The Wager

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.

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. She did not remember making a conscious decision to go to Mr. Desmond’s desk. Once there, though, she began idly eyeing the papers and personal knickknacks on top of it.

Among other things there was a large foreign coin set in a circlet of glass, which Mr. Desmond used as a paperweight. Marianne had no way of knowing the coin was from the first international card game Desmond had participated in when a mere lad, still in his father’s good graces, ostensibly in Paris to study the artwork of some of the old masters. The coin was hardly a symbol of victory; Desmond had lost miserably in that game and was forced to cut his “art expedition” short. But the seasoned player who had taken most of his money was the one who had taught him never to leave his opponents penniless. Monsieur Deveraux had presented him with the coin and invited him back another time. Desmond had had a glassblower set it for him as a remembrance. In recent years when he returned to the games in Paris he was the player who doled out souvenirs to unlucky novices.

On the desk there was a letter opener that resembled a small dagger. In fact, it was a dagger—one with which a disgruntled player in Cologne had threatened him.

“Du Schwindler!” the man had screamed, jumping to his feet, knocking his chair over, brandishing the blade before him. “Ich bringe dich um!”

“Oh, do not be ridiculous, old man. I did not cheat you and you certainly are not going to kill me. Give me that little hat pin and go get yourself some good strong coffee,” Desmond had replied, taking the knife from the drunken German as easily as if he had been an old man wielding a hat pin. “Gentleman, I believe it is Bloomingard’s deal.”

Through his years of straight-faced card playing he had learned to hide his emotions and appear perfectly calm, but he had been shaken and kept the dagger as a letter opener to remind himself never to play with a man who paid exact change for his drinks and whose eyes gleamed red when he lost.

There was a worn deck of cards on the desk, an ivory thimble, a small velvet pouch holding an unset gem, each with a story behind it. Most of the objects were connected with some gambling escapade or other, though the thimble was a memento of a more romantic adventure. Marianne, unaware of the personal history each represented, fingered them with mild interest, replacing them thoughtlessly before going on to the next item.

Among the various keepsakes were a number of other things, and a smile nudged at her lips as she looked down at the disorder. Pens were scattered about; an inkstand, stained blotter, writing implements and papers mingled together haphazardly. On one corner of the desk was a pile of letters, some delivered long ago, most of them unanswered, she suspected. She picked up the first envelope and, turning it over, discovered it had not even been opened. In amusement she began to look through them, to find out how many had not been read, let alone answered.

Marianne was halfway through the stack when her conscience began to nag her; what she was doing might be interpreted as snooping. She determined to stop, but contrarily picked up one last envelope. This one had been opened. But her eyes fell on the name of the sender in the top lefthand corner, and every good intention she had of leaving Mr. Desmond’s papers alone vanished.

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