by Eva Ibbotson
‘No,’ said Guy.
It was coming, the moment to which his whole will, his whole being had been directed . . . the moment which had had its birth in the Vienna Woods so many years ago.
‘Who does, then?’ And as Guy was silent, she persisted, ‘Whose is it, then?’
He turned his back to the castle, wanting to see nothing but her face.
‘Mine.’
She did not understand him at first; it was too incredible. ‘What do you mean, Guy?’
‘I mean that I have bought Burg Pfaffenstein,’ he said carefully. ‘It is mine and – if you wish it – yours.’
If ever a man had his reward, Guy had it then. Nerine’s eyes widened, she drew in her breath; her face became transfigured and in the first spontaneous gesture of love that she had shown him, she let her head fall against his shoulder.
‘Oh, Guy,’ she breathed. ‘Oh, darling!’ All doubts left her, the spectre of Frith vanished into the mists of his native air. ‘I can’t believe it.’
Arthur, stunned into tact, retreated. Guy, closing his arms around her, feeling her hair against his cheek, hearing her whispers of gratitude, had that sense of complete ‘arrival’, of ‘being there’, which human beings continually crave and hardly ever actually experience.
He belonged to the old tradition of knight errant: the chevaliers sans peur et sans reproche who ask of their lady only that she is beautiful and willing to be served in order to ride to the ends of the earth at her bidding. Valiant, selfless – and generally slain – the Lochinvars and Lancelots of this world, however, were not granted the benison that was now to be bestowed on Guy: a prolonged, close and domestic sojourn with the beloved.
‘Come!’ said Guy now, holding open the door of the car. ‘I want to show you everything.’
She smiled up at him, lovely as daybreak. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Oh yes, my darling. Yes.’
But in the room in the West Tower where the Duchess and the Margravine were waiting with David Tremayne to greet them, anticipation and excitement had suddenly drained from the day.
‘She can’t come at all?’ said the Margravine, her plump face puckered. ‘Not even for the reception and the ball? Not for her birthday?’
‘I’ve read you what she says,’ said the Duchess, holding out the letter which had just been delivered. She was regally dressed for the occasion in a grey silk dress entirely devoid of cobwebs or even the smallest piece of clinging cheese, but the hooded old grey eyes were suddenly bleak and lifeless. ‘She has asked her professor for leave, but she is needed in Vienna; she cannot be spared.’
The Margravine groped for her handkerchief and surreptitiously wiped her cheeks. ‘It won’t be the same without Putzerl,’ she said, and the pug – hearing the name which meant walks, games and being scratched in exactly the right place on the stomach – shot out of his cope and (as was his wont) began to slither, yapping, round the floor.
David was silent, but he too had to fight down a sudden sense of desolation. He had worked unstintingly over the past three months, turning Pfaffenstein into a place in which Le Roi Soleil himself would have been pleased to dally during a summer progress through the countryside. But though he had worked for Guy and thus for the woman at whose feet Guy wished to lay the castle, it was the image of the small princess of whom everyone spoke with such warmth that he had held in his mind. It was the thought of pleasing her, of showing her that her home was in good hands, which had given a special zest to his labours. Now, suddenly, everything seemed pointless and flat.
‘She will come later,’ said the Duchess, laying down the letter. ‘She promises that.’
But she was eighty-one, her sister-in-law only two years younger. The word ‘later’ was entirely without significance for them. They wanted their great-niece, with her loving heart, her power to make them laugh, in the only time that they still counted on; the present – now.
‘Oh, be quiet, Quin-Quin!’ snapped the Margravine as the agitated dog continued to yap and ricochet off the furniture.
But as they recaptured the pug the eyes of the old ladies met, anticipating another and even more formidable disappointment. All the guests due to arrive on the following day would miss Putzerl badly, but for Maxi and his mother her absence would be a disaster. Maxi was definitely going to settle things with Putzerl, the Swan Princess had made this clear. Maxi was serious. He was bringing the dogs.
‘They are here,’ said David. His sharp ears had heard a car drive into the main courtyard. The servants would already be mustering in welcome. Time, then, to go forward and greet Pfaffenstein’s new master and his chosen bride.
