by Minda Webber
Rae, who was sitting on the blue brocade couch, began tapping her foot upon the floor, her nostrils flaring. “Do you know how many swains I’ve had? And of course I do not allow them to become too familiar with my character! Good breeding requires this. But I can assure you quite firmly that they all adored me.”
Greta bit her lip to keep from giggling. Rae was rewriting history just like their mother.
“Furthermore, I do not want that great oaf for a husband, baron or not. He’s ugly and poor. I thought he would never leave me alone.”
“Ah, yes, so interested in you that he has shown no interest beyond that night,” their aunt retorted. “Whatever have you done to make these men change their minds so quickly? And Baron Schortz is not poor. In fact, he is more endowed with lands and coins than most princes. The money comes, of course, from his mother’s side. They were related to Norwegian royalty, and had some Viking blood or some such thing. And we all know that Vikings were well off. Always have been and always will be.”
“We do?” Greta asked.
“Yes. All those ill-gotten gains from pillaging and plundering in their early years. Built empires upon it. I feel quite sure Baron Schortz’s family got their money the same way. Still, gold is gold, however it was gained.”
Greta would have argued the point, but Rae, having caught the gist of the conversation, was shaking her head. “Baron Schortz is royalty as well? But he seems such a common churl.”
“He’s not royalty,” their aunt replied.
“But you said his mother is related to Norwegian royalty, which would make his blood blue as well,” Rae argued. “How can such a buffoon be wealthy and royal at the same time?” And the fool man had been besotted, so where were her roses? Surely he had not taken her cool indifference to mean that she found him annoying! Although, at the time, unaware of all the circumstances, she had.
Their aunt waved her hand in dismissal. “His mother was related to Norwegian royalty. Which is certainly nothing like Prussian royalty.”
Rae just shook her head. Royalty was royalty, whether one was a Norwegian king, a Prussian duke or an English prince. Her aunt was talking utter rot.
“He would have done for you. Such a shame that he’s lost interest. The poor man loved his wife greatly. He suffered quite a bit at her death. In fact, the countess’s dinner was the first time I have seen him so animated in some time. But if you’ve disgusted him, then you’ve disgusted him. And it can’t be helped, although it puts me in an untenable situation. How am I to find a husband for you, Rae, if all men take a dislike to you after only one meeting? No wonder your poor mother sent you to another country for marriage. I’m sure you turned all the local men against you.”
Oh boy, Greta thought, the blades were out. There would be battle over that comment. She opened her mouth to intervene as Rae came up off her seat and stood, hands on hips. At the same time, a maid came into the room bearing a vase filled with water. Rae bumped into the young maid, which caused her to lurch forward and trip. The maid spilled the water all over their aunt’s ottoman, upon which happened to be resting the fat white Persian cat. The water splashed the cat, causing it to screech and leap upon their aunt. The salon was soon filled with their aunt’s cries, mixed with the sodden cat’s howls, along with the maid’s terrified apologies.
Greta managed to hold her laughter to a minimum. Rae, however, was bent over like an old woman, hooting, her anger forgotten. Anything that made her aunt look foolish lifted her spirits, even more so than a dozen well-paid compliments to her beauty.
“You stupid gel! You may now join the ranks of the great unwashed and unemployed! My poor little Miss Muffet—all wet!” the baroness screamed at the poor frightened maid.
Rae, who had heard the maid earlier in the week talking about her sick mother and a house filled with younger siblings, knew why the maid’s face was the color of fresh milk. Her giggles subsiding, she turned to her aunt. “’Tis my fault, Aunt Vivian. I tripped her accidentally.”
“You foolish, wicked gel. And you stupid maid, quit crying and come clean me up. I still intend to let you go, but you can clean up your mess first.”
Greta and Rae both glared at their aunt. Mistreating servants was something they were used to observing at home. Their mother often complained and yelled; at the same time, she never fired the help.
“Come, I’ll assist,” Rae said. “And I’ll help you pack. I’ll be sorry to see you go, since you have such a talent with hair. But I’m sure my aunt won’t mind sharing her maid with me, or hiring me another hairdresser while I’m here.”
