Awaiting the Moon (7 page)

“What are you doing in here?”

She whirled, almost dropping the candle, to find the count standing by the desk in the far corner, a black cloak on and snow sparkling on his broad shoulders. “What… how did you get in here?” she cried.

He pulled off his gloves as he circled the desk and crossed the floor toward her. He seemed larger in black boots and cloak, she thought, larger and more forbidding. Her wavering candle showed dark circles under his eyes, and she had the feeling he had not slept at all that night.

Instead of answering, he asked, “What are you reading so intently, Miss Stanwycke?” He circled behind her and gazed down at the bible, still open to the recent family history.

Unnerved by his looming presence and the crisp scent of the outdoors that he carried, she moved to the other side of the lectern, feeling more comfortable with it between them. She held up the candle and the golden light played shadows over his face as the flame wavered. “I was just trying to get a sense of your family. Frau Liebner would not speak much of it.”

“And is that knowledge of my family history vital to teaching my niece the finer points of English etiquette?” His hard jaw flexed as if he was restraining some powerful emotion, and he slapped his black gloves against his thigh.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Her voice quavered with disquietude. She took a deep, calming breath, gazed at him steadily, and said, “How am I to know yet?”

“Indeed. But then, how are you to know anything?” His expression remained grave. “You are an early riser. And curious.”

He made both attributes seem like infractions of some unwritten rule, and she supposed she should have stayed in her room until beckoned. That was no doubt what a proper lady, one with the correct instincts of decorum, would have done. It struck her that he may begin to doubt her ability to teach etiquette to his niece if she was devoid of it in his eyes. She shrugged and glanced toward the door. It was closed, still, and she wondered again where he had come from. The snow on his cape was melting and trickling in rivulets down the black wool of his cloak. One drop caught in the bristle of black hairs on the back of his broad hand, and she stared at it, her mind working feverishly.

He couldn’t have come through the door and made it all the way across the room and behind the desk before she noticed, because although her head was down and her attention was focused on the bible, she was facing in the general direction of the door to the hall. And why would he creep in, waiting to say anything until he was in the far corner of the room? If he was coming into the library from the gallery he should have noticed her right away and confronted her immediately.

But where else could he have come from?

Closing the book with a soft thump, he circled the lectern and stood in front of her. She met his gaze, trying, but failing she feared, to quell the hint of defiance she was feeling and that no doubt emanated from her. It was her downfall, that sense she had and radiated, apparently, that she was just as good as her employers, and perhaps better. It had gotten her in trouble before and would again if she didn’t subdue it. She looked down at her feet, hoping the gesture would pass as an appropriate submission. He chuckled, and she met his gaze again to find his lips twisted in a mocking smile.

“Let me say, Miss Stanwycke, that I hope to bend Charlotte to my will because it is what is best for her, but I fear very much that I have brought into my home a less than ideal tutor, if I wish my niece to learn meekness and surrender.” He flung his cloak off, sending a shower of silvery drops spraying.

She pointedly wiped one droplet from her cheek and said, proud that her voice was steady now, “In my experience, Count, meekness and surrender are not always the best attributes for a woman to cultivate.”

“I think in this case you should at least pretend to possess them if you want to stay well and happy here at the castle.” He whirled and strode to the door but stopped before exiting and gazed back at her, his face shadowed. “I will see you later today, Miss Stanwycke, and if you have any questions or concerns, I will address them then. I would return to your room now, if I were you. And please leave your tour of the house until we can provide for you a guide.”

And then he was gone and Elizabeth let out the breath she had not known she was holding. A dire warning indeed, and from the master of the house. She should pretend to be meek if she wanted to stay well and happy? What did that mean?

How
had
he entered the library? She was now certain it wasn’t through the door that let out to the gallery. He had come directly from outside, he hadn’t slept yet that night, and he had not come through the normal egress, the doorway to the gallery. She glanced around the library but no longer felt the urge to explore. As much as she disliked it, his warning had unnerved her, and she crossed the carpeted floor in the count’s damp footsteps, leaving the library to return to her own room.

