by Jo Graham
“I think I am a little faint,” I said. Michel Ney. Michel Ney. I knew his name. He was a real person.
“I would be happy to see Madame Ringeling to your door,” Meynier offered. “I feel that I have inadvertently caused the lady distress. I should hate to discommode you further.”
“That would be very kind,” Jan said. “Elzelina, I will see you later.” He disappeared into the library, to the political discussion that was beginning.
Meynier helped me into the carriage and climbed in opposite me. The rain was coming down. It made a rhythm on the roof of the carriage that was both lulling and strange. I could not think what was wrong with me.
“I’m sorry I distressed you, Madame,” Meynier said. “I should know better than to talk about war in mixed company.”
“You did not distress me, Colonel,” I said. “I was intrigued by your friend.”
“He will be amused to think that he can cause a lady to faint at a distance,” Meynier said. “Usually he needs to be in the same room to cause offense.”
“He is not a ladies’ man, then?”
Meynier blushed beneath his moustache. “Not really, no. I mean, I’m sure he does well enough, but . . . he is not much given to graces. He is a plain soldier.”
“Ah,” I said.
We were at my door. Meynier helped me up the step, and I took my leave and went inside. My maid hastened to help me out of my wet clothes, but I dismissed her and sat in the darkness in my chemise. Outside, the rain was pouring over the windowpanes, rolling down into darkness. I did not light a candle. There was some light from the window.
“Michel Ney,” I said. “I have no idea why your name hits me like a sounding bell.”
I remembered something, and rummaged in my drawer. Wrapped in a silk shawl were Louisa’s Italian tarot cards. I opened the box and spread them on the bed. Kings and knights and the Devil, queens and coins and staves.
“Michel Ney,” I whispered. The King of Chalices in my hands looked up with printed blue eyes. “I do not know how I know, or even what I know. But I know you.”
Jan and I returned to Amsterdam for the holidays. Their nurse brought the children from Utrecht, and my mother returned from the spa. It was all very domestic. As long as we could stay at our house, it wasn’t terrible; but unfortunately the day before Christmas my mother went into one of her spells again, and I had to set foot in her house.
There were no decorations. My mother did not celebrate holidays, and the house was as dark and cheerless as possible. Night came at barely four in the afternoon.
Berthe met me at the door. “Madame, she’s calling out for Charles again.”
“I had anticipated that,” I said, taking off my cloak and handing it to her. Beneath it I was wearing breeches and a man’s frock coat, riding boots, and a cravat. My hair was swept back in a tail instead of pinned up. “I’ll go straight in.”
“You do make a handsome young man,” Berthe said.
I turned on the stairs. “Thank you,” I said. “I wish I were a man.”
“And what would you do, Madame?” Berthe asked.
“I should go to war. And I would be better at it than most men.”
Berthe laughed. “Oh, you are something else, Madame!” She dried her brow on her apron.
A little piqued, I went up to my mother’s chamber. She was lying in half-darkness as usual, with only one candle lit. “Mother?”
“Charles?” She smiled when she saw me and her hands lifted.
I went and kissed her. “Hello.”
“Charles, I have to warn you,” she said, clinging to my hands.
I sat down in the chair beside the bed, gently disengaging her. “Mother, I’m fine.”
“There is evil in this house. Evil that waits for you.”
“Mother, nothing is going to happen to me,” I said patiently.
“You aren’t taking this seriously,” she said, pouting a little. She was still a very pretty and charming woman. “If Elzelina had lived, she would be able to hear them.”
I was startled. This was the first time she had ever said that she wished I lived. Even when she knew me and knew who I was.
“It’s the women who can hear the voices,” she said. “It’s the women who are always the Doves in this family. That’s how it started. Johan van Aylde killed his own virgin daughter to make a pact with the Devil. Because she was a Dove, and she could see things in the mirror.”
A shiver ran down my back, though I did not move. I did not look up at the mirror above her dressing table. “Mother, that’s perfectly ridiculous,” I said in my best Charles voice.
