“Promise,” she insisted.
“You have my Word; my promise would not be more binding,” he remarked, lifting his hands to loosen the coronet-braid.
“I suppose so,” she said, anticipating his kisses.
‘What do you want for tonight, now that you have my—” Ragoczy said, with a nod toward the clock on his dresser. “We have several hours before you will be missed.”
She chuckled, the sound tight in her throat. “Wouldn’t that be interesting, watching them search the dasha for me while I am here with you?”
“Interesting, perhaps: it would definitely be awkward. It is far more pleasant to have our time all to ourselves, for no one’s satisfaction but our own.” He held her, feeling her nervousness begin to go out of her.
“How can you tell so much about me?” she asked as he kissed her brow and then the comer of her mouth. “Is it the blood?”
“It is you in your blood,” he answered gently; her hair spilled down her back, sliding through his fingers like old-silver silk. “I know the whole of you.”
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“Then you must know what I am thinking,” she said, a little breathlessly. “Do I have to tell you?”
“I would like it if you did,” he said quietly. “So you will be wholly fulfilled.” He began to unfasten her peignoir, starting at the top.
“Don’t you know by now what pleases me?” she chided him lovingly, her body tingling as he brushed her exposed flesh lightly with the backs of his fingers. She shivered in anticipation, her eyes half-closed.
“There may be things you would like that we have not done,” he said as he dropped her peignoir to the floor; she wore no nightgown beneath it. “As much as I am capable of, I will try to do.” For a fleeting instant the memory of Estasia demanding that he rape her on the altar of San Lorenzo returned to him, so forcefully that he could hardly move.
Amalija realized something had affected him. “What is it?” she said as she put her hands over his.
“Nothing,” he said, shaking off the intrusion from the past.
“Truly?” She moved his hands around her, then released them.
“Nothing that need concern you.” He drew her to him and kissed her, relishing the kindling passion within her. “It was long ago,” he added when she flung her head back.
“I guessed as much,” she said, and slipped her arms around him. “What did she want of you?”
He paused before he answered, realizing she needed an answer. “Something I would not have done had I been able to.” He regarded her steadily, the low light burnishing her features and casting his own into shadow. “There is nothing you need fear from me, Amalija, not now, not ever.”
“I know that,” she admitted, and held him closer. “I wish,” she said as she pressed her face to his shoulder so that her confession was muffled in burgundy velvet, “I could have you love me slowly, very slowly, and at the same time I long for a spasm that is quick and intense.”
“You may have both, if it is what you wish,” he said quietly, stroking her back.
She held onto him as if to keep from falling. “How? Can you?”
“If it is what gratifies you, it is what gratifies me, as well,” he reminded her as he bent to kiss her breasts, and felt her tremble. Lifting his head, he swung her up in his arms and carried her to the bed; it was wide enough for three. As he lowered her onto the flawless expanse of linen, he reached for the comforter he had thrown back before she arrived.
“No,” she said. “I don’t want to hide, not from you.”
He smiled as he bent over her. “Nor I from you.” Then his hands
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began their persuasive, tantalizing journey, setting out a path for his Ups to follow; Amalija let all her present concerns fall away until all the world was only her ecstasy and Franchot Ragoczv.
Text of a letter from Rowena Saxon, in Amsterdam, to Franchot Ragoczv, via his man-of-business in Saint Petersburg.
Amsterdam May 19,1910
F. Ragoczy, Count Saint-Germain in care of Piotr Dmitrovich Golovin 77 Volnyj Street Saint Petersburg, Russia
My dear Count;
As you see, I have done it. I am now in Amsterdam, looking to let a charming house built in 1610. You may reach me at the Amstel Hotel for Women in Beethoven Straat for the next two weeks. 1 have been informed by the administrators of my grand-fathers’ trust that there should be no difficulty in securing the lease for me: they have been authorized to pay a years lease on the house, which should put to rest any objections that might be raised against my occupancy.
My mother, as you may expect, is quite dismayed at my decision. She has implored me to reconsider in daily letters. Her most recent argument is that it is not suitable for a well-born woman to leave England while the world is still mourning the loss of Edward VII. She has said nothing about our English celebration of George V, I would guess because it takes away from her perceived ill-use.
In all the years I have been pursuing my art, I have never felt as truly committed to it as I do now. I have at last decided that my dedication is not merely the protestation of a dissatisfied woman—as my mother has long contended is the case—but the true response to the requirements of talent. There. I have said it. I accept that I have talent, and that talent has a price. I will try not to think myself boastful for using such a word, although I cannot fully escape that apprehension, or not yet. In time, I hope to become accustomed to such acknowledgement.
If you were sincere in your offer to find me gallery attention, I would certainly appreciate your efforts at this time. Now that I cannot easily exhibit at the Gallery of Women Artists, I would prefer an Amsterdam gallery for my work. I realize this may be presuming upon you, but I
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confess I am at a loss as to how to achieve a place for my work without someone to endorse it. And although you mayn’t believe it, no matter how you decide, I hope you will consider sitting for me when next you are in Amsterdam. I think you would be a most interesting subject for a portrait. And frankly, if you are willing to let me paint you, there may be others who would be inclined to commission their own portraits once they see what I have accomplished with yours. If any of these requests offend you, I beg your pardon and ask you consider them unasked.
