Revenant Eve (44 page)

There were ribbon sashes, and more ribbons for the hair. Stockings of the finest cotton and two shawls with knotted fringes completed the selection of clothes.

Aurélie dug out her old sewing kit and pulled on one of the gowns. It was a basic tube, flaring out so that the skirt draped over the chemisette. She turned this way and that. The gown was too wide and long, dragging on the floor. She carefully placed her toes on the hem, then picked up several pins, put them in her mouth, pinched the fabric under her arm and at the ribs, and pinned the pinches.

She slipped carefully out of the gown, loaded her needle, then used the place her toe had been to mark the new hem.

As she began whipping up the hem with the speed of all those teenage years of sewing, she finally said, “There’s knowing that I’m as good as anyone else, and the facts of my parentage. It’s very well to say that I know I’m as good as anyone else, but that won’t matter much if everyone else thinks the way Aunt Kittredge did. And you know most people will.”

“Do you believe, after you heard General Kosciusko, that
Jaska
would treat you that way if he found out?”

“I don’t know,” she said finally, as she began stitching the first of the tucks. “Ah, don’t speak, Duppy Kim. I must concentrate.”

She scowled as she thrust the needle through the cloth.

Gradually her tense brow cleared as she quickly transformed the dress. It was as if she transformed herself with the gown; she’d watched Leroy, Josephine’s dressmaker, and had learned the art of drapery. When she slipped the gown on again it had become a different dress. Her posture
in it was straight-backed, her chin high. But her gaze was still troubled.

She turned in a slow circle, then came to a decision. She pulled out her tiny sewing scissors and carefully trimmed some of the damp hair around her face. Josephine and her ladies wore theirs short in front. Aurélie fingered the locks, which sprang into what Josephine had called “kiss curls.” They were charming on her forehead and cheeks and neck.

I watched, rejoicing at every primp and tuck, for each seemed to bring her closer to the decision to stay and tough it out.

Finally she used one of the cherry-colored ribbons to bind up the rest of her thick, wavy black hair in the Grecian style, which accentuated the beautiful shape of her head and the graceful curve of her throat. She tied the cherry sash high, put on her old slippers, and glanced at herself in the mirror.

“You’re a princess,” I said.

She laughed, then curtseyed with mocking grace. “I won’t retreat. He must send me away. But I won’t tell him about my history just yet. I must determine if I’ll trust him that much, because he didn’t trust me enough to tell me who he was. There might be reasons. I’ll wait to hear them.”

She swept out.

The others sat in a private dining room, paneled and enameled in white and gold with intricate rococo frieze-work. Their faces were flushed. Aurélie sniffed. From the looks of things, she was taking in the sweet fumes of a double-distilled plum brandy called
tzuica
.

She’d spent a year learning not only the intricacies of court etiquette, but how to move with the blend of balletic grace and allure that was so much a part of Josephine’s style. The men stopped talking and stared as she glided into the room.

Seating arrangements mean something in court circles, and there was Mord in the place of honor at Jaska’s right. At Jaska’s left, his sister. Then Captain Danilov, an empty chair, and Irena, who was on Mord’s other side, leaving a spot for Aurélie between the captain and the countess,
and opposite Jaska. It was a perfect arrangement, as equal as one could get, and yet not neutral.

Aurélie sat, and Jaska spoke: “It is said that German is the language of empire, but French is still the language of civilization, so we are exhibiting our civilized selves tonight.”

It was another perfect touch, because the best French speakers there were Jaska, Mord, and Aurélie.

If Aurélie hadn’t been told who Jaska was, I’m sure she would’ve figured it out fast, for the servants bowed to him whenever they came forward to offer foods or take things away, and everything was prefaced with
Durchlaucht
—“your highness.”

I could see Jaska eyeing her covertly, a hint of apprehension in the slight quirk of his brows. He was clearly waiting for the anvil to drop.

But Aurélie gave no sign that anything was different. He led the conversation firmly in safe channels, mostly music, weather, the roads. During a break, the Countess fired her first shot across the bow, asking where Jaska and his mystery guest had met.

