The Cruel Count (Bantam Series No. 28) (8 page)

Chapter Four

Vesta awoke and saw light percolating through the dirty windows. For a moment she could not remember where she was.

Then she saw the dying embers of the fire still glowing red, and opposite her, stretched out on the other wooden settle so that she had not noticed him at first, the Count was lying fast asleep.

Very gently, so as not to awaken him, she stood up.

Her hip felt numb from the hardness of the wood, but she was no longer tired and the deep sleep she had enjoyed all night had left her refreshed and full of energy.

She glanced down at the Count and saw once again that he had taken off his cravat and his shirt was open.

She turned her eyes away, feeling she should not stare at him while he was unconscious. At the same time she could not help noticing that when he was relaxed he looked much younger and less intimidating.

‘Perhaps,’ she told herself, ‘it is because his eyes are closed.’

Carrying her thick cloak over her arm and taking up the parcel which contained her only possessions from the floor where the Count must have put it, she crept towards the stairs.

They creaked as she climbed them, but when she reached the top and looked back, the Count was still asleep.

She went into the bed-room which she had been given to sleep in.

It smelt worse, she thought, even than it had the night before, and crossing the dark room she pulled away the rubbish which had been stuffed into the window and let in the first gleams of sunlight.

She was determined to tidy herself up before they set out once again on their journey. Perhaps today, she thought, they would reach Djilas and she had no wish to arrive looking like a gypsy.

Standing on the table was the basin of water in which she had washed the night before. The bucket was still half full.

She went to the window, saw that there was nothing below but bushes, and flung the dirty water out.

Then she undressed, but was careful to put her clothes not on the floor which could not have been scrubbed for years, but onto her cloak.

She washed in the cold water and felt it fresh and invigorating and dried herself on her nightgown.

‘When I get to Djilas someone will lend me a nightgown until my luggage arrives,’ she thought confidently.

Then she dressed again, brushed her hair and tried to arrange it as best she could with the aid of a small piece of cracked mirror she found fixed to the wall.

Then having put a little powder on her small nose she went downstairs.

This had all taken some time and she was not surprised to find the front room was empty. She went towards the kitchen and met the Count coming out from it. He had shaved and his cravat was round his neck once again.

“You got up early,” he said.

“I wanted to tidy myself,” she answered.

“You look very elegant,” he replied, and she was not certain whether it was a compliment or a criticism.

The Inn-Keeper’s wife was boiling them eggs for breakfast. Vesta was too late to prevent them being hard boiled, but she felt it would be churlish to complain.

The old hen which she had shown the woman how to cook the night before appeared to be tender and not unappetising. The onions and milk which Vesta had added to the pot had given it a flavour.

Vesta carved it from the bone and finding nothing clean to pack it in, used the paper which had covered her nightgown.

There was no other food to supplement the chicken, but she hoped that perhaps they would come across orange trees such as they had seen on their way up the mountain or some other fruit which grew in such profusion near the valley.

The Count ate his breakfast of eggs and butterless black bread quickly and, although he did not say so, Vesta had the impression that he was anxious to be off. “Have we far to go today?” she asked.

“It depends,” he replied. “I have not been on this track for some time and naturally the snows and the torrents change it year by year until it becomes almost unrecognisable. We may have to make a detour.”

She thought he was deliberately attempting to discourage her, and she was sure of it when he fetched the horses round to the front of the Inn and said:

“Are you quite certain you would not rather turn back, Ma’am?”

She had the feeling that he was teasing rather than taunting her, but she replied in all seriousness:

“As I have told you before I have every intention of reaching Djilas.”

Even if she had wished to return, she knew she could not have faced again the terror of that ride across the barren rock.

The Count paid the Inn-Keeper’s wife who was all smiles as she bade them goodbye.

Vesta held out her hand.

“Thank you very much,” she said in her halting Katonian.

The woman asked a question and Vesta looked at the Count, wishing him to translate it for her.

“Our hostess asks if you were comfortable last night,” he said.

“Will you tell her that I was very comfortable,” Vesta replied.

He raised his eyebrows and said in English:

“I thought you were truthful.”

“It is the truth,” Vesta replied. “I slept exceedingly well, as you know.”

He conveyed literally what she had said and the woman clasped her hands together in pleasure, curtseying and obviously wishing them “God speed” on their journey.

She stood waving to them and Vesta waved back until they were out of sight.

“She did her best,” she said almost as if she spoke to herself.

“You are very charitable,” the Count remarked.

“It is what people try to do which matters,” Vesta replied, “and it is a mistake to expect too much.”

She remembered as she spoke what her father and mother had said about her and added almost to herself:

“We must never expect too much.”

“As a safeguard against being disappointed,” the Count said and there was a touch of irony in his voice.

Vesta did not answer. She was telling herself that when she arrived at Djilas she must not expect too much of the Prince.

Perhaps he would not like her very much at first, but if they could only be friendly with each other, then one day love might come. It would be hard to be married without love.

The path under the trees was much the same as it had been the day before. The sun was rising and there was every likelihood of it becoming very hot.

Vesta untied the ribbons from under her chin and balanced her hat in front of her.

