Marianne felt herself blushing. Did he really think her "radiant"? He had never paid her a compliment before.

And he seemed to regret having done so now, for he went on rapidly, with a self-conscious look, "I know many people with similar difficulties – birthmarks, withered limbs, wens, and so on – some try to hide, others make the best of it and face life with a smile and a jest. Perhaps it is more difficult for a woman who might, but for that, be beautiful."

"You are right," Marianne said, wondering at his perception. "She would be beautiful; she has lovely eyes and skin, beautiful hair, a pretty figure. Life is very sad."

"How profound." Carlton's eyes shone with amusement over the rim of the cup he had raised to his lips.

"I must go to the Duchess," Marianne said coolly.

Curse the man, she thought, stamping up the stairs. Why was he so gentle and sympathetic one moment and so sarcastic the next? It was as if he wanted to win her confidence only so he could make fun of her. He had been so kind with Lady Violet. Was it possible that he could feel…? She must be years older than he, Marianne told herself, not realizing that she was paying Carlton the highest compliment in her power by assuming that Lady Violet's pitiful looks would not affect his feelings.

At least she had finally met the mysterious figure she had seen wandering in the night like a lost soul. She could not believe such a shy, timid woman would play malicious tricks. Cross one off her list of suspects.

She had hoped to find the Duchess resting, but such was not the case. The lady was wide awake and ready to be amused. So Marianne stayed with her, sharing her dinner and reading from Pride and Prejudice until the Duchess began to nod.

"What a good child you are," she murmured drowsily, as Marianne bent over her to bid her good night. "Giving up your evening to entertain an old woman…"

Much as she would like to have thought of herself as noble and self-sacrificing, Marianne could not really feel that she had given up much. An evening with Carlton and Gruffstone grumbling at her, or Henry asking impertinent questions and his tutor glowering… Of course, there was Lady Annabelle and the cat Horace.

On leaving the room she was surprised to see Dr. Gruffstone sitting in a chair in the hall, his legs stretched out in front of him, his hands folded over his stomach, and a series of snuffling snores coming from his parted lips. He woke the instant the door closed and blinked drowsily at her.

"She is not asleep yet, is she?"

"Not quite; but she was dropping off when I left."

"I want to have another look at her,"

Gruffstone said, rising with a grunt. "I hope you said nothing -"

"The subject is as unpleasant to me as it is to you, sir," Marianne answered quickly. But the doctor looked so weary and so sad, like a tired old bear, that she regretted her sauciness. "She did not mention that subject and neither did I," she said more gently. "Truly, sir, she seems much better."

"Good, good." The doctor peered at her over his spectacles. "You look a little peaked yourself, young lady. I will just drop in for a moment after I have seen the Duchess. I promised her I would look after you. Go on and prepare for bed; an old man like myself cannot endanger your reputation."

He smiled as he spoke, and looked so amiable and avuncular that Marianne could not refuse his offer, though she had no particular desire to be poked and prodded and made to say "ah."

When she reached her room she found her bath waiting, her bed turned back, and all the other duties of a maid performed; but Annie was not to be seen. Marianne tested the bathwater and found it still hot. She made a sour face. Annie was trying to emulate the little elves who had helped the shoemaker, but her motive in remaining unseen was superstitious fear.

So Marianne did not ring for help in preparing for bed. Since the bath was neatly concealed behind a screen, she had no hesitation in hopping into it; if the doctor came into the room, she would still be private. She took her time, enjoying the comfort of the hot water, and then put on the flannel nightgown she had to warm before the fire, covering it with a heavy dressing gown.

She was toasting her feet and reading Wuthering Heights, which she had neglected for the past few days, when the doctor knocked.

"Nothing much wrong with you," he said, after examining her. "Have you trouble sleeping?"

"Not often."

"A glass of wine, perhaps, if you are wakeful."

"I can't drink wine," Marianne said. "The other evening I felt quite faint and giddy after dinner."

"During the seance?" The doctor laughed shortly. "No wonder."

"I don't think it was that. Indeed, the symptoms improved as the evening wore on; but it was not until much later, when I had taken some food and several cups of tea, that I felt quite myself again."

'Hmph. Let me see your tongue once more."

Gravely he examined the protruding member and then shook his head.

"If you have an ailment it is not of the body. Did you take any wine tonight?"

"Yes; the Duchess insisted that I take a glass with her."

"And you feel no such symptoms as you felt last night?"

"No."

"Then it cannot have been the wine," the doctor said. "No doubt you are suffering from nervous strain; that would not be surprising. The Duchess wants me to give you some medicine, so…" From his bag he took a bottle of dark-brown liquid. "A mild sedative in case you find yourself wakeful. You probably will not need it; but at least I can tell Her Grace, when she asks, that I duly prescribed for you. It will be our little conspiracy, eh?"

He smiled and took his leave. Marianne was not as reassured by his comments as she ought to have been. The big brown bottle on the table seemed to wink and grimace at her as the firelight reflected dully from its glass surface. Having medicine prescribed suggests that medicine is needed, no matter what the verbal disclaimers.

She read for a little longer, but found that the descriptions of desolate heaths and wailing ghostly voices did nothing to relieve her nerves. So she got into bed and blew out the candle, and fell asleep almost at once.

Later, however, she seemed to wake – or rather, to come halfway out of slumber into a state midway between unconsciousness and dreaming. The fire had died to a bed of coals that gave no light, but the room was alive with small sounds and movements – rustlings and soft creakings and a distant whistling wail, like that of a rising wind.

Marianne could not decide whether she was awake or dreaming of waking. She tried to remember whether she had locked her door after the doctor left. Somehow the question did not seem important. She concluded that she must be dreaming, stimulated by the eerie prose of Miss Bronte, and was about to woo slumber again when the bed vibrated with the fall of a heavy weight upon it.

Fully, shockingly awake, Marianne tried to pull her body up and away from the object that pressed the bedclothes tight against her lower limbs. She was on the verge of hysteria – not the medical state the doctor had described, but a good, old-fashioned screaming fit – when one particular sound reached her ears and produced a miraculous cure for her nerves. It was a low, rumbling purr.

Marianne stretched out her hand. It brushed a soft, furry surface.

There is no more soothing sound than a cat's purr; when the animal walked up the length of the girl's body and settled down next to her she wrapped both arms around its warm bulk and let the purring sing her to sleep.