The Left-Handed God (29 page)

No, not even his only son, thought Franz bitterly. Oh, how very far had he strayed from the teachings of his youth. And now he had not only failed Stiebel but got himself into a situation he did not know how to handle. He felt sick.

“Come, don’t look so miserable, my dear boy,” said Stiebel, clearly sorry for his sharpness. “Go change your linen, and we’ll see what we can learn during supper.”

But Franz could not face another evening with the actors‌—‌who would by now have learned of the events in the garden‌—‌and begged off. He wanted to think through his options while Stiebel was busy elsewhere.

*

She was charming, the little sister. Quite young still‌—‌he judged her to be seventeen or eighteen at the most‌—‌and wholly trusting.

He glanced at her sideways as he guided the horses toward his house. Her eyes were closed, and she looked innocent, a sleeping angel. What would it be like to make love to an angel?

Lust stirred and reminded him of Desirée, the latest of the long string of dancers, actresses, and chambermaids he had bedded. There was a tiresome sameness to such affairs, though last night had made for some sport, as the inventive French Count de Sade had promised.

There was no time to make a plan regarding the young Augusta. He had simply taken advantage of a chance to avenge himself on the man who had dared steal his woman.

But abducting young gentlewomen was even more severely frowned on than dueling. Elizabeth Augusta would not countenance such a thing. He tried to think of a way to have the little virgin and get away with it but failed.

When they stopped at his house, she awoke. “Are we here?”

It struck him that she looked feverish and seemed to find speaking painful. “Yes. Allow me to take you inside. There’s a comfortable room where you can wait while I get your brother.”

She let him help her down and lead her into the house. He took her to a settee in the small salon. It was a dim room. The shutters were closed and there was no fire. She sat down quietly, shivering a little.

“Forgive me,” he said, “but this is a summer residence, and I arrived only yesterday. The servants are in Mannheim. I wish I could offer you some refreshments.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said and pulled her cloak around her more closely. “You are most kind.”

He stood for a moment. Ah, it would be so easy. All he had to do was to push her back, fling her skirts over her head, and get between her thighs. There would be nothing she could do. The idea of rape brought back a memory. It stirred his lust so powerfully that he left the room before it was too late.

He went upstairs to his bedroom and opened the door. Good, Desirée was still here. And she had cleaned up like an obedient little slut.

She jumped up from a chair and stared at him, pale and terrified. “
Pardon
,
monsieur
, I go now.”

“
Non, ma petite
,” he said. “You will stay a while longer.”

The brown eyes filled with tears. “I am not well.
Je vous pris
! Tomorrow per’aps.”

He laughed. “Don’t worry. I haven’t come to bed you. I need you to play chambermaid to a young lady. You will make her comfortable. She’s a little feverish.”

Desirée’s eyes narrowed. “You want me to go like zis?” she asked, pointing to her blue silk dress.

“Go find an apron and cap. There must be something left behind by the servants.” He raised a monitory finger. “Remember, my girl, if you behave yourself, I’ll reward you. But if you mention our dealings to anyone‌—‌least of all to the girl below stairs‌—‌you’ll regret it.”

She nodded, and he saw with satisfaction that the look of hopelessness had returned.

The angel was nodding off again on the settee and jerked upright when he closed the door of the salon behind him.

“My brother?” she asked anxiously.

The rosy color brought on by the fever suited her well, he thought. He shook his head. “I regret that the young man has escaped us again. You look a little feverish. Are you feeling quite well?”

“I…‌I shall be all right as soon as I find Franz.” She made an attempt to stand but swayed on her feet.

He came to steady her. “You must rest here. I found one of my maids. Tell her what you need, and she’ll procure it. Meanwhile, I shall go hunt down the elusive Franz.”

She gave a little sigh and sank down again. “Thank you. You’re very kind. It’s too much trouble, but I do feel a little dizzy.”

He stood for a moment, looking down at shiny brown curls, charmingly tangled about the graceful curve of neck and shoulder, and imagined what lay beneath the plain woolen cloak. “Would you like a little water? Or wine?”

“No, thank you. Nothing.”

