Читать книгу The Wager - Sally Cheney - Страница 12

It was not a week later that Mrs. River received news and instructions from Mr. Desmond informing her, and his ward, of an upstanding women’s institute of education that he had located near Farnham. A place had already been secured for Miss Trenton.

During the interim, as he had promised, Mr. Desmond left Kingsbrook to allow Marianne privacy. Feeling curiously at home in the big house now, she spent the days flitting from room to room, most often coming to rest in the library, with its tall shelves packed with books, collected over decades.

That the library was not the compilation of one person was evidenced by the varying topics of interest represented: birds, history, tropical plants, political essays, even a few slim volumes of poetry produced by obscure poets whose names Marianne had never heard before. There were books about rocks and books about etiquette, and a rather large selection about horses and horsemanship, horse equipage and shoeing, feeding, bedding and medicine. That last, the book on horse medicine, was a very old volume that included a chapter on demonic possession and another on the use of equine leeches.

On a low shelf along the north wall of the room, easily within reach and just a little above the girl’s eye level, were books with some rather intriguing titles: Medea, Antigone, the Iliad, the Aeneid. One whose cover was nearly torn off, and which fell open easily and lay flat, suggesting it was often taken from the shelf and read, was entitled the Odyssey.

But Marianne was disappointed when she opened them to find them all, and many more besides, written in a foreign language, some even in a foreign alphabet that looked like bird scratchings and mystic symbols.

In all the immense inventory of the room, there was not one book of the sort Marianne was used to reading. No Berkshire Maiden, no Eleanor Simple, no The Life of Roman Charles and the Ladies He Encountered, subtitled A Misspent Youth. Nevertheless, she was enthralled by the new ideas suddenly available to her.

She was in the library reading, in fact, several days later, when Mrs. River brought her a letter that had just arrived in the post.

“It is from Mr. Desmond,” the housekeeper said, holding the letter and empty envelope before her. “He says he has found a school for you. He says…well here, let me read it to you. ‘The Farnham Academy is outside of the town proper. I believe Miss Trenton will enjoy the quiet, and Mrs. Avery, headmistress of the school, assures me they provide the finest education befitting a young woman of our advanced day.’ There now, does that not sound grand? He says you are to leave Kingsbrook a week from the day he wrote the letter, which would make it…let me see. Day after tomorrow.”

Marianne felt her stomach tighten, but she was not sure whether it was from anticipation or dread.

“Though he adds if that is too soon, you are to be allowed all the time you need. But I do not think that is the case. Alice can have you packed in one afternoon. Do you not agree?”

Marianne had little choice but to nod in response to Mrs. River’s brisk question.

Without any further discussion, Marianne Trenton found herself two days later once again behind Rickers, in an open coach on her way to the Farnham Academy for the Edification of Young Ladies of Quality.

She had been at Kingsbrook for just twenty-one days, but they had been the most tumultuous days of her young life. She was surprised to feel an ache of homesickness in her throat as a turn in the road concealed the manor house and parkland surrounding it. Her days at Kingsbrook had perhaps not been happy, but they had become an important part of her.

The academy was housed in an unremarkable gray stone building of three floors, with two smaller adjoining buildings. One of the outbuildings served as the kitchen, from which food never arrived hot at the long table in the dining room, though the room was on the ground floor, with a door that opened directly onto the walk leading from the cookhouse.

The other outbuilding was for physical exertion and exercise, “as necessary to the well-being of the body as nourishment.” Mrs. Avery, a spiky woman of rail-like thinness, was a great advocate of the benefits of physical exertion and exercise.

The main portion of the school, where the girls spent most of their time, was inside the big center building.

Mr. Desmond’s careful inquiries had indeed located a very creditable institute of learning for “young women of quality of that advanced day.” Occasionally, though, as Marianne attended Miss Gransby’s elocution classes, Mrs. Lynk’s deportment classes or Mr. Brannon’s ancient history classes, her attention strayed, and she wondered if a school slightly less tailored to young women of quality might not have been more interesting.

