Authors: Donna Lea Simpson
Awaiting the Moon (9 page)
“What was she doing in the woods?” Elizabeth Stanwycke said, her brow furrowed, blue eyes narrowed in thought.
He frowned. What
was
Magda Brandt doing in the woods at night… alone? He had not questioned when he heard the awful news that a village girl had been attacked by wolves on the edge of his property, but why was she out at night, and why would she be in the woods on his property at all? It was a distance from the village, and in such weather! The snow had not let up all evening and they were likely to have several feet before the drifting was done.
“I do not know.”
“It is immaterial,” Adele said, her tone harsh as she glanced between him and Elizabeth. “She will recover, or she will not. We need to decide…” She cast a quick glance at the tutor, and then said in German, “I will speak to you later, Nikolas.”
“Yes,” he returned in English. “We will speak later. I will not keep you ladies from your day’s plan. Please, Miss Stanwycke, do not mention the unfortunate village girl to anyone.”
“Of course not. I would have no reason.”
He watched her eyes, but beyond the truthfulness he saw in them, there was some hint of something else, whether it was evasion or merely the vestiges of awareness left between them from their meeting in the middle of the night, he could not tell. Perhaps as he knew her better he would be able to read those fleeting expressions. He looked forward to that, he thought, taking in her simple gown and how it fit her lovely body. He most definitely looked forward to getting to know Miss Elizabeth Stanwycke.
NIKOLAS COLLAPSED on his bed as his valet bustled in. “Heinrich, send for Cesare.”
Heinrich did his bidding, then silently turned down his master’s bed and provided the appropriate night attire, disappearing afterwards, swiftly and silently. He knew what was needed of him and did no more, nor any less, than was expected and wanted. For that reason alone he was the perfect servant for Nikolas.
As Cesare entered, Nikolas struggled to sit up again. He pulled off his boots and tossed them in the corner. “Have you heard about the girl, Magda Brandt?”
“Countess Adele just told me,” Cesare said, picking the boots up and placing them outside the door. He returned and stood by Nikolas. His brown eyes held worry and something more.
“What do you want to say?” Nikolas asked, his weariness making him abrupt.
Cesare handed him the nightshirt as he stripped his clothes off swiftly in the chilly room. His secretary then went and closed the deep blue drapes against the muted light of the snowy day.
He turned toward his employer and said, “You were gone all night.”
“I had something to attend to.” Nikolas pulled the nightshirt over his head. “And now I need sleep, or I shall drop. Tell me, have you seen Charlotte’s English tutor yet?”
Obeying the hint that no further conversation on the subject of the night’s activities was welcome, Cesare answered, “I saw her briefly; she met your great-aunt, Countess Uta.”
Nikolas grinned. “I wonder what she made of the old dame. What think you of Miss Stanwycke?”
“She is very beautiful.”
Nikolas gave him a sharp look as he crawled under his covers. “I do not care about that. My only care is if she can teach Charlotte what she needs to be a suitable bride for an English earl.”
“That remains to be seen. She certainly appears well-bred and well-mannered.” Cesare laid the count’s discarded clothes over a chair and turned back to his employer. “But Nikolas…
what if Charlotte doesn’t want to be a suitable bride for an English earl? What if she would prefer—”
“Enough. I have decided.”
Bartol Liebner then appeared, glancing in and motioning to Cesare to join him at the door.
Nikolas could hear their conversation even with his face buried in a pillow.
“Tell the count that we have heard more from the village. We were misled as to the gravity of the girl’s condition; Magda Brandt will recover completely, but she was badly frightened.
Wilhelm is now spreading it around town, telling people that the wolf leaped at Magda from the von Wolfram property,” Bartol said, his gruff voice laced with anxiety. “She is saying that the wolf appeared to be waiting for her, that he stalked her. What should we do?”
“Nothing!” Nikolas yelled, punching the pillow. “Do nothing until I tell you what to do. But now I must sleep, and the first person who awakens me before twilight will suffer the consequences.”
Bartol gabbled, “Yes, my nephew, I hear you. Certainly. I just wondered… about the girl…”
“It will wait,” Nikolas said again, his tone calmer. “Cesare, leave me, and close my door. And Bartol,” he called out, “I do not want you discussing this with anyone. Am I understood?”
“Yes, of course, Nikolas,” the older man said, peering into the dim room and bowing. “Sleep well.”
* * *
Countess Adele had already shown Elizabeth a supply of paper and quills, for letter writing was to be covered, too, since every London hostess needed to be conversant with good letter style, Elizabeth believed. Certainly many English women were close to illiterate, but Elizabeth intended to set a higher standard, and at the end of her time at Wolfram Castle, Charlotte von Wolfram would be a credit to her teacher, able to write a proper letter of invitation, regret, or sympathy in French or English. She would sound, behave, and look like a lady should, even if few around her rose to those standards.
“Is it good, Miss Stanwycke?” the countess asked, clasping her hands in front of her.
Elizabeth, standing by one of the windows and looking out over the snowy landscape, said,
“Yes, it’s very good.” She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, turning in a full circle and gazing at the room, touching the white silk-embroidered draperies with one hand.
“Perfect, in fact.” And it was. The castle was far more beautiful than she had imagined it would be. She had pictured an austere life in a dirty, ill-kept, dank castle; the only two friends she had left behind had lamented with her over how hard her life would be from now on.
Germany, they told her, was an uncivilized, rude country of half tamed barbarians. Instead she had found that at Wolfram Castle there was warmth and elegance, and the household was run with a precise, determined rigidity that though harsh was well-ordered and luxurious. But most important of all, above considerations of physical comfort, she was safe and she was employed and she was far away from London, where the tongues could now wag with no ill effect upon her. Perhaps even now John was getting married.
