Dark Splendor

by Parnell, Andrea

  Hesitating only a moment, she gave a gentle push to the door and eased it open a mite. Inside, the draperies had not yet been drawn open and the room lay shadowed with darkness. She could see graceful half-columns flanking a carved marble fireplace directly across from the door. The room was long, stretching at least fifteen feet on either side of the fireplace. Walls of gleaming wood were lined from floor to ceiling with rows of bookcases filled with countless leather-bound volumes. Near the fireplace was a large desk, its polished top cluttered with paper. Also, arranged about the room were reading tables and several comfortable-looking chairs.

  It was a library, possibly Mr. Schlange’s private library. But there certainly appeared to be nothing extraordinary about the room. And yet, entranced, she gazed inside, feeling mysteriously compelled to enter and see what the shadows hid.

  Silvia was undecided for a moment and turned her head to look down the hallway in both directions. Observing no one, she pursed her lips thoughtfully, eased the door open a little more, and slipped inside. She pushed the door back so that it was nearly closed as she had found it, once again shrouding the room in darkness. Hurriedly Silvia made her way toward the windows to open the draperies and let in the light.

  Vivien had said she could do as she wished. A book would help her to pass the time peacefully until Mr. Schlange was better. And there was, she thought smiling hopefully, the chance of finding a clue to indicate Mr. Schlange’s purpose in bringing her to his estate.

  She fumbled around the edge of the draperies, her fingers noting the contrasting smoothness and roughness of the rich brocade. After a moment of searching the deep folds of fabric she found and wrapped her hands around the sleek twisted cords which controlled the heavy panels. The soaring windows were twice her height and the weighty draperies yielded reluctantly to her tugs on the cords. She settled for opening them only partway.

  When there was enough light to read the titles on the books and to see the papers on top of the desk near the fireplace, she stepped back and fastened the cord to its hook. But at once a strange, cold shiver shook her shoulders and she looked around with a sudden start. Clutching her arms to her bosom, she had an eerie feeling someone was watching her in the now dim light of the room.

  Turning slowly toward the door, she saw them, a dozen or more people standing against the inside wall where they had been hidden from her eyes as she entered the room. Silvia froze as she stood, her mind burning with confusion and fear. Why were they standing there in the darkness? Why hadn’t they spoken? Why did they all just stare at her?

  Stumbling back a step, she clutched at the drapery, pulling it open a little more and causing a ripple of light to splash across the angry, ghostly white face of the man nearest the door.

  “No,” Silvia gasped. The upraised hand wielded a broad-bladed sword aimed squarely at her head. With another gasp Silvia plunged away from the window. She ran wildly, bumping into chairs and tables, hearing the clank and clatter of objects striking the floor behind her as she sought to escape her pursuer. Limbs quaking, she took refuge behind the tall back of a chair, a spot from which she could see the tightly closed hallway door. She felt the sinking of her heart; she was certain she had not closed it completely.

  Not daring even to breathe, she forced enough courage to peep over the back of the chair and toward the man with the sword. Her hands shook violently as she watched in fascinated horror as the feathery plume on his hat flittered and stilled above his head. Cautiously she sank down behind the chair once again, her heart beating in her chest like the flailing hooves of a racing horse.

  Her throat was dry and scratchy. She fancied she could hear the slow dragging steps of his approach and said a silent prayer to brace herself against the assault. Horror drained the blood from her face and left her limbs limp and weak. She eyed the window, thinking that if she could get back to it and open the lock, she might be able to escape. Silently Silvia gathered her skirts in a bunch and held them clear of her feet as she crouched down and began to slowly edge her way toward the window, taking care as she went to stay hidden behind the tables or chairs.

  Closing her eyes, she tried to halt her rapid breathing as she reached the halfway point, but could not calm herself as she heard the heavy thud of footsteps following her path. Her limbs stiffened in fear as, slowly, quietly, she backed away from the sound. In her ears, her own heartbeat drummed so loudly she was unaware she had crashed into a low smoking table until her legs gave way with the impact and she went sprawling on her backside.

