by Sarah Rayne
‘Of course not.’
But if Mr Devlin was prepared to take a gamble, Herr Istvan was prepared to take it with him. ‘I promise to do all I can for you,’ he said. ‘You are a casualty of war.’
‘Not even my own war,’ said Michael, and then, at once, ‘No, that’s wrong. All war is everyone’s business.’
The operation would, it appeared, be performed under a full anaesthetic, as the earlier ones in England had been.
‘Just as well.’ Michael did not ask if the eyes would be removed from their sockets for the process, as he had not asked in England. There was something quite inexpressibly horrible about imagining your eyes dangling over your cheeks.
‘And then,’ said Istvan, ‘perhaps a week, perhaps ten days with dressings. You understand?’
‘Yes. And you could perform the operation, when?’
There was the sound of pages being turned; a diary or a rota, Michael supposed. Istvan made a brief telephone call, questions in his voice. At length, there was the sound of the receiver being replaced.
‘In one week,’ said Istvan, spinning his leather chair around again. ‘You present yourself here and a room will be available. The operation, it will take place on the morning following.’ He paused, and Michael felt him searching for words. ‘The fee, that is presented upon your going out.’
‘Yes.’ Michael drew a deep breath. ‘And the fee itself?’ he said, and heard the figures fall on his consciousness.
A large sum. A very large sum. He frowned, calculating rapidly. It would take a great deal of his savings. Should he mortgage the Hampstead flat? No, he would be damned if he would. It had been too hard-won, and a mortgage would be a millstone. The flat would be the last thing to go.
It would have to be Field’s book, may he rot in a teetotal hell. Csejthe revisited.
He turned his head to where he sensed Istvan sat, and said in a voice that surprised him with its coolness, ‘It is all acceptable. I shall see you in a week.’
Reverend Mother always found it startling how people from the outside world could talk with such facility on the telephone. One might, at times, almost imagine they were seated on the other side of one’s carefully ordered desk. It was certainly astonishingly easy to imagine Sister Catherine’s father seated opposite her now. He had a cultered, silken-sounding voice and he phrased his request in terms of the utmost courtesy.
And even a lifetime in God’s service did not render one wholly immune to charm of this strength, even while one was hearing and feeling a curious, not wholly pleasant undertone.
But the request seemed genuine enough. Sister Catherine’s brother was ill, said the cultured voice; severely so, it was feared, although the cause was not yet discovered. But it would be a very great kindness if Reverend Mother – the title was given with careful accuracy – it would be a very great kindness if Catherine – Sister Catherine – could be permitted to return to her family for a few days.
It was not unreasonable; nuns had families, and at times the families had need of them. Reverend Mother always tried to give such requests a sympathetic hearing.
And there was no reason to refuse. Sister Catherine’s father was apologetic and polite. Reverend Mother, whose distant youth had included a romantic adventure or two before the greatest of all lovers beckoned, thought that this gentleman had the assured manners of a courtier and the faint imperiousness of one accustomed to being obeyed.
She thought she was not a fanciful woman – a lifetime in God’s service honed any lingering romanticism from any soul – but she believed that Sister Catherine’s father had precisely the silk-over-bared-teeth caress to his voice that you would expect from a gentleman of an ancien régime. Arrogant and charming and probably highly unscrupulous. She dug a fingernail into her palm to warn herself against day-dreaming and said into the telephone that it would be an easy matter to grant Sister Catherine a small dispensation. A few days would be enough? Perhaps they should say a week.
‘A week will certainly be sufficient,’ said the cool voice in her ear.
‘There is a small matter . . .’ Annoyingly a note of apology crept into her voice. ‘It is our rule that our sisters are not permitted to travel alone,’ said Reverend Mother. ‘You could perhaps come to Vienna to collect her?’ She waited, and annoyingly her heart quickened its beat perceptibly.
At the other end, there was a pause; infinitesimal, but long enough to be noticeable. ‘I regret that would not be possible,’ said the courteous voice at last. ‘My wife is distrait. I could not leave her.’
‘Then perhaps you would not find it an imposition to offer hospitality to one of our other sisters? One who could accompany Sister Catherine?’
