"Naturally not," the sixth guest said.
"You're a Count, too, they say?" Dominick inquired unnecessarily.
The sixth guest favored him with a wry smile and a slight inclination of his head. "That is one of my titles, yes."
"Smooth-spoken devil, aren't you?" Dominick challenged, his eyes glowing bright.
"In the manner of my English . . . acquaintances," he replied, adding, "if I have erred, perhaps you will be kind enough to instruct me."
Everard stifled a laugh and Dominick's face reddened.
"Let it alone, Dominick, can't you?" Twilford said before Dominick could think of another insult to launch at the sixth guest.
"Get back to Sabrina, Charles, or you'll have Dominick asking to meet your foreign guest at dawn." Lord Graveston sounded both disgusted and disappointed.
"Yes, I will," Whittenfield said with alacrity. "She had broken her arm and took time to mend, during which time her employer was most solicitous of her health. He saw to it that she was well fed and that her children were cared for so that they did not impose upon their mother. Sabrina was astounded and grateful for this consideration. She had never expected such charity from a stranger. And the more she learned about the Count, the more curious she became. He was without doubt wealthy, and had chosen to live in this poor part of Antwerp so that he would not be put upon by the authorities, she suspected. Yet she doubted that he had broken the law or was engaged in espionage. Eventually she wondered if he were doing vivisections, but she never found a body or any part of one in the house, though she did once find the manservant with a large piece of raw meat. With every doubt that was quelled, another rose to take its place. She did not dare to approach him directly, for although he had never shown her anything but kindness, Sabrina reveals that she sensed a force or power in him that frightened her."
Twilford shook his head. "Women! Why will they endow us with godlike qualities?"
Dominick stifled a yawn.
"It was Sabrina's daughter, Cesily, who first stumbled upon the Count's secret, or one of his secrets," Whittenfield said, and took time to top off his port. He was enjoying the sudden silence that had fallen. Slowly he leaned back, smiling in delight with himself.
"Charles . . ." Dominick warned.
"The secret was one that Sabrina said she should have guessed. How it came about was—"
"You'd try the patience of half the saints in the calendar, Whittenfield," Everard said, attempting an amused chuckle with a distinct lack of success.
Whittenfield refused to be rushed. "Cesily came running into her mother's chamber one afternoon with a large glass beaker clutched in her small hands. She said she had come upon it in the hallway near the locked door, but upon close questioning, she admitted that she had found the door unlocked and had decided to explore. You may imagine how aghast Sabrina was to hear this, and she trembled to think how the Count would react to the news that the child had invaded his private rooms. She thought it best to be prepared for the worst, and determined to approach the Count before he came to her. She had a little money set aside, and if the worst came to pass she was fairly confident that after she had paid for the damage she would still have enough money left to afford passage to England, though she did not know what she would do once she got there."
"Just like a woman," Everard said, attempting to look world-weary, though his young features did not easily lend themselves to that expression.
"Whittenfield, have you had pipes put in, or must I seek the necessary house in the garden?" Lord Graveston asked unexpectedly.
"You'll find what you need by the pantry door, my Lord," Dominick said, a malicious undertone to his good manners.
"Thanks, puppy," the old man said, getting out of his chair. "Should be back in a little time." He walked stiff-legged to the door and closed it sharply behind him.
"Well . . ." Whittenfield said, rather nonplussed by Lord Graveston's departure, and uncertain now how to pick up the threads of his narrative. "As might be expected—" he covered his awkwardness by pouring himself yet another glass of the excellent port "—it took her some time to convince herself that it was appropriate to interrupt the Count at his work. She did not want to go to that locked door and knock, for fear of his wrath. She also realized that she was not eager to be dismissed. The man was a generous master and had treated her far more kindly than she had thought he would. Yes. You can see her predicament. But if the broken beaker were not acknowledged, then it might go unpleasantly for her and her children. Sabrina was not a foolish woman—"
"What woman is not foolish where her children are concerned?" Hamworthy inquired piously. He often remarked that heaven had seen fit to visit seven daughters on him, as others were visited with plague. It was tacitly acknowledged that one of his reasons for attending this gathering was to talk with Everard about a possible alliance with his fourth daughter, Isabel.
