The Cruel Count (Bantam Series No. 28) (18 page)

Instead now the question was would the Prince allow her to marry the man she loved, or must she go away with him into obscurity and be dead to her family and indeed to the rest of the world?

She sat down on the sofa again staring into the fire.

Even now she could hardly believe all that had happened. But she thought she had grown up in the past few days.

As the Count had said, she had been awakened by a kiss. And she was facing not the gentle romantic daydreams in which she had indulged ever since she could remember, but reality.

‘Have I done the right thing?’ Vesta asked herself.

She knew there was no longer any question of her not belonging to the Count as he belonged to her.

She found herself wondering where they would live. Perhaps in a small house like this!

Then with a smile she realised she had no idea whether he was rich or poor, if he was of importance in Katona or perhaps a member of quite an obscure family.

But it did not matter.

All her life she had heard so much talk of the consequence of the Salfonts, their place in the hierarchy in the aristocracy, of the respect they commanded at Court, the manner in which they were admired by the social world.

Vesta would not have been human if she had not realised that every door in the
Beau Monde
was open to her because of her antecedents.

There was no noble family in the whole of England which would not have welcomed her as a daughter-in-law, there was no man however distinguished who would not have been proud to take her as his wife.

And now all she wanted to do was marry a man of whom she knew nothing.

He was a Count, but she was well aware this might mean very little, since foreign titles were many more in number than English ones. The sons of a Count, however many there were in the family, all took the same rank as their father.

Perhaps he was very poor, perhaps she would no longer be surrounded by flunkeys and servants of every sort and description. Perhaps there would not be a profusion of horses and carriages and all else that she had grown to expect as appertaining to the comforts of life.

‘But it is not important, none of it is of the least importance,’ she told herself. ‘If he is very poor I will cook for him, I will look after his house and love him. That is all that matters.’

She wished now she had talked to him of the future. But there had been so little time.

‘Even if we have to live in a cave,’ she told herself with a smile, ‘I shall be content and happy. We shall be ... together.’

She waited in the Sitting-room for nearly an hour. With a new intuition that she would not have felt before, she guessed that the Count would not wish to see her again, having once said goodbye.

He would however have to change his clothes, putting on again the riding-breeches and boots he had worn for their journey over the mountains.

‘I must give him time to go away,’ she thought, ‘before I retire to bed.’

She had known it was difficult for him to leave. He had wanted to stay with her. He had wanted to go on kissing her. They could have sat in front of the fire in the Sitting-room until it was dawn, but he had been right in saying he should leave when he did.

‘He is always right,’ Vesta told herself, and I will obey him and do everything that he wishes me to do. Always ... because I love him.’

It seemed to her the house was very quiet and she was certain that the Count had by now ridden away with his escort of two soldiers.

She opened the door of the Sitting-room and went into the hall. Jozef was there waiting for her. He handed her a lighted candle. Bowing he said:

“Good night, Gracious Lady, I hope you sleep well. God be with you.”

Vesta smiled at him.

“Thank you, Jozef.”

She went slowly up the stairs, feeling the house was very quiet and empty.

When she reached her bed-room it was to find Jozef s daughter was there waiting to help her undress.

She suddenly felt very tired and she wondered apprehensively if the Count felt as tired as she did. He was a man and was stronger than she was, but she wondered if she had kept him awake last night when she had slept against his shoulder.

She got into bed, but her thoughts were with the Count as she imagined him riding hard and fast through the woods until he reached the road she had seen winding through the valley which would eventually reach Djilas.

‘Will he be thinking of me?’ she asked and knew it was an absurd question.

They would each be thinking of the other every moment they were apart.

She tried to send him her love winging its way through the night, she tried to tell him as he galloped away from her how much she loved him and how she was unafraid of the future because she would be with him.

‘I love you ... I love you,’ she repeated over and over again.

Finally from sheer exhaustion she fell asleep.

Chapter Nine

Because she was so tired, Vesta slept dreamlessly.

Very early, however, she awoke to stand at the window and see the pale morning sun glinting on the snowy tops of the mountains.

The song of the birds in the garden below, and the butterflies of every colour flitting from flower to flower, seemed to echo the happiness within her heart.

‘I have never been so happy,’ she told herself and knew it was because she loved and was loved.

It was difficult to keep her thoughts fixed on anything but the Count.

When the hands of the clock reached nine, she thought this was about the time that he would be able to have an interview with the Prince and found herself praying that everything would go the way they wished.

