Fortune's Mistress Page 5

  * * * *

  Although weariness settled over her like a heavy cloak, Marianne found that when the night came, it brought her little sleep; when she did from time to time drift off, the events of the previous days wound themselves into a tangled skein of odd annoying dreams. She found herself entering a ballroom, dressed in her widow’s weeds; Reverend Waller sat at the pianoforte where he played a rambling tune with one hand, and held a dusty philosophical work in the other. Her parents were there too, somehow, sitting at the edge of the room in high-backed chairs; when their eyes met hers, they smiled at her and nodded impassively, as if she were merely another stranger. Perhaps, as such, they would accept her. She approached and dipped in a low curtsey, bowing her head before them.

  “Come, girl,” she heard her father say gruffly. “There is no call for this sort of formality from one who was never born!”

  Turning sadly away, she perused the dance floor. There she spotted her sister Olivia, twirled through the crowd by a masterful hand, her white gown swirling and fluttering like a blossom on the breeze. Marianne’s heart froze. Olivia was dancing with the Marquis de la Roche. She must stop them, save her sister. She pushed forward, and those gathered about began to laugh and whisper to one another. A woman’s voice drifted to her, “What a singular creature!”

  From the edges of the dream, Mrs. Waller hurried to her side, whispering, “Really, Mrs. Glencoe, what on earth can you be thinking of? How can you go about wearing such a thing?”

  But why not? she wondered. Did no one remember she was in mourning? Then she looked down, only to discover she was wearing, not the black in which she had entered, but her maiden gown, white and silver, hanging in shreds over a thin chemise.

  * * * *

  Marianne sat up in bed and pressed her hands to her cheeks. Her old nurse had always held that in dreams lay hidden messages and portents. Did this dream prefigure the exposure she feared? Or did it merely reflect her uncertainties? Probably the latter, she felt sure, for she had taken great care to achieve and protect her facade.

  She shook her head in the darkness. Her sister would not give her away, she knew, and only the oddest twist of fate could bring about disclosure now. But what if she had overlooked some small thing, any clue which might betray her? No, she told herself sternly. She had been over every detail, time and time again.

  She turned about restlessly in the tangled sheets. It was no good. Though sleep might come in fragments, it would not bring repose. Pulling back her bed curtains, she spied the first gray light of dawn outlining the windows. Arise, she thought, and greet the day betimes. Lying abed fretting would achieve nothing.

  It was the doctor, her stranger in the circle, she decided, who had so unsettled her. The echo of the ton in Venables’s voice, his manner, both yesterday and in their previous meeting, must have unnerved her more than she imagined. In a single moment, the world she had tried to escape walked calmly into her little haven and fixed her with a speculative gaze.

  It was not merely the doctor, however. She knew it had been a bad idea to open that trunk, that Pandora’s box. A swarm of stinging memories were unleashed and still buzzed about her head. A foolish, foolish notion to think she could bear the past. She would have the trunk stored away in the attic after all.

  Sighing heavily, she swung to an upright position, but was forced to sit still a moment, clutching the edge of the bed, as the room spun about and her stomach lurched. It would pass in a moment, she knew, but muttered an oath nonetheless that she should once again have forgot to arise slowly. She sat quietly, counting to ten, waiting for the floor to solidify beneath her feet, for the rising ache of sickness to dissipate. Gone were her idle dreams of the previous week.

  Thank God she was alone, she thought, that at least there was no man snoring beside her, oblivious to her discomfort. Eve’s curse, indeed! How married women must despise their husbands throughout pregnancies!

  Still, she reflected, Olivia did not seem to do so. She had borne William two children, carried now a third, and knew far better than Marianne what trials were yet to come. But her sister’s face still lit up at the mention of her husband’s name. Bearing children truly seemed a blessing to her—not an Old Testament curse. Marianne shook her head. Olivia’s life, her way of viewing the world, could never be hers. She was grateful enough for the happiness she had thus far gleaned.