Mrs. Avery taught the Latin classes. “Not all schools for young ladies include the study of Latin,” she often reminded them. “Young women are taught to speak softly and work their needlepoint, while all the most sublime thoughts of mankind are locked away in the classic languages. Young men are taught Latin. Boys of eight years old are taught Latin. You young women are extremely fortunate to receive that same mystic key.”

Rickers delivered Marianne to the gaunt stone edifice on the afternoon of this fine day in the latter part of June.

“Miss Trenton.” It was Mrs. Avery herself who greeted the new student. “Welcome to the Farnham Academy. I hope you will be happy here.”

Marianne hoped she would, too, and murmured vague words of agreement. She was shown to her room, or rather, to the dormitory where half the girls in the school slept. The other half, the younger girls, ages eight to twelve, slept below stairs in much more cramped quarters.

Next to her bed was a stand with two drawers for her smallclothes and other personal possessions. Marianne, like everyone else, was issued a lightweight, brown woolen skirt and two muslin blouses to be worn to classes. The skirts, blouses and any dresses the girls might have brought with them from home hung in a long common closet at the end of the room.

Owing to Mrs. Avery’s emphasis on exercise, and the laundry being done only once a week, the odor that issued forth from the closet when she folded back the screen was heady, and Marianne was not at all sure she wanted to hang her things in there. But she had little choice, so she changed dutifully from the frock she had worn from Kingsbrook into the school uniform. Rejoining Mrs. Avery in the receiving hall, she was shown to her classes.

“’There is a place within the depths of Hell/ Call’d Malebolge…’“ A thin, pale girl, who looked younger than Marianne was reading aloud from a worn book she and her deskmate were sharing. The little woman at the head of the class clapped her hands sharply and the reader stopped, looking up, like the rest of the girls, to curiously study the new student disturbing their lessons.

“Girls, this is Miss Marianne Trenton. Miss Trenton, you may sit there, in the last desk. Judith, see that Miss Trenton has a copy of Mr. Aligheiri’s Divina Commedia. Nedra, you may continue. We are in Hell, Miss Trenton….”

The girls were pleasant enough, but Marianne was slow to make friends in the school. It was a week before she said a complete sentence to anyone, two before she divulged any personal information about herself, and that was only to reveal her age and birthday to Nedra, the pale reader in that first class.

Marianne and Nedra Stevens were drawn together the same way two falling leaves are thrown together atop a swirling stream.

More or less isolated for the past two, pivotal years of her life, Marianne did not know how girls her age were supposed to behave. So she withdrew into a shell that, even a month later, had been only slightly eroded by Nedra’s gentle personality.

A year younger than Marianne, she presented no threat, and so colorless both in body and spirit as to be practically transparent, she did not intimidate Marianne, nor overshadow her. When Marianne could be dragged from her books, the two girls spent quiet afternoons together.

Nedra told her she lived in a house overlooking the ocean. Marianne described the mysterious wonders of Kingsbrook. Nedra told Marianne of her two brothers, both older than she was; of her mother, who suffered from poor health; of her father and his business of selling water-resistant clothing to the local seamen; and of her cousin, with whom she had been hopelessly in love since she was seven.

For her part, Marianne supposed she may have mentioned her guardian and his physical attributes a time or two.

In fact, Marianne was somewhat distressed to find Mr. Desmond so often in her thoughts. For one thing, there was that envelope she received from Mr. Bradley, Esq., every week. “Mr. Desmond has arranged for you to receive a small allowance to provide for the miscellaneous necessaries of a young woman,” Mr. Bradley explained in a letter accompanying the first banknote. Her clothes were provided, her food was provided, her living quarters and books were provided, and there were very few additional “miscellaneous necessaries” on which to spend the money. She took the bill from the envelope every week and put it in the first very stiff, very white, very solemn-looking envelope she had received from the solicitor’s office. At the end of two months that envelope was becoming quite thick and could not help but remind Marianne of the man and the favors for which perhaps he thought he was paying in advance.

The other reason it was so difficult to dismiss thoughts of Mr. Desmond was, having had Uncle Horace and now Mr. Brannon, the history teacher, as points of comparison, she was beginning to realize how unusually good-looking her guardian was.

