Lost love Historical romance

by Adele B.

  As Livia was quiet, burdened by the words “departure”, “fiancee” - he went on;

  “I swear! I swear I'll be back, otherwise I wouldn't have taken the time to come to your house – I would just have left and you would have never heard of me again. But I love you. Waite for me, I'll be back in Transylvania in a month or two at the most !”

  “Fine, my love” answered Livia. “I love you too and I will wait impatiently for your return” Her eyes said more than her lips. She wished she could hold him in her arms, but she could feel her mother's enquiring eyes behind the curtains and the peasants' curious gazes behind the wooden fences.

  Edward rode hurriedly along the road, emptied now of people.

  When Livia entered the house, the priest's wife had already understood all. Although never able to fall in love herself, she recognized the look in her daughter's eyes; she was in love.

  Angrily, she slammed the vanilla cake in the oven.

  Chapter 4

  Catrina had started to sleep badly at night ever since the young officer's visit. Immediately after he had left, a happy Livia had told her everything about their dating, about the engagement and the planned marriage demand as soon as his transfer to Transylvania would come through. Then they would move into a small whitewashed house, in the city to which he would be posted, and would have a child, a little girl with long, long hair and airy dresses.

  While her daughter was enthusiastically recounting her dreams and hopes, she tried to occupy herself, making the beds, dusting here and there, so as not to let her see how offensive she considered this secret engagement to be; especially as both her and her husband hadn't known anything about it. She would have liked to make a huge scene, to quarrel with her daughter– but Livia was not a little girl any more. Since she had returned from college, her mother had been forced to see her through new eyes, to acknowledge the fact that she was not an obedient child but rather a sophisticated young lady, with a dreamy air and a sensitive manner.

  On one of the nights in which she tossed and turned in her narrow bed as if pinched by lice, she came to a decision; she would give her daughter in marriage to Petros, the rich merchant who was passing more and more often on the castle road lately.

  So Livia had been secretly engaged? She would, also in secret, destroy her plans! Thanks God she had the right tool at hand; the man whom Livia had encountered on the country road had returned to the village to make enquiries about her. While Livia was mooning in the meadow with Edward, this merchant had come to their house and clearly discussed matters with her. He had told her about the estates he owned both in Transylvania and abroad, London, Paris, Vienna, about the bank accounts and the Mayoral Counsellor function he occupied in Transylvania's most beautiful city. She had enquired about his age, and he had openly answered – forty. She had thought for a moment; he was twice as old as Livia, but a real Godsend for her purposes. Such an occasion would never arise twice; his name was widely known, his fortune was even bigger than what he had told her, because he had said nothing about the estate he owned in India.

  Love would come in time – and if not, no big deal ! What really counted in this world of misery, penury and plots was to be sheltered, waited upon, esteemed, envied. She told him she would let him know her decision after she'd talk it over with her husband, the priest.

  When Petros bowed to kiss her hand with a polite “Kiss your hand, Madam”, her decision was already made.

  She had to convince her husband, though. It usually was very easy for her to obtain whatever she wanted, he was such a good and pious man, too soft, always giving in to her every whim. She knew she had often overstepped the limits, her nervous fits were so unsettling for him; but he always forgave her. She was never able to understand whether this was because he was a priest or just because he wished to avoid scandal at any cost. He always said “yes”, and she was sure he would agree this time too. It just would take a little more time, for this time it concerned Livia, his favourite daughter.

  # # #

  The village of Brad was nothing more than a long row of houses on both sides of a dusty road where barefoot peasants left their footprints. Different footprints, lasting just for a fleeting moment. An old man's footprint was quickly covered by a child's and this one was replaced by a woman's delicate sole.

  Just where the road ended the old wooden church modestly stood atop the hill. Ever since Empress Maria Teresa had forbidden Romanians to build stone churches, the oppressors had secretly entertained the hope that sooner or later, these vexations would bring the Romanians to convert to Catholicism. But many years had passed and the little church was still there.

  All during the year, row upon row of people- newlyweds, women with small children ready for the baptism rite, coffins – moved up and down on the dusty road. It was an unceasing movement, a transhumance akin to the migration of birds or the slow turning of the seasons. The church was all the more prominent as nothing higher than a blade of grass surrounded it. During the week it stood alone on top of the hill, but on Sundays all the peasants were heading towards their church, dressed in their best clothes and with a solemn air about them.

  They slowly gathered from scattered courtyards forming a cheerful procession, climbing the hill to claim their places in the church. The old people, still breathing heavily from the steep climb, stood in front, while the youth of the village, smiling and talking, drew to the back of the small building. A pious respectful silence greeted the priest as he emerged from the altar ; and when his powerful voice intoned the first hymn of the service, the small church seemed transmuted into a large cathedral, as if by magic. Faith filled every heart, light filled every face; everyone prayed, as they did every Sunday, year after year. They listened not so much to the words as to the dance of sound itself, the way the priest's voice passed from a grave tone to a mild whisper and then to a righteous roar.

