An Unexpected Peril

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “How do you do,” I said politely, for I have always believed that while one may be familiar immediately upon making a dog’s acquaintance, a cat will stand for no such informality.

  The cat gave me a slow blink of its jeweled eyes.

  “That is Guimauve,” the baroness told me. “He is spoilt beyond redemption.”

  “Guimauve,” I repeated. “What an apt name!” It was the French word for the marshmallow flower, Althaea officinalis, a most useful herb with a broad white bloom that bore a striking resemblance to the creature before me.

  The baroness issued another order to Yelena, who immediately collected the animal from the top of the dressing table and placed it on an azure silken cushion. It meowed by way of complaint, but it seemed to be a token protest only, for it instantly fell to grooming its snowy fur and ignoring us entirely.

  As the cat attended to his ablutions, I was stripped of my own clothing down to the bare skin, my nakedness swiftly covered with a silk chemise of such delicacy it felt like a fall of rose petals whispering over my flesh. I would rather enjoy playing at being a princess if all the garments were going to be so lavish, I decided.

  But no sooner had the chemise settled on my skin than I was trussed within an inch of my life into a strangulating corset of merciless dimensions. Unlike my own lightweight athletic corset, which permitted great ease of movement with only modest support, this monstrosity was clearly fashioned of steel with stays that might uphold a battleship if necessity demanded.

  “I . . . cannot . . . breathe,” I protested through gasps.

  “Her Serene Highness has a very small waist,” the baroness replied pitilessly. “You will not fit into her clothes if yours is not as narrow.” She and Yelena together bore down with ruthless purpose on the laces again, drawing them tighter still until the stays creaked in protest and the baroness pronounced herself satisfied.

  Once I was trussed like a pheasant fit for roasting, she sat me down—with difficulty—at a dressing table, where she gave Yelena detailed instructions about my hair. I watched the girl’s reflection in the looking glass as she worked, pins held in her lips, hands moving quickly, deftly, as she first tonged my hair into long, smooth ringlets, then plaited the loose curls into a series of coils at the base of my neck and around my ears. Once this was done, a box of false hair was opened, and the baroness and the maid took a long time selecting the appropriate pieces, the baroness peering through her monocle as she chose.

  “Does the princess wear false hair?” I asked in some astonishment.

  The baroness shrugged. “Sometimes. Her own hair is much longer than yours—past her knees, in fact. But even she will augment her coiffure if the occasion demands.”

  “But why?” I asked. “Exactly how much hair does an Alpenwalder woman require?”

  “Quite a lot,” the baroness told me as she began to weave in the false pieces herself. Mercifully they were a match for my own, as the princess and I had nearly identical coloring.

  The baroness explained as she worked. “The Alpenwald played host to a very august visitor some years ago—the Empress Elisabeth of Austria. She was traveling incognita, you understand, but she is very fond of walking and our lakes offer excellent vistas for such sport. She is a distant cousin of the late Hereditary Prince and it was a very great honor to welcome her to the Alpenwald. As a gesture of respect, the court ladies dressed their hair like hers.”

  “The Austrian empress has hair like this?” I asked, gesturing towards the lavish construction taking shape upon my head. I had seen photographs of the empress, of course. She had been one of the great beauties of Europe in her youth. But I had not realized the effect was quite so painstakingly won.

  The baroness gave a little laugh. “To her ankles! The loveliest hair you have ever seen. Chestnut brown and shining like silk. Of course, now she is an old woman like me and her hair has probably fallen out, but still we keep to the custom at our little court,” she added pragmatically. I darted her a look to see if she was fishing for compliments, but none seemed expected. The baroness was past her youth, but in spite of the monocle and walking stick, she did not seem worn down by her years. Her eyes were still bright with vitality, and her skin was firm and supple.

  She deftly wove in another false plait, securing it with a jewel-tipped pin handed her by Yelena.

  “Do you always dress the princess’s hair?” I asked. “It seems rather mundane work for a noblewoman.”

  She reconsidered the pin, removing it and thrusting it into place at a more becoming angle. “It is my honor. For everyday wear, Yelena’s talents are sufficient, but when Her Serene Highness is making a public appearance, she prefers the traditional hairstyles of the Alpenwald, for which Yelena has not yet been trained.”

  Yelena went to the wardrobe and extracted a series of boxes with labels from the most exclusive couturiers in Paris. From the largest, she removed a gown covered in a muslin shroud, laying it as tenderly as she would a babe upon the bed, unwrapping it inch by inch. I stared in awe when it was at last revealed in all its glory. Cut in the most recent fashion, it was narrow of skirt with an elegantly draped train sweeping to the back in elaborate folds like those of a butterfly’s wing. The neckline was low and rounded and the bodice had been fashioned without sleeves, designed to bare a considerable expanse of flesh. Yelena busied herself laying out the various outer garments and accessories, leaving it to the baroness to apply the various layers of cosmetics, which she did with a heavy hand, further enhancing my resemblance to the princess.

