Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Occult & Supernatural, #Guardian and Ward, #Vampires, #Nobility, #blood, #Paramours, #Switzerland
Borne in Blood (18 page)
She took a long, slow breath. “Thank you for understanding.”
“Le Corbeau et Hibou,” called out Gutesohnes. “Right ahead.”
Ragoczy lifted her hands and kissed them. “You might thank Gutesohnes, too. We were saved by his driving.”
She nodded twice. “I will,” she declared, and began to make small repairs to her appearance as the coach swung into the innyard and ostlers ran out to assist the coachman with the horses.
Text of a note from Professor Erich Teich at Heidelberg University, to Wallache Gerhard Winifrith Siefert, Graf von Ravensberg at Ravensberg, Austria; carried by academic courier.
To Graf von Ravensberg, the felicitations from Professor Erich Teich of Heidelberg, on this, the 18
th
day of September, 1817
th
day of September, 1817
My dear Graf,
I thank you for informing me of your forthcoming publication on the properties and character of blood. This will provide a much needed text that many of us have wanted to have to hand in our pursuits. By your innovative work, you may have provided a basic thesis from which all of us concerned with anatomical studies might clarify our thoughts and observations. I congratulate you on your accomplishment, and I look forward to reading your book as soon as it is made available. Now that I have returned to my university I can endorse your work freely. Many others will be equally pleased to learn of your efforts, which will doubtless inspire lively debate from Poland to England.
Wishing you every success
I am
Erich Teich
Professor of Anatomical Studies
Heidelberg
Hero crumpled the letter and let it drop from her nerveless fingers. She began to shake, her face now the color of whey. “Oh, God!” she cried and dropped to her knees on the entry-hall carpet, huddling over the paper as she began silently to weep.
Ragoczy, who had been seeing to the unloading of the two coaches, saw her fall and broke off his effort with a quick signal to Rogier. “What is it?” he asked as he went to her and went down on one knee beside her, his back to the open door to shield her from curious eyes. “Hero?”
“She’s dead,” Hero muttered, and thrust the letter into his hand. She did not sob but tears shone on her face.
“Who is dead?’ he asked as he smoothed the sheet and began to read.
Hero shuddered heavily as she tried to speak, but failed.
Ragoczy perused the Graf’s note, appalled at the lack of sympathy extended to the child’s mother. “What a terrible loss for you,” he said as he reached the end of it and reached to set it on a decorative urn near the stairs. “I know it’s inadequate, but I am very sorry.”
“Annamaria. Annamaria. Annamaria,” she said as if repeating a prayer. “I should have gone to her. I should have insisted that the Graf let me see my children.” She hugged herself and began to rock back and forth, still bent over her knees on the carpet.
“You had no way of knowing,” said Ragoczy, aware this was useless and that Hero was in the thrall of her grief. He motioned to Rogier to keep away.
“I
should
have known. I’m her … I
was
her mother.” Suddenly she let out a howl of anguish and fury that made the château ring. “God, God, God, what am I going to do? She’s buried already. For weeks! I can’t mourn her with her brothers.” All the warmth had gone out of the bright afternoon; for Hero, everything had suddenly sunk into shadow, and that now held her as if in an invisible shroud. “If we’d pressed through yesterday, I would have learned of it sooner,” she said dully.
should
have known. I’m her … I
was
her mother.” Suddenly she let out a howl of anguish and fury that made the château ring. “God, God, God, what am I going to do? She’s buried already. For weeks! I can’t mourn her with her brothers.” All the warmth had gone out of the bright afternoon; for Hero, everything had suddenly sunk into shadow, and that now held her as if in an invisible shroud. “If we’d pressed through yesterday, I would have learned of it sooner,” she said dully.
“And been no more able then to change what has happened than you are now,” said Ragoczy with such kindness that she was able to lash out at him. “Had you been here, you still could not have reached Scharffensee in time to—”
“Little you know about it! You, with your centuries and centuries! She didn’t have even a decade. She was about to turn nine.” She put her hands to her face and finally the sobs came.
“Not yet nine!”
“Not yet nine!”
“Nine is very young,” Ragoczy agreed, unable to think of anything more to say.
“She hadn’t any chance. All she did was learn French.” Her sobs deepened. “It is wrong!”
Ragoczy laid his hand on her back to steady her as her rocking increased. “Hero.”
“Life is cruel!”
“Life is indifferent,” said Ragoczy as consolingly as he could. “It is we who are cruel. Or kind.”
