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

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Will you want a shawl?” Serilde asked.

  “It would probably be best. I think the lovely black one, the one my father sent me from Ankara. It’s so light-weight.”

  “That it is,” said Serilde, remembering that the shawl was in the second trunk. “I’ll get it directly. After I have laid out your other things. I take it you want the long silk under-tunic?”

  “Yes, if you would. The silk is preferable to the cotton.” She turned as Serilde approached her so that she could unfasten the sixteen covered buttons down the back of her walking-dress. “You may rest in this room after you have your dinner and your free hour. I don’t expect you to wait up for me: I can wake you when I come up.”

  “You anticipate a long evening,” said Serilde, who knew the Schloss servants were predicting the festivities would go on past two in the morning.

  “It’s likely. Nothing as late as city parties can run, but well past midnight.” She was not enthused at the prospect. “I’ll need your help, but I don’t expect you to stay awake.”

  “That is kind of you, Madame,” said Serilde. “I will be glad to obey.”

  “Thank you,” said Hero, striving to summon up a sense of gaiety for the evening; turning toward the mirror on the middle panel of the armoire, she said, “What are we going to do with my hair tonight, Serilde?”

  “I was thinking something simple; with your jewels and the pattern on your gown, a braided coronet will set off the rest and still frame your face. It is also more fitting to your circumstances.” She came to Hero’s side and touched her bright-brown hair. “Since you say you will not dance—”

  “I’m in mourning for Annamaria. Dancing would be disrespectful,” said Hero.

  “And the Comte does not dance,” said Serilde cannily. “Still, you’re right. It is bad enough that the Graf has ignored his missing ward for this occasion—you need not follow his example.”

  “I don’t intend to slight him,” said Hero, noticing as she swallowed that her head was still a bit sore and her muscles were strained because of it.

  “No one would think you would, but you can’t help but demonstrate his lack of regard for the missing child.” She sighed. “These matters are never easy, are they, Madame?”

  “Not in my experience,” said Hero.

  “It is a fortunate thing that we shall be leaving the day after tomorrow.” Serilde spoke as if of nothing more than a change in the weather, but there was much more hidden in her remark than was readily apparent—Serilde was homesick and weary of being away from Sacre-Sang.

  “As you say,” Hero agreed.

  Serilda returned to her present concerns. “Shall I set out the violet scent, or would you prefer the tuberose?”

  Hero thought, and said, “Violet, I think.”

  Serilde opened one of the drawers in the chest and extracted a glass bottle with an elaborate stopper. “Here you are.”

  “Put it on the dresser, if you would, and then help me out of this frock.” She was unbuttoning the cuffs; she bent at the hips to allow Serilde to remove her walking-dress, leaving her standing in a chemise and petticoat over her body-band. She untied the petticoat and stepped out of it, then tugged off her chemise, leaving her in nothing more than a body-band, garters, and under-drawers. She motioned to the laces up the back of the body-band and said, “I should probably wear a bosom-lifter as well.”

  “I packed the body-band that has a bosom-lifter attached,” Serilde reminded her. “It is silk and lightweight.”

  “That’s just what I need,” said Hero,

  Serilde finished loosening the lacings; with a practiced sweep she removed the undergarment and put it on the end of the bed. “I’ll fetch the new body-band.”

  “Thank you,” said Hero, feeling the chill of the room, and wishing that the Schloss was as warm as Château Ragoczy. “Are all the rooms in this place drafty?”

  “Every room I have been in is,” said Serilde, bringing Hero the body-band with bosom-lifter. She held this over Hero’s head so Hero could slip her arms through it, and settle it in place on her torso, then set to tightening the lacings. “How much, Madame?”

  “Not too much. There is a banquet tonight, and a supper at midnight. I don’t want to burst my stays.” She felt no hunger at the mention of food, and was mildly puzzled, since she had not dined at mid-day.

  “As you wish, Madame,” said Serilde as she did her best to adjust the body-band as Hero wanted.

