Fortune's Mistress (18 page)

Venables knew that the child he had injured still lived, and though he had emptied his pock
ets, astounding the impoverished parents with a glittering array of sovereigns, it was, he knew, an empty gesture, one which would never make amends for the harm he had done. No more would his death.

It was dawn when he found himself back at the inn
, his companion having drifted into the night as silently as he had arrived. Though he had not slept a wink, Venables felt refreshed and, if not full of hope, at least not wholly divorced from it. From that day he had dedicated himself to bettering the condition of those around him, had given away that part of his fortune which was not entailed, and had embarked on a study of medicine. From thence it had been a driven, but fulfilling life, haunted less and less frequently by the shadow of the past.

Michael
’s parting words had been, “There is no one entirely undeserving of happiness, you know. The day will arrive when happiness will take you in its embrace—and you will be able to bear it.”

Staring ahead at the fire, snug in his study, Venables wondered whether that day had ar
rived at last.

* * * *

Marianne slept late the next day, having been kept awake much of the night with a series of pains which had sent her pacing about until almost dawn. She felt better now as she enjoyed a leisurely cup of tea, but an unaccustomed lethargy persuaded her to remain abed much of the morning and even into the afternoon of a lowering stormy day.

When she did, at last, arise and find her way into the drawing room, she discovered that the doctor had called earlier and left for her a bou
quet of branches hung with red berries. Annie had placed it in a vase in a prominent position, and it warmed Marianne’s heart to look at it. She had missed the color which the bouquets from her garden had provided all summer. It was like the doctor to have noticed their absence in her home of late, and to have braved the rough weather to gather these branches for her.

She had recovered her equanimity somewhat after his last visit, despite having so dreaded the inevitable examination. She had been able to re
move herself from this anxiety, and now she found that only the merest whisper of that intimacy had imprinted itself on her consciousness. Her secrets were still safe. To her infinite relief, there had been nothing unusual in his tone or demeanor to suggest that he had discovered anything untoward; he had merely informed her that, in his opinion, the child would arrive sooner than she had calculated. What she recalled most about the episode was his kindness, his gentleness, and tact. He was what she had come to believe did not, could not, exist— a good man.

She closed her eyes as she felt her throat tighten. If only she might be allowed to love him, she sighed. If only she might encourage the hints she had sometimes discerned of his inclination toward her. Such thoughts, she knew, were worse than useless. Once the baby came, she hoped her heart would be full enough to forget such idle fancies. But still, she thought, she might indulge herself for the present in a harmless daydream.

She curled herself onto the sofa, tucked a rug about her, and gave her imagination full rein. She could see quite clearly how such a life might be. How, weary after a long day’s toil, Dr. Venables, Alden, might turn to her with a smile for comfort and ease. They would sit before a fire, and she would take his head onto her lap, stroke his curls, and tell him the little events of the day. There might even be more children, she thought wistfully.

How calm and comfortable this dream seemed, compared to those she had conjured as a young girl. If only she had known then what comprised happiness. Perhaps one never knew, not until its prospect had been rudely snatched away.

She sighed heavily. A half-finished gown for the baby beckoned from the sewing basket, and she picked it up and began to stitch in a desultory sort of way. It was difficult to keep her mind on her work, however; time after time, she was forced to reset a row of stitches. At last, she pricked her finger painfully and threw the garment aside, anxious not to stain its snowy folds.

She glanced about the room: a book lay aban
doned on the table before her, but it did not beckon to her now, for she felt altogether too dull to make any sense of what she read. The fire burned brightly and did not need stoking. A tray with her tea sat untouched before her. Truthfully, she had no idea what would strike her fancy.

As if in answer to her ennui, she heard the soft rise and fall of voices in the entry. It was Jane and
Becky. Surely it was not wise, she thought as she regarded the gray sky beyond the window, to allow them about on so stormy a day. When Annie ushered them in, their cheeks and noses rosy with the cold, she exclaimed, “Great heavens! Go at once and stand before the fire and warm yourselves.”

She shooed them forward, relieved them of their wraps, and handed them to the maid.
“Indeed,” she said, “I do not know what Mrs. Maiden is about, letting you out into the cold.”

“
Pooh!” Jane cried. “ ‘Tis nothing! For you see we have warm clothes and even boots.” She displayed these for Marianne with evident pride. “Besides,” she went on, “ ‘twas not Mrs. Maiden, but the doctor himself who sent us here to see how you got on. It was very kind in him, d’you not think?”

“
Indeed it was,” Marianne said. “But I think it wisest if I send you back to him, as soon as you are warm again. I do not like the look of the sky.”

“
Only look how big these kittens have got,” Jane exclaimed as she knelt by their basket. “Why they are almost cats! What a fine and kind gift they were, d’you not think?”

“
Indeed,” Marianne laughed, looking down at the well-rounded kittens. “This house was suffering from a desperate overabundance of cream, from which the dear creatures have contrived to save us!”

As Jane stroked the kittens and scratched them under their chins, they purred loudly and stretched. Then she caught Marianne
’s eye again. “The doctor is very kind, d’you not think?”

“
Of course,” Marianne returned. “There can be no denying that.”

Jane glanced at Becky, then took Marianne by the hand and looked up at her with big eyes.
“The doctor is handsome, too, d’you not think?”

Marianne was rather taken aback by this ques
tion, which had been asked in tones of the utmost seriousness. “I do,” she answered with equal gravity.

