The Mystic Marriage (11 page)

In the end, the errand was for nothing. Chasteld had been away from home and no one could say if he’d be back before dark. They had no instructions about any books. She’d do better to let Eskamer handle the matter. But it wouldn’t be the same as if she’d brought them home in triumph herself.

Barbara had forgotten about the stranger entirely by the time she returned to Tiporsel, so she stared at the card with curiosity and confusion where it lay on the sideboard beside yet another thick letter from Margerit’s cousin Iulien. Maisetra Heniriz Chamering. It was no one she recognized. Perhaps one of her tenants from Saveze? No, at least the name would have been familiar in that case and there wouldn’t have been such formality. Well, either she would call again or she wouldn’t.

* * *

In the baron’s day, the invitations that went out from Tiporsel House were first of all about power and only clothed in the garments of art and pleasure. In the first years of Margerit’s residence, there had been no invitations sent out at all except for the most intimate of informal dinners. An unmarried woman of no great name had no standing to host balls and soirées. Now, under the name of Saveze, the invitations were flowing again and Margerit delighted in using their combined influence to wield her own sort of power. Balls she had little use for, but music was another matter. And through a chance meeting in the university district came the opportunity to play hostess for a different sort of performance.

Barbara’s first impression of Miss Collfield had placed her in that species of mad Englishwomen who went traipsing across the face of Europe in pursuit of adventure and art, accompanied only by one stoic and inarticulate servant. She had fit the mold from the soles of her laced boots to the brim of the weather-beaten straw bonnet that topped her severely drawn-back hair. But that mistaken impression had been corrected in the course of a dinner and a long evening’s conversation.

Margerit had come across Frances Collfield in the midst of an argument with the porter of the university’s library. The argument had, at that point, not yet touched on the fruitlessness of Miss Collfield’s request to view the collections but rather was stalled on the man’s inability to comprehend the flavor of French learned in English schoolrooms. Margerit intervened and her patience in disentangling the matter had been rewarded by the story of the visitor’s travels and details of her botanical research, and that was what had led to the dinner invitation. Traipsing across the face of Europe was, indeed, what had browned Miss Collfield’s face and given her movements a loose-limbed, purposeful stride that set her out of place on the city cobbles. But it wasn’t the usual quest for picturesque vistas or moldering ruins that drew her.

“Lichens,” she explained, as if discussing the ornaments on a new gown. “And the occasional moss, but primarily lichens.” The stoic and inarticulate servant, in addition to carrying the usual sketchpads and painting supplies, was burdened with several voluminous pressbooks of samples, carefully annotated as to location, elevation and substrate. “I have a theory regarding the distribution of the
Lecanorae
,” she continued. “I don’t care to map the entire mountain range on my own and I’m told your university has an excellent geologic atlas by Leunerd. Is there no way at all to see it except with the escort of some man? I suppose I should have written ahead and brought letters of introduction, but I never plan my travels more than a few weeks at a time. If it weren’t for your kind invitation I wouldn’t even know where I’d lay my head tonight.”

“But of course you must be my guest as long as you like,” Margerit urged. “I think I can convince one of the
dozzures
to sponsor you.”

“You shouldn’t need to beg!” Barbara objected. A thought came to her, complicated but far more satisfying. “Margerit, why don’t we host a public lecture for Miss Collfield’s studies and invite Princess Annek as our honored guest.” She saw Margerit grin as she caught her meaning. If the ploy were successful, it was certain that some means would be found to bend the university’s rules.

* * *

“Public” was a relative matter, of course, but Margerit had insisted on letting the women of the Poor-Scholars house know that they were as welcome as the regular university students. More important to the success of their plan was that portion of high society that had either the interest or the ambition to attend. And since Annek had deigned to come, it seemed the choice of the
Salle-Chapil
as a venue hadn’t been overambitious after all.