  The long silken under-tunic was selected from her drawer of lingerie; Hero applied a little of the violet perfume between her breasts and then readied herself for the jacquard ball-dress. Serilda slipped the gown over her head and carefully pulled it down into place, taking time to puff the tops of the sleeves and then to straighten the under-arm seam from shoulder to wrist before she busied herself fastening the twenty-two buttons down the back of the gown. When she was finished, she brought out the necklace and ear-drops, handing them to Hero.

  “If you will make sure the latch is secure?” Hero asked when she had put on the necklace.

  “Certainly,” said Serilde, inspecting the complex closing. “It looks tight.”

  “Thank you. I’ll put on my ear-drops after you have dressed my hair.”

  “Do you want wool-fat for your hair, Madame?” asked Serilde.

  “No; I think you’ve given it sufficient. It is shiny.” She pulled the pins out of her hair, loosening the easy knot that was now seriously askew. “I have four pins with diamonds in them. I think I should wear them. If the coronet is to be held in place with pins, surely these would do?”

  “As soon as I have brushed your hair, I’ll get them, Madame.”

  “Thank you,” said Hero and gave herself over to her maid’s expert ministrations.

  It lacked fifteen minutes of the hour of five when Ragoczy tapped on Hero’s door and was admitted by Serilde; he was very grand in a formal evening suite of black pumps, black-wool unmentionables, a waistcoat of damask black-and-red, a shirt of white-silk and a cravat of black, and a formal coat with swallow-tail cut from black, dull-finish satin. His ruby stick-pin shone on his broad lapel, and his device—the heraldic eclipse: a disk surmounted by raised, displayed wings—hung on a red riband around his neck.

  “Oh, very good,” Hero exclaimed as she caught sight of him. “You will take von Ravensberg’s breath away.”

  “It is not my intention to do so,” said Ragoczy even as he offered her a small, graceful bow. “You are a vision tonight, Madame.”

  She smiled and played with the hang of her shawl. “Between us, the others will be utterly out-shown.”

  He offered her his elbow. “Not that it is wise to be too conspicuous.”

  “I quite agree,” she said, slipping her lace-mittened hand through his elbow. “And yet it is tempting.”

  “As soon as you are ready?” He offered her his arm, and smiled at her as she laid her hand on it. “As we go down, tell me how you found your sons.”

  She went to the door with him, saying, “I fear the visit with my boys wasn’t all I had hoped.”

  He opened the door and stepped out into the corridor, allowing her to emerge from the room before he closed the door. “Why was that?”

  “I’m afraid they are becoming like their grandfather. I had no notion how much he disapproved of me.” Her attempt at a smile ended badly. “I knew he felt I was a poor match for his son, but it’s much worse than that.”

  He stopped walking and took her hand from his arm to kiss it. “You would be a fine match for any man of good character, and any rank.”

  She stared at him. “Tell von Scharffensee that, would you?”

  “If it will ease you, I will: my Word on it,” he vowed.

  From the staircase landing, Hyacinthie watched Ragoczy and Hero, her eyes narrowing. She scowled as she saw Ragoczy kiss Hero gently on the mouth, then use his silken handkerchief to wipe her eyes. With a furious titter, she turned and rushed down the stairs.

  “Are you re
ady to go down? Would you prefer to wait?” Ragoczy asked Hero as he refolded his handkerchief.

  “I suppose I’m ready.” She once again placed her hand on his arm. “We might as well do this, since we’re here.”

  Ragoczy escorted her to the steep marble staircase and led her down, taking care that she did not trip on her train when it tried to slither under her feet. As he reached down and adjusted the fabric, he noticed a flicker of worry in her eyes. “Is something wrong?”

  She had neglected to take a second dose of the tinctures, but decided to say nothing of it. “It is the train. I have forgotten how to walk down stairs without becoming entangled.”

  “That is why I am here,” said Ragoczy, and nodded to Herr Zeidergung and his wife, who were starting down the stairs behind them.

  “Good evening, Comte, Madame,” said Herr Zeidergung to Ragoczy.

  “And to you and Frau Zeidergung.” Ragoczy continued to guide Hero down the stairs while taking care to keep her train from getting underfoot again.

