Daughter of Mystery

by Jones, Heather Rose

  In any event, she hadn’t wanted a dancing season. She’d been immersed in her studies: drinking in every scrap of the classics that Sister Petrunel could pour out for her, wheedling books to borrow from her uncle’s friends or from her cousin Nikule when he came home from the university. Coming out had spelled the end of all that. But tonight there were more immediate matters on her mind. There were names and relationships to remember, new faces to place. She must remember the movements of dances she’d only previously practiced at family parties. Aunt Honurat had drilled her in the need to keep moving, to speak to everyone and linger with no one. Each time she was presented with a new partner she sighed silently in relief.

  The music ended. Laurint bowed and she curtsied and then that refuge was gone for now. Her uncle stepped into the gap just as Aunt Bertrut was descending on her with another grande dame to be charmed.

  “Margerit, your godfather is here to see you,” he said in a low rushed voice. “Bertrut, why didn’t you tell me Baron Saveze was in residence?”

  Aunt Bertrut looked just as flustered as he did. “How could I tell you when I didn’t know myself? Let me look at you child,” she said turning to pat a curl here and arrange a ribbon there. “Go. You mustn’t keep him waiting.”

  * * *

  As far back as Margerit could remember, the coming of spring was marked, not only by the snowdrops and daffodils giving way to more robust blooms, but by the town gossip over which of the great lords would take up residence in Chalanz for the summer. The city’s season ended when Rotenek lay stifling in the heat, bringing the risk of fever and the sureness of tedium but in Chalanz the season was only just beginning. The only one of the great lords who held any interest for her was Baron Saveze who, for reasons of very distant kinship and hope of patronage, had been named her godfather. His attention to her spiritual development had been nonexistent and for the most part he seemed to forget about her entirely. But in those seasons when he took residence in Chalanz there were presents and trinkets and the hope of being given glimpses of his larger world. At certain key turns of her life he had been appealed to for some more substantial support. But of the man himself she really knew very little. That he had deigned to attend her ball was promising. That he was in town at all was startling. The social calendar in Rotenek ran past Eastertide and that was quite some time away.

  It had been three years since she’d last seen her godfather up close. He was much as she remembered him, though greatly shrunken with the years. Just as she was on the point of making her curtsy, the baron waved a hand at her uncle and said, “Thank you for bringing her to me. You may go and we shall have a nice comfortable little chat.”

  Margerit was shocked to hear someone speak so dismissively to her uncle and she felt him tense with irritation but he merely bowed wordlessly, turned and left.

  Now she made her curtsy and raised her gloved hand for the baron to take and press lightly with his fingers. Some salutation seemed called for and she fumbled through, “You do me great honor—that is…oh, Godfather, I’m so glad you came. We had no idea that you were in town or my aunt would have sent you an invitation, of course.”

  Even if he weren’t so high above her own birth, she wouldn’t have expected the same full gallantry shown by the young men upstairs, with their near-kisses and deep bows. But she was surprised that he made no move to rise in greeting. She raised her eyes as he released her hand and only then did she notice the second elegantly-dressed person standing nearby. She stepped forward into another, smaller curtsy and raised her hand once more, saying, “I’m sure we’ve been introduced earlier but I’m being so stupid with names tonight—there are so many new people.” Her words trailed off as the figure remained motionless except for a quick darting glance toward the baron.

  “No, no, my dear,” the latter said with an amused chuckle. “It’s quite unlikely that anyone has introduced you to my duelist.”

  “Oh,” she said, feeling her cheeks redden in confusion. Her mind raced through her aunt’s teachings. What was the social place of that most elite rank of armin? Here in Chalanz such a thing was unheard of except among the visiting nobility. Most armins were mere hirelings but she had heard that in the capitol the young cousins of great men might serve as duelist for a time. And then she exclaimed, “Oh!” again when she saw the second mistake she’d made. What she’d taken for cropped curls were only unruly wisps of tawny hair that had escaped from their pins. This was no youth but a woman, the satin breeches displaying her trim figure to immodest advantage. Margerit expected to see mockery of her error in the woman’s gaze but those pale blue eyes rested on her with no reaction.

