"Not at all. I entertained myself by reading the papers. You may be interested to know that you have become famous, Miss Ransom."

"What do you mean?"

Carlton handed her a newspaper. "You are not familiar with this offensive publication, I daresay; only those of us who are brave enough to admit we enjoy scandal dare read it openly."

Marianne was familiar with the Daily Yell, though she should not have been; it was the squire's favorite newspaper, and he had not always remembered to remove it from her path.

She took the newspaper with a fine display of fastidious distaste. "Are you telling me that my name appears in this – this -"

"Rag," Carlton supplied. "Not your name, no. But there is no doubt as to who is meant. See here."

He folded the paper back and indicated a column with the charming title of "Aristocratic Antics." The paragraph in question did not, in fact, mention names. It referred, in the most revoltingly coy terms, to "a lady of decal degree, known for her probings into spiritual matters" and "the young and beautiful handmaiden of the occult, reputed to be descended from a gentleman well known to the royal courts of Europe as well as the boudoirs of the noble ladies of London…"

For the second time Marianne crumpled a sheet of paper and flung it away. "It suggests that I am the Duchess's…" She could not finish the sentence; her face was as hot as fire. "How dare they? Are there no laws?"

"There is no violation of law when no names are mentioned. Besides, would you care to fan this nasty little flame of innuendo into a roaring blaze of scandal by bringing the publisher to court?"

"Good heavens, no!"

"Most of his victims feel the same. As for the implication, surely you must have realized that evil minds would place that interpretation on the Duchess's kindness to an unknown young woman. There was considerable scandal regarding her relationship with Holmes. I need not add that there was no foundation for it -"

"You need not. I could never believe such a thing of her! Why, she thought of him as a son."

"As to that…" Carlton's eyebrows lifted. Then he shook his head and made a sour face. "Listen to me! Her Grace's feelings are none of my business, and her actions are beyond criticism. Oh, the devil with this; let us go out and let some fresh air blow the filth from our minds."

Marianne enjoyed the ride, but it did not free her mind of the discomfort induced by Mrs. Jay's letter, and reinforced by the newspaper column. What a sad world it was, when a woman like the Duchess could be suspected of such things. Though it went against all her instinct of natural affection and common sense, she could admit the bare possibility that she might be the daughter of David Holmes. The suggestion that the Duchess might be her mother never took the slightest hold on her imagination, much less her reason. Yet the suggestion made her feel contaminated.

Carlton was also abstracted – and no wonder, Marianne thought. Fond as she was of the Duchess, she knew her affection was nothing compared to the feelings of someone who was virtually a foster son and who must face the imminence of the final parting from one he loved. She could not even give him, and herself, the comfort of sharing grief without confessing her reprehensible behavior.

Even more distressing was the thought that the Duchess might be planning to leave her money. It surprised her a little that a woman of such efficiency in other matters should not have made her will, but she supposed there were reasons; it was not a subject to which she had given any thought. Under happier circumstances she would have been pleased and grateful for a small remembrance. Now she could not accept so much as a penny without incurring the scorn of those who suspected her.

Eventually Carlton roused himself from his reverie and sought relief in baiting her.

"I wonder," he said guilelessly, "what has become of poor Pudenzia?"

"Who? Oh." Rallying, Marianne replied haughtily, "Since I was never aware of that – er – person's existence, I can hardly be responsible for her actions."

"Oh, yes, I had forgotten. A medium is not supposed to be conscious of remarks made by her control. That is the right word, is it not?"

"So I have been told."

"But I am afraid that poor girl has met with some unpleasant fate. She did not turn up at all last time, and on the previous occasion, when the Duchess called on her, you went into a fit before she had a chance to say more than a word or two. I wonder why."

"I have not the faintest idea."

"I wonder if the vicar's lecture could have had anything to do with it," Carlton mused.

"You had, I think, been impressed by that silly notion of demonic possession?"

"What on earth could that have to do -"

"Ah, well, no doubt I have got it all wrong." His eyes wide with assumed innocence, Carlton tried without success to look humble. "When Gruffstone was talking about hysteria and autosuggestion, I thought of an interesting hypothetical case -"

"Hypothetical!"

"Oh, purely hypothetical, I assure you. Imagine an amiable young woman who is asked, by someone she admires and respects, to produce a certain effect. With the best intentions in the world she obliges. But when another person whom she also admires and respects suggests that her actions might be wrong, even dangerous -"

"That is a ridiculous suggestion! How could I have invented such a name as Pudenzia, or concocted a history for her?"

"Such things are common in the spiritualist trade," Carlton replied. "Red Indians are the most popular controls, I admit, but any pathetic story -"

Marianne loosened the reins and left her tormentor far behind. He had not caught her up by the time she reached the castle.

However, the day had one pleasant surprise in store for her. After she had tidied herself and changed, she went to the Duchess's room. And whom should she find, sitting by the bed, but Mr. St. John.

"We two have made it up, you see," the Duchess explained with a smile. "Mr. St. John very kindly called when he heard that I was taken ill, and we have had a pleasant talk. Now, my dear Marianne, you are just in time to take him downstairs and give him some tea."

It must be recorded, to Marianne's credit, that she demurred, although the smile of the young man showed her how much he approved this idea.

"I had hoped to take tea with you, ma'am, and perhaps write those letters we spoke of."

"You may come up later, my dear. Just now you can serve me best by doing as I ask."

"But first," St. John said, "let us pray."

It was a beautiful and very affecting prayer; Marianne's eyes were piously lowered, so she did not observe that the Duchess grimaced once or twice at pointed references to the Hereafter. But she thanked the vicar prettily when it was done, and said he had helped her.

Once outside the room the vicar heaved a deep sigh. Marianne glanced at him, but was too shy to ask why he looked so serious all at once. Not until they had reached the rose parlor did she venture to speak.

"It was good of you to come," she said, tugging at the bellpull.

"I could do no less," was the reply, made in gloomy tones, and accompanied by an equally lugubrious look. "Her Grace has been an angel of kindness to the poor. If only… Oh, Miss Ransom, may I relieve an overburdened heart by speaking frankly?"

"Oh, sir," Marianne exclaimed, startled by his agitated look.

"Thank you. Thank you. I knew I could depend on your kindness. I do not know what -"

The parlormaid entered and Marianne asked for tea to be served. As soon as the maid had gone the vicar resumed exactly where he had left off.

"- what to do. I can do Her Grace no good unless I am in her confidence. Yet I cannot subscribe to the very doctrine that gives her peace of mind. A false peace, a dangerous peace. Can I see this kind but misguided woman sink into eternal fire because I -"