Another of the pauses, almost as if he might be consulting with someone. Then, ‘It would be our pleasure,’ said the cultured voice. ‘Our house, Varanno, is so large that we can always welcome our friends, and those of our children also. My wife and I will be happy to welcome Catherine’s travelling companion.’
Reverend Mother thought that this was a very smooth, very astute gentleman indeed. She frowned and shook her head to clear the images, and looked into the corridor outside her study where Sister Margaret was diligently polishing the oak floor, but delighted to abandon it to go in search of Catherine.
The silver-haired gentleman with the cultured voice, replaced the telephone and sat back in the high wing-chair beneath the small portrait of the pale-skinned, dark-eyed woman in sixteenth-century dress.
On the other side of the desk, a young man with the same hungry eyes and sensuous mouth as the portrait said smoothly, ‘Well done, Franz-Josef. Very convincing.’ He poured a glass of wine from the decanter. ‘There is a saying within the Family that you could charm an abbess into bed. Well?’
‘Cat is coming back,’ said Franz-Josef, softly. For a moment the reflection cast by the crimson velvet drapes across the window touched his face, showing up the beautiful bone structure and the high cheekbones. ‘She is coming back,’ he said again, half to himself, and there was a sadness in his voice. ‘Back into the cage.’
Ladislas Bathory lounged back in his chair, the glow from the wine casting a red shadow across his face. ‘She should never have been allowed to leave the cage,’ he said. ‘You should not have let her go.’
‘It was her wish.’
‘You were the one who said that individual wishes couldn’t count. And you were the one who paid Cat’s dowry. I don’t suppose St Luke’s would have taken her empty-handed.’ Ladislas leaned forward. ‘Are we safe? Has she talked?’
‘No. She does not know that there is anything to talk of.’
‘You can’t be sure. And inside that place – the lure of the confessional . . .’ Ladislas looked back at the portrait. ‘Cat was very fascinated by the Lady,’ he said, thoughtfully.
‘It’s a very fascinating face. She was a very alluring creature,’ said Franz-Josef. ‘At least, the legend says so. But Cat never knew the truth about her.’
‘Supposing Pietro told her.’
‘No.’
‘You can’t be sure about that. Cat and Pietro were very close,’ said Ladislas, and Franz-Josef looked up sharply.
‘You always resented that,’ he said, softly. ‘Cat and Pietro. But Pietro told Cat nothing. And even if he had and even if Cat had talked, Reverend Mother couldn’t have hidden it from me.’ A brief smile. ‘You were the one who said I could charm an abbess into bed,’ said Franz-Josef silkily.
‘The Church is accustomed to keeping secrets,’ said Ladislas, stubbornly. ‘As it kept this Family’s secret four hundred years ago.’
‘Oh yes. It dared not do otherwise. And we have had four hundred years of living in stealth ever since. Four centuries of safeguarding the secret. Watching every action and every word . . .’ He leaned back in his chair, his fingers curled about the stem of his wine-glass. ‘Where did you find Pietro?’ he said and his voice was suddenly sharper.
‘In Paris.’
‘Living –
comfortably?’
‘Oh yes. Pietro would never live other than in luxury,’ said Ladislas, bitterly, and Franz-Josef smiled.
‘You hate him very much,’ he said, softly.
‘Quite as much as he hates me, I daresay.’
‘Pietro never hated you, Ladislas.’ The smile thinned and became faintly cruel. ‘There was no need for him to expend his energy on hating you,’ said Franz-Josef, gently. ‘You never posed any kind of threat to him, you see.’
‘When I confronted him, he came with me like a lamb,’ said Ladislas, defensively.
‘Did he indeed?’ Franz-Josef regarded the younger man thoughtfully. ‘Do you know, Ladislas, I find it very difficult to imagine Pietro doing anything docilely. I find it even more difficult to imagine him trusting you.’
‘I told him Cat was ill,’ said Ladislas in the triumphant voice of one who believes he has brought off a coup. ‘I told him Cat was ill, just as you told Cat that Pietro was ill.’ He stared defiantly at Franz-Josef, and after a moment, said, ‘I suppose you are thinking I stole your little ruse, are you?’