"Be that as it may . . ." Whittenfield said more forcefully, glad that the general irritation with Hamworthy for once worked to his benefit. "Indeed, Sabrina feared for what would become of her and her children. There were several possibilities, each one more horrifying than the last. She could be dismissed. That was not desirable, but she could manage, if she acted with caution. If, however, the Count decided to take action against her or, more horribly, her daughter for her actions, then it might go very badly for them. Her thoughts were filled with tales she had heard of the fate of children in prisons, their abuses and their degradation. At the very contemplation of such a possibility, Sabrina was filled with overwhelming fright. She considered taking her children and leaving under the cover of night, and getting as far from Antwerp as she could. Lamentably, her resources would not allow her to fly a long way, or rapidly. She had to hope that she could persuade the Count that any restitution he demanded, no matter how severe, should be taken from her and not from her children. Imagine what terrors filled her as she went up the stairs—the very stairs down which she had fallen—to knock on that sinister locked door."
"Why did she not simply talk to the manservant, and ask him to explain what had happened?" Twilford suggested.
"Apparently she did consider that, but decided that if she had to face the count, she would prefer to do it at once, rather than go through the ordeal twice. It's an understandable attitude, don't you think?"
"And this way she would have the strategic element of surprise," the sixth guest said quietly.
"Just so," Whittenfield said emphatically. "You understand me very well, Count." He drank again, inwardly delighted at the increased attention he had been given. "So she knocked at the door. A gentle rap at first, and then a stronger one. You would have thought she was far more brave than she claimed to be, so boldly and directly did she present herself. In her journal she says that she quaked inwardly, and there was almost nothing she could do to keep her hands from shaking, yet she did not allow these considerations to hold her back."
"Females, so precipitous," Twilford muttered.
"In a general, that quality would be called audacity, and would earn glory and praise," the sixth guest pointed out.
"Not the same thing at all," Twilford said, much shocked.
"Of course not," answered the sixth guest.
"To return to Sabrina," Whittenfield said sharply, "she knocked on the door and waited. When there was no response, she knocked a second time, hoping all the while that the Count would not be there or, for whatever reason, would not answer. She had begun to worry again: what if this man were hiding men and women in those rooms? What if he had a cache of arms or gunpowder? What if there were other sorts of equipment, things that would not be favored by the officials of Antwerp? Was she required to report what she saw, assuming the Count allowed her to leave the house at all? When she had knocked a third time, she was convinced that the Count was away, and she turned with relief to descend the stairs. And then the door behind her opened and the Count asked her why she had disturbed him. He spoke reasonably, her journal says, telling
her that her errand must be of great urgency, for she had never before gone contrary to his orders regarding that door. Sabrina gathered up her faltering courage and told him what her daughter had done, then stood silent, waiting for his wrath to fall on her, for it was not rare for a master to vent his wrath with a belt or a stick on servants who did not please him. That's not done much anymore, but in Sabrina's time she had every reason to think that she might be beaten for her daughter's offense, and Cesily might be beaten as well. She tried to explain to the Count, then, that Cesily was only a child and had not intended to harm his property, or to trespass in his private rooms. She had got halfway in to her tangled arguments when the Count interrupted her to say that he hoped that Cesily was not hurt. Dumbfounded, Sabrina said that she was not. The Count expressed his relief to hear this and assured Sabrina that he was not angry with her or her child, but that he was upset to realize they regarded him as such an object of terror. Sabrina demured, and tried to end this awkward interview, but it was not the Count's intention to allow this. He opened the door wider and asked her if she would care to see what lay beyond. Poor Sabrina! Her curiosity was fired at this offer, for she wanted to enter those rooms with a desire that was close to passion, but at the same time she knew that she might be exposing herself to danger. Had it been only herself, she wrote in her journal, she would not have hesitated, for a moment, but again, her consideration for her two children weighed heavily with her and for that reason she did not at once accept his offer. After a moment, her curiosity became the stronger force in her, and she went back up the stairs to the open door."
