“Are there no ladies of your acquaintance with whom you may converse about such things? No educated women from your own circle? I understood Parisiennes to be most highly opinionated and articulate.”
“Not the ones who dance at the Paris Opera,” he said, his eyes bright with mischief. “Serious women have always given me dyspepsia, but you are different. Somehow you say the most appalling things and I am intrigued rather than horrified.”
“Do you not cultivate the friendship of thinking women?”
“What need have I for a woman who thinks? Ah, the hedgehog bristles are out again. I have insulted your sex and you will take up cudgels on behalf of your sisters! And yet, you must reflect, I keep low company. The women of my acquaintance are giddy, silly creatures, but not bad ones. They talk only of clothes and jewels, and it is enough to drive a thinking man quite mad, and yet I have come to expect that when I marry, it will be just such a creature, a woman who cares only for the next pleasure.”
“I thought your betrothal was already decided,” I remarked carefully. We had not spoken of Cosmina, I had not dared. But I longed to know the depth of his regard for her, whether he held her in esteem or affection.
He stared at me, his grey eyes wide and guileless. “Do you refer to Cosmina? Ah, schoolgirl gossip, of course. Let me guess, the two of you whispered into your pillows about me after the schoolmistresses doused the lamps. Yes, it is my mother’s fondest wish that I marry Cosmina. But it will not happen,” he said decisively. “There is no power in Heaven or on earth that could move me upon this point.”
“Then you are not to be married,” I said slowly.
“No, Miss Lestrange. I am as free and unattached as you.”
There was something in his voice, some subtle shade of meaning I could not quite interpret.
“But how do you know I am unattached?” I asked, slanting him a mischievous glance. He need not know that I had refused Charles absolutely. Even Charles expected me to capitulate eventually.
He looked suddenly more alert and not at all pleased.
“You have a connection? Ah, I can see by the pretty way you preen yourself that you do. You are a woman of great personal attraction and a remarkable mind. It was stupid of me to assume you were not attached. Tell me about the man. Is he dull and predictable? Of course he is. I expect he wears brown suits and always eats his peas before his mutton and will not take port after dinner because it upsets his digestion,” he finished nastily.
I struggled against the rising mirth. “Do not be so hard upon Charles. He is a good man, and unlike most gentlemen, he would not object to keeping a novelist for a wife.”
“Oh, Charles! Its name is Charles, how utterly predictable,” the count rejoined. “But you do not deny my description of him, so I will take it as accurate. No, do not attempt to defend him. It will only make me more determined to dislike him. Come, Miss Lestrange, what are you thinking? Surely you would not be happy with such a man.”
“I could be as happy with him as you could be with such a wife as you have described. It would be a very long life with nothing to discuss between you but the colour of the new drawing room curtains,” I countered.
He shrugged casually, but his expression was one of pleasure. He was enjoying sparring with me, and for my part, I had seldom felt so exhilarated as I did in that small room with the cosy fire and the storm raging without.
The count parried my last thrust. “Any pleasures a wife does not bring to the marriage can—and perhaps ought to—be found elsewhere. A wife is necessary only to provide an heir.”
“I begin to think that you despise my sex,” I told him.
He sat up straight, his hand to his heart, the heavy silver ring upon his forefinger gleaming in the firelight. Tycho raised his head, then gave a snuff and dropped it to my lap again. “You wound me, Miss Lestrange! Nothing could be further from the truth. I adore women. I have studied them as deeply as old Dr. Frankopan has studied his little pills and potions. And like a true scholar and proper scientist I have even developed a Linnaean taxonomy for my seductions.”
“I tremble to ask.”
“It is quite simple,” he said, warming to his theme. His eyes were alight with enthusiasm, his lips turned upward in amusement. “I have sampled women the world over, from courtesans to countesses, and I can tell you there are only three types of women who matter in a man’s life—those he marries, those he seduces and those he takes. I have only to tailor my behaviour to become whatever the lady in question wants me to be and I am assured of success.”