“I knew something terrible would happen to your father if we came to Amsterdam. And nobody listened to me.”
Tears started in my eyes. “Father’s death was an accident,” I said.
“I warned Leo, but he didn’t listen to me!” she said, and rolled over in her bed, her back to me. “You’re just like Leo.”
I stood up. “Good night, Mother,” I said. I don’t know why I even came, I thought. It always hurts to no purpose.
Temptations
Spring arrived as it always did, warm and temperate. One of the men associated with the liberal parties was holding an elaborate fête at his country house not far from Brussels. Jan had been unable to wangle an invitation; but as this gentleman, M. van der Sleijden, was a distant relation of mine, a cousin in the third degree, Jan felt that if we simply arrived he would feel that we had some claim upon his hospitality. Not only were the leading men of the liberal party to attend, as well as many of the revolutionaries who had led the rebellion in Brussels a few years past, but also there should be the celebrated French general Pichegru and other military men.
I looked forward to the party and the lively company. I did, however, feel some discomfort with Jan’s assumption that we would be welcome because of my tenuous claims of blood with M. van der Sleijden, a man whom I had met perhaps once in my life and could not have picked out of a room full of strangers. Still, Jan was not to be deterred. I smoothed over the awkwardness of our arrival as best I could.
Jan’s latest passion was public education, the radical notion that the state should pay for rudimentary schooling for all boys, regardless of their fathers’ positions in life. He was attempting to make it his great issue, and we made admirable props. I came in with the children while Jan and the gentlemen were drinking port in the library, knocking politely before I entered. Klaas held my hand, and the nurse followed with Francis in her arms. He was prettily attired in a white dress with blue embroidery around the neck.
“My dear husband,” I said, “I hope that you will permit me and your sons to say good night before we retire?” I bobbed a polite curtsy to the gentlemen. The simple white lawn with blue ribbons I wore was becoming and matched the boys’ clothes.
“My dear!” Jan rose and led me forward. “Monsieur de Boers, General Moreau, Monsieur van Flecht, allow me to present my wife. Elzelina, these gentlemen are engaged in the great work of assuring liberty for all mankind.”
“Charming,” said M. van Flecht, bending over my hand. He was the only one wearing a wig, and perspiration showed along the edge of his forehead in the summer warmth.
“What lovely children,” M. de Boers said politely. “My felicitations. You have a beautiful family. I can see what inspires you to work so assiduously on behalf of the youth of our fair nation.”
“Indeed,” agreed M. van Flecht ponderously. “All of our boys should learn to read and write, and to make such mathematical transactions as are necessary for the preservation and enhancement of trade.”
I smiled sweetly at him. “And our daughters as well, of course. Don’t you agree?”
Jan stepped forward and took my hand from his. “Elzelina, dearest, don’t bore the gentlemen with your views on female education.” He squeezed my hand rather too tightly. “My wife feels the ardent fires of revolution with the same passion that I do. Only, as is to be expected, it is pure emotion unt
empered by reason.”
“Indeed,” said the Frenchman. He looked at me over Jan’s shoulder and gave me a sardonic smile. “Is that not the way of women? But in this lies their charm—the ardor of their feelings.”
I glanced at him, startled. He was not a tall man, perhaps Jan’s height, and perhaps five years older, soberly dressed, with dark hair tied back with a black ribbon. He had been introduced as a general, but he was not in uniform. His black coat was finely made but far from ostentatious.
“Indeed?” I said coolly. “Do you believe the fair sex incapable of reason, then?”
Moreau made a perfunctory bow over my hand. “Perhaps I find reason unworthy of the fair sex,” he said. “After all, are not women made by nature to be the guardians of emotion and mystery? Does it not degrade our Vestals to be reduced to the calculation of coins in a till?”
“The Vestals are eternal virgins,” I said. “And I fear that I am rather a matron, a wife and a mother. My service must be pledged rather to the Bona Dea than to Vesta.”
Moreau smiled and turned to Jan. “I see your wife is an educated woman. I compliment you. It is through the learning of their mothers that sons gain precocious wisdom.”
