by Eva Ibbotson
‘If only we could see her settled,’ said the Duchess. ‘Of course she will always have a home with us but. . .’
‘Don’t worry,’ said the Swan Princess grimly, beckoning the flunkey to demand another slice of ham. ‘Maxi knows his duty. We shall have an announcement any minute now.’
Nerine, sitting between Guy and her brother Arthur, looked round with utter satisfaction. Twenty-four hours had completely changed her view of Guy. For Mama had been mistaken about him: low-born or not, he seemed to have an extraordinary power of attracting people – and not only young Tremayne and the rest of his staff who obviously worshipped him. One could say that Guy had simply bought the company of these aristocrats, but she could see in none of his guests the slightest sign of contempt despite the fact that he made no secret of his origins. In fact, some of the women were already being extremely silly: that oil-stained dowd and the fat Italian marchesa who had fluttered her eyelashes at him at the ball. As for the young Princess of Pfaffenstein, Nerine intended to make sure that she never set foot in the castle after the house party was over, which meant that her aunts, too, would have to go. True, Guy in explaining their past encounter had spoken of her with obvious dislike, but Nerine had seen Tessa’s face when she had first caught sight of him – and there was going to be no more of that!
Yes, Guy must marry her here and marry her soon, thought Nerine. Later, of course, they would return to England: ‘abroad’ was never quite the same, but as a setting for a wedding, Pfaffenstein was unbeatable. She would need a few months to get an adequate trousseau together, but then . . . And turning to her brother Arthur, she found that he was able to inform her of the exact cost of the fireworks purchased for the night’s display.
The aunts had offered to accompany Guy on a tour of the picture gallery, suggesting that he and his fiancée might care to know a little of the history and background of the family. After luncheon, therefore, they set off – together with David Tremayne who was now almost as familiar with the castle as the ladies themselves – for the long, panelled room which adjoined the great hall and connected it, on the eastern side, with the ante-room to the theatre.
‘We’re sorry our great-niece has so little time,’ said the Duchess as the sound of violins, followed by Hungarian expletives, floated towards them.
‘We would have liked her to show you everything, but she is so occupied with her work,’ said the Margravine who was carrying the pug, informally wrapped for daytime in a quatrocento dressing-gown.
Nerine, who was delighted that the princess intended to spend her days out of sight grubbing about in a dirty theatre, replied suitably and they entered the gallery.
Row upon row of Pfaffensteins confronted them. Men in every possible uniform stretching back through time: men in the sombre black of the House of Spain with their lace ruffs and intricate daggers, men in the service of the Austrian court sporting their medals and sashes . . . There were Pfaffensteins astride rearing horses, Pfaffensteins with their wives or more often, with their dogs . . . Pfaffensteins in the scarlet of cardinals, in armour, in opera cloaks, in tails . . .
A supercilious lot of devils, thought Guy, noting again and again among the men in slashed hose and doublet, the women in hooped skirts or riding habits, the fawn, almost amber hair of Witzler’s under wardrobe mistress, her auburn eyes.
Nerine, never bored when there were clothes to be studied, was walking gravely along the rows. There were one or two useful ideas here. That muslin cape over the brocaded sleeve was very effective: gossamer lightness against the firmness. She liked the way that chain of gold beads was looped over the low bodice . . . and that coif-like head-dress – if she had that copied and sewn with sequins for evening it would suggest a very special sort of innocence. And at every third or fourth picture she paused, carefully studying her own reflection in the glass. Yes, she had been right to wear only a cool, white blouse open at the throat, a simple navy pleated skirt, so that the eye sated by the splendour of the pictures would return to her own fresh simplicity.
‘We could never get her to sit still,’ said the Duchess to David Tremayne, who had paused at a simple pencil sketch of a child with tumbled hair. Her voice, as always when she spoke of her great-niece, had softened and grown warm. ‘But there’s a painting of her by Scharnach in my bedroom if you’d care to see it.’
‘In her confirmation dress,’ put in the Margravine.
