Barbara Michaels
The Wizard’s Daughter
© 1980
PROLOGUE
She was the most beautiful woman of her time. Fashionable ladies tried in vain to imitate the elegance of her slim figure, her gliding walk, her exquisite auburn hair. Once she had been a humble little Spanish girl attending convent school in Paris. Now she was every inch an Empress; and most men would have quailed before the fury in her eyes as she stood in the majesty of offended pride, her plumy fan snapping, the priceless lace at her breast trembling with each sharp breath.
"You dare, sir, to complain of the group that has assembled to honor you – the wealth and nobility of France?"
The gentleman she addressed was tall and slight, almost boyish in appearance. He was the only man in that glittering crowd who did not wear a gold-braided uniform or the ribbon of some distinguished Order. His only unusual feature was his thick wavy hair, so fair that it shone like silver in the light of the hundreds of candles. Yet his features showed no alarm, only courteous regret. He spread his hands in an apologetic gesture and murmured, "Your Imperial Highness, I am aware of the condescension you and the Emperor do me, a poor citizen of the United States. It is not I, it is those I serve who insist that this is not a theatrical performance. They will not appear to any group larger than six or eight. And even then, you understand, I cannot guarantee results."
A concerted gasp went up from the watching throng. They knew their Empress; and they were not surprised when, after a moment of frozen silence, she turned on her heel and swept out of the room, so rapidly that the footmen in their powdered wigs and satin knee breeches had barely time to open the doors before she reached them.
A soft cough broke the appalled silence, and all eyes turned toward the short, stout man who stood facing the young American. His uniform was the most elaborate in the room – gold epaulets, rows of ribbons covering his breast, a court sword whose hilt blazed with rainbow jewels. Fierce black mustaches and a neat beard masked half his face. He had been, in his time, adventurer, gambler, exile, and dealer in dubious trades; but he was now the self-proclaimed Emperor of France, and his courtiers waited apprehensively to see how he would deal with the impertinent nobody who had insulted the Empress.
For a moment they studied one another, the slight young visitor and the most powerful man in Europe.
"Clear the room," said Napoleon III.
Six people remained – the Duchess of Alba, Prince Murat, the Comte Tasher de la Pagerie, General Espinasse, the Emperor himself- and Mr. David J. Holmes, private citizen of the United States of America, on whose behalf the noble courtiers had been dismissed and the Empress humiliated. Yet Mr. Holmes was not a diplomat or a millionaire or a famous painter, novelist, or musician. What precisely he was might be difficult to define.
At the Emperor's suggestion he seated himself and proceeded with the activity that had already made him notorious enough to warrant an invitation to the imperial court. Matters had not gone far before Napoleon, his hard black eyes even blanker than usual, sent for the Empress. Eugenie did not dare disobey, but her lovely face was decidedly sullen as she took her place in the circle that had formed around the table.
Her pouting lips relaxed and her eyes widened as a pale, luminous cloud began to form a few inches above the tabletop. It shaped itself into a hand – a man's hand, blunt-fingered, short, and square. The fingers curled in a quick, impatient gesture, then seemed to reach out. The bizarre object glided slowly across the table toward the Duchess of Alba, who shrieked and shrank back.
"Moi, je n'ai pas peur." Despite her brave claim, Eugenie's slim white hand trembled slightly as she extended it. The disembodied object changed course, as if it had heard and understood. Its outstretched fingers touched those of the Empress. She changed color visibly, then, with a sudden convulsive movement, clasped the dreadful thing in her hand.
For a space nothing could be heard except the measured tick of the enameled porcelain clock. Even breath was suspended. Then, as quickly as it had formed, the ghostly hand was gone. From Eugenie's throat came a painful whisper. "Papa. C'etait mon pere." She hid her face in her hands.
Napoleon's exotic career had included some years in the United States. He had not wasted his time; among other things, he was a skilled amateur magician and a good poker player. The expressionless face necessary to financial success in this latter activity had often stood him in good stead. It did not change now; but for once his opaque, squinting eyes had a rather pensive look. He nodded. "Yes," he said. "There was a certain physical peculiarity. It was the hand of Don Cipriano."
From the homely farm kitchens of Pennsylvania to the drawing rooms of fashionable London and the salons of Paris Mr. David J. Holmes of America, twenty-two years old, had carried his message: There is no death, there is only change; the spirit lives forever. It is the one message all the world aches to hear, the colonel's lady and Mollie O'Grady, and the Empress of France. On Friday the thirteenth of May, 1857, Mr. Holmes carried the good tidings to the imperial court of France.
Napoleon was not the first or the last to be convinced that Holmes's powers were genuine, but he was certainly one of the shrewdest and most cynical converts. Perhaps he wondered, in the light of later events, whether Holmes's spirit guides had informed him on that eventful May night that he had less than five years to live. But, to be sure, when a man is convinced of the existence of a world after death, the date of his passing cannot be of much concern to him.
CHAPTER ONE
"Fifty pounds! But, dear Mrs. Jay, I was told that poor dear papa had left nothing at all. Fifty pounds is a great deal of money!"
Marianne's blue eyes sparkled; her silver-gilt curls, escaping from the net, glittered like imprisoned sunbeams; and the dimples that had dazzled so many susceptible Yorkshire youths returned to the places they had abandoned a week earlier, after the death of Squire Ransom.
Mrs. Jay's lips tightened as she viewed her godchild with something less than her usual doting fondness. She did not blame Marianne for the tossing curls or the dimples. The child had mourned her father properly; indeed, Mrs. Jay privately conceded, she had shed more tears for that rude, crude male creature than he had earned.
Perhaps Squire Ransom would have displayed more fatherly interest in a son, who, in good time, might have shared his interests: hunting, drinking, gambling, and… Mrs. Jay's thoughts came to a dead halt. The year was 1880, and Victoria had been on the throne for over forty years; the widow of a clergyman could not even contemplate the squire's favorite hobby without wincing. There was no acceptable euphemism for it.
In any event, the late Mrs. Ransom had not produced a red-faced, thick-set male infant to mirror its father's appearance. (Even in his declining years the squire looked alarmingly like a huge overdressed baby, especially when drink had smoothed out the lines in his moon of a face.) Instead she had born a girl, a delicate pink-and-white creature so unlike her sire that she might have been a changeling from fairyland. Within a few months the dark fuzz common to most infants had been replaced by a cap of soft silvery curls, and the ambiguous newborn blue of the baby's eyes had turned to a startling shade of aquamarine. And she had been as good as she was lovely; instead of howling vigorously when the baptismal water expelled the demons, as so many babies did, the little Marianne had opened her eyes wide and smiled.
Almost eighteen years ago… Mrs. Jay's grim expression as she remembered that perfect day, a day of soft sunshine and gentle breezes, when she had stood as sponsor to the child and her beloved husband had performed the ceremony of baptism. Dear Mr. Jay, now passed to his heavenly reward. She had never addressed her husband by his first name, and still thought of him in formal terms.