Bluebeard's Daughter

By Marion Zimmer Bradley

Sybil Ellis was a seventeen-year-old orphan with very few options: If she didn't want to be a governess or a companion--and she didn't, she had to marry. So she married Dr. Philip Maynard, who was old enough to be her grandfather and treated her like a daughter. In fact, he treated her like Judith, the daughter he had lost, even to calling her by that name and having all of his new servants do likewise. But eventually Sybil learned that there had been other "daughters" before her, and she realized that this was not just a harmless eccentricity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marion Zimmer Bradley Literary Works Trust
• Release date: Jun 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9781938185601

Marion Zimmer Bradley

Marion Zimmer Bradley is the creator of the popular Darkover universe, as well as the critically acclaimed author of the bestselling ‘The Mists of Avalon’ and its sequel, ‘The Forest House’. She lives in Berkeley, California.

Book preview

Chapter One

I STILL CANNOT BEAR the smell of lavender.

Even now, if I smell it from some strange garden, or wafting from some old fragment of lace long kept in a trunk or bureau drawer, I feel faint and sick. And then, for a moment, time and space will whirl around in my head, and I will be back to the nightmare of those days at Quarry House, when I walked like a painted doll through another girl’s life, shrouded in a cloud of her perfume.

Judith had loved lavender. And so in those days I must always walk with the faint sweet scent of lavender drifting from my hair and my petticoats. When I came down in the afternoons for tea in the long library, I am sure that the scent must have drifted to Philip’s nostrils before he ever heard my step, for he would always turn and rise, the candlelight glinting on his white hair. His face would light into a smile; he would say Judith, my dear and come to take my hand and lead me down the steps into the library, to the little bay window we used for the tea table in those days.

Tannery would wait on us there—none of the women servants ever came into the library except in the early morning, to dust and lay the fire. Tannery would bring the English tea that Philip liked, and the muffins and sandwiches and cake. The Sargent portrait would watch us from the wall, delicate and inscrutable, and after tea I would go to Judith’s rosewood piano and play there, in the falling dusk, while Philip dreamed before the fire. The house would be quiet, though sometimes I could hear the distant chiming of the clock on the stairs, or the soft clink of silver and china where the maids were laying the great formal table in the dining room for later that night.

How peaceful it all seemed, in the early days, and how elegant. And later, it became such a nightmare—and yet I used to sit there like the painted portrait on the wall, or like a mechanical doll, with only my fingers moving on the ivory keys, and only the firelight and the music seeming alive in the room.

Well, those days are gone. I ask myself sometimes if it could have happened today. No, surely not. Any one of these modern young girls would know better. For all their bobbed hair, and the short skirts that make them look as if they should be in the nursery, they are wiser than girls of my generation. Sheltered and preciously protected against the ruthless facts of the world, the flesh, and the devil, girls of my day were young and innocent in a way no girl can ever be innocent now.

And so I married Philip Maynard and came to Quarry House before I had finished my eighteenth year.

~o0o~

Philip must have seen me first at the hotel in Newport, trailing meekly after Aunt Mabel, in my white muslins and frilled shirtwaists and carrying my new parasol. Breakfast in the small dining room, a morning promenade on the beach, lunch in a fashionable restaurant, an afternoon drive where matrons and widows and marriageable maidens bowed to us with exactly the right degree of correctness, lawn tennis, and dinner beneath the glittering chandeliers of the enormous hotel dining room.

I would have preferred to wear short skirts and strap-sandal shoes and sit on the beach all the day long, looking at the waves and pretending to be a child again, in the vanished days when I had made sandcastles and Mamma and Papa watched me benevolently from sun chairs. I now know I was still suffering from shock after the terrible and sudden, though mercifully brief, bout of food poisoning that had carried them both off within an hour of one another. A lifelong dislike for mayonnaise had saved me all but a few hours of agonizing cramps and sickness—but when I realized that they were both gone, and that I was alone, I wished in hours of exhausted weeping that I had died, too.

I had welcomed Aunt Mabel’s offer of a summer at the seaside. I needed the long slow summer to heal the wounds in my heart. But that was not Aunt’s purpose. I was there to be seen, and I made an appearance every few hours, carefully dressed and rehearsed for her approval.

I want you married and off my hands, she told me bluntly, without mincing words. The little money your father left wouldn’t keep you long enough to send you to school to earn a living, and I know my duty. I’ve got two girls of my own old enough to be married, and three more growing up. If I can get you married to some decent man this summer, I won’t be worrying about you.

I could only venture a feeble But I don’t want to get married, Aunt.

Nonsense! To do her justice, she did not say it unkindly, but with a brisk cheerfulness. She was a large, brisk woman, red-faced from her tight corsets, and inclined to be stout. She had borne nine children and reared five, while maintaining a suitable place in society, and it never would have occurred to her that there was anything about young girls which could be a mystery to her. You must get married, and so you shall! Why, silly girl, what else would you do with your life?

I did not know. I could only make feeble sounds of protest.

