“How would that make you a relation?” Confusion was plain in her voice.
Had she put a foot wrong? She should have expected that the Fulpis had sheltered their daughters from the more scandalous parts of Margerit’s life. “Never mind. It was a little joke.” Perhaps thrusting her into the middle of Jeanne’s friends would be a poor idea. “Wait here,” she suggested as they came out into the fountain courtyard. “I’ll go find Margerit and let her know you’ve come.” She quietly extracted Margerit and followed her back to avoid being claimed for cutting ribbons and tying bows.
“Whatever are you doing here, Iuli?” Margerit greeted her cousin.
The girl’s face settled into a mulish look. “I never had any chance to talk to you the other day. Papa never lets me talk at dinner except to answer questions. And then you all disappeared afterward to talk about Sofi’s ball.”
And if you have no more conversation than that, Antuniet thought, then it’s no wonder he forbids you to talk.
Then Iuli’s voice turned more coaxing and she threaded a hand through Margerit’s arm. “I never had a chance to sing my new piece for you: the one I wrote you about. It’s been ages since you were here and I barely saw you at all.”
“Your turn will come soon enough,” Margerit said. “I’ll come visit at least once more before we go. And then you can sing and play the clavichord for me and we can have a cozy chat. Does anyone know you’ve run off?”
Antuniet cleared her throat softly. “I believe they do by now.”
The girl turned on her. “You had no business telling tales to my parents.”
“Iuli!” Margerit scolded. “That’s enough! There’s no call to be rude to Maisetra Chazillen. I was going to wait with you in the library until someone came for you but I won’t reward this sort of behavior. I’m sending you back right now with Marken.”
They had all come back out to the front hall. She gave terse instructions to fetch both the armin and a carriage. “And you stay right here until he comes for you.”
They left her there, muttering after them, “I’m not a child!”
But when Antuniet glanced back before they turned the corner, the girl’s face had fallen from disappointment to something near to heartbreak. “She worships you, I think,” she said quietly.
Margerit sighed deeply. “She thinks she can wrap me around her finger. I wish she’d learn to take some heed. It isn’t only that she came here when her father expressly forbade it; it’s that she goes running off all the time without any thought for what might happen. I only hear of it through her letters, but I can fill in the rest.”
“I should think you might have some sympathy for that sort of thing,” Antuniet said. “I seem to recall you broke a good number of conventions.”
“I sound like my Aunt Pertinek,.. don’t I? But it’s different for Iuli. She isn’t an heiress, not enough of one to flout the rules. And I usually knew what the consequences could be. Iuli doesn’t think about them at all. I sometimes wish I could take her in hand. My Uncle Fulpi doesn’t know any other way than cold silences. It worked on me but never on her. But they would never allow that.”
It was one of those consequences for breaking the rules, Antuniet knew. What passed for eccentricity in Rotenek would still be scandal here. Even such a little thing as an unmarried woman managing her own household. It was no doubt a tribute to the power of Margerit’s fortune that the Fulpis still received her at all.
* * *
Antuniet fell into the snare of the May Day plans at last after dinner when one of the women exclaimed, “A divination! We must have a divination. I remember we always did the one with eggs to tell how many children we’d have.”
“I rather doubt it would be enlightening,” Mesnera Penilluk said. “At my age, I don’t need a mystery to answer that one.”
“Then what about a true-love charm?” Tionez suggested slyly. “Wouldn’t you like to know who’s secretly pining for you?”
“Yes, of course,” Iaklin added, ever eager to support Tio’s plans. “May Day should be a sweetheart divination. My cousins did one with twigs to spell out names, but I don’t remember the verses.”
Antuniet expected Jeanne to betray her but it was Margerit who said, “Antuniet knows one. Didn’t you say your book-finding charm was based on a love divination?”
“Yes,” she replied shortly.