Two days ago I received a telegram from Rupert Bowen, who claims to be determined to continue his suit; I have informed him more than once that any engagement he may believe exists between us is a fiction; that my father cannot grant or withhold my affections, no matter what Rupert would like to think. I may not be able to avoid him entirely, but at least I have put some distance between us, and that may serve to diminish his supposed ardor.
As soon as I have moved into the house, I will send you the address. I will also leave instructions with the hotel to forward all mail to me, so that you may be assured that any communication from you will reach me, wherever I am. In time, I hope to move to Paris or Rome, but that will take at least two years’ work here. Then I will be ready to test the waters of those splendid places. In the meantime, Amsterdam will do very well for a first venture. I have already learned my way around the environs of the city and I am beginning to explore the countryside a little. By the time you arrive here, I will be delighted to serve as your guide, if you need one.
In anticipation of our meeting again.
Cordially, Rowena Saxon
2
As he poured out a generous amount of schnapps into a cut-crystal glass, Baron von Wolgast did his utmost to conceal the satisfaction he felt at the shocked expression on Egmont von Rosenwiese s lean, aristocratic face. “Here,” he said, holding out the glass. “You look as if you need it.” “Mein Gott,” von Rosenwiese muttered as he took the glass and
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drank down its entire contents in a single gulp. “Those letters— How did you—”
“That is not important,” he said, enj
oying his position over the younger man. “The point is, I have the chance to secure the letters in question, before they could do any damage.” He had paid handsomely to obtain them; he was beginning to think it was money well-spent. He was not willing to tell von Rosenwiese that he had them in his possession, not yet: let the young idiot twist in the wind a while longer. “I know it would not help your career if it was ever learned that you had—shall we call it an affaire? yes?—with Bishop Kalthaus.”
“That was six years ago,” von Rosenwiese protested feebly; his tall, athletic body seemed to have shrunk in the last few minutes, and he began to fiddle with his cufflinks. He turned his head quickly at a sudden hooting of horns in the street below, as if the sound were intended for him, and not erring motorists.
“Of course, of course. But it would still be a scandal, if it were known, wouldn’t it? Affaires of that sort are not as readily forgotten as those we have with women.” Von Wolgast’s smile was full of counterfeit goodwill. “You are a lucky man that I was the one who happened upon the letters, that the seller brought them to me. I understand the danger they represent to you, to say nothing of your father and older brother. If anyone else had come upon them—” It was, in fact, the former Jesuit Reighert who had discovered their existence, but von Wolgast knew better than to mention this. “Many another would have gone directly to the Minister, or to the press. Or to the Church.” He took the glass and refilled it. “Here. Have some more. Steady your nerves, Egmont. You are in safe hands.”
Von Rosenwiese took the glass. “Danke.”
The drawing room was fashionably cluttered, with two large suites of settee-and-chairs surrounding a large cocktail table. End tables flanked the two suites, each one with a lamp on it. The prevailing color was the glossy oaken sheen of the paneling and furniture, and a rich forest green. There was a trestle table behind both settees, each with its own display of expensive trinkets, including a collection of porcelain figures from the previous century. It was not quite noon and the room was warmed by the mid-June sunshine streaming in the south-facing windows. All in all, the drawing room ought to have been welcoming, but it was not.
“Think nothing of it,” said von Wolgast, his eyes brimming with amusement; he tried to look downcast, and nearly succeeded. “I thought it would be best if I came to you directly, Egmont, instead of reporting
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this to your superiors, as I know it is correct for me to do. Let us say that men of our station in society owe one another more than they owe the masses.” He poured a schnapps for himself and sat down in the chair opposite Egmont von Rosenwiese, leaning forward as if to show his deep regard for the tall, blond Deputy Minister for Foreign Affairs. “I was not only thinking of you, but of the Bishop, of course. A shocking thing like this might well—well, lets not dwell on it, shall we?” He sipped and watched his companion squirm.
“It is not only the Bishop,” said von Rosenwiese after a short time. “My family would be . . . unable to cope with this, I fear. You are right about that.” He finished his schnapps again, and then coughed as the alcohol struck him.
“Would you like some more?” von Wolgast inquired, rising already to take the glass. “At times like this, you do not succumb to drink as readily as others. The shock prevents intoxication. Or, I have always found it so,” he said as he again poured out a generous amount and handed it back. “There you go.”
“I don’t know ...” said von Rosenwiese as his fingers curled around the glass as if around a floating spar after a shipwreck.
“We will have to make an arrangement, you and I, in regard to these letters, so that they will not fall into the wrong hands,” said von Wolgast smoothly. “We must come upon some way to protect you and ensure your . . . privacy.”
