Saint-Germain 21: Borne in Blood: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  I have taken your advice and retained Pasch Gruenerwald as supervisor of the rebuilding. He has chosen most of the workmen, hired a cook for them, and allocated places for their occupancy in the castle so that their own comfort is contingent upon their proper performance of the work they are paid to do. He reports that most of the men are more than willing, good-paying work being so hard to find, although he has had to dismiss two workers for pilfering goods and supplies. Most have been satisfactory.

  The amount you have deposited to cover the expenses through the coming winter are more than adequate. I have assured the men that they need not fear they will not be paid the full amount agreed upon. The joiners and carpenters will arrive in the spring to continue the finishing of the interior. Your wishes are clearly expressed in the instructions you provided and I will keep current on the progress being made, so that you will not be disappointed at the standards upheld by these craftsmen.

  I am still puzzled by your intention not to occupy the castle yourself, but to have Madame von Scharffensee and her children as your tenants. Surely that is a most extravagant gesture. Do you realize what an expense it will be to maintain the castle and staff suitably for them. I am aware that your fortune is vast and that you have sufficient wherewithal to provide for Madame and her family, and that you are not constrained by religion or politics from putting your funds to this use. You say the castle is a small one, and I concur, but I also know that it is much more than most widows with children can hope for. Still, your business is your own, yet I would be failing in my fiduciary responsibilities not to bring this to your attention. Having done so, I will

  Commend myself to your good service,

  Reinhart Olivier Kreuzbach

  Attorney-at-law and factor

  Speicher, Rhenish Prussia

  4

  “Come on!” Hyacinthie called out to Rosalie as she ran up the hill, her skirts lifted almost to her knees. Her high-waisted frock was a bit faded and plain, but in this setting it lent her a charm that fancier garments would not have. All along the flanks of the mountains, oak, hawthorn, and larch were burnished with brilliant leaves that stood out red and russet and gold against the stands of fir and pines; above, the sky was the luminous blue of the fading year. Schloss von Ravensberg was a league-and-a-half behind them, partially hidden by the shoulder of the ridge they were climbing. The wind was brisk up here, and the grasses sang with it.

  Rosalie, who was six, was struggling to keep up, her pale features turning ruddy from her effort, her short legs churning. There was a smudge of dirt on her cheek and a tear in her skirt, both tokens of a fall she had taken early in their climb, the first blight on what had promised to be a welcome treat. The chance to get out of the Schloss had been so tempting when Hyacinthie had made it, and was turning out to be just as unpleasant as life in the Schloss had proven to be. She was flattered to be singled out by her shining, older cousin, and determined to make the most of this opportunity. She scrambled, determination on her little face. “Slow down, Cousin Hyacinthie!”

  But Hyacinthie laughed and kept going. There was a path leading into the woods not far away, and she was determined to get there. It was essential to her plan that Rosalie be completely beyond the Schloss’ view before she led her off to the abandoned well-house. “You can’t catch me,” she cried out, just tauntingly enough to guarantee that the child would follow her.

  Determined to show she could indeed keep up with Hyacinthie, Rosalie forced herself to keep going, though she was panting and getting tired. Soon she would be out-of-sorts and testy, but for now she was still game for their adventure. “Just go slower.” She continued climbing, hot from effort and cold from the wind. Only her stubborn determination to prove herself to Hyacinthie kept her going.

  “I’ve got something you’ll like to see,” Hyacinthie said, enticing the child. She had reached the narrow track that served as a road to the high pastures where shepherds took their flocks in summer.

  “I’m coming,” said the child, growing cross as she kept up her arduous climb.

  “You’re doing very well,” Hyacinthie shouted to Rosalie. “It isn’t much farther. Just the other side of this copse.” The shelter of the trees was welcome, for now no one could see them. “There’s a path here, an easy one.”

  Rosalie muttered but persevered. In a matter of five minutes she had reached the stand of trees where Hyacinthie waited, pacing up and down the trail. “Well. What is there to see?”

  “It’s this way,” said Hyacinthie, holding out her hand for Rosalie’s. “We should go through the trees. There’s a well-house on the other side.”

  “A well-house?” Rosalie asked, interested in spite of herself.

