Genevieve’s eyes flickered from him to the other girls. They were smiling at her - smiling at her and laughing at her... mocking her.
In a sudden panic, her mind in a whirl, Genevieve snatched up the book of poems and dashed blindly for the overgrown path heading away from the clearing. She didn’t know why she grabbed the book, but she did.
Tears fell from her eyes as she ran, the bushes catching her shirt and breeches as though trying to halt her flight. In her haste to get away from the treacherous group she had left her sandals behind, but she was oblivious to the jagged stones digging into the soles of her bare feet. A storm seemed to be breaking inside her, filling her with raging feelings she did not understand but filled her with fury and sorrow.
She was furious with Frederique. With his tender nature she had bared herself to him, and he had taken advantage to do something only an intimate lover should dare do. What kind of a man dressed and behaved as a woman, anyway?
And then her thoughts jumped to Rodolfo, and the sorrow washed over her. He had proposed marriage... nobly, patiently, and she had just betrayed him with another. How could she possibly face him again, ever, let alone accept his proposal?
She wept bitterly as she ran, tears blurring her sight of the uneven path, causing her to stumble and almost fall. Was Rodolfo not a renowned fornicator, though? Was he a man worthy of being treated fairly or of having her hand in marriage?
For some reason Emelie span into her head. Why Emelie? Was it because the gentle girl was the only true and loyal friend she had ever found? If only she could see dear Emelie just one more time. Would they ever meet again?
By the time she reached the groves she had stopped running and slowed to a staggering walk, panting heavily after the strenuous run up the long, winding, and overgrown path. She was exhausted and wanted to rest, but the desire to get back to the relative sanctuary of her room was stronger.
Perhaps she should marry Rodolfo, she argued with herself.
Perhaps his philandering ways to date were just a young man’s thing, as Count de Tranville had once said.
Perhaps his feelings for her were as genuine as he claimed, and he was ready to settle down into married life.
She emerged from the undergrowth and approached the rambling house, stopping to rest on the old ruined wall and catch her breath.
Curiously, there was a coach stationed at the end of the wide path that led to the large front door. Had the count returned already? Or Rodolfo, perhaps? She quickened her pace again, heading pensively towards the vehicle.
An elderly coachman with a stern dark face sat up on the driver’s bench. He looked at her keenly as she approached. Someone had been to the front doors, and was heading back to the waiting coach. It was a female with blonde hair tied up into a bun, her complexion clear and fair, walking elegantly in a pale blue dress. She had a pretty countenance, and Genevieve felt her heart pounding and then soaring. She recognised the girl, even from a distance. The clothing was unfamiliar, but there was something unmistakable about the graceful figure. It was dear Emelie!
Genevieve was about to wave and shout and break into a run, but then she noticed the other figure by the front door talking to the maid, Flavia - it was the unmistakable figure of Elise!
Chapter Twelve
Most of the voyage back to France seemed blurry in Genevieve’s recollection. From the time Elise and Emelie met her at the front of Conde de Agora’s home, she seemed to have been overtaken by a surreal state. It could have been exhaustion - physical or emotional - it could have been a spell of grippe.
Most of the crew on the ship were French, it seemed. She had a comfortable enough cabin, and apart from occasional strolls around the upper deck for some fresh air, she remained there through most of the voyage.
She noticed a tall, grey-haired man onboard. He was a scowling, sinister figure, and for some reason Genevieve had the distinctly unnerving impression that he and Elise knew each other, although she couldn’t put her finger on why she suspected that. She never caught them together, or even exchanging passing pleasantries, but something gnawed away at her.
He was like a phantom. On deck she constantly sensed he was lurking, watching her, but when she’d turn he would not be there, the masts and rigging creaking overhead in the sea winds. She only ever caught glimpses of him, and when she looked again he’d be gone as though never there in the first place.
News of Genevieve’s departure was not announced or observed speedily at Conde de Agora’s home. Rodolfo did not return until the following evening, troubled and ill at ease after the festivities in Lisbon.
He had been delighted to meet his old friends and to revel with them, the street processions so vivid and colourful. But at one point, when his friends suggested they seek out the company of some girls of easy pleasure, his mood changed.
So many girls had passed through his relatively young life, he reflected. So many had brought him pleasure, and enjoyed great pleasure in return. But the betrayals were mounting too; Claudine and Juliette, who only viewed him as a way to an easy life, and then Elise, and now it seemed Genevieve had let him down too. Her rejection of his proposal of marriage was the unkindest cut of all. It had dulled his appetite for female company. And after he risked all to ensure her well-being and safety.
It was thus with a feeling of quiet dissatisfaction that he returned home - a home which seemed ghostly still as he entered. It was almost dark, with only a few candles lighting the hallway and every other subsequent room he wandered into.
Something had happened, he sensed, and his thoughts turned to his father, who he found at the dinner table, alone. Where was Genevieve? Perhaps she was unwell and resting in her room.
But a look of great sadness and deep pain seemed to be written on his father’s face, gripping Rodolfo instantly. What troubled him so much?
