The Gates of Sleep (27 page)

“I could—say that—ask the opinion of
whomever I was with,” she said, groping after further conversation. “About
the opera selections—the tenors—”

“Very good. It is not wise to ask a gentleman about
the sopranos, my dear. The gentleman in question might have an interest in one
of them that has nothing to do with their vocal abilities.” She turned to
Reggie. “So, what do you think of our London Faust this year? Shall I
trouble to see it?”

That gained her a respite, as mother and son discussed music—or
rather, discussed the people who had come to see the music, and be seen there.
Marina had only to make the occasional “yes” or “no”
that agreed with their opinions. And when mother and son disagreed—she
sided always with the mother.

It seemed politic.

The carriage rolled away from the gates of Oakhurst with
Marina in it, but not alone. Mary Anne was with her, all starch and sour looks,
sitting stiffly on the seat across from Marina. Just to make the maid’s
day complete, Marina had taken care to get in first, so as to have the
forward-facing seat, leaving Mary Anne the rearward-facing one.

I should have expected that I wouldn’t be allowed
out without my leashholder,
she thought, doing her best to ignore the maid’s
disgruntled glances, watching the manicured landscape roll by outside the
carriage window.

Mary Anne had not been the
least
little bit
pleased about going to church. She didn’t even have a
prayerbook—but last night, a quick raid of the schoolbook cupboard in the
library had supplied a pair of not too badly abused specimens, which she
presented to the seriously annoyed woman for choice. Marina, of course, had her
own, with her other books, a childhood present from Sebastian, with wonderful
little pen-and-ink illuminations of fish, ocean creatures, and water plants.
And had it turned up missing, there would have been a confrontation…

So here she was, everything about her in soberest black
except that magnificent beaver cloak. She’d no doubt that even the cloak
would have been black, had her aunt thought about it in advance, and considered
that she might actually want to show her face in the village this Sunday.

Saint Peter’s was nothing particularly outstanding in
the way of ecclesiastical architecture—but it wasn’t hideously ugly
or a jumble of added-on styles, either. And it was substantial, not a boxy
little chapel with no graces and no beauty, but a good medieval church in the
Perpendicular style with a square tower and a fine peal of bells, which were
sounding as they drove up. It was a pity that the interior had been stripped by
Cromwell’s Puritans during the Reformation, but there—the number of
churches that hadn’t been could be counted on one hand, if that. It had
nice vaulting, though, and though it was cold, at least she had that lovely warm
beaver cape to keep her comfortable during the service. The poor young vicar
looked a little blue about the nose and fingertips.

The Roeswoods were not an old enough family to have a
family pew, but Marina was shown straight up to the front and seated there,
giving everyone who had already arrived a good look at her as she walked up the
aisle with Mary Anne trailing behind. And of course, the entire village could
regard the back of her head at their leisure all through the service.

For the first time, Marina’s keeper was at a complete
loss. Mary Anne appeared not to have set foot in a church since early
childhood. Somewhat to Marina’s bemusement, she made heavy work of the
service, fumbling the responses, not even knowing the tunes of the hymns.
Marina could not imagine what was wrong with the girl—unless, of course,
she was chapel and not church—or even of some odd sect or other like
Quakers or Methodists. And Marina had the feeling that, given Arachne’s
autocratic attitudes, it wouldn’t have mattered if the maid had been a
devotee of the Norse god Odin and utterly opposed to setting foot in a
Christian church—if Mary Anne wanted to keep her place, to church she
would go every time that Marina went.

I hope—oh, I hope she can’t ride! If she
can’t ride—and I can avoid Reggie—I might be able to ride
alone. Or if not alone, at least with someone who won’t be looking for my
mistakes all the time.

She even went so far as to insert that hope into her
prayers.

