The Saint-Germain Chronicles (3 page)

“Of course,” Dominick said as he refilled his glass and poured more port for his cousin.

“She does mention that he had an accent she could not place, but that is to be expected, since she had no more than a few words of the language herself. She tried to explain that she had only fallen, but he did not believe her. He also realized that her native tongue was not Dutch, for he addressed her in French and German and then English, of which, Sabrina insists, he had fluent command.” Whittenfield drank half of his port with the air of a man making a sacrifice.

“Go
on
, Charles!” Twilford bellowed.

“In good time; I must not abuse this wine.” He drank again, less deeply, and set the glass down on the rolled arm of his chair where it balanced precariously. “So this foreigner discovered that she was English and upon learning that, asked to be told how she came to be in a backstreet in Antwerp. At first Sabrina refused to answer him, saying that it was her concern. He protested that since she had attempted to rob him, he was entitled to some explanation before he called in the authorities. It was that threat that caused her to tell him what had befallen her. At least that is what her journal says on the next day, though there are later entries that hint at other factors.”

“What other factors?” Hamworthy spoke up. “Don’t be mysterious, Charles. What factors are you talking about?”

Whittenfield lifted his wine and stared into its garnet-colored depths. His expression was slightly bemused. “Other factors—well, it’s hard to know how much to believe, but this man was not what Sabrina had expected. She remarks, several days later, upon his kindness, which she first perceived that night. Apparently she held nothing back and out of caprice or compassion, he made a bargain with her.”

“I can imagine the bargain,” Twilford said, his tremendous sidewhiskers bristling like the jowls of a tomcat.

“No, you can’t,” Whittenfield corrected him mildly. “You know what most women, and men too, for that matter, would expect at such times. Yet that was not Sabrina’s experience. She says in her journal that she wondered at first if he was one of those whose love is inverted, but it turned out otherwise. She made a bargain with this foreigner, as I say. She agreed to live in the house he had bought, to keep it for him. He did not object to her children and gave her permission to care for them as she felt best. He did not require them to serve him…”

“Well, they were what, one and three? Hardly old enough to wait upon anyone, foreigner or not,” Dominick pointed out.

“There was the matter of bonds,” the sixth guest said quietly.

“Precisely,” Whittenfield agreed. “And this foreigner did not require that Cesily and Herbert be bonded to him, which was something of a wonder in those times. Sabrina mentions in her journal that her employer’s manservant told her that he had been a bondsman when his master first found him, and that he refused to continue the bond.”

“One of those damned humanitarian sorts,” Lord Graveston sighed portentously. “The world’s full of ‘em.”

“Doubtless an opinion shared by the children of Whitechapel,” the sixth guest commented without smiling.

“Terrible state of affairs, those slums,” Dominick said indignantly. “Had to drive through there once—there’d been an accident and it was the only way around. There was the most appalling stench and the buildings looked to be held together by filth alone. The people—a complete want of conduct.” Two of the other men nodded their understanding and disapproval. “One drab tired to climb into my carriage, and those who saw her make the attempt said such rude and licentious comments… The children were as bad as their seniors.”

“This is hardly appropriate after-dinner conversation,” Hamworthy opined.

“Very true,” Whittenfield said smoothly. “My great-aunt’s adventures with a foreigner are much more suitable.” He drank down the last of his port and let the glass tip in his fingers. “Unless, of course, you’re not interested in what became of her…”

“Oh, get on with it,” Dominick said, nudging Everard with his elbow so that he would add his support.

Obediently Everard spoke up. “Yes, by all means, Charles, let’s have the rest of the story.”

“I still don’t see how that bedeviled glass comes into it,” Twilford muttered, dropping his chin forward.

“It
is
bedeviled, if Sabrina is to be believed,” Charles said rather dreamily. “How aptly you put it, Twilford.”

Lord Graveston coughed twice in an awesome way.

