by David Wake
“And?”
McKendry paused; Georgina could feel him looking at her: “Four, three men and a woman.”
“One of my sisters!”
“Perhaps we shouldn’t get our hopes up, but…” McKendry said.
“But?”
“They aren’t village shoes, they’re heeled like… yours.”
Everyone glanced down at Georgina’s dolly boots.
“What were your sisters’ names again?” Caruthers asked.
“Earnestine and Charlotte.”
He nodded, then led them all down into the village and out again following the tracks south. Georgina glanced over her shoulder, she couldn’t help herself, and saw the pretty town with the college visible in the distance framed by the majestic mountains. It was all so beautiful and she wondered if the whole world had been struck down by the horror here. Perhaps everywhere there were now piles of dead women and missing men.
Miss Charlotte
Charlotte had a lovely lie-in snuggled between Egyptian cotton sheets. When she woke, there was a bowl of water for washing, which was actually warm, and set of clothes had been put out for her. After a moment’s pique, when she realised that it wasn’t going to be an airship flying day full of uniform and trousers, she dressed. A maid, who either spoke no English or didn’t speak at all, helped her with her corset. Charlotte found some pearls that complemented the fine blue dress. The finished result made her look just as Earnestine and Georgina always tried to make her appear.
Finally, she was whisked along the corridors to another suite. Whereas her bedroom was lovingly furnished, these rooms were decidedly spartan. The maid did not come in with her.
As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, Charlotte became aware of a presence. The figure in the shadows spoke in German, a cracked voice of old age, but nonetheless strong and certain.
“I’m sorry I don’t understand German,” said Charlotte.
“It is not necessary to understand our language, so long as you understand your duties,” the woman said, articulating each syllable carefully.
“And who might you be, may I ask?”
“I am the dowager Gräfin.”
Charlotte did a tiny curtsey. She wasn’t entirely sure of the etiquette. She was a Princess and the woman was only a Gräfin; however, it seemed wise to keep on the right side of this tall, imposing figure. She was aquiline in all her features, a sharp nose accentuated by fine, angled brows, and her hair was pulled back. Her words were clear, accented, and gave the impression that her tongue could become sharp at any moment.
“Do you know what a Griffin is?” she asked.
“It’s the same as a Countess, isn’t it?”
“Griffin, Griff–in.”
“Sorry, a Griffin is a mythical being, half lion, half eagle.”
“Ja, the English lion and the German eagle combined into the one creature,” she said. “To conjoin these two empires, you and I are to be the allies.”
“Yes, Gräfin.”
“The eagle at the head.”
“Yes.”
“Duty is everything.”
“That is what I’ve been taught.”
“Duty to your rank, duty to your new country, duty to your elders and betters.”
“Yes, Gräfin.”
“Duty to me.”
Charlotte felt the Gräfin’s gaze. “Of course,” she said.
“I will die one day.”
“Surely not,” said Charlotte.
“Ach, I will… one day, and then all this will be yours.”
“The castle and the land?”
“Nein, that yes, but more, much more: the endeavour.”
The Gräfin came over to her and despite stepping back Charlotte was seized in a vice–like grip, almost lifted from the granite floor.
“The English Victoria reigns over an empire, but she is German, the puppet of the Saxe–Coburg. Through her their progeny have infected the royal houses of most of Europe. The Saxe–Coburg, where they lost in battle, they win in the boudoir.”
“The bedroom?”
“The battlefield of the feminine,” said the Gräfin, putting Charlotte back on her feet and flattening the creases with a flick of her fingers. “Women are limited by men. In the German lands even a woman of royal blood cannot inherit a throne. Queen Victoria was entitled to the throne of Hanover, but Salic Law prevents a woman from inheriting that title, so she had to make do with the British Empire.”
“The British Empire is quite big.”
“The men wish to fight wars, a great war is planned, one that will encompass the whole globe.”
“You’re talking about soldiers in uniforms.”
“Ja, but their plans mean nothing if a ruler cannot be found to occupy all the thrones of Europe. That is our task, the Great Plan.”
The Great Plan: it sounded jolly exciting and important to Charlotte. She smiled and tried to look attentive.
“It is my legacy to the world, to you,” the Gräfin continued. “We must marry and breed, and then marry our progeny to the advantage.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Royal houses marry royal houses, the seed is concentrated, the inheritances combined: soon, very soon, an heir to every throne of Europe will be born. If this king dies first, perhaps with a little push, and that marriage produces children of the right sex, and so on. If our King– Ach, Crown Prince lives a few more years and we can marry him wisely, then we – you, my little flower – will inherit Europe and whoever controls the thrones of Europe will control the world.”
She seemed mad: surely the British Empire, which already covered three quarters of the globe would simply and inexorably expand as more of the world was civilised by all those handsome officers in their smart, red uniforms, but, as the brave lads used their Lee–Enfield rifles against the savages, this cunning woman was subverting everything that was right and proper. Were those of royal blood simply pawns to be played with, Charlotte thought, and then she realised that she too was a piece in the game.
“It’s a game,” she said.
“Exactly!”
