And indeed, Ophelia was shattered. Berenilde had got her out of bed at four in the morning, on a whim, claiming that she urgently needed to work on her deportment. She’d got her to walk forwards with a book balanced on her head; made her go up and down the manor’s stairs until satisfied with her bearing; and, for more than hour, had focused obsessively on how she sat on a chair.
Since she’d stopped receiving visitors, Berenilde was devoting her days to reeducating Ophelia: how she behaved at the table, selected her dresses, served tea, paid compliments, pronounced her sentences . . . She was drowning Ophelia in so much advice that she couldn’t retain the half of it.
“Alright, Mother,” sighed Berenilde. “I’m sure I’m even more worn out than the dear girl. Drilling good manners into her is hardly restful!”
Ophelia reflected that Berenilde was tiring herself pointlessly, that she’d never be an affectionate, graceful, and witty fiancée, and that there were far more important things she should have instructed her on. Of course, she said not a word of this. Criticizing Berenilde wouldn’t help in patching things up with her. Instead, Ophelia saved her questions for Thorn, whenever he deigned to lift his nose out of his files or put the telephone down—in other words, rarely. The tone he used to address her was a bit forced, but he never dismissed her. Each day, Ophelia learnt more about the ancestry of the Dragons, their customs, their extreme touchiness, the gestures to avoid in front of them, and the words never to utter in their presence.
The only subject that was never broached, either by Ophelia or by Thorn, was their marriage.
“Would you pass me the cigarettes, dear girl? You’ll find them on the mantelpiece.” Berenilde had settled herself deep in an armchair, close to the storm-darkened window. With her hands laid on a stomach not yet rounded, she looked like a blissful expectant mother. It was a deceptive image, as Ophelia knew. Berenilde was carrying the child of a lord no longer interested in her. Concealed behind the exquisite porcelain face was a heart in turmoil and a mortally wounded pride.
With a friendly pat of the hand, Berenilde indicated the seat beside hers to Ophelia as she brought her the cigarettes. “I realize that I’ve been a little strict lately, so do come and rest beside me.”
Ophelia would have preferred to have a mug of coffee in the kitchen, but she could do nothing but comply with this woman’s caprices. She’d barely sat down before Berenilde proffered her cigarette case. “Take one.”
“No, really,” Ophelia declined.
“Take one, I tell you! Smoking rooms are unavoidably convivial places, you must ready yourself for them right now.”
Unconvinced, Ophelia reluctantly took a cigarette. If Aunt Rosaline saw her, she’d certainly be very cross. The one and only time she’d smoked tobacco was at the age of eleven. She’d had just a puff of her father’s pipe and then been sick all day.
“Always remember this,” said Berenilde, tilting her cigarette holder towards the flame of a lighter. “If a man is near you, it’s he who must light your cigarette. Inhale the smoke slowly and exhale it discreetly up into the air, like so. Never blow it into someone’s face—it’ll end up in a duel. Try it a little, just to see?”
Ophelia coughed and spluttered, her eyes watering. Her cigarette escaped from her fingers and she just managed to pick it up before her scarf caught fire. She decided that that would be her final attempt.
Berenilde burst into tinkling laughter. “Is there not one single thing that you can do properly?”
Her laughter died on her lips. Ophelia, still coughing a little, followed her eyes to beyond the sitting room’s open doors. Standing mid-corridor, letters in hand, Thorn was silently observing the scene. “Come and join us,” Berenilde suggested in an unctuous voice. “We’re having a bit of fun, for once!”
Ophelia wasn’t having that much fun; her lungs were aching from too much coughing. Thorn remained true to form: rigid from head to toe, sinister as an undertaker’s assistant. “I’ve work to do,” he muttered, moving off. His lugubrious footsteps faded as they reached the end of the corridor.
Berenilde stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray on a low table. Her manner betrayed her displeasure. Even her smile had lost its silkiness. “I don’t recognize that boy anymore.”
Ophelia was trying to pacify her scarf, as it unwound itself from her neck like an escaping snake. The incident with the cigarette had panicked it. “Where I’m concerned, I find him not that different from usual.”
