Daughter of Mystery (15 page)

“And my station is not as high as his,” Margerit concluded for her.

“It isn’t only that.” But as soon as she said it, Barbara looked as if she’d wished she kept silent.

“What?”

“That night—that was just for show. There was no possible danger to the baron at your ball.”

The implication sank in. “Do you think I’ll be in danger?”

“No!” The answer was swift. “Never when I’m there with you!”

And then, as if embarrassed by the fierceness of her response, Barbara bowed formally and bade her good-night.

Chapter Eighteen

Barbara

The invitation to Count Oriez’s ball thrust her back into a more familiar role. The world of the Fulpis was an alien land where people hired guards only for highway journeys and a young woman’s companion carried a parasol, not a sword. Barbara knew she bewildered them and found them bewildering in turn. Count Oriez lived in a more familiar world where certain things were understood and had their own rules. Where the symbols and rituals of an outmoded age still held sway. Barbara knew the name and habits of his duelist as well as she knew the streets of Rotenek. A note sent around procured an appointment to review the layout of the count’s ballroom and the other public areas. A copy of the guest list was formally requested and just as formally denied. Barbara had relaxed into the rhythm of the preparations even as Margerit grew more anxious.

Maistir Fulpi had determined that the honor of the occasion called for his personal attendance though he was content to allow the ladies the task of chaperoning Margerit at ordinary parties. It was clear he didn’t choose to miss this opportunity to mix with his more important neighbors. He led the way when Margerit’s carriage took its turn in the queue disgorging brightly-colored ladies and their more sober escorts into the portico of Count Oriez’s entryway. Barbara kept close at their tail as they ascended the steps and were passed along to the majordomo who announced their names to the hall. Only then did she slip off to the right along the colonnaded walk that ran down the side of the ballroom under the gallery. The gallery itself would have a better view of the room but with less means of intervention, should it be necessary. The colonnade was a between-space, inhabited by hurrying servants and loitering armins, crossed by the guests only to reach the doors to the terrace and the garden beyond.

Barbara strolled down the row, looking for the best vantage point. That point was already inhabited by Amund, the count’s duelist, unconsciously embodying the description she had once given by leaning against a pillar and scowling. He acknowledged her greeting with the barest of nods. Only five or six other guests so far had considered it necessary to be attended by armins and those had taken similar stances along the colonnade. Barbara found a place some distance away from the others and looked out into the ballroom to locate her charge.

Margerit was first led into the dance by a gawky young man. It was not the best of choices to put her at ease, but her next partner was more skilled and coaxed her into forgetting to be self-conscious. Then a return to her aunts, a bit of refreshment, a new introduction and the round began again.

In watching, Barbara thought back on what Signore Donati had said about dancing. As with sword work, it wasn’t about knowing all the steps in their proper order. It was the way the movements flowed together when you ceased to think of them separately. The way a skilled dancer could guide a partner—or opponent—into the flow of the dance. The baron hadn’t danced, of course, so her attention had never been drawn to it when attending him. Now she imagined how it would feel to move in concert with a partner, putting that sureness of movement into the service of bringing out their best, not with the goal of finding a weakness or forcing a fault. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad idea to return to dancing lessons after all. Not, of course, that she would make use of it on the ballroom floor. But that didn’t stop her from watching Margerit with measuring eyes, envisioning herself in the place of each partner in turn. Wincing when they made her stumble. Heartened when they made her laugh.

That reverie was broken by the majordomo announcing, “His excellency, Estefen Chazillen, Baron Saveze.” Barbara’s heart dropped and her eyes turned instantly to the door. Here? Now? He had no valid business in Chalanz. And if he were a close friend of Oriez, this was the first she’d heard of it. He meant trouble and he had journeyed all the way from Rotenek for the purpose.

