The Wager. Sally Cheney

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      “Not an old friend of yours. A gentleman of my acquaintance. You will be leaving at the end of the week.”

      “Leaving?” If Marianne sounded more surprised than saddened by Carstairs’s announcement, it was due to the fact that leaving this house had been her fondest wish since the day she had entered.

      “A coach will be by to collect you on Friday morning. You must be prepared to leave by then.”

      “A coach? Where am I to go?” Marianne asked, making every effort to understand the frightening man who was her guardian.

      “The gentleman has a private estate outside of Reading. I believe he intends for you to stay there.”

      “I am to leave London?”

      “It is not far,” Carstairs told her. “And you will doubtless be returning in a few weeks.”

      Horace Carstairs was embarrassed to admit that until tonight he had never seen the possibilities Marianne presented. She was a fresh young girl, as far as he knew, a virgin. When Desmond was finished with her, Carstairs could sell her services again.

      Surprisingly, especially if one knew Carstairs and the depths to which he was willing to descend in the name of business, that had not been his intention when he offered Marianne to the gentleman. He had honestly expected to win when he wrote his little IOU. He’d had three jacks and two twos. A full house would have won any of the other hands all night long. But it did not win that hand, and consequently Carstairs had finally realized the practical value Marianne represented.

      “You need not worry about me,” Marianne said, in response to his promise she would soon be returning to him. “I will stay away as long as you like.”

      “We shall see how things turn out,” Carstairs said.

      “And who is this person I am to visit?” Marianne asked, at last coming to the question of most pressing interest.

      But her guardian shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. “You do not know him,” he said.

      “A philanthropic gentleman.” It was not a question. To Marianne it was an obvious statement of fact that any man who would take her away from Uncle Horace was a philanthropist.

      

      But the next morning, when Marianne arose, she learned that Mr. Carstairs had left very early for Barnet, to collect on a loan.

      She was confused and alarmed. Uncle Horace had left without telling her anything about her new placement or the situation facing her. When Bette first informed her of Mr. Carstairs’s unannounced business trip, the girl was not at all certain she had not dreamed the episode of the night before. It had gotten late, and perhaps she had fallen asleep. In her uncomfortable position at the foot of her bed she must have had a particularly vivid dream.

      A letter arrived with the four o’clock post, though, which confirmed her flickering memory.

      Miss Trenton,

      Your guardian has by now, I am sure, informed you of your approaching relocation. I am looking forward to meeting you. My man will be there at seven o’clock Friday morning. The drive to Kingsbrook will take the better part of the day, so you will have to make an early start. Until then, je suis le tiens, ma biche.

      P. Desmond.

      Marianne, having quit her schooling after only a few French lessons, did not know Mr. Desmond had called her “his fawn,” nor did she realize how indecently familiar the gentleman had been in his concluding sentence.

      

      She rose with the sun on Friday morning and was dressed to greet Mr. Desmond’s coachman when he rang the bell, a little before seven o’clock.

      As Mr. Desmond had said in his letter, the trip to his home and lands outside of Reading took all of that morning and most of the afternoon. The day was unseasonably hot for so early in the summer. By eight o’clock Marianne regretted that she had chosen her three-piece ensemble, which required the jacket to look complete.

      They stopped at a little roadside tavern for lunch. As always, Marianne’s finances were meager, and she was not sure she could afford to buy even the plainest meal on the menu. She was relieved, touched even, when the coachman produced two pound notes and told her Mr. Desmond had sent them, for any expenses she might incur along the way.

      She therefore enjoyed her meal immensely, even drinking a glass of wine, and as a result was able to sleep very comfortably in the jogging, sweltering coach for the remainder of the journey.

      She woke with a jerk when the coachman, who had identified himself as Rickers, opened the carriage door.

      “Just ‘Rickers’?” Marianne had asked him doubtfully.

      “Rickers usually suffices, miss, unless the missus gets impatient with me, as she does every now and again, and then it’s ‘Eus-tice!”’

      “We’re there, miss,” he said now.

      “There?” Marianne felt as if her wits had been scrambled by an eggbeater, which was a fair description of the coach ride and its effects.

      “Kingsbrook.” With a flourish Rickers opened both doors of the coach, and Marianne caught her breath.

      They had just crossed a wooden bridge over the brook after which the estate was no doubt called. Its banks were covered with moss and pretty pink centaury blossoms. The untamed beauty of the landscape continued into the park itself, which Marianne knew must be planted and cared for to some degree because of the buddleia and poppies, the dahlias and azaleas growing in such colorful beds among the shrubs and trees.

      To complete the picture, a delicate doe tiptoed down to the brook, mindful but not fearful of their presence.

      And then Marianne raised her eyes to the house and drew in her breath again. Kingsbrook Manor, rising from the ferns and meadows surrounding it, looked like a fairy-tale castle to the young girl. Then her breathing evened out, her wine-induced sleepiness lifted completely from her brain, leaving behind the dull throb of a headache, and she saw that of course the structure was not quite as awe-inspiring as she had first thought.

      There were three stories, with tall windows all along the bottom floor, to the right and left of the big double doors set squarely in the middle. The upstairs windows were smaller, and the panes under the gables mere pigeonholes.

      Rickers helped her down from the carriage, and as he accompanied her to the house, she realized some of the impression of overwhelming magnitude was due to the structure rising starkly from its wild setting. If it had been surrounded by a paved courtyard, with a wide, winding drive in front of it, it would not have startled the senses so, nor seemed so colossal.

      Still, it was the largest private dwelling she had ever stayed in, and she had to force herself to keep her mouth from dropping open as she looked up at it.

      At first Rickers seemed to be leading her aimlessly through the tall grass, but in a moment she realized there were flat, even stones under her feet. The path, like the beds of multicolored poppies, had been carefully and meticulously planned to convey the impression of artless natural beauty.

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