“And Hugo’s, as well,” said von Rosenwiese, unaware that he had used Bishop Kalthaus’ first name. “He has as much to lose as I, if news of this gets out. The Church would punish him; make an example of him. The Catholics are like that.” He put his free hand to his eyes, squinting down into the contents of his glass as if he could read something in it. “We were younger then, and so many things seemed possible.”
“Your wife would be distressed to hear of this, I presume,” said von Wolgast, doing his best to maintain his sympathetic facade. He glanced up as he saw Schmidt at the door; he abruptly motioned his butler away.
“I don’t know,” said von Rosenwiese distantly. “She is not a woman much inclined to . . . physical expressions. She has often apologized to me ... She might be relieved if she knew that I was not as disappointed in her as she fears.” This time his sip was more judicious, although his words were already beginning to slur and his clear blue eyes had lost their sharp focus.
“Well, that’s something, at least,” said von Wolgast, glowering down at his feet; he had wanted to have more than one means to control von Rosenwiese, which now seemed impossible.
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“My father, however, would be horrified, and my brother as well, if they discovered anything about this, and my uncles would want my father to disown me. Its happened once, to my cousin Heinrich,” von Rosenwiese admitted in a rush. “He went to America; I’ve no idea where. Thank God my mother is dead. She would have not been able to bear the gossip.”
This was more to von Wolgast’s liking. “I will do what I can to ensure your protection, and the protection of your entire family. I think men of our rank owe one another that much loyalty, don’t you?” He drank a little more, and was pleased to see that von Rosenwiese did the same. “The Ministry would not be willing to keep you on, would they? If any of this comes out?”
There was a shine of sweat on von Rosenwiese’s fine brow. “I would be completely disgraced. No part of the government would employ me.” He shuddered at the very thought. “I probably could not secure so much as a teaching post, either, not after a scandal like this.”
“Then we must be certain it doesn’t happen: no scandal will ensue,” he said, and went on more energetically. “I do not have the letters to hand, but I know who does. I know the fellow is asking a high price for them. Now,” he went on, warming to his deception, “I will purchase the letters for you—”
“Von Wolgast!” von Rosenwiese exclaimed. “I couldn’t possibly permit—”
“Well, you cannot afford to do it, can you? Not on your salary. I can, and I would consider it a worthwhile investment.” That, at least, was the truth.
“But why—?” He was not yet so drunk that he had lost all sense of danger.
“Because you have the capacity to do so much for Germany, you as a man, and you as a man of your position in the world,” said von Wolgast with feeling. “You are bom to those who have led this country through every battle, every campaign, every war since Otto the Great. Without men like you, von Rosenwiese, we are no better than the Dutch. We cannot waste men of your . . . heritage, not now that the Turks aire in disorder and the whole of Russia may dissolve in revolution. Such catastrophe must not befall Germany. You can achieve much if this ... youthful mistake is not brought to light. You may well receive the attention of the Chancellor, if not the Kaiser himself. There are too few men of your character in government. Most of them are ambitious hacks, with no sense of patriotism.” He was doing his best to seem mod-
est about his own claims to patriotism, and was nearly successful. “You know the sort I mean.”
“Oh, yes,” said von Rosenwiese, eager to find anything that would ally him more completely with von Wolgast.
“If they are not seeking to make profit for themselves, they are rooted in the past, clinging to the verities of the last century, and to von Bismarck’s notions of maintaining our place in European affairs.” Von Wolgast saw he had as much of von Rosenwiese s attention as he could give after so much schnapps. “It is up to men like you—and perhaps like me—to claim our place in Germany, to make it plain that Germany is not content to rest on the laurels of the past, but is
forging ahead into the new century with strength and vision.” He got up, as if in the throes of fervor for his country. “I would like to see Germany assume the mantle of European leadership. Oh, not that we have lagged, but we have not done all that we might.”
“I know; I know. There are still those in high positions who are committed to negotiating with the French and the English and the Austrians and all the rest of them, as if talk ever settled anything. Look at the miserable alliances between France and England—historical enemies. They assume a piece of paper will negate ten centuries of rivalry. Ridiculous.” Von Rosenwiese tripped over the last syllables, and scowled at the glass in his hand as if he had not seen it there before.
This was almost too easy, von Wolgast thought, and reminded himself that he would have to fire his guest sufficiently for his nationalistic dedication to survive his hangover. “We must prepare to advance the cause of our country,” he declared.
“Ja. We must,” said von Rosenwiese, going on owlishly, “The Austrians are trying to upset the balance in the east, moving into land the Turks had controlled, fifty years ago. And the Russians are letting it happen.”
“Russia, as you have so astutely said, has trouble of her own. She is in no position to interfere with Austro-Hungary.” Von Wolgast was not going to let von Rosenwiese be distracted from his purpose. “We must make certain that Europe does not go the way of Russia. We must also try to keep our government strong—none of this parliamentary nonsense to muddy the waters.”
“I should hope not,” von Rosenwiese agreed, trying to strike the arm of his chair, and missing it. He blinked at his hand, then peered at von Wolgast. “Look what has happened to England. And with George on the throne, well!”
“Exactly.” Von Wolgast was not sure what von Rosenwiese meant, but
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