Fortune's Mistress (5 page)

Her mind, however, continued to wander, to find its way back to the magic of the stone circle. The thought of the gentleman
’s chivalry, however mistaken, often brought a small smile to her lips, as she sewed little gowns for her baby, or gathered the last of the roses. It could not hurt to dream a little, she told herself, as long as she reminded herself that was all it was. She had changed since she was a romantic girl, and knew the difference.

In her meandering dreams, she had no past, and she drew on childhood
tales which sprang to mind these days as they had not done in many years. She was a part of the earth and air, got with child by some mysterious deity of the circle, and held there by a spell. Her enchantment might be broken only when some honest gentleman carried her beyond its domain. At night, before she fell to sleep, she turned to a worn volume of Shakespeare, and reread the magical words of
The Tempest.
When she shut her eyes to sleep, the image of the smiling gentleman in the circle arose before her, and the words of Miranda echoed,
How beauteous mankind is! 0 brave new world, that has such creatures in’t!

Still, dreams were dreams. By day she was Marianne and not Miranda. It was
Marianne who pricked her finger as she pruned the roses, whose back ached, who wore drab colors and called herself a widow.

She was engaged one afternoon in the task of dividing some lily bulbs, when along the gravel path she heard the uneven approach of one of her servants.

“Beg pardon, ma’am,” a soft voice came. “There’s callers. Reverend and Mrs. Waller be asking if you’re at leisure to receive.”

Marianne looked up at the shy housemaid who stood at her side, and forced back a frown. She was indeed at her leisure, but receiving would definitely break up her peace. Nonetheless, the country was not the city
where the thinly veiled lie of “not at home” might keep visitors at bay. She would not turn them away.

“
Oh, dear, Annie,” she sighed, running a hand through the tresses which had escaped their pins. “I must be looking quite wild.”

Annie shook her head diffidently, shifting from one foot to another.
“Wild as a rose, and just as pretty, ma’am,” she said with a blush.

Marianne arose slowly and brushed the dirt and grass from where it clung to her black skirts.
“I declare, you will make me quite vain!” Glancing up, she smiled at the girl of whom she had already grown quite fond. Annie was herself a pretty little thing, but it was a great pity about her twisted leg. Thus encumbered, odds were she would never find a husband. No, she would spend her days in service in such houses as would overlook her infirmity. Perhaps, if all her plans continued to go well, Marianne could offer her a permanent position.

“
Just give me a moment to steal up the back stairs,” Marianne sighed, “then show them to the garden off the drawing room. Order tea, and I shall be down as quickly as I may.”

Entertaining callers had not been part of Mari
anne’s design when she first envisioned her country retreat, nor was it a common occurrence. Reverend Enos Waller and his wife, however, had taken it upon themselves to call almost every afternoon to see how she fared. When winter came, she knew she would be glad enough of their company, but for now she longed to savor her home and solitude— and the sense of privacy so indispensable to her as she embarked on this new life. Still, it was altogether possible they might let drop some hint as to who the gentleman of the circle was, and the truth—which experience had taught her was bound to be mundane— might help her tame her thoughts.

In her chamber, she untied the strings of her
broad garden hat and flung it on the bed, then scrubbed the soil from her hands and bathed her face. It was still strange for her to see the plain furnishings reflected behind her in the mirror. Her simple bed was covered with a white counterpane. A bunch of daisies sat on the nightstand. Unlike the more ornate chamber she had used in London, the room looked modest and clean, almost like a nun’s cell, she imagined.

She brushed her hair and pinned it up in a simple knot, then went to the wardrobe. Choos
ing another gown was not difficult, for they were all of them a sober black or gray and restrained in style—as befit a recent widow. Before too long, her toilette was complete, and a quick glance in the glass confirmed that she looked presentable.

When she joined her guests, she found Annie pouring out tea for them. As she nodded her dismissal to the servant, the reverend stood and bowed; meanwhile, his wife, far less constrained than he, took Marianne
’s hands in hers and pressed them. She was a pleasant woman of middle years, rather tall like her husband, with a long homely face and a quick smile.

“
How very lovely you are today, Mrs. Glencoe. Quite blooming, do you not think, Enos?”

The reverend silently smiled his agreement.

“You must not mind my husband, Mrs. Glencoe,” Mrs. Waller said with a laugh. “He has been busy thinking up tomorrow’s sermon, and it must always put him in a pucker to try to discover words of four syllables with which to obscure quite simple thoughts. Trust me, Enos, the folk hereabouts would like you the better for speaking to them plainly.”

“
You make me sound an altogether priggish sort, Suzannah,” he returned mildly, smiling a little at her teasing. “Mrs. Glencoe will not know what to think of me.”

“
Then best she judge for herself, I suppose,” his helpmeet laughed. “Do you think you will feel well enough to attend services this week, Mrs. Glencoe?”

Marianne looked down for a moment. She had stayed away from church since her arrival, unsure whether she was equal to carrying her role so far. In many ways her new life seemed
more true than the old; however, she did not wish to put herself to that particular test just yet. Would she enter the church doors only to discover guilt and a sense of hypocrisy flooding her heart? She had merely opened a trunk earlier in the week, and it had become a Pandora’s box of emotions. Her life and happiness were so precious now, she could not bear to see them sullied again.

“
It is difficult to say,” she demurred at last. “You see, I am so often unwell in the morning. One does not always know in advance,...”

“
Oh, to be sure,” Mrs. Waller interrupted, her tone immediately contrite. “How thoughtless of me to ask such a thing. But you are feeling more the thing, are you not? I must say, your color is much improved since first you arrived here.”