  “I’ll show you,” Hyacinthie promised, leading the way. The distance through the trees was short, and in thirty strides they were through the copse and at the edge of a high meadow, just now quite empty but for an old Tyrolean well-house that was a short way off. “There.”

  Rosalie looked where Hyacinthie was pointing, and stared. “It’s pretty old.” She hated to admit that she was disappointed in the place, not after all she had done to reach it.

  “Built two hundred years ago, the shepherds say,” Hyacinthie told her.

  “So long,” Rosalie exclaimed.

  “It isn’t used much anymore. The well isn’t clean. That’s why most people have forgot that this well-house is here.” She started across the meadow toward it. “It’s really a special place.”

  “Really?” said Rosalie, her mouth forming an O of fascination. “Why is it special?” she asked as she hurried after Hyacinthie.

  “Because almost no one knows it’s here,” said Hyacinthie. “Just you, and me, and the shepherds.”

  Rosalie giggled. “This is our secret?”

  “Yes,” Hyacinthie said conspiratorially. “Our secret. Only between us.” She was almost at the entrance. “Do you want to go in?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Rosalie, almost sighing with pleasure.

  “We can sit on the old benches for a little while.” Hyacinthie stretched languorously. “Rest a little before we start back. Maybe we can look into the old well. They say it’s filled with treasure.”

  “We can,” said Rosalie, feeling very grown-up.

  “Then let me welcome you to your very own Schloss,” said Hyacinthie playfully, opening the door, laughing at the moaning of the old hinges. “Ghosts,” she whispered, and joined in Rosalie’s renewed giggles.

  The well-house was not large, and its interior was simple. There were benches along three of the walls, and there were two clerestory windows letting in light without revealing if anyone might be inside. This afternoon the illumination was soft, revealing the flaking paint on the carpentry-work on the walls, and the old well, a low circle of stones with a wooden lid over it.

  “This is … really nice,” said Rosalie, shivering in the chill of the interior.

  “I should think so,” said Hyacinthie, brushing off one of the benches and sitting down; she offered Rosalie an encouraging wink. “Go on. You’ll find it’s very pleasant. We’re out of the wind, in our special, secret place.”

  “Special,” said Rosalie as she wiped at the dust on another bench and got a splinter in her hand for her trouble. She let out a little shriek of dismay and tried to use her teeth to pull it out.

  Hyacinthie got up and came to help her. “Here. Let me look at it,” she said, settling down beside the child. “Oh, dear. You did get hurt, didn’t you?” She pressed the splinter and paid no attention to Rosalie’s whimper. “Hold still; I’ll pull it out for you.” Without waiting for the little girl to respond, she got hold of the end of the splinter with her fingertip and thumb and abruptly jerked it out of her palm.

  “Ouch!” Rosalie protested, this time sucking on the injury while she tried not to cry.

  “There. All gone. It will be better soon.” Hyacinthie got up again and went back to the bench she had selected for her own use. “Tell me, Rosalie: are you happ
y to be here?”

  Rosalie nodded several times, then took her hand out of her mouth and said, “This is a fine secret.”

  “No, not this place,” Hyacinthie said, irritated at her inattention.

  “Then—?”

  “Ravensberg. The Schloss.” Hyacinthie realized she had been too rushed, and modified her question. “You and Hedda have been here a while. I was wondering how you liked living here.”

  ‘The Schloss is very … grand,” said Rosalie, becoming wary.

  “That it is,” said Hyacinthie. “But do you like it? Are you happy here?”

  “It’s very nice,” said Rosalie, watching Hyacinthie, trying to determine what she wanted to hear from her.

  “Nothing troubles you?” This question was sharper than the last.

  The child’s face went closed. “No.”

  Hyacinthie wanted to shake an answer out of her, but forced herself to smile. “You can tell me. This is our secret place. Nothing you tell me will ever be repeated. On my honor.” She made the sign to ward off the Evil Eye.

  Rosalie squirmed on her bench and rubbed at her eyes with her undamaged palm. “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

  “Then there is something,” said Hyacinthie.

  “In a way,” Rosalie said, trying to minimize the damage she had done.

  “Tell me.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “I’ll never betray you.”

  Betray seemed an awfully big word to Rosalie, and she wriggled in discomfort. “I shouldn’t.”