Berenilde’s limpid eyes wandered through the window and into the storm-swollen clouds louring down on the park. “What do you feel for him?” she murmured. “I like to think that I can read the emotions in any face, but yours remains a mystery to me.”
“Nothing in particular,” replied Ophelia, shrugging her shoulders. “I know the man too little to have the slightest opinion on the subject.”
“Nonsense!” With a flick of her wrist, Berenilde used her fan as though she were wilting inside. “Nonsense,” she repeated, more calmly. “One can love at first sight. Indeed, one never loves someone more than when one knows the least about them.”
Bitter words, indeed, but Ophelia wasn’t sentimental enough to feel concerned. “I’m no more enamored of your nephew than he is of me.”
Berenilde considered her thoughtfully. The little blond curls, which danced like flames with every movement of her head, were stilled. Caught in the unrelenting beam of her stare, Ophelia suddenly felt as a ewe must, thrown at the paws of a lioness. Her headache returned with renewed vigor. Try as she might to convince herself that this pain wasn’t real, that it was Berenilde’s mind interfering with hers, it still hurt. What was this woman actually punishing her for, after all?
“Do what you will with your heart, my girl. I only expect you to fulfill your duties and not to disappoint us.”
She’s not punishing me, Ophelia realized, fists clenched against her dress, she wants to control me. It’s my independence of mind that concerns her.
At that moment, the sound of a bell echoed through the manor. A visitor announcing their arrival. Whoever it was, Ophelia silently thanked them for such a timely visit. Berenilde seized a little bell from the low table and shook it. There were similar ones on every piece of furniture in the manor, so a servant could be summoned from any room.
A maid instantly appeared and curtseyed. “Madam?”
“Where is Madam Rosaline?”
“In the reading room, madam. She was most interested in madam’s stamp collection.”
Cheered by this, Ophelia reflected that as long as there was paper in this house, in whatever form, Aunt Rosaline would find something to keep her hands busy.
“Make sure she stays there while I’m receiving,” instructed Berenilde.
“Yes, madam.”
“And accompany this child back to her quarters,” she added, flicking her hand in Ophelia’s direction.
“Very good, madam.”
Like a little girl who hadn’t been good, Ophelia was double-locked into her bedroom. It was the same ritual every time someone visited the property. Patience was the best tactic—when Berenilde received visitors, it could go on for hours.
Ophelia was teasing her scarf, as it writhed gleefully on the carpet, when the giggling of some maids made her prick up her ears:
“It’s Mr. Archibald!”
“Did you see him, with your very own eyes?”
“I even took his hat and his gloves!”
“Oh! Why do such things never happen to me?”
Ophelia pressed her ear to the door, but the hurried footsteps were already moving away. Could it possibly be the Archibald from the summer garden? She wound her hair around her fingers. Supposing it was him, what would happen if he mentioned his meeting with an Animist, right in the middle of a Mirage party? Berenilde would tear me to shreds with those claws, Ophelia concluded. And if I survive, Thorn will never answer
any of my questions ever again. In what kind of soup have I landed myself now?
She paced up and down her room. Not knowing what was brewing behind her back, right at this very moment, made her extremely tense. She’d already found the atmosphere stifling since her getaway; she didn’t want her relationship with her in-laws to deteriorate completely.
Unable to stand it any longer, she hammered on her bedroom door until someone came to open it.
“Yes, miss?”
Ophelia breathed a sigh of relief. It was Pistache, her lady’s maid. This adolescent was the only member of the staff who dared to be a little familiar when the mistress wasn’t around. “It’s a little chilly in my room,” said Ophelia with an apologetic smile. “Might it be possible to light a fire?”
“For sure!” Pistache came in, relocked the door, and then removed the grate from the fireplace.
“I understand Madam Berenilde is receiving an important visitor?” Ophelia whispered in a low voice. Pistache placed some logs in the hearth and threw her a twinkly look over her shoulder. “Oh yes!” she whispered back, excitedly. “Mr. Ambassador’s ’ere! And it’s an almighty surprise for ma’am.” With a coquettish gesture, she re-pinned her lace bonnet to improve its appearance. “Oh my, miss! Don’t never go near ’im, or ’e’ll soon ’ave you in ’is bed! An’ I’m told even ma’am couldn’t resist ’im!”