He quickened his pace as he approached the table, feeling the urge to embrace his father, but dismissing it as a sign of unmanly weakness.
So instead he nodded to him and silently took his seat at the table.
Conde de Agora did not look up at his son, at first. There was something far too important on his mind, Rodolfo knew. He would tell him in his own good time.
As indeed he did, lifting his vacant eyes to his son after a few moments, as though only just realising he was there. His face was gaunt, and he looked older than when Rodolfo had last seen him, only a matter of days before.
‘I received word regarding your brothers today,’ he said simply. ‘News in a letter from General Eduardo da Souza, in command of the Portuguese contingent in Spain.’
Rodolfo felt his heart sink and nausea grip his stomach.
‘Your two eldest brothers, Joaquim and Joao, are dead.’ The old man’s eyes were shimmering with tears. He looked away from Rodolfo. ‘They died bravely, some six weeks ago. They were caught in a surprise attack.’
His fork hung over his plate, idly toying with his untouched meal, now cold and unappetising.
‘They were heavily outnumbered and had little chance. Most of the men fled. There was little other option. But your brothers chose to stand their ground and fight.’
Rodolfo felt himself choking inside. ‘And... and Pedro?’ he managed. ‘Any news of Pedro?’
‘Pedro is in a hospital in Spain,’ his father informed him. ‘He was also caught in an ambush three weeks ago. His condition is critical, the general says. All the men with him were killed. Apparently he does not have long, either. But the letter is old now, so I fear he is dead too.’
Rodolfo and his father remained silent for several minutes. Then, with a weary sigh, Conde de Agora rose from the table.
‘I intend to go to Spain with some friends,’ he stated. ‘We are grouping tomorrow. We are old, but we can make ourselves useful.’
‘But, why?’
‘It is not right. It is not right for ol
d lions to sit back and do nothing while their young cubs die.’
Rodolfo stared silently at his father for a few moments, and then, controlling the tremor that crept into his voice, he said, ‘And is it any less right for young men to die needlessly in the first place, among friends that are not friends, and for causes they do not understand? And is it right for older men, some would assume wiser men, to encourage them to do so?’ Rodolfo’s eyes glistened too, fixed on his father’s.
‘I want you to stay here,’ Conde de Agora continued. ‘Pedro is probably dead, but I will try to find him. If anything happens to me you will be the last of us. It is up to you to look after our family home.’
He turned to leave, but with what seemed like an afterthought, he turned back to his son. ‘By the way,’ he said. ‘Pretty young Genevieve has left you. She has returned to France. Flavia has a message from her to you. And another from the French lady who came for her.’
Rodolfo gazed quizzically at his father. ‘I would not go after her,’ the older man advised sagely. ‘It would be far too dangerous. Besides, there are plenty of pretty girls here for you to fill your time with.’
Conde de Agora stared at his son for long, quiet moments, as though he knew he was looking at him for the very last time, and then he turned and left the room.
Rodolfo sat alone deep into the night, brooding silently.
Eventually he rose wearily and walked through the darkened house, and taking a candle from the hall, headed up the stairs, his feet moving slowly and heavily.
He paused at the doors to the bedchambers that once belonged to his brothers, entering each one in turn, glancing around each room as though hoping to see someone there.
In each room he opened the top drawer of the mahogany chest of drawers that stood there, and from each one he removed a varnished wooden box. In the last room, that of his eldest brother, he paused for a longer time, then placed the wooden boxes on the bed.
He then went straight to his eldest brother’s wardrobe and removed a soft leather satchel, and sat it on the bed beside the boxes. Then, with the same methodical concentration, he opened each one and removed an ornate, silver handled pistol.
They were always fascinating for him - the three pistols given to each son by their father after they had gained their commissions in the army. He remembered how his brothers would carry them proudly in their belts as, with long-barrelled muskets, they would head off hunting. He was the only one of the four brothers never to have obtained the honourable paternal token.
His brothers had teased him playfully for not following suit and joining the army. He was the youngest, and therefore had the luxury of being more whimsical and carefree, they all considered. They admired and encouraged his talents - his cunning, agility and horsemanship, and they would listen with gentle good humour to his fanciful ambitions that were so at odds with their father’s.
He opened the satchel. Inside it was a long rope with a metal hook attached to one end. Rodolfo’s brother had fashioned it once, to climb into the bedroom of a young lady he had an eye on; the first and only young lady he had fallen in love with, a local nobleman’s daughter. His brother had remained loyal to her, and written her romantic letters from his postings ever since.
Rodolfo slipped the guns into the satchel, and then from his topcoat he removed the dagger he had bought in France. It was his token to himself, he reflected. He had killed men with it, which was more than could be said for the pretty pistols.
His brothers and love! What a joke, and they were supposed to be so much the older and wiser than he. All three had followed the same pattern, impatiently entering manhood, then secretly pledging themselves to the eternal love of some pretty noble girl or other that they barely knew, secretly knowing that sooner or later their romantic adventures would result in little more than negotiations between their father and the girls’ parents.