"They'll do it every time. They're as bad as cats," Twilford said, and looked to Hamworthy for support.
"Charles, you're the most infuriating of storytellers," Dominick said as the door opened to readmit Lord Graveston, who made his way back to his seat without looking at any of the others in the room.
"Doubtless," Whittenfield said, quite pleased with this encomium. "Let me go on. I think you'll find that most of your doubts will be quieted. For example, I think all of you will be gratified to learn that this mysterious Count was nothing more ominous than an alchemist."
"Of course!" Everard said as the others nodded in varying degrees of surprise.
"That was the great secret of the closed rooms. The man had an alchemical laboratory there, as well as a library where he kept some of his more . . . objectionable texts for perusal." He smiled at this revelation and waited to hear what the others might say.
"Alchemist!" Dominick scoffed. "Demented dreamer, more like."
"Do you think so?" the sixth guest asked him.
"Base metal into gold! The Elixir of Life! Who'd believe such trash?" Dominick got up from his chair and went to glare into the fire.
"Who indeed," murmured the sixth guest.
"You're going to tell us that all your aunt's precious Count was doing was pottering around among the retorts, trying to make his own gold?" Hamworthy demanded. "Of all the shoddy—"
"Yes, Sabrina's employer was an alchemist," Whittenfield said with completely unruffled calm.
"No wonder he bought a house in the worst part of town," Lord Graveston said. "That's not the sort of thing that you want put into a grand house. Smells, boilings, who knows what sort of flammable substances being used. He had a degree of sense, in any case, if he had such a place for his work."
"Exactly my opinion," Whittenfield said at once. "I decided, as did Sabrina, that the Count was a sensible man. He showed her his laboratory and his equipment and warned her that it was not wise for Cesily to come in because there were various substances that might harm her in the laboratory. He showed her where he made his glass vessels by blowing them himself, and the oven where many of the processes were conducted. It was called an athanor, Sabrina says, and was shaped like a very large beehive made of heavy bricks. The Count showed her, since he was not involved in any experiments at the moment, how the various vessels were placed in the athanor, and told her how long and in what manner they were heated to get the results he desired. She watched all this with great fascination and asked very few questions, though she longed to pester him with them. At last he told her he would appreciate her discretion, but if she had any doubts about remaining in his employ, she would have to tell him and he would arrange for her to have passage back to England. She was. taken aback by this suggestion, for she believed that the Count wanted to be rid of her now that she had learned his secret. Apparently he discerned something of this in her countenance, and he assured her at once that he did not wish her to leave, but he was aware that there were many who did not view alchemy kindly and wished to have nothing to do with it. If that expressed her own feelings, then he wanted her to tell him at once in order to make proper arrangements for her. He had, he told her, another house in Antwerp, and he would send her there if she felt she could not remain in good conscience so near his laboratory. Sabrina was startled by this consideration, which was a good deal rarer then than it would be now. She told the Count that she would inform him in the morning of her decision, but she wrote in her journal that she was determined to stay, and had been since she was shown the laboratory. In the morning the Count sought her out and asked to know her decision, which she told him at once. He, in turn, declared that he was very pleased to have her be willing to stay on with him. She then inquired what sorts of experiments he was making, but he did not wish to discuss that with her, not at that time. He did give her his word that he would present her with a few of the results of his labors in due time, which she, perforce, agreed to. She mentions in her journal for the next several days that she saw little of the Count because he was occupied in his secret room working on some new experiment. It isn't precisely easy to tell, but it seems she put some stock in his skill, for she states she suspects the crucifix he gave her might have been made from alchemical gold."
"Absurd!" Hamworthy declared.