“Now, young ladies, I trust you will conduct yourselves as such today. Miss Gransby, Mrs. Grey and myself are here to direct you, but not to tend you as if you were infants. Reading, as you have been told, offers a very fine art gallery where, it is hoped, some of you will be inspired to improve your own artistic efforts. In the Reading museum we will find a number of ancient relics, some dating from the time of Henry I. You remember the remains of the Benedictine abbey we saw. That was founded by Henry I, converted by Henry VIII into a palace….”

Mrs. Avery lectured dryly over her shoulder at the brood of young girls trailing at her heels, all of them agog at the sights and sounds to behold in the town, at the thrill of being on an outing of such magnitude.

Calling it a “marvelous learning opportunity,” Mrs. Avery had already lectured them for hours on the wonders they were to behold at the Reading museum and art gallery, “not to mention—” though she did, often, at great length “—the free lending library, and, of course, the university.”

Whenever Mrs. Avery spoke of the university, she raised her eyebrows and looked over the top of her reading spectacles at the girls. She had warned them that Reading was a university town, but that they were to take no notice of young college men they might see on the streets of the city.

Such warnings were useless. How could the girls, all of them in their teen years, not notice the handsome young men who thronged the streets of Reading, looking terribly serious as they hurried along?

Mrs. Avery had also advised her charges to keep their heads down, their voices low, and to stay in step with the girl in front of them at all times. Instead they clustered together in excited little groups, pointing and giggling shrilly and tending to wander away from the main body, where Mrs. Avery, Miss Gransby and Mrs. Grey could control them.

The schoolgirls’ presence in the art gallery disturbed air that had floated silent and still for decades. Art patrons certainly frequented the gallery, but came singly or in pairs, some of them as old as the paintings themselves. In contrast, these twenty-eight teenage girls moved through the rooms like a fresh breeze.

The paintings were named and described in undertones by Miss Gransby, owing to her passing acquaintance with art and her possession of the guidebook. The task diverted Miss Gransby’s attention from her charges, leaving gentle Mrs. Grey to keep track of all the young women, most of them taller than herself, all of them spryer than she was. When they left the art gallery on their way to the museum, Mrs. Avery stood at the door and counted the girls as they came out. Twenty-eight had gone in; twenty-four came out.

“One or two of the older girls said they were getting a trifle light-headed in the close confines of the gallery and asked if they might step out for a bit of refreshment,” Mrs. Grey offered.

“If they miss the museum or delay the coaches, they will be walking back to the academy,” Mrs. Avery said grimly.

But the girls could not contain themselves. When Mrs. Avery discovered who was missing, she naturally assumed the desertion was of Judith’s, or even Sylvia’s, instigation. She would have been surprised to learn it was Marianne who had first prodded Nedra in the ribs and motioned toward the open side door of the gallery the group was passing.

“Let us go outside,” she whispered.

“Outside?” Nedra gasped. “We mustn’t. They will discover we are gone.”

“Then I shall ask permission,” Marianne said coolly, turning toward Mrs. Grey and claiming that the room was too close.

The two girls slipped out, closely followed by Judith and her friend, who recognized a golden opportunity when they saw one.

“What are we going to do?” Nedra asked fretfully, looking longingly over her shoulder at the dark walls of the gallery.

“We are going to explore a little of Reading. I can see all the dank, dimly lit rooms I want to back at the academy,” Marianne replied.

“What if we are left behind?” the other girl asked.

Marianne, who did not consider the possibility as dire a one as did her friend, patted Nedra’s arm reassuringly. “You must not worry,” she said, though she offered no reason why not.

Reading was a town accustomed to serving travelers and students, the sort of people looking for inexpensive amusement and food, not necessarily in that order. The walkways teemed with cafés and little shops, selling everything from apples to zebra pelts, though those last, upon closer inspection, resembled nothing more exotic than painted cowhides. Marianne was fascinated by it all, and poor little Nedra trailed miserably behind her, sure that the next store proprietor they passed was going to point an accusatory finger at them and demand to know why they were separated from their group.

In fact, it was Nedra, with her nervous paranoia, who noticed the two men huddled over one of the tables placed on the sidewalk to tempt passersby in the warm summer weather. She drew closer to Marianne, who followed her friend’s suspicious gaze with an indulgent smile on her lips. The smile froze. Marianne stopped suddenly in her tracks and then pulled Nedra to one side, first around two or three other pedestrians and then into the open doorway of a bookstore.