Good for him
, she thought, hardening her heart,
and pity on his wife-to-be, a silly little girl just done her first season
. She turned back to the countess. “May I have a few minutes here alone with Charlotte?”
The woman hesitated, but then braced herself, sighed, and said, “Yes, I suppose. But you will not be starting today?”
“No. But Charlotte and I haven’t had a chance to get to know each other yet, and I thought we would begin to at least make each others’ acquaintance.”
The countess hesitantly glanced from Charlotte to Elizabeth. Withstanding the urge to retreat from her request, Elizabeth wondered why the woman seemed so uncertain. Did she not trust her? Or was it her niece she was worried about?
She finally nodded sharply. “If you would like to have tea here, I will send someone. Later, with Nikolas, we will discuss what we expect you to cover with Charlotte.” She turned and strode to the door. Stopping to stare back at Charlotte, she said something in German and the girl responded in an insolent tone. The countess said something else and then departed.
“This is a beautiful room,” Elizabeth said to open the conversation. She strolled over to one of the sofas and sat down, hoping Charlotte would join her.
“I am not leaving here and I will not marry some old English… dodderer,” the girl said flatly, her expression sullen and her tone harsh.
That would be among their lessons: how to speak English with a mellifluous tone and without using rude words. Elizabeth observed the girl for a long moment, noting the ugly grimace and slatternly posture. She did not have an easy task before her. “I cannot imagine your uncle would want you to marry anyone you had conceived a dislike for.”
“Do not be sure! He would marry me to the devil himself if it would get me away from Wolfram Castle.”
“Why is that?” Elizabeth watched the girl pace agitatedly, her swift movements betraying her nervousness.
She shrugged in reply.
“You must have a theory. You cannot have come so far in your belief without some idea of why it is so.”
“He… wants me to marry good.” The girl was not meeting her gaze.
“But I’m sure if that is his only purpose, to see you marry well—not
good
, Countess, but
well
—there must be some young man of your own country and class… perhaps someone you have already met?” Elizabeth watched her charge. Was it that Charlotte had conceived some ill-founded love for someone entirely unsuitable? That would explain her uncle’s determination to send her away. And yet, if that were the case, he would likely have sent Charlotte to England to be schooled.
“I have not met any man,” Charlotte said dully. “Not any man who could ever care for me.”
She plunked down on a low stool by the fireplace, picked up a poker, and jabbed ferociously at the embers burning in the grate. One popped and some burning coals fell to the hearth.
“And I never will.”
Baffled by the girl’s behavior, Elizabeth was silent. So far at this troubled place there were far more questions than answers, an uneasy state for someone as curious as she was.
“You cannot predict that,” Elizabeth said. “Even if you don’t wish to do what your uncle commands, you can appeal to your aunt. Surely Countess Adele—”
“She and my uncle are together in this.”
“What do
you
want to do?” Elizabeth asked, watching the girl jab again at the fire, wondering if she would burn the house down in her agitation.
Charlotte stilled and frowned, as if that question was a new one. And perhaps it was, for she repeated it. “What do
I
want to do?”
The door to the parlor swung open and Countess Gerta and Melisande Davidovich walked in.
The countess was smiling, but the younger woman had the grace to appear abashed and lagged behind her companion.
A footman followed them with a tray of cups and plates.
“We heard you were having tea here, and Melisande wanted to join you so very badly,” the countess said with a sly smile for her companion, who appeared startled. “I demurred, but she is so headstrong! And so we came and are interrupting your lesson. What have you learned, Charlotte?”
“She has learned how best to get one’s own way,” Elizabeth said with a significant look at the woman. She was not pleased at the interruption, nor at the countess’s manner, which was impertinent and familiar. The woman had a hectic flush on her cheeks, almost a rash, and her movements were quick and jerky. Elizabeth watched her for a moment, thinking that if she was to do her job, she must determine how best to forestall such unwanted interference in future.
“Oh, I think she already knows how to do that,” the woman said, her pale eyebrows arched and her blue eyes wide. “Don’t all women?”
“I don’t think so. If that were so, all women would be happy,” Elizabeth replied acerbically.
“Getting one’s own way does not always make one happy,” the countess said, wandering the room as another footman came in with the tea and a plate of sweet cakes.
Wondering if that were really true, Elizabeth reflected that in her own case, perhaps the countess was right. Would she have been happy if a certain gentleman had lived up to his promises? Married and respectable she would be, and yet married to a man she now knew to have little or no moral quality in his soul. Would that have led to happiness?
Charlotte had been silent since her aunt came into the room. Elizabeth observed for a moment and noticed how the countess took over, serving the tea and offering cakes, as if it were a party in her own parlor. She smiled and preened and gesticulated, talking rapidly as she poured, spilling almost as much as she got in the cups. Countess Gerta von Holtzen, Elizabeth reflected, was clearly accustomed to and relished being the center of attention. Melisande Davidovich, on the other hand, appeared to be trying to shrink away.
“Mademoiselle Davidovich,” Elizabeth said, turning to her and speaking over the countess’s rapid chatter. “Do you enjoy living here?”
Eyes widening, the young woman first looked to Charlotte, but her friend was bemusedly staring at her cup of tea as if it were a foreign object. Then she glanced at the countess, who had stopped talking and was glaring resentfully at her. “I-I suppose I do. The von Wolfram family has been very kind to myself and to my uncle. We both—”
The countess made a faint noise and the younger woman fell silent again.
“I am wondering,” the countess said, her voice loud, “if that poor village girl will live… the one attacked and savaged by a pack of wolves?”
The two younger women were silent, but both had similar expressions of frozen incomprehension, their eyes wide and full of fear.