“Quite,” said Jan with a pleasant smile. “Elzelina, perhaps you and the boys should retire. I am sure they are fatigued.”
Francis was looking at the gentlemen with interest, one pudgy hand reaching for M. van Flecht’s diamond stickpin. I took him somewhat awkwardly from his nurse. “Come then, children. Good night, gentlemen.”
“Good night, Madame,” M. van Flecht said.
“Until the next time, Madame,” Moreau said. As I turned away I felt his eyes on my back, lingering a little too long.
“Good night, Elzelina,” Jan said. “Don’t wait for me.”
As though I expected him. Once I had, but those days were long gone by.
It was early spring in 1789, the spring after I had turned twelve. My father was two years in his grave.
Jan was supposed to be waiting at the bottom of the garden, just where the arbor led off among the trees. For a moment, breathing in the warm spring night, I thought that he was not there, that he had forgotten me. Then a shadow detached itself from the shade of the arbor and beckoned to me. I broke into a run across the grass, the dew splashing my shoes and hem, the heady fragrance of the early roses climbing the trellis almost intoxicating me. Somehow I had stepped out of the ordinary world and into a dream of silence and roses and night.
“Be quiet, Elzelina,” he said, a little irritably. “There is no need to make so much noise. Do you want them to hear us up at the house?”
I stopped in front of him, my cheeks stinging with shame. “I am sorry, Jan. I didn’t think.”
He stepped back into the shadows of the arbor. “Perhaps you should begin,” he said, turning to walk through the tunnel of trellises.
I ran after him, my little bag of belongings bouncing against my back. “Please forgive me! Please don’t be angry with me! You know I can’t bear it when you’re angry with me!” He didn’t turn around. “I know I’m stupid and young, but oh, Jan! Please forgive me! It was wrong of me to ruin what should be the happiest night of our lives.”
On the other side of the arbor, two horses were tethered beside the stone wall, cropping grass placidly. Jan turned, his handsome face bathed in silvery moonlight. “Of course I forgive you. I’m just concerned that someone will hear us. There are those who would try to prevent us from being together,” he said quickly, with a glance back toward the sleeping house. “Now, be quiet.” He cupped his hand for me to step in and swing up, as I was still too short to mount alone in skirts without a mounting block.
“I wish I had worn pants,” I whispered. “We could go faster.”
Jan frowned. “You must get out of that habit, Elzelina. Riding about in boys’ clothes is disgraceful enough in a young girl, but you are about to be a married woman, and you must put aside hoydenish ways.”
“Oh yes, Jan. I will,” I promised solemnly, petting the mare he held for me, and swinging up with his aid. “I will be very good from now on.”
He did not answer, but only mounted his own horse. Together we swung about and trotted off across the fields, under the bright sky. Of course there was a full moon for my elopement. It was part of the scene. There was always a full moon in books. My blue-black cloak belled out behind me, and my long blond hair streamed in the wind. I thought that I must be really lovely tonight for the first time.
Before us the fields stretched out, plowed and planted but not yet greened. I wanted to kick my mare to a gallop, but I knew Jan would tell me to spare the horse. I decided I must start becoming more serious now that I was almost a married woman. I sat up very straight and stiff in the saddle. After a few minutes it was making my tailbone hurt. I supposed I hadn’t got the moral backbone for it yet. I allowed myself to relax back into the mare’s movements, promising myself I would start sitting up straight tomorrow.
“How far is it?” I asked after a few minutes. Jan had been glancing back nervously for several minutes.
“It’s still a few miles to the border,” he replied.
It was three miles to a little village in German Pomerania where we were to be married. It was late when we arrived, with the moon westering behind the trees, and all the buildings locked except the inn. A sleepy stableboy took our horses.
“Jan,” I said, touched by the thoughtfulness of it all, “did you tell them we were coming?”
“Of course, my dear,” he said, assisting me to dismount. “They are waiting with supper for us.”
