Masks and Shadows (5 page)

“Indeed.” Charlotte blinked back a sudden pang. After the long years of progressively worsening pain, Ernst's passing had come as nothing but a bitter relief, to himself and to everyone who had cared for him. Still . . .

She was glad not to be left in their estate in Saxony, surrounded by painful daily reminders. Stale and impersonal though their marriage had been in many ways, Ernst had at least treated her with a consistent kindness and generosity that had been notably lacking in her parents' household.

She forced a smile, dismissing the useless sorrow. “I often heard him speak your name with admiration, sir.” She did not mention the qualifier Ernst had added in his later years—that it was a pity such a brilliant man had grown distracted from his scientific work by political maneuverings.

And yet . . .

Dropping her voice to a discreet half-whisper, Charlotte asked, “And your other philosophical quests, sir? I know my husband read the articles in your magazine quite regularly.”

Von Born relaxed into a smile, lowering his own voice. “The
Journal für Freimaurer
, yes. I have been entrusted with its editorship. We publish articles of scientific and philosophical interest to all well-educated men, with the aim of spreading Enlightenment through the German-speaking world in our own small fashion. Our subscribers include many right-thinking statesmen and scholars.”

Signor Morelli raised his eyebrows. “And these statesmen do not take issue with the source?” His voice remained clear and carrying as he said, “It's not every royal who supports the Freemasons' endeavors.”

Von Born shrugged. “Why should they not? Any reasonably Enlightened man must support the measures that Emperor Joseph has begun to introduce through our realm since his ascent to co-regentship. We support all of them in our pages, as a patriotic function. The relaxation of censorship, the improvement of our universities . . .”

Signor Morelli's voice was whisper-soft. “The taxation of the nobles and reduction of their powers over the peasantry?”

Von Born smiled tightly, and closed his hands more tightly around the head of his walking stick. “The Emperor is still young, signor. Not all of these policies will continue unchecked.”

“But what of my phantasms?” Sophie pouted. “I have been so eagerly awaiting them!”

“My apologies, madam. You would desire a different type of scholar for that amusement.” Von Born's thin lips twisted. “I'm sure Count Radamowsky, for one, would be happy to oblige.”

“Radamowsky . . .” Sophie knitted her brow. “I don't think . . .”

“Does he really claim to conjure ghosts?” Charlotte asked.

Signor Morelli shrugged. “A man may claim all sorts of powers, may he not? And in a darkened room . . .”

Herr von Born shifted uncomfortably. “Count Radamowsky follows Sir Isaac Newton's interest in the aether, Baroness—the idea, in short, of an ethereal medium hovering between the material and immaterial worlds, just outside the limits of our vision.”

“So there may be ghosts surrounding us all the time, without our seeing them?” Sophie shuddered, eyes shining. “How perfectly horrid!”

Signor Morelli looked bored. “They may pull our hair all they will, so long as they stay quiet about it.”

Charlotte tapped one finger against her skirts. “But this ethereal medium of Count Radamowsky's—you say it hovers between the two worlds. Could it, then, like a veil, be moved aside at will?”

“Precisely.” Von Born nodded. “He claims the power to summon the spirits that hover on the edge of that veil, like a piece of gauze separating one room from the next, each invisible to each other.”

Signor Morelli raised his eyebrows. “Are we to understand, then, that you believe his claims, Herr von Born?”

Von Born scowled. “I hardly consider our interests to coincide, signor. Radamowsky is a radical, wild for popular interest and notoriety . . . not a scientist.”

“But are all of his claims therefore false?” Charlotte asked.

“Perhaps you may attend one of his salons in Vienna some day and decide the matter for yourself, Baroness.”

“I certainly will, even if Lotte doesn't,” said Sophie. “He sounds absolutely fascinating!”

Von Born snorted. “Fascinating, perhaps, but improvident. His creditors are rumored to be snapping at his heels, and the Emperor and Empress have refused to fund his further researches.”

“Well . . .” Sophie shrugged and looked away, sighing.

Charlotte suppressed a smile. Of course, her younger sister would ever lose interest when the mention of economy entered a conversation. In moments like this, Charlotte could believe that very little had changed since their nursery days.

Sophie's eyes widened as she looked across the room. “Why, here is Niko at last! Now he may greet you properly.” She lowered her voice, and added to the two gentlemen, “I was only just telling Lotte about the scandal among the actors that held him. Of course, we are trying to keep it very quiet . . .”

“Of course,” Signor Morelli murmured. “One wouldn't want any gossip to begin.”

Herr von Born smiled grimly down at his walking stick. “What else can one expect from that class of people?”

“I suppose you have the right of it there,” Sophie agreed. “But it is a great pity that they did not think how they might reflect upon the honor of their employers. They have a duty to behave decently when they are in royal employ!”

Charlotte accidentally met Signor Morelli's gaze for a moment as her sister's royal lover strode across the room to meet them.

The shadow of the Princess seemed to interpose itself among their company.

“I prefer to take meals alone, in my own rooms, nowadays.”

“A pity, indeed,” Charlotte murmured, and looked away.

Chapter Four

About one thing, at any rate, Carlo was forced to admit that Von Born had been correct. The food at Eszterháza was worlds better than the slop they'd eaten in the Hungarian inns along the road. Carlo saw Edmund Guernsey, far down the end of the table, tearing into his meat with enthusiasm. Carlo contented himself with a more restrained approach and finished his glass of wine with a final, appreciative sip.

Prince Nikolaus had been leaning over to listen smilingly to the animated whispers of his mistress, but his nod sent a footman hurrying to refill Carlo's glass.