Suddenly she rose up and lunged at him, but whether to attack him or fall into the haven of his arms, she herself could not tell. “You don’t know anything about it! Nothing! It doesn’t touch you. It touches me. Annamaria was
mine
!”
mine
!”
He held her close to him, letting her struggle against him, but supporting her. “You love her and will always miss her. Grieve for her, Hero.”
“You are … you!” She shoved at him and almost pushed herself over. Reaching for the letter, she bundled it into her hand and glared at him. “She’s gone. I have lost her.”
Without moving, he said, “Sorrow is always private.”
She wiped her face with the ends of her shawl. “And so it will be with me.” She wobbled to her feet. “You will never be able to suffer as I do.”
“No, I cannot; I have never had a child,” he said. “But I know what it is to grieve.” He took a step toward her; she motioned him away as if in panic. “What will you let me do for you, Hero?”
“I? Nothing. Nothing.” She turned and ran for the stairs.
Ragoczy stood still, overwhelmed by the immensity of her sorrow, until he heard her door slam, and then, as if shocked to action, he climbed the stairs and knocked on her door. “Do you want—”
“Go away!” she ordered.
He hesitated, not willing to leave her in such agony. “You need not endure this alone, Hero.”
“And why not?” she challenged, her voice thick with emotion. “We all bear our pain alone, don’t we?”
“Not wholly alone,” he said, thinking of T’en Chih-Yu, of Tulsi Kil, of Heugenet, of Xenya, of Orazia, of Acana Tupac, of Leocadia, of Demetrice, of Ignatia, then, most unhappily, of Csimenae. Each memory was a reproof to him, but he added, “You need not bear all your loss alone.”
She took a long time to answer. “She missed her father so much. At least they may be together now.” Again she was quiet. Then, “Go away, Comte. Go away.”
He heard the clock in the parlor chime three, and he felt the day slip from him. Many memories crowded in, reminding him of times he had acted to ameliorate a friend’s distress and times he had not; neither response had actually succeeded in alleviating the friend’s misery. He chose not to intrude. “If you want me, for anything, you have only to ask. I will do whatever I can for you.”
“Will you offer to restore her to life?” The accusation cut, as she intended. “You restored Rogier to life, so you say.”
“No. That is beyond my skills,” he said quietly.
“Then go away while I choose my mourning clothes.”
“I’ll return in an hour to learn how you are faring.” He was about to turn away when her voice stopped him once more.
“And what will you do in the meantime?” she demanded, her voice rising. “Will you do your best to put this behind you? You have put so much behind you already.”
“I will spend the time composing a letter to your father-in-law, urging him to permit you to visit as soon as possible, for the sake of your sons, and to do honor to your daughter,” he said, and went away from the door before she said anything that might lessen his determination.
At the foot of the stairs, he found Rogier waiting for him. “I have told the staff, my master. Do you want the house draped in black?”
Ragoczy gave a little nod. “I am not a relative; full-mourning would be presumptuous. Half-mourning will serve. And a yew-wreath with gray bands on the door.” He started toward his study, then stopped. “Will you have Gutesohnes come to me as soon as he has washed? I fear he must carry a message for me, leaving at first light tomorrow.”
Rogier’s ascetic features softened. “You are sending him to von Scharffensee, aren’t you? You’re going to intercede.”
He answered in Russian. “That I am. Let us hope I prevail upon him to relent in his efforts to keep her from her sons.”
In the same tongue, Rogier said, “It would seem his obduracy is fixed on keeping them apart.”
“I believe that is true,” said Ragoczy. “But circumstances are different now, and I must apply to him, for her sake, if not for her sons’.”
“Do you think you will emerge with what you seek?” Rogier asked. “For her sake, I hope you will. At present, she will not deal with any disappointment well.”
“I am going to cogitate on the problem,” said Ragoczy in the Swiss version of French. “Do send Gutesohnes to me when—”
“—he has washed,” Rogier finished for him. “That I will. He should not be long.”
“Already in the bath-house?” Ragoczy surmised.
“In the largest tub.”
“Then I will expect him directly.”
“And Madame? Will you tell her what you’ve done?” There was a note of dubiety in his question.
“In an hour, I will see if she is willing to speak with me, and I will decide then what to say. She knows of my intentions.” He looked at the fan-light over the door. “It was such a lovely day when we left Saint-Gingolph.”
“The day is still lovely,” said Rogier sadly.
