Immortal and the Madman (The Immortal Chronicles Book 3)

by Gene Doucette

  “Surprise!” Joanne said. “I snuck it from the cellar.”

  “You’re a godsend. Maybe I should marry you.”

  I had the cork out and the wine poured in a matter of seconds, not drinking directly from the bottle only because that would have been unseemly.

  “Cheers,” John said, and we drank.

  Across the lawn—we were some distance away but could still see and be seen—Joanne’s mystery royal guest had taken his usual spot. He was facing us, but if he saw he didn’t indicate.

  “Maybe we should have invited him,” I said.

  “Oh, I’m sure the prince doesn’t want our wine,” Joanne said.

  John looked at the man for an uncomfortably long time, as was his tendency. “He isn’t a prince,” he said. “He’s a Saxony duke.”

  Joanne gasped. “How do you know?”

  “He’s going to tell me.”

  “You mean, John, that the duke told you who he was.” I said, attempting to correct his temporal linguistic problem.

  “Yes, Reggie. That’s what I mean.”

  “When did he tell you this?” Joanne asked.

  “Next week. He told me next week.”

  * * *

  Later that same evening, Margritte paid me a visit.

  I had just wished a good night to both of my luncheon companions and headed off to my own room when she manifested at the landing of the stairs. That’s probably not the right word, but with the way the candlelight played with the shadows in this home, it feels correct. I didn’t know she was there, and then she was.

  I’ve probably not spent nearly enough time describing the layout of the mansion itself, but in my defense every time I went exploring I ended up getting lost and confused. I knew how to get to the library, the dining room, the sitting room and the veranda, and I was getting good at figuring out how the servant passages went, but that was about all. And if that sounds like a large portion of the home, well, it was a large home.

  In addition to what I’ve already described, then, was the staircase in the center of the house. It was a vast, ornate, marble stair that headed straight up to a landing halfway, then to the left and the right side the steps branched off to two more landings before curling to the second floor. From the second was a more modest stairwell that led to the third, directly above the main set. This was the only way to get between the three floors if one weren’t a servant.

  My guest room was in the left wing on the second floor, only a few feet from the second level landing. The third floor, where I had never been, was where the chambers of the lady of the house could be found. For reference, John Corrigan’s room was about halfway down on the same wing, and the duke of Saxony’s quarters were (I believe) at the far end of the wing.

  I had actually engaged in almost no discussions with Margritte since my arrival. We exchanged courtesies, but aside from her routine verification that I had everything I needed, we’d barely spoken.

  “Mr. Bates!” She exclaimed, as if our encounter was entirely by chance, which I doubted. “I’m so glad I caught you!”

  I was tired and buzzy from the wine, and thinking about the naked body of maid Miranda, which I expected to get my fill of shortly. “Evening to you, Missus,” I greeted back, my hand on the doorknob. If I could get inside I could save myself from a lengthy chat, but Margritte moved too quickly.

  “I wanted to tell you how very happy we all are with your progress. You seem to be very much more yourself of late than when you arrived. Do you agree?”

  “Oh yes,” I said, and it was true. I no longer entertained thoughts of abandoning civilization, and I hadn’t had a real panic episode in a few weeks. I’d reached a pleasant midpoint, with two friends whose company I greatly enjoyed and all the sex I could ask for. About the only thing that could ruin it—or so I thought at the time—was my hostess’s irrational belief that I was mere days away from asking for her youngest daughter’s hand.

  This was where I thought the conversation was leading, which was why getting away from her and safely into my room was at the forefront of my mind. What she had to say instead did ruin everything, but not in the way anybody could have anticipated.

  “I’m so very glad. Now, you don’t need to answer this immediately, but next week we are having a small social event.”

  “Oh!” I said, legitimately surprised. “What sort of event?”

  For a home this large the absence of any full-on parties was actually unusual. Margritte had guests all the time, for the day and sometimes for a night or two, but they tended to be visiting family matrons and their brood. It was never a formal thing, so I had no obligation to converse or even extend courtesies, and as a consequence was never formally introduced. The same understanding was extended to the other two long-term guests, so far as I could tell.

  “We’re going to have a dinner party. Our foreign friend is taking our leave, you see, and I thought it only fitting that we send him off properly. It will be small, I promise. A few guests, all of us, and his retinue, once they arrive. Cornelius as well, if he can get away.”

  “I see.”

  “Now, I completely understand if the prospect is too daunting for you just now. Your last party was eventful, I’m told.”

  I laughed. “It was at that. I would be happy to attend, Margritte. Thank you for taking the time to speak to me personally.”

  “Of course! Now I must find our dear Mr. Corrigan and see if he is up to it.”

  * * *

  I was going to be overdressed.

  I’d arrived at the mansion in my finest suit, which could have meant that a party was the one thing for which I had adequate clothing, except that this was a dinner meant for one’s second- or third-finest, and those were still in my place in London. But the other option was to borrow one of John’s spares, and while his leisure clothing fit me well enough to get by, real suits are tailored to the man, and I was the wrong man.

  The choice, then, was to look too good, or not good at all. I went with the former.