“
What I think is,” Jane went on implacably, “is that the doctor is the kindest, most handsomest man there ever was.” She waited for a response from Marianne, but, receiving none, she added with a hopeful expression, “D’you not think?”

Marianne laughed and shook her head, touched at the child
’s transparent machinations. She wondered briefly if it were at all possible that such an inquisition was prompted in some way by Venables’s own curiosity; the notion was dismissed almost at once, however, as being unconscionably whimsical.

“
And how,” she asked lightly, “am I to answer that, I would like to know? I have no means of judging him against all the men that ever were!”

Jane knit her brow.
“ ‘Tis true enough,” she allowed. Then Becky whispered in her ear, and Jane’s bright eyes lit with an expression which could only be described as calculating. “But of all the men
you’ve
ever known,” she said triumphantly, “how fares the doctor there?”

Marianne hid her smile.
“Very well, if you must know. Very well indeed.”

“
That is
not,
“Jane told her sternly, “how you would say it in a tale, now is it?”

Marianne shook her head.
“But this is not a tale,” she reminded them. “But come, the two of you, and sit by me, and I shall tell you a brief fairy story. When I have done, however, I must send you back home.”

She poured them each a cup of tea and added plenty of cream and sugar, just as they liked it, and gathered them on either side of her.
“There was once a princess,” she began, “who lived under a cruel enchantment. She was full of things she wished to say, but alas, an unkind fairy had stolen her voice. She could neither speak nor sing, and all the thoughts of her heart and mind must be expressed in her eyes or gestures.”

“
Like Becky does?” Jane whispered.

Marianne gave them each a little hug.
“But Becky
can
speak when she’s a mind to,” she amended. “She simply does not drop her pearls of wisdom harum-scarum.”

“
‘Tis so,” Jane agreed.

Becky gave a little sigh and snuggled closer. Marianne looked down at their auburn curls and felt her heart begin to fill. This was exactly how she needed to spend her day.
“The princess,” she went on, “wanted nothing more than to tell what was in her heart, but all her lovely thoughts were kept prisoner inside of her, like little caged birds who had forgotten how to sing— “

“
Someone’s coming,” Jane interrupted her, tugging at her sleeve.

Marianne looked up to see a figure enter her garden and approach the French doors. It was not the doctor, she knew at once. Something about him looked familiar, however, something that sent a chill to her very core, like the return of a childhood nightmare.

A moment later, Sir Frederick Stratford stepped into the room.

Sir Frederick Stratford! Marianne’s head whirled in a storm of disbelief. This could not, could
not
be. All of her precious security, all of her joy, the very notion of who she was, evaporated about her as soon as she recognized him.

Stratford smiled slowly, triumph in his eyes.
“Hello, Marianne. You will pardon me, I am sure, for disturbing this pretty little domestic scene,” he said as he calmly drew off his greatcoat and flung it over a chair. “I had an odd notion, however, that, were I announced, you might try to evade me. Under normal circumstances, I might even enjoy the chase, but unfortunately time does not permit me the luxury of such a tantalizing pursuit.”

As if sensing her alarm, Jane and Becky clutched at Marianne
’s arms, and their small gesture of vulnerability helped her to gather herself and marshal her senses.

“
Go, children,” she whispered to them in an urgent undertone. “You must go at once.”

“
What? No introductions? Tut, my dear. It is not like you to be so discourteous.” Stratford came toward them and studied the children for a moment, a look of cold calculation lighting his eyes. “So, Marianne, it seems you have been holding out on us all. And whose pretty little by-blows are these, pray tell?”

The sound of the clock on the mantelpiece was deafening in the grim silence that followed. With growing alarm, Marianne could feel the little girls stiffen next to her at his scrutiny; she tried surreptitiously to prod them forward, to make them leave, but they clung to her all the tighter.

“Not Cheswick’s, of course,” he mused, “but who came before him? Can they be Clivedon’s, I wonder?”

She regarded him with stony silence, her sen
sibilities barely registering this insult, but her mind raced. What was she to do? Could it possibly matter now?

When she spoke at last, the calmness of her own voice surprised her.
“Pray, Stratford, allow me to send the children away. We cannot converse thus.”

He laughed.
“Ever the expedient one, my Marianne. By all means, you may send the brats to Hades for aught I care. They do not concern me.”

Gently, she pushed them away from her.
“Do as I say,” she told them. The pair regarded her rebelliously, their eyes flashing dangerously at the intruder. “Do not worry,” she said, attempting lightness. “I am sure it is almost time for your dinner in any case.”

Reluctantly, the girls slid from the sofa, and, casting many a backward look, at last left the room. When the door had closed behind them, Stratford came and sat beside Marianne.
“How exceedingly inconvenient it is,” he said, curling his lip in disgust, “to discover you are still so exceedingly
enceinte,
Marianne. My calculations were in error, I am afraid.”

“
I do not know how you found me,” she cried, her composure deserting her, “nor what your design is in coming here, but I beg you will go away at once.”

“
Little Marianne.” He shook his head. “You do not know what my design is, eh? I assure you, dissembling will do you no good, my dear. I mean, you must know, to take you away and make some use of you. Your fine charade is done here. We shall set out at first light tomorrow, if the weather clears.”

In such a hurry, she thought quickly. Stratford must be truly under the hatches, or worse, to take to flight.
She might, perhaps, use his distress to her benefit. If only he could be got rid of quickly, before he was able to do real harm.

“
I assure you,” she said smoothly, “even had I the desire to go with you—which you must know I have not— I am in no condition to travel. The child will arrive any day now— “