“I am sorry you were forced to come back from Berlin in vain,” said Sinclair-Howard, making no effort to conceal his unctuousness, though whether it was caused by the honor of being at Windsor or from the inconvenience to Ragoczy was not readily apparent. He was in full formal dress, his swallow-tail coat and striped trousers a contrast to Ragoczy s black superfine frock coat, wide silken burgundy tie, and black trousers as suited a private and unofficial audience, yet Ragoczy had about him an air of elegance that Sinclair-Howard had not achieved.
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“I will remain in London for a few days, possibly as long as a week.” Ragoczy s manner was unruffled. “Perhaps the King will improve and I will be able to see him. On the Czars behalf.”
“Perhaps,” said Sinclair-Howard in visible disbelief before turning his back on Ragoczy, leaving the footman to show him out.
“That’s a right disappointment,” said Harris as Ragoczy got back into the Silver Ghost. “Bringing you all the way back to England and then slamming the door in your face, so to speak.”
“Yes, it is a disappointment; it is also intended to put me in my place, I suspect,” said Ragoczy, frowning as Harris drove out of the gates. He sat back, staring blankly out the window for the greater part of a mile, then said, “Harris, I’ve changed my mind. I want you to drive me to Miss Pearce-Manning’s studio, if you will. There will be nothing more I can do today in regard to the King, and I confess I would be glad of her conversation.”
“Conversation, is it?” said Harris, then realized how impertinent his remark was. “Meaning no disrespect.”
“Yes, Harris, it is conversation, little as you may think it,” Ragoczy said wearily. “After this . . . this disappointment, conversation can be very . . . soothing.”
“Don’t bother about what I think, Count. It’s not—” He stopped as a delivery van turned into the street ahead of him, demanding his full attention. “Look at that, will you? The driver’s a right lob-noddy for fair.” Ragoczy smiled slightly at this unfamiliar aspersion. “A lob-noddy. Sounds dreadful: what does it mean?”
“It means a foolish chap, one who’s noddy—half-asleep—in his head.” Harris had assumed a public school accent for his explanation.
“I thought it must be something like that,” said Ragoczy, and returned to his purpose. “So, if you will take me to Miss Pearce-Manning’s studio and wait until I discover whether it would be convenient for her to receive me”—he thought back to her note and found himself wondering if it were good manners or interest that inclined her to send it— “for an hour or so.”
“A lot can be done in an hour,” said Harris under his breath, going on more loudly, “I’ll do that, sir.”
“Thank you,” said Ragoczy, and fell silent once again until they reached Great Russell Street. “If she is prepared to entertain me, I will be admitted to the building and you will be free to take the motor car back to the house. Circle the block once; if I am still in the building, drive on. Please tell Roger where I am. I will find my own way home.” He rubbed his brow. “The walk will do me good.”
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“It’s quite a distance, sir, and some of it not through the safest streets, if you take my meaning,” Harris warned him.
“I am aware of that; and I appreciate your concern,” said Ragoczy as the Silver Ghost began to slow down. “But I think I can fend for myself.”
“If you say so,” said Harris dubiously. “I could nip down to the Museum Pub and wait there for an hour or two. I could have shepherds pie and a pint or two, no trouble.”
“Unnecessary, I assure you,” said Ragoczy. “And if you want a drink and your supper, wouldn’t you rather have it in your local?” He prepared to get out of the automobile.
“Count,” said Harris, “I don’t. . . Wouldn’t it be better if I waited?” Ragoczy paused in the act of opening the door. “I may be a foreigner, but London is not wholly unknown to me.” His acquaintance with the city went back two millennia, but he did not mention this. “To return home, I go along to Oxford Street either by Tottenham Court Road or Bloomsbury Street, west on Oxford Street to Davies Street, south on Davies Street to Mount Street and from there—-”
Harris gave up. “Right you are, sir. That’s the most direct way. I won’t fash myself about you getting lost. I ’ll circle once, as you’ve told me to do.” He glanced at the traffic ahead. “Be careful crossing, sir.”
