“So I see,” Ragoczy said as he came up to her. “Whoelse has written to you? You have two letters.”
“My oldest son. Siegfried. He’s eleven, and will soon go to school—in the autumn.” She looked over the ends of the envelopes to Ragoczy. “Comte, I am afraid to open them.”
“Small wonder,” said Ragoczy, “given how strictly the Graf has controlled your communication with your children.”
“He is careful with them, and knows his responsibilities,” said Hero automatically.
“And uses them as a Hussar uses a saber,” said Ragoczy, his voice light and cutting at once.
“You make him seem a monster.” She took the letter from the Graf and broke its seal.
“Because I think he is. It is not his intention—most monsters have no notion of their enormities—but it is a great unkindness to you and your children. Done for the best of worst of reasons, his actions cause you pain.” His dark eyes looked steadily into hers. “You go in fear of him because you do not wish to lose all contact with your sons and daughter. For a family to be sundered as yours has been is cruelty.”
“No, Comte. Don’t say that.” She spread the letter within and scanned it quickly. “He is encouraging Siegfried to tell me himself of the school he will attend.”
“The same one his father attended?” Ragoczy guessed. “Your husband?”
“Yes,” said Hero. “How did you know?”
“It seems the sort of thing your father-in-law would do,” said Ragoczy.
Hero read the rest of the Graf’s letter. “The twins are well, and Annamaria has recovered from the putrid sore throat she had in April.” She smiled a bit too brightly, refolded the letter, and opened the one from Siegfried. “Oh! His grandfather has chosen a horse for him to take with him to school.”
“A considerable gift for such a young child,” said Ragoczy.
“That it is, and Siegfried is most grateful to his grandfather,” said Hero. “I could never have provided so well for him.” The sadness in her voice ended on a quiver; she pressed her lips together and hoped her eyes would not fill with tears. “He says it is seven years old, trained for hunting, and that his summer is being devoted to improving his riding skills so that he may ride to school with his tutor in the autumn.”
“He will be the envy of his classmates, no doubt.” Ragoczy saw Rogier motion to him from the end of the corridor. “Yes?”
“Dinner will be served in half an hour,” Rogier announced. “I am putting Ulisse to watch over Hochvall.”
“Hochvall?” Hero asked, startled. “What is the matter with Hochvall?’
“He had an accident earlier today and broke his leg,” said Ragoczy. “He is recovering from having it set.”
“An accident?” She paled. “How serious an accident?”
“A portion of the road gave way, or so I have been told, and the coach fell sideways into the ditch,” he said calmly. “Three of the horses fared well enough, but one has been injured, and I will have to attend to him this afternoon. Hochvall had the worst of it: he was thrown from the box. He sustained a lump on his head, a broken right leg, and a bruised shoulder.”
“And the coach? Is it badly damaged?’ She stared at him as if trying to read his expression.
“It is best left for firewood,” said Ragoczy, and held up his small hand to stop her volley of questions. “I know little more than what I have told you, and will not know more until I have seen what is left of the coach.”
“But if it is so … so damaged, we cannot travel in it, can we?” Hero stared at him, trying to read what was in his mind.
“Not in the old one, no: I will order a new one in a day or two, once I know what our traveling needs will be, and once I have determined whether or not Gutesohnes will drive for me until Hochvall recovers.”
She blinked. “You appear to have considered the whole; there is nothing I can do now, is there?” she said, adding playfully, “I suppose it is too much to hope you might dine with me?”
His smile lasted a little longer this time. “Later,” he promised her as he offered his arm to her and started toward the dining room.
Text of a letter from Madelaine de Montalia in Varna on the Black Sea, to Saint-Germain Ragoczy, Comte Franciscus at Château Ragoczy near Lake Geneva, Yvoire, Switzerland; carried by academic courier and delivered two months after it was written., while Ragoczy was returning from Amsterdam.