“… SO I will introduce you today to the other members of the household, and leave you, later, to become familiar with your pupil,” Countess Adele said, briskly, as she guided Elizabeth along the gallery.

Fanny had arrived as light began to fill Elizabeth’s room, little knowing that the tutor had already been up some hours; the girl guided her to breakfast, which she ate alone with the countess. They were now on a promised tour of the house, though they were, much to Elizabeth’s chagrin, in the same corridor she had traversed just hours before. Already she had seen, briefly, the two tower rooms at the front of the castle. The east tower room was a conservatory filled with plants, some exotic, some more homely, for, the countess told her, some of the household members liked to dabble in gardening. It passed the long winter hours.

The west tower room was a chapel, but Elizabeth had the distinct impression that religious observance was not emphasized to any degree in the house, though Countess Adele made sure the chapel was cared for reverently. As the sun rose, stained glass windows that soared high in the tower colored it blue, green, and red, with a brilliant overlay of gold.

They had gone, from there, up the stone steps to the gallery and now were in the corridor where me drawing room was located. Elizabeth guessed, as she half-listened to the count’s elder sister relate the history of the house, that she had sat alone in her room by her faintly glowing fire for three hours or more, which meant her meeting with the count occurred at about four in the morning, as she had suspected.

“It is interesting, is it not? This house and how it came to belong to the von Wolfram family?”

“Very interesting. Thank you, Countess, for the explanation,” Elizabeth said meekly. She should have been listening, but the puzzle of the count’s appearance in the library still tugged at her brain. She didn’t like any of the possible explanations.

“This is the music room,” the woman said, throwing open the door beyond which Elizabeth had already been. “Do you play a musical instrument?”

“Of course,” Elizabeth said, strolling in as though it were the first time she had seen it. “I play the piano and harpsichord.”

“Good,” the countess said, the
d
on the end of the word sounding more like a
t
, virtually the only inflection of her native tongue Elizabeth had so far noticed. “You will play for us one evening,” the woman continued, straightening a woven tapestry runner on a table under a grim painting of the castle. “Nikolas adores to hear music well played.”

“I didn’t say I was proficient, Countess, merely that I play.”

The older woman stopped and glanced sharply back at Elizabeth. There was silence for a long minute as Elizabeth realized her mistake; she did not hasten to fill the quiet, though. Rushing to soften her impertinence would only emphasize it. Instead she dropped her gaze and waited.

“We will go on now,” the countess finally said. She followed Elizabeth out of the room and closed the door behind her. They passed the drawing room on their way back to the gallery, since she had seen that the previous evening, and the countess ignored the branch of the hall that held, Elizabeth knew, the exercise room. As they hustled along the gallery, the countess briskly pointed out the soaring leaded-glass windows that fronted the castle, and then, leading the way down the hall, she paused by the library door, putting one blue-veined hand on it, and said, “This is Nikolas’s room, the library.”

“Does no one else use it?”

In the dimness of the hallway, Countess Adele’s features were in harsh relief. “No. The ladies have a smaller room with books, one of the parlors down on the first floor near the breakfast room. Why do you ask?”

“I… I hope to learn your language while I’m here, and if you have any books in German…”

“We have many novels in German, and many books of travel, too, in the ladies’ library. I will show you later.”

Routed in her plan to examine the library in the light of day, she determined to let the subject lapse. She had promised herself to curb her unsuitable curiosity, and this would be a useful exercise for that determination. “I hope,” Elizabeth said hesitantly, “that I will be able to see Frau Liebner this morning?”

“Certainly today. But not before luncheon, I think. My aunt is a late riser.”

Elizabeth bit back the retort she would have made, that having spent a couple of months with the lady, she certainly knew her habits better than the niece the good Frau hadn’t seen in ten years. She merely nodded and followed the countess back down the hallway to the new section. The layout of the castle was beginning to become clear to Elizabeth; it was like a large U, with the old section of the castle representing the bottom of the letter and the newer sections the upper arms.

