The Saint-Germain Chronicles (19 page)

It was a question she had not dared to ask herself and she was angry at him for asking. He had no right, this unnamed former Count in elegant black who watched her with such penetrating dark eyes. He had no right to ask such things of her. She was about to tell him so when he said, “A woman I have long loved very dearly used to think she would not be able to learn everything she wanted to during her life. You must understand, European society has been quite rigid at times. She comes from a distinguished French family, and when I met her, she was nineteen and terrified that she would be forced into the life other women had before she had opportunities to study. Now,” he said with a faint, affectionate smile, “she is on a dig, I think it’s called, in Iran. She is an accomplished archeologist. You see, she did not allow herself to be limited by the expectations of others.”

Jillian listened, ready to fling back sharp answers if he insisted that she turn away from the life she had determined upon. “You changed her mind, I suppose?” She knew she sounded petulant, but she wanted him to know she was displeased.

“Changed her mind, no. It could be said that she changed mine.” His eyes glinted with reminiscence. “She is a remarkable woman, my Madelaine.” He turned his attention to Jillian once more. “Forgive me. Occasionally I am reminded of… our attachment. I did not mean to be rude. Perhaps I meant to suggest that you, like her, should not permit those around you to make decisions for you that are not what you want.”

The stewardess returned with headphones for the movie. It was, she explained, a long feature, a French and English venture, shot predominantly in Spain with an international cast. She held out the headsets to Jillian and to the man beside her.

Though Jillian knew it was unmannerly of her to do so, she accepted the headset with a wide smile and said to her seat partner, “I hate to do this, but I’ve wanted to see this flick all summer long, and I don’t know when I’ll have the chance again.”

She knew by the sardonic light to his smile that he was not fooled, but he said to her, “By all means. I understand that it is most entertaining.”

“Headphones for you, Count?” the stewardess asked solicitously.

“I think not, but thank you.” He looked toward Jillian. “If you decide that it is truly worthwhile, tell me, and I will call for headsets.”

The stewardess nodded and moved away to the next pair of seats.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Jillian asked, suddenly conscience-stricken. The Count had bought her a drink and was being very courteous, she thought, but then again, she did not want him to think that she was interested in him.

“No, I don’t mind.” He glanced down at his leather case under the seat. “Would it disturb you if I do a little work while the film is running?”

Jillian shook her head and put the thin blue plastic leads to the socket on the arm of her seat. “Go ahead.”

He had already pulled the case from under the seat and opened it on his lap. There were three thick, leather-bound notebooks in the case, and he pulled the largest of these out, closed the case, and replaced it. He took a pen from one of his coat pockets and pulled down the table from the seat ahead. He gave Jillian a swift, disturbing smile, then bent his head to his work.

Before the film was half over, Jillian was bored. The plot, which she had thought would be exciting, was tedious, and the filming was unimaginative. Most of the actors looked uncomfortable in their nineteenth-century costumes, and the dialogue was so trite that Jillian could not blame the actors for their poor delivery. She longed to be able to take off the headset and get back to reading, but she was afraid that the Count would engage her in conversation again, and for some reason, this prospect unnerved her. He had a knack for drawing her out. Another half-hour and she would have been telling him about Harold and how he had laughed when she said she wanted to get her Master’s before they married. Already he had got her to talk about vampires, and she had never done, that before, not with a stranger. So she kept her eyes on the little screen and tried to concentrate on the dull extravaganza. Once she caught the Count looking at her, amusement in his dark eyes, but then he turned back to the notebook, and she could not be certain whether or not he had sensed her dilemma.

When at last the film ground to a messy, predictable finish, Jillian was anxious to take off the headset. She made a point of reaching for a book before handing the plastic tubing to the stewardess, and shot a quick look at her seat partner.

“If you do not wish to speak to me,” he said without turning his attention from the page on which he wrote, “please say so. I will not be offended.”

Jillian was grateful and annoyed at once. “I’m just tired. I think I want to read a while.”

He nodded and said nothing more.

It was not until they were nearing Kennedy Airport that Jillian dared to talk to her seat partner. She had been reading the same paragraph for almost twenty minutes, and it made no more sense now than the first time she had looked at it. With a sigh she closed the book and bent to put it in her bag.

“We’re nearing New York,” the Count said. He had put his notebook away some minutes before and had sat back in his seat, gazing at nothing in particular.

“Yes,” she said, not certain now if she was glad to be coming home.

“I suppose you’ll be flying on to Des Moines.”

“In the morning,” she said, thinking for the first time that she would have to ask about motels near the airport, because she knew she could not go into Manhattan for the night. Between the taxi fare and the hotel bill, she could not afford that one last splurge.

“But it is only…”—he consulted his watch and paused to calculate the difference in time—“six-thirty. You can’t mean that you want to sit in a sterile little room with a poor television for company all this evening.”

That was, in fact, precisely what she had intended to do, but his description made the prospect sound more gloomy than she had thought it could be. “I guess so.”

“Would you be offended if I asked you to let me buy you dinner? This is my first time in this city, in this country, and it will feel less strange to me if you’d be kind enough to give me the pleasure of your company.”

If this was a line, Jillian thought, it was one of the very smoothest she had ever heard. And she did want to go into Manhattan, and she very much wanted to spend the evening at a nice restaurant. A man like the Count, she thought, wouldn’t be the sort to skimp on a night out. He might, of course, impose conditions later.

“I have no designs on your virginity,” he said, with that uncanny insight that had bothered her earlier.

“I’m not a virgin,” Jillian snapped, without meaning to.

The seat belt sign and no smoking signs flashed on, one after another, and the stewardess announced that they had begun their descent for landing.

The Count smiled, the whole force of his dark eyes on her. “Shall we say your virtue, then? I will allow that you are a very desirable, very young woman, and it would delight me to have you as my guest for the evening. Well?”

