"Who does she think she is?" Cat gestured at the closed door.
"Oh, she's Frau Walter's little sister," came the answer. "She grew up here. She was the one who should have had my place."
"She's rude, whoever's sister she is."
Elsa nodded.
"Don't pay any attention to what she says. The plain fact is that I'm the only one you have to mind."
"That's what the Graf told me—and Herr Goran too."
Cat sighed. Perhaps this explained some of the chill she was experiencing. Still, she was already glad that Christoph had chosen Elsa.
"Do you want me to sit with you?" Elsa asked, as she worked at unbuttoning Cat's back stays. "The fire's well started and we could sew or read or whatever you would like to do."
"I think I'm ready to sleep. I've been riding astride for the last four days and I was badly out of practice, so everything hurts."
Elsa carried the stays away, folding them before laying them away into a mostly empty drawer.
"Where do you sleep, Elsa?" Cat suddenly asked.
"Well, I have been sleeping downstairs with the other maids, but the Herr Graf has ordered that I sleep there now, right beside you." The girl pointed thin fingers at a door opposite the one which led to Christoph's bedroom.
Curiously Cat went to lift the latch and peer in. Elsa's room was long and narrow, dominated by a bay window and the bulging backside of her own wall stove. It looked, she thought, with a sudden quiver, like her own nursery, with the communicating door and stove shared by the larger bedroom of her mother. Now, except for a pallet bed with a prettily pieced quilt and a battered trunk and one old chest of drawers topped with a pitcher and basin, it was quite empty.
"Of course," Elsa said, peeping in behind, "it's too fine and big for me, but it is the Graf's orders."
"Why do you say it's too fine?" Cat closed the door and asked. "It is proper for a lady's maid to be near her mistress."
"Um. Ah—"
"Who says it is not proper?" Cat insisted.
"Frau Walter. She, ah, she—well, it makes her angry that I should sleep alone in this fine large room, Mistress. A room with a window—and a stove."
"And what business is it of hers? If the Graf orders you sleep there, that should be enough for her."
"Yes, Mistress."
Cat took a seat at the dressing table in front of the mirror, tossed a heavy red handful over her shoulders.
"Come and brush my hair, Elsa." At once she wished she hadn't sounded so imperious, for the girl ran to her side like a rabbit. "I'm glad to see that you'll be so close," she said by way of atonement as the girl picked up the brush. Then she wondered if she were violating the rules her mother had given her, but she felt that if she didn't confide in someone she would burst. "Don't tell," she whispered, leaning her head back into the strokes of the brush, "but I was a little afraid of sleeping up here all alone."
Elsa paused in her work. Two pale girlish faces gazed at each other in the mirror.
"I would never tell, Lady Caterina. The Herr Graf told me that everything you and I talk about is always a secret, especially from the other servants. He says that is the most important rule for a lady's maid."
Cat experienced a warm rush of gratitude toward her husband.
"I think he's right, Elsa."
"Oh, he must be always right. He seems very kind and he is so very tall and very handsome, too." The girl's impressions all spilled out in a rush. "But Mistress," Elsa said, after a few more strokes at her mistress’s hair, "why should you be afraid? You will not be alone."
The pale eyes in the mirror looked down although Cat could see the flush making its way up Elsa's neck.
"He is such a great soldier, the Herr Graf," Elsa murmured. "Um, won't you, ah, won't you be with, with him in his room?"
The only response Cat could manage was a nod and a blush of her own.
Chapter Nine
The next morning when Elsa came in carrying the breakfast tray she found Caterina alone in the maidenly bed, her red braids trailing out from under a demure lace nightcap, sniffling into one of her new linen handkerchiefs. Putting the tray down, she hesitated. Unsure, but wanting to help, she climbed onto the featherbed to join her mistress.
"Oh, Lady Caterina, please don't cry. Graf von Hagen says that if you are sad, I am to comfort you. And you know what? Even that mean old Ute didn't give me any trouble about breakfast this morning."
When Cat didn't speak right away, Elsa asked in a tiny little voice, "Are you crying because the Graf did not ask you to his bed?"