‘Please God ... help us ... Please God let the Prince agree.’

She no longer felt any doubts or fears. She had made her decision, and this morning she knew that now, no question hovered at the back of her mind, nor was her conscience telling her she must do her duty to the Prince or to her country.

She was utterly and absolutely convinced that her duty now was to look after Miklos, the man she loved, to be with him and to devote her whole life to him.

She had known last night that their kiss had a special significance, and that in it they dedicated themselves to each other.

‘Whatever the difficulties and problems,’ she thought now, ‘we are joined together indivisibly and nothing can separate us.’

Because Vesta realised that many hours must pass before she could hear from the Count or he could return for her, she rang the bell for her clothes.

Jozef’s pretty daughter brought them to her and she went downstairs for breakfast.

Fruit from the garden, honey from the beehives which Jozef told her stood in the fields near the lake, fresh eggs from the small farm adjoining the Lodge, made the meal taste more appetising than any breakfast Vesta could remember.

When she had finished she asked if Jozef’s wife, who she learnt was called Dorottya, would teach her to cook some of the dishes that were peculiar to Katona.

‘If we are very poor when we are married,’ Vesta told herself, ‘then at least I can cook Miklos the food he likes.’

She imagined herself going into the local market to buy fresh fish for him, choose the best vegetables and the ripest fruit, deliberate over cheeses and sausages just as she knew the housewives of every European country took care over their shopping.

Dorottya was delighted at the idea of demonstrating how well she could cook. She showed Vesta first the
Psaria Plaki,
which was the dish which Vesta had found so delicious at the Inn at Jeno.

“It is what we ourselves would have eaten today, Gracious Lady,” Dorottya explained.

“And I would like to eat it too,” Vesta smiled.

She learnt how to make
Saltsa Augole Mono
—the egg and lemon sauce which the Aide-de-camp had said was the national sauce of Greece.

“The Katonians serve it with meat, fish and all their vegetable dishes,” Dorottya told her.

There is nothing that makes two women more companionable than to cook together.

Soon Vesta and Dorottya were joking and laughing as they prepared a number of different dishes, and Vesta took the opportunity of having a lesson in the Katonian language.

She had learnt by this time that there were so many dialects that it was going to be hard for her to understand everybody.

But Dorottya and Jozef were easier to follow than any of the other country people she had met such as Mr. Keupenski and the Brigands.

She wondered how many different dialects the Count could speak and if there were many people in Katona with whom he could not converse.

‘He must teach me,’ she thought and thrilled at the idea of being his pupil even in a peasant dialect.

The morning passed far more quickly than she had anticipated, but every other minute her thoughts would go to the Count and she would feel a little tremor of fear that perhaps things were not going so well as they had hoped.

Supposing the Prince, insulted at being turned down and having made the preparations for their marriage, insisted she should go through with it?

If she then refused would he take his revenge? Supposing the Count was exiled from his own country, his lands confiscated, a price put on his head?

Vesta gave herself a little shake, realising that once again her imagination was running away with her. But even so the fear remained like a canker gnawing away at her happiness.

She remembered the hardness of the Count’s voice when by the cascade he had spoken of the Prince’s relationship with Madame Ziileyha.

“The Prince is weak,” he had said, “a weak man who had put his own desires and his own wishes before the needs and well-being of his country.”

She could recall so vividly the contempt in his eyes as he had continued:

“He is a man who has deliberately for years ignored the wishes of his people, who shut his eyes to the fact that this woman was intriguing against the State and against himself.”

‘How could the Prince be so stupid?’ Vesta wondered.

Yet Viscount Castlereagh had called His Royal Highness intelligent, and the Viscount, as one of the cleverest men in England, should have been a good judge.

But Katona was a very small country and situated a long way from the great powers who planned the fate of Europe in London, Paris, Berlin and Vienna.

‘Meeting a young man once or twice, or even experiencing what amounted to a State Visit to Katona,’ Vesta told herself, ‘gives no clue to what his own people think about him and his infatuation for the Turkish woman.’

Then a thought struck her!

Had the Foreign Secretary and the Prime Minister of England perhaps been well aware of the difficulties Madame Ziileyha was causing?

If so, had they deliberately sent her to Katona to marry the Prince believing that because she was English she might influence him to resist the intrigues which, because they came from the Turkish source, were fundamentally opposed to everything that was Katonian?

‘Perhaps I have just been a pawn ... a puppet made use of for political reasons!’ Vesta told herself.