Nerine had been assigned the state bedroom in the main facade with three long windows overlooking the lake. An incredible room with its vast bed carved with cupids and peacocks and canopied in yellow, hand-painted Lyons silk. The jewelled Sèvres toilet set of sixty pieces which Marie Antoinette had sent to an earlier Princess of Pfaffenstein lay on the rosewood and ivory dressing-table. Drifts of sandalwood rose from a pair of agate perfume burners and curled languorously between the glittering drops of the chandeliers.
‘It used to be Putzerl’s room – our great-niece’s room,’ explained the Duchess. ‘She inherited it when her father died.’
‘But we used to find her sleeping on the floor,’ put in the Margravine.
‘So she moved to a room in the West Tower,’ said the Duchess.
‘Thank you, the room is quite delightful,’ said Nerine in the careful German that no one could fail to learn under the strict tutelage of Frau von Edelnau.
‘The Archduchess Frederica usually has it when she comes but—’ the Duchess broke off for the ‘but’. Though unpleasant to contemplate, this was no longer her affair. Pfaffenstein now belonged to Herr Farne and the task of explaining to this most disagreeable of relations that she had been ousted by the Englishwoman would fall to him or his nice young secretary.
The ladies departed and Nerine, despatching her maid to unpack in the dressing-room, was left alone.
It was unbelievable . . . staggering! Pfaffenstein was hers! Pfaffenstein! If only her mother could see her, and those girls at Frau von Edelnau’s who made such a fuss every time they danced with a count! Well, they would see her! Everyone would see her. She would be married here, of course. To think she had almost accepted poor Frith with his draughty tower and gloomy moors.
But she must not be idle. She must be generous. She must give. In twenty-four hours she would stand beside Guy at the reception, welcoming in ownership a veritable Almanach de Gotha of guests.
Like a general checking the supplies before a battle, Nerine surveyed the room. Yes, there were plenty of mirrors. The oval one, framed in porcelain flowers, on the dressing-table; three hand mirrors in the Sèvres toilet set; a large Venetian one set between the silk panels on the wall and a free-standing cheval glass on clawed legs which could be turned to the light. With the small magnifying mirror that travelled with her everywhere and the built-in double mirrors of the painted wardrobe in the dressing-room, she ought to be secure.
She glanced at her watch. There was no time to lose: in an hour Guy was coming to give her ‘The Ring’: ‘I want everyone to know that you’re mine,’ he had said as they drove up to the castle. ‘Everyone. And now.’
The ring, he had explained, was part of a parure. He was going to give her the necklace before some opera or other which he was staging in the theatre and the earrings on their wedding morning. How she loved such gestures! The romance of it all . . .
She seated herself at the dressing-table and began to smooth her eyebrows. ‘Quick, Pooley,’ she called. ‘I want the yellow peignoir – it will take up the colour of the bed hangings. And I want my hair dressed very high.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Would you want the yellow mules as well, or the gold sandals?’
‘The mules. I want everything very informal, flowery . . . no jewels. Hurry, girl, for heaven’s sake!’
Pooley loosened her mistress’s hair,
and the knee-length, unbelievably luxuriant blue-black tresses mantled the snowy shoulders and flowed down her back. The Bible was right, Nerine thought, there was power in hair like that. She would never follow the fashion for short hair, never! Staring eagle-eyed into the mirror, she watched as Pooley braided her hair and dressed it in shining coils. Then, as the last pin was in place, she changed her mind.
‘Undo it again. Brush it out.’ She had not yet meant to let Guy see the full glory of her unbound hair. But Pfaffenstein . . . In procession she saw in her mind the incredible rooms through which they had come. The great hall with its domed ceiling . . . the blue salon . . . the vast marble staircase – what an entrance she would make down those stairs! Yes, her impulse was right. She would be wholly giving: he should see even her hair.