  The scream that issued from her mouth was a muffled sound which died as her heart seemed to stop beating. In her mind’s eye she could see the sharp blade of a sword rending her in two. Gnawing at her lip, Silvia shut her eyes and waited. A moment later, even through closed eyelids she was aware of light flooding the room. Her eyes burst open to see Roman standing beside the window, a grin spread across his face at the sight of her with legs draped across the overturned table, skirts and hair in wild disarray.

  Across the room she saw a row of statues lined up like army troops on a parade ground. Each was completely outfitted, some in clothing from another century; men and women with stone faces who looked as if at any minute they might walk out and sit down to tea. Silvia sighed miserably. The clothing made them look terribly real.

  “What on earth?” she whispered, flushing with embarrassment and feeling totally foolish. Her eyes shifted to Roman and she saw that his grin had broadened.

  “That’s what I wondered when I heard someone bumping around in here.” Eyes sparkling facetiously, he glanced at the statues, then at Silvia. “Are you all right?” he asked, barely concealing the laughter in his voice.

  “Yes,” she answered sharply, disentangling herself from the table as he approached and extended a hand to help her to her feet.

  She hesitated a moment before accepting his assistance, but thinking she might not be able to rise without it, gave him her hand, only to be startled by the warmth of his touch and the strength he used to pull her easily upright. With a flourish she shook out her skirts and looked around for the tortoiseshell combs that had fallen from her hair which was left tumbling across her shoulders. Retrieving one, she tucked it in her pocket and continued to look for the other.

  “Are you alone?”

  “Of course I am,” she responded hotly, straightening up and shaking the hair out of her eyes.

  “Then what in blazes were you doing in here in the dark?” He leaned down and set the table upright, then moved away to retrieve and replace the curios and objects she had left askew in her flight.

  “I was getting a book and didn’t know...”

  “About our ancestors?”

  “Is that what they are?” Her eyes scanned the figures again. “What an odd way to display one’s heritage.”

  “Uncle has never claimed to be ordinary. If you don’t know him, I think you will find him an unusual man given to many eccentricities.”

  “I can only say he has been extremely generous and thoughtful to me.” She reached behind her head with both hands, catching her loose hair and forming it into a knot. Holding the bun with one hand, she reached to her pocket for the comb to secure it in place.

  Roman was by her side in an instant and quickly caught her wrists, holding them like fragile flower stems. “Leave it loose,” he said softly, the light in his eyes waxing warm.

  With deliberate slowness he pulled her hands to his chest and took the comb from her. Her hair, freed, spilled like falling water over her back and shoulder. Spellbound, Silvia stood without moving as Roman reached for a strand of her dark locks and ran the little tortoiseshell comb through it. She felt a gentle tug as he slowly twisted the strand in his fingers. He stood so close she could hear the steady rhythm of his breathing while her own grew erratic and shallow. Her eyes searched his face in disbelief.

  Smiling, he held her hair to his lips, brushed it against his cheek. “The lavender fragrance becomes you,” he whispered. “So Englis
h, like you are, hearty yet sweet and soft all the same.” With calm aplomb he made fine courtly bow and stepped back, dropping the silken strand of her hair.

  Silvia watched, stunned and speechless. Roman Toller had inordinate good manners when he chose to use them. And now he was bathing her in compliments when she had come to expect only barbs of ridicule from him.

  “Would you like to ride with me this afternoon?” His voice had returned to a normal tone as he neared the door. “Since we’ll be living in the same house, perhaps we can get on better terms.”

  “Yes. I’d like that,” Silvia responded, unconsciously touching the strand of hair he had held and feeling a little twist of excitement in her stomach. “I’d like that very much.”

  “Fine. Come to the stable an hour after lunch.” His hand was on the door and his face had a surprisingly temperate look. “I’ll have a horse saddled for you. Oh...and, Silvia...”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t forget your book.” He stepped away quickly, leaving the door ajar and leaving Silvia totally bewildered.

  It was the first time he had spoken to her other than in tormenting taunts, and it left her feeling lighthearted and gay. In spite of her reservations about Roman Toller’s character, he had set her heart in a merry spin. She forgot, like a bad dream, the misunderstanding about who she was. For now she was a girl in a beautiful dress in a beautiful house and she was free to do as she wished. And she wished to go riding with Roman.