  “You should wear that every day,” Miranda said.

  This was the night before the party. I was trying on the suit because it occurred to me I should make sure it still looked okay. I wasn’t worried that I had gained or lost significant weight and therefore no longer fit into it, because my basic physique has remained effectively the same for my entire life. The concern was that the suit had perhaps suffered a malady while being cleaned and pressed.

  “I look presentable?” I did a slow turn. The room had only one mirror, and it was a small one. Miranda’s gaze was much more encompassing, and I trusted her enough to be critical if something was amiss.

  “I don’t know how anyone could resist you dressed like that.”

  “You’re a naked girl in my bed. I respect your opinion, but let’s accept that there may be a bias. Are there no spots or blemishes or tears?”

  “None that I can see. Would you like some? I can rip it off of you.”

  “That would be deeply counter-productive.”

  “Then you had best take it off on your own, sir.”

  “As you say.”

  Despite her youth, Miranda had become more brazen with each encounter. In my company she’d gone from shyly curious to modestly insistent, to actively directing our coital escapades in order to get what she wanted and how she wanted it. I may not have been her first lover—the evidence suggested I was not, but she could also have been an active rider of horses—but it was obvious already that for this beautiful young maid I was going to be only one of many. I almost pitied whoever came after me.

  I undressed slowly, not out of any particular showmanship but because clothing back then was incredibly difficult to get into and out of.

  “I spoke to him once,” Miranda said.

  “Who? The duke?”

  “Is that what he is? He’s very young. He’d be cute except for that nose.”

  “I can’t say I ever noticed.”

  “It’s a large nose. And hi
s hair looks greasy.”

  “But you spoke to him.”

  “I did! His usual girl, Bethany, she had a touch of the queasy. Missy thinks she got herself with child, but I think it’s Missy’s cooking what did it. It was sudden, and we didn’t have nobody else to bring him his tea, so I had to. Put on my best and went out and I gave him his tea, and that’s when I first saw you, sir. Sitting in your corner all full of thoughts.”

  “What did you say to him?”

  “I said, ‘your tea, sir’. Just like that.”

  “How clever.”

  “Oh shut up. At least I spoke to him, that’s more than most can say. I think he’s lonely. I don’t know why you lot aren’t supposed to speak to him, but I wonder if he even knows it. I bet he sits there every day wondering why you and Mr. Corrigan and Miss Joanne don’t go and talk to him. I bet it makes him sad.”

  “Did he say anything back?”

  “He did, he said ‘thank you’. And then he looked at me and saw I wasn’t Bethany, and he said, ‘you are new.’ And I said, ‘she’s sick’, and then I left.”

  “That was all?”

  “I didn’t want to get in trouble!”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “He has a funny accent. I don’t think he speaks much English.”

  I was down to my drawers and the suit was back on hangers. I sat on the edge of the bed. “German, probably. Or Hungarian.”

  “I don’t know, I never heard it before. Why do you think they don’t want anyone speaking to him?”

  “I’ve learned not to wonder overly much about things like that,” I said. “My assumption is it’s either for his protection or for ours.”

  “That’s very wise.” She sat up and crawled to the foot of the bed, not at all concerned that the sheets had slipped away and fully revealed her. “Can I help you out of those drawers, sir?”

  “Yes, that would be very kind of you.”

  * * *

  The mansion had three distinct dining areas, not counting the kitchen tables where the staff ate. With the exception of the basket lunch, my meals had mostly been taken on the veranda, where they were brought to me and no socializing was expected, but like the kitchen tables, the veranda also didn’t count as a dining space.

  The sitting room from which the veranda sprang was one, as it was also called the tearoom. Then there was the dining room, an informal space where regular guests and family ate or were expected to. I dined there once or twice a week and otherwise begged off.

  The third space was the banquet hall. This was an enormous room directly off the main hall—where the stairs and the front entrance were—that took up about half of the right wing of the mansion. A vast rectangular table occupied the center of the room that could seat anywhere between twenty and forty people depending on how many partitions were added to it and how many chairs were on-hand. This was where the evening’s festivities were to take place.

  For this party, in addition to myself, John Corrigan and the guest of honor—whose exact name we never did learn—several of Margritte’s local neighbors were also in attendance. With Joanne and her mother, this brought the head count up to fifteen, not counting the nearly equal number of servants ringing the wall near the hidden door to the kitchen. The table, though, was set for almost twice that many.

  “The extra chairs are for papa,” Joanne said, sliding her gloved hand under my arm. She was wearing the kind of elegant dress nobody has any more, which is sort of a shame. In hindsight, corsets seem inhumane, but at the time I was pretty pleased with what they did to the female form. Taking them off the female form was a real pain, I’ll admit. “He’s bringing guests as well. And our foreign friend’s companions, when they arrive, will also join us. I don’t know how many of them will be coming, but we’re expecting at least four.”

  “I was hoping this would be over with early,” I said, specifically commenting on the fact that we were not eating yet, which meant there was no telling how far away I was from escaping the evening. “How long before they arrive?”

  “Oh, relax. When we’re married you will have to do this all the time.”

