Fortune's Mistress (12 page)

“
Yes
, my
d
i
fficulty.
”

Stratford extricated a delicate snuffbox, took a pinch, and sneezed into his handkerchief.
“I think, however, I may be able to help you out. Unlike you, I may come and go as I please. It would not be difficult for me to serve as—how would you say?— a go-between. I could pay her a visit, ascertain what she might need, and perhaps set your mind at rest.”

Cheswick a
ppeared to deliberate, then nodded. “In spite of my
short lead,
as you so aptly phrase it, I do have some resources. I will do all within my power for Marianne.”

Crossing to a table, he availed himself of writ
ing materials and scribbled a few lines. “This empowers my man of business to put £500 at your disposal. That should be sufficient for the present.”

“
Yes,” Stratford concurred, taking the paper from him and placing it in his waistcoat pocket, “for the present. Now will you join me in a glass of brandy? You look in need of a restorative. My dear friend,” he said, looking at the other narrowly, “I hope your pallor does not suggest you fancy yourself in love with the woman.”

Cheswick
shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “Merely nostalgic for a remembered happiness.”

“
That is well,” Stratford told him. “You must be honest with yourself. Marianne Gardiner is a beautiful woman and a pleasant companion, but she is, after all, a whore.”

The older gentleman took a step backward as
Cheswick’s hands clenched into fists. “It is for your own good that I tell you this: the brat could as well be mine, or that of some half-dozen others. Come now, you could not expect faithfulness in a woman of that stamp?”

Cheswick did not answer. Stratford made as if to put his arm about the younger man
’s shoulder, but his gesture met with icy rejection. “Do not give this matter another thought,” Stratford said. “I shall add my contribution to yours. And, if necessary, I shall let you know when more funds are needed. Other than that, you need not be bothered with this matter again.”

Marianne sat before a blazing fire, Jane and Becky nestled on either side of her, and the kittens, sleeping for once, in a basket at her feet. The fair weather had finally forsaken them, but though the wind whistled round the corners of Rosewood Cottage, all was snug within.

“
... x, y, and zed,” Jane pronounced slowly from the little book before her.

“
Very good,” Marianne smiled. “You and Becky must practice during the week to come, and then I will show you how all of these letters are put together into words and stories.”

Jane sighed and looked up at
her soulfully. “Must we be waitin’ till next time for a story?”

Marianne smiled.
“I have sent for some story books,” she explained, “but they have not arrived yet. Perhaps, however, I can remember one from my nursery days.”

“
A story right out of your own head?” Jane asked, her eyes wide.

“
Yes, right out of my own head— we will hope it does not suffer in the translation.”

How quickly these two had taken to her, trusted her— rather like the kittens, she realized, Dr.
Venables had begun by bringing them by with him when he had finished his daily calls, then, when they had grown comfortable enough, encouraged them to find their way to the cottage on their own. Becky was still very quiet, speaking in a whispered undertone, if at all. Jane, however, made up for her little sister’s silence, chatting companionably like an old friend. At odd moments, Marianne could still discern the remnants of the child’s initial watchfulness, but she gave it little thought. Perhaps in this life, such caution was a good thing, for who knew when it might provide a necessary lens to view a wicked world?

Before beginning her story, Marianne poured out another cup of chocolate for the children, just as Annie entered.
“You’ve more callers, ma’am,” the maid told her with a frown, “though these last may not be so welcome as the first.”

Raising her eyebrows, Marianne glanced past Annie to see two grimy faces peeking past her skirts. Charlie and George, was it? She had glimpsed them once, but had heard innumerable tales of their naughtiness. She hoped their visit did not portend a parade of hedgehogs through her parlor, or a polecat in the barn. From her side came Jane
’s whispered pronouncement, “Wicked boys! Please, Missus, dinna let them spoil our story.”

Marianne sympathized, remembering the an
tipathy of little girls for those of the opposite gender, but, watching the boys gaze longingly at the well-laden tea tray, she found she had not the heart to turn them away.

“
Good afternoon,” she said. “You may come in, but we are just about to have a story, so you must sit very still and listen quietly, if you are to stay.”

The boys exchanged a glance and seated themselves on the floor near the kittens. George advanced a tentative hand to pet one of them, but Jane immediately
hissed, “Dinna touch ‘em,” and he withdrew it. Marianne bit her tongue to keep from smiling
.
Apparently, Jane commanded respect.

As the girls snuggled closer, Marianne took a deep breath.
“Once upon a time, there lived a princess.”

“
Was she beautiful?” Jane asked.

“
Why yes, of course. She was so beautiful that songs were written about her, and artists begged for the honor of painting her portrait.”

“
But our princess in London been’t beautiful, you know,” Jane informed her. “Dr. Venables showed a picture of her to me ‘n’ Becky, and she looks like a sad cow, right enow.”

Marianne could hardly deny the truth of this assessment, but thought it best to make no com
ment. “Well,” she went on quickly,
“this
princess was very beautiful. She had rich red hair, and green eyes that turned up at the corners, just like a kitten’s.”

Beside her, Becky, who was endowed with just such hair and eyes, giggled. Progress.
“One day, she was walking through the woods picking flowers, when she came upon a handsome young man.”

“
And he was good and kind,” Jane pronounced.

“
Why, how do you know?” Marianne asked.

“
Handsome young men are
always
good and kind,” the child averred.

