"Oh, yes. She is a very retiring person. Her unfortunate deformity… I suppose I had better warn you about that."

"I wish you would."

"It is not much, really; one soon becomes accustomed to it. She has a harelip, poor creature, and is morbidly self-conscious about it."

"I will be very careful not to take the slightest notice of it."

"I felt sure you would. You probably won't see a great deal of her; she spends most of her time in her own rooms. The castle is quite large, so Violet and Annabelle do not have to meet."

"Annabelle? Ah, yes, your stepdaughter. She does not care for her… her…" Marianne gave up trying to decipher this relationship. "… for the Duke's mother?"

"Oh, they seem to get along amicably enough," the Duchess replied. "But Annabelle is also, in her way, something of a recluse. She… Yes, I had better tell you about Annabelle's peculiarity."

"Please do," said Marianne.

"Annabelle keeps quantities of cats."

"But there is nothing peculiar about that,"

Marianne said, relieved. "I am very fond of pussycats."

"I myself have no objection to them, in moderation. But Annabelle's collection cannot by even the most generous interpretation of the word be considered moderate. I am forced to leave my poor little Pierre in London when I come north; Annabelle's fierce felines quite overwhelm him."

"So then the household consists of Lady Annabelle, Lady Violet, and her son the Duke," said Marianne, trying to get the proper titles as well as the names straightened out. She assumed, from what the Duchess had said, that the ill-fated "Willy" had predeceased his father, and that therefore his widow did not hold the titles of a Duke's wife. In this she was apparently correct, for the Duchess nodded.

"Quite right. Then there are the servants, of course. Henry's dear old Nanny is something of a tart. She was also Willy's nurse, and I assure you, when I was a timid young bride she quite terrified me. Oh, and M. Victor, Henry's tutor. A pleasant-enough young man, except for his insistence on being French."

"Oh." Marianne was not quite sure what this meant. If M. Victor was French, as his name and title implied, there did not seem to be any harm in his insisting that he was.

"Oh, and I must warn you about MacDonald," the Duchess went on.

"Who is he?"

"The head gardener. He has been there forever; he grew up with my husband, so it is impossible for me to pension him off against his will."

"What is wrong with MacDonald?" Marianne asked resignedly.

"Pure senility, my dear. He talks to himself – or rather, to imaginary companions. It is quite harmless, but I admit it can be disconcerting to have MacDonald round on one and shout, 'Take yerself off, ye wearisome auld besom!' He wasn't speaking to me on that occasion, but to his deceased mother. And, since he occasionally forgets where he is, he is apt to turn up in the strangest places – in one's closet, for instance, or peering in the parlor windows at odd hours of the evening."

After this daunting description Marianne did not look forward to her stay at Devenbrook Castle. The only one who sounded comparatively normal was the young Duke, and Marianne knew only too well what ordinary lads of that age were apt to be like. A ten-year-old peer might be expected to be even more rowdy and undisciplined. Besides, she suspected that the Duchess might have omitted some flaw in the ducal person or personality – a passionate fondness for collecting snakes, or a withered arm, a la Richard III – in order to avoid overwhelming her guest with oddities.

Contrary to her expectations, her first impression was distinctly favorable. The clouds shed their load of rain as they proceeded, so that brilliant bursts of sunlight illumined an increasingly rugged and impressive landscape. The stark purple mountains laced by white waterfalls and girdled with trees impressed Marianne deeply.

Devenbrook Castle was framed by snowcapped peaks on three sides. The sun favored them with its appearance as they approached, and in its benevolent light the crenellated walls and pointed towers had the gaiety of a child's toy castle set on a bright-green mat and surrounded by trees and flower beds so improbably neat that they resembled paper cutouts. Marianne was unaware of the effort required to cultivate lawns and raise flowers in such rocky, infertile soil, but she was enough of a country girl to note that rocky promontories to the north and east protected the spot from the bitterest winter weather.

Somehow Marianne was not surprised when the housekeeper, who hobbled out to greet them, turned out to be suffering from palsy and advanced deafness. She insisted on preceding them up the stairs to their rooms, which reduced their progress to the mournful solemnity of a funeral procession. Balancing on one foot as she waited for Mrs. Kenney to drag herself up to the next step, Marianne watched the Duchess's calm, deliberate pauses and advances with affectionate respect. Many employers insisted on only young, strong, well-favored servants, and ruthlessly dismissed any who succumbed to ill health or old age. Apparently any employee who served the Duchess faithfully could be sure of being kept on until he or she died of old age.

When they finally reached the chamber that had been assigned to her, Marianne had to admit that whatever her infirmities, Mrs. Kenney ran the house beautifully. Her room was rather dark and gloomy, with every inconvenience of the pseudo-Gothic style, but it was spotlessly clean.

"We must see to brightening this room," the Duchess said, with a disparaging glance. "It is enough to give one the shivers. You can help me select pretty fabrics, new carpets, furniture… Do you enjoy doing that?"

"Oh, very much. But -"

"My rooms are just next door. That is why I had you put here, close to me. Now you will want to refresh yourself and rest a little. I will come and fetch you when it is time to go down to tea. One could get lost in this gloomy old pile without a guide."

She patted Marianne's cheek affectionately and started to leave. The housekeeper limped after her, but the Duchess waved her back. Putting her face next to the old woman's ear, she shouted, "My maid will take care of me, Mrs. Kenney; do attend Miss Ransom and make sure she has all she needs."

Marianne wanted nothing so much as to be left alone, in order to arrange her thoughts and consider the new impressions that had crowded so fast upon her. But Mrs. Kenney would have walked unhesitantly over the edge of a cliff if the Duchess had suggested that she do so; she had been ordered to attend Miss Ransom, and attend she would, whether or not it suited Miss Ransom.

Like a benevolent fairy godmother she summoned an army of little maids – who were most of them so young that they really did resemble the famous Scottish pixies or brownies – and set them to work. Marianne's trunks had already arrived. When every article of clothing had been neatly put away and a basin of steaming hot water awaited her ablutions, she tried to dismiss the housekeeper. She had a young, healthy voice and a good pair of lungs, and once she had gotten over her inhibition about shouting she had no trouble in making the housekeeper hear her.

"Thank you, Mrs. Kenney. That will be all."

The wrinkled old face split in a smile. "Why, miss, what a nice clear voice you have! It is amazing how some people will whisper and mumble their words."

"Thank you."

"Yes, indeed. A pleasure to have a nice young lady in the house."

"Thank you. And now -"

"I hope you will enjoy being here. You don't mind ghosts, do you?"

After her first gasp of surprise Marianne was strongly tempted to laugh. Since apparently her new mission in life was to reach as many of what Mrs. Kenney called ghosts as she possibly could, she could hardly complain of their presence.