“Yes. Of course.” Charles leaned forward in his chair and filled his glass. “I’ll probably regret it in the morning, but for the present, this is precisely what’s wanted.” After he had settled back again and once more propped his heels on the settle, he resumed his story. “Well, as I said, Sabrina agreed to be the housekeeper to this foreigner in exchange for shelter and meals for herself and her children. She was most uneasy about the arrangement at first, because there was no saying that her benefactor might suddenly decide to change the nature of their arrangements and make demands of her or her children. She was also very much aware that he could dismiss her at any time and she would be in the same sorry state that she was when he made his agreement with her. Yet she had no other choice. She could not return to England, she had no one she knew who would protect her in Antwerp, or indeed any European country, and there seemed to be no other way to get money. The foreigner settled a small amount of money on her to enable her to buy cloth from the mercer so that she could dress herself and her children.”

“Sounds like one of those missionary types,” Twilford growled. “They’re always doing that kind of thing.”

“There were, naturally, certain restrictions to her duties,” Whittenfield continued, “and they caused her some alarm. There were rooms of the house where she was not allowed to venture, and which were locked day and night. The foreigner often received heavily wrapped parcels from many strange lands. Gradually, Sabrina began to fear that the Count was engaged in nefarious or criminal activities. And she became convinced of it some seven months after she entered his employ. There are three entries in her journal that are at once baffling and thought provoking. She mentions first that the Count often does not go abroad in the day. At first this disturbed her, but she saw him more than once in sunlight and noted that he did cast a shadow, and so her fear that she had fallen into the hands of a malignant spirit was lessened. Oh, you may all laugh if you choose,” he said in a wounded tone. “In those times there were many with such fears. It was a superstitious age.”

“And this one, of course, is not,” the sixth guest said, his fine brows raising in courteous disbelief.

“Oh, those uneducated and unintelligent masses, I daresay, are still in the throes of various dreads, but for those of us who have the wit to learn, well, most of us have cast off the shackles of superstition before we were out of lead-strings.” He took a meditative sip of his port. “Still, I suppose we can understand a little how it was that Sabrina felt the dread she did.”

“Well, women, you know…” Hamworthy said with an indulgent smile. “Wonderful creatures, all of them, but you know what their minds are. Not one in a thousand can think, and the ones that can are always distressingly masculine. The ”Frenchwoman, the writer with the English name—Sand, isn’t it? That’s a case in point.“

“My great-aunt Serena was another,” Whittenfield said, frowning a trifle. “Wasn’t a man in the county cared to trade words with her. They respected her, of course, but you couldn’t say that they liked her. Nonetheless, most of us loved her when we were children.”

“Will you get back to Sabrina?” Dominick asked plaintively.

“Oh, Sabrina; yes. Told you, didn’t I, that she was afraid of malign spirits? Of course. And she made up her mind that it was not the case. She thought for a while that her employer must have a mistress somewhere because of the strange hours he kept and the absolute privacy he maintained. There was always the chance that he was working for the Spanish or the French, but she found no evidence of it, and after the first few months she was looking for it. She feared that if the man was working for another government and was discovered, she would suffer as well, and after enduring so much, she did not wish to expose herself to such a hazard. She came to believe that the Count was not, in fact, an agent of any of the enemies of the state. And that intrigued her even more, for there did not seem to be any reasonable explanation for his behavior, if he was not keeping a mistress or doing some other questionable thing. So she set herself the task of finding out more about her employer and his locked rooms.”

“Very enterprising,” Hamworthy interrupted. “Dangerous, too. I wouldn’t like my housekeeper prying into my activities.”

“Sabrina also had to deal with the manservant, who was as private and aloof as his master, and whom she suspected of watching her. She describes him as being of middle age or a trifle older, lean, sandy haired and blue eyed, and yet she did not think that he was from Northern Europe as such characteristics might indicate. Once she heard the manservant in conversation with the Count and she thought that they spoke in Latin, though she had not heard the language much. Their accents, if it was indeed that tongue, were strange to her, quite unlike what little scholarly intercourse she had overheard in the past, and not at all like the doggerel of the Roman Church. Yet there were a few words that made her think it was Latin, and for that reason she was more curious than ever. So she set upon a series of vigils, and after many months her patience was rewarded to a degree.”

“To a degree,” Lord Graveston repeated derisively. “Speak plainly for once in your life, Charles.”

“Of course. I am speaking plainly. This story is not easily told, and the wine is playing great hob with my thoughts. You must make allowances for the excellence of my port, Graveston.”