Jaska said, “I first became acquainted with Doña Aurélie in Paris. Come, I know Domnu Balik’s chief pride is his new fortepiano in the big salon. Would you like to hear some of our music? By the time we reached Vienna, I venture to say that we had become a very fine trio. You shall judge.”

When a prince asks if you would like, you say you would like.

And so the rest of the evening was musical. A rough start, as the three hadn’t played for a while, but as always, by the end of the first song, they found their rhythm.

Also as usual, the attention gradually shifted to Mord. They finished with a gorgeous adaption of Bach’s Flute Sonata in G Minor, the violin counterpoint entirely extemporaneous. Mord spun the melodic line into enchantment.

The company parted around midnight, everyone in a thoughtful mood. When they reached the landing again, Aurélie looked inquiringly at Margit, who pointed and said, “That’s your suite.” And in a lower voice, “I’ll send Viorel. I brought her for you.”

“I don’t need a maid,” Aurélie whispered back.

Margit’s brows rose, and she said, “Viorel will pack for you in the morning, then.”

Aurélie thanked her, wished her good night, and slipped inside.

She was crossing the outer room, moving from lamp to lamp when a soft knock sounded from outside.

I heard it immediately, and I think she did as well, for she sped to the door. Jaska was there, alone.

“May I come inside? Only for a moment,” he said.

Aurélie backed up, her face in shadow, his dimly lit by the one remaining lamp. “I wanted to apologize. I intended to tell you before we reached Riev. I didn’t think my sister would come herself when I asked her by note to send clothing.”

“They missed you.”

“Margit did. I owe her an apology for that, and I’ll go to her next. Am I forgiven for my sin against you?”

Aurélie looked at him with a troubled expression. “In the words of my grandmother’s priest, it would a sin of omission, not commission. I think I can understand your not telling me who you were. And you are forgiven.”

“Thank you,” he said, and looked around. If he was waiting for her to disclose her background, he waited in vain. Finally: “You’ll be comfortable here?”

Aurélie laughed. “You’re asking someone who’s slept in horse stalls and on unswept attic floors?”

Jaska gave her a quick smile, a questioning glance, and wished her a good night.

She blew the last lamp out and walked into the bedroom.

The next morning, Aurélie was up early adapting the riding habit. By the time they set out, she had it fitting perfectly.

There was little interesting conversation on the ride until the last day. Aurélie was silent, especially as Irena tried to monopolize Jaska by talking
to him in Dobreni. Margit hung back, neither aiding nor deflecting Irena’s assumption of the place at Jaska’s side.

The evening before they descended into the valley of Dobrenica, they spent as guests of a baron whose name was familiar, but I didn’t know any of his descendants except by sight. Word had definitely gone on ahead. They arrived not only to a magnificent feast that lasted for hours, but the local choir trooped over and performed a surprisingly good rendition of Praetorius’s
“Nun komm der heiden heiland.”

The obsequious attention to Jaska and the bowing and studied professions of delight that he was at last returned safely to his homeland were a pretty good indication of what lay ahead.

Next morning bright and early, Jaska declared that he wanted to reach Riev by nightfall, and so anyone who did not wish to rise early had his leave to depart at a more leisurely time. By sunrise they were all there, Irena looking disgruntled.

Eighteenth century roads being vastly different from 20th century ones (especially as experienced from the back of a horse instead of in a car or train) kept me from recognizing the landscape. Not all the villages had signs, and though a couple of them looked familiar, that could have been because they resembled one another.

I finally got my bearings when the cavalcade rounded a forested bend, topped a rise—and there, on the mountaintops across the broad expanse of the checkerboarded valley, was Tony’s castle, silhouetted against the morning sky.

Not Tony’s, of course. He wouldn’t be born for two centuries.

Aurélie gave a gasp and pointed.

I almost spoke, then Margit said, “That is Mount Dhiavilyi, the duchy von Mecklundburg.”

“The castle?” Aurélie asked.

“It’s called the Eyrie, as you might expect. ‘Eagles’ nest.’ Fischer von Erlach rebuilt it for them after he finished the royal palace.”