  “That’s another excellent reason to avoid marriage.”

  She shot me a look, but it was more mischievous than unhappy. “All right, no parties then. But we get to share Miranda.”

  On the other side of the room, John had just entered. Between him and us was a clogged floor full of guests who knew enough not to take their seats at the table as yet, which meant standing and drinking wine and noshing on food brought around by the staff, and most of all, mingling.

  I hated mingling when I was sane. Insane I found it intolerable. But I didn’t have it nearly as bad as my friend. With his condition, a crowd of people was nearly as nightmarish for John as combat.

  It was fascinating, then, watching him navigate the crowded room. While his expression was that of a man whose head was on the verge of bursting, he moved with astonishing grace. Because of his constant future-sight he could pre-react to events, which put him at a distinct advantage in a crowd where he had no interest in holding a conversation. People would turn to greet him and find he wasn’t there, or he was but another person had come between them. Incidental contact—which often triggered at least a nominal exchange of niceties—was avoided at the last second. He moved like a dancer, but a dancer whose feet were causing him agony.

  Joanne noticed too. “He is an odd one, your Mr. Corrigan. I still can’t put my finger on how, but there is something. You know what it is, don’t you?”

  “I do, but I don’t know if I could put it in a way you would accept.”

  “Well that is cryptic. Hello, John, you look dashing this evening.”

  “Miss Joanne,” he greeted, having just reached us. “You look lovely.”

  “Charmed,” she smiled, curtsying with only the slightest exaggeration. “Shall we socialize?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” I said.

  “Yes, really, I’m perfectly all right over here,” John agreed. Over here was near one of the front-facing, floor-to-ceiling windows that made up an entire wall of the banquet room. Specifically, we were in the far corner of the room and not at all close to the main thrust of the party. Margritte was in the middle of that thrust, playing hostess, and if she looked displeased by the decision her two madmen had made to remain out of the crowd, it didn’t show.

  Joanne was not at all okay with it, though. “You two! This is our one night to actually speak to the man and you’d rather hide in the dark. Oh, there he is! Come on, then.”

  I looked at John, who appeared genuinely panicked at the notion of diving back into the center of that many people. I knew if I went he would have to follow.

  “We’ll need a moment or two,” I said.

  “Ahh, you.” Joanne pulled her hand out from under my arm. “All right, if you won’t go to him, I will bring him to you.”

  She disappeared into the social morass, braver than either of us for doing so.

  “I’m surprised you came, John,” I said. “I’m sure Margritte would have accepted your regrets.”

  “I considered it. But no, I had to come.”

  “Had to? She insisted?”

  “No, she didn’t at all. I fear I accepted before she formally invited me, which must have been alarming. Yes I had to come. Tonight is important because… oh.” He stopped himself, which he did sometimes when realizing he’d gone too far ahead. I said what I was supposed to say next. It was less complicated that way.

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  “Tonight is when he tells us he is a duke, of course.”

  “Of course. You know, John, I never did tell you how old I was, and yet you act as if we had that conversation. You didn’t need to be here to learn his title. I take it something else is going to happen tonight?”

  “Yes, something else is going happen tonight.” His answer ran over my question. If anyone had been listening it would have sounded like we were running through a reh
earsed script. “I want you to promise me something, Reggie.”

  “What shall I promise?”

  “If I tell you to do something, do it immediately, without question. Do you trust me enough to do that?”

  “I think I do, yes. But I’d like to know what you mean.”

  I couldn’t imagine a dinner party circumstance in which it might be vitally important to accept the instructions of a future-seeing lunatic. Perhaps, I thought, I was at risk of being scalded by tea later.

  But then Joanne had returned with the foreign guest on her arm, and I never got an answer. “Gentlemen!” she said. “It turns out our esteemed guest is a duke!”

  John and I feigned surprise, greeted him, and introduced ourselves.

  As Miranda observed, the duke was very young, much younger than I’d taken him for from a distance. Younger than twenty, surely. A prominent nose and long black hair, he was not a terrifically attractive young man, but handsome enough for a person with royal lineage to get by okay. That is to say, money makes everyone a little bit more handsome.

  I didn’t know why he was being hidden away in Cornelius’s estate—I never really would learn—but I knew enough about hereditary monarchies to imagine ten or twelve plausible reasons. Most of those reasons had to do with valid or invalid claims to a throne somewhere, an unsavory by-product of a system that inevitably put the lives of very young people in grave danger entirely because of their blood.

  But then, every political system has its flaws.

  I also knew enough not to ask him for details. Even if he knew why, I had no reason to expect him to tell me.

  “It is… a pleasure to make… to meet you both,” he said in halting English.

  “It’s our pleasure as well,” I greeted back, shaking his hand. Then, perhaps foolishly, I tried out some German. “We are all sorry to see you go.”

  His face registered genuine alarm. He understood the language I was using, clearly, but for some reason it wasn’t okay that I knew how to speak it.

  “I am sorry, I don’t understand,” he said back, but in Hungarian rather than German.

  I nodded. “My mistake, sir.”

  John stepped between us. “I feel as if we are old friends, my lord, even though this is our first conversation.”