“You don’t even know my name,” she said with a smile, her mind already made up.

“It’s Jillian Walker,” he answered promptly, and added as she stared at him, “It was on the envelope your boarding pass is in.”

For a moment, Jillian had been filled with a certain awe, almost a dread, but at this simple explanation, she smiled. A niggling image had risen in her mind, an image developed from her reading and the films she loved. A foreign, exiled Count, in black, of aristocratic, almost regal bearing, who had refused wine… It was an effort not to laugh. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“You may call me Franz, if you like. I am Franz Josef Ragoczy, onetime Count, among other things.”

“What’s that name again?” Something about it was familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

“Ragoczy.
Rah
-go-schkee,” he repeated. “It’s the German version of the Hungarian variant of the name. As I told you, I come from an ancient line.” His expression had softened. “It is agreed, then?”

The plane was descending rapidly, and there was that wrenching clunk as the landing gear was lowered. Ahead the sprawl of Kennedy Airport rose up to meet them.

Whatever reservations that were left in Julian’s mind were banished by the warmth in his eyes. If he wanted more than her company, she decided, she would deal with that as it happened. As the plane jounced onto the runway, she grinned at him. “Count, I’d love to have dinner with you.”

He took her hand in his and carried it gallantly, ironically, to his lips. “Dinner with me,” he echoed her, “dinner with me.” There was secret meaning in the soft words that followed, almost lost in the shrieking of the engines. “I will hold you to that, Jillian Walker. Believe this.”

Text of a letter from le Comte de Saint-Germain to James Emmerson Tree.

The Mansion Hotel

Santa Fe, New Mexico USA

10 August, 1971

New Townsend Road

Hobart, Tasmania

Dear James:

Your letter reached me at last, and I am sorry to be so long in replying, though there is little I can say to you that will comfort you. Sadly, it is one of the burdens shared by those of our blood
—
that we must say goodbye so very often. I recall a couplet: the poetry is not very good, but the sentiment is genuine
.

Soon, too soon, comes death to show

We love more deeply than we know.

You say that there was not time enough for Eina to change.
Do not regret this too much. Those who change are lost to us in many ways, some
as great as the true death itself. You know my feelings for Madelaine, for you have loved her too. Yet there is no recourse for us. It would have been the same for you with Eina. Do not give way to bitterness or contempt for the brevity of life, James; ultimately it would make your grief even more unbearable.

For what little consolation this may be to you, please accept it, and know that I empathise most sincerely.

Saint-Germain

his seal, the eclipse

Text of a letter from le Comte de Saint-Germain to Edward Whittenfield.

Lost Saints Lodge

Post Office Box 101

Fox Hollow, Colorado USA

29 October, 1978

The Honorable Edward G. C. A. Whittenfield

Eleventh Earl of Copsehowe

Briarcopse

Nr. Evesham

England

My dear Copsehowe:

I thank you very much for your letter of 2 August and only regret that it has taken so long to reach me that my reply is delayed. It was most kind of you to contact me and I appreciate it very much.

Your decision to sell off part of the Copsehowe holdings, while understandable in the economy of the current world, is nonetheless lamentable. Doubtless Briarcopse and the Yorkshire hunting lodge will be an asset to the nation, but the loss to your family must be keenly felt.

Since you mention your great-grandfather’s Will, I assume you know that the interest expressed by his friend with my name was genuine, and of course, 
I will honor whatever offer was made. Certainly my primary concern is with the old mirror described in your letter, and 
I see no reason to quibble about the price. Name the figure you and your representatives consider reasonable and I will at once authorize my London bankers to transfer the sum. There are a few paintings that I would be happy to add to my collection, but I believe it is in your best interests to offer them for competitive bid. Should there be individual works that you might want to hold back for private sale, by all means let me know of them. In the matter of the Turkish carpets, I would be delighted to negotiate for them, with the understanding that they would be sent to the de Montalia estate in France.

This is a difficult time for you, I am sure, but if it provides you any comfort, let me tell you that I respect your decision and know that given the circumstances, your actions are prudent and farsighted.

Again, accept my gratitude for this opportunity: I trust your efforts will prove worthwhile.

Saint-Germain

his seal, the eclipse

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the winter there were the skiers, and in the summer the place was full of well-to-do families escaping to the mountains, but it was in the off-seasons, the spring and the fall, when Lost Saints Lodge was most beautiful.

Mrs. Emmons, who always came in September, sat at her table in the spacious dining room, one hand to her bluish-silver hair as she smiled up at the Lodge’s manager. “I do so look forward to my stay here, Mr. Rogers,” she said archly, and put one stubby, beringed hand on his.

“It’s good of you to say so,” Mr. Rogers responded in a voice that managed to be gracious without hinting the least encouragement to the widow.

“I hear that you have a new chef.” She looked around the dining room again. “Not a very large crowd tonight.”

Mr. Rogers followed her glance and gave a little, eloquent shrug. “It’s off-season, Mrs. Emmons. We’re a fifth full, which is fine, since it gives us a breather before winter, and allows us a little time to keep the cabins up. We do the Lodge itself in the spring, but you’re not here then.”

“I’m not fond of crowds,” Mrs. Emmons said, lifting her head in a haughty way it had taken her years to perfect.

Nor, thought Mr. Rogers, of the summer and winter prices. He gave her half a smile. “Certainly off-season is less hectic.”

She took a nervous sip from the tall stem glass before her. Mrs. Emmons did
not like margaritas, and secretly longed for a side-car, but she knew that such
drinks were considered old-fashioned and she had reached that point in her life
when she dreaded the reality of age. “Tell me,” she said as she put the glass
down, “is that nice Mr. Franciscus still with you?”