her head sadly. "Very well; we will clasp hands."

She extended her shapely white fingers. Marianne took one of her hands and the doctor took the other. The girl's right hand was clasped by Carlton.

Thinking thoughts of love was not as easy as Marianne had supposed. Dutifully she first considered her father and tried to squeeze out a tender memory or two. All she could conjure up was a vision of the Squire as she had last seen him, flat on his back in bed, with the counterpane rising to a hump over his stomach and his ruddy face peering around it like a harvest moon behind a winter hill.

Deciding that her father had not the face or the figure to inspire romantic visions, Marianne tried to think of something else. Very faintly, through the thickness of window glass and curtains, she heard a trill of birdsong. After that the silence was absolute. Her ears began to ring.

Two loud, distinct raps echoed through the stillness. The Duchess's hand contracted, squeezing Marianne's fingers painfully, but neither pressure nor sound disturbed her dreamlike reverie. In a voice vibrant with repressed emotion the Duchess said, "Is someone here?"

A single rap replied. Then the table began to move.

It tilted violently once and then settled into a steady rocking motion. Marianne had the sensation of swaying in tempo with it.

The lawyer's hand was like a vise, locking hers, but she scarcely felt his touch. Her head had become detached from her body. It was floating several inches above her neck. The sensation was very odd. She heard a soft moan and wondered if it had come from her neck or her head.

"She is going into a trance," the Duchess exclaimed, in a thrilling whisper. "Marianne, can you hear me?"

A sharp staccato creak replied.

"For pity's sake, Honoria," the doctor exclaimed.

"Be still! Marianne… whoever you are … speak to me!"

Marianne tried to oblige. No words came from her lips. She was floating in a crystalline underwater world, lifted up by the limpid liquid, swaying with the gentle current. The table continued to rock, until all at once, with the impact of a thunderbolt, something flashed in the dim light and fell, striking the tabletop with a solid thump. The table stopped moving. On it lay a small carved bust barely eight inches in height, with the frosty glitter of ice. Despite the dimness of the room and the transparency of the rock crystal, Marianne recognized the carved features. The empty eyes seemed to stare directly into hers; the delicate mouth was curved in a smile. The carving, which had apparently materialized in midair over the table, was of David Holmes.

Marianne made a rude, gurgling sound and, for the second time in an hour, fainted.


CHAPTER FOUR | The Wizard`s Daughter | CHAPTER SIX