For a moment she felt afraid, and then she remembered that the problem need no longer concern her.

The Count now stood between her and everything that was frightening or unpleasant. His love would enfold and protect her, and she knew that in his arms she felt a security she had never known before in the whole of her life.

‘I love him ... I love him,’ she whispered and thought that she could entrust herself and all her difficulties into his hands.

It would not matter to her if they had to live in extreme poverty in some other country. Yet she would not wish him to suffer for her sake.

Then she remembered the passion in his voice and the light in his eyes and told herself that just as love meant everything to her, so it must mean everything to him.

‘We are one! We think the same ... we feel the same!’ she thought and only wished he was there to assure her that was indeed the truth.

It was just past noon and Vesta had come from the kitchen to wash and tidy herself before she sat down for the luncheon she had helped prepare, when she heard a carriage draw up outside.

She heard voices and held her breath. Could the Count have returned?

It was three hours ride to Djilas, for a man riding a well-bred horse. Was it possible for him to have seen the Prince and to have come back for her already?

It was with difficulty that she prevented herself from running into the hall. Then the door of the Sitting-room opened and Jozef came in alone.

In his hand he carried a silver salver on which reposed a note.

Vesta took it from him and moved to the window to read it. For a moment when she opened it the writing seemed to swim before her eyes.

It was strong, upright and positive, as she had expected the Count’s hand writing to be.

‘Just as he is himself,’ she whispered. Then she read:

Heart of my Heart, my Life, my Soul.

Everything is proceeding Smoothly, so I do not want You to be Worried.

The Prince desires to see You, but unfortunately it is impossible for Me to come for You as I would wish to do. So I must ask You, my Darling, to forgive me and to journey to the Palace, in the Carriage I have sent with this Letter as soon as possible.

The Revolution is over and there is great rejoicing in the City and I rejoice at the thought of seeing You.

Do not talk with anyone until you see Me and hurry my sweet, Wonderful, little Goddess, because every Second without You passes like a Century of empty Time. I am at Your Feet.

Miklos.

Vesta read it through twice before she turned to Jozef who was waiting, with her eyes shining.

“I am to go to Djilas, Jozef.”

“I understand that the coachmen have their orders, Gracious Lady. But if you will permit the men to rest for only a short while, it would be better for them and the horses.”

“Yes, of course, I understand,” Vesta said, curbing an impulse to say that she must leave immediately.

“The Gracious Lady’s luncheon is also ready,” Jozef said.

With an effort Vesta preceded him into the Diningroom where he served her the dishes she had helped Dorottya to cook.

She forced herself to eat slowly and sensibly, knowing that she had a long journey in front of her.

But as soon as she had finished she ran upstairs to her bed-room, put on the jacket of her habit and her hat with the green ribbons.

She remembered how the last time she had worn it the Count had placed it on her head and tied the ribbons with gentle fingers. She had been touched then by his consideration for her.

Now as she glanced at herself in the mirror she wished she had something new and more attractive in which to meet him.

Dorottya and her daughter had cleaned and pressed the green habit and washed the white muslin blouse.

But skilful though they were, they could not eradicate completely the stains and creases of a habit which had been slept in for two nights, and which had been worn riding over mountains and moving about in dirty caves.

Vesta thought a little wistfully of all the lovely gowns that were in her boxes at Jeno.

‘I will be able to send for them,’ she thought, ‘and I will wear the very prettiest of them and watch for the admiration in Miklos’ eyes.’

She drew in her breath at the thought and thrilled, because she knew he would take her in his arms and kiss her.

She was ready, downstairs and waiting in the Sitting-room for what seemed to her like a long time, before Jozef came from the kitchen quarters to say that the coachmen were now ready for the return journey. Vesta thanked Dorottya and her daughter for their kindness, and then with Jozef she walked to the front door.

The closed carriage that the Count had sent for her was lightly built, and Vesta saw that it had especially large wheels for travelling swiftly over rough roads.

It was drawn by four magnificent horses which she looked at with pleasure. The two coachmen doffed their hats at the sight of her, as did the two out-riders who were also mounted on superb horseflesh.

She had known that the Count with his Hungarian blood would appreciate good horses!

‘One day very soon,’ she thought, ‘we will ride together.’

Once she had imagined herself riding with the Prince. Now she knew nothing could be more wonderful than to ride with the Count, gallop with the wind in their faces, and explore his beautiful country.

She turned to thank Jozef for all he had done for her and wished she had some money to give him. But he did not seem to expect it and bowed low as the footman helped Vesta into the carriage and the cavalcade set off.