The pronounced accent of the adolescent, fresh out of her native province, prevented Ophelia from understanding all she said, but she’d grasped the essential. It was indeed the Archibald she knew. She kneeled close to Pistache, in front of the fire that was taking hold with a heady smell of resin. “Say, mightn’t I observe the meeting between Madam Berenilde and this ambassador? Very discreetly, of course.” Pistache made a face. She likewise couldn’t always understand Ophelia’s accent. When Ophelia repeated herself more slowly, Pistache went so pale that her freckles stood out like a firework trail. “Can’t! If ma’am finds out I let you out without permission, I’m a goner! I’m awful sorry, miss,” sighed Pistache, “I bet you’s dead lonely ’ere, an’ all. An’ you treat me with respect, you’s polite and listen kindly to me, but you ’ave to understand . . . Can’t, end of!”
Ophelia put herself in her position. Berenilde didn’t play games when it came to the loyalty of her servants. If just one among them betrayed her, they would all surely be hanged. “All I need is a mirror,” she ventured. The maid shook her plaits, looking apologetic. “Can’t! Ma’am said you couldn’t—”
“Big mirrors, yes. Not pocket mirrors. I couldn’t get out of this room with a pocket mirror, could I now?” Pistache stood up and dusted down her white apron. “True. I’ll fetch you one right away!”
A few moments later, Pistache returned with a hand mirror, a veritable work of art in embossed silver and surrounded with pearls. Ophelia took it carefully and sat on her bed. It wasn’t the most practical object, but it would do. “Where, as far as you know, is Madam Berenilde receiving the ambassador right now?”
Pistache thrust her fists deep into the pockets of her apron, a casual stance she would never have assumed in front of her mistress. “A quality guest, always in the red sittin’ room!”
Ophelia visualized the red sitting room, named after its splendid exotic tapestries. There were two mirrors in there, one above the fireplace, the other at the back of a silver cabinet. The second would be the ideal hiding place.
“Pardon me askin’, but what you gonna do with that mirror?” asked Pistache, really intrigued. Ophelia smiled at her, put a finger to her lips, and took her glasses off. “It stays between us, doesn’t it? I trust you.”
Before a stunned Pistache, Ophelia placed the mirror against her ear until it had been entirely engulfed. The ear reemerged inside the silver cabinet in the red sitting room, at the other end of the manor. Ophelia immediately recognized Archibald’s jocular voice, somewhat muted by the cabinet’s pane of glass:
“ . . . tesque Madam Seraphine, who likes to surround herself with Adonises. Her little gathering was exquisitely decadent, but lacked your special touch! You were missed.” Archibald went quiet. A tinkling of crystal. His glass must be being filled. “Just as you’re missed at court,” he soon added, suavely. Then Berenilde’s voice could be recognized, but she spoke too softly for Ophelia to hear what she was saying, even when blocking her other ear.
In front of her stood Pistache, astounded. “Don’t tell me, miss, you can ’ear the chat down there!”
Holding the mirror like a telephone receiver, Ophelia indicated to her not to make a sound: Archibald was replying. “I know that, and that’s precisely the reason for my coming here today. The newspapers depicted you in such alarming terms, we thought you were on your deathbed! Our Lord Farouk, although not the sort to worry about anything other than his own pleasure, is showing signs of concern about you.”
Silence. Berenilde must be replying to him.
“I know those rags always exaggerate,” Archibald’s voice continued, “especially when they’re a conduit for jealousy. However, I must speak candidly to you. You’re no longer a very young woman, and childbirth, at your age, can prove hazardous. You’re in a vulnerable position, Berenilde. Your property, comfortable as it is, is far from a fortress, and a servant is easily corrupted. Without mentioning all the poisons currently circulating on the market!”
This time, when Berenilde responded, Ophelia picked up “thank you, but” and “nephew.”