The air felt heavy within my lungs and something inexplicable began to rush in my blood. The conversation had turned inappropriate, wildly so, and yet I could not, would not put an end to it.
“And how do you determine which women are which?”
“Birth and breeding, of course. One marries a woman whose blood is impeccable because one needs her only for the creation of an heir. Nothing matters except that her blood is sound and her pedigree is good. If she has beauty and money, all to the better, but I have money enough of my own and beauty can be found elsewhere. Nothing but blood matters in a wife.”
“And those you take?”
“The least diverting of the lot. Serving wenches, maids, village maidens, chorus girls. Any commerce with them is a simple matter of business, an exchange of services for coin. They may want it in the form of a carriage or a new gown, but make no mistake, the courtesan is no different than the innkeeper’s comely daughter who tumbles any traveller in the barn for a piece of copper. Their commodity is pleasure and they are in trade, as surely as if they hung a shingle above the door. They may interest one for a night, perhaps longer if they are clever and well-trained. But in the end, they are tradesmen, and one cannot love a butcher for the way he cleaves the meat, can one?”
He stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankle and folding his arms behind his head in a posture of ease. He was indeed enjoying himself, and for the first time I wondered if it was at my expense.
“The third class of women, those one seduces, these are by far the most interesting. Unlike the wives and the whores, these cannot be bought. They can only be persuaded, and that is the test of any gentleman’s skill. They are ladies, but barely so. The governess, the poor relation, the novice nun.”
“Surely not!” I interjected, but he held up a hand.
“I am merely quoting from the memoirs of Casanova, not personal experience,” he said seriously. “But make no mistake, when one is not certain of the outcome, victory is much the sweeter. A man values what he has worked for, Miss Lestrange. Consider the hunt. When I ride out, do I aim for the cow chewing placidly in the field? I do not, and yet why not? It would provide good meat for my table. It would be fat and tender and keep me well fed. But I despise it because there is no sport.”
He drew back his legs and sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees, fixing me with the intensity of his gaze. “But when I have been in the saddle all day, legs astride a fast horse, riding hard, sweating and cursing with the wind in my face, jumping hurdles and risking my very neck, I never know until the very last moment if I am going to be successful, if I will achieve my aim and bring home my trophy. I have pursued something wild and beautiful that will sustain and feed me and I am more a man for having taken it on its own ground.”
My mouth felt suddenly dry and I swallowed hard. “You have indeed given this a great deal of thought.”
“I take my pleasures very seriously,” he said, leaning closer still. I caught the scent of him then. The smell of opium clung to him, not unpleasant, but primeval, like windfallen fruit on freshly turned earth. He studied my face, his gaze moving slowly from eyes to lips, lingering there as if to memorise every contour. It was a challenge of sorts or perhaps an invitation.
“Indeed,” I murmured. “And if you assume a facade of manners calculated to please the lady, I wonder you are not unmasked and seen for what you truly are.”
H
e shrugged, the wide shoulders moving easily beneath the excellent tailoring of his coat. “I am never with a woman long enough for her to penetrate my pretty deceits. She sees what she wants to see, and if she glimpses something underneath, she persuades herself she was mistaken. By the time she has come to realise her error, I have withdrawn from the field to meditate upon the pleasure of my spoils and embark upon a new siege.”
He leaned nearer still. I wondered if he meant to kiss me then, but even as I parted my lips, he rose and lifted a finger in command, whether to Tycho or to me, I could not say.
“Stay there. I have something for you.”
He disappeared down the little staircase and returned a moment later bearing a slender volume.
“Have you read this?” he asked, proferring the book.
I took it from him, admiring the beautiful gilt tooling on the soft scarlet morocco cover. I traced the title. Les Fleurs du mal. “Baudelaire!” I exclaimed. “I wanted to read this, but Charles said it was not available in Edinburgh.”
