by Fiona Monroe
Until then!
She folded and sealed this, wrote Mrs. Douglas's address on the outside, then considered. In the exuberance of her happiness, she was overflowing with good will and she wished to be reconciled with all her connections. She trembled slightly but wrote another note.
Dear Uncle,
I write, sir, as your most penitent and longing to be dutiful niece, to express my sincere regret for having displeased you in my choice of husband. I cannot say, in all conscience, that I regret the occasion itself, for I would not wish to be other than married to Lord John. Dearest uncle, Lord John is a good and kind man, and I am convinced that we shall be very happy together. Now that I am indeed married to him, and the union is irrevocable before God, can you find it in your generous heart to forgive your loving niece, even though she must sign herself,
Lady John Dunwoodie
She imagined her uncle opening the note before dinner that evening and either frowning or smiling, and her eyes filled with tears at either picture.
She handed both letters over to Paterson and required her to have them both delivered by hand immediately.
Moments later, she heard a clattering of boots that told her that Paterson was setting off to do so straight away. She settled down in the drawing room, where the light was best, to read the new novel which had been delivered to her in Charlotte Square just before everything had started to happen. She had had no leisure since then even to open the volume. She had expected to read this book in her bedroom in Charlotte Square, a confined and dependent niece; and here she was opening it for the first time, instead, in the drawing room of her very own home, an independent, married woman and no longer a maid. Her life had changed forever.
How little different she felt, she mused, her mind wandering from the book almost immediately. Given how great the change, how small its outward effect on her. Nobody could look at her and know for sure. She stretched out her hand and gazed at the hand of a married woman. If one looked at the right hand and not the left, it was impossible to distinguish from the hand of a maid.
There was a sharp, loud rapping at the door, the street door. Margaret looked out the window and saw that an extremely handsome carriage, with outriders, was stopped in the street before their house.
A few moments later, the little scullery maid knocked and rushed in. She looked terrified. "'Scuse me, my lady, but there's a gentleman at the door. What can I do?"
"Well, Jeannie, answer the door?"
"Me, my lady? I cannae, and Mrs. Downie's awa' tae merkit, my lady, and Mrs. Paterson's no' here, either!"
"Then you will have to open the door to him. Make haste; you cannot leave him standing on the doorstep."
Jeanie looked even more alarmed but curtsied and rushed out again. It was only once she was gone, and when Margaret was listening as best she could to the voices coming from downstairs, that she remembered Lord John's curious injunction that the servants should not admit strangers. But she was alone in the house with a twelve-year-old child, and it suddenly struck her that perhaps they ought to hire a manservant.
She rose swiftly to her feet as she heard steps in the hallway, and the drawing room door was opened not by the scullery maid, but flung ajar by the hand of her visitor.
She had a brief glimpse of the scared, wide eyes of the girl bobbing about behind him. "C-country Canny-leenie, my lady!" Jeannie stammered and fled.
This extraordinary introduction had already been preceded by the gentleman, himself, who swept into the smart, modern New Town drawing room like a figure from a Gothic romance. Her visitor was a tall, grandiose figure dressed all over in black, enveloped in a floor-length travelling cape, with everything subtly foreign and exotic about his attire. The very stitching of his cape and buttons on his boots looked neither Scottish nor English, and no British gentleman wore whiskers so long or so extravagantly shaped.
His eyes glittered black in his sallow face as he removed his oddly-shaped hat and bowed to her. Then he thudded on the floor with a silver-handled cane, and another gentleman came in behind him.
This man was also dressed in foreign garb and had strangely-styled, slicked-back black hair, but he looked younger, more deferential, and less frightening. The second gentleman also bowed.
Margaret was greatly taken aback and very uneasy. Strange gentlemen unknown to the mistress of the house ought not to be brought to the drawing room like this. She was paying the price for not having properly-trained, experienced servants; she had told the little girl, who ought never to have left her simple work in the scullery, to admit the visitors. She could not blame Jeannie.
So she did her best in the circumstances. She curtsied and said, "My apologies, gentlemen. I have not the honour of your acquaintance, and I think perhaps my servant misrepresented your name—"
"I am Conte Andrea Contarini, of Venezia, madam, at your service," said the gentleman in the cloak. His voice, deep and gravelly and so heavily lilting that she could barely distinguish the words, suited his appearance exactly.
"His Excellency il Conte presents his warmest compliments, madam," said the other gentleman, in much better English. "He apologises for intruding upon you in this manner. Please excuse my presumption in introducing myself, I am Nicolo Contarini, His Excellency's aide." He bowed again.
Margaret inclined her head and said, "How may I be of assistance, signori?" She thought that was right. Or, was it wrong to call a count signore? How could she be expected to know?
The count glanced at his aide then said something in Italian. Despite her feelings of alarm, Margaret was truly thrilled. She had never in her life had the opportunity to hear Italian spoken by a genuine native, and it sounded just as rich and musical as she had imagined it would.
"His Excellency," said the aide, "wishes to speak with the Lord John Dunwoodie." He made a gallant attempt at pronouncing the surname.