“As you wish, Harris,” said Ragoczy as he left the Rolls-Royce, closing the door decisively. He stood on the kerb while Harris pulled away, then crossed the street, bound for Rowena Pearce-Mannings studio.
She opened the door promptly, the frown vanishing from her features as soon as she recognized her caller. “God in Heaven. Count Saint-Germain.” She smiled. “I should have heard you on the stairs, shouldn’t I? I was just finishing work, you see. But then, I did not expect you so soon ... I’m babbling; forgive me. I’m not usually such a dolt. Do come in,” she said as she stood aside, holding the door wide to admit him. “I am sorry about the smock. And I’m afraid you will find the studio in a bit of a mess. I was cleaning up—”
“It is I who should beg your pardon for interrupting your work,” he said quickly. “As to the smock, you need not remove it on my account.” His smile was fleeting but warm. “I should have sent word—”
“Oh r no,” she protested. “I did say any afternoon this week, and I meant it. But I occasionally lose track of the time,” she went on, stepping back to have room to close the door, “and today was just one such, I fear. No doubt I ought to have put my materials away half an hour ago. Working by artificial light is always a risky thing to do.”
“Also it is impractical to stop work and ready yourself for a guest who
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may or may not arrive; yes, I agree. And artificial light can be deceptive.” He stopped to put his coat on a clothes hook by the door. “It is good of you to see me on such irregular notice.”
She gave him a direct look, and a hint of a smile. “Well, any man who is interested in the art created by women must be cultivated and encouraged, mustn’t he?” She made no move to escort him into the main room of her studio.
To her surprise, he did not show any amusement in his reaction. “I am not indulging you with my interest. Miss Pearce-Manning. You do not need to . . . cultivate me.” He regarded her with steady eyes.
Rowena flushed. “I . . . didn’t mean anything to your discredit, Count.”
He shook his head. “It is not to my discredit; I do not like to see you or any woman make herself seem less than she is in the name of acceptance. It not only belittles you, it belittles me as well.” His stem expression softened. “If you take your work as seriously as you claim, you need not hide your dedication from me.”
It took her a while to answer as various responses jumbled in her thoughts. Finally she decided he was being candid. “You’re right. I was trying to make light of what I do in the hope that—”
“—that I would not disparage your work, since you had already done it,” he finished for her.
“Yes,” she admitted, pointing the way into the studio. “Come in, why don’t you? I was about to put the kettle on for tea, or I should have done, twenty minutes ago.”
He walked beside her into the studio, noticing that the windows were not covered although it was nearly dark outside, and his reflection was absent from them. He quickly selected the settee with its back to the expanses of glass, saying, “It is still cool in the evenings. I would appreciate a little warmth.”
As she sat down in the high-backed wicker chair across from him, she said, “That is the only complaint I have about the windows: they make the studio impossible to keep warm. Except in high summer, when the heat is stifling, or so I have been warned. I will find out in two or three months, won’t I.”
Ragoczy glanced over his shoulder at the good-sized oil painting set on her nearest easel and could not
keep from recalling the many artists he had watched at work in the past: the Egyptian temple artists coloring the huge low bas-relief records of the events at the temple; the Greek sculptor shaping the idealized likeness of Alexander of Macedon; the brass worker on the Irrawaddy polishing the guardian dogs for the
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palace; the illustrator in Shiraz applying paint with a brush of a single hair; the mosaic artisans in Rome and Seville, setting glorious shapes into the floors of grand houses; the half-dozen apprentice monks ornamenting the chapels of towering cathedrals; Sandro Felipeppi, who was called Botticelli, struggling with the Massacre of the Innocents; Velasquez putting the finishing touches on his Death of Socrates. There were many more, but he resolutely put his attention on Rowena Saxons work. “I like the composition in this.”