A small, knowing smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “I suspect your gentleman was trying to protect you. I believe he would say it is not suitable for ladies.”
“That is precisely what he said,” I admitted, thinking of the row Charles and I had had over the poems. The book had been published the previous year to both acclaim and outrage. “However did you find a copy? I heard they were seized by the French government.”
He shrugged. “I know the poet.”
I stared at him, openmouthed. “You know Baudelaire? What is he like?”
“Read the poems,” he urged. “They will tell you all you wish to know about the man.”
“I will.” I pressed the book to my chest. “Thank you for the loan of it. I will be most careful.”
“What a prim schoolgirl you are!” he exclaimed, but he smiled to take the sting from his words. “Besides, it is a gift.”
“I could not possibly,” I began, but he waved my words away.
“We have discussed my guiding philosophy, Miss Lestrange. I do nothing which does not give me pleasure. It pleases me to give you the book more than it would please me to keep it. It is a trifle.”
“Still, it was kind of you. Thank you.”
He nodded slowly, a peculiarly Eastern gesture of acknowledgement that seemed unique to the Carpathians. For all his Parisian sophistication, there was still much of the Transylvanian about him.
I rose then and he walked me to my door, Tycho following quietly behind.
“I will begin it tonight,” I told him, brandishing the slender volume.
“I shall be eager to hear your thoughts,” he said, touching my hand briefly to his lips.
“Do you mean to educate me?” I asked en badinage.
“No,” he said seriously, “to corrupt you.”
And with that he turned on his heel and left me.
Tereza had come in my absence to prepare the room for the night. A hot brick wrapped in flannel had been tucked at the foot of my bed, and a mug of warmed milk, laced with honey and spices, had been placed upon my bed table. I drank it off, feeling pleasantly drowsy and content and reflecting that there is nothing quite like a warm bed in a cold room to make one feel all is right with the world.
Burrowed far down into the soft mattress, I opened the book at random and my eyes fell upon “The Revenant.”
Like angels with wild beast’s eyes
I shall return to your bedroom
And silently glide toward you
With the shadows of the night;
And, dark beauty, I shall give you
Kisses cold as the moon
And the caresses of a snake
That crawls around a grave.
When the livid morning comes,
You’ll find my place empty,
And it will be cold there till night.
I wish to hold sway over
Your life and youth by fear,
As others do by tenderness.
I longed to read more, but as I reached the last line, I slid regretfully into sleep. I dreamt, for hours it seemed, and in my dreams I walked the corridors of the castle, searching for something. But all of the doors were locked, and though I pushed hard against them and beat the door with my fists, none of them would yield. I began to weep and felt something soft against my cheek, taking up my tears. Hot breath rolled across my skin, and I bolted awake, suddenly aware that I was not alone in my room.
All that remained of the fire was cold grey ash; the candle had long since burned to nothing. But something was there, breathing in the darkness. It had touched me, and as I put out my hand, I felt rough fur.
I scrambled backwards across the bed. I groped on the bed table for a lucifer match and struck it. The light flared, illuminating two great yellow, lamplike eyes glowing in the shadows. I gasped and dropped the match, nearly setting the bed alight. I beat the single flame with my hand, and once more the room was black as pitch. I heard a snuffling sort of sound, and suddenly cursed myself for a fool. It was Tycho, doubtless accustomed to roaming about the castle at night.
I reached for another match and struck it, intending to scold the miscreant for frightening me so and show him to the door. But when the flame flared up, I saw that I was quite alone. The dog had gone, shown himself out, I thought with a smile.
But the smile faded when I realised that the door was still firmly bolted. The dog had disappeared into the shadows without a trace.
8
The rest of that night I slept but poorly. I banked up the fire and dozed in a chair before it, rousing myself whenever the flame burned too low to feed more wood into it. By the time the grey light of dawn began to lighten the chamber, I was numb with fatigue. Only then did I return to my bed and surrender to sleep. Some time later there was a sharp rapping upon the door. I stumbled to it, drawing back the bolt to admit a scolding Tereza.