  After a moment or two, Marianne once again felt equal to facing the day and, pulling a shawl over her nightrail, descended the staircase and ventured out into the garden. To the east, the sunlight had barely begun to creep above the horizon, while the western sky was still illuminated by the setting of a full moon. The air was full of the scent of daybreak: wet grass and fertile earth. Herbs from the kitchen garden, just beyond the hedge, perfumed the air as if they had been newly cut. Marianne breathed deeply, relishing the tonic effect of the morning.

  The birds, too, had come to life, singing, squabbling among themselves; she was acquainted with their voices now, although she could not have put a name to many. There was this morning, though, an unfamiliar rasp which, for a moment blended with the birds’ songs. Almost immediately, however, she realized that the sound was mechanical, man-made. The rasp of scissors. Was the kitchen girl about already, gathering herbs? She must be, for now Marianne realized that the scent of mint and lemon grass on the breeze was far more pungent than it ought to have been in the stillness of morning.

  Mystified, she stepped carefully along the dimly lit path, around the hedge and into the kitchen garden. There, a bent figure snipped away at a bunch of rosemary, filling a basket as she went. It was a woman, elderly by the rigidity of her movements, but not one of her household staff. Marianne stood watching curiously as daybreak continued to illuminate the scene.

  Chapter Six

  “Good morrow to you, mistress.” The woman broke the silence without looking up. She cut a few more sprigs and placed them in her basket as Marianne looked on. “I see you’ve come to heal yourself on the dawn’s good air. Naught better for what ails a body, even if ‘tis nothing more than a child coming on.”

  Marianne still said nothing, but watched as the intruder, for such she was, straightened herself and set her basket on the flagstones. “Come then, mistress. Let an old woman see your young face.”

  She should have been affronted at such forwardness, but without knowing why she did so, Marianne stepped further into the garden. The woman came to her, took Marianne’s chin between her long fingers, and turned her face to the rising sun.

  “Pretty thing,” she whispered. “Sadness and happiness both in your eyes. Secrets—do not worry, I’ll not pry—and dreams. Wiser than I thought at first.” She dropped her hand and cocked her head a moment. “You’ll do. But ‘twas more than the morning ills sent you early from your bed, aye?”

  Marianne felt a sudden stab of fear at these words. Who was this singular person? How could she see into Marianne’s heart, and what did she know of secrets? The woman stood observing her closely, like a sharp-eyed wren. Then yesterday’s conversation with the Wallers came back to her. “You are called Maggie, are you not?”

  “Aye. Old Maggie. And you wonder—isn’t it true?—what she does trespassing here.” The old woman chuckled softly. “The earth knows nothing of boundaries, mistress, and neither does Maggie. The herbs and flowers call out to be gathered, so I oblige them.”

  Although the old woman’s presence in her garden had for a moment disturbed Marianne, she discovered, to her surprise, a sense of calm descending over her as she listened. Maggie, whatever her odd ways, had a kind voice and gentle manner. “Come, sit with me a moment,” she heard herself say.

  “A moment, as you say,” Maggie returned. “We shall bid the old moon a good night, and watch the sun take its place in the sky.”

  They found a bench and sat together, watching the sky grow golden. As the day brightened, Marianne studied her companion. Though her hair was silver, the face it framed was virtually unlined. Though
her hands showed evidence of hard work, the fingers were long and elegant. Though her speech was countrified, she expressed herself well. A puzzle.

  It was a puzzle, too, Marianne reflected, that she should choose to indulge this company, to occupy herself thus. None of her previous acquaintances would understand it. Perhaps it was that, in her new anonymity, she could allow some measure of freedom to the woman, to the self, who had lived submerged beneath the various facades the years had dictated for her. The virginal girl, the fallen woman, had merely been pretenses, invented and donned at the charge of others. Now, she might at last do as she pleased, even to the point of eccentricity, and it pleased her to greet the gentle morning with this odd woman beside her.

  “Tell me something of the herbs,” she said finally. “What are their properties and virtues?”