"My husband is not at home at present. I'm not sure when he is going to return, but you are welcome to wait for him if you wish." She smiled and indicated the chairs around the fire. She was glad that she had instructed Paterson to lay a fire that morning. "Can I offer you tea?"
The aide spoke in Italian to the count, translating what she said, Margaret assumed. The count, instead of seating himself down with a gracious smile and accepting her offer of refreshment as she had expected, ignored her and carried on a conversation with his assistant.
It was a very peculiar sensation to stand witness to a conversation that one did not understand. It made Margaret feel vulnerable, rather stupid, and very quickly, highly irritated. It was all she could do to suppress the impulse to stamp her foot and complain, but of course, she kept her politest smile fixed upon her face as she looked uncomprehendingly between the two gentlemen.
The count raised his hand, frowned, and said something in an angry tone.
He turned aside, and his aide said in an apologetic voice, "Excuse me, madam. It is the Lord Dunwoodie we wish to see, not your husband."
"No, sir, you misunderstand, I think. I am Lady John Dunwoodie. Lord John is my husband. Would you like to take a seat? I will call for tea." She rang the bell. Small as the house was, it was equipped with every modern convenience, including an inbuilt bell pull system to summon a servant from all of two rooms away.
The aide relayed this, and the count shook his head with a yet angrier air. He waved a hand, heavy with big, ornate rings, as he snarled a response.
It seemed that the aide was trying to mollify the count, and Margaret watched in mounting alarm. She hoped, since he did not seem inclined to take a seat and appeared to be getting angrier by the moment, that the Italian count would simply leave as suddenly as he had arrived.
But instead, to her great dismay, he strode past her right into her drawing room and went straight to the window, where he stood and looked down into the street.
The aide had the good grace to look embarrassed by his master's ill-bred behaviour. "Madam," he said. "Truly, I apologise. His Excellency has had ma
ny trials on account of the Lord Dunwoodie."
"Oh! Perhaps you mean Lord Crieff, the Marquess of Crieff? That is not my husband. He is the Marquess' brother, or rather he was. If you are looking for Lord Crieff, I am afraid he died two months ago. The present Marquess is a—"
"Lord! John! Dunwoodie!" The count turned on her and snarled each syllable. Then he went into a melodic diatribe.
"His Excellency says that he is tired of being fooled. That he does not believe that the Lord Dunwoodie has a twin brother; that is ridiculous, a commedia dell'arte—the English seem to believe, pardon, madam, that he is stupid and will believe anything because he is to them a foreigner, but it is not so. He does not want to hear any more of brothers. He wants to see face to face the Lord John Dunwoodie, the English nobleman who lived in Palazzo d'Argento for many years, in Venice. The noble gentleman who is married to his sister, the Lady Lucia."
Jeannie's small pale face peered nervously around the door, in response to the earlier summons. Her cap was too big for her head, Margaret noticed distractedly.
"Tea for these gentlemen," said Margaret. "And cakes, if we have any."
"Please, my lady, Mrs. Paterson's no' come back frae merkit yet, and we havenae arranged wi' the baker to deliver yet—"
"All right, Jeannie. Bring what you can."
When she had gone, Margaret took a deep breath and turned to face the count. It took an effort of will to address him, rather than the more kindly-looking gentleman who was actually speaking. "Your Excellency," she said. "I am very sorry, but I assure you that there is no intention to fool you. I would never offer such a discourtesy to so distinguished a person as Your Excellency. But I fear, nonetheless, you are under a misapprehension. You have misunderstood. You are looking for the husband of Your Excellency's sister?"
The count's dark, furious eyes darted to his aide, who translated so briefly that Margaret felt he must have missed out the chief of her meaning. But the count nodded vigorously and said, "Si, si." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a miniature, which he thrust toward her. "My sister."
Both reluctant and fascinated, Margaret studied the beautifully-detailed, tiny portrait of a raven-haired girl with a pale oval face, limpid eyes, and the misty expression of a Madonna. The bodice of her dress was richly ornate, and she was wearing a heavy jewel necklace at her throat.
"Your sister is very beautiful, sir," she said politely. "But her husband does not live here. This is my home, and I am the wife of Lord John Dunwoodie."
The count, having had this conveyed to him, looked as if he was beginning to understand. His expression became less hostile. He put away the portrait of his sister, and when Jeannie came in staggering under the weight of a laden tea-tray, he and the aide conversed together in subdued mutters while Margaret helped the girl arrange the cups and plates on the tea table. The girl had toasted some potato scones, which apparently was all that was to be found in the kitchen at this hour of the day. They were entirely inappropriate as an accompaniment to tea for morning visitors, but Margaret supposed that the foreigners would not know this.
Every moment, she was hoping that Lord John would return. He would be able to talk to the strange count in his own language and clear up this bizarre misapprehension.
Once Jeannie had scurried away, the two Italians at last accepted her invitation to be seated. The count took possession of the single armchair opposite Margaret and looked most extraordinary and out of place perched on the bright, modern embroidered upholstery in his long black cape and oiled whiskers. The aide sat on the edge of the sofa and watched his master, looking ready to spring into action at any provocation. Neither of them touched the refreshments.