He stood paused in the entrance, well aware of the impression he would make as he scanned the room from under lowering brows, his mouth twisted in something just short of a sneer. At one step behind he was followed by a young man whose posture declared him an armin. Evidently Estefen’s new position demanded proper attendance, rather than relying on the company of friends. She recognized the man as a local, from Chauten’s fencing school. In a previous generation he might have found scope for his moderate talents in a regiment, but the French Wars had marked the end of the age of valiant cavalry charges and flashing blades. War was a business now and he would have done better to take up the rifle than the sword. In the next generation, even the post of armin might become obsolete. For now the best positions required either skill or connections and this boy had neither. Estefen had likely been able to hire him for little more than pride of place and the dream of romantic adventure. She searched her memory. Perzin, that was his name.

Barbara’s eyes darted back and forth from Margerit to Estefen to Perzin. The latter made his way around to the colonnade and stood awkwardly looking around. She could almost feel sorry for him. Amund took him aside and leaned closely to speak to him. They both glanced in her direction. The count’s man shook his head in an emphatic negative and the boy moved off toward the far end of the colonnade.

For some long time Estefen pretended to no pointed purpose in coming, beyond what enjoyment anyone might seek. He disappeared into the card rooms for a while then stood in conversation at the far end of the room. She lost sight of him for a few minutes in turning her attention back to the dancers. Then, between the blink of an eye, he was there at Margerit’s side, being introduced to her and leading her out toward a forming set.

Barbara’s stomach clenched and she took a step forward, but there was nothing to respond to. Margerit might be hesitant, but she went willingly enough to the dance. And what harm could he do in the middle of a ballroom surrounded by a hundred others? The figures of the dance brought them apart and together. With every approach Estefen would lean close and say something that brought a stumble to her foot and a blush to her cheek. Once, Barbara thought Margerit tried to catch her eyes but other dancers came between them and the moment passed.

After an eternity, the dance was over. They remained on the floor, Estefen still holding the tips of Margerit’s fingers from the final reverence. Only the closest observation could discern the small movements she made to free her hand. Barbara realized she had taken several steps out from the shelter of the gallery when Estefen’s armin stepped in front of her. He looked terrified. Reflex drove her hand to the hilt of her weapon, but thought stopped her from drawing it. Amund drawled in affected laziness at her shoulder, “I would beg you not to make fools of yourselves at my master’s party. You know the law. There has been no threat, no provocation, no insult given.”

“There’s threat and threat,” Barbara snarled. “I have eyes to see with.” But she stepped back behind the invisible wall marked by the line of the gallery. When she looked out again, Margerit had escaped and Estefen was looking in her direction with a mocking smile.

Seeing that look, Perzin cleared his throat and said to her, “My master the baron sends a message for you. Tomorrow you will find your position changed and you would do well to tread cautiously.”

She sneered. “Tomorrow you can go back to playing at tin soldiers. Don’t take up with Saveze unless you’re up to the task.” She pointedly turned away from him to scan the ballroom. She’d taken his measure and had no fears from that end.

Margerit was deep in conversation with her Aunt Fulpi by the windows where the older women loitered, fulfilling their duties as
vizeinos
, the chaperones necessary when any unmarried woman ventured out in formal society. Her aunt’s normally timid expression was tight-lipped and frowning. She shook her head repeatedly and sharply to whatever Margerit was saying. Finally she took Margerit’s chin in her hand and said something emphatic. Margerit straightened her shoulders and stretched her mouth in a weak smile. And shortly thereafter the round began again with another introduction, another dance.

Estefen had disappeared back to the upper rooms where gambling ruled the evening. If she could, she would have relaxed at that knowledge, but there were other hazards, no less worrisome for being smaller. As the evening wore on, Margerit looked more flustered and uncertain. When a dance partner began leading her casually through the colonnade toward the terrace, Barbara closed the distance with a few long strides and passed through the door before it had closed on their heels.

She took a position in the man’s line of sight, too close to be ignored. He bristled, then—recognizing her profession—blanched and muttered, “Forgive my error,” as he turned back toward the door alone.

“You need to be more careful,” she chided Margerit in a quiet voice. “You know what they say: a walk in the garden is as good as a betrothal.” And then, at a sudden catch in the other’s breath, “Hush, don’t cry! I’m sorry.” She pressed a handkerchief into Margerit’s hand while turning to shield her from any curious eyes.

“I didn’t know how to refuse without being rude. One moment I was at the punch bowl and the next we were out here.”

