Daughter of Mystery (19 page)

For all that the ball had been her idea at first, Barbara grew steadily more uneasy about the project. She preferred the Margerit who found morning visits tedious and dinner parties merely amusing, not the one who reviewed her guest list with rising excitement. How many of the young men who attended would see this as their last chance to catch her interest? Who was to say there wouldn’t be someone acceptable who caught her eye? It wouldn’t be the first time a woman with scholarly aspirations had decided to turn aside at the last for the conventional prize. If she could see Margerit safely to Rotenek the university would cast its own lures, but until then all was at risk. And it would be such a waste. That was what she dreaded: the waste. And the complications a husband would bring for the remaining time they were bound together. That was all, she told herself. Truly.

In the end, the preparations rushed down on them like the river in spring flood. And underneath it all, the packing and closing down of rooms in preparation for the move. The first baggage carts would leave the next morning. The day itself was a blur with only the image of Margerit always in her sight among the crushing crowds. Watching everyone, everything. Alert to any possible threat. But no threat came, not even so much as a clumsy dance partner stepping on her toes.

It was nearly three in the morning when Ponivin came to tell her that the last of the guests were gone, including the Fulpis. As the butler left, the tension began draining out of her, leaving her exhausted. The staff would be cleaning and setting things to rights until dawn after the temporary help had left, but Margerit could go to bed at last. Her Aunt Sovitre had been chiding her to go for the last hour, pointing out that her guardians were the nominal hosts of the affair and could handle the official farewells. Barbara could tell that it was less a sense of duty than the excitement of playing hostess that kept Margerit circulating among the stragglers.

She found her in the ballroom, surveying the scene of her triumph. “That’s the last of them, Maisetra,” she announced.

Margerit pirouetted in the middle of the room, spreading her arms wide. “Wasn’t it glorious?”

Barbara grinned in spite of herself. “It was a bit too glorious for someone who claims she doesn’t care for balls.”

The strains of a fiddle came floating down from the gallery where one of the musicians, in the midst of packing up, had paused to demonstrate a new waltz to his fellows. Margerit came over, stepping in time to the music, saying, “I like dancing, I just don’t like being on display as merchandise.” She playfully held out her hands, saying, “Dance with me!”

Barbara’s heart started beating like a hammer. “I…I can’t,” she stammered.

“Don’t be silly,” Margerit said. “You’ve had the same lessons I’ve had. And you haven’t had a chance to use them all evening. Dance with me.”

Lessons under the eye of a dancemaster were different. Barbara had schooled herself to view them as training, as a supplement to sessions with Signore Donati. She had carefully avoided thinking of them as anything more. Now Barbara’s shoulder burned where Margerit laid her hand across it and her own hand burned across the curve of Margerit’s waist. But reflexes ruled her life and she guided the two of them in graceful arcs across the empty floor. Their heads lay closely enough that Margerit’s chestnut curls brushed against her cheek and she could easily trace the profile of her upturned nose and the curve of her lips, parted with the exertion. Their bodies moved as one while the music lasted. The fiddler stopped, abruptly, in the middle of a line and they were left suspended, standing closely face to face. Barbara felt the world pause and knew that in another moment she would drown in those shining eyes, those sweet lips. Maisetra Sovitre coughed loudly from the doorway. Barbara stepped away stiffly, aware of how guilty she was acting. But Margerit was the one who was blushing hotly and rushing to say, “We were only having some fun, Aunt Bertrut. Did you need something?”

Barbara watched as she crossed to the door and took her aunt by the arm, heading for the family rooms and rest at last.
It was only a bit of fun,
she thought.
It didn’t mean anything. How could it?
When they disappeared, she spun abruptly toward the stairs to the gallery and went to hurry the musicians along. They couldn’t lock the doors until the last of the strangers had gone and she couldn’t take her own rest until the doors were locked. And she needed her rest, for tomorrow the work would begin in earnest.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Margerit

Their cavalcade had lessened by one carriage shortly after entering the old East Gate as Uncle Mauriz and Nikule turned off toward the university district. There had been no arguing with LeFevre that the presence of both her guardians was essential to establishing her respectability. And even to her it would have felt petty to demand that Nikule travel separately. But she was relieved that there was no question of her cousin entering her new home.