‘I will sit in that gilt chair by the window. Put it so that the light falls on my left side. Good heavens, girl, how many times do I have to tell you, the left side!’ There was a small beauty-spot on Nerine’s left cheek, God’s last blessing on his handiwork. ‘Yes, that’s good,’ she said, pulling the pleated silk robe closer. ‘I might have known about the furnishings when I bought it. Give me the mirror and the comb.’ Guy would think he had come too early, she would start a little, turn . . . There should be flowers near: that bowl of roses and lilies. Could she hold a rose in her hand? No, not if she was combing her hair. Or wear one behind her ear? No, because she wanted the dishabille look: ‘Beauty Surprised’. But suppose she had been overcome by the loveliness of the rose as she combed her hair?
‘Quickly, one of those roses in the bowl. No, you idiot, a pale one. Yes, that’s right. Now you can go.’
Thus Guy, entering the room a few minutes later, saw the woman who held his heart. She sat, fresh as the morning, by the open window with the light shining on the heart-rending perfection of her curved cheek. Her incredible hair streamed over her shoulders; her face was pensive, serene, and she was looking down at a flower cupped in her hands – on a rose whose fragrance had made her forget her toilette. She was like the lady in the unicorn tapestry at Cluny, caught in her enclosed garden, dreaming, forgetful of her beauty.
‘I’m sorry – am I early?’
‘Oh Guy, you startled me!’ She smiled up at him. ‘How could you be early, my dearest? I’m always happy when you come.’
Joy welled up in Guy. She was worthy of every guerdon; nothing he had done had been excessive. A thousand castles, a million banquets would not be too many to lay at her feet.
But Nerine had put down her rose and was looking at the small box he carried – a box which he now opened and placed wordlessly in her hand.
‘Oh!’ For a moment she was speechless. She could not remember when she had been so moved. This surely must be the largest, the most valuable diamond in the world. ‘Guy,’ she said. ‘Oh, Guy, darling!’
Gravely, Guy bent and slipped the jewel on her finger. Then, in a gesture as old as love itself, he knelt at her feet and put his head, almost as dark as hers, into her silken lap.
And in the mirror, Nerine smiled.
‘Where is The Mother?’ cried Boris for the seventh time that morning.
‘She’s inside the wig basket,’ soothed Tessa. ‘Screwed down very tight and wrapped in Pamino’s petticoat with lots of padding.’
‘Mind your backs, please! Mind your backs . . .’
The International Opera Company was loading to go on its mystery assignment and in the narrow lane behind the theatre the confusion was incredible. A huge covered lorry, advertising itself as the first motorized pantechnicon in Europe and looking as though it would soon be the last, was parked half on the pavement. An old army truck and something resembling a gigantic hearse were parked close behind. Jacob was rushing about with a list, so was the stage manager: everyone, in fact, had lists.
Though the chorus, orchestra and principals were to follow by train, several of the artistes had come to see the fun and were busy getting in the way of the men carrying the scenery and props out of the theatre.
‘Herr Klasky has just phoned,’ screamed the Rhine-maiden from the stage door. ‘He wants to know if Tessa has his towelling robe.’
‘Yes, I have it, Frau Witzler,’ called Tessa. ‘He left it in the Green Room.’ She snatched the tottering Bubi from the path of an oncoming trolley, ran back to fasten the windows of the dressing-rooms and administered aspirin to Frau Pollack who was getting ready for her travelling migraine.
‘The cyclorama!’ yelled Witzler. ‘My God, the cyclo-rama!’
Gradually the chaos subsided. Tessa, Boris and the stage manager climbed into the pantechnicon. Jacob shut the door and seated himself in the cab beside the driver and – to the screams of Bubi who wanted to go in the lorry with Tessa – the company took to the road.
They crossed the Ringstrasse and headed south, Jacob frowning in a rare moment of contrition as he recalled his last glimpse of the under wardrobe mistress curled up between a pile of flats, her shorn head jammed against the pillars of Sarastro’s temple. Perhaps he should have let her have the twenty-four-hours’ leave she had requested: she had looked very troubled when he had refused. But the truth was, he simply could not face the get-in without her. Klasky had Beethoven’s waistcoat button but he, as he was beginning to realize, had Tessa. There was also the matter of his little son. The Rhinemaiden could lift a piano but her nerves were delicate and Bubi adored Tessa. In fact, he had thought of suggesting that Tessa might like to have Bubi’s cot in her room at Pfaffenstein.