As they reached the end of the drive they were joined by the four soldiers on horse-back who had been guarding the house all night.

The soldiers rode in the rear and were wise enough to avoid the dust from the carriage by keeping on the grass verges which bordered the narrow track.

Vesta thought uneasily that the Count was taking every possible precaution against her being ambushed or shot at. Then she knew he would not have said that the Revolution was over unless that were true, and there was no reason for her to be afraid.

They travelled downhill for some way, passing the lake where the trout they had eaten the night before had been caught. It was shining in the sunlight and a gaggle of wild geese rose into the air at their approach.

After several miles of winding between high fir trees, they joined another wider road.

Vesta was sure this was the one she would originally have taken from Jeno had she been met as she had expected by Baron Milovan and the welcoming party.

Now the carriage which had been moving fairly slowly along what was little more than a track by the Hunting Lodge, proceeded at a pace which Vesta knew would have been watched admiringly in England.

At the same time, like the Count, she felt every second was slow and long drawn out because they were not together.

She sat forward to look out of the windows.

‘This is his country,’ she told herself. ‘This is where Miklo belongs and I must love it and understand its people for his sake.’

There were small white houses with red roofs. There were farms, many of them picturesquely fashioned of wood and situated among lush fields of com or verdant grass where fat cattle were grazing.

Above the valley on either side loomed the mountains, their sides covered thickly with trees.

‘It is all so beautiful!’ Vesta told herself. ‘How could people not be happy in a country like this? Why should they want Revolutions, how can they wish to rebel against anything or anybody?’

Again she asked herself how the Prince could have allowed Madame Ziileyha to endanger the peace and prosperity of this lovely country?

Despite her interest in seeing the countryside, her impatience to see the Count again made the hours pass slowly.

And despite her resolution not to worry but to trust him to do what was best for both of them, she could not help, as they neared Djilas, feeling apprehensive.

It was quite a large city, exquisitely situated on a broad silver river in a wide and fertile valley flanked by mountains.

Vesta saw it at a distance from higher ground, and it was somehow as she had expected it to look with its spires and high steeples, its towers and red-roofed houses.

The valley through which she had been passing had been mainly green except for colourful flowers growing on either side of the road. But now as they came
into the
outskirts of the town she saw, just as she had done in Jeno, that there were flowers everywhere.

In the orange and lemon groves which grew just outside the city there were flowers of every size and colour, the houses were decorated with bougainvillia and clematis growing up the walls, and the balconies were filled with variegated blossoms.

The people too, Vesta noticed, had hung out flags from their windows, and she knew that this was part of the rejoicing of which the Count had spoken because the Revolution was over.

‘Now they will have peace,’ Vesta told herself.

She wondered if the Prince would soon find a wife to reign with him, who would work for his people and try to understand them.

Just for a moment she had the uncomfortable feeling that it should have been her task. Perhaps in refusing to many the Prince she was forcing him back into the arms of Madame Ziileyha or someone like her.

Then she told herself the Prince had no personal need of her help while the Count, she was convinced, could not do without her.

‘That is what all women desire,’ she thought. ‘To be wanted, to know one is indispensable.’

Looking out of the window she realised the carriage was not taking her in through the centre of the city but along quiet side streets where there were few people about.

Perhaps after all, she thought, the Prince had refused to release her from their legal marriage and she would, therefore, have to go away secretly into obscurity with the Count.

‘It does not matter so long as he loves me,’ she told herself reassuringly.

She had the impression, although she was not certain where she had learnt it, that the Palace was in the very centre of Djilas.

She was sure of this when having travelled some way along the river they seemed to turn almost in a circle, still keeping to the side-streets but now obviously moving towards the middle of the city.

Then she saw a high brick wall, and having driven beside this for a short distance they came to an entrance with gates carrying the Royal Coat-of-Arms but which was manned only by two soldiers.

The gates were opened for the carriage and now Vesta saw green lawns, sparkling fountains and a profusion of flowers.

It was only a quick glimpse, for they were driving along what she was sure was a back drive, flanked with flowering trees.

The carriage drew up at what was obviously a side-door of the Palace.

A footman resplendent in gold lace opened the carriage door, and Vesta stepped out looking anxiously into the doorway ahead because she hoped she might see the Count waiting for her.

There was however only a Major-domo who presented her with a note on a silver salver.

The hall into which she had walked was small and not very impressive. She took the note and turning to the light of the window read it quickly.