Guy, who had passed the drawing of the young princess with studied indifference, was examining something which interested him more than the actual portraits. The same motif in many of the carved and gilded picture frames, on the shields and flags held aloft by the sitters, and again worked into the mosaic of the gallery’s lovely birchwood and maple floor: a lily, stylized and graceful, a surprisingly peaceful emblem for these warlike princes.
‘I was wondering about this flower,’ he said, tracing the pattern on the floor with the tip of his shoe. ‘It seems to turn up everywhere. Even on the battlements of the Old Fort over the drawbridge.’
The aunts exchanged glances.
‘There is a legend . . .’ began the Margravine, and looked at her august sister-in-law for permission to continue. ‘From the time of the Third Crusade. Count Johannes was ruler here then and he had a wife, the Lady Isabella, who was very, very beautiful. He loved her very much and she loved him. They loved each other greatly.’ She looked a little anxiously at her audience, wondering if she had gone too far, for they were English and known to be cold.
‘Then in the year 1311 the call came from the true Church to go on a crusade against the Infidel,’ said the Margravine, ‘and Count Johannes rode away to war.’
‘The Lady Isabella was quite distraught, but he promised to return and bring her all the spoils of battle. “It is in your name that I go to recapture Jerusalem,” he said to her.’ The Margravine had unwrapped the pug and lowered him to the ground in order to do justice, with fervent gestures, to the story.
‘He fought very bravely,’ the Margravine continued. ‘Heroically. But at the Siege of Acre he was hit by an arrow and mortally wounded.’
‘And as he lay there with the blood draining from his body he saw, growing quite close to him, a single flower. A lily. The Lily of Paradise.’
‘Lilium auriculum,’ put in the Duchess, always happy when returning to fact. ‘White, very fragrant, on a leafless stem.’
‘Count Johannes managed to drag himself towards it and pick it, then he turned to his squire and said, “Take this flower to my lady and tell her that I died with her name on my lips.” The Margravine paused, quite overcome with the drama of it all. ‘So the squire took the flower and spurred his horse and galloped to Smyrna. For days and days he rode in the hot sun but the flower didn’t droop or wither. Not at all. And in Smyrna he took a galley to Venice and the journey lasted for weeks and all the time – all that long time – the lily stayed as fresh as when it had been picked.’
‘That is the legend,’ put in the Duchess.
The Margravine’s soft blue eyes rested reproachfully on her sister-in-law. ‘Even when he took horse from Venice to Vienna,’ she continued, ‘even then the flower stayed fresh and fragrant. And then at last he reached the castle. He expected a welcome and food and warmth but the castle was silent and shrouded. Everyone inside it was grieving. The Lady Isabella had fallen ill, you see – gravely ill – on exactly the same day as her husband was wounded, though she knew nothing about it, of course.’
‘They were sternengeschwister, you see,’ explained the Duchess.
The ladies’ German had been getting too rapid for David and Nerine.
‘Star siblings?’ David translated, puzzled.
The Duchess nodded. ‘Don’t you have that in English? People who are born under the same sign. He was her Star Brother, she was his Star Sister. They were heavenly twins. Gemini. Even in England you must have that?’
‘Yes,’ said David as Guy turned away, frowning, ‘we do.’
‘Anyway, th
e squire ran to the Lady Isabella’s bedchamber where she was lying, just holding on to life. Waiting . . . waiting . . . for what she did not know. And he knelt down and handed her the flower and said, “Your husband sends you this and asked me to tell you that he died speaking your name.” And she took it and smiled because she understood what she had been waiting for, and then she died.’
‘And it was only then—’
‘Only after she died—’
‘That the lily wilted.’
They waited for the effect of the story, nodding in a satisfied way at each other, and were rewarded by smiles from David and Nerine.