The only part Barbara regretted was that, having lent her name as hostess, she was expected to take a far more public role than she preferred. While Margerit escorted Collfield and saw that all was prepared for the lecture, she waited by the doors, welcoming those whose status demanded personal attention. Jeanne took pity on her early in the evening and joined her, perhaps only for the chance to share whispered gossip in the brief quiet moments. Guests who felt no need for ceremony in their entrance had filtered in through the side doors, so it wasn’t until she felt the weight of being watched that Barbara noticed the woman from the courtyard staring at her from a corner of the room. She stood apart, with no sign that she’d come as anyone’s guest, but this was a public affair, after all, so there was nothing odd in that. It was the stare that was disconcerting.

Barbara leaned closer to Jeanne. “That woman over by the column—the dowdy one—do you have any idea who she is?”

Jeanne flicked her fan to disguise her own glance. “Goodness, no. Why should I?”

“Evidently the name is Chamering. I don’t know why I should know her either but she left her card for me the other day and I can’t puzzle it out.”

Jeanne laughed. “You should be used to all and sundry petitioning you for things. I’ve almost sent a few people your way myself. She does have a bit of a hungry look.”

It was true. Not in the sense of wanting for food, but Barbara felt drunk in by her gaze, as if she were the woman’s hope of salvation. Another guest of note entered and she looked away to perform her duties. When she looked back, Maisetra Chamering had taken a seat at the edge of the
salle
and was examining the program closely.

The lecture was everything they’d hoped it would be. Collfield’s slow, schoolroom French made her topic easy to follow, despite the odd turns of her studies, and a dry sense of humor came through to entertain the crowd after a few initial stumbles. At the end, Princess Annek had a kind word for her in public and in private a reassurance that the university collections would be at her disposal, as a special favor. That made all the trouble worthwhile: to see the
dozzures
required to bend and not to wait on their charity.

The Chamering woman had lingered as the audience began dispersing and Barbara, with a sigh, excused herself at last and approached her. “I’m sorry for the confusion the other day. I had no idea it was me you’d come to see.”

Maisetra Chamering ducked her head with a fumbled curtsey. “It’s no matter. I didn’t recognize you and I wasn’t sure—”

“Then we haven’t met?” Barbara asked. “I’ve been trying to think whether I’ve heard your name before.”

“No, that is…it’s somewhat complicated.”

Barbara tried to put her at ease. “Perhaps you could start at the beginning.”

The woman looked around, as if afraid someone might be listening. “Oh, no, not here. I must speak to you in private.”

“So this is a matter of business?” Barbara’s eyes narrowed. Business with random strangers generally meant requests for either money or influence. And if not from her, then through her from Margerit. Best to deal with it promptly. “Come by the house tomorrow morning. I’ll be going over accounts with my agent until well past noon, so you’re certain to find me home.”

* * *

Maisetra Chamering knocked on the door of Tiporsel House promptly at nine, which was far earlier than Barbara had expected, but perhaps she kept country hours. Or perhaps she was impatient. Barbara had barely begun reviewing the next quarter’s budgeting with LeFevre. He had kept the baron’s accounts since long before her birth and continued the same service now with those properties split between her and Margerit. She left the two of them to sort things out for now, leading her guest into the library. It wasn’t where she would have chosen for such matters, but the library fires were always kept up and the parlor wouldn’t be presentable yet. Barbara gestured to the chairs by the fire as her visitor gazed around at the room.

“You have a beautiful house,” she said, seating herself tentatively. “It’s good to see you’ve done so well.”

Barbara frowned, trying to guess where she was leading. “It’s not my house,” she said shortly. “I live here as a guest. I own nothing at all in Rotenek.” It was overstating the case but might bring her to the point.

The woman looked disconcerted. “But you are…that is, I thought…you
are
Barbara Lumbeirt? Baroness Saveze? That’s what the woman said last night at the lecture.”

Barbara nodded. “I am.”

“But I thought…”

“It’s clear what you thought,” Barbara interrupted, losing patience at last. “You thought I was a wealthy woman. What isn’t clear is how you thought to turn that to your advantage. Let us not mince words here. What is it you want?”

She made a very convincing show of looking aghast. “No! You misunderstand! I don’t…you mustn’t think…oh, this is all so difficult. I don’t know where to start.” She pulled a handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at her eyes. “My sister—”

“Ah, your sister. Now we come to it. What is it your sister wants, then?” Barbara interrupted.