‘No, I am thinking how very young you are. You do know that I am aware of your little machinations, I suppose?’
‘Machinations?’
‘Dear me,’ said Franz-Josef, sounding amused. ‘What a lot of practice you need before you can sound properly bewildered. I mean, my dear, your plan to remove me and rule the Family in my stead. I am perfectly aware of all your childish, greedy games, Ladislas,’ he said, leaning forward, so that the light caught his eyes. ‘And I am really rather tolerant of them. But unfortunately for you, I am Elizabeth’s direct descendant and I am her hereditary heir.’
‘Direct descendants and hereditary heirs have been toppled before now,’ said Ladislas, softly. ‘The Lady herself was toppled,’ he said, looking back at the portrait. ‘She overreached and underestimated, and—’
‘And she permitted her lusts to cloud her judgement,’ said Franz-Josef sharply. ‘There is a salutary lesson in that. Remember it.’ He paused. ‘Her death is not one I would wish for anyone,’ he said.
‘But they dared not let the truth about her be known.’
‘No. Any more than we dare let the truth be known about us.’ He frowned and, after a moment, said, ‘It’s enough of the past. Cat is coming back. She will hate it, of course. She will fight us all.’
‘I hated searching Europe for Pietro,’ said Ladislas, coldly. ‘And you hate the fact that I am using him to bargain with you. We can’t have it all ways, Franz-Josef. When does Cat arrive?’
‘In a day or so. She will be accompanied by another nun. It’s their rule,’ said Franz-Josef. ‘I couldn’t sidestep it.’
Ladislas’s lips curved upwards in the thin crescent that heightened his resemblance to the portrait. ‘A nun,’ he said. ‘Virgin blood almost certainly. A rarity these days. How extremely interesting.’
‘And now – you will let Pietro go?’ Franz-Josef’s voice was perfectly steady, but a muscle jumped in one cheek. ‘That was the bargain,’ he said. ‘If I would bring Cat back, if I would persuade her into the ritual at Csejthe, you would free Pietro. Well?’
Ladislas spoke softly, but the calculation was back in his voice. ‘I will let Pietro go after Cat has attended the ritual,’ he said. ‘Until she has been offered Elizabeth’s legacy, as she should have been offered it two years ago. Until then, Pietro will remain my prisoner.’
Catherine turned so white when she was given the news of Pietro’s illness, that, for a moment, Reverend Mother feared the child would faint. She said carefully, ‘You have a particular affection for your brother?’
‘I have – he is very special to me,’ said Catherine, in a whisper, and for a moment her dark eyes were filled with such remarkable beauty that Reverend Mother was taken aback.
But she said they had already entered Pietro Bathory’s name in the Mass book so that they could offer a Mass for his recovery. And there would be prayers for Sister Catherine’s family, asking that they might bear their trial with fortitude.
Catherine said, ‘I see. Thank you.’ It tore at her heart to think of them all praying for Pietro whom none of them had met. Pietro, with his astonishing looks and his remarkable charm would be amused to think of a houseful of nuns praying for him. Please God let him be well enough to be amused. It was scarcely bearable to think of Pietro’s eyes dulled with sickness, his skin harsh and dry with fever . . . The memories came tumbling out, painful, too near the surface.
The night when Pietro had climbed through her window at Varanno – had she been twelve and Pietro sixteen then? He had been running from a pair of infuriated brothers from one of the farms whose sister he had seduced, and his hair had been tumbled and his eyes brilliant with mischief. Catherine had sat up in bed, hugging her knees, wanting to know what was happening, happy beyond relief that he should run here for help.
‘Hide me, Katerina,’ he had said, torn between fear and laughter. ‘And for the love of all the saints in Heaven, don’t let them into the house.’
‘Would they hurt you?’ It was like a French farce only miles better because it was Pietro and it was fun.
