The Wager. Sally Cheney
schoolgirls’ presence in the art gallery disturbed air that had floated silent and still for decades. Art patrons certainly frequented the gallery, but came singly or in pairs, some of them as old as the paintings themselves. In contrast, these twenty-eight teenage girls moved through the rooms like a fresh breeze.
The paintings were named and described in undertones by Miss Gransby, owing to her passing acquaintance with art and her possession of the guidebook. The task diverted Miss Gransby’s attention from her charges, leaving gentle Mrs. Grey to keep track of all the young women, most of them taller than herself, all of them spryer than she was. When they left the art gallery on their way to the museum, Mrs. Avery stood at the door and counted the girls as they came out. Twenty-eight had gone in; twenty-four came out.
“One or two of the older girls said they were getting a trifle light-headed in the close confines of the gallery and asked if they might step out for a bit of refreshment,” Mrs. Grey offered.
“If they miss the museum or delay the coaches, they will be walking back to the academy,” Mrs. Avery said grimly.
But the girls could not contain themselves. When Mrs. Avery discovered who was missing, she naturally assumed the desertion was of Judith’s, or even Sylvia’s, instigation. She would have been surprised to learn it was Marianne who had first prodded Nedra in the ribs and motioned toward the open side door of the gallery the group was passing.
“Let us go outside,” she whispered.
“Outside?” Nedra gasped. “We mustn’t. They will discover we are gone.”
“Then I shall ask permission,” Marianne said coolly, turning toward Mrs. Grey and claiming that the room was too close.
The two girls slipped out, closely followed by Judith and her friend, who recognized a golden opportunity when they saw one.
“What are we going to do?” Nedra asked fretfully, looking longingly over her shoulder at the dark walls of the gallery.
“We are going to explore a little of Reading. I can see all the dank, dimly lit rooms I want to back at the academy,” Marianne replied.
“What if we are left behind?” the other girl asked.
Marianne, who did not consider the possibility as dire a one as did her friend, patted Nedra’s arm reassuringly. “You must not worry,” she said, though she offered no reason why not.
Reading was a town accustomed to serving travelers and students, the sort of people looking for inexpensive amusement and food, not necessarily in that order. The walkways teemed with cafés and little shops, selling everything from apples to zebra pelts, though those last, upon closer inspection, resembled nothing more exotic than painted cowhides. Marianne was fascinated by it all, and poor little Nedra trailed miserably behind her, sure that the next store proprietor they passed was going to point an accusatory finger at them and demand to know why they were separated from their group.
In fact, it was Nedra, with her nervous paranoia, who noticed the two men huddled over one of the tables placed on the sidewalk to tempt passersby in the warm summer weather. She drew closer to Marianne, who followed her friend’s suspicious gaze with an indulgent smile on her lips. The smile froze. Marianne stopped suddenly in her tracks and then pulled Nedra to one side, first around two or three other pedestrians and then into the open doorway of a bookstore.
“What is it?” Nedra cried in alarm.
Marianne hushed her and motioned toward the two men at the table. “It is my guardian,” she whispered. “It is both my guardians.”
And indeed it was Mr. Desmond, in consultation with her uncle Horace.
With wide eyes the girls watched the two men at the table. They were in earnest discussion, but owing to the distance, Marianne was unable to determine their mood. Both seemed serious, but if either was expressing more volatile emotions, she could not tell.
In a few moments, Mr. Desmond reached into his coat and withdrew a pocketbook. He opened the purse and extricated a sizeable stack of banknotes. Without counting them, he passed the notes across the table to Carstairs, who snatched them up and immediately began to lay them out on the table, doubtlessly in piles of different denominations.
“What are they talking about?” Nedra asked. “Why is he giving him money? What did he pay him for?”
Marianne shook her head silently, watching the two men with wide-eyed fascination. She was very troubled by what she was seeing. She had allowed herself to assume when she left the dark rooms where Uncle Horace lived that that was the last she would see of him, that their relationship was severed. She knew, of course, that he and Mr. Desmond were acquaintances, but she had not thought they had commerce with one another. She believed she was the only business they had transacted.
Now Mr. Desmond held up two fingers and nodded to one of the waiters just inside the door of the coffeehouse. In a few moments drinks were served to the men. Desmond picked up his glass, said something to Carstairs and emptied it in one gulp. Carstairs smiled thinly and sipped at his drink. He nodded and gathered up the money, placing it in the purse attached to a chain he kept in his pocket. Evidently he was satisfied with the amount Desmond had given him and allowed himself another sip of his drink.
Desmond pushed away from the table, but Carstairs did not offer to join him. The younger man turned from the table and walked away, headed toward the bookshop where the two girls huddled just inside the doorway.
With a gasp, Marianne hurriedly stepped back from the door, pulling Nedra to one side, looking behind her to find someplace they could hide if Mr. Desmond came into this shop.
But he did not even glance in their direction as he passed. Marianne kept Nedra hushed and still in the little store for several minutes, long enough so that the clerk approached and loudly asked if he might help them, in a tone of voice suggesting that if he could not, they should leave.
The girls quickly went to the door, but Marianne peeked out and carefully inspected the street and walkways before she ventured out. Mr. Desmond was nowhere in sight. Uncle Horace had also disappeared.
Now it was Nedra who hurried them back along the street toward the museum their schoolmates were visiting, located near the art gallery they had been in earlier. She kept murmuring, “Oh, please, let them still be there,” and “I promise never to do this again, Mrs. Avery.” She had not enjoyed their little adventure.
Marianne did not say anything, but she had not enjoyed herself, either. Half-formed suspicions were like cod-liver oil, easy to swallow but leaving an abominable aftertaste.
In the same city, but in the opposite direction, Mr. Peter Desmond was walking along briskly toward the stable where he had left his horse. His steps were easy; his shoulders seemed lighter. He had made his final payment to Mr. Horace Carstairs. Desmond had never realized before how much he truly detested the man. In recent years he had been required to court Carstairs’s favor owing to his occasionalfrequent, really—cash shortfalls.
He had cleared such loans with Carstairs before, but he had never before been aware of this sensation, like the lifting of a pall. Usually when he paid off a loan he was aware in the back of his mind that he would be getting more money from Carstairs in the future. Today was different. Desmond had not actually formed his decision into a decree or sacred pledge, he simply knew he would not again go to Carstairs for money. Not only because he did not like the man, but because he was not going to allow his bills and gambling debts to accumulate to the point where such a loan would be required. Already his finances were in better order as he gave up the trip to the Continent he always took at this time of the year.
But his determination not to deal with Carstairs again had even deeper roots. It had to do with Marianne and her former association with the man, and with Desmond’s desire to shield her completely from his influence. But now both of them were free of the moneylender’s tentacles, and Peter began to whistle a jaunty tune as he strode along.
Desmond