The Saint-Germain Chronicles (4 page)

“Was she much hurt?” Everard asked. “I fell down the stairs once, and ended up with torn ligaments in my shoulder where I’d tried to catch myself. Doctor said I was fortunate not to have broken my skull, but he is forever saying such things.”

Whittenfield’s brow puckered in annoyance. “She was much bruised and she broke her arm, luckily the right one, for she was left-handed.”

“Ah,” Twilford said sagely. “That accounts for it.”

“The left-handedness?” Whittenfield asked, momentarily diverted. “It may be. There are some odd
gifts
that the left-handed are supposed to have. Come to think of it, Serena was left-handed. There might be something to it.”

The sixth guest smiled wryly. “And the ambidextrous?”

“I don’t approve of that,” Lord Graveston announced. “Isn’t natural.”

“You don’t think so?” the sixth guest asked, but neither expected nor got an answer from the crusty old peer.

“Back to Sabrina,” Dominick ordered.

“Yes, back to Sabrina,” Whittenfield said, draining his glass again. “Remarkable woman that she was. Where was I?”

“She had fallen down the stairs and broken her arm,” one of the guests prompted.

“Oh, yes. And her employer came out of the locked room. Yes. She swooned when she fell, or shortly after, and her next memory was of being carried, though where and by whom she could not tell, for her pain was too intense to allow her much opportunity for thought. She contented herself with closing her eyes and waiting for the worst of her feeling to pass.”

“Only thing she could do, probably,” Everard said grimly.

“It would seem so. This employer of hers took her into one of the rooms that had been locked, and when she came to her senses, she was on a splendid couch in a small and elegant room. You may imagine her amazement at this, for until that time she had thought that the house, being in one of the poorest parts of the city, had no such finery in it. Yet there were good paintings on the walls, and the furniture was luxuriously upholstered. And this was a time when such luxury was fairly rare, even among the wealthy. This Count was obviously a much more impressive figure than Sabrina had supposed.”

“Or perhaps he was a rich tradesman, amusing himself with a pose, and that would explain the remote house and the lack of company,” Dominick said cynically.

“I thought that myself, at one time,” Whittenfield confessed. “I was sure that she had been hoodwinked by one of the best. But I made a few inquiries and learned that whoever this Count was, he was most certainly genuine nobility.”

“How curious,” the sixth guest said.

“And it became more curious still,” Whittenfield went on, unaware of the sardonic note in the other man’s voice. “The Count dosed her with syrup of poppies and then set her arm. She describes the whole event as unreal, and writes that she felt she was floating in a huge warm bath though she could feel the bones grate together. There were so many questions she wanted to ask, but could not bring her thoughts to bear on any of them. Then she once again fainted, and when she woke she was in her own chamber, her arm was expertly splinted and bound with tape, and her head felt that it was filled with enormous pillows.”

“And her employer? What of him?” Twilford inquired, caught up now in spite of himself.

“He visited her the next day, very solicitous of her, and anxious to do what he could to speed her recovery.” Whittenfield paused for a reaction, and got one from Everard.

“Well, she was his housekeeper. She was of no use to him if she could not work.”

“He never told her that,” Whittenfield said, gratified that one of his guests had said what he had wanted to hear. “She made note of it in her journal. Finally, after ten days, she got up sufficient courage to say something to the Count, and he reassured her at once that he would prefer she recover completely before returning to her duties. There is an entry then that hints at a more intimate exchange, but the phrases are so vague that it is impossible to tell for sure. Mind, that wasn’t a mealy-mouthed age like this one. If something had passed between them, there would be no reason for her to hide behind metaphors, unless she feared the reproach of her husband later, which I doubt she did. When at last Sir James was released from gaol, he hired on as a mercenary soldier and went east in the pay of the Hapsburgs and nothing is known of his fate. On the other hand, at the end of her three years with her Count, Sabrina came back to England and set herself up in fairly good style. She never remarried but apparently had one or two lovers. Her journal is fairly explicit about them. One was named Richard and had something to do with Norfolk. The other was Henry and was some sort of relative of the Howards.
She is very careful not to be too direct about their identities except in how
they had to do with her. Doubtless Sir James would have gnashed his teeth to
know that his wife ended up doing well for herself. Or he might have liked to
live off her money.”