‘They’d castrate me on the spot,’ said Pietro and grinned, wholly unrepentant and in the best tradition of French farces had vanished into the deep old wardrobe at the side of the chimney breast until the alarum was over. And of course Catherine had lied for him, and of course the irate brothers had not caught him. And of course he had gone back to the village, either to the same girl or to others. At twelve, it had been wholly dazzling to have a brother who behaved with such extravagant wildness and had such forbidden adventures.
‘All an act,’ he had said to her once, his mouth a guileless curve, but mischief shining in his dark eyes. ‘Why won’t anyone believe that I’m actually a rather quiet, rather serious person?’
‘Are you?’ Catherine had tried to sound severe, and Pietro had smiled and said, ‘Of course I’m not, Katerina.’
But he could be very serious indeed and in ways you least expected. Catherine had sometimes come upon him curled into one of the wing-chairs in their father’s library, the fire turning his hair to burnished copper, a glass of wine at his side, so absorbed in whatever he was reading that the wine had been ignored and her own quiet entrance scarcely noticed.
‘Are you reading something very fascinating?’ she had said to him once on one of these occasions.
‘Our family, Katerina,’ he said, closing the book and returning it to its place on the shelves. ‘And it’s very fascinating indeed. I’ll tell you about it all someday.’ And then he had led her from the library and the subject had been dropped.
No matter how hard you clamped the lid down on the memories, at times they forced their way up, scalding and hurting. Catherine brought her mind back to the present and said, ‘Do you know what . . . Did my father give you any details?’
‘Only that the cause was not yet known. But I fear it must be serious for them to send for you, my dear.’
‘I understand.’ Reverend Mother had an old-fashioned belief in mannerly reticence and she never probed. Catherine said ‘Shall I travel to Varanno with a companion?’
Reverend Mother made an uncharacteristic spur-of-the-moment decision. She said, ‘I thought the English Sister Hilary could go with you. She has some experience of nursing, and she could perhaps be of help to your parents.’
‘Yes. Thank you.’ Catherine was rather comforted at the thought of having Hilary with her at Varanno. It ought not to matter who accompanied her, of course, but once inside Varanno she would be grateful for a sympathetic companion. She was going to have to withstand them again, she was going to have to be strong, and she was going to have to be strongest of all when she saw Pietro again. Four years. Fours years since that night when he left Varanno . . .
Her cousins had never understood Pietro. You either loved Pietro almost to the edge of idolatry or you hated him. Ladislas had hated him. Catherine could remember how he had
fought Pietro when they were both quite young; not openly and honestly with fists as cousins often did, but furtively and nastily: hiding in Pietro’s bedroom and creeping out to pounce on him. Pietro had always believed that it had been Ladislas who had set the two villagers on to him that night.
‘Because he hates you?’ Catherine had said, thinking that this was a reasonable explanation.
‘Because he would have liked the lady for himself,’ Pietro had said.
Ladislas had been jealous of Pietro, of course; he had said that Catherine saw Pietro as a god. ‘Such devotion,’ he had said, sneeringly. ‘Cat’s dazzled by her own brother, poor simple creature.’ It was true. Even at six, at eight, Catherine had been dazzled by Pietro and she had felt black, burning anger well up at Ladislas’s derision. Elizabeth had been with her then, urging her to leap on to the jeering Ladislas and gouge out his eyes and exult as he screamed. Perhaps one day . . . He was only a stupid boy cousin and boys were ugly and ridiculous . . .
But Elizabeth had never understood about Pietro either.
Reverend Mother thought that on the whole she had managed rather well. She was not precisely uneasy about Catherine’s return to her family, but it would be good to think that the child had someone with her. She had taken a liking to Sister Hilary, and they had all listened with interest to the talk she had given about the nursing methods used in the English House. Hilary had spoken well, absorbed in her subject.
But it might be in Hilary’s best interests to separate her from Mr Devlin for a time. Closeness between a patient and his nurse was unavoidable and even desirable, but Reverend Mother had the impression that the closeness between Hilary and Michael Devlin was beginning to be the kind that God might find unacceptable. She could not precisely order Hilary to go to Varanno with Catherine, but she could couch the request in terms that Hilary would find difficult to refuse.
She had had many years of practice.
Chapter Four