  Silvia moved to the bookshelves with a light step and ran her fingers over dozens of leather-bound volumes. Mr. Schlange had an extensive collection, all the classics and notable authors of the day. Yet she could not recall later the titles she had looked over. After a time she randomly picked one from the shelf and took it to a chair, where she made herself comfortable. She had been reading several minutes, though mostly lost in a romantic daze and not truly seeing the words, when Martha entered the library.

  “Is that a new English fashion, wearing the hair loose?” she asked lightly.

  “Oh no!” Silvia answered a bit too quickly. “I’m afraid I tumbled over a table in the dark and it fell free.” Her cheeks reddened slightly and she looked away from Martha. “I simply haven’t taken the time to put it back.” Smiling softly, Silvia closed the book and rose from the chair. “I believe I’ll take this up to my room to finish.” Clearly Martha, too, had decided to treat her as an equal, and Silvia had no propensity to disavow her elevated status.

  Martha watched her carefully and made a cursory glance around the library.

  “You’ve seen the statues, of course. They’re Uncle’s indulgence,” she said, moving toward the likeness of a woman. “This is Magda.” Her fingers touched the gown of pale green silk which adorned the statue. “She was Uncle’s wife, the one Eric made such a fuss about at breakfast. Though, it was a brief marriage, I understand. Magda died a few years after they were wed.” She paused. “She’s been dead nearly thirty years and Uncle rarely speaks of her.” Martha turned to smile sweetly at Silvia. “But I’ll leave the family secrets to Uncle. Anyway, none of us really knows how she died.”

  Her curiosity piqued once more, Silvia lowered her book to the seat of the chair she had occupied and walked to where Martha stood. Magda’s stone-white face had features similar to her own, but she found herself hoping her eyes did not have the same haunted, vulnerable quality. Somehow the sculptor had captured in Magda’s face a look of hopelessness that gave the stone features a certain fragility. She couldn’t help wondering what had brought the look of despair to Magda’s long-dead face.

  “She was beautiful,” Silvia said softly.

  “Yes. Like you,” Martha responded, her eyes glazed and her voice sounding as if it came from a distance. She blinked and a faint smile lifted her lips as the sparkle returned to her eyes. “But enough about Magda. Why be melancholy?” Her voice regained its gaiety. “Let me tell you about the others.”

  Martha began at the far end of the row, giving Silvia a colorful family history. And when she came to Aurelius Schlange, the statue with the sword, she pointed him out as a pirate.

  Silvia laughed lightly. “He gave me a terrible fright in the dark.”

  Martha’s face reflected understanding. “I think Aurelius is Uncle’s favorite. He plagued the seas three hundred years ago and made the family fortune. The Schlanges changed from simple sailors to wealthy landowners in his day. Uncle still owns a large estate in Germany as well as property and the shipping company in England.” She laughed. “There are plenty of Uncle’s business associates who call him a pirate behind his back.”

  “I am sure there are some who mistake good business sense for cunning,” Silvia remarked. “But your uncle is a fair man, of course.”

  “And is he your uncle as well?” Martha paused beside the last statue.

  Surprised, Silvia met Martha’s eyes. “No. He is my employer, as I have explained.”

  A tinge of disappointment showed in the depths of Martha’s eyes, but she did not probe further. Smiling, she continued along the line of statuary, recounting the milder history of those who had come after Aurelius. Silvia noted Martha made no mention of any immediate family members and how it was that Mr. Schlange’s niece and nephews resided with him. She thought of asking. Martha seemed inclined to speak freely of the Schlange ancestors, but given her position, she relented of her curiosity and deemed it prudent not to inquire about such a personal matter.

  Shortly they came to the last marble figure. He stood apart from the others and near French doors leading to a walled terrace on the outer wall of the castle. Martha drew open the heavy curtains that covered glass-paned doors. Light flooded the darkened corner, and the figure, as if absorbing the sun’s heat, took on a golden cast.

