Writ in blood : a novel of Saint-Germain

by Yarbro, Chelsea Quinn, 1942-

  The maitre d’ approached the table, his thoughts divided. “Excuse me, Miss Pearce-Manning. Is there any trouble.”

  “Yes, thank you, there is,” she said, her manner affable but for the hard glitter of her dark-gold eyes. “Mister Bowen is under the mistaken impression that I am in need of his company.”

  Rupert colored to the roots of his hair. “This woman is engaged to marry me—”

  “I am not,” she countered at once. “Mister Bowen is suffering from a misapprehension.”

  The maitre d’ could not make up his mind. If he had walked into a lovers’ quarrel, he wanted to get away as quickly as possible. But if this was something different, he did not want it said he permitted a patron to be abused. He remembered why he did not like to permit women alone to dine in his restaurant.

  “Her father gave his permission for me to address her,” Rupert informed the maitre d’, standing very straight.

  “Which I refused,” said Rowena, doing what she could to hold her

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  temper in check. “Mister Bowen is determined to rake through the coals again. This is the reason I would prefer to wait for my cousin undisturbed.”

  Rupert glared at her, his breathing becoming labored. “Why would you decide to have dinner with a relative you describe as looking like an owl?”

  “Not that I owe you any answer, but as my cousin has traveled on the Continent, I was hoping to get her advice,” said Rowena, wanting to shock Rupert into leaving her alone. He had almost succeeded in ruining her victory.

  “The Continent, is it?” Rupert challenged her. “Not content to get up the nose of everyone you know, you are thinking about the Continent. Let me tell you, my girl, you would be well-served going there, with war coming.”

  “You will not frighten me with bogeymen of war,” she said, affecting a languor she did not feel.

  “Everyone says it will flare up one of these days,” Rupert persisted. “Rowena, please. Stop talking in this unwomanly way. Permit those wiser than you to choose your course for you.”

  The maitre d’ came to the conclusion that he would have to intervene. “Little as I wish to offend you, sir, I must ask you to leave Miss Pearce-Manning to wait for her cousin without you.” He did not go so far as to take Rupert by the arm, but his expression was stern enough to suggest he was prepared to do so.

  “But she’s—” Rupert objected.

  “Whatever it is, you will have to deal with it somewhere other than here,” said the maitre d “I apologize, Miss Pearce-Manning, for this importunity.”

  “You haven’t importuned me,” she said to the maitre d’. “You have no reason to apologize.”

  “This isn’t finished, Rowena,” Rupert warned her. “I’m going,” he said to the man. “You needn’t put yourself out on my account.” With that he turned on his heel and strode across the room.

  Little as she wanted to admit it, Rowena was shaken. She glanced up at the maitre d’ and said, “Thank you; that was very awkward.”

  “As you say, Miss Pearce-Manning,” he agreed.

  “He is remarkably tenacious,” she remarked, trying to make light of the whole unpleasant encounter. She had to resist the urge to rise and leave. But such a defeat would be too ignominious; she could not abandon her plan. What business had Rupert to speak to her in that egre-

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  gious way? she asked herself as she tried to concentrate on the turtle soup. Her only satisfaction was the shock she saw in his face when she informed him she was going to the Continent. She had said it only to upset him, as he was upsetting her. But now, as she finished the last of her soup, she gave the notion serious thought, as she had from time to time over the last month. With her trust fund to draw on, she might set up anywhere, and still keep the studio in London, in case the climate in Europe turned out to be as sadly deteriorated as Rupert had claimed it was. Not that she trusted his judgment in such matters. If only, she thought wistfully, Ragoczy were in London still, or even Berlin, to advise her.

  Her salmon arrived, and her appetite, which had threatened to evaporate in the wake of Rupert s castigation, returned. The aroma of the dish was so intense it was almost edible on its own account. The mayonnaise was ladled over the pink flesh of the fish and garnished with capers. She smiled briefly at the waiter, took another sip of her wine, then began to enjoy herself once again, deliberately shutting out all sense of the presence of Rupert Bowen.

  By the time she left the Savoy, two hours later, she was replete. The meal had been superb, and the service impeccable. As she paid, she remarked that she was disappointed that her cousin Juliana had not yet arrived, and hoped there might be a message waiting for her at the desk.

  “It would have been brought to you at your table, Miss Pearce-Manning,” said the maitre d who had kept an eye on her, and on the small group of diners on the far side of the room where Rupert was seated. “I trust there is nothing wrong.”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t think so,” said Rowena, trying to sound concerned. “You know how train connections can be. In some of the more remote locations, there are not more than two trains a day. My cousin is in a somewhat more frequented spot, but it is not easy to reach London quickly.” She left the full amount—an outrageous twelve pounds six— and added a half crown for service. “The meal was excellent, thank you. And your tact is much appreciated.”

  “That young man, if you will pardon me mentioning it,” the maitre d’ said as he escorted Rowena to the door, “may prove difficult.”

  She sighed. “He already has. More than once.”

  The maitre d’ nodded. “I will try to keep him here until you are well-away.” He did his best to look reassuring.

