"Then your health has been good?"

"Yes, of course. I am never ill, Honoria, you know that."

"You are too thin, my dear. Won't you have a sandwich?"

"I believe," said Lady Annabelle, with great simplicity, "that Horace has eaten them all."

The door opened and the footman announced, "His Grace the Duke of Devenbrook."

The unkempt surly boy had undergone a surprising transformation. To be sure, he had outgrown his neat gray suit, so that his bony wrists protruded, and he was in need of a haircut, a fact that was even more apparent now that he had attempted to comb his hair. Still, Marianne appreciated the effort and thought complacently that it might be attributed to her cutting comments on Henry's manners. He made her a bow, then spoiled the effect by remarking, "You look much nicer in your frock."

In any other company this comment would have been the cause of spilled tea and exclamations of horror. The only one who appeared to be perturbed by it was the tutor, who had followed his charge at a respectful distance. He rolled his eyes heavenward. Then he bowed to the three ladies in turn. Each bow was a masterpiece of calculation, conveying abject reverence to the Duchess, courteous respect to Lady Annabelle, and respectful admiration to Marianne.

"Your Grace permits?" he inquired. "It were more respectueux to inquire first, but the Duke was anxious to pay his devoirs to Your Grace."

"I am sure he was," the Duchess said dryly. "Well, Henry, have you been a good boy?"

"Yes." The Duke flung himself into a chair and reached for a piece of plum cake. M. Victor looked wistfully at the love seat where Marianne was sitting, but did not have the courage to sit beside her. Instead he lowered himself into a chair, where he sat perched on the very edge, as if the respect he showed the company were in reverse ratio to the amount of space he occupied.

Much later Marianne was to describe the occasion as resembling, in its spirit of genteel chaos, a similar tea party in Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.

"The Duchess kept asking Henry questions which he did not bother to answer; he never took his eyes off me and I felt sure he expected me to sprout bat wings and fly up the chimney at any moment. Lady Annabelle talked to the cats and to me about the cats and paid no attention to anything else that was said. As for M. Victor, the cats immediately converged on him. They must have sensed that he was terrified of them. But he was too much in awe of Lady Annabelle to say so. They climbed up his trouser legs and drank his tea and snatched the cakes from his hand as soon as he took them. He sneezed a great deal."

Henry finished off the cakes. No one reproved him for making a pig of himself or for scattering crumbs all over the carpet. When the food was gone he jumped up, interrupting the Duchess in the middle of a question.

"I'm going now. This is dull. I thought she would do something exciting. Come on, Victor, I want to play chess."

"I shall retire as well," Lady Annabelle announced. She rose, still holding Horace, who had not moved during the entire affair except to open his mouth when food was placed next to it. "The pussycats need their exercise; and I fear Fluffy is going to be sick."

Fluffy promptly proved her premonition to be correct.

After they had gone and a footman had tactfully dealt with Fluffy's misdemeanor, the Duchess sighed. "Poor Annabelle. Being accustomed to her I forget how eccentric she must appear to a stranger. But there is no harm in her. And we all have our foibles, don't we?"

"Very true," Marianne agreed. To her, Lady Annabelle had appeared to be not merely eccentric but almost simple-minded. However, spinster ladies of peculiar habits presented no problem to a family that could afford to keep them safely tucked away somewhere. The girl wondered whether the Duchess's real concern was not for the boy, whose behavior also left a great deal to be desired. It would indeed be a tragedy if the last heir to one of the oldest dukedoms in England were lacking some of his wits.

"If you will excuse me," the Duchess said, "I believe I will dine in my room tonight. I have letters to write and business matters to deal with. Would such an arrangement suit you? We do not usually dine en famille; Henry is really too young, and his mother…"

"A tray in my room would suit me admirably. I am a little tired."

"Amuse yourself as you like," the Duchess said. "The music room and the library are in this wing, but I advise you not to explore farther than that tonight. The older parts of the castle are dreary and a little frightening after dark."

"Please don't worry about me."

"Then I will say good night. Oh – I usually attend church in the village. The people like it; but you need not join me tomorrow unless you like."

"I would be glad to go to church," Marianne said eagerly. Indeed, her variegated career in London had prevented her from attending divine service, and her conscience was troubling her on that point.

When the Duchess had gone, Marianne wandered about the room examining the paintings and the pretty ornaments. She had not been strictly accurate when she said she was tired; mental and emotional fatigue she did indeed feel, but physically she was more in need of exercise than of rest, after a long, cramped ride. Deciding to walk in the garden for a while, she found that the long windows were actually French doors, and so let herself out onto the terrace.

Here she walked for some time, admiring the changing sunset light on the high mountains that could be seen beyond the wall.

The Duchess's abrupt decision to leave London for this remote Scottish castle had not troubled her initially. She had no idea what matters, business or personal, might have motivated such a decision. Now that she had met most of the members of the household she was ready to eliminate natural affection as a motive. The Duchess was not related by blood to any of them, so it was no wonder that her strongest emotion toward one and all was a sense of responsibility. Certainly duty might have prompted this visit, but the more Marianne thought about it, the more she was inclined to suspect another reason. This was where David Holmes had died. Now that the first tenuous contact had been made, the Duchess hoped that proximity to the scene of his last days on earth would strengthen the tie.

Marianne shivered. The sun had dropped behind the mountains. The air was chill. She turned back to the house, finding that during her absence someone had lighted the lamps in the parlor and in the corridor beyond. No more modern form of lighting would reach this remote place for years to come, Marianne supposed; she found the familiar candles and oil lamps comforting, reminding her as they did of the home of her youth and of Mrs. Jay's cottage.

A now-familiar pang of guilt touched her as she remembered her old friend. Really, she must write Mrs. Jay. Roger Carlton had mentioned that he had spoken with Marianne's former landlady and – what was the phrase he had used? – "assured her of his bona fides." But that was no guarantee that Mrs. Shortbody had been relieved of concern on her behalf, or had written to reassure Mrs. Jay. Really, Marianne thought guiltily, it is too bad for me. Mrs. Jay had always told her that one of her worst faults was procrastination. "You seem to think if you postpone a difficulty long enough, it will disappear," she had remarked sarcastically. "It is much more likely, Marianne, that the difficulty will grow larger and less amenable to a solution."

I will write tonight, Marianne promised herself. Perhaps in the library I may find writing materials.

This apartment was not difficult to find, for the comforting lights ended abruptly just beyond its entrance. The door had been left open, no doubt on her account, and the room was adequately lighted. It was like a fairy tale "Beauty and the Beast," in which the captive maiden was attended by thoughtful but invisible spirits.