Daughter of Mystery (52 page)

Count Feniz spent half an hour granting the virtues of Duchess Annek’s elder son in prelude, no doubt, to deploring the callowness of the younger one, but just as he rose to his most dramatic heights, Annek herself stood and interrupted.

“How is this to the point? Conrad doesn’t enter into the matter; he is content to remain Duke of Maunberg. There was never any question that he would come to Alpennia. You might as well argue the virtues of the emperor for he won’t come into the decision of this council either.”

The next two hours devolved into a rehearsal of the legal basis for a direct heir removing himself from consideration, which led to an unresolved debate regarding whether the term “direct heir” applied solely to Aukustin. Barbara quickly realized that these arguments were now known by rote like a mummers’ play, needing only the proper cue to be set on their own course. The first speaker returned, at last, to conclude his interrupted point.

“The world is an unsettled place; it’s not so long since war flooded through our lives like the river in spate. It’s not a time to be ruled by children.”

He went on in that vein until even he realized there was no more to say on the topic. Barbara had adjusted her evaluation: he must be supporting one of the Atilliet cousins, though which was impossible to tell. It was a failing task, she knew. Neither could evoke sufficient passion to achieve victory. They were men of a previous age and the land hungered for youth and vigor. But how much youth?

Princess Elisebet had risen to answer the question and dwelt on the advantages of combining the promise of youth with the advice and experience of a regent in the years of apprenticeship. “A prince so trained in governing will take the reins with a steady and practiced hand, accustomed to taking counsel and well known to his ministers.”

“In this, I agree with my cousin,” said Annek in her own turn. Barbara could understand that she would balk at referring to a woman a decade her junior as “stepmother.” “God grant my father years yet to work hand in hand with his heir. But should we not be so blessed, Efriturik will have the benefit of the six years I governed Maunberg after my beloved husband’s death before Conrad’s majority. I agree that wise and experienced regents can do much to bridge a brief interlude. It is only when a regency continues for long years that much harm may be done.”

Barbara tried to listen with an unbiased ear, but it was hard not to see, in these debates, the character of Elisebet’s long ascendency. She claimed as rights what must be earned and stumbled when she needed grace. If she had hewed to Aukustin’s undeniable primacy as the prince’s only living son, she might sway many of the doubters. But to emphasize her own expected role as regent was a mistake.

And the rivalry with Annek spurred her to rashness. Out of turn, she rose again and countered, “I too have experience in governing!”

“Indeed?” the duchess replied coolly. “I had always thought it was my father who rules in Alpennia. Perhaps I was mistaken.”

Feeling freed from the rituals of debate by the interchange, many voices chimed in, bringing the babble to a level impossible to follow. In the end, only dismissing the council for the day restored order. For all her wariness of Elisebet, Barbara was finding herself unenthusiastic about supporting the Austrian. Whatever his virtues, he knew little about Alpennia. In his brief appearances before the council sessions she had attended, he had allowed Annek to speak for him, knowing perhaps that however fine the speeches he might make in German or French they would not endear him to his prospective subjects. In time, perhaps, that would change, but they didn’t have time.

* * *

Released for the day, Barbara calculated it still early enough to call without notice and hastily changed for the short ride to Tiporsel. The footman who opened the door, on noting that he would inquire after the maisetra, disappointed her by returning with Maisetra Pertinek. She accompanied a formally correct salutation with, “My niece is not at home.”

It struck Barbara as odd, for Margerit hadn’t mentioned any recent excursions separate from her aunt. “Where has she gone? I’ll just—”

“My niece is feeling unwell and is not at home to visitors.”

Now she was all concern and glanced toward the stairs. “What’s wrong? I promise I’ll only be a few minutes.”

Bertrut stepped to place herself in the way. “Mesnera, please don’t make this awkward. My niece is not at home.”