  On impulse, Rowena asked, “Why have you done this? In many another place, I would probably have been asked to leave after such an unpleasant encounter.”

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  “The Savoy is not like other hotels, Miss Pearce-Manning. We are the most modern hotel in London.” He continued at her side until they were halfway across the lobby. “How would it look if our notions were antiquated when our design was not? How could we permit the likes of Mary Garden and Nellie Melba to dine here and exclude less illustrious females?” He smiled at her. “Women alone have nothing to fear at the Savoy.” He bowed once and returned to his post.

  As she rode back to her studio, Rowena continued to give Europe her serious consideration. Much as she wanted to go to Paris, or Rome, she knew her mother would be distressed beyond measure, certain that vice lurked in every alcove, and that priests waited to snare Protestant souls into the clutches of the Catholic Church. She would have to begin more modestly. If she could get her family used to the idea that she did her painting in Europe, she might be able to work her way by stages to Paris, or the south of France, to the marvelous shores of the Mediterranean. She drew herself up short. “That is for later,” she told herself as the cab turned into Great Russell Street.

  “You say something, Miss?” the cabby asked.

  “Nothing of significance,” she assured him, and drew out the money for the ride.

  Alone in her flat, she turned off the lights in her studio and went through to the L-shaped bedroom, where she began to undress, hanging her clothes with care. The last thing she removed was the frog necklace and earrings, the very items that had started her evening. Only now did she realize that no one had noticed them—or if they had, they had said nothing. She drew on her simple nightgown and set about brushing her short-cropped hair, trying to decide where she would go on the Continent. Wild scenery suggested Switzerland or the north of Italy; she was drawn to grand vistas. For beauty and culture, she had thought of the gorgeous hills of Tuscany and the endless richness of Florence; she also knew that the presence of all those Titans of art might well prove intimidating: Florence would be for later, when she had credentials enough to go there. She promised herself a visit in five years, as a reward f
or hard work. There was also her fascination with water. The south of France offered both. But being a foreigner and a woman alone, it would make more sense to find a suitable place in the city, where she would not have to depend on country folk who might not want to acknowledge her. But what city? With the possibilities filling her mind, she slipped into her bed and drifted off to sleep.

  By morning, she had settled on Amsterdam. It was close enough to England to reassure her father, but distant enough to permit her some

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  freedom. Her family would not like it, of course, but they would dislike it less than any other place that she could think of. In an emergency, she could return home in hardly more than twenty-four hours. The Dutch were known to be sensible people, and Amsterdam a city of some culture. What had decided Rowena upon it was its system of canals: if she could not have wild cliffs and pounding waves, she could have endless reflections and patterns of light and water.

  As she made her breakfast—simpler than usual in the wake of last night s extravagance—she did her best to make up her mind how best to inform her family of her decision. It was tempting to write them a letter, but her parents deserved better than that, she knew; whatever she told them, it would have to be face-to-face. A visit to Longacres seemed out of the question: it was too isolated and she was certain to be at a disadvantage there. Perhaps an invitation to London for a concert or other welcome entertainment would allow her to inform them of her intentions. Her mother would not be too distraught if they were not in private.

  Rowena was halfway through a letter to her grand-father, having completed one to the bank administering her trust, when she heard impulsive footsteps coming up the stairs to her door. It was too early for Harris to arrive—he would not call upon her for her note to his employer until around four and it was not yet eleven. Quickly she slipped her pen and writing materials into the central drawer of her campaign desk and put the blotter over the letters, wiped the ink from her fingertips, then rose and went to answer the two decisive knocks on her door.

  She was not much surprised to find Rupert Bowen, red-faced and thunderous, his overcoat unbuttoned and his tie not quite correcdy knotted, on the landing. “Good morning,” she said coolly, keeping the door close to her. “I must suppose if you are here you have come to apologize.” She did not make any sign of being willing to admit him to her flat.

  But he pushed past her and slammed the door closed. “Apology!” he burst out as he rounded on her. “I should think not!” He took her by the shoulders and shook her.

  “Let go of me!” she ordered him sharply, adding with great precision, “If you do not, I will kick your shins.”

  Very slowly he unfixed his fingers. “Very well. There. You see?” He took a long, deep breath. “What came over you, Rowena?” he demanded as he stepped back from her, his hands raised and palms out in an attempt to show he would not harm her.

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  “In what regard?” she asked, slipping away from him and returning to her studio.

  “You know damned well,” he said. “And I will not apologize for my language, not given the provocation you offered me.”

  “I do not recall offering you any provocation, Rupert. If you permitted yourself to be provoked, that is another matter.” She watched him carefully, wondering how long it would be until she could ask him to leave.

  He hesitated at the archway into the studio. “Why do you insist on embarrassing me?”

  “I was unaware that anything I do reflects on you,” she pointed out.

  Rupert favored her with a condescending smile. “What man does not have the conduct of his future wife—”

  He got no further. “But you see, Rupert, I am not your future wife, and so I am at liberty to do as I wish, within the law, without any ramifications for you.” She did her best to keep her voice level. “We have been through this last night. Nothing has changed but the degree of your impertinence in coming here, as if you had authority in my life.”