“But surely your great-aunt did not become wealthy through the good offices of this Count, did she?” Twilford asked, eyeing his host askance.

“Probably a bequest. Those Continentals are always settling great amounts of money on their faithful servants. I read of a case not long ago where a butler in France got more than the children…” Lord Graveston stopped in the middle of his words and stared hard at the sixth guest. “No offense intended.”

“Naturally not,” the sixth guest said.

“You’re a Count, too, they say?” Dominick inquired unnecessarily.

The sixth guest favored him with a wry smile and a slight inclination of his head. “That is one of my titles, yes.”

“Smooth spoken devil, aren’t you?” Dominick challenged, his eyes growing bright.

“In the manner of my English… acquaintances,” he replied, adding, “If I have erred, perhaps you will be kind enough to instruct me.”

Everard stifled a laugh and Dominick’s face reddened.

“Let it alone, Dominick, can’t you?” Twilford said before Dominick could think of another insult to launch at the sixth guest.

“Get back to Sabrina, Charles, or you’ll have Dominick asking to meet your foreign guest at dawn.” Lord Graveston sounded both disgusted and disappointed.

“Yes, I will,” Whittenfield said with alacrity. “She had broken her arm and took time to mend, during which time her employer was most solicitous of her health. He saw to it that she was well fed and that her children were cared for so that they did not impose upon their mother. Sabrina was astounded and grateful for this consideration. She had never expected such charity from a stranger. And the more she learned about the Count, the more curious she became. He was without doubt wealthy, and had chosen to live in this poor part of Antwerp so that he would not be put upon by the authorities, she suspected. Yet she doubted that he had broken the law or was engaged in espionage. Eventually she wondered if he were doing vivisections, but never found a body, or any part of one, in the house, though she did once find the manservant with a large piece of raw meat. With every doubt that was quelled, another rose to take its place. She did not dare to approach him directly, for although he had never shown her anything but kindness, Sabrina reveals that she sensed a force or power in him that frightened her.”

Twilford shook his head. “Women! Why
will
they endow us with godlike qualities?”

Dominick stifled a yawn.

“It was Sabrina’s daughter, Cesily, who first stumbled upon the Count’s secret, or one of his secrets,” Wbittenfield said, and took time to top off his port. He was enjoying the sudden silence that had fallen. Slowly he leaned back, smiling in delight with himself.

“Charles…” Dominick warned.

“The secret was one that Sabrina said she should have guessed. How it came about was…”

“You’d try the patience of half the saints in the calendar, Whittenfleld,” Everard said, attempting an amused chuckle with a distinct lack of success.

Whittenfleld refused to be rushed. “Cesily came running into her mother’s chamber one afternoon with a large glass beaker clutched in her small hands. She said she had come upon it in the hallway near the locked door, but upon close questioning, she admitted that she had found the door unlocked and had decided to explore. You may imagine how aghast Sabrina was to hear this, and she trembled to think how the Count would react to the news that the child had invaded his private rooms. She thought it best to be prepared for the worst, and determined to approach the Count before he came to her. She had a little money set aside, and if the worst came to pass, she was fairly confident that after she had paid for the damage, she would still have enough money left to afford passage to England, though she did not know what she would do once she got there.”

“Just like a woman,” Everard said, attempting to look world-weary, though his young features did not easily lend themselves to that expression.

“Whittenfield, have you had pipes put in, or must I seek the necessary house in the garden?” Lord Graveston asked unexpectedly.

“You’ll find what you need by the pantry door, my Lord,” Dominick said, a malicious undertone to his good manners.

“Thanks, puppy,” the old man said, getting out of his chair. “Should be back in a little time.” He walked stiff-legged to the door and closed it sharply behind him.

“Well…” Whittenfield said, rather nonplussed by Lord Graveston’s departure, and uncertain now how to pick up the threads of his narrative, “as might be expected…”—he covered the awkward moment by pouring himself yet another glass of the excellent port—“it took her some time to convince herself that it was appropriate to interrupt the Count at his work. She did not want to go to that locked door and knock, for fear of his wrath. She also realized that she was not eager to be dismissed. The man was a generous master and had treated her far more kindly than she had thought he would. Yes. You can see her predicament. But if the broken beaker were not acknowledged, then it might go unpleasantly for her and her children. Sabrina was not a foolish woman…”

“What woman is not foolish where her children are concerned?” Hamworthy inquired piously. He often remarked that heaven had seen fit to visit seven daughters on him, as others were visited with plague. It was tacitly acknowledged that one of his reasons for attending this gathering was to talk with Everard about a possible alliance with his fourth daughter, Isabel.