‘Since then the husband and wife at Pfaffenstein have often been astrological twins. The first Prince, who married a cousin of Louis the Fourteenth and was faithful to her for fifty years, and the fifth Prince who—’
‘No, Tilda, that’s rubbish. Tessa is a Gemini and Maxi is a Pisces and they are excellently suited in every way.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. I didn’t mean—’
‘Goodness, how romantic!’ The story had appealed greatly to Nerine. ‘I’m an Aquarian. What about you, Guy?’ She looked at him, smiling, a delicious dimple in her cheek.
But Guy had turned away. ‘Why ask me?’ he said gruffly. ‘You know I don’t know when I was born. Or where.’
‘Well, but roughly.’
Nerine, please don’t bother me with that kind of rubbish. If there’s one thing I hold in utter contempt, it’s astrology.’
She drew in her breath. Guy had never spoken to her like that, never! ‘Well, really,’ she began.
But the pug had begun to bark and wag his tail and Guy, who happened to be looking at David, saw the young man’s face light up in a way which gave him considerable disquiet.
‘Putzerl!’ The Margravine’s face was illumined. ‘We were just telling Herr Farne and Frau Hurlingham the story of the Pfaffenstein Lily.’
Tessa, still in her working smock, had taken a short cut to the kitchens and was carrying a pile of velvet cloaks for steaming. How can she go round looking like that, thought Nerine. How can she?
‘Yes, it’s a nice story,’ said Tessa. ‘They’re both in the crypt of the church here in effigy. Very formal, you know, and kneeling in prayer, but so close their noses are practically touching. Although . . .’
Her voice died away.
‘Although?’ prompted David.
Tessa shrugged. ‘It’s just that he rode away, you know, with her favour on his saddle and her name on his lips. “In your name I will conquer Jerusalem,” he said. But did he ask her if she wanted Jerusalem, or the heads of the infidels or the spoils of war? I imagine her always leaning out of the window with her long plaits hanging against the stone and wanting none of the things he was getting for her. Fame, glory, the jewels of Saladin. Wanting only that he should stay and be with her. How could she want anything but that?’
‘But surely men have always got things for women. I mean, it’s chivalry, isn’t it?’ said Nerine.
‘Yes.’ Tessa shook herself free of her thoughts. ‘It’s chivalry, certainly.’ She smiled at Nerine over her pile of velvets. ‘I will see that you have it. That you get it on your wedding day.’
‘Have what?’
‘The Lily. The Lily of Pfaffenstein.’ She appealed to the aunts. ‘Didn’t you tell her?’
‘We were just going to. You see, after the Lady Isabella died they made a copy of the Lily of Paradise in silver. And the tradition is that it is handed to every bride who comes to Pfaffenstein on the morning of her wedding.’
‘Oh!’ Nerine’s eyes widened with pleasure. ‘Where is it, then?’
‘It’s in the bank in Vienna,’ said Tessa. ‘I took it when I left. It’s the only thing I took from Pfaffenstein.’
‘But how will you get it here?’ said Nerine. ‘You obviously won’t,’ she added firmly, ‘want to come yourself.’
David looked sharply at his employer. Surely he intended to ask the princess, and the aunts who had been so helpful, to his wedding? But Farne was silent and forbidding, in his most ‘Mr Rochester’ mood.
‘I’ll see that you get it,’ said Tessa quietly. ‘I’ll find someone to bring it to you. Someone suitable.’ She looked up suddenly, her face glowing with an idea which pleased her, and addressed Guy for the first time. ‘Your foster-mother!’ she said. ‘Martha Hodge! She’ll be coming for the wedding, won’t she? And travelling through Vienna? I’ll give it to her! She sounds exactly right as a bearer of lilies.’ She moved to the door and as David hurried to open it for her, she turned and said, ‘We are making a lovely opera for you. A truly lovely opera!’ And thanking David, was gone.
‘What is all this about an opera, dearest?’ enquired Nerine an hour later as she walked beside Guy along the path that climbed upward from the postern gate, through flower-studded meadows towards the woods. ‘What did she mean? What exactly is happening in the theatre?’ She had delayed Guy only long enough to place a navy tam o’shanter aslant on her curls and was in a most relaxed and gracious mood.