"It’s a great pity you haven’t had your debut yet, she sighed, and I can’t give you one this winter, with Belle in her first season and Sara coming out at Christmas. Well, there’s no help for it, I’ll simply have to leave the girls in town this summer, and take you to Newport. Every one who is anyone is there, and you’ll meet all sorts of eligible men, and it won’t matter that you aren’t really out yet. You must have suitable clothes—don’t worry, they will all be suitable for your trousseau too—and if you do as I say, I’ll manage a good match for you before the summer is over."

She patted my cheek. It was meant to be kind, but her hands were hard, and my cheek smarted. Come, come, don’t look so downcast, she admonished. Your father was ridiculously unworldly, but I’ll try to make up for it.

I could not protest. I had loved Papa just the way he was, shabby and untidy, his old velvet jacket lightly overlaid with pipe-ash, his book always in his hand. He lectured on the Latin poets at a boys’ school, and his family had never really forgiven him for not doing better, but we had always been happy. Now I learned from Aunt that he had been shockingly improvident and completely unfit to provide for a marriageable daughter. I even had the feeling that she welcomed his death because now she could step in and do what was right.

A year ago, I would have been thrilled to have so many new and beautiful clothes. When Aunt did a thing, she did it thoroughly and well. She measured out the milk of human kindness with an eye-dropper, but she measured it accurately and fairly, all the same. The same dressmaker who had made the lovely balldresses and furbelows for Belle’s debut made my summer wardrobe, which was to be my trousseau, and Aunt never grudged it. I would have thought her generous if she had not reminded me so often that, after all, it would save her the trouble and expense of having me on her hands unmarried for several years more.

But in my condition of shocked grief and exhaustion, it was simply a nightmare of fittings, standing for pinnings, being basted and pinned together, and then trying on endlessly. I, who had always been happiest in a middy blouse and pleated skirt, discovered corsets and frilled corset covers, stays and stay-laces, bustles, sashes, flounces, basques, peignoirs, and garments for every conceivable occasion from lawn tennis to the coronation of a bishop—picture hats, trailing evening frocks, parasols. Since they were all for a very young girl, Aunt relied on artful simplicity, dressing me mostly in white and pale blue, but just the same I felt like a beruffled baby’s bassinet or one of those dolls with wide flounced skirts which were fashionable on ladies’ vanity tables; I half expected someone to use me for a pin cushion!

So we came to Newport. I did what I was told, and even tried to cultivate an animated expression when Aunt told me that I looked lifeless. It’s one thing to look fragile and interesting, she told me sharply, but it’s another to look like a corpse six weeks dead!

Yes, Aunt, I said obediently while putting on my best smile. But it seemed like a long nightmare of weariness, and I wondered why on earth any man would come to Newport and go shopping for a furbelowed doll in white muslin if what he wanted was a wife and helpmate for his household.

On that day we had been there two weeks and were breakfasting on the terrace. As I remember, I was toying with a slice of honeydew melon and a bit of buttered toast, while Aunt, who believed in the virtues of a solid breakfast, ate rolls and ham with gusto. She was in an affable mood, though when she opened her letters she did not fail to remind me that she was leaving her family to shift for themselves in town, just in order to give me this chance.

I shall tell your uncle, when I write, that I am satisfied, she said, smiling and pouring cream into her coffee. Two proposals so far, although you can surely do better than either.

I have not seen Mr. Kennedy again, I said timidly. I had chatted bashfully on the beach with this young, smiling man, and been flattered by his stammered proposal, though I had told him, as I had been instructed, that he must talk to Aunt first.

And you won’t, my girl, she replied, with great good cheer. He’s a nice young man, and if he were ten years older, well, he might be a good catch; but just at present, he hasn’t a bean except what his family allows him, and he’s not through law school yet. When I told him you were penniless, he evaporated. No, Sybil. The likes of Terence Kennedy aren’t what I want for you. She smiled, benevolently. "I must protect you against those who think you will be rich and would marry you for that. You see, child, Aunt isn’t so eager to get you off her hands that she’ll let you marry some young sprig with nothing but expectations to his name. We’ll do better for you than that, though if nothing better answers, there’s always the Reverend Williams. He’s quite lost his head—are you blushing, silly girl?"

I wasn’t. I didn’t think anyone would ever blush over the Reverend Oscar Williams. At the thought of marrying him, my heart sank down toward my white kidskin boots.

I admit that he’s not handsome, and his social position is not as high as I might wish, she said, thoughtfully. A Presbyterian minister does not command the respect given to the wife of an Episcopalian rector. Nevertheless, he is most respectable and proper, and has a fine church with a good living.

He also has four children, I said, with a touch of spirit, and he must be forty!

Yes, my dear, but that’s your ace in the hole, she smiled. "Can’t you see, Sybil, the Reverend Oscar Williams needs a wife—just as much as you need a husband! And I suppose he’s not so poor but what he can afford a nurse for the children. Come, now, drink up that good rich milk; your cheeks are still too pale!"

