Writ in blood : a novel of Saint-Germain

by Yarbro, Chelsea Quinn, 1942-

  “You mean that once your lover is like you, you cannot be lovers any longer? And I had thought you were seeking ... variety, as I have,” she said, her face suffused with sympathy. “Oh, sweet saints, Count, that’s very sad. I had no idea that—”

  “Yes. But it is the way of our blood.” He was about to say more when a shout came from the path leading to the dasha and two children raced toward their great-aunt. The girl, although slightly younger than the boy, held the lead.

  “Ludmilla,” said Amalija, her demeanor changing swiftly from deep concern to joviality. Bending down and holding out her arms to the child, she hugged her great-niece as the youngster careened into her. She looked over her great-nieces fair hair to the boy. “Evgeny. Welcome; welcome.”

  Evgeny, suddenly aware of the stranger with his great-aunt, slowed to a walk, doing his best to appear calm as he sauntered up to Amalija. “Good afternoon, Great-aunt,” he said with the careful social grace of his eight years.

  “And to you, Evgeny,” said Amalija, taking care not to tease him. “I take it your mother and father are back at the dasha?”

  “Yes,” he said, adding in disgust, “Ilya was sick in the automobile. Mother is making him change clothes.”

  “Well, I should think so,” said Ragoczy, dropping down on his heel and holding out a hand to the boy. “I am Franchot Ragoczy, a friend of your great-aunt’s.”

  Evgeny took Ragoczy s small hand and shook it firmly once, his large eyes somber. He was slightly accusing as he went on. “My father said you would be here. He said you are a foreigner. He said you are a Count.”

  “Yes, I am—a foreigner and a Count,” Ragoczy responded, and noticed that Ludmilla was staring at him.

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  “He said,” the boy persisted, “you are from some place in Hungary.”

  “Yes, that’s true. Just now the place I was bom is within Hungarian borders,” was his careful answer.

  Ludmilla freed herself from Amalija’s embrace in a sudden, impatient burst of energy. “I know where Hungary is,” she announced.

  “Silly,” said her brother, not quite shoving her, adding scornfully “Everybody knows that.”

  “Not everybody,” Ludmilla insisted, shooting a dark look at her older brother. “Ilya doesn’t know.”

  “Ilya’s three. He doesn’t know anything,” Evgeny declared, settling the matter to his own satisfaction. He swung toward Amalija. “Nilo said you are having venison tonight.”

  “If Nilo said it, then I am sure we are,” Amalija responded at once. “Nilo would not say it if it were not true.”

  “I like venison,” said Evgeny.

  “So do I,” Ludmilla seconded at once, as if liking venison were a contest. “I like it a lot.”

  “Then it is just as well we are having it tonight, isn’t it?” Amalija chuckled in response to the children’s eager nods, then motioned to Ragoczy to rise. “It is time we were getting back to the dasha,” she said, a degree of regret in her words. She compensated for this at once by catching the children in her arms and giving them a hearty hug. “There, now.” She let them go as Evgeny started squirming. “Do you want to mn back and warn your parents we are coming?” she suggested.

  “Oh, yes,” said Ludmilla, grinning wickedly at her brother. She was off in the next breath, her starched skirts whisking around her white-stockinged legs; Evgeny went pelting after her, shouting a challenge, his longer stride overtaking her before they reached the trees.

  Shading her eyes to watch the children go, Amalija said wistfully, “Do you remember what it was like, having such energy?” Then she looked over at Ragoczy, about to apologize. “Oh, Count. I didn’t mean—”

  “Yes, Amalija; I may be old, but not so old that I have entirely forgot what it was to be a child,” he said, meeting her gaze steadily. “Occasionally it comes back to me, even now.” What he remembered most was a night, four millennia ago, when he had gone to the sacred grove in the darkest hour to taste the blood of his god in order to share his nature. “Although you are right: it was a long time ago.”

  She took his confession as a sign that he was not angry with her. “I find it is increasingly difficult to recall how new the world was when I was young. I know it must have been, but it is hard to—”

  “To forget the intervening experiences,” he finished for her when she faltered.