She bore in my tray, and it was not until she left and returned with my washing water that I realised she was more annoyed at having to do her sister’s work than at being locked from my room.
“Where is Aurelia?” I asked. I knew she would understand only her sister’s name, but I shrugged my shoulders and made a show of looking about the room to convey the rest of my question. I had learned that Tereza had a few words of German, but not enough to permit proper conversation, and I rather enjoyed our attempts at pantomime.
She made a comprehensive gesture that left no doubt. Aurelia was ill, messily so, from Tereza’s little pantomime. I made a face of concern, but Tereza flapped her hands as if the ailment were nothing to worry over. She uncovered my dishes and I fell upon them, suddenly too ravenous to attempt further conversation. The food was the same as it had been for the last fortnight, but the cooler weather had brought the addition of a bowl of porridge, called mămăligă by the local folk. It was tasty and well-prepared and I scraped the bowl clean and ate two of the bread rolls. A few cups of strong, dark Turkish coffee helped to clear my head, and washing myself attended to the rest.
The day passed quietly, for the storm held, and no one dared the Devil’s Staircase in the heavy rain. I made excellent progress on my book, larding the tale with the superstitions I had discussed with Dr. Frankopan. I crafted a character based upon Frau Amsel, with a fondness for strong drink and hearty food, whose husband—like poor Madame Popa’s—abandoned his family to roam the mountains as a lycanthrope. It was a horrifying tale, and I was enthralled with it as I had never been with my writing before. I had written pretty little horror stories to frighten ladies, I thought with some satisfaction. But now I was writing a book to chill the very marrow of the stoutest man.
I returned to my labours in the afternoon, and that evening, though the household retired early, the count did not come for me. Piqued, I took to my bed with the poems of Baudelaire, hesitating only a moment, for it had occurred to me to wonder if perhaps such sensational reading before bed had caused my unsettling experience the previous night. I read
for only a little while before snuffing my candle. As soon as I blew it out, the room was softened by a silver glow from the moon falling through the casement, sometimes shining brightly through the broken storm clouds, sometimes covering her face with the stormy veil. It was the night of the full moon, the time for superstitions of the great and the mundane, the hour when werewolves are said to roam the shadows to feed, and an expectant mother must not go abroad lest the babe in her womb be born harelipped and dull of wit.
I slept fitfully because of the moonlight, dreaming of things I could not later remember. I heard a chorus of wolves, first a plaintive cry and then a response from far away, not the tricksters of faery tales, but the simple, slavering beasts that would devour the unwary traveller. I turned towards the wall and stopped up my ears with my hands, falling into a restless sleep even as I thought of poor Madame Popa and wondered if she heard them too.
The wolves began to howl again, just before dawn, and above them a high, keening wail from somewhere quite close. I came awake slowly, stupidly, surfacing from a dream. I lay still for some minutes until I heard the cry again and a commotion in the corridor. I rose and flung a coverlet about my shoulders.
Outside my door the noise was louder now, a terrible banshee cry I knew would echo in my ears so long as I lived. It came from the garderobe at the foot of the tower. I hurried down the small flight of stone stairs, stopping short when I reached the open door of the garderobe.
The small, icily cold room was full of people, all in varying states of undress. The count, pale and unshaven, wore his evening clothes of the previous night, his collar and neckcloth abandoned. Florian had drawn trousers over his nightshirt, and Frau Amsel and Cosmina supported the countess, all of them wearing nightdresses and wrapped in shawls or furs. They crowded around something huddled on the floor, and as I approached, they shifted enough that I could see Tereza, crouched like an animal over a bundle of clothes. A single candle trembled in her hands, the flame guttering as she swung it wildly in her panic.
The Dead Travel Fast Page 10