"Oh, naturally," Whittenfield said. "And no doubt the Count had his own reasons behind his actions."
"Wanted to put her at her ease," Twilford ventured.
"Still, a crucifix is hardly appropriate to give an Englishwoman. It seems much too Roman." Lord Graveston had paused in his fiddling with his pipe to give his opinion, and having done so, went back to scraping out the burnt tobacco so that he could fill it again.
"Queen Bess herself was known to wear crucifixes," Everard mentioned, his face darkening from embarrassment. "Probably the Count, being a foreigner and a Roman Catholic—most of them were, weren't they?—wanted to make a friendly gesture. It's a more circumspect gift than any other sort of jewelry would be."
"Everard, your erudition astounds me," Dominick said with a nasty grin at the young man. "Read Classics, did you?"
"History. At Clare." His voice dropped to a mumble and he would not look at Dominick.
"Clever lad," Hamworthy said, as if to take the sting out of Dominick's remark.
"What else did your great-great et cetera aunt have to say for herself?" Twilford inquired with a polite nod away from Dominick.
"She said that her employer continued to treat her well, that her arm healed completely, and aside from twinges when the weather changed, it never troubled her in all her years. She did not have much opportunity to view the laboratory, but she found that the manservant, Roger, was much inclined to be helpful to her and told her once, in a moment of rare candor, that he liked her boy Herbert, and said that he had once had a son of his own, but the boy had died many years before. Sabrina was shocked to hear this, for she had not thought that he was much used to families. He offered to assist her with Cesily and Herbert when her duties made it awkward for her, and she thanked him for it but could not bring herself to trust him entirely, so aloof did he hold himself. In the end, she asked Herbert if he would like to go with Roger when he purchased certain items from the great market in the center of town. Herbert, having turned two, was developing an adventurous spirit, and he was eager to explore a greater part of the world. Roger
spoke English, albeit with an accent, and told Sabrina that he would be happy to keep the boy talking in his own language, or teach him German or French. He admitted that his Dutch was not very good and his Flemish was stilted, but he would not mind being Herbert's tutor. In a moment of boldness, Sabrina said that she would rather Cesily be taught the languages for the time being, and Herbert could learn in a year or so, when he had a better grasp of speech. She did not think that the man would accept this, but he did, and inquired what languages Sabrina would like her daughter to speak. When Sabrina expressed her surprise, he reminded her that Queen Bess spoke seven languages quite fluently and it did not seem intolerable to him that other females should do likewise. So little Cesily became his student, learning French, German, Spanish and Italian. He must have been an excellent teacher, for Cesily was noted for her skill in these tongues for all her life."
"Damned silly waste," Twilford said. "If you ask me, it's a mistake to educate females. Look what happens. You start sending them to school and the next thing you know, they want to vote and who knows what else."
"Reprehensible," said the sixth guest with an ironic smile.
"It isn't fitting," Hamworthy declared. "What could your great-aunt have been thinking of, to put her daughter forward that way?" He straightened up in his chair. "Charles, you're not serious, are you? The girl didn't try to be a scholar?"
"It seems to have taken her remarkably little effort to be one," Whittenfield answered. "She took to it like a potentate takes to vice. In the next year she showed herself to be a most ready and enthusiastic pupil. She started to read then, so that by five—"
"Started to read? So young? Was Sabrina lost to all propriety?" Lord Graveston demanded.
"She must have been. Herbert soon joined his sister in her studies, but lacked her aptitude, though he did well enough. To Sabrina's surprise and, I think, disappointment, there were no further invitations to enter the laboratory, though on one occasion the Count presented her with a fine silver bracelet set with amber. She says in her journal that there was nothing remarkable about the amber or the silver except that the workmanship was exceedingly good. I wish I knew what became of that bracelet," Whittenfield added in another voice. "We have the mirror, which is an object of considerable speculation, but not the bracelet, which might have had a great deal of value, both for the materials and the antiquity."
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