She had deep blue eyes ringed with soft lashes. Small beads of perspiration shimmered on her upper lip. The situation was delicious. Should he help her off with that heavy cloak and those dusty shoes? Make her stretch out on the settee? What a very fine neck she had! How he longed to kiss that small ear and then slowly uncover the hidden charms. He felt the stirring of lust again and controlled himself with an effort. With a bow, he took his leave, repeating his promise to leave no stone unturned in his quest for Franz‌—‌which was no more than the truth after all.

*

With the gentle snores of Stiebel in his ears and the warmth of his body close by, Franz lay stiffly, staring into the darkness. All his blackest thoughts returned, angry demons with outstretched claws and open mouths that denounced him for murder, cowardice, disloyalty, lust, and weakness.

He had failed at everything he had ever attempted. He had failed his father by not following in that good man’s footsteps, failed as a soldier by leading his regiment to destruction, failed to be a support to his family, failed to be a friend to Stiebel, failed to protect poor Desirée, and now he was about to fail himself, for he was afraid to face a duel.

The question of whose honor had been injured most was murky at best. True, striking Franz in such an indelicate manner and at such a moment could not be allowed to pass. But there was the matter of Franz’s flagrant act of copulating with the other man’s woman. Perhaps the matter could have been settled at that point with an explanation (on Franz’s part) and an apology (on the other’s), but Franz had then slapped the man.

By morning, Franz had decided that he must confront Desirée’s lover as soon as possible. Then perhaps they could discuss the situation while they were both calmer. Feeling his ears burn at the lie, Franz told Stiebel at breakfast that he thought he would pursue their inquiries on his own that day.

Stiebel sighed. “Very well. I have a mind to visit the summer palace today and make the acquaintance of someone close to Karl Theodor. We need to get an audience with the prince. But I can manage by myself.”

Franz had no intention of joining the actors, who would be engaged with rehearsals until the afternoon, or of meeting Desirée. Instead he took his sword and walked to the nearest woods.

In a clearing covered with a layer of multicolored leaves like a fine Turkey carpet, he reviewed the moves of swordplay.

He had not drawn his sword since Freiberg and swallowed down the bile rising at those memories. He had killed many men with his sword then and now proposed to kill again or be killed.

He managed the salute creditably, but that was the first and last of the approved moves his crippled body could assume. His right knee would not bend and, as he was right-handed, that was the knee employed in lunge, attack, parry, counter parry,
demivolte
,
coupe
, and
reposte
. It was a crucial joint, and no manner of agility of wrist or strategy of mind made up for it.

But he forced himself, taking fall after fall, until his knee burned like fire, until he lay groaning on the ground and knew that even an untrained swordsman would skewer him within seconds. Bathed in sweat, he eventually gave up all pretense.

He was a cripple. He could no more use a sword than the left-handed Apollo could play his lyre.

Stiebel‌—‌who loved all the weak things in this world and grieved for the baron’s chickens and the loss of his little bird‌—‌had adopted him because he, too, was one of the weak in need of care.

In a contest between the weak and the strong, the weak must lose.

Franz gathered himself up from the gaily colored leaves‌—‌how beautiful nature was in death‌—‌picked up his useless sword, and limped home.

Desirée’s lover was waiting outside the inn.

Franz stopped, leaning heavily on his cane. They measured each other. The other man noted the sword and, smiling coldly, drawled, “A word, if you please, Lieutenant Langsdorff.”

Franz took a breath. “You have the advantage, sir, but I’m very glad to meet you,” he said. “Having thought the matter over, I find that I also behaved badly. Under the circumstances, I’m willing to overlook the incident and apologize for my part in it. I assure you I had no idea the young woman was your…‌friend or I wouldn’t have…” His voice trailed off when he saw the sneer on the other man’s face.

Desirée’s lover took a visiting card from his coat pocket and handed it over. “What, are you a coward besides being a scoundrel?” he asked.

Franz stood up a little straighter. “You mistake, sir…” He glanced at the card. “I’m perfectly willing to meet you, Major, but my injury”‌—‌he gestured at his leg‌—‌“makes swordplay awkward.”

The other man raised a brow. “You should have thought of that before you insulted me.”