Had he, on the other hand, not learned the true love of women? Had he not been already learning of love from a dozen or more while he was still almost a lad and while they were making their pledges and sacrifices to the first and only ones they’d met?
Real love - was it not to be found in those lazy, solitary days... when he rode out alone, exploring fields and farmhouses?
He remembered those first women, those busty farmers’ wives and coy, horny farmers’ daughters, growing idle in their sun-baked yards while their men toiled in the fields and then mingled moodily to chat and drink together. That’s how he had learned.
He had learned all he needed to know through those women and girls, their blushes and coy curiosity at his approach, their stares and offers of hospitality, and then their passionate submissions, the baring of themselves, their hungry bodies still fruitful and to be enjoyed, their sighs and moans, their fearful glances at doors and windows, their shuddering orgasms, the gratitude, their begging for more, for secrecy, the arrangement of trysts, and so it went on, and so many became the same from maids to noblewomen, from country to country... from week to week and year to year.
He slipped the dagger back into his pocket and laughed sadly for a moment, thinking of all three of his brothers... the soldiers!
It seemed so absurd. He could never imagine any of them killing another man. They were too nice. A sudden, intense pain shot through his chest, but he ignored it.
He remembered how at times they would squabble together, and while he would be so quick to raise his fists, his brothers would take so long to be riled, as if they believed that their differences could be solved by words, by gentlemanly dress and conduct, by simply and logically learning and obeying rules that were there for every occasion in a gentleman’s life.
What an earth did they think they were doing joining a profession with no other real purpose than that of killing whosever one is told to kill? Conduct, logic, gentlemanliness in killing for no reason and being killed for no reason?
He slung the satchel over his shoulder, left the room, and soon was heading for Lisbon.
Chapter Thirteen
There was something different about Elise. She looked the same as ever, the same dark beauty, the same sultry grace. But something was different.
After the voyage to France they had returned by main roads to the deceased Count de Tranville’s chateau. The journey was no more than three days and they stopped each night at an inn, the gentle nature of the route seemingly coordinated by Elise.
And the grey-haired man seemed to be heading for a similar destination, for much to Genevieve’s anxiety, his mere presence unsettling her immensely, he rode on top beside the coachman, while the three of them travelled below.
Eventually arriving at the chateau, totally exhausted, Genevieve gratefully slept through much of two days, happy to see the back of that sinister, unspeaking man.
The chateau felt different, somehow. It was not long after the death of the owner, but already it had an air of abandonment and decay about it. Any love there had been within its walls was gone.
Only two servants remained after the count’s death, the elderly cook and a partially deaf maid, and even then only because they were too old to have the inclination to move on, unlike the slightly younger members of the staff. The maid was a vacant-eyed woman who talked to herself and may well have lost half her mind as well as her hearing, so oblivious was she to the recent events that had befallen the three female residents, or even the turmoil in which the country was plunged.
On the third day, Genevieve arose feeling much refreshed and more or less herself again. She put on one of her old dresses at a little before midday, and found Elise sitting in the drawing room reading Frederique’s book of poetry.
‘Emelie’s out walking in the garden,’ she said without looking up. ‘We’ll be eating soon. Why don’t you go and fetch her?’
Lunch was a fairly basic affair; a roast chicken, a plate of spinach and a bottle of wine, and Genevieve did not fe
el particularly hungry as she watched the old maid ponderously slicing the meat and serving them.
Elise sat in Count de Tranville’s chair at the head of the long table, and Genevieve and Emelie sat on either side of her. She poured three glasses of wine for them as the maid left.
‘To us,’ she toasted, raising her glass. ‘Three old friends.’
Emelie smiled and raised her glass deferentially, and Genevieve followed suit while looking thoughtfully at her dark friend. Elise’s eyes seemed to smoulder, and her vitality appeared to have waned since Genevieve last sat with her at the dinner table, her fine looks somehow more those of a statue than those of the cruel heiress Genevieve remembered adoring so.
‘You know,’ Elise began thoughtfully, pausing to sip her wine whilst studying Genevieve over the crystal rim, ‘immediately after the death of my stepfather I vowed to kill you for revenge.’
Emelie put down her unused knife and fork, looking decidedly uncomfortable.
‘Oh yes,’ Elise continued, ‘I even reflected on how, and the ways I would slowly punish you for your interruption in our lives and in his heart.’
She finished her wine and refilled the glass. Emelie gazed from Genevieve to Elise, and back to Genevieve.
‘Needless to say,’ Elise continued, ‘I’ve quickly recovered from that initial wave of fury and I no longer want to see you dead... Despite everything that has passed between us I still, deep down, care for you as a sister; believe it or not. But, regrettably, others do want to see you dead. That is why I brought you back here under their instruction, using Emelie as a lure, although now I wish I hadn’t. But it is too late. I have fulfilled my task and the matter is now out of my hands...’
A chill of foreboding gripped Genevieve’s spine. ‘Who are these people?’ she asked fearfully.
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