  “Luckily, Her Serene Highness has thick brows,” the baroness told me, lighting a match. She burned it a moment, then blew it out, waving it for a few seconds to let the glowing end subside to a sooty tip. “Just a bit of embellishment and they will be very similar.” She dotted the soot into my brows, blending it carefully and deepening the black hue. She stepped back to regard her handiwork. “The princess is a little paler than you. She is very mindful of the delicacy of her complexion.” The baroness’s tone carried a light reproof as she pounced my face thickly with rice powder scented with orchid. “That is better.”

  She glanced at my hands. “These have the marks of a woman who works.” I was surprised. My hands were scrupulously clean, but pens leaked, specimen pins scratched. I held them out for her and she coated them with cream scented with a fragrance that was almost but not entirely familiar.

  “It smells floral, nearly of rose, but something else,” I said, trying to place it. “Something like mint.”

  “It is St. Otthild’s wort,” she told me. “It is the only thing that grows above the tree line of the Teufelstreppe. It has medicinal properties as well as being fragrant. It will soften your hands, but it will take many applications. You will not remove your gloves tonight,” she told me sternly.

  “Your Teufelstreppe must be an interesting place,” I mused. “Named for the devil and yet hospitable to such a plant.”

  The baroness smiled. “Do you know the history of our mountain?”

  “Only that it is named for the devil’s staircase, a difficult part of the climb.”

  She rolled her eyes heavenwards. “That is the talk of men. Every Alpenwalder climbs the mountain to prove his manhood and many of them reach the summit—it is practically a rite of passage for them. They speak of the danger and the difficulty, but it is the women who know the real story of the Teufelstreppe.”

  Her hands moved deftly, almost automatically, as she went about her tasks. Her voice pitched low and soothing, as if telling a bedtime story. “Long ago, when the mountain had no name, the prince who ruled our land was a pagan with a beautiful daughter called Otthild.”

  “Like your saint,” I put in.

  “The very same. Now, this prince was eager for riches and honors, so he pledged his beautiful daughter to a great king who was also a pagan. But the Princess Otthild had become a Christian and she refused
to marry her father’s chosen bridegroom. Her father beat her for her willfulness and threatened other tortures and so she ran away, climbing up the mountain. Her father and her bridegroom brought search parties up the peak, but no one could find her, for the maiden princess had prayed and a mist descended from heaven, cloaking her from view. She remained there, safe in her aerie where no one could find her. But someone did,” she added, pausing for dramatic effect.

  “Who?” I demanded.

  “The great tempter himself—Lucifer! He came to the princess and offered her riches to repudiate God and take a pagan husband.”

  “Why should the devil care?” I asked.

  The baroness clucked her tongue. “Do not ask questions! You look for logic with a scientist’s mind and this is a story about magic.”

  I fell silent and she went on.

  “The devil tempted her for three days, and each day the princess refused, growing colder and fainter from hunger. But she would not give in, and at last the devil, too cold himself to stay upon the mountain, ran away. Now the princess was too weak to move. The cold and the hunger had stolen her strength and she lay near death, but she had held fast to her principles. So God called upon the creatures of the forest to help her. ‘Not I,’ said the mountain goat,” the baroness said in a deep basso profundo voice. “‘Nor I,’ said the fox,” she continued, raising her voice to the sharp edge of a fox’s bark. “‘Nor I,’ said the squirrel. And so it continued with all the creatures of the forest. Except the otter. He climbed from his river, sleek and quick, and he stole a loaf of bread to carry up the mountain to the dying princess. And when she had eaten, he curled himself around her, giving her warmth until her strength was restored. She came down the mountain with the otter at her side, and lived long enough to tell her story to the priest who found her. She died in the priest’s arms, but her story became legend, and she was made a saint. And that is how the devil’s staircase, the Teufelstreppe, earned its name.”

  “An unfortunate young woman,” I remarked.

  “Unfortunate! She was called to sainthood,” the baroness corrected. “She was one of the great virgin martyrs and the only one from the Alpenwald.”

  She carried on with her grooming tasks, and in between she schooled me on matters of etiquette and deportment. “You must carry your head at all times as if you were wearing a crown,” she instructed. “Of course, tonight you will be.”

  “I have to wear a crown?” The assorted false pieces of hair and jeweled hairpins were constricting enough. I was not entirely certain my head would bear more weight.

  “Not a crown precisely,” she assured me. “But a very fine tiara. It is a gala performance, you will recall. The princess must represent her country as a monarch.”

  She hefted the ring of keys from her belt and went to a portable cabinet in the corner. It was a beautiful affair of inlaid wood depicting mountain scenes with forests and lakes and dancing bears and lissome maidens. “It is a lovely piece,” I told her.