“And my part?”
“You will marry my nephew, Prince Pieter. He will be pleased you have grown to be pretty, you are a brat in the picture we have. With him, you will produce a son, then a daughter and then a son. They will marry, and marry well, and then your grandson will rule all. Think of it, a plan that has been enacted for thirty eight generations. Does it not give you a thrill to know that we are only two generations away from complete success?”
“Spiffing.”
“Your generation and your children’s. And then, when all the blood lines have intersected, you and I will sit at your son’s shoulder and direct his thinking.”
There seemed only one correct answer: “Yes, Gräfin.”
“Reports have reached us: your Prince comes here tonight.”
“Is he handsome?”
The Gräfin considered this novel question: “Ja, he is handsome, kind and intelligent, but more importantly, he has the right blood.”
“Does he wear a uniform?”
“Here everyone wears a uniform.”
“I don’t.”
“That dress is very becoming.”
“I like… you know, in their uniforms,” Charlotte said. “If he is as nice as your say, then I think I might like very much to be engaged.”
“That is good.” The Gräfin swept out, but just before she left, she added: “Although your like and dislike will have nothing to do with it.”
Chapter VII
Miss Deering-Dolittle
Prince Pieter flicked at his smart, although ostentatious, uniform to remove more non-existent fluff. It was the third time he had done so in the last two minutes at least.
“Yes?” Earnestine asked.
Pieter’s eyes looked very blue.
“Fräulein Earnestine.”
“Yes?”
“You will have to be my maid.”
“Maid?�
��
“If they discover you came from the school then… things may not go well.”
“I’m not a maid.”
“Those that cause offence tend to be thrown off the battlements.”
“How utterly barbaric.”
“And you’re too young to be a governess.”
“Nonsense.”
“I cannot have a governess who is younger than I am,” Pieter said, not unreasonably. “Beside no–one will question your presence as a maid.”
“I’m not being a domestic of any kind.”
“Look–”
The carriage rattled suddenly, throwing them from side to side. The noise of the wheels changed abruptly from hard stone to an echoing wooden noise, and metal jangling on either side. Through the windows, Earnestine saw heavy chains hanging loosely. Upwards, briefly, there was an imposing view of granite walls complete with jutting gargoyles before they were through the outer wall and into the castle itself. The chains juttered as they were cranked back and the heavy drawbridge hoicked upwards in jolts until it blotted out the bright daylight.
There was more mechanical activity before the carriage jerked forward and turned before stopping. Boys in uniform sprinted forward, one opened the door and two others quickly positioned a small set of steps. Pieter disembarked first, causing the boys to snap to attention. The Prince accepted their salutes and then held his hand out for Earnestine. She took his hand and descended into the circular courtyard that seemed very like the bottom of a well, such was the height of the surrounding walls.
A man dressed in smart civilian clothing, with a high starched collar and oiled hair, rushed up.
“This is the Vögte,” Pieter hissed in Earnestine’s ear: “Careful.”
“Welcome home, Your Highness,” said the Vögte. He didn’t, or couldn’t, turn his head, which was unsettling.
“It is good to be home,” Pieter replied, his voice pitched loud to be heard by everyone in the courtyard, and he turned like a performer accepting applause. This was for show, Earnestine realised.
“I see Oberst Kroll.”
The bear–like Kroll had disembarked from the far side of the carriage and had now come around to face the welcoming party.
“Hauptmann Schneider and Herr Metzger were unavoidably detained,” said Kroll.
The Vögte clapped his hands: “Ah ha!”
“They’re dead,” Prince Pieter said.
“Ah…”
There was a silence, while they all stood like actors on a stage waiting for someone to speak first. It was as if one of them had forgotten their cue. Earnestine wondered if it was herself, but she decided to keep quiet, and it turned out that she was the subject of the next line.
“And who is this?” The Vögte’s gaze was intense, examining and quite rude, so Earnestine stood stock still, steeling herself not to flinch.
Pieter answered: “This is–”
“I am His Royal Highness’s Secretary,” Earnestine said.
“A female secretary?” the Vögte replied.
Earnestine felt herself bristling at the way the man twisted the word for her sex.
“Yes,” she said. “I am proficient with the Malling–Hansen Writing Ball.”
“Ah, we have a Sholes and Glidden Type–Writer.”
“Slower though, isn’t it,” Earnestine countered, “with the keys not being in an optimum arrangement?”
“Slower perhaps, but you can see what you have written, whereas with a Malling–Hansen you cannot correct any mistakes.”
“I don’t make mistakes.”
The Vögte snorted, turned and indicated that they should now go inside. Earnestine caught a glimpse of a huge grin plastered over the Prince’s face before he regained his composure. The Prince and his party followed with Earnestine tagging along on the Prince’s left. They strode through cold corridors made of large granite blocks and up seemingly endless stone spiral staircases before arriving at the Prince’s quarters. Earnestine quite lost her sense of direction and the view from the window was of anonymous snow covered mountain peaks.
“These are the Prince’s rooms,” the Vögte told Earnestine, “his drawing room, his study, his bedroom.”