“Be that as it may…” Whittenfield said more forcefully, glad that the general irritation with Hamworthy for once worked to his benefit. “Indeed, Sabrina feared for what would become of her and her children. There were several possibilities, each one more horrifying than the last. She could be dismissed. That was not desirable, but she could manage, if she acted with caution. If, however, the Count decided to take action against her or—more horribly—her daughter for her actions, then it might go very badly for them. Her thoughts were filled with the tales she had heard of the fate of children in prisons, their abuses and their degradation. At the very contemplation of such a possibility, Sabrina was filled with overwhelming fright. She considered taking her children and leaving under the cover of night, and getting as far from Antwerp as she could. Lamentably, her resources would not allow her to fly a long way, or rapidly. She had to hope that she could persuade the Count that any restitution he demanded, no matter how severe, should be taken from her and not from her children. Imagine what terrors filled her as she went up the stairs—the very stairs down which she had fallen—to knock on that sinister locked door.”

“Why did she not simply talk to the manservant, and ask him to explain what had happened?” Twilford suggested.

“Apparently she did consider that, but decided that if she had to face the Count, she would prefer to do it at once, rather than go through the ordeal twice. It’s an understandable attitude, don’t you think?”

“And this way she would have the strategic element of surprise,” the sixth guest said quietly.

“Just so,” Whittenfield said emphatically. “You understand me very well, Count.” He drank again, inwardly delighted at the increased attention he had been given. “So she knocked at the door. A gentle rap at first, and then a stronger one. You would have thought she was far more brave than she claimed to be, so boldly and directly did she present herself. In her journal, she says that she quaked inwardly, and that there was almost nothing she could do to keep her hands from shaking, yet she did not allow these considerations to hold her back.”

“Females, so precipitate,” Twilford muttered.

“In a general, that quality would be called audacity, and would earn glory and praise,” the sixth guest pointed out.

“Not the same thing at all,” Twilford said, much shocked.

“Of course not,” answered the sixth guest.

“To return to Sabrina,” Whittenfield said sharply. “She knocked on the door and waited. When there was no response, she knocked a second time, hoping all the while that the Count would not be there, or for whatever reason, would not answer. She had begun to worry again—what if this man were hiding men and women in those rooms? What if he had a cache of arms or gunpowder? What if there were other sorts of equipment, things that would not be favored by the officials of Antwerp? Was she required to report what she saw, assuming the Count allowed her to leave the house at all? When she had knocked a third time, she was convinced that the Count was away, and she turned with relief to descend the stairs. And then the door behind her opened and the Count asked her why she had disturbed him. He spoke reasonably, her journal says, telling her that her errand must be of great urgency, for she had never before gone contrary to his orders regarding that door. Sabrina gathered up her faltering courage and told him what her daughter had done, then stood silent, waiting for his wrath to fall on her, for it was not rare for a master to vent his ire with a belt or a stick on servants who did not please him. That’s not done much any more, but in this time, Sabrina had every reason to think that she might be beaten for her daughter’s offense, and Cesily might be beaten as well. She tried to explain to the Count, then, that Cesily was only a child and had not intended to harm his property, or to trespass in his private rooms. She had got halfway into her tangled arguments when the Count interrupted her to say that he hoped that Cesily was not hurt. Dumbfounded, Sabrina said that she was not. The Count expressed his relief to hear this and assured Sabrina that he was not angry with her or her child, that he was upset to realize they regarded him as such an object of terror. Sabrina demurred, and tried to end this awkward interview, but it was not the Count’s intention to allow this. He opened the door wider and asked her if she would care to see what lay beyond. Poor Sabrina! Her curiosity was fired at this offer, for she wanted to enter those room with a desire that was close to passion, but at the same time, she knew that she might be exposing herself to danger. Had it been only herself, she wrote in her journal, she would not have hesitated for a moment, but again, her consideration for her two children weighed heavily with her and for that reason she did not at once accept his offer. After a moment, her curiosity became the stronger force in her, and she went back up the stairs to the open door.”