After the service—the organist was tolerably good,
and the choir cheerful and in tune, if not outstanding—Marina remained in
the pew while Mary Anne sat beside her and fumed. If the maid had been given a
choice, she would have gone charging straight down the aisle the moment the
first note of the recessional sounded, Marina suspected. Mary Anne had made an
abortive attempt to rise, but when Marina didn’t move, she’d sat
back down perching impatiently on the very edge of the pew, which couldn’t
have been comfortable.

Having gone to this sort of church all her life, however,
Marina knew very well that it was no good thinking that you could get out
quickly if you were in the first pew. Not a chance… not with most of the
village, including all of the littlest children and the oldest of the elderly,
between you and the exit. Today, with Marina Roeswood present—well, all
of those people would be lingering for more long looks at the mysterious
daughter of the great house.

So she sat and waited for the aisle to clear, and only when
a quick glance over her shoulder showed her that there were just a few folk
left, lingering around the door, did she rise and make her leisurely way toward
the rear of the church.

And once at the door, it was time, as she had known, for
another delay, which clearly infuriated Mary Anne. But it was a delay that
Marina was not, under any circumstances, going to forego
or
cut short.

“And
you
must be the young Miss Roeswood,”
said the vicar—sandy-haired, bare-headed—stationed at the door to
greet his parishioners as they left. He reached for her black-gloved hand, as
she held it out to him. “I wish that we had gotten this first meeting
under better circumstances,” he continued, fixing his brown eyes on her
face in a way that suggested to her that he was slightly short-sighted. “My
name is Davies, Clifton Davies.”

“The
Reverend
Clifton Davies, I assume,”
Marina put in, with a hint of a smile.
Cornish or Welsh father, I suspect,
but born on the Devon side of the border. He doesn’t have quite the lilt
nor the accent.

“Yes, yes, of course,” the vicar laughed
deprecatingly. “I’m rather new in my position, and not used to
being the ‘Reverend’ Davies—but the village has welcomed me
beyond my expectation.”

“So both of us are new to Oakhurst—I shan’t
feel so completely the stranger,” Marina replied, and as Mary Anne
smoldered, continued to make conversation with the young Mr. Davies. In no time
at all she had learned that he was as fond of chess as she was—”And
you must come to the vicarage to play!”—passionate about music—”Although
I cannot play a note, sadly”—and unmarried. Which accounted for the
amused glances of the parishioners lingering purposefully about the door. Well,
those were for the most part older parishioners. She rather thought that if any
of the young and unmarried women had been lingering, she wouldn’t have
been getting amused glances. They would think her a rival, and a rival with
advantages they would never have. If she told them that she was not, they would
never believe her.

But she was delighted to discover that Mr. Davies was
well-spoken, friendly, intelligent. And the more that Marina spoke with the
young vicar, the better she liked him.

Finally Mary Anne had had enough. “Excuse me, Miss
Marina, but I think I had better fetch the carriage,” the woman said,
interrupting the vicar in midsentence, then pushing past her charge as the
young man looked after her with a bemused glance.

“I suppose I’ve monopolized your time
unforgivably—” he began with a blush.

“You have done no such thing,” Marina replied
with warmth, then seized her chance. “Mr. Davies, I should like very much
to visit you, and play for your enjoyment or have a chess game with you, but my
Aunt Arachne has some very strict notions about my behavior. Please send me or
us actual invitations for specific days and times, so that she cannot put me
off and must either be rude and decline, or gracious and accept. Please come up
to Oakhurst Manor to visit—teatime would be ideal!”

“Forgive me, but you sound rather desperate,”
the vicar said hesitantly, warily.

“I am—for intelligent company, and conversation
that isn’t confined to the few topics considered appropriate among the
fashionable elite!” she said, allowing him a brief glimpse of her
frustration.

Just a flash—but Clifton Davies was not at all
stupid, and very, very intuitive. She saw something like understanding in his
eyes, a conspiratorial smile, and he gave her a quick nod.