"No!" Cat jerked upright and glared. Then, catching herself she added, "We were, um, together, but, but—he, ah, got up early and I came back."
Elsa gave her a grave look, then whispered. "Is he angry with you?"
"Neither of us is angry today. I think."
"Oh, um, then," Elsa persisted after a short anxious pause, "are you missing your girl friends?"
"No," said Cat. "I didn't have any girl friends. Girls are mostly stupid."
"No girl friends at all?" Elsa, it appeared, hadn't taken the remark personally and proceeded to settle, with an incredulous expression, cross-legged in the bed. "I have a girl friend down in the village. Maria, the miller's daughter. I miss her a lot. We told each other everything."
"I guess my sister Wili was my friend," said Cat, wiping her eyes fiercely. "But now that she—she's dead—I guess my best girlfriend came with me."
"She did?"
"Yes. My mare, Star."
"But—um—you can't talk to a horse."
"I can and I do, too. I tell her all my secrets."
Elsa pondered that for a moment, then replied gravely, "But, Mistress Caterina, she can't answer."
Caterina sighed. It was, sadly, true.
"Elsa, can you ride?"
"I've never ever been on horseback in my life."
"Oh." Disappointing, but more or less expected. Riding was for aristocrats. Commoners might travel in horse drawn vehicles, but were just as likely to go on foot anywhere they had to go. "That's too bad. Perhaps I could teach you."
"Oh, I'd be too frightened. But I saw you yesterday. I swear I've never seen a woman sit a horse like that!"
After Caterina had collected herself and risen, Elsa brought her the morning gown and then busied herself laying out breakfast upon a sturdy small table. There seemed to be a lot of breakfast—heaps!
"The Graf says you are to be fed like a plowboy, so Ute gave me a lot," she explained.
"Really?" Cat had never thought of herself as having a large appetite. "That's more than I can eat, I'm sure."
"Well, m'Lady, he says you aren't done growing." Elsa went on, her voice dropping so that Cat could barely hear her, "And, my Lady, I put on extra so that—maybe—I could have some too. Here in your room, where they won't see."
Cat studied the girl's earnest face. She certainly didn't seem to be the kind of person her mother, during all those housekeeping lectures, had characterized as "greedy".
"Don't they feed you enough?"
"No, Mistress," Elsa said plaintively. "They give two pieces of bread and some tea for breakfast. At dinner I am given cabbage and potato. Supper is tea and bread again. I've been here for a month and I'm always hungry. As poor as uncle is, we always had a little meat and fruit every week."
At once Caterina was boiling mad. "Who ordered such meanness?"
"Frau Walter said that was what I was to have."
"Did you tell your uncle?"
"Yes, once I got a note to the village, but he wrote back and said that they were trying to make me to go home, that they wanted Josefa to have the job, and that I should bear it until Graf von Hagen came and then ask for his help. He's so important and so busy, though, and he trusts the Walters so much, I don't dare. You seem so kind, Mistress, that I thought that perhaps this way I could have more food and not make trouble."
"Those miserable bastards." Caterina swore as vehemently as her father. Elsa gave an
inadvertent start of surprise.
"Well, then," she said, "that's exactly what we'll do. You'll eat your meals with me—um," she amended, "whenever my husband isn't present. But when he is, we shall find another way to get you plenty."
"Oh, thank you, Mistress." Elsa had grateful tears in her eyes. "Downstairs they are all saying that you are so wild and spoiled that no one wanted to come with you, that at your home they were all glad to be rid of you, but it certainly can't be true."
With her mother's words sounding in her head, Caterina asked Elsa to sit down beside her and handed her a boiled egg. As she watched the girl eagerly peeling it, she said quietly, "Go on as you've been doing and be a mouse around them, dear Elsa, but, please, from now on, you are tell me everything you hear."
* * *
After eating, Cat dressed. Soon, good as his word, her husband came to take her to the barn to see how Star was managing in her new home. Here she was introduced to yet another intimidating servant, the horsemaster, Herr Rossmann, who walked them over to Star's stall.
