Kit (38 page)

But there was no time to fret. Almost at once she was introduced to a trio of Savoyard nobles
–
Count Wirich Philipp von Daun, Victor Amadeus II of Sardinia and the Prince of Anhalt Dessau. There they stood, resplendent in their velvets and satins, their powdered hair immaculate, their long royal features so alike they could be kin. Three pairs of eyes looked down three sharp-bridged noses. For a moment, she was tongue tied – her stomach turned somersaults, and she wanted to run. This was a huge, a terrible mistake. She could not do this. But then their formation as they fanned out before her reminded her – she opened her fan coyly before her face and dropped her eyes to the pencilled scrawl. As rank dictated, she greeted Victor Amadeus first.
Victor Amadeus of Sardinia
, said the fan.
Became Duke of Savoy aged nine. Remodelled the Palazzo Reale. Put down his rebellious citizens in the ‘salt wars’. Persecuted the Vaudois (Savoyard Protestants). Married to Anne Marie d’Orléans.
‘My prince,’ she said, lowering the fan. ‘I must compliment you on the new façade of this palace. It is better than Versailles, I believe.’

Three haughty faces broke into smiles, and Kit breathed again. She greeted the Prince of Anhalt Dessau next (
ninth of ten children, introduced the iron ramrod to the Prussian corps, married to Anna Louise Fohse
) followed by Count Wirich Philipp von Daun (
born in Vienna, son of Field Marshal Wilhelm Graf Daun, one son named Leopold
). Then the trio of princes parted like the acolytes they were to reveal the Prince of Savoy. He was not just the centre of their circle, but the centre of the room; for that one evening he was the centre of the universe, the satellite planets revolving around him. If Louis of France had reserved the soubriquet of the Sun King, then Savoy was the moon, the white king of the chess set. He was magnificent in silver tissue from head to toe; even his vertiginous wig was set in silver curls like an angry ocean, with a silver tricorn perched on top like a boat. Waterfalls of silver lace fell from his cuffs to his knuckles, and in place of his sword he held a silver cane topped with the eagle of the Habsburg monarchy. But under the magnificent array she recognised his diminutive person, and his rabbity face.

As Ormonde made the introductions Kit recalled the last time she had met the prince – those terrible few hours at the top of the Duomo in Cremona, watching the clouds of rising stone dust as the French sapped the bridge to the citadel, watching the blue coats in the cathedral square confound the red. Then, Savoy had had the Maréchal de Villeroi under his hand, the
maréchal
who had escaped to later hold Mantova. Then, Savoy had worn his half-armour and his sword, his face framed by a short periwig. Then, she’d worn her red coat and tricorn, and her face had been caked in the mud of the aqueduct, the mud of the Romans. But still, still … Heart thudding, she felt Ormonde’s arm bear her forward.

Savoy looked her up and down. ‘
Comtesse
,’ he said. ‘You are an ornament to our name day. France’s loss is our gain.’

‘May I not be the last of France’s losses,’ she said, ‘nor your Imperial gains, Highness.’

He smiled in the way she remembered, his two coney-teeth protruding slightly over his lower lip. She sank into a deep curtsy, the mantua pooling about her in a mass of blue silk, then rose and moved away as the next dignitaries stepped forth for presentation. She risked a look to Ormonde as she took his arm, and he gave an almost imperceptible nod. But the ordeal was not yet over. For the tall and splendid man before them turned and the conspirators found themselves under the eye of John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough.

But nothing would put Ormonde out of countenance. He nodded coolly, and spoke first. The exchange was so cursory it could have passed over a drover’s cart.

‘Jack.’

‘James.’

The two men locked eyes as if they squared up for a bar fight. Then Marlborough’s eyes broke from Ormonde’s and raked her appreciatively. Just as she had with Savoy, she remembered the last time she had seen him. Bloodied and muddied, just returned from Cremona, she’d received his purse and his commendation. She held her breath. Would he know her? Kit heard Ormonde say, ‘May I present the Comtesse Saint-Hilaire de Blossac?’

‘You
certainly
may,’ said Marlborough. ‘She speak English?’

‘Better than your French,’ said Ormonde.

Marlborough took her hand and kissed it with a smack. ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’ But his eyes soon returned to Ormonde. It would take more than a decorative countess to divert them from their rivalry. Now she saw them together she was reminded of a cat and a dog – Marlborough was a big, golden, forthright gun-dog, eager, tramping through battlefields as a dog would roll in the dirt, crossing oceans as a dog would plunge into a millpond. Ormonde was smaller, sleeker, feline; his ways were circumspect, winding his policies like a ball of yarn, weaving his way through the court as a cat would through the legs of a chair.