Margerit’s first thought when she saw the baron’s—her—house in Rotenek was how small it was. When Barbara had spoken of Tiporsel House she’d envisioned something as grand and spacious as the house on Fonten Street. From the East Gate the broad avenue had arced gently until it reached the southern side of the
plaiz
that lay between Saint Mauriz’s Cathedral and the palace. But then as the main road swept widely south around the elbow of the river, the coachman turned more sharply left to double back on the Vezenaf, an old cobbled road lined on the right by a row of narrow compounds that lay cheek-by-cheek along the river’s edge. On the left, the mews and coach houses that served those households were tucked under a steep rocky rise, topped by the spill of gardens behind the houses edging the
plaiz
.

The stone arch through which they turned on the riverward side of the street seemed to fill a third of the width of the property. And when they emerged from the arched tunnel, the courtyard that filled the entire span seemed barely wide enough to turn the coach even with dexterous maneuvering. The house rose up before them barely more than two stories, but on entering through the iron-bound doors, Margerit found that it ran deeply back from the yard, inviting in the golden September sunlight with a series of stepped levels, broken by broad balconies. The steep slope seen at the upper side of the street continued down to the river’s edge. The two stories of the house visible from the courtyard were augmented by three or four more descending to the terraced gardens by the river wall where, as she’d been told, there was a private dock.

It was the docks that had given the street its name, back in the early days of the city when all trade ran through the hands of the oldest families. The cramped elbows were—she soon came to understand—the very mark of the old city center, where wealth had been measured in river access before the building of the new docks and warehouses farther downriver outside the old walls. The newly rich might have their broad boulevards and sprawling estates on the northern edge of the city, but old money—or enough money—bought you a slice of the heart.

As the house filled with the bustle of luggage being sorted out and the newly arrived servants chatting with the resident staff and those who had gone ahead, Margerit walked out onto the terrace that opened off the hall to look down over the spill of railings and roof tiles, past the lush green and pink of the gardens, and to the glinting water beyond. She heard her aunt come up behind her repeating in an awestruck whisper, “Oh my! Oh my, will you look at that!” And then the moment was no longer her own and she turned back into the house.

* * *

The truce that had held between her two guardians during the journey lasted until supper that evening. Aunt Bertrut opened with, “I’ve sent cards to Maisetra Faikrimek’s cousin and my old friend Lufise to let them know we’ve arrived. We’ll go out visiting tomorrow and that will be an opportunity to make more introductions. Before you know it, you’ll be invited to all the balls you could wish for.”

Uncle Mauriz countered her drily, “I hardly think your ‘old friend’ will be able to introduce Margerit into the sort of society she came to Rotenek to join. She would do better not to encumber herself with social connections that will do her no real credit.”

But in the end it was LeFevre who arranged for her first contact with Rotenek society. Not directly, of course—he didn’t move in those circles himself. But in the course of arranging a settlement of one of the late baron’s charitable bequests, as he explained to her later, he’d happened to mention to Mesnera Arulik that the young Maisetra Sovitre might be inclined to continue the charity. That led promptly to the leaving of a card and an invitation to a musical evening. Not an event of the season proper, but a place to start. So not three days after arriving, Margerit found herself preparing to make her entrance.

She had, in fact, begun to chafe under her confinement to the house. She’d left it only to attend Mass up at the cathedral. Though an evening of strangers was not the first or second or even third choice on her list to see, it would do for the sake of getting out. The moment they’d arrived in Rotenek, Barbara had extracted a promise from her not to set foot outside unescorted.

“Not even into the gardens, never alone. At least have one of the servants in sight when you’re on the grounds. The neighbors are safe enough—I know them. But the river can be used for coming as well as going. And not out into the street without me or another guard. This isn’t Chalanz.”