  Silvia walked up face to face with the last statue. Her heart gave a great bound. “Why, it’s Roman!”

  The proud figure was clothed in archaic garb and shod in sandals with leather cords laced up over the flaring calves of his legs. He wore a leather loincloth and over it a short tunic belted at the waist and falling just to the top of his muscular thighs. A gold medallion hung around his neck, one which to Silvia’s surprise bore the Schlange crest. Fitted in his hand was a short sword, the handle of intricately patterned gold and the blade of sharp deadly steel. Flung back over his shoulders was a long hooded cloak of dark purple.

  A silent moment passed before Martha responded.

  “I’ve always thought Roman could have posed for it, though of course that’s impossible. That statue is the oldest and most valuable of them all. It has been in the family for four generations, since Aurelius stole it in his looting-and-plundering days. No one knows the origin, though some say the workmanship is Greek.” Martha’s face brightened momentarily and a rapid pulse throbbed in her slender white throat.

  “I see,” Silvia said softly, a blush running like a shadow over her cheeks as she realized how blatantly she too was staring at the statue.

  Not seeming to notice Silvia’s discomfort, Martha ran her fingers over the forehead of the stone face.

  “Actually the figure is Siegfried, a god from German folklore. You may have heard him called Thor.” She smiled indulgently and continued in a voice that had the soft monotony of a practiced recitation. “Uncle hints he is directly descended from the gods. I’ve always considered that a ruse to sidestep the more humble ancestry of the Schlange family. But with Uncle it is impossible to know how seriously he takes the claim, and none of us dare question him too far on the matter.”

  “In any event, it’s a fascinating story and one that is sure to raise eyebrows in any gathering,” Silvia commented, her eyes again drawn involuntarily to the broad shoulders and powerfully muscled arms beneath the cloak. Though carved of stone, they looked warm and protective.

  Martha must have felt the same, because her hand was resting possessively on one stone shoulder. Her finely shaped lips had parted slightly as a slow, graceful movement of her other hand made an adjustme
nt in the hang of the cloak. When she turned again to Silvia, the distant dull glow persisted in her eyes.

  “And perhaps that is all Uncle wants.” Martha tilted her head to one side. “Attending to the statuary is my responsibility. I made many of the costumes myself, and of course they have to be sewn on the statues. Fitting clothes to marble people is no easy task, and Uncle insists they be replaced when they become soiled or faded. He receives his business associates in this room and delights in seeing their reaction to his collection.” Her voice dropped. “Have you noticed there are no portraits in the house, only statues or busts of family members?”

  “No. How odd,” Silvia said briskly. Her tone was polite if her comment impertinent. She had noticed several marble busts in the hallway, though she had not given them a careful look. Another time she would study the busts more closely. At the moment she was plagued by the vague thought that many things were incredibly odd at Serpent Tree Hall.

  She glanced at the elegant blond woman beside her. An indulgent look rested on Martha’s face and she was clearly enjoying Silvia’s reaction to the statues. At times Silvia thought she noticed a rather detached look in Martha’s eyes. But she quickly shrugged away the notion, thinking it most likely due to the strain of living in such an isolated place.

  Martha made a little clucking sound in her throat and laughed with a lilting lightness. “Some castles have their suits of armor, but Uncle has his statues. Most of them he brought from Germany when he built the castle here,” she continued. “The servants there were terrified of them, saying there was a ghost for each one. Though all the spirits are rumored to be friendly, except for Siegfried and Aurelius. The legend is that Siegfried pursues Aurelius through the castle in the wee hours of the night. That is Aurelius’ curse for having stolen the statue.” She looked away swiftly. “But of course no one believes in ghosts in this day and time.”

  “I’m sure I don’t.” Silvia laughed. “There are plenty of real dangers. One need not look to ghosts for a fright. Though when she turned back to look at the fierce face of Aurelius Schlange, she wasn’t terribly sure she was right. She thought dolefully she would hate to meet his restless spirit on a moonless night. A mild shudder coursed her spine, and fighting it, she straightened her shoulders, throwing off the foolish thoughts of ghosts.