  Maggie plucked a stem of rosemary and bruised the leaves between her fingers. A spicy fragrance filled the air.

  “You ask far more than I can give this morning, mistress. Herb lore is a life’s work, not a moment’s fancy. This little sprig alone,” Maggie said, holding it up, “can be treated in diverse ways—dried, made into tinctures, decoctations for diverse complaints. Tell me— do you wish to learn, or are you merely talking?”

  Marianne considered for a time. In truth, she did not know. Was it the herbs, or the woman herself which interested her more? Or perhaps it was merely this moment in time, this respite between fevered dreams and the start of another day, which conferred a fascination to the woman beside her.

  Marianne looked up to see Maggie studying her. The old woman nodded her head sagely. “You are wise to ponder this well. Herb lore becomes a life all in itself, and there’s not often room for others. Still, I may tell you a thing or two, from time to time, as our paths cross.”

  Marianne smiled. “In exchange for my herbs?”

  “You may think of it that way, if you choose,” the older woman said. Turning, she placed a hand on Marianne’s stomach and held it there a moment. “She will be here well in time for Yule, God willing.”

  Marianne felt a glimmer of relief. A tension of which she had only dimly been aware disappeared. “She?”

  Maggie nodded. “And a daughter is always a gift. Take a draft of valerian tea before bed each night,” she said, as she stood and lifted her basket, “and dream of new love and your sweet baby, not silliness.”

  * * * *

  A daughter. A gift. If only she might rely on Old Maggie’s prediction, Marianne thought. She had envisioned her babe as a girl child. A smiling daughter whom she might raise and watch grow into the woman she might have been. She had even imagined gowns and hair ribbons. Naturally, she had known she was just as likely to bear a son, but she had turned her mind from such an eventuality without examining why she did so.

  Should Cheswick somehow discover her condition, she knew that, despite the child’s illegitimacy, the notion of his fathering a son would be of more consequence than a daughter. But was it more than that? Was it, she wondered, because she feared herself? Could she, who had seen her life transformed at the whims of men, raise a son without polluting his small world with her prejudice? Could she raise a son according to her own ideals, who would then be able to negotiate the turbulent waters of a world created by and for men?

  A daughter, she thought. Please, a daughter.

  * * * *

  By afternoon, the tranquility of her morning encounter had passed to memory, and Marianne sat anxiously in the drawing room as she awaited Dr. Venables’s arrival. The palms of her hands were cold and moist, despite the day’s warmth. The pleasant room which had been a comfort to her these last weeks did not now seem a sanctuary.

  She did not have a clear sense of what the doctor’s visit might mean. Would he assume, because of her condition, that she wished an examination? Or would he pay a simple call, turn his attention to Annie, and wait for her to request his services? In one sense, she looked forward to the former, for she was impatient to ascertain whether the child she carried progressed as it should. The notion of such intimate scrutiny, however, distressed her inordinately. The thought of such self-revelation was misery.

  She glanced about the room nervously and nodded to herself, satisfied. She had done her best to see that her furnishings revealed only her taste, no more. No clues to her history, she felt sure, could be discerned there.

  But her body? Was it true, as some suggested, that one’s past could be read there? Surely this must be an exaggeration, but she remembered, with a shudder, being told by one of her gentlemen that her body seemed “well suited to love.” She had not quite known what he had meant, nor had she asked, but she worried now. Could clues to what she had been be visible to a trained, perceptive eye?

  There must be another alternative. Surely Maggie was a midwife. Surely she would serve as well as the doctor, Marianne told herself. She would merely tell the doctor she had made arrangements with the old woman. The possibility of his taking offense at such a pronouncement was less daunting than the idea of his intruding on her privacy.

  She heard the rise and fall of voices in the passage just then, and she steeled herself to the encounter, sought to convey a more composed demeanor than she truly felt. A tap came at the door and Annie entered, followed closely by the doctor who carried a basket over his arm.