  She lifted out a casket and locked the cabinet carefully up again. “The princess never travels without it. It is an example of our artisans’ works.” It might have been another example of Alpenwalder craftsmanship, but it was much more charming than the dreadful goat clock. The casket was also made of wood, but as the baroness opened it, she showed me the steel panels inside, cushioned with velvet. “A strongbox, but made to be pretty. All things that may be made beautiful ought to be,” she explained. She drew out a velvet case and with a flourish flung back the lid. I gasped aloud. The jewels inside were shimmering, catching at the light and tossing it back again, a thousand times over in an endless parade of brilliance. It was a parure, a matched set of enormous sapphires and amethysts shading from the wine-dark hues of midnight seas to the pale blues and purples of an Alpine evening. Larger stones had been set in the frame of the tiara whilst high loops of jewels circled around smaller gems hung en tremblant to swing gently as the wearer moved. Diamonds twinkled like stars throughout, leading the eye from the tiara to the girandole earrings and on to the high, collared necklace. A pair of bracelets and a wide stomacher completed the suite.

  I stared at them, mesmerized, hardly daring to breathe upon their magnificence.

  The baroness’s stern expression softened. “They are exquisite, are they not? A collection that once belonged to Marie Louise, the second empress of Napoléon. One of her nieces married into the Alpenwalder royal family and brought the parure with her. Our princess prefers it to the state jewels because it is lighter.”

  She signaled to Yelena, who fastened the earrings to my ears the old-fashioned way, by means of narrow silk ribbons tied around the ear to hold the weight of sapphires the size of cherries. They swung heavily against my neck, almost touching the necklace she clasped about my throat. The last piece to go on was the tiara, nestled into the arrangement of plaits. I poked it idly with a finger, watching in concern as it wobbled a little.

  “How on earth am I to keep it steady?” I asked.

  The baroness reached for her chatelaine, extracting a threaded needle. She advanced upon me, and without a word, she stitched the tiara into my hair, whipping the needle around the base of the coronet and through one of the false plaits. When she was finished, she gave the tiara a hearty, painful tug. “There,” she pronounced in satisfaction. “It will sit as it should.”

  I could scarcely turn my head for the combined weight of the wigs and jewels. “You will soon accustom yourself to it,” she assured me. “The more you wear it, the less you will notice it.”

  “Luckily it is only for tonight,” I replied. The baroness said nothing but turned to Yelena, signaling to her to pack away the various cosmetics as the baroness herself locked away the jewel cases.

  “It is only for tonight,” I pressed.

  The baroness gave me a thin smile. “We have a saying in the Alpenwald, Fraulein. Plans are jokes written by men for God’s amusement.”

  “That is hardly reassuring,” I told her.

  “It sounds better in German.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  The baroness carried on with her preparations by going to the bed, smoothing over the folds of the gown that Yelena had laid out, straightening the various ribbons and laces. She handled the princess’s things respectfully, reverently almost.

  My eyes fell to a large gilded box on the dressing table, the wares of one of our most exclusive chocolatiers, I realized. The baroness’s attention never left the clothing she was inspecting, but nothing escaped her.

  “You must help yourself, Miss Speedwell—but do so now if you wish a chocolate. It will not be possible once you have begun to dress.”

  I lifted the lid of the box to find a selection of violet and rose creams—Stoker’s favorites.

  “These are rather too rich for me,” I said politely, thinking of the delicacies Julien had pressed upon me during luncheon. “Would you care for one, Baroness?”

  The baroness’s nostrils flared in an expression akin to outraged horror, but she managed a polite refusal. “This is not possible, Fraulein. It is not my place to eat with my princess unless I am invited.”

  “But I am not your princess,” I pointed out. “And I have invited you.”

  She drew herself up, her posture impeccably straight. “I think it best if I treat you as I would Her Serene Highness in order to preserve this masquerade.”

  The baroness bent again to her task.

  “You are very fond of your princess,” I ventured.

  She carefully plucked a bit of fluff from the skirt of the gown before replying. “I have been in the service of the Crown all my life. It is my honor to serve.”

  “How is it that all of you speak such good English?”

  “The princess’s great-grandmother was English, one of your own princesses—Sophia Amelia, a sister of your King George III, the poor mad one,” the baroness sa
id as she moved a pair of evening slippers exactly perpendicular to the end of the bed.

  I had known that one of King George’s sisters had married the Danish king and had a very bad time of it—husband run insane, lover beheaded, early death from fever, that sort of thing—but I had not realized any other of his relations had married onto the Continent. He was my great-great-grandfather, but I had scarcely given him a thought other than as the sad old man who had lost the colonies and himself gone mad, ending his life stone deaf and blind to boot, wandering around Windsor Great Park in his nightgown and talking to the oaks. It gave one pause to realize such possibilities were lurking in the family tree.

  “Was your English princess happy in the Alpenwald?” I asked.

  The baroness blinked. “Happy? What do you mean?”

  “Simply that,” I said. “Was she content to live so far from home? Did she love her husband? Her children?”

  The questions seemed to put her at a loss and she struggled to answer. “I do not know how to reply to this, Fraulein. It is not for princesses to be happy. Their duty is to rule, to set an example.”

  It sounded ghastly, I decided. “Did she have a say in the marriage or was she simply shipped off?”

  “Shipped off?” The idiom seemed to puzzle her.

  “Yes, carted to the Alpenwald like so much fruit for sale,” I said, a trifle tartly. “It is a barbaric custom, the exchanging of royal daughters in the manner of livestock trading for the purpose of sealing treaties. Was that her lot?”