“That it is,” said Ragoczy, and entered his study. He stood just inside the door, thinking, unmoving. Then he walked to his secretaire keyhole desk, pulled down the writing-board, and drew up his chair, but once more, he faltered, lost in thought. When he finally sat down he had an idea that he thought might work. Taking a sheet of heavy, cream-laid paper out of its drawer, he selected a pen, fitted it with a trimmed quill, pulled out the inkwell, and began to write the first of two letters, choosing his words with great care for both. He had just completed sealing the second letter with wax and his sigil when Gutesohnes knocked on the door.
“Comte? You wanted to see me?”
“Yes, I do. Come in,” he said, swinging his chair around to face his coachman, whose shock of dark hair was still damp from his bath. “I’m sure you know what has happened.”
“Madame von Scharffensee’s daughter? Yes. A great pity.”
“I am asking the Graf if we might be permitted to visit. And I am sending a note to von Ravensberg to ask if we would be welcome at his Schloss.” Seeing the surprise in Gutesohnes’ face, he went on very smoothly, “If I have another reason to come into Austria, it will be more difficult for von Scharffensee to refuse my request on Madame von Scharffensee’s behalf.”
“The Graf is an ambitious man,” said Gutesohnes. “Von Ravensberg, I mean.”
“You are right in that: he is. I am counting on it to ensure our welcome. Their homes are roughly twenty leagues apart. You should be able to stop at Scharffensee, go on to Ravensberg, then return to Scharffensee and bring back the Graf’s answer. Von Ravensberg will no doubt consent. It is von Scharffensee who may balk.”
“Will he let me deliver your message? He could refuse to see me, couldn’t he?” Gutesohnes asked.
“We must hope that he will accept the letter,” said Ragoczy, the line of his mouth grim. He could see that Gutesohnes wanted to ask another question, and so told him, “Go ahead: what is on your mind?”
Gutesohnes coughed uncomfortably. “It’s just that … Von Ravensberg’s ward—Hyacinthie?—she was very flirtatious in Amsterdam. It may be awkward to see her again. That might turn von Ravensberg against my errand.”
“That young woman flirts with everyone,” said Ragoczy. “I doubt you have anything to fear from her, or from von Ravensberg on her account.”
“I don’t want to be accused of attempting to compromise a nobleman’s ward,” Gutesohnes persisted.
“I doubt that will happen. Her behavior must be known. Her guardian is surely aware that she is entertaining herself, and will put no store in it.” Ragoczy realized that Gutesohnes was truly worried. “You may readily avoid her, if you feel it prudent. Keep to the servants’ quarters and let the steward carry letters for you.”
Gutesohnes was visibly relieved. “Very good. Very good.” He gave a forced chuckle. “Rogier told me that I am to leave tomorrow at first light, but surely you mean the day after?”
“No,” said Ragoczy cordially. “Rogier informed you rightly. You depart at dawn tomorrow.”
“But—”
“You will have the opportunity to sup early and retire ahead of the household. If you are worried you will not sleep, I will provide you a draught for that. If you have trouble rising, I will have another draught to help you waken.”
“Yes, Comte,” said Gutesohnes.
“It is urgent for Madame von Scharffensee to visit her sons. That requires we make ready promptly, and have her traveling again as soon as may be.” He reached into the corner where a tall wooden stand was filled with rolled maps. “So let us plan your route now.” He rose and went to the bow-fronted sideboard where he unrolled the map and held it that way with two beautiful paper-weights of cobalt Venetian glass. Using an ivory letter-opener, Ragoczy pointed out the route he had in mind. “Remount at Saint-Gingolph: the stabler has my horses available. Turn south along the river. You should be able to make Martigny by nightfall; it is a hard ride but not impossible.” He had made it himself, many, many years ago, under far worse conditions. “Go to Le Perroquet; Angelo will take care of you there. Continue east along the river to Brig. The road is harder and steeper from there, so spend the third night at Oberwald. Another two days should bring you to Chur, unless the weather worsens.”
“Two or three days,” said Gutesohnes. “The road is a hard one and travel can be very slow on it.”
Ragoczy moved his finger along the map. “Ravensberg is near Salzburg, as you can see.” He pointed to the place. “And Scharffensee is—” He put the tip of his letter-opener on the place.
“In that case, Comte, I think I had best turn south at Reichenau and not go as far as Chur. I will enter Tirol from Silvaplana and Vinadi. I can travel faster; there is less traffic on that road, and I can take a day off my travels, and ensure I find inns that do not charge a fortune to sleep four to a bed.”
“Then, shall we say eight days to Scharffensee?” Ragoczy suggested. “A night there and then two days to Ravensberg?”
“Ten days. That will keep me from exhausting the horses. If the roads were better—or safer—I would try for a shorter journey, but …” He turned over his hands to show he was helpless to remedy the problems.
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