The Wager. Sally Cheney

cold day in hell when he crossed paths with Carstairs again.

      

      There were reprimands when Marianne and Nedra caught up with their fellow students in the Reading museum. Judith and Sylvia had returned in good time, having dared only a brief walk up the street. Mrs. Avery had glared at them reproachfully, but the longer they were returned and Marianne and Nedra were away, the less reprehensible Judith’s and Sylvia’s actions seemed.

      As soon as Marianne and Nedra arrived, the outing was summarily ended, the girls herded in the coaches and taken back to Farnham, without the promised stop for refreshments. The reprobates were confined exclusively to their rooms and their classes for a month, which actually was not as severe a punishment as Mrs. Avery meant it to be. It took the full month for the other girls at Farnham to forgive them for marring the expedition.

      Marianne was deeply sorry she had insisted on the fateful adventure, not only because of the loss of her teachers’ and her schoolmates’ favor. She was frightened by the obviously close connection between Mr. Desmond and her uncle Horace.

      Curiously, however, she found she actually missed Kingsbrook. She knew how beautiful the house and park were in the spring, and she imagined the glories of the fields during the summer months. And summer, it seemed, would never end. First there were the academy classes, then the trip to Reading, then banishment to her room, and still the summer sky unfurled its glorious blue overhead.

      One day in September, it abruptly came to an end. The sky clouded over, the temperature dropped and the rain began to fall.

      It did not stop raining until all the leaves had been beaten off the trees, all the birds driven from the sky, all the flowers left sagging and bent. The weather did not change until November, when the drizzling rain was replaced by flurries of snow. It was only then that the misadventures of summer were at last forgiven.

      Mrs. River wrote to Marianne regularly. In almost every letter she urged her to come down to Kingsbrook for a day, a weekend, a fortnight. Marianne always replied to the letters, but refused the invitations, offering as an excuse her studies, which could not possibly be interrupted.

      But time was inexorable. The days marched steadily onward. And in December, it seemed that every girl, and almost every instructor as well, was leaving the academy to spend the Christmas holiday with family and friends.

      Mrs. River’s note of December third did not brook any excuse.

      Rickers will be down to pick you up next weekend. Kingsbrook is lovely this time of year and we have all missed you. I even have a promise from Mr. Desmond himself that he will not be completely engaged in Reading or Londontown for the entire month, so if you are lucky you may get to see him.

      We are anxious to have you here.

      Fondly yours,

      Mrs. River.

      “If you are lucky.” Marianne’s hands started to shake when she read the line, but there was no way to avoid returning to Desmond’s home.

       Chapter Five

      Kingsbrook was beautiful.

      There was a light dusting of snow across the grounds, but owing to the brook and the protection of the trees, even in the middle of winter the white flakes lay on green undergrowth.

      Rickers stopped the carriage at the side entrance this time, where the drive drew closer to the house. Mrs. River, who had been waiting for their arrival, threw open the long French windows of the south sitting room, and even before Marianne entered she could hear the crackles of the fire and feel a soft brush of warmth against her cheek.

      “Come in, come in! Well, let me have a look at you. Farnham seems to be agreeing with you, though perhaps not the academy food so much. Let me take your cloak and bonnet. Alice! Al—oh, there you are. Take Miss Trenton’s things. And ask Jenny if she has any of that broth still hot from lunch. Take those bags up the back stairs, Mr. Rickers. Come in. Come in.”

      Marianne felt like the prodigal child returning as the housekeeper ushered her in and clucked over her, imperiously directing the disposal of her effects.

      “Now let me get a good look at you,” the woman continued, turning Marianne toward the windows in order to catch the full light of the declining day. She shook her head reprovingly. “You only turned seventeen in November and suddenly you are a beautiful young woman. No, no, do not sit down there. Mr. Desmond said you were to wait for him in the library when you got here.”

      Marianne was obviously wearied by the ride from Farnham, so Mrs. River did not think it unusual for her to be pale. Heedlessly, the housekeeper put her hand at the girl’s back and propelled her toward the sitting-room door.

      “I trust you remember where the library is. Heaven knows you spent a good deal of time in there when you were here in the spring.”

      Evidently Mrs. River was not intending to go to the library with her. This was to be a private interview.

      “Is…is Mr. Desmond waiting to see me?” Marianne asked nervously.

      “Not at the moment. He rode across the way to talk to Sir Grissam about the woods they share, but he promised he would not be long, and he did want to see you. I thought surely you could find something in the library with which to occupy yourself,” Mrs. River explained.

      “Yes, of course,” Marianne murmured.

      The door was heavy, but never before had that fact seemed so ominous to the girl. She laid her white hand against the dark wood, reminding herself that Mr. Desmond was not in here yet, might not return for some time. She pushed, the catch gave and the door swung inward with a breathy susurration.

      The room was deserted, just as Mrs. River had promised. The books were familiar; the long windows admitted a dim light, choked off by the heavy drapes. The first thing Marianne did was push the curtains back to admit as much of the cold glow of winter as possible. Then she turned around and inspected the shelves, desk, chairs, fireplace; the stepladder to reach the higher shelves; the familiar titles on the lower shelves.

      The books that had so intrigued her last time she was here, the tempting volumes she could easily reach but not read, she now knew were written in Latin and Greek, though six months of elementary Latin were not sufficient to allow her to decipher any yet.

      She dropped into one of the deep leather chairs set in front of the hearth. A moment later there was a gentle tap on the door. Marianne clutched the arms of the chair as she peered around. “Come—” she cleared her throat “—come in.”

      But the head that appeared was covered with a white lace cap, and the slender form was Alice’s. “Mrs. Rawlins sent you in some soup, miss. Welcome home.”

      “It is very nice to be home,” Marianne replied automatically, not stopping to consider that it was true.

      The little maid set the tray down on the table next to

      Marianne. “It’s chicken and noodles, Miss Marianne. Mrs.

      Rawlins does a real fine chicken-and-noodle soup.”

      “I am sure she does. I am hungry, thank you.”

      Alice bobbed her head and left the young lady alone again.

      Mrs. Rawlins’s soup was as good as Alice had promised, and in only moments the bowl was emptied, the spoon laid aside.

      Marianne’s feet were warm, her hunger quelled. Her nervousness could occupy only a portion of her interest now, she found. There was a volume on the table next to the tray, which she took up and absently began to read. The book was on trees, the various types, their growth and development. It was not riveting reading, though more than one passage was underlined faintly, suggesting someone was perusing the book with interest.

      In a few minutes Marianne put the book aside and stood impatiently.