  “Never mind,” the baron said. “Come sit here beside me and let us talk for a bit. You’re looking very pretty tonight.”

  “Oh no,” Margerit replied shyly. “I know I’m not pretty but the dress is and that helps.”

  “Never contradict a man when he says you’re pretty,” the old man chided. “We don’t like women who argue with us.”

  “Have you been in Chalanz long?” Margerit asked quickly. Flirtatious talk made her uncomfortable even when it was so clearly meaningless. “You told me last time we spoke that you never leave Rotenek before the roses bloom, but we’ve barely started seeing the crocuses just last week.”

  “My exile,” he said heavily, “is of fairly recent date. We only arrived on Tuesday last and I haven’t yet settled in enough to be paying social calls.”

  “Exile? Oh, you’re teasing me,” she said hesitantly.

  He sighed. “There was…an incident. Barbara killed a man, it seems.” He looked back over his shoulder at the duelist. She stared straight ahead, but Margerit saw her face take on a stricken cast. The baron continued, “Oh it was all legal and proper. He’d threatened and insulted me there in the public square. But it seems he was one of Princess Elisebet’s favorites. It would have been wiser to have settled the matter without blood. Instead we are sent here, to Chalanz, until it please Elisebet to forget the matter.”

  “But I’m sure it wasn’t…” Margerit began. “That is…” There was nothing to say that wouldn’t sound like reproach, but it seemed monstrously unfair to her that the duelist should be blamed for doing her job well.

  The baron followed the direction of her glance and frowned. “Barbara, perhaps you could go fetch my goddaughter a glass of whatever it is they allow young women to drink at these affairs. And brandy for me.”

  Barbara bowed and left the room silently. Margerit’s curiosity overcame caution, now that politeness didn’t forbid it. “I’ve never heard of a woman armin before. How did you come to hire her?”

  In any other man his expression might have been called mischievous. He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “I didn’t, I bought her.” He seemed to enjoy the shock this caused. “Her father sold her to me as an infant. But that’s a story for another day. I’m told that it has been my duty to see you properly educated. Tell me, have I done so?”

  It might have been a joke but Margerit wasn’t certain enough to laugh. “You sent one of the Orisules—one of the teaching Sisters—to be my governess and I can’t think of anything you could have done that would have been better. Uncle Fulpi thought it was a mistake to hire her, but he didn’t want to go against your wishes. He thought I should be learning watercolors and singing and the harp rather than geometry and Latin and philosophy, but I’m so glad you wanted me to have a classical education.”

  “Did I? I don’t recall saying anything of the sort. What a peculiar woman she must have been. What was her name again? I can’t say that I remember sending you a governess at all.”

  Margerit’s heart sank. He didn’t remember? All her life her greatest joy had been knowing that her godfather valued the same things she loved. Had it all been a misunderstanding? “Her name was Sister Petrunel. She showed me the letter you sent asking for a teacher. You wrote that you wanted the best they could provide.”

  He thought for a moment. “I suppos
e I must have, in that case.”

  “Then you didn’t…that is…I thought you sent her because you meant me to be a scholar.” She couldn’t keep the disappointment out of her voice.

  Unexpectedly, he laughed out loud. “Well that, I suppose, accounts for your strange enthusiasm for Latin conversation! You’re a odd child, but I suppose it hasn’t done you any harm.”

  Margerit floundered in confusion but was saved from making a stammering reply by Barbara’s return. She offered a tray with two glasses to the baron first. He waved it over to her before taking his own glass. He swirled the very small amount of the liquid around in the glass and frowned up at his armin but said nothing.

  Barbara asked softly, “May I speak?” At the baron’s consent she continued, “Maistir Fulpi is waiting outside. He asked me to inquire when the young lady might be able to return to her other guests.”

  Having delivered this not-quite-a-question, she took her place once more, two steps to the baron’s side, staring at nothing and watching everything.

  “Well I suppose I must give you back, my dear,” the baron said, handing her up from the sofa but remaining seated. “Perhaps we shall see more of each other soon.”