Jaska glanced back. “Later this morning we should reach Antonius Summit. From there you can see all six of Dobrenica’s highest peaks.”

A little before noon the horses plodded the last of the steep road to
the Summit under a fast-clouding sky. Irena complained about the rain, ostensibly to Margit but in a loud voice, and when Jaska did not respond, she addressed him directly. “Jaska, we ought to ride down the Paduzal Valley road. Baroness Vezsar would welcome us.”

“Irena, I believe we can make it to Riev, but please. If you’re more comfortable visiting the baroness, don’t feel obliged to ride on.” Jaska’s voice changed timbre, from politeness to anticipation. “Here we are.”

For a timeless moment everyone halted. All around the horizon rose the mountains, majestic and mysterious.

Jaska’s voice was husky as he said, “Here to our left, the closest is Mount Tanazca. Above it, at the westmost reach of our border, is Mount Adeliad. You can see Riev on its slope. Our northernmost point is Mount Domitrian, the duchy of the Ysvorods. To the east is Mount Corbesc, and south of that is the highest of all the mountains, said to be the crown, Dsaretsenberg—you hear the German word for mountain in the name?—and south of it, across the valley, is Mount Dhiavilyi, with the Eyrie atop.”

Jaska stilled, his manner alert. I looked about, but within my limitations saw and heard nothing extraordinary. Mord also stilled then peered intently down the tree-covered slopes below us.

“Piotr,” Jaska called.

Captain Danilov brought his horse alongside Jaska’s, his manner also intent. Jaska bent toward him and said in Dobreni, “You and I both know who that must be, and can guess at how many are with him. Can you flank them?”

“I’ll take half down into Paduzal. I know the old bandits’ path. It should do.”

“Go.”

Captain Danilov clucked to his horse and rode back down the column, peeling off half his troops. Soon we heard the thunder of hooves rapidly diminishing.

Mord edged up. “Do we need arms?” He glanced toward Aurélie.

Jaska said, “I’d rather avoid the…let’s call it the appearance of expectation. This is probably going to be a matter of maneuvering. I want to keep it that way if I can.”

Margit had stiffened. She turned an ironic eye on her brother. “What about
us
?” She indicated the women.

“He’ll know you’re with me,” Jaska said, and Margit looked away quickly, making me suspect that her twin had missed an important cue.

“He?” Aurélie asked.

I was thinking,
Big surprise. The von Mecklundburgs are trouble now, too.
So imagine my surprise when Margit said in a flat voice, “Unless I’m completely wrong, this will be Benedek Ysvorod, Duke of Domitrian.” And another sneaky look Jaska’s way.

Oh, yeah. There was a cue, all right.

But Jaska was busy positioning everyone. He motioned the remainder of the guards forward, placing riders at either side of the three women, plus three behind them, and the remainder in pairs, directly behind him, weapons in reach but not brandished.

The only sounds other than the horse hooves were the sough of foliage, the twitter of birds, and the sudden crash of a chamois through the underbrush, briefly visible, tense and graceful as a ballet dancer in the middle of a leap, and then gone downstream as we passed over a mossy old bridge.

Jaska increased the pace and looked around with an intent air that made it clear he was going to try to pick the ground before the inevitable encounter. It wasn’t too long before we heard the echoing thud of hooves clattering over a bridge and saw subtle golden smears of dust smudging the forest growth here and there below.

Then they appeared. It looked at first like an army but quickly resolved into nineteen riders: twelve in uniforms of green with silver facings and cuffs, six in servants’ liveries—although each carried a cudgel and a long hunting knife—and at their head, a tall, saturnine guy in his early to mid-thirties, dark hair swept back from a high brow, hazel eyes narrowed. He wore elegant hunting clothes and carried a musket, two silver-chased pistols, and a beautiful swept-hilted sword in a saddle sheath. He was a Ysvorod, so I expected to find precursory signs of Alec, but the only resemblance was in the quantity of that flowing dark hair. This duke’s, however, was chestnut brown and not the almost-black of Alec’s.