“Thorn can’t be at your side day and night,” Archibald gently chided her. “And I’m not saying that solely in your interest. The Treasury needs to reopen its doors. Too many cases are dragging on in the courts; the provincial militia has gone to seed; couriers are circulating without consent; controls are becoming scarce; and everyone is swindling everyone. Only yesterday, the Council of Ministers was denouncing these failures.”
Perhaps it was due to irritation, but Berenilde’s voice became much clearer inside the silver cabinet: “Well, delegate! My nephew can’t keep the Citaceleste functioning single-handedly.”
“We’ve already discussed the matter, Berenilde.”
“What are you after, ambassador? If I didn’t know you, I would say that you’re trying to isolate me . . . or to push me to get rid of my child.”
Archibald’s burst of laughter was so loud, it gave Ophelia a start. “Berenilde! What sort of odious character do you take me for? And there was I thinking that we understood each other well, you and I. And what’s this ‘ambassador’ all about? Haven’t I always been Archibald, and only Archibald, to you?”
A brief silence fell on the red sitting room, and then Archibald continued in a more serious tone:
“It is, of course, out of the question that you cut short your pregnancy. What I would suggest, in fact, is that you come and stay at my place and allow Thorn to return to his Treasury. I consider it a personal duty to care for you and the child you’re carrying.”
Ophelia’s eyes widened behind her glasses. Berenilde at Archibald’s. Thorn at the Treasury. So would she and Aunt Rosaline remain alone at the manor?
“I’m afraid I will have to decline your proposal,” said Berenilde.
“And I’m afraid I will have to impose it on you. It’s an order from Lord Farouk.”
In the renewed silence that followed, Ophelia didn’t find it hard to imagine how Berenilde must be feeling.
“You have caught me unawares. Would you permit me to summon my nephew?”
“I was going to request that you do so, my dear!”
Once again, Berenilde’s footsteps faded, making her words inaudible, but Ophelia had caught the familiar sound of a bell. Berenilde was issuing her orders. Archibald barely had time to utter a few niceties before Thorn made his entrance to the red sitting room.
“Mr. Ambassador.”
Purely from the sound of these words, spoken in that chilling tone, Opheli
a could visualize those eyes that cut like a knife. Thorn hated Archibald—she could tell instinctively.
“Our indispensible Treasurer!” proclaimed Archibald in a tone dripping with irony. “I haven’t yet had the chance to congratulate you on your engagement! We’re longing to meet the lucky girl.”
He must have stood up since Ophelia was hearing him from a slightly different angle. Her hand had tightened around the mirror. One misplaced word from this man’s mouth and she’d never have any peace again.
“My fiancée is perfectly fine where she is for the moment,” retorted Thorn in a leaden voice.
“I daresay she is,” Archibald murmured, glibly.
That was all. He added nothing more, made no reference to their meeting. Ophelia could barely believe it.
“Let’s get to the point,” he continued, cheerfully. “Mr. Treasurer, you are summoned to return to your duties forthwith. The Citaceleste has been thrown to the four winds!”
“That is out of the question,” declared Thorn.
“It’s an order,” retorted Archibald.
“I don’t need any orders from you. I intend to remain by my aunt’s side until the birth of her child.”
“It’s not an order from me, but from Lord Farouk. I will personally assure, at his request, your aunt’s safety.”
Ophelia’s ear was filled with an endless silence. She’d been so engrossed in what she was hearing that she’d completely forgotten about Pistache, standing in front of her and burning with curiosity. “What they saying, miss? What they saying?”
“I presume that there is no conceivable way out of this,” Thorn’s voice finally articulated with extreme stiffness.
“None, indeed. Make your arrangements as of today. Berenilde, you will come to Clairdelune this evening. A ball will be organized in your honor! Madam, sir, I bid you good day.”
Mime
Ophelia remained still and silent for a long while, her ear hovering in the silver cabinet. Accepting the fact that there was no one left in the red sitting room, she placed the mirror on her bed. It was so heavy that her wrist was aching.
A Winter's Promise Page 18