“What is it?” Nedra cried in alarm.

Marianne hushed her and motioned toward the two men at the table. “It is my guardian,” she whispered. “It is both my guardians.”

And indeed it was Mr. Desmond, in consultation with her uncle Horace.

With wide eyes the girls watched the two men at the table. They were in earnest discussion, but owing to the distance, Marianne was unable to determine their mood. Both seemed serious, but if either was expressing more volatile emotions, she could not tell.

In a few moments, Mr. Desmond reached into his coat and withdrew a pocketbook. He opened the purse and extricated a sizeable stack of banknotes. Without counting them, he passed the notes across the table to Carstairs, who snatched them up and immediately began to lay them out on the table, doubtlessly in piles of different denominations.

“What are they talking about?” Nedra asked. “Why is he giving him money? What did he pay him for?”

Marianne shook her head silently, watching the two men with wide-eyed fascination. She was very troubled by what she was seeing. She had allowed herself to assume when she left the dark rooms where Uncle Horace lived that that was the last she would see of him, that their relationship was severed. She knew, of course, that he and Mr. Desmond were acquaintances, but she had not thought they had commerce with one another. She believed she was the only business they had transacted.

Now Mr. Desmond held up two fingers and nodded to one of the waiters just inside the door of the coffeehouse. In a few moments drinks were served to the men. Desmond picked up his glass, said something to Carstairs and emptied it in one gulp. Carstairs smiled thinly and sipped at his drink. He nodded and gathered up the money, placing it in the purse attached to a chain he kept in his pocket. Evidently he was satisfied with the amount Desmond had given him and allowed himself another sip of his drink.

Desmond pushed away from the table, but Carstairs did not offer to join him. The younger man turned from the table and walked away, headed toward the bookshop where the two girls huddled just inside the doorway.

With a gasp, Marianne hurriedly stepped back from the door, pulling Nedra to one side, looking behind her to find someplace they could hide if Mr. Desmond came into this shop.

But he did not even glance in their direction as he passed. Marianne kept Nedra hushed and still in the little store for several minutes, long enough so that the clerk approached and loudly asked if he might help them, in a tone of voice suggesting that if he could not, they should leave.

The girls quickly went to the door, but Marianne peeked out and carefully inspected the street and walkways before she ventured out. Mr. Desmond was nowhere in sight. Uncle Horace had also disappeared.

Now it was Nedra who hurried them back along the street toward the museum their schoolmates were visiting, located near the art gallery they had been in earlier. She kept murmuring, “Oh, please, let them still be there,” and “I promise never to do this again, Mrs. Avery.” She had not enjoyed their little adventure.

Marianne did not say anything, but she had not enjoyed herself, either. Half-formed suspicions were like cod-liver oil, easy to swallow but leaving an abominable aftertaste.

In the same city, but in the opposite direction, Mr. Peter Desmond was walking along briskly toward the stable where he had left his horse. His steps were easy; his shoulders seemed lighter. He had made his final payment to Mr. Horace Carstairs. Desmond had never realized before how much he truly detested the man. In recent years he had been required to court Carstairs’s favor owing to his occasionalfrequent, really—cash shortfalls.

He had cleared such loans with Carstairs before, but he had never before been aware of this sensation, like the lifting of a pall. Usually when he paid off a loan he was aware in the back of his mind that he would be getting more money from Carstairs in the future. Today was different. Desmond had not actually formed his decision into a decree or sacred pledge, he simply knew he would not again go to Carstairs for money. Not only because he did not like the man, but because he was not going to allow his bills and gambling debts to accumulate to the point where such a loan would be required. Already his finances were in better order as he gave up the trip to the Continent he always took at this time of the year.

But his determination not to deal with Carstairs again had even deeper roots. It had to do with Marianne and her former association with the man, and with Desmond’s desire to shield her completely from his influence. But now both of them were free of the moneylender’s tentacles, and Peter began to whistle a jaunty tune as he strode along.

Desmond was not a man of great introspection. He only knew it would be a 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.