The mare was discovered shiny and at ease. Cat was thoroughly surprised that the usually fractious animal had allowed Herr Rossmann, a perfect stranger, to groom her. Although she saw Rossmann's thin, intense face light up while they were discussing the blood lines of her beautiful mare, she found his taciturn manner and hard, pocked-marked face dismaying.
Herr Rossmann was of medium height, wiry, and quick in movement. His skin was so pale that at first Cat wondered if he might be consumptive. His eyes were black and penetrating and he wore long black moustaches in the same style as Hauptmann Goran's blonde ones. His clothing, blousy shirts and breeches, long jacket and sash, resembled Goran's too.
On the way to the barn, Christoph told Cat that like Goran, Rossmann had been born in the lands beyond the eastern border of their Hapsburg emperor's land. His name was a German alias for something unpronounceable and foreign. It was soon apparent that her husband had given a great deal of thought to how much time Cat and Rossmann would be together.
"My wife, Herr Rossmann," he said, making a formal introduction, "is a lady who, despite her sex and tender years, is very knowledgeable about horses. When she is not attending to her duties in the house," and here he flashed a rude wink at Cat, "you will see her about the barns. Allow her anything you would allow a skillful horseman, except when you are concerned for her safety."
As her husband spoke, Rossmann's black eyes flicked towards the tall, slim figure of his new mistress, away and then back again, like the flicker of a snake's tongue. This odd behavior was repeated many times in the course of the interview.
* * *
"Herr Rossman scares me," Cat said later, as they sat alone at dinner. "He's got a hard face, like a felon. And why does he move his eyes like that? Whenever he thought I wasn't watching, he stared like he's never seen anything like me before."
"I'll warrant he hasn't, Red Caterina." Her husband beamed and raised his glass in her direction.
"But, really, why?" The admiration in her husband's beautiful eyes was, as always, unsettling.
"Well, you have to understand that he's different. It's hard for those easterners to look directly at a woman. Of course, in his land you would never raise your eyes in his, or any other man's, presence. As perhaps you know, the Muslims veil their women and the rich ones who can afford to do so lock them up. Their neighbors, the Russians and the Serbs—Rossman is a Serb—are Christians of the Eastern Rite, but they have caught some Turkish habits. They keep their women wrapped from head to toe in black dresses, more like sacks than anything else. And there you stand, in a dress that fits, your face bare. Even with a shawl and a cap to cover your hair, to him you're practically naked." He paused and smiled at her obvious discomfort. "Therefore, little wife, as I know you will often be playing in the barn, I have decided you are to go dressed in this."
Christoph summoned Elsa and then sent her out after something. When the girl returned again, she had a loose one piece garment, like a black tent, draped over one arm. "Ugly, but, I'm told, comfortable. Just be sure to always cover your hair. Rossmann probably finds a woman's hair as stimulating as a bare breast."
"Is this eastern dress?" Cat stared at the strange garment.
"Yes, as near as I could explain it to the women who sewed it. As you can see, everything is left to the imagination. Wear breeches under if you wish to ride, belt it with a scarf and Herr Rossmann will know, beyond a shadow of a doubt in his savage mind, that you are a chaste, modest woman." Christoph's grin turned wicked. "And all things considered, it would be ironic if he made any mistakes about that, wouldn't it?"
When her green eyes widened, he grabbed her hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. "I'm rotten to scare you, Kitty Cat. Rossmann is quite trustworthy, but I do want to make the point about the dress."
Cat nodded. She didn't care much about clothes and the sackish thing did look as if it would be comfortable to work and ride in, at least, once it was belted. Besides, Rossman's cold eyes gave her the horrors. She wouldn't, she thought, put much past him.
"Did you know that Muslims believe that only men have souls?" Her husband continued. "To them, it's entirely possible that a good dog or horse might have more value than a woman."
The events of the last few months had brought her status as chattel sharply home to Caterina. To her proud mind it hardly seemed possible that there could be a lower state than the one in which she was expected to live.