  “Your father and I are agreed,” he reminded her.

  “How very nice for you and my father. But I am not a minor, nor am I incompetent, nor am I dependent on my father for my livelihood— thank God fasting—and your agreement with him has no bearing on me.” She did not quite shrug but she lifted her left shoulder to show her lack of concern. “If you will not believe me, I will be compelled to have my grand-fathers solicitor explain how things stand.”

  “A very modem woman, aren’t you?” he teased her affectionately. “All right; you’ve made your point. You have shown you can stretch your wings, and received some notice for it. If you will only be content with that. But if you continue on this mad course, there will be those who say I cannot afford to support you in the style to which you are accustomed—”

  “And can you?” she challenged, knowing the answer.

  “Not as lavishly, but my fortune is not paltry. You will want for nothing any reasonable woman would.” He raised his head. “I would hope you will come to your senses before everyone is too shocked by you to—”

  Rowena would not let him continue. “Rupert, try to understand me; if you have any real affection for me. I am not going to marry you. I am not going to marry anyone. I will not give up my painting simply because you think it casts a shadow on your position, or because my parents do not approve, or because it is assumed I will never sell anything

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  I paint.” She saw him wince. “Oh, yes; I know what you think of my work, and how it distresses my parents that I should prefer this life to the life they have made for me. I am sorry they cannot see that this is what I want. But fortunately, I do not have to accommodate them, or you. I am in the privileged position to be able to afford to live any life I decide to, without the consent of anyone but myself. And it is my life I will live, not what you think I ought to, or my parents wish I would.”

  “You don’t know what you are saying; you haven’t considered what your selfishness—for I can call it nothing less—entails,” he told her as she fell silent. “Why must you pretend to abhor the protections of our society?”

  “I neither pretend nor abhor,” she said stiffly. “And as for protection, I do not see that making myself subject to your will affords me anything but loss.”

  Again his color deepened. “If you disdain marriage, and think of it as loss, what sort of invert are you?”

  To her astonishment as much as Rupert’s, Rowena laughed. “I see; I see. If I do not want to marry you, it must be that I prefer women to men. There can be no other explanation in your mind, is that it?” Her face grew serious. “If that is your opinion of me, why do you persist in your courtship?”

  “Marriage is the lot of women in life, as the family is the kingdom God has made for them. And no woman is so ... enamored of her own sex that she would choose to live without her own children. You are not so unnatural as all that.” Rupert studied her. “In time, you will come to prefer a man.”

  “By which you mean yourself,” she said with a nod.

  “I am the one who is willing to marry you in spite of what I know of you.” He frowned deeply, his eyes not meeting hers.

  Rowena sighed, wishing now she had kicked his shins when she had the chance. “I am grateful for your candid speech, Rupert. Truly, I am. It makes it easier for me to accept my own decision.” She walked directly past him to the door. “And now that you have said all you have come to say, I will have to ask you to leave.”

  “But I haven’t said all—” he began.

  “Oh, yes you have,” she said firmly. “If you do not go, I will be forced to summon help.” She opened the door and held it wide for him. Her long training took over; she kept her voice polite. “I wish you a very pleasant good day.”

  As baffled as he was angry, he tried to make one last point. “You will come to deplore your stubbornness, Rowena, and I pray God it will not

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  be too late when you do,” he said as he came up to her. “By continuing in this recalcitrant way, you are thrusting away the very persons whose duty it is to look after your well-being. You are consigning yourself to a lonely old age, without family or friends to support you.”

  She smiled sweetly. “Better a lonely old age than wasted youth,” she said, and hoped that she meant it.

  “Your father will be very put out when he learns of this,” Rupert said as he went through the door.

  “Doubtless,” said Rowena, instead of screaming at him. She remained in the doorway as she watched him descend the stairs, to be certain he had left the building. Only when she heard the entryway door shut did she step back into her flat. She remained leaning against the door for several minutes, shaking with vexation and outrage.

  When at last she went back to her desk, it was to read through the letter to her grand-father and to affix a postscript describing the unwanted, ongoing attentions and plans of Rupert Bowen, then to finish the letter to Ragoczy, informing him of her determination to find a suitable place in Amsterdam, where she would be happy to receive him at his convenience. Only when she had disposed of this welcome courtesy did she turn her mind to the far more delicate task of inviting her parents to visit her on the tenth of May, for the purpose of telling them of her plans—which would by then be in motion, if not complete—to leave England for Holland in pursuit of her art.

  A memo from Tancred Sisak accompanying an order for guns to Baron Manfred Klemens von Wolgast.

  Zagreb May 9,1910

  My dear Baron;

  As always, it has been a pleasure doing business with you. My bank draught included will cover the first half of payment for the specific order, the balance to be paid on the delivery of 50% or more of the order.

  The matter of the armored automobiles will probably need more discussion before a final price may be decided upon, and I am willing to continue negotiations as my specific requirements are likely to change while my clients decide on what their uses for the machine guns will be.