Inside, the inn was scrubbed as clean as any housewife could want. There was a large, cheery fire, though the night was not cold, and a large woman in a starched apron waiting for us. “Monsieur Ringeling! Mademoiselle Versfelt! What a great honor!” She beamed at us with a beatific expression, a blessing upon young love. “Please sit by the fire! Allow me to bring you something to refresh yourselves while I see to your dinner.”
“A bottle of your best burgundy,” Jan ordered, allowing her to take his cloak. He was wearing a dark-green velvet coat, dark breeches, black stockings, and a waistcoat worked with silver thread. My heart swelled at the thought of this perfect creature as my husband. When the innkeeper handed him the wine bottle, he uncorked it deftly and poured a full glass of the ruby liquid into a cut-crystal goblet. He presented it to me as though it sanctified our wedding.
“Drink up, Elzelina. It will warm you after the night’s chill.” He cupped my fingers around it.
Smiling at him, I lifted the goblet to my lips. The wine was full and tasted of fruit and oak barrels, burning a little in my throat. I could feel the blood rising in my cheeks.
Jan nodded approvingly. “I must check on arrangements with the minister. I’ll be back in a moment. Just stay by the fire and get warm.” He slipped out the door. It was so considerate of him, I thought. So very kind.
I took another big drink of the wine. It tasted so good that I had another. The innkeeper came back in and hung our cloaks near the fire. She looked at me as I kicked off my boots and toasted my toes at the hearth, my blond hair spread across my shoulders. “How old are you, Mademoiselle Versfelt?” she asked.
I giggled. “Sixteen,” I said, the lie that Jan and I had agreed on. He said that people wouldn’t understand the truth if I said I was twelve, and I was sure he knew best about it. After all, he was twenty-five.
She looked at me as if she didn’t believe me. “Truly?” she said.
“Truly,” I agreed solemnly, and giggled again. I took another long drink of the wine. Somehow, I just felt like giggling.
Jan came back and sat down beside me. I giggled. “What are you doing?” Jan said as the innkeeper brought in a tray of roasted meats, bread, and cheese.
“Nothing.” I giggled again. I must have deportment, I thought. Brides should have deportment.
He lifted the wineglass to my lips, and I drank. It tasted good. He smelled
good. Dinner smelled good.
We ate by the fire, drinking the whole bottle of wonderful wine. Wonderful burgundy. “Burgundy must be a wonderful place,” I said, trying to sound grown-up and conversational.
Jan stared at me.
“I mean,” I said, “it must be nice to travel. I enjoy travel.” I giggled.
“I think you should retire,” Jan said.
“Oh no!” I said, lunging forward and pouring more wine with unsteady hands. “I’m having a lovely time. Lovely.” I simpered, waving an invisible fan in front of my face.
Jan looked nervously back toward the kitchen door. “Elzelina, I think you had best go to bed.”
He was so handsome. So concerned. “I don’t want to go to bed. I want to talk about Voltaire.”
“Not just now, Elzelina,” he said, helping me to my feet.
I tripped on something and landed against him, looking up from the middle of his chest. “Hello, Jan,” I said.
He took my arm, half-lifting me. “We are going upstairs. It’s time you retired.” He was nearly dragging me up the stairs, into the nicest room on the second floor. There was a bed and a washstand, a candle by the bed, blue and white curtains drawn tight against the night. He shut the door.
“You smell nice,” I said. He was tall. Tall. I wished he would kiss me again like the time he did in the arbor. It was nice. And then he did. The room was spinning around me, and I felt curiously light-headed. I supposed that brides were supposed to faint. I’d never fainted before. I’d never understood why. Brides fainted. I could faint.
The room was spinning and dissolving into a riot of colors and sensations that made no sense. Somewhere there was the softness of the sheet beneath my bare back, the feel of his scratchy face against my chest. I giggled. I could have been floating on a cloud. I was not sure what happened next.
When I awoke, it was morning, and my head was pounding. Or maybe, I thought, it was the door that was pounding. I covered my head with the pillow to keep out the noise and the brutal light from the window. The door swung open.