To my most dear Saint-Germain, the greetings of your Madelaine de Montalia, just as present—the 4thof August—in Varna
As you can see, I have not yet reached Egypt, but I am determined to do so, and as soon as possible. In the meantime I am occupying myself with various ancient buildings and ruins about this port, some of which are most fascinating. I do not yet know how much longer I will stay here before returning to Constantinople, or as the Turks pronounce it, Istanbul. I was kept dancing at the doors of various officials for almost nine months before I set out to find places of interest while I struggle to get from this place to the Nile. I begin to think I will have to purchase my way into an authorized expedition or languish here for a decade.
You have said that the horses in this part of the world are superb, and I am sure you’re right, although they look a little small to me. If I were more amused with riding, I might spend a week or two investigating the regional breeds. But I am not as fond of high-couraged mounts as the Ottomans are, and I am not tempted to careen across hard-baked ground or dry riverbeds to see how willing the horse is to submit to my will, although I long for a good gallop, now and again. I did have a fine afternoon on a large ass, one that rarely moved above a trot and preferred a steady pace to anything more dramatic. He carried me from a ruined monastery on a hill behind the harbor to the old Greek ruins near to what the local people call the Spring of the Virgins. I have yet to find out much about these Virgins, although I have asked. The Orthodox priests who will deign to talk to me—a Catholic and an unmarried woman!—tell me it was once the site of the manifestation of the Virgin Mary, but the fallen pillars are very old and Greek, so I suspect there is another, much older, source of the legend. The guide who accompanied me on this excursion is a fellow called Eteocles Hadad, and a fascinating rogue he is, more full of tales than the local story-teller, and curious as a hungry cat. He speaks a smattering of Arabic, Albanian, Russian, Hungarian, Greek, Slovak, Croatian, Albanian, Italian, French, and who-knows-how-many other odd dialects from off the ships that call here.
How I have wandered through that last paragraph! It is as peripatetic as I have been, and as disoriented, in every sense. I will blame it on the heat, which is thick in the air and sodden as an old sail. Even I am affected by it, and not simply because of the sunlight. I have spent the last four nights sitting out on the inner balcony of this hostelry so that I can take in enough of the little breeze and the night to help me make it through the day. I have enough of my native earth to last for another six months, but I am beginning to think that I should send for it now, in case this heat should continue. I will ask your shipping office in Athens to get Montalia earth for me, if you are willing to permit me to do this. Your suggestion that I purchase more holdings in Europe is probably a good one, and I intend to act upon your recommendation as soon as I return. Since I am as yet unsure when that will be, I cannot select a time by which this will be accomplished, yet be sure it will not be more than a decade. To think I will be a century old in another seven years! I am astonished to add up the decades, but there they are. You were right when you warned me that it is difficult to see your contemporaries fall away until only you remain, and that it is distressing to realize that all of youth is gone, no matter what appearance may remain. I am more ancient than any woman I have met save one—a nun who was ninety-six—but she was as wrinkled as a raisin and as bent as a willow. Yet we were almost the same age, although I still seem to be no more than nineteen or twenty. It is a luxury to know time as an ally, not an opponent, but time also creates a gulf no one but tho
se of your blood, or of your restoration, like Roger, can cross.
There is so much to learn, and I know I will not have to limit myself for the demands of years. Still, learning creates a trail that may prove too easily followed, especially if I take my lovers among my colleagues. You were right to warn me about choosing my knowing partners with care. I have kept your admonitions in mind with every new encounter, and so far have revealed myself only twice. You, of course, understand my predicament, and I feel you can comprehend my ambivalence without jealousy or a desire to approve my decisions. I know that you and I seek life before all else, since it is the one thing we lack, and that neither of us would deny the other the fulfillment that is the very core of existence for us. I am pleased to hear that you have made a friend of Hero von Scharffensee, for she truly needs friends. As the daughter of Attilio Corvosaggio, I know she is a woman of good education and well-trained mind, but I also know that her father is not of a temperament that would incline him to take her in, and her four children. All his purpose is set upon scholarship and the discovery of antiquities. On those occasions when I have met him, I have been struck afresh with the singularity of his devotion.
