1637: No Peace Beyond the Line

by Eric Flint

  Sophie’s look of surprise was utterly genuine. “What? No! There had been some earlier talk of that, if I recall, but I refused outright. He was . . . ” She seemed to be grasping after a word that would not come to hand. “He was . . . ”

  “—too plain?”

  “Heavens, no! I mean yes, he was not, erm, a man memorable for his looks. But that was not what decided me against any suit from him. He was too . . . too clever.”

  Leonora frowned. “And you would reject a man seeking your hand because he was too clever?”

  Sophie sighed. “His cleverness was often in bending words so that, although what he said was not untrue, nor was it clear, complete, or forthright. ‘Too clever’ was not the right way to describe him; he was too shrewd. But to return to your question, no, Leonora; Corfitz did not visit me to press a suit of his own. He was sent to plead the case of his brother, Laurids.”

  “Your late husband?”

  “Yes. Did you not know that was why Corfitz visited me? To act as the liaison between us?”

  Leonora frowned and looked down. “I did not. And my sister Sophie told me differently.”

  The Norn-Sophie’s small answering frown gradually became a small smile. “Ah. So it was she who told you that Corfitz was seeking my hand. To make you jealous.”

  “Yes. And . . . and that is the only one of her many ploys against my happiness that ever succeeded.”

  “Dear Leonora, why did you not simply ask me about this, then or since? I would have made the truth of the matter quite clear.”

  Leonora squirmed. “Because—because at that time, you were the Two Sophies.” When her friend’s eyebrows raised high and quizzical, she hastily added, “That is what she called the two of you, at any rate. And she claimed to have your confidence and love besides. You were the sister she wished she had, she said.”

  Sophie Rantzau shook her head slowly; her long dark hair swayed. “I do not know what I ever said or did to excite such enthusiasm for my person. I was not frequently at court, you may recall. I was an—an impediment to my mother’s designs.”

  “Yet I always saw you with my sister Sophie! You seemed inseparable!”

  Sophie may have blushed. “There may be truth to that, but . . . Please understand: I do not wish to insult your sister, Leonora, but that devotion was entirely one-sided.”

  “You mean she was just following you about?”

  Sophie shrugged. “I was twelve or thirteen during the time you relate. She was, I believe, ten? Her interests were in court gossip. Mine were not. Yet my mother encouraged me to spend time with her. And she seemed eager to do just that.” Sophie lifted an upward palm. “I did not wish to be cruel, so we were often together.”

  Leonora leaned forward. “I recall. And I recall you looking serenely on while she taunted me about Corfitz!”

  “Is that how you saw it?”

  “I did, then. Just as I believed it when she recounted, in great detail, your resounding agreement with her most bitter characterizations of my person.”

  Sophie’s smile was back, but tentative. “And now you know differently?”

  Leonora squirmed some more. “Mostly.”

  “What persists in troubling you about those days, my friend?”

  Leonora didn’t want to whine, and she succeeded in that—but only because what emerged from her was closer to a wail. “Then why did you not take my side when she tormented me in your presence? I was only eight or nine!”

  Sophie nodded. “Yes. I understand. But if, in your presence, she had ever claimed that I was betrothed to Corfitz Ulfeldt, I would have contradicted her immediately and clearly. I do remember her being a most unpleasant older sister to you, but do you recall me ever being present when she made such a claim?”

  Leonora thought hard. “Well, . . . no.”

  “And tell me one other thing, Leonora: if I had in fact defended you, against your own sister, what do you think she would have done in response?”

  Leonora stopped. She had never considered that. “I—I am unsure. But I am quite sure she would have concocted an even nastier and vindictive attempt to undermine my happiness.”

  Sophie nodded. “Which was what I foresaw. Had I rebuked her for treating you so, she might have wished to make trouble for me, and so, for my mother, but she would not have dared do so. Even at that age, she would have realized how badly that would rebound if its origins in her pettiness had been discovered. However, I was quite sure that she could and find ways to make your life far more miserable. Which she eventually did anyhow, by poisoning the next governess’ opinion against you, if I recall correctly.”