  The Reception Room was decorated with garlands of vines and a vast bow above the fireplace mantle. Four servants were on hand to pour various libations and to pass plates of herb-flavored cheese to the guests. Two long settees were at angles to the fireplace, providing warmth and ease to those preferring not to stand before the banquet was ready. The consort of musicians, from their place in the ballroom, were tuning up, making ready for a long night of playing; the sound of their instruments carried into the Reception Room, and added to the hum of conversation.

  Von Ravensberg arrived with his silent and down-cast ward Hedda. Both were dressed formally but in restrained style, in token of their ongoing sorrow for Hedda’s missing sister. The Graf made a point of keeping the child with him and speaking to her frequently, his hand on her shoulder.

  “I don’t know that this is an appropriate gathering for that girl,” Hero observed to Ragoczy as she watched von Ravensberg present Hedda with a glass of watered wine.

  “I would tend to agree with you,” said Ragoczy. “But I wonder why you say so.”

  “The company has no children. The nearest one to a child other than Hedda is Hyacinthie, and that makes matters quite awkward for her, for she has no one to share her thoughts with.” Hero accepted a glass of straw-colored wine, tasting it once before setting the glass on the sideboard next to them.

  “It does not please you?” Ragoczy asked.

  “It’s not that,” she said. “This is going to be a long evening and I have no wish to over-indulge.”

  “I understand your reticence.” Ragoczy nodded to Professor Engelhaus, whose book on infectious diseases would shortly be submitted to Eclipse Press in Amsterdam.

  As the Professor approach, Hero excused herself, saying, “I will find you before I go in to dine.”

  “Enjoy the company,” Ragoczy said, and gave his attention to Professor Engelhaus and his theories on pernicious and laudable diseases.

  The musicians in the ballroom began to play pleasant airs that would not intrude on any conversation; most of the guests hardly noticed them.

  Half an hour later, Hyacinthie arrived in the Reception Room; her ball-gown was a lovely shade of lilac and set off her betrothal gift from her fiancé: a necklace of amethysts and pearls. She was smiling a bit too brightly, and her laughter was a shade too loud, but she made her way through the guests to Medoc’s side, and took his arm in a proprietary way before finding her uncle. She frowned briefly at Hedda, then called for a glass of wine. When the gong rang for the banquet, Ragoczy found Hero talking with Hedda, and offered her his escort into the banquet-hall.

  “I think Hedda and I will go in together,” said Hero. “It will be less obvious that you are not eating.”

  “Everyone here knows that I have a tiresome condition that makes it necessary for me to take nourishment in private,” said Ragoczy, a smile at the back of his eyes.

  “That they do,” she agreed at once. “But tonight such a lack would be particularly noticeable.”

  “All right,” said Ragoczy, bowing over her hand. “I relinquish you to her.” He looked at Hedda, seeing the first sign of animation he had seen in the child since his arrival at Ravensberg. “Good appetite to you both.”

  Hedda stared at him. “Papa used to tell me that,” she said as if unaware of what she said.

  “Mine still does,” said Hero, and took Hedda’s hand.

  “Your Papa is still alive?” Hedda marveled.

  “I hope so,” said Hero, and went through the arch into the banquet-hall; the last of von Ravensberg’s guests followed after them.

  Ragoczy watched them go, then went to the ballroom and sat down at the clavier while the hired musicians set their instruments down and trudged off to the servants’ hall for their dinner. Ragoczy spent the next hour playing works by Scarlatti, father and son; he remembered the father with real affection, recalling the opera he had composed for Giorgianna in Roma over two centuries earlier. His fingers found their way through the tunes of the opera with ease, and he let his mind wander until he saw Hyacinthie approaching him, a half-empty glass of Champagne in her hand. He stopped playing and waited for the young woman.

  “Very pretty,” Hyacinthie said without any suggestion of enthusiasm.

  “You are too kind,” Ragoczy replied, and began to play again in a desultory manner.

