It took Marianne longer than ten minutes, for she had to go to the kitchen to beg some carrots. Stella received the offering graciously.
"What a glorious day," Marianne exclaimed, removing her hat and lifting her face to the sun. "Thank you, Mr. Carlton. This is just what I needed."
"I have had considerable experience in these matters," Carlton replied.
They rode on in comfortable silence, side by side. Then Marianne asked, "Have you had any word about Maggie?"
"Hardly; I only dispatched the new information yesterday. I also requested my people to find out what Bagshot is doing just now."
"I am sure your concern on that point is unnecessary," Marianne said, with more confidence than she really felt.
"No doubt. At this moment I am much more concerned about another matter. Miss Ransom, have you considered what you are doing? How long do you plan to continue this masquerade?"
"You still think me a cheat, then." Marianne felt more weariness than anger.
"I don't know what you are! Gruffstone has another theory. I am forced to admit there may be some truth in it."
"Theory? Oh, yes. He said something to me last night, but I did not understand his meaning – something about hysteria. He was very kind."
"He is too inclined to take people at face value," Carlton replied cynically. "However, I respect his medical knowledge, and he tells me that there has been considerable research into this phenomenon of hysteria. Some fellow at the Salpetriere in Paris – Chariot?… Charcot, that was the name – at any rate, he and some others have learned that illnesses of certain patients are purely mental in origin, and can be cured by suggestion. These patients believe themselves to be ill, so they become ill. I suppose I am explaining it badly, for he bombarded me with medical terms I didn't understand; but the gist of it is simple enough. People believe what they want to believe, and some people are more susceptible to self-delusion than others."
"But there is nothing scientific about that! In any case," Marianne added haughtily, "I am not deluding myself."
"My dear girl, we all do, to varying degrees. The doctor believes that all men – and women – are basically good; the Duchess believes the spirits of the dead talk to her -"
"And what makes you so sure they are wrong?"
"That is my form of self-delusion," the lawyer said wryly. "That I know better than they. See here, Miss Ransom, I am not such a pompous fool as I sound. Most of what I have seen and heard about spiritualism strikes me as absurd, but I am not so dogmatic as to insist there may not be a germ of truth in it. Would you be willing to let me subject you to some kind of physical restraint the next time Her Grace insists on a performance?"
"What did you have in mind?" Marianne asked doubtfully.
"Nothing more than most mediums now accept. That you be bound to a chair – I promise I will only use the softest of cloths – which is bolted to the floor."
"Certainly," Marianne replied. "That seems reasonable."
"Also…"
"Well?"
The lawyer coughed self-consciously. "That you be searched. Oh, not by me! Lady Annabelle will oblige, I am sure."
"It sounds most disagreeable," Marianne grumbled. "However, if it will settle your doubts, I agree. Not that I am anxious to repeat the performance. Do you think the Duchess might give up -"
"Her seances? Never! Believe me, I would not ask you to go through another one solely to satisfy my curiosity; I only propose these means because I know you have not the strength to resist her demands. Those demands will not stop. Don't you realize that the anniversary of Holmes's death is less than a fortnight away? She will not rest until she receives some message from him."
Marianne shuddered. "It is wrong. I can't help but feel that."
"It is," Carlton agreed. For once his face and his voice were quite serious. "Wrong not to accept God's will; wrong to call those who are at peace back from their rest. Whether one believes that they come or not, the very demand is mistaken and harmful. Ah, I've had enough of this somber talk. Come, I will race you back to the road."
Marianne took off her hat and reveled in the wind's strong fingers running through her hair; but as she urged Stella on, she was pondering a new and startling idea. What if the Duchess were to receive a message from David Holmes telling her to abandon her attempt to reach him, to let him rest? Marianne had not the capability to perform such a trick; but if she had, she would have been sorely tempted to try it, as much for her kind friend's sake as for her own.
As the party assembled in the White Room that evening, Marianne was struck by the difference in atmosphere from the preceding night. Then darkness and mystery and distress had filled the air. Tonight, thanks to Carlton, the affair had the brisk efficiency of a scientific experiment.
Lady Annabelle had agreed to cooperate, even though her offer of the cat Horace, as a sniffer out of evil spirits, had been firmly declined. In the music room next to the parlor she searched Marianne, while the Duchess looked on. She was surprisingly efficient, shaking out each petticoat as it was handed to her, and running light fingers over Marianne's body once the girl had removed all her clothing except her drawers and bodice. She even asked Marianne to unpin her hair.
"That is that," she announced, motioning Marianne to resume her clothing. "I can testify, Miss Ransom, that you have no infernal devices about you. How silly this is! No self-respecting animal would engage in such a performance."
"Animals have no souls," the Duchess said.
"I am not convinced of that," Lady Annabelle retorted. "I can tell you, at any rate, that if my cats don't go to Heaven I won't go there either."
She stalked out of the room. The Duchess smiled apologetically at Marianne.
"She is such a strange mixture of child and woman. Thank you, my dear, for taking this so well."
"Candidly, it is a relief to me," Marianne replied, tying the strings of the last petticoat. The Duchess helped her into her gown, it having been decided that the servants should not be involved in the affair.
"I don't blame you for being confused," she said. "Or for doubting your own powers. It is frightening at first, and I would not have pushed you as I have, but… There is a reason, Marianne."
"The anniversary?" Marianne asked.
She had no need to be more specific. For the tormented woman there was only one date in all history worthy of remembrance. "You know, then," the Duchess said.
"Mr. Carlton told me."
"Marianne, I must hear from him – I must! I will go mad if that day passes without some word. I know this is hard for you; but I will repay you, child, never fear. I will make sure you have -" She caught sight of Marianne's face and began murmuring apologies.
"No, I didn't mean that. I know you need no reward. Forgive me."
"Of course. Please don't distress yourself."
There was a knock on the door – Carlton, impatiently demanding whether it took all night to tie a few ribbons and button half a dozen buttons.
The Duchess had accepted Carlton's suggestion of restraints. She had insisted on only one point: total darkness. It was well known, she said, that the vibrations of light were hurtful to the discarnates.
Marianne was led to an armchair, upholstered in the seat and back, but with legs and arms of plain wood. After asking if she was comfortable and receiving an affirmative reply, Carlton proceeded to fasten her wrists to the arms of the chair. Her ankles were tied together and bound to the cross-piece. When Carlton rose after performing this last task, his face was redder than usual. Marianne had felt herself blushing too; it was the first time since childhood that a man's hands had touched her lower extremities, and although Carlton had been quick and respectful, the pressure of his fingers had felt… strange. Marianne wondered what the vicar would have said about that slightly indelicate act. She forced the thought from her mind.