  “Yes. That is precisely it; the intervening experiences color everything, and we no longer see the world in the sharp relief of childhood. Try as we may, we cannot truly recapture it, can we,” she said, and took his arm again, setting their ambling pace back to her dasha. She stopped again, and looked back at the lake. “I know you will be good to them, to my nephew and his family. If you think you would prefer to use the guest-house, at this time of year it is very pleasant; in the winter, it is unlivable.”

  He studied her profile. “What are you saying to me, Amalija? Do you want me to go to the guest-house, or would you rather I did not?”

  She motioned impatiently with her free hand. “I have been unable to decide for myself. I was hoping you would make the choice for me. In the guest-house we could be more private, more alone together. In the dasha itself, there could be interruptions. If you are in the guest house, my absence from my own room would probably be noticed, by Nilo if no one else.”

  “Which would be less awkward?” he asked. “Yes, I take your point.” He had been wondering about dealing with her family since he learned of Leonid s family’s visit.

  “Moving you now might be thought . . . obvious, but with the children and all, you could prefer your privacy,” she said, addressing the matter obliquely.

  “Would the children visit the guest-house?” Ragoczy inquired, trying to discern her thoughts.

  “Yes, they probably would. But they would make a great deal of noise coming, and you and I would have time to . . . prepare for them. They would not be able to intrude suddenly, as they might in the dasha.” She flushed a little.

  “Of course,” he said. “Then by all means, let it be the guest-house. I will have Roger move my things over from the main house; I will tell your nephew it is my preference. I suppose there are quarters for Roger in the guest-house as well?” This last was an assumption, but it seemed a reasonable one.

  “Yes. And he will be able to . . . take his meals there without fear of disturbance.” Her voice was muffled, as if admitting so much knowledge of Rogers ghoul-nature was suddenly and unexpectedly embarrassing.

  “You mean the children will not burst in while he is quartering a partridge? Or you will not be faced with trying to explain why I do not eat

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  with you?” Ragoczy was able to be amused at the prospect. “Tell me, Amalija: has this family visit been causing you so much apprehension?”

  “Since this morning,” she confessed. “I have wondered how we are to manage. He will notice that you do not eat, if you are under the same roof. I know he will.”

  “The guest-house is a very good solution,” he said, knowing she would be more comfortable with the separation of her family from her guest; it would certainly be easier for him to be out of their way. “You can say that as a widower, I find the presence of families brings back painful memories, if you must provide an explanation greater than that I think it a reasonable courtesy to surrender the house to blood relatives. Or leave me to account for it.”

  She did not quite laugh, caught by his first revelation. “You can’t be a widower.”

  “Oh, but I am,” he said, his words light and somber at once. “And my wife, dear Countess, was Russian.”

  “I don’t believe it,” she said, and then saw the expression in his dark eyes, and apologized at once, becoming flustered in the process. “No, that’s not what I meant. I’m sorry. I should not have mentioned— But you see, it never occurred to me that you—of all people—might have been married.”

  “It was some years ago.” The
marriage had been a political one, commanded by the Czar; it had become something more over time; he still felt the loss of Xenya with an intensity that had the power to surprise him. He laid his free hand on her shoulder. “Never mind, Amalija. I didn’t mean to distress you.”

  She resumed her steady pace, going along the path twisting through the pines, her boots more appropriate to riding than walking making sharp heel marks in the sandy soil. “I am not distressed. I am abashed. My remark was inexcusable. I should have known better than to make such assumptions about you.”

  “You mean that because I am a vampire, I cannot marry?” he suggested, and went on gently, “Not that you are entirely wrong. And I have only been married once. In general, I would rather not bring such . . . obligations upon myself, or consequences upon those I love.”

  “You think that your love is risk enough?” she asked, smiling to reduce the barb in her words.