“These are my rooms,” she said, touching a door but not opening it. “There is no need for you to see them, as I will only ever meet with you in my office, which is next down this corridor.”

She led the way, her stride brisk. “This is my office,” she said, throwing open a door to a smallish room.

Elizabeth stepped in, expecting it would be like a monk’s cell, but found it was the most luxurious and opulent room yet. It was papered in wine and draped in burgundy. The furnishings were heavy but excellently made of dark, carved oak. A large desk, masculine in size and style, dominated one end of the room, and near the fire was a seating area, with a couple of tables and several chairs finishing the room’s accoutrements.

“It’s… l-lovely,” Elizabeth stuttered, not sure exactly what was expected of her.

Countess Adele’s countenance warmed just briefly and then shuttered again, as if a window had been slammed shut on a warm summer day. “Yes, it does me well. Let us move on. We have much to cover today, for I expect you will wish to commence work with Charlotte on the morrow, will you not?”

“Of course,” Elizabeth murmured.

The countess closed and locked her office, using a key from the bunch that hung on her waist ribbon, and led the way down the corridor. “These,” she said, when she reached the end finally, “are Maximillian’s rooms… the Count Delacroix… and those of his niece, Melisande.”

“His niece?”

“Ah, yes, you have not met Melisande yet. She…” The countess twisted her lips, stared at the door, and then continued. “She lives here with her uncle; she lost her parents in the Terror, you see… or at least she lost her mother, Maximillian’s sister. Her full name is Alexandra Melisande Davidovich. Her father is a Russian. We do not know where he is.”

The way she said the word
Russian
was condemning, and Elizabeth didn’t ask any questions.

“They have a full suite, with a parlor and dressing rooms, and their bedrooms, of course. It takes up the rest of this floor on this wing. Follow me.”

Elizabeth followed the countess up the stairs at the end of the corridor. They were now on the same floor but at the opposite end of the house from her own room, she thought. It was getting a little confusing, but she thought it wouldn’t take her long to sort it out, since she had an excellent sense of direction.

“This,” Countess Adele said, touching a door opposite the stairs, “is Christoph’s suite of rooms.” She led the way farther down the corridor. “And this is Charlotte’s suite,” Countess Adele said. She rapped sharply on the door and then pushed it open.

Charlotte von Wolfram was seated by the window with her brother, and they were speaking together rapidly in German. Both stopped abruptly as the countess led Elizabeth in. Christoph rose, bowed sharply, and exited, his boot heels echoing in the hall.

“Charlotte, say hello to Miss Stanwycke.”

Charlotte rose, curtseyed, and said, “Hello, Miss Stanwycke.”

It was a chilly little speech, and the young lady’s gaze was directed, the whole time, at the door behind them, where her brother had just exited. It was awkward. Very awkward.

“What a pretty room you have,” Elizabeth said, trying to find a topic of interest. The room, Charlotte’s sitting room, was modern, with light papered walls, dreamy paintings hung at intervals, and white-painted furnishings gilded in the French style. The carpeting was thick and patterned with roses and vines.

“Thank you, Miss Stanwycke.”

“Charlotte, please meet us down in the yellow morning parlor in one hour. I wish to speak to you both about how Nikolas and I expect things to proceed.”

At such a cold command, Elizabeth was not surprised at all to see a resentful glare from the girl, though the countess did not seem to notice her niece’s hostility. She would have to soften the command by making the lessons enjoyable for them both. Perhaps at first she would not even try to inculcate much, using the first few days to learn what she could about the girl and her family. If she could befriend her, find out her own feelings on matters, it might go a long way to making their work easier.

When her niece didn’t respond, Adele merely nodded. “Good. Miss Stanwycke and I are seeing the house right now.” She led the way out of the room, her brisk pace leaving Elizabeth no time to say anything more to the girl or do aught but smile and wave.

“The other wing, as you know, holds your room, but also the room of Cesare Vitali… that is my brother’s secretary. He is Italian.”