Then she found this was uncomfortable and finally she tied the two ribbons together at their extreme ends and let her hat hang down her back. She also took off her gloves and put them into her jacket pocket.

She knew her mother would not have approved of her appearing so unconventionally garbed. But here among the trees there was no-one to see her, and she decided later on she might even take off her jacket.

She began to understand why the Count found it more comfortable to ride without a cravat round his neck.

The horses plodded on neither hastening or slowing their pace, keeping up an even gait in a manner
which showed
they were used to long journeys and had no intention of over-exerting themselves.

Vesta was soon lost in her day-dreams, finding the golden sunshine seeping through the leaves so lovely that it made her think of the stories from mythology that she had read about Greece. She felt they must also apply to Katona.

She was beginning to feel hungry when at last the Count drew the horses to a halt.

“I have the feeling,” he said, “that we should eat that so-called chicken you cooked last night before it grows even older in the saddle-bag.”

“I admit to being quite hungry,” Vesta said.

She slipped down from her horse, knowing there was no need to do anything but let the animal roam loose, and then she gave a little cry of delight.

The trees here were thinner than in other parts of the forest, and where the sunshine pierced through there was everywhere grass and a few flowers.

Amongst them she saw some small red strawberries, the
fraises de bois
of the Mediterranean. She ran towards them excited as a child.

“Strawberries!” she exclaimed. “I felt certain we should find them here.”

She tasted one. It was sweet and warm from the sunshine. Then she picked a handful and carried them to where the Count had sat down with his back to the trunk of a tree, the sliced chicken at his side.

Vesta put the strawberries down on the paper in which it had been wrapped and said:

“I will find some more later. Let us eat the chicken first.”

“If I were a better naturalist,” the Count said, “I would doubtless be able to find you some wild lettuce. I see that my education has been sadly neglected when it comes to the flora of my own country.”

“I was thinking when I first arrived,” Vesta said, “that I must learn more about herbs that grow in Katona.”

“Why?” he enquired.

“Mama is very knowledgeable on such subjects as herbal medicines, salves and lotions,” Vesta replied. “We have a herb garden at home. It was laid out in the reign of Henry VIII.”

She took a bite of the chicken and went on:

“Now this would have been much improved if I could have found some Basil. I wonder what the right word for it is in Katonian.”

“You will have to find a book on cookery,” the Count said.

“Is there a large library at the Palace?” Vesta asked.

“Quite a comprehensive one,” the Count replied. “The late Prince Andreas, His Royal Highness’s father, was a great reader.”

“That will be wonderful for me,” Vesta said, “but first I must improve my knowledge of your language.”

“You obviously intend to settle in and stay here,” the Count remarked.

A flush rose to her cheeks as she said angrily:

“Are you still intent on sending me home? You are very persistent, but I am as determined as you are that nothing will induce me to leave.”

“Nothing?” he enquired.

“Only if the Prince was dead,” she answered. “Do you imagine the Revolutionaries might kill him?”

The Count shrugged his shoulders. Then he asked: “Would it sadden you very much?”

The question was a surprise and Vesta replied: “Naturally ... I should be ... upset.”

“Because you had lost a husband you had never seen?”

She would have answered him, but she had the feeling that he was deliberately trying to make her feel uncomfortable.

“I think, Count,” she said, “that once again you are encroaching on matters which do not concern you.”

She tried to speak with great dignity but it was rather difficult when they were sitting side by side in the middle of the wood sharing pieces of chicken, and she was conscious that her hair had been blown by the breeze around her cheeks.

There was a glint of amusement in his eyes before he said:

“You are very severe, Ma’am.”

“I am trying to behave ... correctly,” Vesta replied, “and you are not making it ... very easy for ... me.”

“Then I must apologise in all sincerity,” he answered.

For once she thought he was not speaking mockingly, and looking away from him she said:

“I cannot help feeling lonely and a little ... homesick. When the ship sailed away it was my last link with England, and I am trying ... hard to like everything in Katona since it will in future be my ... home.”

She tried to speak unemotionally but there was a perceptible quiver in her voice. After a moment the Count said in a tone which he had never used to her before:

“You must forgive me if my attitude has made things more difficult for you than they would have been otherwise.”

Vesta had always found it hard to bear a grudge when people apologised for anything they had said or done.

She gave the Count a shy little smile. Then she rose to her feet saying:

“I will try and find more strawberries. I am sure there must be some over there in the sunshine.”

She moved away from him and he watched her as she went from the shade of the trees out into the sunshine where she had noticed there were flowers.

She was right: for nestling beneath their green leaves there was quite a profusion of the small red berries.

She picked a handful, and when she could hold no more and thought she had best take them back to the Count she turned round.

She had wandered quite some way from the trees and was standing on a little plateau covered with flowers which descended sharply down to the trees below.

As she started to walk back towards the wood there was a hissing noise in the grass and in front of her she saw a long black snake.

She was frozen into stillness, realising she could not move backwards and it would be almost impossible to pass the reptile without it striking at her.

Almost involuntarily she gave a little cry and realised that the Count had risen to his feet.

“What is it?” he called.

The snake was hissing aggressively, and now Vesta thought that to call out might incite it further.