“Never mind. That’s why I’m here—to be rude for you.”

“Barbara—he said he’s going to come speak to my uncle tomorrow.” No need to say which “he” they were talking about now. “What can I do?”

Barbara looked around hastily. “Not here; not now.”

“I want to go home.” There was a shake in Margerit’s voice but it might have been the cold. It might be nearly summer, but the evening was still too brisk for lingering outside in a light ballgown. No doubt her former escort had hoped for an excuse to remedy the chill himself. Barbara put an arm around her shoulders only long enough to draw her closer to the building and out of the breeze.

“What did your aunt say?”

“That we couldn’t possibly leave until they go in for supper, but that we might leave then without dining. How can I face him if I see him again?”

Barbara shook her head—the gesture meant only for herself. Margerit needed more of the steel she’d shown at the reading of the baron’s will. This wouldn’t do. Her instinct was to comfort but instead she said, “And how will you face the men students at the university when they tell you to return to the drawing room where you belong? How will you face the gossipmongers who will be ready to cut up your reputation at any sign of weakness? I know what you want, but a fortune alone won’t buy it for you if you aren’t strong enough to reach out and take it.”

This had the desired effect: Margerit glared at her in outrage. Barbara pressed the point home. “Did you think your uncle was the only gate you need to pass? If you can’t face the stares of a few neighbors in a ballroom, you’ll come running home after a week in Rotenek.”

She was relieved to see Margerit stiffen, but saw she was staring behind her and turned.

“What are you doing out here, Margerit?” her uncle asked sharply.

Abandoning her previous tone, Barbara leapt to her defense. “Maistir, she was only feeling a little warm—I’ve been with her the whole time.”

He gave her an annoyed glance but accepted the answer. “Be that as it may, come back in. You shouldn’t be out here.”

“Yes, Uncle,” Margerit answered, following him back toward the door. In the pause as the footman opened it for them, Margerit passed the crumpled handkerchief back to her and pressed it into her hand with a squeeze.

In the end, they stayed through the supper after all. Estefen made no further appearance. And by whatever means the adventurers among the male guests communicated among themselves, the word passed that Margerit Sovitre might be a naïve little nobody of an heiress but she was well looked after and not to be plucked easily.

* * *

There was no chance to speak again until they were home and Margerit was preparing for bed. Her Aunt Bertrut pressed her for a tête-à-tête but Margerit pleaded a headache and exhaustion and begged her to wait for the morning.

“If that’s the case,” her aunt said, “don’t let me find that you’ve been up to all hours talking to the servants.” Barbara caught her meaningful glance.

“You heard your aunt, I mustn’t stay long,” she cautioned when Bertrut had left.

“Don’t go yet,” Margerit answered, holding her tongue further until Maitelen had finished her duties and been dismissed. When they were private she said, “He wants to talk to my uncle. If it were anyone else, I’d know what that means. But why?”

She wondered how far Margerit had thought it through. “I assume he plans to ask your uncle for permission to pay court to you. Or maybe just for permission to marry you. It depends on how subtle he thinks he will need to be.”

Margerit nodded. “That was what I thought. He didn’t say it in as many words, but…” She sat slumped on the edge of her bed and looked miserable again, but as Barbara watched she hardened her expression. “What should I do? No, I don’t mean about marrying him—I won’t do it. But how can I convince Uncle Fulpi? I need more than just a refusal. He’s a baron; I don’t think even uncle thought to look that high.”

Barbara knelt beside the bed to avoid looming over her. “Your uncle may think a title is a fine thing to have in the family, but the title is the only thing Estefen is offering you. Remember, he thinks your inheritance should be his by right. Submit to him and he will feel no gratitude—not to you nor to your family. If his ring goes on your finger, your property goes into his control. Oh, not until you’re of age, to be sure, but that’s only two years away. When that day comes, your cousins will never see a
teneir’s
benefit. If your uncle thinks they will all rise in society on the hem of your skirts, he’s mistaken. For that matter, don’t expect that you would be welcomed by Estefen’s family and friends. You would be a convenience only. And entirely in his power. And if something…unfortunate happened to you, once that property was his, who would there be to ask questions?”