So you have the comfortable life and companion you seek, and I have my explorations, and we are able to live with the knowledge that all of our undead lives will make this demand of us—that we must sustain ourselves on the passions of the living, not our Blood Bond with each other. You have much more experience of this than I, yet I can sense your feelings for me are as enduring as you yourself, no matter what your feelings for others may be.
I astonish myself at how reasonable I am; I realize this may be my own inclination to avoid any hint of animosity from you, which would be unbearable, or it may be acceptance of our natures, but whichever it is—or something else entirely—I am relieved to know that no matter what may come, the love and the Bond we share will remain unbroken from now until time loses all hold upon us. And before I become maudlin, I will end this by wishing you a pleasant good-night from the city of Varna, a place that stinks of low tide and fish.
Now and forever
Your Madelaine
7
Herr Perzeval Einlass stood aside so that Ragoczy could examine his new coach, a modified Berlin but with elements of a Parisian landau, an attractive, modern carriage that would command attention for its elegance anywhere in Europe. It occupied the sunniest part of Herr Einlass’ courtyard, immediately adjacent to his warehouse; half a dozen craftsmen lingered in the warehouse door, waiting to hear what the Comte would say. “All the modifications you requested are complete: eight elliptical springs, just as you required, Herr Comte,” said Einlass. “The box has its own set of springs as well, so that the driver need not fear that he will be thrown from his place. As you see, the box is placed deeper in the body of the coach, as you requested, and there are braces on either side of the driving-box. The wheels are lip-rimmed and the spokes are reinforced, as are the axles.”
“Yes,” said Ragoczy, squinting a little in the bright morning. “And the interior done with padded arms for the passengers to use? Long hand-straps as well?”
“Of course. And in your servants’ coach, as you stipulated. My men will fit it out as soon as you have the coach brought down to my warehouse: all the modifications we made to your coach but the device that turns the seats into a bed. It will take less than a day to make the changes.” He paused. “Most men wouldn’t do so much for servants. You are catering to their comfort as much as you are accommodating your own.” His expression showed that he considered this to be a bit too much indulgence for servants. He strode the length of the shiny new vehicle. Heavily burled Alpine fir was setoff by panels glossily black with lacquer, and the windows had black-leather curtains. “I could still arrange for your device to be painted on the door-panel, Comte,” he suggested. “It would be a handsome addition to a handsome vehicle.”
“Very generous, but I think not,” said Ragoczy. “In these republican days I think it is prudent to keep titles unannounced. No matter how nations are led, their people are now deciding their course, and it may not always include recognizing nobles.” He had a brief, intense recollection of the crowds in Lyon, and the narrow escape he and Madelaine had had, thanks to the de Montalia device on her traveling trunks. The howls of the mob seemed to sound in his ears again, and he said more firmly, “The coach is elegant as it is, and suits my purposes.”
Hero, who was standing a few steps away, her parasol raised against the August sun, now came up to Ragoczy, saying, “I think Gutesohnes will like it.”
“The balance should please him,” said Ragoczy, once more inspecting the tiered springs. “We should have less sway and more comfort over rough roads.”
“I have made the changes you wanted in the seats,” said Einlass.
“The device you have contrived is a clever one, and I would imagine many another traveler would be glad of such improvements in his coach. Many would pay well for these improvements. It could make travel more pleasant for those who wanted your modifications, Comte.” His implication was plain—that Ragoczy could make a profit if he would license Herr Einlass to provide these modifications for others.
“Let me test them out on my journey to Amsterdam,” said Ragoczy firmly but without loss of geniality. “If they perform as I anticipate, then perhaps we should have a discussion.” He regarded the coach-maker for a long moment, seeing something crafty in his demeanor. “You, of course, would not provide my modification to any others without securing proper contracts first, would you?”
Einlass’ eyes flickered. “No, Comte. Of course not.”
