Traitor's Masque (15 page)

Behind her, a solitary figure clenched his fists to hold back the sting of tears he could not afford to shed. He never should have come. He never should have let himself care, but it was far too late for that now. Ramsey cursed himself for a fool even as he watched her go, and it took everything he had to simply stand there and do nothing. After she finally disappeared into the shadows, he closed his eyes and raised a hand in an unwilling and unseen farewell.

 
Chapter 5
 

When Trystan dismounted outside the stable, the inside was dark, as she had known it would be. She cared for Theron herself, walking him until he was cool, brushing him thoroughly and giving him his evening ration of grain. She checked to see that the other horses were well watered, cleaned Theron’s bridle, polished the bit, and then admitted to herself that she was stalling. The unpleasantness would not be less for putting it off.

Her steps slow and heavy, she went to the house, her courage not quite up to using the front door. Instead, she cut through the kitchen garden and went in through the scullery. The usual after-dinner chaos was not as chaotic as usual. The same tasks were being done, but there was an eerie quiet, which diminished to near silence when someone caught sight of Trystan.

Whispers sprang up, then died down again as Vianne appeared from somewhere. With a single look, she sent everyone in the kitchen back to their assorted tasks, grasped Trystan’s arm and with uncharacteristic haste, bustled her into the storeroom.

“Sit!” Vianne pointed to a stack of empty wooden bins. Trystan sat. Her legs were unlikely to hold her up much longer in any case. She tried looking at the cook, but the woman’s gimlet gaze was too pointed for her to hold for long. “Why, child?” An unexpected note of exasperation crept into Vianne’s voice as she folded her arms and addressed her former employer’s daughter.

Trystan did not really have an answer, though she tried, her eyes fixed on the toes of her ruined shoes. “She was sending them away! With nothing! I couldn’t just pretend it didn’t matter…”

Vianne cut her off impatiently. “I know, child! We all knew! It was only a matter of time.”

Trystan looked up, confused. “Then why did they stay? They could have had new positions, looked for better pay. If they knew, why didn’t they leave before it was too late?”

“Tush, child, are you blind?” Vianne’s tone was harsh. “They cared about you! They stayed to watch you and make sure you would be all right.”

Trystan only felt worse. “Then this is all my fault…”

Vianne leaned forward, seized her chin and forced it up. “Stop that this instant. I will not listen to you snivel!”

Trystan sniveled. Then looked for a handkerchief she knew she didn’t have. Vianne produced one and waited while Trystan blew her nose and wiped her eyes.

“Everyone who was dismissed today has had a plan ever since your father passed,” Vianne stated flatly. “We all planned to stay as long as we could, but none of us expected it to be even this long. That woman was going to assert herself sooner or later.” Her vexation grew considerably more apparent. “All you accomplished today was to worry us half to death and make certain anyone who cared about you in the least would be forced to leave without getting to say goodbye!”

“I know.” Trystan had no defense for her actions, but wanted Vianne to know she was honest enough to acknowledge her reasons for running. “I think… I think I left because I was afraid of saying goodbye, because then I would have to admit how much I cared.” She looked down at her filthy hands, twisted in her lap. “I have never been an easy person to care about, I know.” Her mouth twisted a little with self-loathing. “It took me far too long to realize that I still had friends, and I think I could not forgive myself that I never told them…” She could not really continue, but Vianne was wise enough to see it.

“They loved you, child.” Her words cut through Trystan’s misery. “Not because they expected you to give them something in return, but because you were as much ours as your father’s. Whether you saw it or not.”

The moment Vianne said it, Trystan knew it was true. Her father had been a very present influence in her life, and she had never doubted his love, but it had been the servants who had raised her in many ways. It should have made her more miserable, but oddly, it did not. There was a comfort in knowing you were loved, even when you could no longer acknowledge it.

“She is going to lock me up,” Trystan admitted in a small voice. “Until after the prince’s masqued ball. I… I don’t know what else.”

Vianne snorted. “Trystan, child.” She forced Trystan’s chin up once more. “You can bear it, whatever it is. You will not be alone. She thinks she has beaten you, but Her Ladyship does not know how strong you are, or how many allies you have.”

Trystan forced herself to meet Vianne’s eyes and found that they appeared less granite than usual. The cook’s expression was grim, but her eyes looked almost… Wet? Never. Trystan knew she was mistaken. She could no more imagine Vianne crying than Malisse being kind.

And she knew Vianne was right. As if Vianne had ever been anything else. Trystan smiled through her pain, stood up, and hugged the woman who had restored the faintest spark of hope. She didn’t much care whether Vianne wanted a hug or not.

Stiff with surprise, the older woman returned the hug briefly, then set her back. “Get on with you, child. You need to get it over with.”

Trystan nodded, wiped her eyes, returned Vianne’s handkerchief, and left the kitchen to face her stepmother’s retribution.

After seven days, Trystan was not feeling nearly so brave. The preparations for the masque went on, even as she spent each day staring at the same four walls. The door was kept locked, only opened for meals and the emptying of the chamber pot. Even the window was secured. Malisse was taking no chances.