Baroness Snowe stopped mopping her cat and glanced from the still sniffling maid to her least favorite niece. “Astrid dresses hair? Why didn’t I know this?”
“Well, I needed help the other night, but your own maid was busy. Astrid volunteered to help, and you know what a masterpiece she created.” Rae was lying. She had been doing her own hair for years, since she trusted no one to be able to duplicate the artful hairdos she managed to create herself. After all, her hair was her crowning glory.
“Yes, your maid is inspired,” Greta quickly added, already understanding the situation. “Never have I seen Rae’s hair look better. And as long as it is, why, it sometimes takes hours and hours just to do her hair. Perhaps, Aunt, you wouldn’t mind your maid doing Rae’s hair first. Or you could dress maybe an hour or two or three earlier than usual, so that your maid will have time to attend to Rae’s hair. After all, knee-length hair must be washed and dried, and then just the arranging of it can be quite time consuming.”
“I had no idea,” their aunt remarked frostily, a deep scowl creasing her brow. “You should have said something sooner. Why am I just hearing about this?”
“Rae meant to bring it up, but Astrid solved the problem,” Greta volunteered, her quick mind at the ready. Although she didn’t lie all that often, a good deed was a good deed and a lie was a lie, and sometimes the twain did meet.
“Very well,” their aunt sniffed. “I guess she may stay. Now, clean up this mess immediately. I must attend to my little Miss Muffet. Poor dear. I hope she doesn’t catch cold. A cat with a cold is too much to bear. Do be ready to go on time tonight. I absolutely hate arriving at a musicale late. It is so plebian.”
Their aunt then sailed from the room in a flounce of material, her soggy cat clutched to her ample bosom.
Astrid smiled weakly. “Danke. You saved my position. But I know nothing about coiffures.”
Rae and Greta both grinned, with Rae saying cheerfully, “I know that and you know that, but Aunt Vivian doesn’t know that. We escaped by a hair.”
CHAPTER NINE
Mozart and Whalebone Corsets
’Twas the night of the musicale, and all through the house, people were chattering away while Rae listened, a frown on her pretty face. Greta stood nearby, spellbound, her mind working furiously.
“The corpse was gone.”
“They opened the grave and no one was there!”
“What must Herr Choplin think? His mother’s body is missing.”
“The town’s overrun by vampyr. We are doomed, I tell you. Doomed! Where is my vinaigrette?”
“Missing corpse, empty coffins and vampires. Oh my,” Greta whispered.
Rae bopped her sister with her fan, and glared at her as they were ushered to their seats. The room settled down for a long and delightful winter’s entertainment. Soon no one was stirring within the house, as all were listening in rapt attention to the odd little man with the bizarre hairdo. His mastery of the piano was riveting, and his nimble fingers skipped across the keys. Crashing sounds as well as soothing melodies poured forth.
Yet, Rae wasn’t spellbound by Herr Mozart, for she had other things on her mind. Three other things, in fact. The first occurred when Herr Mozart sat down to play and someone had the misfortune to request Beethoven. The little man had jumped to his feet and begun to curse. At least Rae thought he’d been cursing, but she didn’t understand becau
se he was speaking in German. The lady seated next to her swooned, at any rate. Rae had decided then and there that she really must learn the language, since their curse words seemed pithier.
After the lady was revived and Herr Mozart placated, the musicale had begun in earnest. The banging music quickly turned melancholy and transported one to heights of fantasy. But another thing happened that kept Rae from thoroughly enjoying the music and the Italian singer who accompanied Herr Mozart: He was there. The big lummox with Norwegian royal blood flowing through his big, blue baronic veins. And he actually ignored her very lovely self. It was galling to no end! In fact, it didn’t matter that other men were admiring her and comparing her blue eyes to a summer’s day or her hair to spun moonlight. It didn’t matter that a duke complimented her dress. Baron Schortz had merely nodded at her once the whole evening, then turned his back on her. On her! It wasn’t to be borne. The man was even stupider than she’d thought.