  Catrina headed for the church in a preoccupied and hurried way. It was the right place for such an important conversation. She hoped the holy saints painted on the church walls would save her from her husband's wrath.

  It was a Wednesday afternoon and all was peaceful around the little church. Faint noises could be heard from the small workshop adjoining it.

  She drew nearer and saw her husband sculpting a cross. Twenty years of sculpting crosses! All kinds of crosses – small ones to be worn on a string around the neck; middle-sized ones to be hanged on the wall, flanked by basil leaves; large ones, to accompany people on their last voyage to the cemetery. A few of these were always handy, just in case a villager might die unexpectedly. All they needed was the name and the date of death, hurriedly carved as necessity arose.

  Crosses which would slowly fall to pieces in the cemetery, covered by endless snows, hammered by hailstorms, scorched by the fierce sun. Her eyes were drawn to such a cross, in the corner of the small graveyard. It was a woman's cross, with its rounded edges, and it had something ominous about it ; all of a sudden, a cold shiver of fear crept upon her and she hurriedly signed herself.

  For a second, her well-drawn plan of marriage between Livia and Petros had seemed dangerous, absurd. She drew closer to her husband and watched over his shoulder as he put the finishing touches to a small thread-bound cross. It surely was meant for Dorina's child, he had been the last newborn in the village and soon to be baptised.

  She sat on a chair and looked at him, as his large powerful hands worked upon such a delicate ornament, soon to be worn by a newborn child. He gazed benignly at her, polishing the small object with a piece of cloth.

  After a small hesitation, she said in an unsure voice;

  “Ioan, I would like to marry our Livia to Petros!”

  “Petros? Why Petros? Don't you think it would be better to let her decide for herself?” he answered, his face changing from benignly concerned to really preoccupied.

  “I want to see her married to a powerful and wealthy man. Even if nineteen years have passed, I still can't forget the atrocities comm
itted and it could happen again any time! This land is cursed, it just demands blood; should anything occur, I'd like to know Livia is safe” she said, tears in her voice. In her soul the memory of those accursed times lived stronger than ever; especially that day when she, her mother and one-year-old sister took refuge in the woods as the Hungarians captured and hung her father under their eyes.

  Frightened and desperate, the women had fled deep into the forest; she still remembered the horrid taste of roots and raw leaves they were forced to eat in order to survive; the cold and the fear; the darkness and the savage beasts.

  But above all she remembered that awful day on which the woods seemed to burst into panic. First a long wailing noise, then birds calling their young, animals peacefully asleep on the grass waking up and running around. The tragedy started with a powerful sound of thunder, then another and another. Noise was everywhere. The forest itself seemed frightened. Trees were twisting and turning in the wind.

  All of a sudden, large raindrops started to fall over the wood with its animals and its three frightened human beings. Taken by surprise and with no other shelter except the waving branches, they endured the cold onslaught of the rain. Half-frozen, the mother tried futilely to shelter her little sister with her frail body, already weakened by childbirth, suckling and the hardships of life in the wild. As they looked at each other in desperation, the hailstorm raged on, the raindrops mingling with their tears and falling on the cold muddy ground.

  Catrina looked at her feet, imprisoned in the thick mud, and had a premonition of death; this thick mud was trying to drag them all to the bottom of the earth. And indeed, the mud had won; four days later, her mother and her little sister had died in the deep woods. Catrina dug a shallow grave with her feeble hands, and slowly eased her mother's body inside it. Then she placed her little sister in her arms, in a last embrace. She covered them both with rich black earth, saying a prayer for the dead; then she left and never looked back. From that day, she felt dead inside.

  She knew the grave wasn't deep enough, she had only her hands for tools.

  For years afterwards, night after night, the same dream returned to haunt her; the grave wasn't covered by enough earth, wild animals had dug up the bodies and scattered the bones through the forest.

  She remembered wandering aimlessly through the forest, until after a few days she had reached a monastery. The nuns had offered help, food and a change of clothes. Then she had left for Bucharest.

  Her father had been wise enough to sell his house and send the money for safekeeping to an old friend in the capital. In this latter's house she had met Ioan, a young Theology student in search of a wife, as he couldn't be ordained if he was not married. In a month they were married and ended up in Transylvania again, after the situation calmed down; a year after, Livia was born. And now, it was the turn of this daughter of hope and pain to be hurt; hurt by her own mother. But the image of her deceased relatives couldn't let her sleep in peace. She would protect her daughter from such a fate, even forcibly, even against her will.

  The priest rose, strolled towards his wife and stroked her hair. 1848 was a horrible year in the memories of all Transylvanian Romanians.

  “Shh, it's all in the past now, it's over, life goes on” he said. He didn't believe these words but felt he had to say them. In fact, the Hungarians had achieved through diplomacy what they couldn't obtain in the 1848 revolution. Transylvania was going to be annexed by Hungary, becoming part of the Empire. Every time his wife mentioned 1848 he became very emotional, he knew how much she had suffered during that turmoil. It was just a few days after Livia was born, when his wife's hysterical crises became more and more acute, he had understood he had married not only the woman but also all her accompanying phantasms.