Without quite knowing how, she found herself back on the other side of the door, being handed the reins to her mount.
What was that about? Is she ill?
In a panicked moment she wondered if their encounter at the opera had been misinterpreted. She thought about going around to the servants’ entrance and interrogating Mefro Charsintek. The housekeeper would know what lay behind Bertrut’s sudden animosity. But she’d lost the right to behave as a member of the household. Impatiently she rode back for the palace and the cold consolation of letters.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Margerit

All morning she had waited. Her heart made excuses but her head refused to hear them and began pounding dully, driving her at last to her bed if only to escape Bertrut’s prying questions. Her hopes rose when she felt the house quiver in the way only the heavy oaken entry doors could produce, but then…nothing. When her aunt came up with the tea to inquire if she were feeling better, Margerit asked, for only the third time that day, if there had been any letters.

“No—” she began. Her hesitation was suspicious.

“I thought I heard the door. Who was it?”

Bertrut drew up a chair and sat beside her bed to pour out a cup. “This isn’t good for you. This waiting and moping. It will spoil your looks.”

“Aunt Bertrut, did Barbara call?”

Again, the hesitation. “Yes and I told her you weren’t in a state to see anyone.”

“Aunt!”

“Margerit, you need to let her go her own way. All this pestering her with letters and visits—it isn’t seemly. Baroness Saveze is as high above you as you were above Barbara the armin. You shouldn’t seek her notice. It only makes you unhappy.”

Margerit felt her anger rising and her head throbbed more sharply. “You should have told me she was here!”

“Perhaps I was wrong,” Bertrut said carefully. “I don’t mean to set up myself as mistress of your house. But you’ve done little but sit and stare out the windows ever since you returned to Rotenek. I wonder if it might not be good to go away for a little while. It’s at least a month yet before the season’s over and who knows when flood-tide might come, but a little trip home to Chalanz might bring a different view.”

“No, I can’t leave. Barbara might need me.”

“And I want to talk to you about that as well,” she continued. “I saw those dressmaker’s bills and I don’t know what else there might be that I haven’t seen. You need to be careful of letting the baroness take advantage of you. She may well consider your inheritance rightfully hers but that doesn’t mean that you should agree.”

“But I do.” Margerit pushed aside the cup that her aunt was trying to thrust on her and slipped from the bed, wrapping her dressing gown around her. She was feeling too much like a naughty child being lectured. “Everything the baron left me should have been hers. And I think one reason he left it to me was because he thought I would see the justice in that. She’s refused to take anything except the clothing, though, so you needn’t fear I’ll end up a pauper.”

Her aunt began a different tack. “I know you’ve had a certain fondness for her. You enjoyed playing at being students together. And see what that brought you! But—”

“A certain fondness?” Was that all she knew?

“—but it’s time you started acting like a grown woman. Think about your future. Set your mind to choosing a husband. Marriage will help you forget all this.”

Impatience overcame caution. “I will never marry.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bertrut said sharply. “Even after this foolishness with that guild, you’re still the most eligible heiress in Rotenek. Of course you’ll make a good marriage.”

Her head was pounding. Why did they need to have this argument now? “I will never marry. I’ve already given my heart; I can’t give it again.”

Her aunt turned pale. “Sweet Jesus! What have you done? Who was he? Will he hold his tongue? Why didn’t you—is he married already?”

Did she understand nothing? “Aunt Bertrut, Barbara and I are lovers.”

There, it was said. Margerit tried to divine the thoughts behind her aunt’s flustered silence. But surely she had suspected? Couldn’t she see this was how it was always meant to be? She began, “Aunt Bertrut—”

“You…and Barbara?” Confusion slowly turned to scorn. “And for this you would abandon respectability? For this you’d drag your family’s name in the gutter?”

“I would do anything for her,” she answered with quiet intensity.

Her aunt’s response was waspish. “I see. In that case you should take an example from other common-born mistresses of the nobility and avoid importuning her. Become accustomed to waiting on her convenience and give up these vapors or you’ll lose her interest. Perhaps you could take lessons from the women on Chuldesmit Street.”