Rae tried to speak to Greta about her dilemma, but Greta was busy concocting cemetery plans for later that night. Cemetery plans that included Rae—though Rae wouldn’t go. Not on her very desirable life, Rae mused; and that was the third and final reason Rae sat stewing in her chair as the heavenly music flowed around her. She didn’t intend to go haunting cemeteries in the dead of night looking for the undead. Just because some silly woodcutter’s mother’s body had vanished from its grave and had the town in an uproar, was not a good enough reason to be curious. Greta could coax her till the cows came home, but Rae was not blindly following her this time. Trolls under a bridge in daylight were one thing; vampires and empty graves at midnight were quite another.
When Herr Mozart and the singer took a break to sample the buffet, Countess DeLuise took advantage of the moment to start her usual rave about rampaging vampyr. Hungrily, Greta listened to each and every word, and began to discuss the new occurrence with glee.
Rae glared at her sister. Verily, Greta’s behavior was most vexing and unladylike. A missing corpse was most assuredly not a reason to frequent graveyards. In fact, it was decidedly a reason not to visit them. Unhappily, her big sister was just foolish enough to do so. Just curious enough to try and find one of the bloodsucking leeches so that she could write home about it. And to think: their father thought Greta was the clever one!
What a horrid surprise he would be in for when Rae wrote and told him that a nasty old vampire had bitten Greta. He would be horrified, and her mother would have apoplexy, and it would all be Greta’s fault. Instead of concentrating on trying to trap a spouse, Greta was knee-deep in fairy tales, and at the pace she was going she’d soon be up to her neck. She’d never get married…but, then, she would be dead so it wouldn’t really matter. Of course, their mother would blame it all on Rae, anyway. Her morbid thoughts caused her to send her sister, seated two chairs down, a look fraught with bitter resentment as the recital again began.
Greta had been listening to the piano’s opening notes while at the same time plotting out her strategy to visit graveyards. When her sister sent her such a glance, however, Greta turned her attention to Rae. The girl was obviously annoyed with her plan, so it might be better if she didn’t come to the cemetery. Yet Greta didn’t feel entirely comfortable going alone. She didn’t feel that either she or her sister would be in any real danger. Their parents had not raised a fool; a spinster, perhaps, who loved legends, but never a fool. With every practicality, she would undertake precautions to make sure that if they did encounter the undead, she would be more than ready. And she could hardly wait to write to her brothers and sisters about this startling and intriguing development.
Suddenly, Greta’s plotting was interrupted by a pretty, plump young woman who scurried into the large salon and approached the piano, daggers shooting from her eyes. Greta had been introduced to the Baroness Wagoner and knew her to be the widow of some obscure lesser noble. Wrathfully she stopped and stood literally screaming at Herr Mozart, holding a woman’s whalebone corset in each hand. Both corsets were of the finest make, with tiny emeralds sewn into the bodice and upon the hem. They were both ivory, and decorated with fine Belgium lace. Unfortunately, their appearance was ruined by big black musical notes. Row upon row of musical notes.
The audience listened unabashedly as the baroness berated Herr Mozart for ruining her lovely new undergarments.
“Philistine!” Herr Mozart shouted. He quickly grabbed the corsets and cradled them close to his chest.
“You mad little man!” Baroness Wagoner shrieked. “These are not the only undergarments you have ruined with your ghastly little sonatas.”
Herr Mozart, who was several inches shorter than the raving baroness, still managed to look down his nose at her. “That is a little nightgown music. It’s an opus!” He pointed grandly to his mistress’s underwear. “Who cares for such inconsequential things as ruined garments when genius is at work? You should be down on your knees thanking the heavens that your corsets received such tribute.”
Greta heard a man behind her whisper something to the effect of, “I’ve heard she’s been down on her knees quite a bit. Only, I should rather think Mozart would be doing the thanking.”
The two men chortled at the jest, while Greta pondered their words, wondering if it had something to do with husband and wife duties. But their mother had never mentioned being on your knees for anything besides praying.