If they’d begged or bullied she could have resisted, but Jeanne only came over to sit close and said softly, “I won’t let them force you to it. I know you think this is all silly nonsense. I was hoping you might find something enjoyable in all my schemes, but it’s not your fault that I’ve failed in that. I’ll find something else to distract them.”
That crumbled all her defenses. It was true. Jeanne had been doing her best, and all week she’d been as petulant and unwilling to be pleased as Margerit’s cousin Iuli. It was such a little thing to ask, and truth to tell she longed for Jeanne to ask something of her, to include her. That carnival outing that had ended so badly—it had meant the world that Jeanne had invited her, though she never would have admitted it. “If Margerit can gather the paraphernalia,” she began, “I could put something together. I’ve never done the original version, you know, but I remember it well enough.”
And so the next day they gathered up parchment, wax and herbs, and in the parlor over luncheon she explained each person’s part. “You need to draw up a billet like this on the parchment square.” She showed them the signs and symbols to trace out. “In the center, put your initials or some other personal mark. We only need to be able to distinguish them, and, of course, you each need to write it out yourself. Now fold it like so—” She demonstrated with a blank square. “—then you fill it with a spoonful of this.”
Maisetra Pertrez wrinkled her nose at it. “What’s in it?” she asked.
“This and that. Moondust and sea salt and a bit of cobweb to bind it.” The contents were nothing out of the ordinary really, but Antuniet fell into the response Nurse had always given. She creased the paper carefully. “Then when you’re done, tuck the ends away like this and seal it closed with a drop of red wax. They all need to look identical.”
“How does it work then?” Jeanne asked.
“We put them in a bowl and draw out one at a time, like drawing lots. We need to make a circle around a fire. You were planning for a bonfire already, weren’t you? There are some words to say, then I crack the seal and tip the contents into the flames. If the person’s true love is present, the sparks will point them out.”
Jeanne finished for her, “And then we look at the billet and find out who it was! But what if her true love isn’t present?”
Antuniet shrugged. “When my old nurse did the divination, it was fairly rare for the signs to be clear. That made it more of a game. And her rule was you never used more than a third of the billets. She had some reason for that but I think it simply gets tedious when you get too many failures.”
Jeanne passed out the supplies and sent Barbara off to find enough pens and ink. When Akezze would have risen and left the table, she urged, “No, you too. Everyone should join in.”
“Mesnera de Cherdillac,” Akezze said firmly, “I mean no slight to you or to our hostesses, but if I have been harboring secret unnatural passions, I would prefer that they remain secret even to myself.” Without waiting for a reply, she rose, curtseyed briefly and left the parlor.
“It’s only a silly game,” Jeanne muttered to no one in particular.
“Let her be,” Margerit said. “Remember that she began as a poor-scholar and she has more than her own reputation to take care for.”
Tionez’s friend Iaklin suddenly looked nervous as well, as if it had only now dawned on her what it would mean if the divination found a match for her. Tio made a game of flirtation but everyone knew she wasn’t serious. And nothing good can come from that, Antuniet thought. Tio’s reputation was already a source of gossip. Maisetra Silpirt would need to keep her eyes open if
she didn’t want to stumble badly. But there—she’d fallen back into the habit of measuring and judging the words and actions of other women. That had been one consolation of having fallen so far out of favor: that she was no longer required to care what others did, or what they thought of her in turn.
Having once capitulated, Antuniet found it easier to join in the festivities. It was floodtide, after all: a time set aside for silly games and amusements. And if Jeanne’s plans were not in her style, she could at least refrain from spoiling them for the others by pointedly standing apart.