  Margerit’s head was spinning but she seemed required to do no more than smile and bob yet another curtsy as she left the room.

  Uncle Mauriz was, indeed, waiting just at the other side of the doors. He questioned her mercilessly as he escorted her back up to the ballroom: What had the baron said? What had he wanted? Why had he come to Chalanz so early? What had he offered? Would he use his influence to see her well launched in society?

  “We talked about…I don’t know. Unimportant things.” She weathered his scorn, knowing answers would only lead to more pointed questions. When she thought on it, the conversation had been very odd. Her uncle would pick it to pieces, looking for meaning, for usefulness. Instead he berated her for her unworldliness. What was the point in having ties to such an important man if you didn’t make proper use of him?

  But the avowed purpose of the night was dancing and so when they reached the crowded hall she could escape him by doing her duty. It felt more and more like a duty as the night wore on. Did other women really enjoy this? The endless stream of insincere pleasantries, the touch of hands in the dance figures—all either clammy and sweating or hot and lingering. She kept trying to imagine marriage to any of the young men presented as eligible and felt nothing but a faint panic. And Aunt Bertrut was determined that the ball be a success, so there was no release until dawn began lightening the sky.

  Chapter Four

  Barbara

  The hesitant tapping on the door had Barbara not merely awake but on her feet and slamming the door open before she even remembered what she feared. The previous evening’s excursion had not ended well. After the girl had left, the baron had sat quietly cradling his glass of brandy for long enough that Barbara began weighing whether she was being punished with a test of patience. Or perhaps there had been some disturbing topic in the conversation she’d missed that must be pondered immediately. At last he broke the silence. “Barbara, find one of the servants who knows this place. Have my carriage taken to some discreet back door and then have my footmen come here to me. I think I shall need to be carried out and I don’t care to become a spectacle for all the town.”

  She had arranged it all, then returned to hover over him as he was bundled out through a deliveryman’s door to the carriage and then from carriage to bed. It had been late indeed when she had been free to seek her own sleep. And now, on being woken, her first thought was of further disaster.

  The housemaid who had tapped on the door stepped back quickly with her eyes wide. “The…the fencing master is here. Mefro Charsintek sent me up to fetch you.”

  Barbara took a deep breath and rubbed at her eyes. “Damn.” Ordinarily she would have woken at dawn. “Tell him I’ll be down in—” She made a quick calculation, balancing the man’s reputation for short temper with the need to look somewhat presentable. “—ten minutes.” She was there in five by virtue of tying her long tawny hair back in an uncombed mass and forgoing a neckcloth.

  He was waiting for her in the grand hall, a room currently bare except for several lumps of muslin-draped furniture in one corner. The curtains had been pulled open all along the south side of the room to spill light across the floorboards. The fencing master was a wiry Italian, just barely taller than she was herself. She preferred Perret, her teacher back in Rotenek, not least for the fact that his reach and height more closely matched those of her likely opponents. But he was a man of established reputation and could hardly be expected to abandon his school to follow one pupil into the country, no matter how generous her patron.

  Signore Donati had the primary virtue that he was willing to take a female student when the better-known Chauten had refused her entrance to his academy. Barbara had needed only five minutes to convince him that she was no fashionable dilettante, playing at learning a few passes with her skirts kilted up. Keeping him waiting was not the way to maintain that evaluation.

  “I do beg your pardon, Signore. It was a late evening. The baron had a ball to attend—” She yawned, adding support to the explanation.

  “Balls will always be late at night. You must be sharp in the morning nonetheless. Sleep some other time than during your lessons. Now begin.”

  They moved briskly from drills to sparring to theory. If it came to bright blades in dark alleys, Barbara had few doubts of her ability to keep the baron safe. He had seen to that in his choice of her first teacher. But to be a duelist was to be an actor on the courtly stage and there were no end of nuances to learn.

  Donati surprised her with the sudden question, “Do you dance?”

  She continued moving through the figure pondering the intent of the question.