But Barbara had been hardly to be seen in those first few days. There were arrangements to be made, she’d said. One of them came clear when she turned up the afternoon of Mesnera Arulik’s salon in company with a stranger: a man of early middle age who was introduced as Marken. It was clear from his manner and the sword he wore that he followed Barbara’s profession—an ordinary armin, not a duelist. He was far more what Margerit had imagined for the type: broad-shouldered and stolid, his sandy hair cropped close as if always in expectation that his next employer would be old-fashioned enough to require the wearing of a periwig. Margerit could see her uncle bristle at this unconsulted addition, but he said nothing as Barbara explained, “You’ll need more eyes than mine if you want to go about freely. If you go out in your carriage, take one of us. If you plan to walk about in the streets or markets, take one of us. If you have visitors, make sure one of us is here and knows—it doesn’t need to be in the room, but within earshot. I’ve worked with Marken before. He’s sound. He knows the rules and the game. Mostly you won’t notice he’s there, but if he ever tells you to do something, do it. No questions.”

Later, well after that first social call had been survived, Barbara explained her other reasons for the new addition to the staff. “I’ll speak plainly,” she said, “because I know you prefer it. I can’t spend all my time only watching over you. I have my fencing training at Perret’s academy and there are arrangements to be made for when you go to anything more public than a dinner party. You’d hardly want to be sitting home half the day while I have business to take care of. It was different in Chalanz—” She smiled apologetically. “It always comes back to that, doesn’t it? Everything was different in Chalanz. And when the university term begins—” Barbara glanced away as she did when she felt she was treading uncertain ground. “You said…that is, you wanted me to continue my studies…”

“Of course!” Margerit broke in. “But—oh! Of course, you would have your own lectures to attend at times. You said you were following law.”

Barbara shrugged. “It’s useful. I follow philosophy too, of course, but law—that’s more practical.”

Margerit jumped to her first concern. “When does the term start? Who do I need to ask…?”

“Lectures begin after the feast of Saint Mauriz.” Barbara pulled a small folded paper from her pocket and continued, “That will give you time to plan.” She unfolded the paper and Margerit saw that it contained a list of women’s names. “Remember what LeFevre told you: well-bred young ladies play at being students, they don’t come to Rotenek for the purpose of becoming philosophers. These are some of the more serious students you’re likely to meet socially. They all attended at least some lectures during last year’s terms. There’ll be others who are less serious but they wouldn’t provide you with cover. I’ve marked the names of the ones you were introduced to at the Aruliks’. Befriend one or two of them, be curious about their studies. Then ask if you could join them for the lectures. There’s no point in asking the professors for permission; you’ll have no official standing in any event and LeFevre will take care of the fees. But show up in company with this set and no one will question you.”

Margerit took the paper and worked to fit faces to the ones she must have met. Cheristien Riumai. She recalled a tall willowy girl with mousy brown hair, fiddling relentlessly with her fan throughout the performances, despite reproofs from the older woman at her side. Verunik Felix—no, she couldn’t bring any face to mind. Amiz Waldimen was the only one she recalled speaking with. Her eyes had sparkled constantly with humor above a pursed bow of a mouth and a daintily pointed chin. Perhaps two years younger than the others. She wasn’t properly out yet in society—the concert had been a special treat—but Margerit guessed she would cut quite a swath when that day came. “I can’t do this. I can’t go and befriend someone just to use her as…as a stalking horse.”

“Why ever not?” Barbara seemed honestly confused. “It’s done all the time. One befriends the sister to make eyes at the brother. One laughs at the old man’s jokes to be invited to his niece’s ball. One pretends to love carriage rides in order to be seen parading back and forth. It’s the way of the world; there’s no point in having scruples.”

“But I’ve never been any good at it. That was what I dreaded most about my season: having to pretend to enjoy it.”

“Then you’d better learn,” Barbara said shortly. “I warned you before that there would be more gates to pass than your uncle’s displeasure. Do you want this enough to work for it?”