"Please do try the potato scones." Margaret held out the plate. They looked scorched at the edges. She suspected that Jeannie had tried to re-toast the scones that had not been eaten at breakfast. "They are a traditional Scottish delicacy."
The count and the aide shared a look, then the aide accepted a scone from the proffered plate. The count ignored them.
"Madam," said the aide. He continued to hold the scone but did not take a bite. "His Excellency finds himself in a delicate position. He thinks that we ought to explain to you exactly why we are here—in this house, in this country." The aide glanced around the sunny New Town drawing room, with an expression that seemed to convey that he and his master found themselves in the hut of a native chief, somewhere in the depths of the African jungle.
"If you would be so kind, sir," said Margaret, with dignity, and she had the first queasy pang of real apprehension. She no longer feared for her safety alone with this exotic duo, but suddenly, she was scared about what they might tell her.
The count laced his fingers over the top of his silver cane and nodded along gravely as his aide spoke.
"His Excellency, il Conte Contarini, is the head of our family, which is one of the oldest and most distinguished in our noble and beautiful city of Venice. We are of the twelve founding families. Eight doges have come from our ranks, and the count's home, the Ca'd'Oro on the Grand Canal, is amongst the most magnificent of our great city's palazzi. You will understand, madam, that few in Venice rank higher in wealth and esteem than my noble master."
Margaret nodded politely and looked again at her distinguished visitor in the light of this information. There was dust and dried mud caked into his cloak and deep lines in his face. He looked exhausted.
"You will understand then, madam, that my master would not have travelled to this… place… if the matter was not a grave one."
At this point, the count spoke, and the two Italians exchanged a few words.
The aide continued. "My master has a sister, the Lady Lucia."
The count stirred, dug into his jacket, and again produced the miniature. He laid it onto the tea table beside his untouched saucer, and the Lady Lucia smiled her faraway Madonna's smile up at them.
"She is more than twenty years his junior, for my master's honoured father, the previous count, married again in his old age. As you may see, madam, she is beautiful as an angel, and the count has had many offers for her hand. It was the count's intention, however, to secure an alliance with the house of Dandolo. You must understand that the Houses of Dandolo and Contarini have business interests which might benefit from collaboration, however…" The aide glanced anxiously at the count. "Much of that is confidential."
As if, Margaret thought, the political manoeuvrings of Venetian noble families meant anything whatsoever to her.
The aide gestured with his uneaten potato scone and leaned forward to speak more quietly. "Since his honoured father's death, my master has been wholly responsible for his sister. Il Conte Dandolo is a widower, whose first marriage was not blessed with children. After the death of his wife, Count Dandolo was naturally anxious to assure the continuation of his line, so he looked to marry again. And an alliance with our family would offer many benefits for both sides. My master negotiated and secured the contract for the marriage of the Lady Lucia with il Conte Dandolo, and all was well. All was well, that is, until I am sorry to say, the Lady Lucia, herself, declared that she would not marry Count Dandolo." The aide's voice had dropped almost to a murmur, as if he was describing a regrettable obscenity. He shook his head sorrowfully. "Madam, you may imagine my master's fury."
Indeed, Margaret thought that the black-caped, black-browed nobleman before her might have a fine line in fury. She pulled in her lower lip.
"Though, as I say, and you may see, as beautiful as an angel, the Lady Lucia proved herself to be wilful and disobedient. We had always thought her pious, but not even the intervention of her favourite confessor would persuade her to do her duty and obey her brother's command. Eventually, the truth came out. It was through the mediation of that priest that, at length, she made her terrible confession. She could not marry Count Dandolo, because she was married already."
"Indeed?" Margaret heard herself utter the word.
"Yes, indeed. And more than that, if one ca
n say that there could be any more than that in such a case. She was with child. My master thought he would lose his mind with the horror of it. He demanded proof that she was married; he demanded that she name her husband. She told him that she had been married eight months before, in deadly secrecy, to a foreigner, an Englishman whose name was Lord John Dunwoodie. She could and did produce the priest who had married them. Not her usual confessor but an elderly monsignor who has since gone to his eternal reward. She told us where her husband was living, and my master sent his men to fetch the villain, to answer for his crimes. But when the messengers got to the palazzo where the Lord Dunwoodie was, they found that the cur had fled."
More than once, Lord John had mentioned that he had left Venice in a hurry. He had referred to his flight casually, almost flippantly, with nothing to suggest that he had been running away from a sacred obligation.
"My master vowed to find this Lord Dunwoodie and fight him in a duel," explained the aide. "Either, the Lady Lucia will be a widow and freed to marry Count Dandolo, or my master will go to the Hereafter, defending her honour. We found him in London, and my master wounded him, but we were in the presence of your Prince Regent, so the guards intervened and Lord Dunwoodie escaped once more. It was then claimed that he was his own twin brother, a tale to tell to a child. We have tracked him now to Scotland, which we are told is his homeland. So, madam. Now that you know the whole story, will you tell us where he is?"