“I hope you are enjoying your meal, Signor Morelli?” The Prince straightened, patting Frau von Höllner's hand. “I'm afraid our modest fare can hardly stand comparison against some of the rich feasts you must have known in Versailles and Constantinople.”

Nothing about this meal, or this palace, could lay the faintest claim to modesty, from the grossly overflowing serving platters to the great diamond studs on Prince Nikolaus's waistcoat . . . but Carlo had not risen so high by acting the honest fool.

“On the contrary, Your Highness. I am all admiration.”

“You must see the view from the balcony, this afternoon.” Prince Nikolaus's wolflike grin broke out fiercely from the intensity of his face. “You might not believe it to see Eszterháza now, signor, but twenty years ago this land was naught but marshland, with a scattering of peasant huts. The grimmest sort of no man's land.”

Still holding his wine glass, Carlo turned in his cushioned seat to glance out the row of tall, arched windows that lined one wall of the dining room from floor to ceiling, each window separated from the others by deep gold inlay. Through the glass, warm sunlight beamed down on a classically designed green parkland as peaceful and elegant as any Grecian idyll.

“It must have been a mighty endeavor indeed, to create this fairyland from nothing.” Carlo sipped at his wine, letting the flavors linger on his tongue.

“It was, by God. I had to drain the marsh, bring in builders and architects from every country in Europe . . . and the construction is not yet finished, either.”

“Oh, no,” Frau von Höllner chirped. “Niko has promised me a Temple of Diana!”

Carlo bit down on his tongue and restrained himself from asking whether she felt any special affinity with that chaste virgin goddess.

“I've still seen only a few of the temples and pavilions,” Baroness von Steinbeck said softly, from Carlo's other side. “They are marvelously impressive.”

Do they stand where the peasant huts did, before?
Carlo wondered.
And what happened to their tenants?

Carlo stifled a sigh and reined in his wandering thoughts. Perhaps these morbid musings were a symptom of his growing age. When he was younger, this would have felt like a glorious mischief: he, Carlo Morelli, Francesco Morelli's sixth son, was feasting with princes! They asked for
his
approval! Could anything be more grandly absurd?

Now, the banter and the self-conscious grandeur of it all left a bitter taste on his tongue. When Prince Nikolaus had needed funds to build the vast Temple of Esterházy that this palace represented, how high had he forced the rents from the peasants legally bound to his land? How many families had lost their homes?

Perhaps some of those families had youngest sons who loved to sing, as well. But how many of them would ever have the chance?

“Signor Morelli, you are very silent.” The Prince's keen eyes fixed on him. “Is anything the matter?”

“Not at all, Your Highness. I'm only contemplating the beauty of your fine park.” Carlo smiled and tilted his head toward the great windows and the expanse of manicured green lawn that they revealed, dotted with statues, fountains, and hedges. “I must reward myself with a walk through it soon. A visit with the classical gods would do me good.”

Carlo excused himself at the earliest opportunity and retreated to his private chambers. His valet had traveled a half-day ahead of him from the last inn they'd stopped at and had laid out all of his belongings before discreetly disappearing. Carlo shrugged off his coat with a sigh of relief. Lord, but he was tired. Too tired to play the courtier any more this afternoon. Too tired to convince himself that it was worthwhile.

Luckily, a singer always had the excuse of practice to act as his savior in such situations. Not even the Prince Esterházy could take offence at his distinguished guest's desire to spend the afternoon in rehearsal of his voice. Not when the obligatory, “voluntary” recitals were sure to be expected, nearly every evening, after dinner . . .

It was a complicated dance, this life of wandering virtuosity, of honor, glory, riches and veiled contempt. Carlo knew the steps and had become a master at them early in his life. They had paid for his parents to live out their old age in a luxury no one in their tiny village could have previously imagined possible. His two surviving older brothers owned a flourishing apothecary in Naples, bought outright with Carlo's grand salary.

Lately, though, the moments of true enjoyment had dwindled into a soul-leeching tedium. He thought of Baroness von Steinbeck's offer to accompany his recital—pushed on, none-too-subtly, by that feather-headed sister of hers—and snorted. God save him from lady amateurs. Between thirty minutes of practice, twice a week, and the earnest applause of their music-masters, they all convinced themselves soon enough of their great musical souls.

Souls . . . Now he had become maudlin indeed, if he would spend his afternoon on philosophical quests. Leave those to von Born! Carlo opened the windows to let in fresh air and cleared his throat to begin his vocal exercises.

An unexpected sound cut him off before he could begin.

Beyond his room, floating through the walls of the other third-floor chambers as well as the open window, a glorious soprano voice pealed out, deliciously full of latent power—but, as was immediately clear, untrained. No music master had ever influenced this singer.

It took Carlo a flummoxed moment to understand why he couldn't make out the words; it was one of Herr Haydn's most popular Italian songs, but the Italian itself was utter gibberish—memorized by ear, perhaps? And by someone who could not possibly speak the language. She sang with musical feeling, but she clearly had no idea of what any of the mangled words might mean.

Carlo closed the window slowly, shaking his head, while a reluctant smile pulled at his lips. The sound of the singing continued, muffled only slightly. Only the nobility and their most honored guests stayed in this wing of the palace—yet no noblewoman would be so unfamiliar with Italian, nor sing with such a blatant lack of formal training. And as for the noblewomen he had met here . . . Frau von Höllner's speaking voice was like the bright cheeping of a canary. Carlo could swear she'd never be able to produce a tone so full and rich as this. Nor could he imagine such high, ringing peals arising from Baroness von Steinbeck's husky contralto voice.

It was a mystery, and an amusing one, to shake him out of his dreary mood. However, he certainly wouldn't be able to focus on his own practice while the mysterious soprano continued to magnificently mangle more operatic arias nearby.