  Hyacinthie made herself laugh. “Not to those outside the family, of course you shouldn’t. But we’re cousins”—she recalled how carefully her uncle had explained that she and the two girls were not related; she steeled herself to her task—“and we can talk about family things, you know.”

  “Uncle Wallache said that—”

  “Uncle Wallache wants us to be careful. You know how he keeps secrets. So do I.” She could see from Rosalie’s expression that she had found the key. “He’s told you to keep secrets for him, hasn’t he?”

  Rosalie nodded. “Ja.”

  “And he has said it would be very bad of you to talk about them, hasn’t he?”

  “Ja,” the child said again, her chin quivering; she was becoming uncomfortable with Hyacinthie’s persistence, especially since she was almost positive Uncle Wallache would not approve.

  “But, don’t you see, he meant other people: he didn’t mean me.” Hyacinthie flung her arms wide. “You know he didn’t mean me.”

  Rosalie was confused now, and frightened. She had promised Uncle Wallache to keep their secret, but even more than keeping the secret, she wanted someone to know, to understand, and here was Hyacinthie, lovely and sweet as a spring dawn, offering her the chance she sought, and the assurance that it was all right. “I can talk to you,” she decided aloud.

  “Yes. Yes, my little pet, you can,” said Hyacinthie with fervor and a shine in her eyes that Rosalie did not recognize. “This will be the secret of our secret place.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Rosalie, relief visible on her face.

  “And so you will feel less worried about your secret, I will tell you one of mine first.” She beamed at Rosalie. “Would you like that?”

  Rosalie nodded, too awed at this offer to speak.

  Hyacinthie pretended to search her thoughts for a secret, all the while knowing how she would get Rosalie to confide in her. “You know Uncle Wallache’s laboratory?”

  “The big room where he spends his afternoons,” said Rosalie proudly.

  “Yes. Well. I know what he does there.” She nodded twice to make her point.

  “But we’re not supposed to go—”

  “I got into the room once, and watched.” Hyacinthie beamed the same was Rosalie was beaming.

  “Tell me,” said Rosalie, full of anticipation.

  “You know that men from the village sometimes come to help Uncle Wallache in his work?” She waited for Rosalie to nod. “Well, I saw them go into the laboratory, and there Uncle Wallache took his equipment and drew blood out of the man.”

  Rosalie made a face of disgust. “Why?”

  “He believes blood has many secrets. He plans to show what some of them are.” Hyacinthie thought of the many times she had heard von Ravensberg boast of his theories and his methods. “That is what his book is about.”

  “Blood?” Rosalie was shocked.

  “Jawol. Blood.”

  Appalled, Rosalie sat very still. “That’s … horrid.” She liked the sound of the word, and she repeated it for the satisfaction it gave her. “Horrid.”

  “It is what he is doing.” Hyacinthie could see she was losing the child’s attention. “You mustn’t let him know I told you, or I’ll get in trouble.”

  “You?” The notion that Hyacinthie could be as vulnerable as she was shocked Rosalie.

  “Of course,” said Hyacinthie, as blithely as possible. “Uncle Wallache doesn’t think females can understand his studies.”

  “Perhaps they can’t,” said Rosalie, because she was so baffled.

  Rather than challenge her, Hyacinthie said, “I know another secret, one you and I can share between us: you mustn’t tell anyone.”

  “I won’t,” Rosalie said somberly.

  “Herr Schmidt—the Magistrate in Eichenbrucke?—he keeps a woman in Ravenstein. They have two children. I heard Herr Schmidt talking with Uncle Wallache about it, a year ago. He was laughing.” Her smile was delicious.

  “A Magistrate would do something like that?” Rosalie marveled.

  Now that the child was absorbed in their game, Hyacinthie made the most of it. “And another secret: once I saw Herr Lowengard—you know, the mousy fellow who takes care of business matters for Uncle Wallache?—I saw him making water and there was a wart on his thing. A big one.”

  “A wart?” Rosalie was once again enthralled.

  “Yes.” She made this an expression of triumph.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “What?” The question was so unexpected that it threw Hyacinthie off her stride.

  Rosalie repeated carefully, “Does it hurt?”