  “You do.” Leonora’s spine slumped against the backrest. “So you—you were protecting me?”

  Sophie patted her hand. “I wish I could say that helping you was uppermost in my mind. But I had been warned by my mother not to become close to you or any of your sisters. I realize now that she was simply attempting to prevent any complications that might arise from either affinities or animosities between her child and those of the king. But at the time, I thought it was simply because the relationships among all your siblings were so decidedly—peculiar.”

  “What a charming new synonym for the word ‘unpleasant.’ Although Anne Cathrine and I were always true sisters.”

  Sophie shrugged. “Of which I was unaware until we all traveled here together. She was being thrust into older circles by the time I arrived at the royal castle. Even though I am a year older than she.”

  The corner of Leonora’s mouth quirked. “She was my father’s first—and eminently—marriageable daughter. He was prompt in capitalizing upon whatever alliance could be secured by making her the property of some doddering old adelsmand. He might also have settled for some younger suitor of lesser means but singular capability and ambition.”

  Sophie smiled. “That was obviously why he initially welcomed Corfitz’s interest in you. Until, that is, the up-timers’ histories revealed how your father would be undone by his shrewdness.”

  “Yes,” Leonora mumbled. “About that. There were many things written about these matters in up-time histories. One of which came to light just before we departed and was forwarded to me by my most horrid governess, the one who came after your mother.”

  “You mean, Hannibal Sehested’s sister?”

  “The same. She brought me a gift from none other than Vibeka Kruse. An item of historical significance that an agent of hers had located in a private collection in Grantville.” She could still see the book as she took it in her wondering hands. A gift? From Vibeka Kruse? Who barely reads at all? What might this tome be?

  “And what is in this history that makes it worth specific mention?”

  “Well, it is not so much a history as an account. And it is not the contents themselves that made it particularly significant for me. It is the author.”

  Sophie waited a moment, then asked, “And who is the author?”

  Leonora drew in a great breath and exhaled it all behind one word: “Me.” Leonora had never seen Sophie look surprised. It was quite reassuring, in a petty way.

  “You?” her friend murmured. And then smiled. “Ah. Of course. The you who married Corfitz. The you who probably continued to believe that I originally had designs on him for myself.”

  Leonora squirmed and told herself that she was not a three-year-old. However much she might feel like one at this particular moment. “Evidently, I was never disabused of that belief. Even by my own husband, apparently. And my autobiography was so painstaking in such details that I would certainly have mentioned such a revelation. Which proved to me that history’s—and my father’s—judgment of Corfitz’s character was correct down to the last, despicable particular.”

  “And so, that Leonora’s opinion of Sophie Rantzau never changed.”

  Leonora closed her eyes. “I confess: it did not. I also freely admit that I think I became a gifted liar. At least to myself. And I became petty. Well, more petty. And that person who I becam
e savored the arch bathos with which I depicted my enemies—either real or perceived.” Leonora could barely speak her final judgment, for it was the one that had the most overlap with who she knew herself to be in this world, as well: “I was quite insufferably pleased with myself.”

  Sophie took the young woman’s hands in her own. “And now that you are done excoriating the other you, you should take a moment to thank her.”

  “For what?”

  “For an unintended gift: to see who you could become. Because, to the extent that you reject the up-time version of Leonora Christina Christiansdatter, you now have the clearest possible path—a veritable instruction manual—to avoid becoming her.” She stood. “Now, unless you feel a need to do so, let us speak no further of this. That is part of a universe that shall never be. Whereas in this world, we shall soon be wanted at a party.”

  A sudden knock on the door seemed to underscore that reminder.

  Sophie’s lip curled ruefully. “Again, it is the prerogative of the king’s daughter—”

  “Yes, yes, Sophie.” Louder: “Who knocks?”

  “Mr. Michael McCarthy, ma’—er, Lady Leonora.”