Ragoczy shook his head. “Tell whomever you have offered my modifications to that you will not be able to provide them for yet a while. They have not yet been rigorously tested, and until they are, it would be premature to offer them to others.” His voice was cordial but there could be no mistaking his purpose.
“Yes. I will. Of course,” said Einlass, all deference. “It is just that your innovations are so … so …”
“Practical?” Ragoczy suggested; in the two centuries he had been adding such modifications to his coaches, he had been able to refine them to a state of utmost utility. “Advantageous?”
“Exactly!” Einlass enthused. “Those clips you have for the curtains, top and bottom, they are also a most pragmatic addition for the traveler. Do they need to be tested?”
“Another thing we can discuss later,” said Ragoczy as he held out his hand to Hero. “Would you like to inspect the interior?”
“Yes, please,” she said; she closed her parasol and allowed him to assist her into the new coach.
“The upholstery is just as you required, Comte,” Einlass assured him. “The colors are the colors you chose.”
“Because this is the cloth I supplied. You would be hard-pressed to find it anywhere in Europe.” He stood in the open door. “Are you comfortable, Madame?”
“I am,” she said. “So many windows, and such well-padded seats.” She ran her hand over the rich damask silk that covered the seats, walls, and ceiling of the interior. “You’ve thought of everything.”
“Probably not, but I have anticipated most problems, or so I hope.” Ragoczy moved out of the doorway and gave his attention to Einlass. “I will send my coachman tomorrow morning with the team and the harness.”
“Grays?” Einlass asked, knowing the Comte’s penchant for gray horses.
“No: matched liver sorrels,” he answered. “Very elegant animals, all four of them, from the same sire; sixteen hands with strong forward action. I had them from a breeder near Verona.” Although it was more than two hundred years since Olivia had died the True Death, he never missed her more than when he was buying horses.
“They are at the château; they arrived just eight days ago,” said Hero in a carrying voice as she prepared to emerge from the vehicle. “Very fine animals. Their coats are so dense a brown they are almost purple, and their manes and tails are pure flax
en. They will set off this coach admirably.”
“Will you take them all the way to Amsterdam?” Einlass asked. “You keep teams at inns along the road, I know.”
“It will depend on how we do. If we go straight through, then we will need to change teams on the way, possibly at Liège and Saarbrücken, or Zemmer. If, however, we spend a day or two along the road to allow the team to rest, then I may not change them until Amsterdam.” Ragoczy helped Hero to come down from the coach. “Do you think you will enjoy the journey?”
She nodded. “Oh, yes. This will be much easier than traipsing about after my father.”
“Very likely,” said Ragoczy with a nod to Einlass. “Be ready for my coachman—Otto Gutesohnes is his name.”
“Your courier?” Einlass was a bit surprised.
“Hochvall is recovering from an injury; Gutesohnes is driving for me while he does,” said Ragoczy.
“I had heard something of the sort,” Einlass admitted as if he rarely listened to gossip. “Very well. Everything will be ready after eight o’clock.”
“I assume the payment I provided was sufficient to your supplies and labor?” Ragoczy asked, well-aware that the sum he had advanced Einlass was more than sufficient for the work he and his men had done.
“You have a credit with me, one that I will provide in my accounting at month’s end.” Einlass bowed, then wiped the sweat from his forehead, doing his best to keep a determined smile on his face and reminding himself that all patrons should be as forthcoming and generous as Comte Franciscus.
“Thank you,” said Ragoczy, and started across the courtyard to where his calash was waiting, two striking gray horses harnessed to it. The top was down, so as Ragoczy lowered the steps he gave Hero his arm to assist her into the carriage, lending her his stability as she mounted the narrow steps. When she was settled Ragoczy climbed into the driving-box, took the reins and the whip, loosened the brake, and put his pair in motion. As he tooled the calash out into the street, he said over his shoulder, “Would you like to stop for dinner, or would you prefer to return directly to the château?”
Saint-Germain 21: Borne in Blood: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Page 10