Marlborough barked first. ‘Christ’s wounds, you’re like a ghost in this company. We have not seen you this many a month. Screwing and Jewing in your palace, I suppose. Where
have
you been hiding?’

‘Oh, I’m always around, Jack,’ said Ormonde, pleasantly. ‘In plain sight, for those with the wit to see me.’

‘Haven’t had much time for blind man’s buff, James. Been fighting the Frogs. Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am.’ Marlborough nodded to Kit, who favoured him with a smile. The two dukes continued to bait each other, and Kit, neither expected nor required to participate, felt free to look around the room.

And then, for the first time in three months, she saw Captain Ross.

For just a moment, she could not breathe. She had remembered him, in her mind’s eye, in every detail – the way his dark hair grew, the length of his limbs, the curve of his cheekbones, the breadth of his back. In this company of dukes and princes he stood above them all – the best-made man in the assembly. But he looked deeply unhappy – his dark brows were drawn together, his expression was guarded, his gaze low under the fringe of his lashes. She saw with a leap of joy that he still had his old trick of pressing his full lips together and releasing them again when perturbed, but he had acquired a new habit too. He tapped his hand continually on the hilt of his sword – not to the beat of the music, but to some odd internal rhythm of his own. Kit did not heed the rhythm – she was looking at the sword. She would know it anywhere; for it was her father’s. Kit began to breathe again, heavily, the blood mounting to her cheek, rendering the rouge superfluous. So Bianca had given Ross Sean Kavanagh’s sword, and he had worn it for remembrance. He loved her still. She let go of Ormonde’s arm.

Her steps were borne inexorably towards Ross; her new, dainty steps, her slippers kicking out the skirts of the mantua as she had been taught. As if her movement caught his eye he raised his gaze to her and their eyes met. She had forgotten this one thing – how truly blue his eyes were, bluer than the lake that had been her home these past three months. Now, she thought, now he will know me. But though his gaze held a dozen emotions – surprise, question, gratification – there was not a modicum of recognition in it. Her way was blocked – Ormonde claimed her once more, this time to talk to the Landgrave of the Hessians.
Charles I, Landgrave of Hesse-Kassal
, said the fan
. Has a vast army of fearsome mercenaries he lends out to foreign powers. Married to his first cousin Maria Amalia of Courland.
Suppressing her impatience, Kit spoke to the landgrave prettily, asking a woman’s questions about his forces, concealing Kit Kavanagh’s knowledge of warfare, shivering prettily at the might of his armies
.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ormonde greet Brigadier Panton, and carry him off to the saloon for a hand of cards. She was free to excuse herself and seek Ross again.

The hour struck midnight, and she could see the captain at one of the open embrasures. He was alone, but she could not converse with him for they had not been introduced. He turned back into the room, observing the company, then he found her among the throng and caught her eye. Determined now not to miss her chance, she walked towards him, and past him, and deliberately dropped her fan. Ross pounced like a heron, folding his tall frame to pick it up. She watched him tensely; it was a gamble, for what if he spread the thing and read what was written there? But he handed it back, folded as it had fallen. ‘Your fan, madam.’

She nodded to him in thanks and there was a charged silence in which the music seemed to fade. Then she remembered: their ranks were now reversed; she must speak first. A dragoon must wait for his captain to address him, but a mere captain may not speak to a countess. It was not for him to introduce himself to one such as she.

She stood straight. ‘I am La Comtesse Christiane Saint-Hilaire de Blossac.’ He bowed deeply. ‘Captain Ross, of the Royal Scots Grey Dragoons.’ His voice was just the same. He took her hand, and she was transported back to her cell in the Castello at Rovereto, at the moment of their parting, when he had stripped off his shirt and shown her his scars. She had touched his flesh then as she touched it now. He
must
know her. But he released the hand and straightened. She felt herself avoiding his gaze, fearing that under the wig, and the accent and the make-up, her green eyes would give her away.

‘And now we are introduced,
Comtesse
, we may dance. Will you be mine for the minuet?’

She nodded, concealing her nerves – the minuet, with its complicated walks and tricky rhythms, had been her nemesis, driving Mezzanotte to despair.