  “Something like that.” He could see the dasha ahead, a thick-walled, two-story structure with bright yellow shutters, open now for spring, surmounted by a modified cupola on the steep roof. The wide veranda wrapped around the south and west sides of the dasha, and was oma-

  Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  merited with elaborate wood carving under the eaves and down the pillars. The stable, with big box stalls for four horses—now occupied by a matched team of Orlov trotters—was on the east side of the dasha, with Nilos house behind it, and a short distance beyond, Nilos sauna. The guest-house was on the west side of the dasha, a single-story, halfsized version of the dasha itself, with a yellow door to compliment the shutters, and a smaller porch without the gingerbread carpentry. Just at present, Ragoczy s two-year-old Dupressoir was parked between the dasha and the stable; next to it, Amalija’s Renault type X, series B double-tourer stood, and behind them, a dusty double-phaeton La Buire was being unloaded by a stoic Nilo, assisted by Roger and a young man in servants’ clothing.

  The front door of the dasha banged open and Leonid Yureivich Ohchenov strode out to greet his aunt, his big, square face wreathed in smile-creases. “My dear pigeon,” he called out, raising his hand in greeting. He had taken off his wheat-colored jacket, and now in waistcoat and shirtsleeves he seemed quite at home.

  “Leonid, my pet,” Amalija answered, letting go of Ragoczys arm and hurrying up to her nephew. “It is so good to have you here.”

  He hugged her enthusiastically. “I swear,” he said as he took a step back from her, “you are looking younger and prettier than ever.” “Flatterer,” she chided, obviously pleased at his compliment. “How was the trip here? Did you have any trouble on the road?”

  “Only the usual—bad roads and scarce fuel. We had a meal, of sorts, at an inn near Lahti; the fish was good. And Ilya was sick, but at his age, I expect that.” He kissed her cheeks. “And where is your other guest?” Ragoczy had hung back, trying to determine how best to deal with Leonid Ohchenov; now he stepped forward, his hand outstretched. He was aware that Leonid might find his black hacking jacket and black riding breeches and boots a trifle too casual, but he gave no indication of it. “I am Franchot Ragoczy. It is a pleasure to know you. Yet I believe we have met once before, Captain Ohchenov, in Saint Petersburg.” He chose to use Leonid’s military rank rather than his title, hoping this would remind him of their one previous encounter.

  Taken unaware, Leonid grasped Ragoczy s hand out of habit. “We may have: I was posted there for three years. And you are Count, are you not? From Hungary? My aunt has mentioned you often.” He gave Ragoczy an appraising scrutiny and apparently found nothing to dislike. “I am retired from the Guard, as of last month. They will only recall me in time of war. My youngest brother will be a cadet, come fall.” “Don’t speak of it,” Amalija told him. “I want to hear nothing of war.”

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  “You think if you say the word, you can make it happen?” Leonid teased, and was interrupted by Ludmilla and Evgeny, who rushed out of the house.

  “There! You see? We said she was coming,” Evgeny announced, as if Amalija’s arrival was his doing.

  “So you did, so you did,” their father told his children, ruffling his son’s hair and patting his daughters shoulder.

  “I think,” said Ragoczy to Amalija, “that I will begin to move my things over to the guest house, if it is convenient? That will allow you to set up in the room I have been using as well as the others.”

  Leonid shot him a hard, curious look. “Move your things?”

  “So you and your family can be with your aunt without feeling you must deal with an . . . outsider,” Ragoczy said smoothly. “I am aware how important it is for families to be able to be together without having to accommodate guests. It is not as if I am going all the way to Helsinki—I will be fifty strides from that veranda, as easily reached as the stable, which is near enough for any visitor. If I remain in the dasha, you will tend to try to entertain me when it is far more important that you enjoy the company of your aunt. I’ve had three weeks already in her company. It is more fitting—don’t you think?—to relinquish her to you?”

  With all his objections adroitly dismissed, Leonid could only say, “This is very gracious of you, Count.”

  “Hardly,” said Ragoczy with sincerity. Then he gave a slight bow to the woman who came out onto the veranda. “Your Duchess, I presume?”

  Leonid turned, and his face softened at the sight of his wife. “Yes. Irina.”