Her musings were interrupted once again by Herr Mozart, who was dramatically announcing to the room in general, “My nerves are overwrought by this demented and ungrateful woman. I can play no more.” And then, waving his hands, he left the room in a royal huff, even though Greta doubted he had a royal bone in his body. Baroness Wagoner swiftly followed, finally realizing the folly of her rage. The room immediately erupted in gossip. Yes, tongues were definitely wagging tonight.
The girls’ aunt, her nose in the air with disapproval, made much ado about protecting her nieces from such lewd and gauche behavior; but to any who looked, her eyes were alight with victory. How fortunate that they had attended the musicale tonight, which the baroness had almost not deigned to attend. What utterly marvelous gossip she would now have to discuss with her dearest friends, all twenty of them, on the morrow. And on that wicked little note, Baroness Snowe ushered the two Grimm sisters out into the chilly night.
Rae tapped her foot eagerly while waiting for the carriage to take them home. She should be enjoying another successful evening and boasting of her many conquests, but she was torn up by the exception of one man who was too simple to live. Unfortunately, Baron Schortz hadn’t died in a snowstorm and been turned into a snowman as she had hoped. And he hadn’t sent flowers or written odes to her eyes, feet or glorious hair. Instead, he had basically ignored her.
“Just who does he think he is? If the baron thinks being ignored bothers me…well, he’s in for a big surprise,” she muttered under her breath, glad that her aunt was gossiping with another of her cronies as the coach approached.
Greta stood to Rae’s side, no doubt plotting strategies of how best to convince her younger sister to accompany her. Rae spoke up first: “I couldn’t care one whit about some loutish Prussian—or graveyards.” She said the last with a definite emphasis, just loud enough for her eldest sister to hear.
Their aunt hailed their conveyance, and Rae caught Greta’s studious glance. It was one, she knew, that boded evil.
“That poor old woman’s corpse is missing. Everyone was talking about it tonight,” Greta coaxed, watching her aunt’s plump backside disappear into the carriage.
“It was most likely misplaced,” Rae replied.
Greta gaped. “The grave was opened, Rae, after the body was laid to rest. It was not misplaced. Vampires, I’m betting.” She nodded emphatically, lifting her gown to step up into the carriage. “And I’m going to the cemetery tonight come hell or high water.”
“High water? More like blood. What with all the deranged, undead men leaping out of coffins and trying to bite you. Well, just g
o ahead and be drunk to death,” Rae hissed at her sister’s back. She would be old and gray before anyone found her wandering around a cemetery at midnight.
CHAPTER TEN
Everybody Loves Rae, Mon, Even Vampires
Several hours later found Rae neither old nor gray but standing in the middle of a cemetery glaring at her sister, with more than one smelly necklace of garlic around her neck. “How do I let you talk me into these things?” she asked. “Sometimes, just sometimes, I think I may not be very bright. And I smell like some week-old Italian dish. It’s so unladylike.”
Greta chuckled and moved slowly, looking for disturbances in the snow around the graves. Dense shadows lay beyond her lantern light, which was something of a ghostly glow. They passed monuments of black marble and white granite, and dense, shadowed ebony spaces in between. Thick snow covered the ground. This was definitely a dark fairyland made of mist, magic and hopefully a measly monster or two. Or so Greta hoped.
Turning to the left, Rae noted that several large crypts rose out of the darkness. Lantern light revealed their shapes, but no distinguishing marks.
“Nonsense, Rae. You smell like a good bowl of soup— and who says you aren’t bright?”
“Me, since I let you prey on my guilt so I would come here tonight. I shall just die if anyone should see me dressed in my old gown, with my old boots and breeches underneath. No lady, especially one seeking a husband, would ever appear this way. What if one of my suitors should see me?”
“Oh, fiddlesticks. What would a suitable suitor be doing out here in the dead of night in a freezing cold graveyard? Unless he’s a vampire,” Greta admitted. “But then he’s quite unsuitable. Besides, Rae, the better gentlemen have more on their minds than what you are wearing.”