She made an effort not to deprecate her work. “It is done from a sketch I did on a trip to Scotland, made in the fall of the year. I found that old fortress at the edge of the lake too ... too fascinating to ignore.” He said nothing for a short while as he contemplated the work. “You are a visionary, aren’t you? It is apparent in this, more than in your illustrations; here you have given yourself free rein. You have taken your vision on its terms, not on yours.” He paused again, his eyes still on the painting. “You have captured something remote and feral about that place without resorting to trickery or painterly theatrics; your style is distinctive without being intrusive, which is something not many artists achieve, and rarely so early in their work.” Then he leaned forward, his gaze leaving the painting; now his eyes were directly on hers.
Her breath came a little faster. “Thank you, Count.” She had to force herself to break away from his disconcerting gaze. What was it about his eyes? she asked herself as she recovered her self-possession once more, and would she ever be able to capture it? She got up abruptly. “I will tend to the kettle; it will not boil on its own. Would you like China or India tea?”
“You need fix nothing for me. I have just come from Windsor.” He let her make whatever assumptions she wished from the last. “But do not hesitate to make what you want for yourself.”
“Windsor?” she repeated, her head cocked to the side. “You have business with the King, or one of the Royals?”
“Yes, but not my own,” he told her, aware that her father knew more than that. “Sadly, Edward was not able to give me the time he had scheduled originally.”
“Oh, dear,” she said as she went into the little alcove that served as a kitchen. “Is his health still poor?” She filled the kettle and set it atop the stove, then lit the burner with a long kitchen match.
“So it would seem,” said Ragoczy carefully. He took advantage of her absence to go and pull the heavy draperies across the windows, saying as he did, “This will hold in the warmth.”
Rowena stood in the kitchen door, her eyes fixed on him. “It was the
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oddest thing, Count.” She laughed a bit, nervousness making the sound breathless. “Just now > while you covered the windows”—she gave an incredulous shake of her head—“you appeared to have no reflection.” He came back to the settee. “I suppose it was the angle.” He sat down again, and in a moment said, very gently, “I was sorry to hear about your . . . estrangement from your family.”
She shrugged. “It would have come eventually, I accept that.” She sat down next to him. “But I was not as prepared as I thought I was.” “Is there any difficulty?” he asked carefully, at pains to keep her from thinking he would take advantage of her situation.
“Financially, you mean?” she asked. “Oh, no. My trust fund is not administered by my parents, but by my grand-father. And I know how fortunate I am to have it.” She lowered her eyes. “No, that was not my meaning. I meant that . . . the circumstances which ...” Her hands knotted and unknotted in her lap. “My parents want me to marry. My father... accepted the offer of Rupert Bowen and he expected I would consent.” This last was filled with an emotion that bordered on repugnance. “I have said I would not marry, for years and years, and they still do not believe me. They think I must want a husband, if for no other reason than it would give them grand-children.”
“A great many parents want that,” he said soothingly, remaining very still beside her.
She sighed. “If I did not have my painting, I might be tempted to set aside my principles and marry to please them. A number of my friends have done, choosing to take the safe path. Not that I blame them.” She turned to him again, and found disastrous sympathy in his dark eyes. “But I know that I could not be a good artist and a good wife at the same time; one or the other would have to suffer. So I had to leave before they succeeded in wearing me down with their promises and disapproval.” She tried to smile, and very nearly did. “My sister Penelope is mad for Rupert. If she were ten years older, she would be a perfect bride for him. To hear her, flowers sprout from his footprints and birds go silent to listen to him.”
“Truly?” Ragoczy said. “And what possessed him to think you would be cut from that cloth.”
The kettle shrilled in the kitchen; Rowena leaped up, apologizing as she rushed to tend to the tea. “I have a little wine, Count. If you would like it?”