“My sister has been dead these twenty years and more,” Maisetra Chamering said quietly.

Barbara didn’t know which of those words sank into her stomach like a stone, but she felt the shiver of someone walking over her grave. She waited, all senses alert, her heart pounding in her ears.

In that silence the stranger continued. “I thought you might have recognized…but no, why would you? It was so very long ago and you were an infant. And of course there’s no reason why the name Chamering would mean anything to you. But I was born Heniriz Anzeld.”

“Anzeld,” Barbara repeated.

She nodded. “Elisebet Anzeld, my sister, was your mother.”

Barbara felt the stone turn to a flood of rage, welling up into her mouth. She stood abruptly. “Get out.”

Maisetra Chamering shook her head. “Please—”

“Get out!” Barbara repeated, shouting now. “How dare you come here with her name on your lips? How dare you think I owe you anything after what you did to her?”

“I don’t understand—” she began. But the shouting had drawn attention. Ponivin had entered on the briefest of discreet knocks and employed a butler’s skills at extracting unwanted guests swiftly and quietly.

Barbara followed into the hallway, still shaking with rage. Margerit and LeFevre stood in the office doorway staring in concern. Barbara heard the distant thud of the front door closing.

“What’s wrong?” Margerit ventured.

Barbara turned to them. “Evidently my mother had a sister. Did you know that, LeFevre?”

He frowned slightly. “I believe I did. It’s been a very long time. Yes, a sister, but none of that would have been any of my concern until after you came into the household. And by then, the Anzelds had long since vanished from society. What did she want?”

Barbara shrugged. “I don’t know. Money most likely. She was quite disappointed to learn that I didn’t own this house.”

“But Barbara,” Margerit said, “to discover you have family—isn’t that a wonderful thing?”

“Family?” The word tasted of gall in her mouth. “We all know my mother’s story. How her family as much as sold her to Count Turinz for the sake of his title, then cast her off when his ruin threatened them as well. We know how they treated her.”

“Do we?” LeFevre asked quietly. “We know the story the baron told—perhaps the one he truly believed. But there may be other stories.”

“What else is there to know? They let her die with Turinz in a debtors’ prison.” She turned on both of them. “And I don’t want to hear that you’ve gone to Maisetra Chamering behind my back to try to make peace.”

“I wouldn’t do that, Barbara.” Margerit sounded hurt. “We promised each other, no secrets.”

“No, no secrets.” Barbara drew her hands slowly over her face. They were still trembling. “I’m sorry. I’m going to be of no use to either of you until I get out and shake off this mood. Will you forgive me if I leave the accounts to you for a while?”

LeFevre waved her off and Margerit touched her cheek briefly. It was permission enough.

After a change of clothes, Barbara headed to Perret’s fencing academy, not to spend her anger in action, but because it was one place where anger couldn’t exist. She had only to walk through the doors and hear the rhythmic sounds of quick footsteps and clicking blades, smell the sharpness of sweating bodies, for her mind to find that old familiar place of purpose and…not calm, but balance.

Perret himself broke off his bout to welcome her. “Mesnera, it’s been too long. You’ll lose your edge.”

She’d once thought of him as impartially strict with all his students, but with the changes in her life there had been a shift beyond simply the forms of address. She wasn’t merely a skilled and dedicated student now; she was a point of pride for him. “I still do my passes most mornings, to get the blood warmed up. But I didn’t mean to interrupt your work. I’m not here for lessons today, just some sparring to keep in practice.”

He bowed slightly. “I would be honored to engage with you, if you wish.”

In the old days, the honor would have been all on her side. Now? Now she accepted graciously.

They worked easily at first, loosening up and trading banter.

“You still haven’t hired an armin of your own, I hear,” Perret said.

“Now you sound just like Marken!” Barbara returned. “He thinks I don’t show proper respect to my own rank, running around town with no one but a groom except for the most formal of affairs.”

“He’s right. And it goes beyond respect. It isn’t fair to burden him with standing behind both you and Maisetra Sovitre.”