  “The wart? I don’t know; it might,” said Hyacinthie. She stood up and moved to the covered well in the center of the well-house. Very casually she opened the wooden lid that had once sealed the well; time and rust had rendered the lock on the lid useless. With the lid shoved aside, Hyacinthie sat on the broad stone rim of the old well as she went on. “What do you think?”

  “I think it might, too,” said Rosalie after a brief moment of consideration. “Uncle Wallache’s hurts me.”

  It took all her determination for Hyacinthie to conceal the stab of jealousy that went through her at this admission. How dare this child even mention Uncle Wallache’s attentions! Now they came to the heart of it: this child had dared to supplant her in their uncle’s desires! It was an unendurable insult, but she contained her wrath. Soon she would have her revenge, she told herself. She managed to keep her voice light. “I didn’t like it much at first, either.” That much was true, and she said it at her most engaging.

  “You didn’t …” Rosalie stared in amazement.

  “When I was younger, of course,” said Hyacinthie as if this were not galling to her. “A while ago.”

  “Before we came?”

  “A little.” She let Rosalie think that she and Hedda were responsible for her demotion, not her own developing body, more than four years ago.

  “And he stopped?”

  “A while ago,” Hyacinthie repeated with a deliberate shrug. “He became bored, I suppose, as men will do.”

  “But you—How could he be bored with you?”

  “Perhaps he expected something new?” It was a deliberate prodding.

  “Me?” Rosalie was aghast. “Why me?”

  “You’re pretty, and you’re … trusting, and you aren’t ready to be married yet,” Hyacinthie suggested, recalling all the things von Ravensberg had praised in her when he ha
d first begun using her for his pleasure.

  “Then you know …” She came to Hyacinthie’s side, seeking the companionship of their shared experience. “He tells me it is what girls do to show their gratitude. He says that this is how girls make men care for them.”

  “Yes,” said Hyacinthie.

  “He said that this is what men want from girls.”

  “He’s right.” This admission angered her, but she concealed her ire.

  “He told you the same thing?” Rosalie asked.

  “He did,” said Hyacinthie.

  “Well.” Rosalie considered what she had learned. “Then it isn’t as much of a secret as he told me.” There was the suggestion of a sob in the little girl’s voice. “He said this was only between us, just the two of us.”

  “That’s what he told me,” said Hyacinthie, a sudden memory taking her back to when she was eight and her uncle had come to her bed. For the years he had lain with her, she had convinced herself she had engaged his heart, but once he abandoned her, she knew that what he had done was for himself, not for her. Only securing the true captivation of another man could remove her from her uncle’s mastery of her—that, and returning pain for pain.

  “He was fibbing!” Rosalie burst out, and started to cry.

  “He was lying!” Hyacinthie rounded on her, and pushed her shoulders so that the little girl toppled backward into the well, her wail becoming a shriek as her falling body struck the stone walls of the well, and bounced off. Finally there was a murky splash, a whimper, a garbled shout that faded to choking coughs, then nothing. Standing beside the well, Hyacinthie waited until she was certain that all was silent, then she wrestled the lid back onto the well. Now that she had accomplished her purpose, Hyacinthie was sorry that it had ended so quickly. She had hoped for a little longer to make the child pay for what she had done. “No matter,” she said aloud as she took stock of her appearance. There was a small tear on her dress where the lid had snagged the material, and several dusty smirches. She was fairly sure there was a little dirt on her face. All could be accounted for by claiming to have taken a fall while hiking. She also decided that the fall could account for Rosalie being missing: when Hyacinthie fell, Rosalie, who had caused it, ran off—Hyacinthie had supposed she had returned to the Schloss, but had been in no condition to ascertain that for herself. The explanation was a good one, she thought, and one that would leave her blameless. In order to make it more convincing, she made herself scrape her elbow on the wall of the well-house until it bled. Then, satisfied, she set out for the Schloss, not moving too quickly so that her claims of injury would be more readily believed. As she made her way along the narrow paths back down the mountain, she let herself recall every detail of her vanquishing Rosalie. By the time she entered the Schloss the shadows were lying around the place, cast by the higher peaks, and the staff was beginning to bustle, getting ready for supper. Hyacinthie made for her room and rang for Idune, the maid she and the girls shared, telling her as soon as she entered her room. “It is very annoying. I have damaged my dress. I took a fall on my walk with Rosalie. What a scamp she is.”