  “Why aren’t you in the banquet-hall with the rest of us?” She set the glass down on the clavier’s music stand.

  “You know I dine in private,” he said calmly, and continued playing.

  “It’s strange of you,” she told him bluntly. “You would do better to join us. I want you to—”

  “I regret that I must disappoint you, Hyacinthie. Console yourself that there are thirty people who wish you well here tonight.”

  “Them!” She flung up her hand in disgust. “They are here to please my uncle, not me. Not even he cares—”

  “I’m sorry it seems so to you,” Ragoczy told her, not wanting to encourage her outburst.

  She took his response to heart and changed her manner. “I wanted to thank you for the gift you brought me,” she said.

  “I am glad you like it,” Ragoczy said, now playing a little Haydn.

  “Who wouldn’t like a jeweled clock? It is better than endless plates and bowls. As if I were going to spend my life in the kitchen!” She leaned on the opened lid of the clavier. “It is by far the richest gift anyone has given me.”

  “Your uncle is giving you five days of celebrations,” Ragoczy pointed out.

  “That’s different.”

  “Why do you think so?” Ragoczy asked.

  “I think so because he is sending me away. You’ve seen the man he wants me to marry. He’s old and bald and he is a stick, just a stick.”

  Ragoczy studied her intently, his enigmatic gaze making her uneasy. “If you feel so displeased, why did you accept the arrangement?”

  “Whomelse am I to marry? My uncle wants to be rid of me, and he knows Medoc is eager for a wife.” She stifled a sob. “If I do not marry Medoc, what will my uncle expect me to—” She stopped and lowered her voice. “If you wanted to take me away, I would go with you. You needn’t marry me. But I know you would do well by me. Madame von Scharffensee says so: you do well by her.”

  “Fraulein, you must not talk so to me. It is not fitting. If you are so unhappy, speak to your uncle now, tonight, and discontinue the engagement. The longer you wait, the harder it will be to end.” He was unexcited by her agitation, and deliberately kept his voice soft and level so they would not be overheard.

  “He doesn’t care about what I want,” she said in a furious whisper. “He has Hedda now, and that’s all he cares about. That and the blood. At least Rosalie is gone.” She caught her lower lip in her teeth and stared at him. “I know how to please a man. That’s one thing Uncle Wallache taught me. You would not be disappointed.”

  “But you might be,” said Ragoczy, comprehension taking hold of him in
a gelid fist. He thought of Hedda’s silence and felt a cold dread for the child, and a vitriolic despair for this young woman.

  “How could I be disappointed? You are rich and kind.” She narrowed her eyes. “I can make you want me.”

  Ragoczy did not respond to the challenge, saying only, “I am older than Medoc, you know.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You’re not like him.”

  “No, I am not,” said Ragoczy, and considered his next step very carefully. “You must know that what you propose is impossible.”

  “Because of Madame von Scharffensee?” she demanded, nodding several times to herself.

  “No; because you are too young, and I am … what I am.” It was less than the truth, but a genuine concern to Ragoczy. He did his best to lessen her disappointment.

  “You mean an exile.” Hyacinthie clenched her hands. “I don’t care.”

  “You would, in time,” he said kindly. “But you can extricate yourself from the engagement and your uncle; you need not require me to bargain you out of your predicament. I will be willing to help you find a suitable post—”

  “Be a tutor like Frau Schale? Is that what you think I want?”

  “I think you want to free yourself from—”

  She did not allow him to finish. “You would make me a servant?” Her eyes blazed with fury. “A servant?”

  “I was thinking the mistress of your own school,” he said gently.

  “But a servant, nonetheless.” She raised her hand and slapped him before she turned on her heel and hurried away, calling back over her shoulder. “How dare you? I thought you would help me!”

  Ragoczy watched her go, a cold dismay coming over him. As he resumed another Scarlatti air, he decided it was a very good thing he and Hero would be leaving shortly.

  Text of a letter from an anonymous informant in Saint-Ange to Egmond Talbot Lindenblatt, Magistrate, Yvoire, Swiss France; left at the municipal hall in Yvoire.