“I’ll make allowances for anything that gets on with the tale!” was the acerbic answer.

“I’m doing my poor best,” Whittenfield said in a slightly truculent manner. “I’m not certain you appreciate the intricacies of Sabrina’s life.”

“Of course I do. She was serving as housekeeper to a mighty private foreigner in Antwerp and her circumstances were badly reduced. There’s nothing incomprehensible in that.” Lord Graveston emptied out his pipe and gave Whittenfield a challenging glare through the tufts of his eyebrows.

“And that is not the least of it,” Whittenfield insisted.

“Probably not, but you have yet to tell us that part,” Dominick put in.

“Which I will do if only you will give me the chance,” Whittenfield remonstrated. “Each of you it seems would rather discuss your own adventures. If that’s your desire, so be it.”

“Oh, Charles, you’re being temperamental.” Everard had dared to speak again, but he laughed a little so that his host would not think he had been reprimanded.

Whittenfield stared up at the ceiling in sublime abstraction, his eyes faintly glazed. “You know, when I first read her journal, I thought that Sabrina was indulging in fancy, but I have read a few things since then that lead me to believe she was telling the wholly accurate truth about her experiences. That disturbs me, you know. It means that a great many things I used to regard as nonsense may not be that after all.”

“What are you talking about, Charles?” Dominick demanded. He had selected another cigar and paused to light it.

“You haven’t read the journal, have you?” He did not bother to look at his cousin. “Naturally not. But I have, several times now, and it is a most… unnerving document.”

“So you persist in telling us,” Hamworthy sighed. “Yet you have not particularly justified your claim.”

“How little faith you have, Peter,” Whittenfield said with an assumption of piety. “If you would bear with me, you will find out why I have said what I have about Sabrina and that glass.
I
wasn’t the one who brought the subject up: I have merely offered to enlighten you.” He drank again, licking away the crescent it left on his upper lip.

“Then be kind enough to tell us the rest,” said the sixth guest.

With this clear invitation before him, Whittenfield hesitated. “I don’t know what you will make of it. I haven’t sorted it out myself yet, not since I realized she was telling the truth.” He smiled uncertainly. “Well, I’ll leave it up to you. That’s probably best.” He took another nervous sip of wine. “She—that is, Sabrina, of course—she continued to watch the Count. She was up many nights, so that it was all she could do to work the next day. During that time she took great care to do her work well. And she made herself as useful as possible to the manservant so that she might stay in his good graces. In her journal she related that he never behaved in any but the most polite way, and yet she felt the same sort of awe for the servant that she did for the master. And she feared to face him directly, except when absolutely necessary. When she had been the Count’s housekeeper for a few months, she had enough coins laid aside to enable her to purchase a crucifix—she had sold her old one the year before—and she mentions that the Count commented on it when he saw it, saying that it was merely gold plate. She indignantly reminded him that it was the best she could afford, and that the gold was not important, the faith it represented was. The Count acknowledged her correction, and nothing more was said. Then, two weeks after that, he presented her with a second crucifix of the finest gold, finished in the Florentine style. It was in the family for some time, I recall. Aunt Serena said that her grandmother was used to wear it. That was a great surprise to Sabrina, and she promptly took it off to a Roman priest, for all she did not trust him, and asked him to bless the treasure, just in case. He did as she asked, after he had satisfied himself that though Sabrina was one of the English heathen, yet she knew enough of religion to warrant making the request that she did.”

“And did her Count vanish in a puff of smoke next morning?” Dominick ventured sarcastically.

“No. He was unperturbed as ever. From what Sabrina says, he was a man of the utmost urbanity and self-possession. She never heard him raise his voice, never saw any evidence that he abused his manservant, never found any indications of moral excesses. I’ve been trying for years to puzzle out what she means by moral excesses. Still, whatever they were he didn’t do them. Finally one night, while she was keeping her vigil on the stair below one of the locked doors, being fatigued by her housekeeper’s tasks during the day, and having spent the better part of most nights watching, she fell asleep, in this case quite literally. She tumbled down the stairs, and in her journal she states that although she does not remember doing so, she must have cried out, for she does recall a door opening and light falling on her from one of the locked rooms.”