“In that case, I believe I am overdue to make a call
upon your aunt—and you,” he said, with a little bow over her hand.
Then he released it, and stepped back, and turned to another of his flock. It
was all perfectly timed, and she turned away, hiding a smile of satisfaction,
to make her way up the path to the waiting carriage and the fuming Mary Anne.
Now she would have a reason to come to the village; now there would be an
outsider in Oakhurst to free her from the endless round of supervision and
etiquette lessons.

And she just might start to get a decent tea now and again,
with the vicar coming to call.

“And how did you find the little vicar?”
Arachne asked over luncheon—how
could
anyone make roast beef so
bland?—with a very slight smile.

Mary Anne told her how long I stayed talking to him,
she realized at once. “I found him polite and well-spoken, who composes
an intelligent sermon and delivers it admirably,” she replied casually. “And
although he did not know my mother and father well, he wished to properly
express his condolences and asked me to convey them to you as well, Madam. He
intends to pay a call here soon, to impart them in person, and tender his
respect to you and welcome you here.”

“Ah.” Arachne gave her a measuring look. “And
did he say anything else?”

“That he plays chess and hopes that one of us will
indulge him in a game,” she said truthfully. And added, “I expect
that he will want one or both of us to help in church charity work. That is
what my mother used to do, all the time. She used to write to me about it,
pages and pages.”

There was a spark of something in Arachne’s eyes. “Really?
That surprises me. I would not have expected Hugh’s wife to be so closely
concerned with village life.”

“She enjoyed doing it; she enjoyed being able to help
people,” Marina replied. “I suppose—I should do something
too, but—I don’t know what. There’s an obligation, you see,
responsibilities between the house and the village. We’re responsible for
a great deal of parish charity, either directly, or indirectly.” Since
Arachne had not interrupted her, she assumed that this must be appropriate
conversation and continued. “I’m not good with sick people—my
mother used to take food and other comforts to sick people. Perhaps you should,
Madam.”

“I think that there are better uses of our time,”
Arachne said, dismissively. “We can send one of the servants with such things,
if the vicar wishes the custom to continue. Still… if it is the
custom…”

Marina actually got to finish her course in peace, as
Arachne pondered this sudden revelation of the linking of house and village.
Evidently it had not occurred to her that there could be such a thing.

“You, I think, will be taking the responsibility of
our obligation to the village,” Arachne said into the silence. “I
am sure Mr. Davies will know what is best for you to do. It will give you
something constructive to do with your time.”

Since that was exactly what Marina had been hoping she
would say, she simply nodded. Another reason to be out of the manor!

“You will, of course, direct the servants to do as
much as possible in your stead,” Arachne added. “The responsibility
of directing them will be good for you.”

She stifled a sigh.
Oh well—I’ll still have
some chances to get away from here, if not as many as I had hoped for.

Still—still! She had gotten away, if only for the
duration of the church service. She had made a friend of the vicar, and now
there would be an outsider coming here. The bars of the cage were loosening,
ever so slightly.

When Arachne was finished with luncheon, she did not
immediately leave. Instead, she fixed Marina with an oddly penetrating look,
and said, “Come with me, please, to the drawing room.” She smiled;
it did not change the expression of her eyes. “We haven’t spoken of
your parents, and I think it is time that we did so.”

Obediently, Marina rose when Arachne did, and followed her
to the drawing room, which was between the library and the smoking room and
connected with both. She knew the plan of the house now; she was in the north
wing and Arachne and Reginald were in the south; in between lay the central
portion of the house which contained the entry hall and the other important
rooms. Most of the servants were also quartered in the north wing, all except
for Madam’s personal maid, Reggie’s valet, and Mary Anne.

Like most of the house, this was a finely appointed, but
comfortable room—not one designed for a particular Elemental Mage,
either, so at least Marina didn’t feel stifled. The furnishings were from
the middle of the last century, she suspected; they didn’t have the
ornate quality of those more recently in vogue. Arachne took a couch with its
back to the window, which perforce made Marina take a chair that faced it. With
the light behind her aunt, she could not easily see Arachne’s face.

“How often did your mother write to you, child?”
Arachne asked, as Marina settled uneasily into her chair.