  Sophie and she exchanged quizzical looks: was anyone on St. Eustatia not going to come knocking on their door as they were preparing for the party? “Please do come in, Mr. McCarthy.”

  The up-timer entered, sun hat in hands. Although a singularly grounded and competent man in most situations, and possessed of that peculiar species of confidence that accorded no special place to the title or birth of anyone around him, he seemed ill at ease.

  “Ladies, I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion. I know you must be trying to get ready for your ball—erm, party. But I’ve been looking for my friend, Hugh—er, the Earl of Tyrconnell. Someone remarked that one of you might know his whereabouts?”

  “Yes,” Leonora replied, turned toward Sophie, and saw the surprise, and then suspicion, in response to her young friend’s confident assertion.

  Leonora turned back to the up-timer. “I am mistaken. But Lord O’Donnell cannot be far. I saw him walking near the infir—the Government House this morning. I remember because his hand was still bandaged.”

  “From the finger he lost? That’s still bothering him? I thought he’d have recovered by now. Is it infected, or—?”

  Leonora waved a stilling hand, smiled. “Lord O’Donnell is quite well. Before he was allowed to return to his men on Trinidad, Dr. Brandão himself assessed the injury and pronounced it safe from reinfection. And the doctor is quite expert at assessing and treating injuries in the tropics. Shall we summon someone to help you find the earl?”

  McCarthy stepped back. “And wait here in the meantime, keeping two lovely girls from getting to a dance on time? Hell, no—I mean, gosh no, Lady Leonora.”

  “Then would you be so kind as to allow us to complete preparing for that party?”

  He bowed, and backed out. The door shut firmly.

  Sophie stared at it. “We should lock it,” she observed.

  Leonora nodded. “And then pretend we are not here.”

  Chapter 25

  Oranjestad, St. Eustatia

  Eddie ended the preliminary dance with his arm around Anne Cathrine’s waist and would have happily stayed there for another few seconds. Or maybe an hour.

  But the musicians were already launching into another tune: a galliard, he thought it was called, and there was no way he could manage one of those with his prosthesis. Besides, with all that hopping and leaping it looked a little, well, a little too showy. Like kids trying out for the cheerleading squad or to be dancers for the spring musical. Not his speed, even when he had two of his own feet.

  Anne Cathrine was already tugging him off the floor. “What’s the rush?” he asked.

  “Oh, it is this gown!” she complained. “I just had one hem mended and now the other is—ah! There she is!” Anne Cathrine waved at a small group of bystanders among whom he recognized exactly no one.

  “Who?”

  “The seamstress.”

  “Seamstress? Here?”

  Anne Cathrine finished towing him off the uneven floor of Government House’s half-filled great hall. “Yes, here! Eddie, understand: we brought our oldest gowns to the New World because we did not expect to need them, and also thought it quite likely that they would get ruined by—well, by something. So they are falling apart.”

  “And so you’ve got a—a seamstress on call?”

  “Yes! It is a wonderful idea, isn’t it?”

  He smiled. “Let me guess: you thought of it.”

  She swatted him. “Well . . . not exactly. One of the helpers here suggested it, and I agreed. There were always servants back home to take care of such things, even in the middle of a ball. And this puts some additional money into the community!” She slipped from his arm, turned, kissed his ear, whispered two words which immediately made him conscious that these formal pants were waaayyy too formfitting, and with a grin that had the slightest hint of a leer, dashed off to get her gown fixed. From where Eddie stood, admiring her go, there was absolutely nothing wrong with her attire. At that same instant, he realized that appreciating Anne Cathrine’s appearance wasn’t helping his “pants situation” in the least.

  He turned a sharp right face and marched himself over to the least stunningly dressed among all the most prominent guests. “Gentlemen,” he said by way of greeting as the music started once again. One dance and the musicians were already improving how they worked with one another.

  “Eddie!” exclaimed van Walbeeck. “Freed at last from the delicious clutches of your wife?”

  Tromp put a cup—well, a lopsided clay mug—of punch in the up-timer’s hand. “No rum,” he murmured in assurance.