  “You'll break her heart, you know?” he went on. “I think she is really in love with the Count. She told me all about her future projects, she was so happy” continued the priest in a tender voice.

  “Count” she snorted. “He doesn't own a penny to his name, and titles don't feed you! Who knows where he intends to take her; he could be killed in some far-away battle and our daughter would be left with nothing! I decided - and that's the way it will be!”

  “But you know very little about this Petros” said the priest, trying for the last time to make her change her mind, even if he already knew her decisions were always final. Any insistence on his part would have led only to hysteria and endless quarrels; and he felt so tired.

  “I know enough! He is a Municipal Counsellor in a big city, very rich, respected and important. Livia will be sheltered and safe with him!” she answered, looking through the small window.

  The priest sat with his hands in his lap; he had a feeling bad things were going to happen, dark clouds were about to cover his family life. He knew Livia would fight this decision, would suffer and would despise them.

  Catrina drew near and gently stroked his face, then headed for the door with a preoccupied air. As she came down the hill the same thoughts were turning in her head too. Livia was stubborn, it was not going to be easy. But she would introduce the suitor to her daughter the next day, then would finally decide after seeing Livia's reaction. She already knew her daughter would not be impressed by his fortune.

  # # #

  The next morning Livia woke up early, she had planned to finish embroidering the tablecloth she had began long ago. She was carefully sewing point after point, matching colour and tone while the fresh scent of flowers came through the open windows. Slowly, a magnificent carnation was taking shape on the immaculate linen.

  She followed her mother from the corner of her eyes, as the latter was busy dusting and cleaning the house. Catrina had told her some rich merchant was going to pay them a visit, and she could not understand all this frenzy, just for a simple vendor. The good tea service had been taken out of storage and placed on the finest tablecloth; freshly baked cakes and flowers in shiny vases created a festive atmosphere. Livia had been instructed to dress in her best clothes, to comb her hair carefully. She could not understand all the importance attached to this visit; she assumed it was another of her mother's strange ideas.

  This guy was probably one of those small pedlars travelling from village to village with a bag of goods on his back, with dusty shoes and modest clothes. Only a rather poor merchant would bother to tour the villages in search of small gains. Everybody knew Romanian peasant women made their own clothes, spinning the wool and the linen and carefully decorating it with magnificent embroideries, and were not ready to spend any amount of money on cloth or fabric.

  The sun had risen, and her room was faintly lighted now. She rose, and taking her embroidery headed for the wooden balcony. Seated in the old rocking-chair, her mind wandering as she continued her sewing, she dreamed about Vienna and Edward, trying to imagine the crowded streets and the garrison, and him there, talking to his comrades. She missed his smile, his gaze and his voice. He was already part of her, his memory was obsessive, sweet and sometimes painful. She had the impression days were not passing fast enough.

  How strange the passing of time, for someone in love! It wasn't common time any more, it just seemed to drag on endlessly, stubbornly.

  Through the open window she could hear the grandfather clock strike

  eleven; and not a trace of the merchant her mother was waiting for. She felt contented; she didn't like this type of visit. She knew a long war would have ensued, with her mother haggling and trying to obtain the smallest price, and the apologetic merchant determined not to drop a penny from it.

  The alarmed quacking of ducks running from an approaching carriage made her lift her eyes from the linen and look along the road. She was surprised to see the carriage slow down and stop before their house. Livia had the clear impression it was the same carriage from a month ago, the one from which that strange unknown man had alighted, arrogant and insufferable.

  She could have sworn she remembered the fleur-de-lys design of the coach door; it wa
s too luxurious for the village's dusty road. Yet the coachman was unknown to her, and that reassured her a little.

  The coach door opened and a heavy, well-turned-out man alighted with difficulty; it was not hard for her to identify the man who had asked about the way to the castle. His gaze had pierced her like a knife, and now she watched him opening her garden gate with an assured familiarity she didn't like at all.

  Who knows what he wants to ask, this time – and who knows why he holds a small leather bag in one hand. She was shocked by his effrontery; he was drawing near, without asking for permission; he was already in front of her.

  “Good morning, young lady! I bring some cloth and embroidery for your mother!”

  “Good morning” a flustered Livia answered. It seemed hard to believe that such a rich merchant would take the trouble to come all the way to their village.

  She took in with some irritation his brilliantine-black hair, freshly-shaven cheeks and proudly upturned moustaches. And to her great amazement, her mother hurried to welcome him and invite him to the living room.

  “May I present Mr Petros, Livia. For more than a year he's been passing through our village on the way to the castle; he is a cloth-merchant and is often bringing rich materials and beautiful embroideries for Ilona, up at the castle.”

  All of a sudden Livia threw him a scathing glance. So that story about not knowing the way to the castle was just a lie! On that day he had stopped the carriage with a purpose- to study her, to evaluate her closely. She was now able to give a sense to his appraising look; he was weighing her, measuring her as if she had been a piece of cloth. So that was the mystery of those eyes; they were a merchant's eyes! Who could tell how much she would be worth on his scale of values, and what his evaluation criteria would be!