  She took a deliberate step toward Ragoczy. “You are Count Saint-Germain; I am Duchess Ohchenova. It is a pleasure to meet you.” Ragoczy kissed her hand. “And to meet you as well.” Then he went on, stepping back down the stairs as good manners required. “Traveling can be exhausting, don’t you think; I have always found it so.”

  “I think it is the most enervating necessity in the world. It puts the whole family into upheaval.” She gave Leonid a gentle tweak, saying, “When we go to the hunting lodge near Riga, that is the worst: I always feel ill-used, because I do not like to hunt. The sound of the guns gives me a headache. But it is a fine place for the children; all that open countryside to run in. The lodge is pleasant, and unusually large, more of a country house than those rustic boxes so many families have.” “And you do not like having bird feathers drifting around the

  kitchen,” Leonid reminded her in what was obviously a traditional argument with them.

  “I like the hunting lodge,” Evgeny announced, as if his liking settled all argument on the matter.

  “Hush, Evgeny,” said Leonid, the reprimand gentle.

  “But, Papa,” he protested, and was waved into silence.

  “No, I don’t like the whole sport of hunting. My brothers despaired of me long ago.” She paused. “And in the winter, the Latvian countryside can be very bleak.” This was less of an amusement to her than the first teasing condemnation had been. “The snow blows and everything is raw and bitter.”

  “I know something of the region,” said Ragoczy, who had spent the greater part of a decade as a wanderer in the lowlands along the Baltic Sea, from the Vistula to the Dvina, which was called the Duvna, twelve hundred years ago; and the winter months at Leosan Fortress, three centuries later, had been equally severe. “The winters can be . . . unrelenting.”

  “Then you understand,” Irina said, and looked to Amalija. “I have installed Jeronim in the second servants room, if you do not object.”

  “Of course not; although the first one will be available shortly, if your man would prefer it,” said Amalija, who, after a single, worried perusal of Irina was now determined to show her the utmost cordiality. “You know that this is your home as much as mine. You will do as you like, and Nilo will—”

  “Grumble,” said Leonid, and chuckled.

  “Certainly,” said Amalija merrily. “Nilo loves to grumble.” She studied her nephews face for a moment; she recognized his silent plea to change the subject. “You said that Valentin Tschinsov went to London with the Czars delegation for t
he coronation of George of England?”

  “Yes. He will return in two weeks or so. We are all quite envious. He was chosen out of all my mothers nephews because he speaks English so well.” He smiled broadly, as much to thank his aunt as to show his appreciation of his cousins good fortune.

  “I think I will go in, to check on Ilya,” said Irina and, after kissing her husband’s cheek, left the veranda.

  “I’ll go, too,” Ludmilla declared, and went to follow her mother.

  Evgeny looked up at his father. “Can I go help unload the automobile?”

  “If you don’t make yourself a nuisance, you may,” said Leonid, and watched as his son bounced down the veranda steps and disappeared

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  around the comer of the house. He looked down at his aunt, and said, “Thank you for having us.”

  “As if I could refuse you anything,” said Amalija, laughing.

  But late that night, when Amali ja had come to the guest-house when all her family had gone to sleep, she said, as he closed the door to his room, “You know, I worry about them. They’re all I have left in the world.”

  “I know,” Ragoczy said as he helped her out of her cloak to reveal the satin peignoir she wore beneath. “What worries you just now?” He bent and kissed the nape of her neck before hanging the cloak over the back of the taller of two chairs in his room. He had changed from his hacking jacket, breeches, and boots to a short smoking jacket of burgundy velvet and black woolen trousers, and although he behaved casually, his presence created an air of elegance.

  “If war comes,” she said as she turned to face him, “I think I could not bear it.” She frowned at the table lamp where the flame had been turned down to a shaving of flame. “Promise me, if war comes, you will look after them for me.” She rested her head on his shoulder, her fingers holding the lapels of his smoking jacket.

  “You have my Word.” He laid his hand on her hip, taking pleasure in the warmth of her, and the smoothness of the lavender-colored heavy satin; he could feel her apprehension beneath her desire, and began to soothe her.