I’ve always been pale, Aunt; I’m very healthy, I protested, but she shook her head.

We don’t want you to look like a consumptive. Drink your milk, now, like a good girl, and then get ready for our walk on the beach. The pale blue dotted swiss, I think, and the matching parasol and sash in blue.

Yes, Aunt, I said, submissively, and bent my head over my milk. What use was it to argue? Perhaps the Reverend Oscar was, like someone in my father’s books, a man of great virtue beneath the rough diamond of an unprepossessing exterior. Perhaps the children were nice, and, being orphans, perhaps they would be glad to have a kind stepmother—I couldn’t see myself being a harsh one. And anyway, it would be better to be the Reverend Mrs. Williams than to be someone’s poor relation.

The walk on the beach—it would have been more accurate to call it a formal promenade—was always an ordeal. Shod, gloved and parasoled against the sunshine, I walked decorously at Aunt’s side along the boarded walk. I watched the dazzle of the sun on the water, the waves slowly rolling in over the flat stretch of sand, but the noise of breakers was distant, blurred out by the sounds of genteel conversation. Aunt had many friends here, and they all stopped to greet her and to speak politely to me. I had to be polite to them all, to look alert and not to daydream. I had the horrible feeling of being on display like a prize calf at a county fair—and that was just what I was!

Nevertheless, the beauty of the flashing sun on the ripples wrenched me away from the boardwalk and from my mechanical answers to the greetings of Aunt Mabel’s friends, until Aunt poked me sharply in my tightly-laced ribs and I had to stifle a squeak of pain. I stammered, Oh, good morning, Mrs. Van Valkenberg!

Mrs. Van, elegantly slender and tall, with russet hair and an overpowering lorgnette, smiled benignly upon me. How charming you look this morning, Sybil dear. I was just telling your Aunt that I am giving a little dance for Annabel and her young friends, and we would be quite charmed to have you with us. I have sent you a card, of course, but I thought I would speak of it now.

I thanked her demurely, but my heart dropped. Annabel Van Valkenberg and her friends belonged to their own set and I had seen their smiling, scornful glances at me. I didn’t want to be patronized, and I knew that at the Van Valkenberg’s little dance I would be as out of place as a fish in whipped cream.

But as we walked along the boardwalk, Aunt was openly jubilant. Silly girl, you should be out of your mind with happiness! she scolded. "Now, Sybil, cheer up, I’m simply not going to have any of your sulks. Every eligible young man in Newport will be there. You can wear the ivory peau de soie gown. You haven’t had it on yet and if you’ll cheer up and be a good girl, I’ll let you wear my single strand of pink pearls. We must find you a pair of ivory satin gloves, too; I’ll take you to town tomorrow. Just think, child, you’re sure to be the prettiest girl there. It’s very kind of Magda Van Valkenberg to invite someone she knows is much prettier than Annabel!"

I murmured something, keeping my thoughts to myself. She was going to make me happy if it killed me.

"Why are you looking so glum, foolish girl?"

I gave the first and most acceptable excuse. I was wondering if it was proper for me to go to a ball, Aunt. After all, I should still be wearing mourning for my parents.

She had the grace to drop her eyes. A most proper thought. But I’m sure that your dear Papa would not want you to miss a chance like this, Sybil. He knows that I am trying very hard to get you properly settled in life, and that should come first.

I supposed she was right, and I dutifully tried to take some interest in her plans for my gown and the flowers I should wear.

White flowers are always best for a debutante, she fretted, but with that absurd hair of yours, no one could see them properly. I suppose it should be pink roses, or—wait a bit—perhaps a bunch of forget-me-nots? Dear me, I do hope that no one thinks you are prematurely grey!

I blushed; before this I had never paid any attention to my hair except to braid it in tidy plaits in the morning and brush it the proper number of strokes at night. If anyone had asked me what color it was, I would have said light and let it go at that. But Aunt fussed about it so. A ridiculous color, she called it, and so fine that it slipped out of a knot. It wasn’t flaxen like Belle’s or golden like Sara’s, but an odd, almost silvery color, nearly white. Aunt had even said that it was a great pity dyed hair wasn’t respectable. I was glad it wasn’t.

It looks like the powdered wigs my great-grandfather used to wear, Aunt Mabel fretted. Perhaps a gold lace snood?

Whatever you say, Aunt, I said meekly, and accompanied her up the steps of the hotel into the great red-plush lobby.

A man, tall and slender, in a light suit with a broad Panama hat in his hand turned and bowed as she entered, and I cringed within at the smile that broke over Aunt Mabel’s face. Oh, dear Heaven, was this another of those eligible men to whom she never tired of presenting me? Then I sighed with relief, for the man had white hair, with a lined face—tall, handsome, but at least as old as Aunt Mabel. His step was firm, as he crossed the lobby and bowed.

Mrs. Stanforth, he said politely, this is a pleasure.

You have not visited Newport for many years, Dr. Maynard, she said.