At this remark, Marianne felt a rush of em
barrassment flood to her cheeks. She did not in the least like discussing her delicate condition-certainly not considering its circumstances—in the presence of a clergyman, however ignorant he was of her true identity and history. She responded with a noncommittal nod, therefore, as she took a seat at Mrs. Waller’s side.

“
I must tell you, Mrs. Glencoe,” Mrs. Waller went on hurriedly, handing her a cup of tea, “that our old friend Dr. Venables is returned to the village from Edinburgh. He has been away from the countryside this last month at least, has he not, Enos?”

“
All of that, I imagine. We have missed him greatly, but I am sure it is to his credit that he travels to learn of new treatments and discoveries firsthand. Not only has he dedicated his talents to our poor parish, but he is one of the few physicians who does not deem it beneath him to perform surgery as well as diagnose. I only hope the villagers recognize how very fortunate we are to count such an excellent gentleman a part of our community.”

“
I am certain they must be,” Marianne said, lowering her cup and stifling a sigh of disappointment. Surely the doctor of whom they spoke was a venerable old saint, not a golden-haired apparition with mischievous eyes. Annie had mentioned the doctor from time to time, as well, in terms of such awe as must confirm his identity as a graybeard.

The reverend and his wife exchanged a glance.

“There are those few who will always complain, however. Some who . . .” Mrs. Waller searched for a word, “some who are determined to be unhappy. And distrustful of strangers.”

“
Is he so newly come to Waite then?” Marianne asked.

“
No, no,” the reverend told her with an indulgent smile. “Dr. Venables has been here these ten years, quite as long as we.”

Marianne raised her brows. Did the village, for all its outward congeniality, consider her in the same suspicious light? Clearly, they must.
“As long as that,” she murmured, “and still distrusted?”

“
By a few,” Mrs. Waller admitted. “But you must know, that is not our case. Even though Enos and I are late arrivals, the family is known in these parts. The living here was held by an uncle for some twenty-five years. When he passed away, Enos was invited to take his place.”

The reverend leaned forward and brushed a stray lock of graying hair off his broad forehead, in a gesture that reminded Marianne of an ear
nest schoolboy.

“
Let me tell you a story our uncle once told me, Mrs. Glencoe,” he said kindly. “Uncle Erasmus once officiated at the funeral of a man who died here at the ripe age of eighty-four. But for the first month of his life, the deceased had lived in this village his entire span of years. However, when a neighbor stepped forward to speak the eulogy, he opened it thus, ‘Gracious Lord, we pray you will embrace this stranger to our soil…’“

He broke off with a laugh,
“An extreme case, perhaps, and it did take place some years ago, but you take my meaning. There are some, most, who will embrace the stranger to their hearts, and others who will always consider strangers…well, strangers.”

Marianne looked from the husband to the wife. She certainly did not crave society for herself,
nor even necessarily the goodwill of her neighbors. But a slight frisson of discomfort traced her spine. Not quite fear, yet akin to it. Distrust could lead to curiosity, and she did not, for her child’s sake, wish her facade of respectability to be subjected to scrutiny.

“
In whom, then,” she asked after a long moment, “do they place their trust in matters of health, if not the doctor?”

Reverend Waller shook his head.
“It depends on the ailment, of course. Most seek out the doctor, and he is quite willing to accept whatever they have to offer from their gardens or stock in payment. There are many who still call on Old Maggie, a so-called wise woman of these parts. I’m afraid some view the doctor in light of an upstart rival to her practice, one who ignores old wisdom. The two of them seem to rub along well enough, though, and even consult one another from time to time, or so I am told. You will see the old girl about, I am sure.

“
But, pray, do not fret yourself with such fears,” he went on. “You are not breaking into the order of the community, usurping power as it were, as poor Dr. Venables does. No one will think you an intruder.”

“
Merely an outsider,” she said evenly. “And my child?”

Mrs. Waller touched her arm, and said softly,
“A child born in Waite belongs to everyone— even the hardest of skeptics.”

Marianne looked down, following her guest
’s gaze, and realized her hands were clasped protectively around the slight swell beneath her breasts. She released her breath, allowing her hands to unclench, and folded them demurely on her lap.

Giving her husband a significant look, Mrs. Waller said,
“Pray, Mrs. Glencoe, let us, you and I, take a turn in your lovely garden. All too soon it will have faded, and I should like to store up pictures of it to take me through the winter. I think perhaps Enos would like to sit quietly for a while, and contemplate his words of wisdom for this Sunday.”

* * * *

“You must forgive me, Mrs. Glencoe,” Mrs. Waller began as soon as they had left her husband behind. “How unthinking I was just now. I know you will come to services as soon as you are able. It is merely that I am anxious to see more of you. There are so few here with whom I can chat so comfortably as I can with you. It is good to at last have a friend.”

Marianne took her hand and squeezed it. She had not thought what a lonely life Mrs. Waller must live with her quiet husband. It would be such a blessing to share a friendship, but Mari
anne feared an intimacy might arise—and that intimacy might prompt her to reveal more of herself than was wise.

From behind a trellised screen came the rasping sound of scissors, as one of the servants snipped away at herbs in the kitchen garden. The scent of
freshly cut mint and marjoram wafted toward her on the breeze.

“
It smells heavenly,” Mrs. Waller sighed, breaking the awkward silence. “I have had little luck with herbs in my own garden.”

“
These were cultivated by some earlier tenant,” Marianne told her, “so I can take no credit. They have proved a godsend, however—these last weeks, I find myself craving more seasoning in my food. Mrs. Bridges thinks me quite heathen, I am afraid, when I season her good plain food with pinches of this and that.”

“
I am sure she cannot,” Mrs. Waller assured her. “She must know the fancies of women in your condition are to be humored.”