She took the floor with the captain, in the very centre of that great cathedral of a marble room, and there was a silence. The minuet was an exhibition dance, with just one couple dancing at a time, and the eyes of the whole room were upon them. Then, as the dance floor was a leveller of rank, the countess and the captain honoured each other, with a bow and a curtsy. She tried to slow her breathing and her heart, and to remember her lessons; she must remember to lay her hand lightly on the captain’s, to dip and rise in time to the music. She must move her feet on the first beat, wait the second, then step on the third, fourth, fifth, wait the sixth, then begin again. Ross brought the same careless elegance to the dance as he did to his riding. They achieved the first round without error, and Kit began to relax. This was just as well, for Ross seemed inclined to converse.

‘Would you prefer to speak in French or English?’

‘You speak French?’ She was surprised, for she remembered well translating for him at Cremona.

‘Execrably.’

She smiled. ‘Ah, these English schools,’ she teased, very French, ‘where they take away a little boy and send back a man. The
lycées
of Paris are kinder; they let our sons grow under the civilising influence of their mothers.’

‘And yet I adored my own foundation at Rugby. The education I received there was only lacking in one regard.’

She dared to meet his eyes, questioning him.

‘In the tuition of French.’

They were parted by the dance, and Kit executed the z-shaped promenade as she had been taught, eyes now locked with her partner at all times as the dance required. Then they came together once more, linked elegantly at the wrist, to take a turn about the floor.

‘Better to try English, then.’ Kit was relieved – her voice was very different now and no trace was left of her Dublin brogue. But he had heard her speak her perfect Poitevan French before, in Cremona,
in extremis
. A man does not forget such a moment.

‘I see you wear a sword, even at an entertainment such as this,’ she said. ‘Do you fear for your life?’

‘It has become a habit.’

‘Even among such a company?’

‘Always; besides, my sword is the insignia of my profession and the most precious thing I own. It was left to me for safe keeping.’

She hugged this to herself; he had forgiven Kit Kavanagh. She wanted to ask more, but it would not do to press the point so soon. There must be, as Ormonde had instructed her, small talk before greater matters could be discussed. ‘You said you were a captain?’

‘Yes, of a company of horse.’

‘You must have been in some dangerous situations, I imagine?’

‘Some so dangerous that certain of my men were put to the trouble of saving me.’

That she knew very well. ‘And do you save them in turn?’

He sobered, not joking now. ‘We save each other.’

Their dance ended with the longed-for, daring finale when the partners hold both hands – the most contact allowed in any dance. He clasped her hands firmly, but his face was set. The lovely, easy manner that had made her heart rise like a swift had gone. They honoured each other, then he almost ran from the floor as the next couple took their place. He took a glass of champagne from a liveried servant and tossed it back.

She followed him, took a glass for herself, and asked, ‘Why are you angry?’ The question stopped him in his tracks.

‘Am I angry?’ He looked in his empty glass.

‘I think so, yes,’ she said gently.

He turned to face her and looked at her, directly. ‘Because my men deserve better. We are marching up and down, and we are diminishing little by little, waning like the moon. With every campaign we lose another one or two. And we are lucky. Our task is largely reconnaissance,’ she remembered the dragoon law so well, ‘so we escape, betimes, the heaviest losses. But at Mantova, one of our regiments was all but wiped out.’

The ghost of Richard and his black earth and his white dog was so present, suddenly, that she could not speak.

‘I may speak of it to you, of course, but not to my superiors. Loyalty is all, and I have always been loyal; but something needs to break the … the …’

‘Stalemate,’ she offered.

‘Yes!’ His eyes glittered. She could see he was very drunk, more so than she had ever seen him.

‘I lost a man at Mantova,’ he said, sobering again. ‘A man called O’Connell.’ She spilled her champagne a little. O’Connell, the big black-eyed Irishman. O’Connell, who had turned a blind eye when she had struck Sergeant Taylor, O’Connell who had played the fiddle so that it wrung her heart from her. ‘I spent my own shilling to send his medals back to his wife, for there was no money to be had. How many shillings do you think this night cost?’ Ross gestured about him, his sweeping arm taking in the gilt, the chandeliers. ‘It is all for show – it is a mask. Look how rich we are. Look how secure the Grand Alliance is. And yet we are not.’ He took another brimming glass from a passing servant. ‘We took a beating at Mantova, so all is not as it seems.’ He drank thirstily. ‘I have the feeling you are not as you seem,
Comtesse
.’