Marianne winced. It was not
always
so, as experience had taught her. “Well, this one was not!” she improvised. “In fact, he was the wickedest young man in the world, for all he was so handsome.”

“
Aweel! What sort of wickedness did he do?” Jane asked eagerly.

“
Aye!” Charlie broke in. “Was he a murderer?”

Marianne frowned. This story was becoming more difficult to tell than she had anticipated, and far from the simple tale she had initially embarked upon.
“No, he wasn’t a murderer yet,” she told them, “but he did kick his horse every day and stole cherry tarts from children.”

Jane nodded.
“That is right wicked. But did he love kittens?”

“
No. In fact, he particularly disliked them.”

“
Prob’ly he set dogs upon ‘em,” George put in.

“
Wicked, wicked,” Jane sighed.

“
Yes, he was,” Marianne continued, “and when he saw the lovely princess, he decided immediately he would have her as his own. At first, the princess was blinded by his fair face and thought him an honest young man. But one day, she saw him beat his servant, and decided to have nothing more to do with him.”

Now what? She searched her mind for some
thing to add to the tale, something that would set it back in the direction she had first intended.

“
The end?” asked George quizzically after a moment’s silence.

“
Certainly not,” Marianne said, suddenly inspired. “The princess decided that the young man should be taught a lesson. She called upon her good fairy godmother to ask for some advice, and between the two of them they devised a plan—
“

“
I know! I know!” Jane interrupted, bouncing up and down. “They turned him into a poor horse, and he were made to pull wagons through town.”

It was not what Marianne had thought to say
herself, but it seemed quite fitting. “What a bright little thing you are! That was the very thing. They treated him kindly, though, and did not make him work very hard, and at the end of three years, the fairy allowed him to—
“

“
No.”

It was little Becky who had spoken. Fascinated by this sudden outburst, Marianne saw that the little girl
’s jaw was now set quite stubbornly. “No,” the child repeated in a low whisper. “The bad man stayed a horse the rest of his days, and the children was allowed to ride him up and down the town.”

Becky
’s tone brooked no contradiction, nor did Marianne wish to interfere with the child’s newly found tongue. “Very well,” she nodded. “I can see you have heard the tale told another way.”

“
Did the princess ever marry?” Jane asked.

“
She did one day,” Marianne said. “She married a very nice young prince, who was not nearly so handsome as the first, but who allowed her to keep as many kittens as she wanted in the palace.”

Jane helped herself to another tart.
“
That
was a lovely story, to be sure, Missus. And will the books have others like it?”

“
Not precisely,” she smiled, “but I am certain we shall like some of them quite well.”

“
Did that princess ever have babies?” Jane asked.

“
Oh, yes. All princesses, each one lovelier and happier than the next.”

Jane looked up at Marianne,
then glanced down at her middle. “Are you growin’ a baby?”

The boys leaned forward curiously, prompting a sudden blush of self-consciousness. Still, Mari
anne allowed herself a laugh. Such a question from any other quarter would have unnerved her altogether, but the children’s innocent curiosity cast it in a different light.

“
I am indeed,” she answered. “Before Yule we shall have to stop spoiling these kittens, and spoil my little one instead.”

Jane nodded seriously, then fixed her with a questioning gaze
. “Where’s the daddy then?”

Now Marianne was disconcerted. Look where her incautious talk had led her.
“My baby’s papa is gone to heaven,” she said briefly. “Now, let us—“

“
Then it will be wicked like us and must be sold,” Charlie said matter-of-factly, as he munched a tart.

Jane nodded.
“Aye, ‘tis so,” she sighed.

“
Whatever do you mean?” Marianne gasped.

“
It’s what Auld Peg said. Babies without daddies are wicked and must be sold, like me and Becky. That’s how we come to Auld Peg.”

“
Me and Charlie, too,” George informed her. “I could be a sweep or maybe a rag-picker.”

A shudder coursed through Marianne. That little children should be told they were wicked! That they should be told such lies! She took a breath before she spoke.
“Then you must know it is false, Jane, for you have said Old Peg was a liar. Oh, it is all lies. Charlie, George, forget what you have heard. All babies are good and sweet—let us say no more about it.”

Jane pursed her lips.
“What about them two?” she asked, indicating the boys with a jerk of her head. “D’you suppose they was born good and turned wicked later?”

“
Of course they were! It is all mistakes that are made, not sins committed. And I do not believe they are quite wicked now,” she went on, “merely bored.”

“
Aye, that’s it,” Charlie nodded, “though we get some fun from watchin’ old Haggerty over t’ the reverend’s. He says things as makes us laugh.”

George chuckled.
“Only today he swore he would toss us on the coals and make us into shoes for the old white horse.”

Marianne could only imagine what sort of tricks they must have been up to prompt such a threat.
“Perhaps,” she said tentatively, “you should come here to learn your letters, like Jane and Becky.”

The boys wrinkled their noses, but before they could object to this plan, Jane pronounced,
“
That
wouldna do at all!”

Charlie and George glanced to the doorway just then, and Marianne followed their gaze. There stood the doctor, his arms folded and a grim expression cast over his features. How much had he heard, she wondered? None of it was to the good, she knew. He had asked her to teach the little girls their letters, not fill their heads with ideas society would never accept. Their words merely reflected what all the world thought, and she had called the world a pack of liars—and so they were. Her chin lifted a frac
tion. He could take issue with her if he so desired, but she would not take back a word.