Despite Jeanne’s best efforts, no one rose quite as early as dawn to greet the May, but they all made it out into the gardens while every leaf and petal was still glittering with moisture. As they gathered flowers into baskets, a great show was made of blotting up the last drops of dew to bathe faces that mostly would never see the freshness of youth again. It seemed almost a parody of the ritual. Oh, a handful of them, like Tio, were young enough for the game. But more of Jeanne’s close circle were at least a decade past the trailing edge of youth: women like Helen Penilluk who had come to an understanding with an indifferent husband, or widows like Marianniz Pertrez who had given society its due and now claimed their lives as their own. Some she had been surprised to see in that circle. She wouldn’t have guessed that Alenur Iskimmai was in any way dissatisfied in her marriage until seeing her wander through the garden hand in hand with Ailis Chaplen. What little lies had they told their husbands to be allowed this holiday? Or was the honor of an invitation from Baroness Saveze enough of an excuse? Jeanne’s amours were an open secret and she’d made a sound guess about Barbara and Margerit even before Jeanne’s hint last fall, but before this trip there wasn’t a one of the others about whom she’d heard more than faint rumors. It all should have seemed sad, but floodtide gave license for so many things.
After the flower-picking there was a dainty feast spread on a cloth laid across the lawns and Jeanne led them in composing riddles and rhymes. Fatigued from that exertion, most of the ladies retired to take their rest before the rigors of the evening’s dancing. Antuniet wandered back into the gardens feeling restless and at loose ends. This week had brought…no, not memories of the floodtide holidays of her youth. Those had never been this pleasant or this elaborate. Primarily, it brought the reminder of how far outside this sort of cozy circle she had always stood—would always stand. It was time to return to Rotenek and her work. That was where she belonged now. But the visit had been pleasant. She’d nearly forgotten what it was like to live in this world. And if it were only Jeanne and the more sensible of her friends…
When she finally returned to the house, Barbara was engaged like a commanding general with directing the preparations in the ballroom. Every surface was being decked with flowers.
“No point in doing things halfway,” she said cheerfully at Antuniet’s approach. “They’ll only go to waste in the gardens when we leave.”
Several screens had been set up to make the space smaller. There was no need for the vast expanse the room was designed to provide. In one corner, a small bower had been set up for the musicians rather than banishing them to the gallery overlooking the dance floor. Antuniet spent a while trying to find words to express how delightful it must be to be able to throw such preparations at so small a gathering, but she gave it up when all her attempts sounded envious and bitter. In the end she retreated to the library again, where the books wouldn’t require her to make pleasant talk.
* * *
Antuniet looked in the mirror one last time before heading down to the ballroom. She had last worn the rose silk that night at the opera. Jeanne was right: her dressmaker had worked wonders. It almost succeeded in making her look presentable. She touched her dark hair, hanging in unaccustomed ringlets. When had she ever hovered over her reflection before going out? That was proof enough that she was making far too much fuss over the evening. One of the housemaids had helped her dress her hair and manage the finishing touches on the gown. That, too, she had lost the habit of expecting. And then there was no remaining excuse to stay in her bedroom.
She paused in the ballroom doorway to take in the effect of Barbara’s work. It was hard to tell where the room ended and the gardens began. The musicians were warming up with a soft concerto while the guests sipped champagne and sorted themselves out for the opening quadrille. It had been quite some time since she had danced, longer still since she’d done so with pleasure. The quadrille… She would struggle to remember the figures now. Perhaps she would venture to the floor after the first few sets. A country dance should be safe.
She saw Jeanne descending upon her, exclaiming, “Toneke! I’m so glad you wore that gown. You should always wear rose; it’s the color that makes you bloom.” She laughed gaily at her own joke.
Does she think to fool anyone into believing I have more than the one? But she smiled and nodded, trying not to think too much on the last time she’d worn the dress.
“Do you have a partner yet for the opening set?”
Antuniet’s tongue froze in her mouth. “I…I don’t know if I—”
“Oh, pooh!” Jeanne said, taking her by the hand. “If I can lead then you can follow. We’ll step on each other’s toes together if need be.”
The reassurance failed. Jeanne was an excellent dancer no matter which part she took. Yet with that look of encouragement in Jeanne’s eyes, she longed to—
Tionez interrupted her thoughts with a peremptory demand. “Jeanne, you simply must convince Saveze that I’m right. Tradition requires that she open the ball with you. We can’t throw out all the rules, even for floodtide.”