Franz flushed. “As you wish it, sir, swords it shall be.”

“No. I’ll not be blamed for killing a cripple. We’ll use pistols. But no seconds. As I told you, duels are forbidden. Keep the matter to yourself.”

“Of course. But I’m afraid I did not bring pistols and am a stranger here.”

“I’ll bring a set of dueling pistols. You may inspect them. Shall we say midnight tonight? At twelve paces? There is to be a moon tonight.” He curled his lip. “And what more suitable place than at the feet of Apollo‌—‌where you committed the offense.”

Franz bit his lip and bowed.

*

Desirée could not understand what her tormentor had seen in this girl. She was plain, without a bit of paint to her face, or powder on her hair, and her clothes‌—‌
mon
Dieu
!‌—‌such a fusty gray cloak and such worn black shoes. She must be very poor.

And she had fallen asleep.

“
Mademoiselle
?” Desirée asked, bending over the strange guest.

The girl opened her eyes, looked at her blearily, and struggled upright. “I’m sorry,” she said hoarsely. “I’m not feeling well. My brother, is he here yet?”

Desirée put out her hand to touch the girl’s forehead, then snatched it back. “
Mademoiselle, vous êtes malade
. Is fever!”

“Some water, if you have it, please,” murmured the sick girl. “It’s very hot in this room.” She frowned at the empty fireplace, then struggled with her cloak. She managed to take it off, revealing a dark blue dress with a bit of lace at the high neck and sleeves. The lace was good, and Desirée, who had a shrewd eye for such things, revised her estimate of the girl. She was of good birth but little fortune, perhaps a schoolmaster’s daughter. She felt a twinge of pity for her, both because she was sick and because she was in the Major’s clutches.

“I go fetch water,” she said, making a little curtsey, and tripped from the room.

*

Stiebel was frustrated and uneasy about the lack of progress. While all sorts of possibilities had occurred to him, he had no proof that they were, in fact, related to any adulterous behavior of the Kurfürstin or her spouse. The actors talked freely and with some pride of such liaisons, citing case after case of actors, actresses, or dancers becoming official lovers of kings and princes and being given noble titles and large properties. But it seemed to Stiebel that Karl Theodor, and anyone who supported him, had more reason to have his wife murdered than him.

The very air of Schwetzingen seemed filled with the electricity of imminent catastrophe. He feared that Franz was as helpless as a newborn babe in the face of such danger. By involving him in the investigation, he had hoped to give Franz the self-confidence that was so sadly lacking after his experiences in the late war, but instead he had made things worse. He had pushed the boy into the arms of a French vixen and caused no telling how much additional damage. Something had happened during the rendezvous, and Stiebel thought that Franz having caught the pox was the least of his worries.

It was time to make an end of this mad excursion and take the boy home. Stiebel decided to take his surmises and suspicions to the Kurfürst himself, and thus rid himself of his responsibilities. He dressed with some care. The brown coat and breeches were brushed and assorted spots removed, and the old periwig was freshly powdered by the local barber, who also shaved him. And thus he presented himself at the summer palace and requested an audience.

He was told to join a number of other gentlemen and a few ladies, all of whom waited patiently in the anteroom. He sat on a fine but uncomfortable chair, his feet not quite reaching the floor, and watched as soberly dressed officials passed back and forth through the fine doors to His Highness’s rooms. At no time were any of those waiting called to the double doors.

After an hour, Stiebel slid down from his chair and went to speak to a haughty individual with a beak of a nose. “Have you passed my request to His Highness?” he asked.

The man looked down his nose at him. “What request?”

Stiebel raised himself on the balls of his feet. “As I told you quite a long time ago, I am Nepomuk Stiebel, attorney at law from Lindau, and have urgent information of the greatest importance to His Highness. How long will it be before I may speak to him?”

“His Highness is very busy with affairs of state, sir. Besides, he rarely sees anyone without a proper introduction. You will have to wait.”

Stiebel went back and sat down again. He felt very tired, but he was determined. And patient. The sun reached its zenith, and many of the others left, discouraged or in search of their midday meal. Stiebel sat on. A lackey replaced the man with the beak, so that he, too, could refresh himself.