That district was famous for elegant little houses inhabited by women who weren’t invited into respectable homes. It was meant to sting and it did. Margerit lashed back, “I’ll take this lesson from mistresses of the great: never,
never
deny her entrance to my house again.”

But after her aunt stiffly acknowledged the command and left, Margerit curled up on the bed again, trying desperately not to cry. It was true. How could she not have seen it? The months at Saint Orisul’s had been spent outside time, outside the world. Briefly they had been equals and friends and they’d planned a future side by side. Now, as Barbara had once said, she couldn’t make it work. And yet she couldn’t live without her. That much she knew. Could she instead learn her new role and do her duty, as Barbara once had? Could she live in the shadows of Barbara’s life, never stirring the slightest whiff of scandal? Would it always be like this? Couldn’t they at least live under the same roof? She could understand that the Baroness Saveze couldn’t live as a guest of someone with no rank or title, but
she
might find a place in Barbara’s house, when she had one some day. They’d promised each other to find a way and she, at least, would hold to her promise.

To know that there was a decision to make was to have made it.

She rose and rang for the maid, wishing she had arranged for Maitelen’s return already. She longed for at least one person she could trust absolutely. If it were her role to be pleasant and charming at any time that Barbara might happen to call, then it was best to begin as she meant to go on.

There was a letter waiting when she went downstairs. She took it to the library and tore it open.

Dearest Margerit.

Her heart leapt. She was still beloved, it had all been a mistake.

Your aunt tells me you are unwell and I am desolated to think that my little charade last night might have contributed to your distress. I was in company with one who only moments before had been a party to threatening your safety in hopes of controlling my actions. The greatest protection I can offer you at the moment is to convince my enemies that I care nothing for you.

Too convincing entirely. The letter was so stiff and formal.

Our correspondence is being noted. I have sent this by way of LeFevre and must ask that you do the same. I’ve offered the excuse of lingering business for the letters that have gone before, but that won’t last.

So. There it was. She was to keep out of sight in the future.

I can’t tell who will demand my time in the coming week, but I have claimed Monday for my own. Do you think you will be well enough for an outing? I thought we might drive out of the city for the day—where we can breathe fresh air and care for no one but ourselves. Let me know and I will attend on you that morning. You, I fear, will need to supply the carriage. Your own Barbara.

An entire day to themselves. Where they needn’t care who saw them together. So it must be. She penned a brief note in return and enclosed it within the misdirection. There were plans to make, instructions to give. She would play these cards the best she knew how.

Dinner might have been tense—she could see from Uncle Pertinek’s glances that he had been told all. But having made her choice, she was free of his disapproval. He made one essay, beginning, “Margerit, I know it’s none of my affair, but—”

She answered simply, “No, it isn’t,” and that was an end of it.

* * *

The day was bright and fine—all she could have asked for. Barbara needed only to give her horse to the groom and step into the waiting carriage and they were away. When they were past the city gates, Margerit folded down the windows, despite the morning chill, to let in the fresh air and the greening countryside.

Barbara began with apologies about the opera and to explain once again how her days were filled but Margerit put a finger against her lips. “None of that today. Leave it behind.”

And then there was no more talking but only the small sounds of pleasure as the carriage rattled on for an hour or more. Margerit would have been content simply to drive as far as they might and then return, in order to have Barbara alone. But they weren’t truly alone, of course. Outside there was the coachman and the grooms and the ever-present Marken. Some excuse had been needed to give for the trip, so their course slowed at last and the horses turned off to an old track leading up a steep stony hill. Barbara looked out the window and asked, “Chazil Lepunt?”

“We needed some destination, after all,” Margerit laughed. “Verunik told me about the place and I had a mind to see it. I wore my walking shoes, you see?”

When the carriage had climbed as near to the ruins as might be, they left the horses to rest and went on foot. With Barbara’s assurance to Marken, “I’ll see her safe,” they climbed out of sight, hand in hand—or when the path allowed, arms encircling waists—over the tumbled stones and eroded walls to find the summit of the hill.