Antuniet glanced over to where their hostesses stood. Margerit looked annoyed, Barbara impatient. Clearly this hadn’t been their idea. And yet tradition did dictate that a ball be opened by the highest ranking pair. Jeanne sighed. “You’re right, of course. Tio, perhaps you will partner Antuniet in my stead.”
“I hadn’t planned to dance the quadrille,” Antuniet said quickly, catching an inexplicable look of triumph that Tionez threw her.
She moved down to the end of the room to sit with Akezze while the others formed up, but they were both dragged into the second set willy-nilly, for the guests were exactly sixteen in all. Antuniet wryly held a hand out to Akezze, apologizing, “If we don’t join in then we’ll spoil it for the rest of them. I promise you, even without knowing the dance you’ll likely do better than I will. If we make the fourth couple, we’ll stumble through somehow.”
Having survived to the last reverence, they were reprieved for the next few sets, for the longways dances were more forgiving of numbers. Antuniet found herself enjoying the spectacle as the women skipped and turned through the flower-decked space. Barbara was a very precise and proficient dancer, Margerit a hesitant and careful one, but when the figures brought the two of them together they were transformed into something wondrous. Alenur was carelessly showy in a way that almost seemed accidental until you noticed that she never put a foot wrong. Tionez always seemed to be paying more attention to the other dancers than to her own steps. And Jeanne… Jeanne was a figure of matchless grace, moving through the figures with easy perfection while never showing effort. And somehow anyone she partnered partook of that same grace for a space of time. Antuniet found herself swaying in place as she watched.
She started a little when Barbara’s voice came suddenly beside her. “Would you care to join the next set? I don’t recall that you cared much for dancing, but Margerit thought…”
Ah, yes. The considerate hostess. “I think you’d find me a less graceful partner than the ones you’ve been enjoying.”
“I’ve been told I’m extraordinarily forgiving,” Barbara said with a smile. She raised a hand in offer with a slight formal bow.
On impulse, Antuniet took it. She was tired of always standing to the side. And Barbara left little to forgive: she had a talent for leading one’s movements and turning a misstep into a charming ornament. Was that from her
swordplay? Whatever the reason, her confidence was infectious. When the set ended and the musicians began the promenade to signal the next, Antuniet gathered up her courage and moved toward the small knot of women clustered around Jeanne. Floodtide gave license, after all. Before she could speak, Ailis pulled Jeanne out onto the floor into place at the head of another reel.
The small table with the punch bowl was close enough to make sufficient excuse for her movement. Antuniet continued on past the dancers and accepted a cup, nursing it as she watched the figures start again. It was too much to expect that Jeanne would have a moment’s free time before the end of the ball. But having set foot on the floor twice, she found herself solicited for another of the round dances. The steps were coming back to her now. This was nothing like her own seasons had been, when every ball was an ordeal to be endured and another ordeal to come later at home when her mother would inquire after every partner’s slightest look or word.
The musicians struck up a promenade for the waltz and once again there was a voice at her elbow. “I’m determined this time,” Jeanne said quietly. “Will you?”
All the confidence of the last few dances drained, away but she held out her hand for Jeanne to take and let herself be led out into the center of the floor. There was a brief confusion while their arms found their places and then the music changed. Almost, she caught that glamour that Jeanne cast over her partners. Almost, she forgot to think about where her feet should be and gave herself up to the music. But there was the close heat of Jeanne’s hand on her waist and a wistful longing in Jeanne’s eyes that seemed to demand… And then her heart raced and her balance faltered and she found herself shaking free and backing away repeating, “I’m sorry. Jeanne, I’m sorry. I can’t.”
When she found her way to the edge of the room and gathered enough composure to look back, Antuniet could see Jeanne circling past the other couples in the arms of another partner. It didn’t matter who; there would always be someone waiting.
The Mystic Marriage Page 26