“I see,” Earnestine said, stopping at the threshold of that final room.
“Your room is through here and this connecting door,” the Vögte informed her.
Reluctantly, Earnestine went through the male preserve with its Spartan bed and table. Finally, she reached another bedroom, functional, but perfectly adequate; indeed, it was luxurious in comparison to the dormitories of the Eden College for Young Ladies.
“There’s only one door,” she said, “without a lock.”
“So that you are at the Prince’s beck and call at any time of the day… or night.”
“I see.”
The Vögte sneered: “For dictation.”
“I’m not sure I like your tone.”
Unfortunately, the Vögte had withdrawn to the Prince’s bedroom to whisper to his Master. Earnestine checked the bed, dressing table and chair to see if any of these would be suitable for barricading the door, but they were clearly wanting in this regard.
This fussing meant that Earnestine missed the arrival of another man, taller than Pieter, who filled the door to the corridor with his wide frame. Earnestine was startled by the man’s appearance, his dark moustache and pointed beard.
“Pieter,” he said.
“Gustav!”
“Sie sind zurückgekommen.”
“Yes, brother, I’m back – I managed somehow.”
“English, how quaint, we are all speaking English these days.”
“Practice makes perfect.”
“So, you agree with the plan.”
“I do–”
The tall man, Gustav, barged past and stood as if he owned the room. Despite his uniform having all the usual frippery of medals and a sash, Earnestine had the impression that he had military experience: his boots were functional.
Earnestine stepped back in deference and found herself standing next to the Vögte, who diminished himself by bending his spine. She could smell his cologne.
“No more running away,” Gustav said.
“I was on holiday,” Pieter replied.
“And now you are unpacking your belongings, I see,” Gustav said, lingering for a moment on Earnestine as he surveyed the temporary clutter. “And you have brought back a souvenir.”
Earnestine blinked rapidly: yes, he had implied she was a ‘belonging’. She wasn’t going to stand for that and opened her mouth to–
“Any news!?” Pieter interrupted.
“Our plans proceed to schedule: don’t they, Vögte?”
“Ja, mein Graf.”
“And the Great Plan?” Pieter asked.
“Oh yes, brother, your destiny is here.”
“My destiny?”
“Ja… and she is blonde.”
When the two brothers squared up to each other, their profiles looked alike. They were from the same design, but where Pieter was elegant and chiselled, Gustav was coarse and constructed somehow. There was clearly no love lost between the two: she was pleased to think that she had kept a tight rein on her sisters and that there were no arguments amongst the Deering–Dolittles.
Gustav laughed, a deep amused chuckle: “I almost envy you,” he said. “She has spirit for you to tame. Or perhaps she will domesticate you.”
If Pieter had a reply, he missed his opportunity as Gustav marched out, his stride thumping down the stone corridor outside. He was long gone before anyone moved again. The Vögte slowly straightening his posture to raise himself to Prince Pieter’s level and Earnestine shuffling away from both of the men.
“I’d like to meet her,” Pieter said to the Vögte.
I bet you would, Earnestine thought, angry without understanding why.
“It is not wise for his Royal Highness to see his fiancée before the wedding,” the Vögte said. “Bad luck.”
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��May I send her a message – a greeting, perhaps a declaration of love?”
The Vögte’s eyes narrowed as he weighed up the Prince’s intentions: “Very well, send it with your Secretary. I can show him…. her the way.”
“Very well, Vögte, would you wait outside while I compose a letter.”
“I have the confidence of the Graf and Gräfin.”
“Vögte, wait outside.”
“As you wish.”
The Vögte bowed obsequiously and taking his time about it, and then he sidled out.
Earnestine and Pieter were left alone.
“What is–”
The Prince silenced Earnestine with a gesture, his finger to his lip. Earnestine was about to object when she realised that the Prince was listening at the door. She waited until he had checked outside.
“Clear,” he said, closing the door gently.
“What is going on?” Earnestine asked. “What does he mean by ‘your destiny’?”
“I am to marry a Princess.”
Blinking, Earnestine said: “I see.”
“It is–”
“Congratulations, I’m sure you’ll be very happy.”
“I have no feelings for her.”
“Then why marry her?”
“To join our family in alliance with another and to produce an heir to two thrones. It’s the Gräfin’s Great Plan.”
“Surely you have a say in this?”
“If I do not, then the Saxe–Coburg will win.”
“Will win what?”
“The world.”
“A nice wedding present.”
“My Aunt has seen to it that I am to be married to a Princess, someone of the right connections and royal blood. It’s all part of the ‘Great Plan’ – I could show you the plan: it’s in another part of the castle.”
He seated himself by his writing desk, hurriedly gathering various implements together, but he was flustered and dropped a pen on the floor. Earnestine bent down and retrieved it.
“Perhaps, as your secretary, I should do that.”
“Good idea.”
He vacated the chair and held it back for Earnestine. She sat, jigged it forward and then efficiently organised the desk for dictation. When she was ready, she looked at him expectantly.
“My dear… Your Royal Highness… My dear… I’m not sure how to start.”