  “Commodore!” barked Mike McCarthy as he snapped a fairly crisp salute.

  “Aw, c’mon, Mike; you’re twice my age.”

  “Yeah, but I’m not twice your rank,” rebutted the mission’s master mechanic. Although, more broadly, Eddie and everyone else knew that his real title ought to be Go-To Guy for Technical Problems. Particularly for problems that didn’t have readily discernible answers.

  Hannibal Sehested frowned, glanced at Tromp. “I was under the impression that Mr. McCarthy did not have a rank at all.”

  Hugh O’Donnell chuckled. “Don Michael is just—what’s that expression of yours?—pulling Eddie’s leg.”

  “Ah,” murmured Sehested, who was watching as various volunteers began converging on the main entrance. They were all men, and none of them were small.

  Bouncers, Eddie thought with a grin. And actually, in the sense of ensuring some measure of crowd control, that was the job they’d soon be performing.

  Van Walbeeck was watching them also, nodding approvingly. “All Lady Anne Cathrine’s doing, you know.”

  Eddie choked on his punch. “What? The bouncers?”

  “The what?” they all asked.

  Except Mike; he laughed, explained, “The men getting ready to open the doors and make sure we don’t have a stampede.”

  “Ah!” answered van Walbeeck. “Yes, them: her idea. It was inevitable, though, given her other orders.”

  “Her other orders?”

  “Why, yes; didn’t she tell you? She was the one who realized if everyone was allowed in at once, it would be madness. But she also realized that the normal order of entrance at the entertainments hosted by aristocrats would not be suitable here.”

  “Huh?” said Eddie.

  “Quite right,” agreed Sehested, who probably had more experience with such events than the rest of the group put together. “Normally, the less prominent guests are admitted first.”

  Mike McCarthy frowned. “Yeah, so that the big shots have an audience to ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ over their entrance.”

  Sehested frowned but continued. “However, here, all may attend, so there is no practicable way to follow that convention. Besides, she rightly foresaw that once all the attendees are within—or under the pa
vilions—the persons of prominence will have no respite.”

  “You mean from us smelly, unwashed masses?” Mike almost growled.

  Sehested turned toward him. “No, Mr. McCarthy, from the unremitting torrent of introductions and requests that will surely consume the rest of their evening.”

  Van Walbeeck jumped in before Mike could reply. “Lady Anne Cathrine foresaw that and other potential problems, and saw that the answer lay in how the entry of attendees could be structured to answer all of them.”

  “I’m all ears,” grumbled Mike.

  Van Walbeeck smiled congenially. “If the most prominent attendees were to have any time to themselves—such as we are having this very moment—it had to take place before the actual festivities began. And while we were here, having small samples of the refreshment, and, in the case of those so inclined, dancing, the volunteers had practice performing all the functions that they must soon perform for twenty times more people.”

  Mike nodded irritably. “And the musicians got a chance to get their act together. Mostly.”

  “Precisely! Now, here is the further genius of her plan. The sound of the music drifts out into the area surrounding Government House, not only working like a siren song but priming those who have gathered outside for the festivities.” The second dance concluded; that time, there had been no musical train wrecks. “And now, we shall see her concluding masterstroke.”

  Van Walbeeck gestured toward the doors, just as the bouncers—because that was what they really were, damn it—threw them wide and stood in the openings, hands raised until the crowd quieted and the simple instructions were given: women first.

  Given the speed and numbers with which females of all ages started flooding through those entrances, Eddie surmised that his amazing wife had probably instructed the volunteers circulating among the pavilions to make preparatory announcements to the crowd.

  As the torrent of ladies increased, the dancers came off the floor quickly, as much to cede it to newcomers as to avoid being trapped in a rapidly growing throng. Two of the last to escape were Leonora and Rik Bjelke. Eddie didn’t recognize his sister-in-law for a moment because the galliard seemed to have transformed her. He had never seen her so flushed, loose-limbed, and frankly radiant as, arm slipped through Rik’s, they rushed over to join the group.