Well, it was done now. He forgot it, thoroughly pleased with the way he had kept Farne’s secret. No one but himself and the driver knew their destination. Even the principals would only receive their instructions when they got to the station. Not many people could do that but he had done it. And now for a week of glory!
Tessa, in the back, rested her head more comfortably on the rolled-up starcloth. She had been very miserable when Jacob had refused her leave, knowing how disappointed the aunts would be. But if it was not to be, it was not to be and there was something very real about spending one’s birthday like this. Jacob had said she could have leave later and she would go home then – except that it was no longer ‘home’. Being unpaid, she could take leave whenever she wished, but that had not for a moment occurred either to her or to her employer.
In the darkness of the windowless van she could just make out Boris leaning against a cut-out tree. He had unpacked The Mother and was speaking to her softly in Bulgarian, promising her milk.
There was nothing to do, thought Tessa dreamily . . . not for hours. She could think, or rest or sleep . . .
Tessa’s sleep debt was boundless. In her attic in the Wipplingerstrasse, to which often she did not return until the small hours, she was at the beck and call of the little Kugelheimers who regarded her bed as a perfect refuge from the tigers and spooks that inhabited their nursery. She was the first to reach the theatre and the last to leave at night . . . sleep for Tessa was what salvation is to the sinner, enlightenment to the mystic: mostly unattainable and infinitely desired.
Her eyes closed, her small hands uncurled. She was in a red plush-lined room and Mozart was looking down at her. She knew it was Mozart because of the radiance that shone from him. ‘I wrote it for you,’ he said, and handed her the score of Figaro but when she opened it, it was a box of Karlsbad plums.
Thus Tessa slept and smiled and slept . . . slept as they drove through Neustadt and Feldberg . . . slept as they paused for Frau Pollack to be sick beside a railway siding in Oberwent . . . slept as Boris covered her carefully with his own overcoat. She was still deeply and utterly asleep when the lorry stopped and Witzler climbed down, opened the double doors and said, ‘We’re there.’
‘Good God!’ Boris had climbed out and was looking at the vast courtyard, the soaring towers, the lowered flag with its gold griffin and scarlet glove. ‘It’s Pfaffenstein, isn’t it? I came here once on an excursion.’
A chorus of ‘Pfaffenstein! We’re at Pfaffe
nstein!’ echoed round the castle walls as the stage-hands and carpenters climbed out of the other covered lorries and examined their surroundings.
‘Yes,’ said Jacob proudly. ‘It’s Burg Pfaffenstein.’ He peered into the pantechnicon and saw Tessa, pale as a snowdrop, still curled in sleep. ‘We’ll leave her for a bit,’ he said, feeling contrition touch him once again, and turned to find David Tremayne coming towards them, followed by a posse of retainers: tall craggy men with war ribbons pinned to their liveries of crimson and green.
‘Mr Farne thought you might like to see your rooms first,’ said David when he had introduced himself. ‘We have managed to get the whole company into the Fountain Courtyard – that’s through the archway. The theatre’s over there.’ He pointed to the huge double doors at the end of the great south facade. ‘We’re rather keen to get the lorries away by six because the reception begins then, so I’ve brought along some men to help your people unload and show them where things are. They’re old castle servants and absolutely trustworthy.’
Jacob thanked him and with Boris and the still ailing Frau Pollack, followed the young Englishman into the arcaded courtyard with its creeper-covered colonnades. The company, he saw at once, had been royally treated. The rooms were light and most comfortably furnished; a double bed for himself and his Rhinemaiden had been specially brought in and the room assigned to Raisa was, tactfully, the largest and filled with flowers.
Well pleased, conveying his thanks to Herr Farne, Jacob returned to supervise the unloading. And saw at once that something was wrong. The men were not working; they were standing round the pantechnicon, scowling and furious, and when they saw Witzler they swarmed round him, their mood so ugly that some absurd idea of a strike or revolution crossed Jacob’s mind.
‘They’ve taken Tessa!’
‘Kidnapped her!’
‘Frog-marched her away. Those louts in green and red uniforms.’