“Thank you, Miss Saxon, no; I do not drink wine.” He followed her to the kitchen, saying, “Will you permit me to carry the tray for you?” “It is what?—ten feet to the table?—and I have done it often and
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often.” She warmed the large earthenware pot before putting in the loose leaves of strong Assam and filling the pot with boiling water.
“Nonetheless, I hope you will allow me to do this for you,” he said as he picked up the tray. “Is this all you were planning for yourself?”
“Two scones and lemon curd,” she said as she put both of these onto the tray. “If you feel you must, then you must,” she went on, letting him bear the tray to the table in front of the settee.
As he put the tray down, he said, “How has it been, being on your own as you are?”
She did not answer at once; she went back to her chair. “Often it is invigorating, as I knew it would be. I think often of my grand-father, whose father gave him a dollar, a new pair of boots and sent him out to seek his fortune. It is like something out of a fairy tale, except it truly happened to Horace Saxon. When I find myself overcome with doubt, I consider how much better off I am than my grand-father was when he first began to make his way in the world; he is now a fabulously wealthy man.” She sat down. “I know painters do not become fabulously wealthy, or very few of them do.”
“I was about to mention something of the sort,” Ragoczy said, resuming his place on the settee.
“I do not paint for wealth. I am extremely lucky that money need not trouble me.” She took her serviette from the tray and spread it on her lap. “Redundant over a smock,” she remarked. “It is an old habit.”
“And theoretically, men do not need ties to protect the throat from sword-thrusts, but we continue to wear them,” Ragoczy pointed out, amusement in the back of his eyes. He waited briefly, and said, “You were going to tell me why your suitor is so determined to marry you when it is plainly not what you wish to do.”
Her brows flicked together. “He has formed an idea of me, and he desires to obtain that idea, to possess it.” She fell silent. “I shouldn’t discuss this with you.”
“I will not repeat what I hear,” he promised her.
“I don’t doubt you, Count. It is not fitting that I should . . . presume upon our acquaintance in this way.” She reached for the potholder to grasp the handle of her teapot and placed the strainer atop her cup. “Are you certain you do not want any?”
“Quite certain,” he said, continuing to watch her.
“I hope it may be possible to have love, of course,” she went on, concentrating on pouring her tea. “But not at the expense of my art. The love must not make such demands of me, not and
be genuine. I cannot let myself be restrained or confirmed by anyone, especially Rupert
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Bowen, who thinks that I will gladly give up painting for the delights of motherhood. He is eager to have heirs.”
“Which you do not want to give him,” Ragoczy said kindly.
She put the teapot down so forcefully that the whole tray rattled. “Certainly not. I do not want to give anyone heirs.” She was about to speak again when Ragoczy startled her by saying, “Indeed, why should you?”
Now that he had her full attention, he went on, “Any unwelcome bond, no matter how pleasant, is a prison.”
“That is it, precisely,” she said, staring at him in astonishment, remembering her mothers warning about this man. How hard it was to doubt his intentions with his penetrating eyes on her own. “More for women than . . . than for men.”
“I agree,” he said at once, and again was subject to her scrutiny. He leaned back against the cushions. “And before you exhaust yourself wondering, I will admit that I am not wholly disinterested in your situation.” He was mildly surprised that he had spoken so bluntly.
Her reserve returned. “And I suppose you would like to make an arrangement for an affaire with me?” She hated herself for feeling so disappointed, particularly since she had said so much to him. “One of those clever—”
“No, I am not,” he said, his voice flat.
She blinked in astonishment and chagrin. “Oh.”
He went on persuasively, “I do find you attractive, as much for your independence as your looks, and more than either, for your talent. You are a rare woman, Miss Saxon, as rare for your determination as for your obvious gifts.” He paused, wanting her to look at him. When she finally did, he continued. “And if, at some time you should decide that you might want what love I offer, I would be deeply honored to have such an opportunity. But what I am more immediately concerned with is how your work can reach the discerning public.”
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