"The grooms are afraid of Herr Rossmann." Uneasily she stirred the remaining noodles on her plate with a fork. She had only been in the stables for a short time, but that was obvious.
"And so they should be, the way they talk behind his back. But let me tell you a story about Rossmann," said Christoph, "that I think will begin your conversion. A few years ago, the campaign before last, my Brandy went lame. I, and everyone else I talked to, thought he'd never be fit to ride again."
"Brandy?"
"Yes, but Rossmann looked at him. He said I was not to worry and began brewing things up. Some were for Brandy to drink and others he used to bathe the leg. Every day he led him down to our stock pond, tied him to a row boat and then made him swim. Swim, by God! And in two months Brandy was fit again. Good as new, although I've never seen a horse recover from such an injury. I thought he was bound for stud and pasture, but he's quite well now, and strong as before. Frankly, after that, Rossmann will have to murder someone before I dismiss him."
"Well, he is awfully strange. Papa says that old soldiers often do terrible things because they have got used to doing them during wars. And Rossmann—well, the way he looks at me—or doesn't look at me—whichever it is—"
"You haven't been listening. Maybe you'll listen better from here." A strong hand seized her arm.
"Don't!"
Caterina twisted out of his grasp and began to run, but Christoph was on his feet even faster. In her father's house flight usually terminated unwanted conversations, but her husband seemed intent upon teaching her that this would not work here. His interception sent them spinning around wildly, a dark god intent upon the capture of a tall, half grown nymph.
"Whoa, runaway filly!"
Cat resisted, but her husband was more than a match for her. In an instant, he'd picked her up. Carrying her back to the table he took his seat again, Caterina firmly in his arms
"Let go. I'm not a baby." His hand passed up and down her back, messaging affectionately. Although she was embarrassed, it felt annoyingly good.
"Schone Jungfrau, don't quarrel. You are my baby. Humor your poor husband in just a few small things. You're so pretty to look at and you smell so good," he whispered, nuzzling against the tender back of her neck.
"Christoph," she protested, squirming as a tingle ran through. "What if a servant comes?"
"This will support our tale of wedded bliss." Nevertheless, he stopped. "Now, little one," he said shifting so he could look straight into her green eyes, "just remember to comport yourself modestly
around Herr Rossmann, as befits a lady and my wife."
"I am both." Cat was emphatic. It was hard to feel any dignity in his lap.
"The first, sweet Red," said Christoph, catching her chin and tilting it up, "is true by breeding, if not quite yet by manner, but I'm confident that blood will tell. A little schooling and I believe you shall certainly achieve it.
His mouth grazed her forehead. Cat closed her eyes and endured both kiss and reproof.
"The last," her husband ended with a sigh, "is a fiction we maintain for the sake of our papas."
"I know how to behave."
"I rely upon it. Now, don't believe everything you hear the grooms saying and especially don't listen to dear Goran. Rossmann is poison to him."
After a last warm pass of his hand down her back, he released her. Caterina then discovered that some shameful traitor inside didn't really want to get up. Instead, this renegade self was longing to stay, to lean against his big chest, to accept his petting and relax into his strength and affection just the way black cat Furst did when Christoph picked him up and laid him across his shoulder.
"But aren't Rossmann and Goran both Slavs?" she asked. With as much dignity as she could muster, she got off his lap and slipped back into her own chair. "They even look alike. At least their huge moustaches and their clothes do."
"You better hadn't say that to either of them. What you need, I think, is a short lesson on the different, warring peoples who live on the eastern borders of Emperor Joseph's land." He settled back in his chair and regarded her thoughtfully. "And I believe I better begin at the beginning. Do you know anything about the Romans, Caterina?"
When she nodded, he smiled. "Very good. Did you allow your poor governess a moment of peace in which to bring them up? Those few times she wasn't smacking your palm with a ruler or hunting you out of the barn?"
Caterina stuck out her tongue. "Frau Plunke couldn't ever catch me to hit me," she declared. "And of course I know all about the Romans. They are after the Greeks but sort of like them, except fiercer. They conquered everyone, even us, and they made roads everywhere and all the hot springs into spas."
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