Guy turned to her eagerly, his eyes at their bluest. ‘I wanted it to be a surprise but that’s absurd, needless to say. You’ll have heard them rehearsing already. It’s The Magic Flute, of course – what else could it be?’
She waited, holding her smile as she had learned to do before the mirror. It was important to get this right.
‘I couldn’t resist hearing it once again with you. Only having you really beside me, not separated by a wretched wall.’
Of course. They had met at the opera, she had remembered that. So it must have been The Magic Flute. But the whole scene was not quite clear to her yet and since it obviously meant so much to Guy she prompted gently:
‘What was I—’
But Guy, fortunately, was already telling her. Describing his first sight of her with her dark ringlets dancing on her shoulders, the white dress with little blue flowers, the way she had smiled at him over her fan – and now she could remember it all. The box at the Imperial Opera, the French girl who had bet her that she couldn’t get the Hungarian count in the next box to come over in the interval . . . So she had smiled and he had come, but with Guy, and the relief of finding that Guy spoke English . . . And really, how well it had all worked out!
‘. . . and the way Selma Kurz made her voice sound so totally disembodied – I’ve never heard such unselfish singing!’
Nerine, nodding absently, was suddenly filled with excitement. She had had a most wonderful idea! This opera was obviously meant as a climax to the house party. Arthur had worked out the sums involved in hiring a whole opera company and they were quite simply staggering. So she would reward Guy by reproducing, exactly, the effect she had made on that first night! There was no problem with her hair – she could still carry off ringlets in the Greek style – and she happened to have a dress with tiny blue flowers; that kind of fashion never dated. Not forget-me-nots, it was true, but fleurs de lys – still, that would do. The gold ribbons were no problem, nor the sandals, and she could manage the tiny posy of blue and white fresh flowers she had tucked behind her ear. But the fan . . . was there time to send to Vienna for a white, pearl-encrusted fan? And what about jewellery? She had worn none then owing to the stuffiness of Frau von Edelnau, but would the effect be too understated without any? After all, every eye would be upon her.
But Guy had stopped talking about music and it was necessary once more to listen.
‘How much time shall you want to spend here, do you suppose?’ They had entered the forest and he was looking round critically, aware of how much essential work was concealed beneath the romantically lichen-silvered trees. ‘I’m tied to Austria for a while on this business for the League, but after that we could travel.’
‘Travel? Where?’
‘Oh, anywhere! The Amazon. The Gobi desert. Peru. The world is yours, my love.’
She laughed, aware that Guy was joking. ‘I’d like to go to Paris in the spring, of course, for the collecti
ons. And be in London for the Season. But I think we could do much of our entertaining here and of course it’s the perfect place to be married. I thought the end of October for the wedding – would that do?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘I shall write to my relations tomorrow.’ She paused. ‘What about your old nurse, Mrs Hodge? She won’t really want to travel abroad, will she?’
‘She’s not my nurse, Nerine. She’s my foster-mother, she brought me up. I shall certainly ask her to come. I think perhaps she will, even though she’s never been abroad before. She always swore she’d see me married.’
Nerine repressed a sigh. It was going to be awkward, but no doubt she would find a way round it.
They had reached a small, still pool beneath the larches and Nerine paused, now, to study her reflection in the still water. A wave of her scent, cool and fresh, a movement of her head, sent Guy back in memory to that day in the Vienna Woods and suddenly, more than anything, he wanted to kiss her. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her towards him, only to be halted by an anguished and piteous cry.
‘Oh, no, no! Oh, Guy, look!’
He stared at her desperate face. Tears had actually sprung into those enchanting eyes, and her lips trembled.
‘What is it? For heaven’s sake, Nerine, what’s happened?’
‘There! Look! Can’t you see?’ She was staring, horrified, at something inside the lapel of her blouse.
Guy looked. Low down on Nerine’s throat, just where the swell of her breasts began, the white skin was disfigured by a pink and rapidly swelling blob.