  “You go to balls; do you dance?” He saluted to signal a break in the action.

  Barbara shook her head. “I go to balls in my office. Dancing is for the guests.” There had, of course, been dancing lessons in the past. There were very few arts of gentle living that she hadn’t been given a taste of at some point. But there had never been any occasion to put the knowledge to regular use.

  “You should dance. Dancing, fighting, it is the same. You think too much on how you move, what you do.” It was the same criticism Perret made regularly. “Thinking, moving, they should work like two horses in harness. You must be able to carry on while disputing philosophy or reciting poetry or making love. It’s better to learn this while dancing—safer.”

  Barbara’s lips thinned in annoyance. And who would dance with me? But aloud she said only, “I will consider it.”

  She had begun the lesson nearly exhausted but in the end the exercise substituted for the lost hours of sleep. The desire to seek her bed again had faded by the time she’d washed and changed afterward.

  The baron’s valet, quizzed in the kitchen over a late breakfast of bread and tea, allowed that his master was awake, if not yet up. That would be sufficient for arranging the duties of the day. Barbara tapped on the door and entered on a faint assent. At first she thought she must have imagined his response and that he still slept, but then his eyes opened and turned in her direction.

  “Pray pardon for disturbing you. May I speak?”

  “You usually do in the end.” His voice was thin and querulous. Barbara waited silently. “Yes, yes, what is it?”

  “I thought I might take the bay mare out for some exercise this afternoon…unless you’ll have need of me.”

  “Do I look like I plan to go gallivanting about the town? No, do as you please until the afternoon. I may not get up until supper, so there’s no sense in you kicking your heels here.”

  Barbara hesitated. When he became snappish it meant he was feeling truly unwell. “Perhaps you’d like me to read to you?”

  “No, be off with you. I only need to rest and I can do that by myself. But if you see Ponivin, make sure that he’s sent that letter of
f to Maistir LeFevre.”

  Does he mean to increase the girl’s dowry after all? But no, LeFevre had already planned to follow them to Chalanz. This was just the baron’s impatience at work. “I’ll see to it.”

  The butler, of course, had sent the letter days before and was more than a little piqued at the suggestion he might need a reminder. “For it isn’t as if he could be here any sooner. And with a storm coming it may well be later.”

  But the storm—if it existed anywhere other than the butler’s arthritic joints—was nowhere to be seen at the moment and the crisp air was perfect for shaking the fidgets out of the mare.

  * * *

  The town of Chalanz filled the circle of land where the Esikon River bent westward and spilled out onto the opposite bank across a bridge said to have been built in Roman times. To the right of the bridge, on the site of the old Axian Palace, stretched a long grassy park dotted with ruined walls and mysterious hollows. It was there that the energetic and the fashionable paraded on horseback or in carriages or even on foot, along pathways interlacing the riverside, thickly planted with flowers and hedges.

  Barbara cantered the mare twice up and down the outermost road where such speed was allowed, up to the broad parade ground where the local militia was practicing, then back to the park gate. After that she reined back to a more sedate walk along a middling path that meandered back and forth among the scattered trees, now drawing near the riverbank, now falling back to touch the carriageway. On previous days she hadn’t paid much attention to the other park-goers as individuals, noting them only to stay out of their way. But now, as she neared one of the walking paths, she recognized the girl from the evening before. The baron’s goddaughter had left little impression the night before. She’d seen a hundred girls in their first season. They all looked much the same and none of them fell within the scope of her duties. But here in the open air she looked different. What was it the girl had said? I know I’m not pretty but the dress is and that helps. It wasn’t true, though. The gown had been a hindrance if anything, drowning her heart-shaped face in a sea of lace and ruffles. The deep blue of her pelisse suited her coloring far better than a debutante’s pastels and the chill air of the park had left roses in her cheeks and teased a few chestnut-colored curls out to escape from her bonnet. In the moment that Barbara noticed her, she glanced up and their eyes met across the grassy span. The girl leaned toward the older woman at her side and said something rapidly. Then just as Barbara would have turned away, she beckoned, hesitantly at first and then more surely.