  “It’s Dr. Venables come to call, ma’am, but only look at me!” The girl walked carefully across the room before her and turned, smiling broadly. “My limp—it is all but gone!”

  “How wonderful!” Marianne exclaimed. Truly, the girl’s infirmity seemed barely visible. She glanced at the doctor, but could not catch his eye. “But what— ?”

  “He’s worked a miracle, that’s what,” Annie declared, nodding at the doctor, “and I do not know how I will ever thank him.”

  At these words, Marianne saw Venables’s face tighten, as an expression very like pain crossed over it. How odd! Most men would glow in the light of such praise. He seemed unwilling to even hear it.

  The doctor shook his head. “You must not say such things, Annie.” He glanced at Marianne, his face still drawn. “I have done very little besides bring her a new shoe, Mrs. Glencoe. Its sole is built up, you see, so that her limbs are made more equal.”

  Annie made tutting sounds, as if to admonish the man’s modesty.

  “However, you must be careful, Annie,” he went on, as he seemingly recovered himself, “to accustom yourself to using this device gradually. Otherwise, I fear your back will begin to ache.”

  Annie frowned in apparent confusion. “What has my back to do with this?” she asked, lifting the edge of her skirt to reveal the toe of her new shoe.

  “Many afflictions take their toll on the back, Annie— and even some conditions which are not quite afflictions.” He turned to Marianne with a wry smile. “Is that not correct, Mrs. Glencoe?”

  Marianne nodded tentatively. It was true, her back had never hurt before these last months. Now she sometimes felt as if she had spent her day carrying boulders about.

  “Bring us tea, please, Annie,” Marianne said.

  “Oh, and a saucer of warm milk, if you please,” the doctor added. He grinned sheepishly at Marianne as Annie left to perform her duties. “I’ve brought you something— I hope you will not take it amiss, Mrs. Glencoe, and that it will be a welcome gift.”

  He picked up the basket he had brought and carried it to Marianne. She took it in her hands, and glanced up at him. He wore the expression of a hopeful schoolboy. She turned once more to the basket before her and lifted the cover.

  A huddle of kittens, black, orange, and gray-striped, stared back at her through wide unblinking eyes. She caught her breath. Mama and Papa had never allowed her or Olivia to keep pets when they were children, and she had forgot until now how she had once longed for a kitten or puppy.

  “They are hardly bigger than my fist,” she whispered. “How old are they?”

  “About three weeks, as nearly as I can tell,” he told her. “
They have just lost their mama to a stoat, and I am afraid my Caliban will not countenance their being brought into my house. They must now be fed by hand, you see, if they are to survive. I have lost the runt already, poor little calico. It occurred to me that perhaps you would not mind ...”

  Marianne shook her head quickly. Of course, she did not mind. “Look! They have eyes like little pansies. Sweethearts! What are they called?”

  He smiled back at her and knelt at her side. “That is for you to decide,” he told her. “I generally opt for something lofty and Shakespearean— I believe a noble name is important for all creatures—but it must be entirely up to you.”

  “I see. Like Caliban. So it was you yourself who saw to the mending of his injury?”

  The doctor frowned. “I do not believe in accidents, Mrs. Glencoe, so when I found him and saw he was still alive, I knew I could not leave him thus. I must do something for him. I applied what I knew of humans to the fellow. What remained of his leg had to be cut off, but I stitched the wound well, and he has thrived despite the infirmity.”

  She looked at him with new respect. There were few so kind of heart; fewer still who would thus burden themselves. Just then, Annie returned with the tea tray and a small dish of milk. How did the girl figure in all of this, she wondered? Another stray to be looked after?

  The doctor took the milk from her, then sat beside Marianne. “You must dip the corner of a napkin into the milk, then let each one suck what it may. There,” he said, as he brushed the mouth of a gray-striped fellow, “you see. This one has already learned what to expect.”

  She laughed as the kitten sucked hungrily and kneaded the proffered napkin with its claws. “That one must surely be called Falstaff!”