It could, in truth, have been worse. The maids who brought food had smuggled in books. Her sketch pad had come in with the bathtub. Even the hated embroidery had kept her hands from beating on the walls for a few more hours. But as the days till the masque grew shorter, time itself seemed to stretch. Eight more days, and who knew how many after?

There were a few distractions in the midst of Trystan’s boredom. The callers had grown ever more numerous as the days wore on, and the sounds from beyond her door more varied, and indeed more shrill. Sometimes Trystan would stretch out on the floor and watch the strip of light under her door to see who passed and guess where they were going. It was pathetic, but she was not yet ready to resign the fight.

That afternoon, Trystan was awakened from a nap by an unexpected visitor.

Malisse. She stood in the doorway looking both angry and perplexed. “Get up,” she ordered without ceremony. “And change your dress. That one looks ridiculous.”

“Why?” Trystan asked sleepily. “I’m the only one who sees me and this one is comfortable.”

“Do as you’re told!” Malisse snapped. “Then come downstairs. And see that you’re presentable.” Her face twisted as though she had eaten something that disagreed with her. “You have a caller.”

A caller? Trystan couldn’t quite believe the words. She had never been allowed callers, even when she wasn’t doing “penance.” Who could have bullied her stepmother into letting her out of her room?

Could it be… No! She quelled that thought as soon as it rose up. She would not think of Donevan. Not ever.

Trying not to speculate, Trystan did as Malisse had requested. Her green crepe came out again, and her best slippers. She twisted her hair up into a reasonable knot, and washed her face. That was as far as she would go for her stepmother’s reputation.

As she descended the stairs and approached the sitting room, she could hear voices. One was Malisse. The other was similar, both feminine and decisive. It sounded familiar. Trystan opened the door and curtsied… to their neighbor, Lady Isaura Westerby, who rose from the settee and returned the curtsey.

“Trystan, my dear, how very lovely to see you!” she said, coming forward to grasp Trystan’s hand in her elegantly gloved one. “It has been a very long time indeed.” She smiled, and it actually looked genuine.

Trystan knew she was doing a poor job of keeping confusion from showing on her face, but it was all a bit too much to sort out so soon after waking. Lady Isaura had not spoken to her since Lord Percival’s death, nor had she shown much real interest even then.

“Now then,” Lady Isaura continued, “I was most distressed not to have the pleasure of your company at the party I gave for Miss Darya’s birthday. Your lovely mama indicated you had been unwell, and I do hope that it was not too serious.”

Trystan blinked, thought some rather disrespectful things about her stepmother, and replied as politely as confusion would allow. “Of course not, Lady Westerby.” She smiled as naturally as possible under the circumstances. “I have since made a full recovery…” Trystan paused, trying desperately to think of some genteel inquiry she could make that would not strain the bounds of propriety. As it turned out, she could remember little about Lady Westerby save that she was fond of parties and that her husband had been in the wool trade. Neither of which made for thrilling conversation. She was saved by Lady Isaura’s next comment.

“You know, Trystan, you do put me so much in mind of your father. He had very much the same eyes, I believe, and the same chin.”

Well, this was going too far, even for the sake of politeness. Lord Percival’s eyes had been green, and his chin decidedly square. Trystan’s chin was nothing if not a bit pointed.

“Thank you, Lady Westerby,” was the only safe thing to say. “I’ve often missed him, these three years. It is a comfort to know he has not been forgotten by all his friends.”

Lady Isaura inclined her head in a gracious nod. “Not at all! In fact,” she added, turning to Trystan’s stepmother, “it would please me greatly, Malisse, if you would permit Trystan to come and have tea with me. Perhaps tomorrow? I should very much like to spend some time reminiscing about those days, when my dear Osric was alive and the neighborhood was more lively.”

It was the first time in Trystan’s memory that Malisse had
not
been in charge of a conversation. Lady Isaura had very neatly outmaneuvered her neighbor, and even offered her a thinly veiled insult, all in such a way as to make it impossible for Malisse to refuse her what she wanted. Trystan was notably impressed.

“I’m sure Trystan will be delighted, Lady Westerby.” Malisse managed to get the words out between frozen lips, though her eyes promised painful questions for later.

The usual pleasantries were exchanged and polite farewells were uttered, polite mostly on the part of Lady Westerby. Malisse was obviously feeling thwarted and Trystan was too preoccupied to do much more than curtsey perfunctorily.

She was honest enough to admit her lack of attention to social intricacies, but her instincts insisted that Lady Isaura’s invitation stank of intrigue. Even if the point was only to annoy Malisse. Which, if Trystan’s memories were accurate, seemed a bit too petty for Lady Isaura.

Lord Percival had always seemed to respect the Westerbys as business associates and had bored a younger Trystan to near tears over several dinners with rather heated discussions of the economy and politics, discussions in which both Westerbys had figured as prominent and vocal participants. Trystan doubted Lady Isaura was now stooping to petty annoyances, especially not so soon after she had gone to great lengths to court Malisse’s goodwill by throwing a rather elaborate birthday party for her youngest daughter. No, Trystan would have to watch where and when and how she stepped. If she survived Malisse’s retribution.