Lost love Historical romance

by Adele B.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

  ---------------------------------------------------------------------------

  A love story of olden times, based on true facts.

  In a small Transylvanian village a one hundred and fifty year -old stone cross, slightly tilted, still bears witness to the love between two young people so different in rank, religion, nationality. Although many winds and rains have passed over it, one can still make out the words, filled with regret and love.

  Livia’s beauty and the young Count’s intense love for her have survived the passing of time, in the peasants’ memories and the stone cross.

  Transylvania, 1866

  Chapter 1

  On a soft mild May evening, a dusty carriage stopped in front of the Mayor’s office in the village of Brad, and a young lady of unusual beauty alighted from it. She wore city-style clothing, impeccably turned-out and drawing attention to her maidenly bosom and delicate midriff. She held a small leather bag in one hand, and a closed, fine lacy umbrella in the other. On her oval, delicate face a slight rosy tint imbued her with an air of finest porcelain china.

  Her elegance and beauty lent her a somewhat foreign appearance, as if she had just alighted by mistake in the middle of the deserted, desolate village; but from the darkness a tall, thin male shadow was already walking towards her.

  “Good evening, Livia, you’ve arrived at last! I was a bit worried that something might have happened to the coach, as I've been waiting here for more than an hour !” said the man in a slightly worried voice.

  “Good evening, Father! It's so good to feel again the familiar scent of your clothes! A wonderful tang of myrrh and incense, all mixed with candle smoke! The scents of home!” the young girl answered, smilingly embracing him.

  “And if I think about it, there might even be a hint of that small wine cup the innkeeper offered while you were waiting for the carriage to arrive?! But don't worry, Mother won't find out anything about it!” she jokingly continued.

  “Hmmm … I, for my part, seem to notice a tiny lipstick smear – might it be from the rouge you wiped off just before you arrived? But you need have no worries, Mother won't find out anything about it!“ her father retorted, with a mock-serious air.

  The man took the leather bag and, with the girl leaning on his arm and cheerfully chattering away he headed for their house. They walked unhurriedly and Livia listened carefully as her father recounted the village problems, the peasants' troubles, the ever-present strife, always different and yet always the same, day in and day out.

  A cold shiver ran through her; all of a sudden, night had covered the earth with its dark blue, chilly veil, descending over the sun-scorched earth and the small sad little houses hidden behind wooden fences. They seemed abandoned in the darkness, but she remembered only too well the people living in each of them.

  Small lonely houses, one after another, on both sides of the road. Carefully lined up, they modestly shared the fate of their inhabitants, slowly transforming and decaying with the passing of time. Old peoples' houses seemed old themselves, with crumbling walls and slanting roofs, with the entrance gates gaping like toothless mouths, tired and worn after being opened and closed too many times. They were merely small houses on a fragrant May evening, and that’s all they would ever be. And yet, every time she returned to the village her heart seemed to shrink in her bosom, for the pitiless rhythm of life itself was nowhere stronger than here.

  All the courtyards were deserted. The clear, light-filled day imbued people with force and a sense of safety, but the mysterious night ruled the modest villages, the untrodden forests and the majestic mountain peaks alike. Night made people feel small and fearful, and from fear many strange customs had sprung up, with the passing of time. Garlic crowns fixed to the doorpost; verbena bushes in the garden; crucifixes in every room; magical potions and enchantments – all, just to keep at bay those evil spirits which crept unbidden from deep dark ravines or swept down from the bald forbidding mountain peaks, to prey on the poor mortals.

  “And how was your trip? Tiring, I imagine!” asked the priest, drawing Livia from her daydream.

  “Not at all, it was extraordinary – an enchanted journey!” she replied seeing in her mind's eye the softly curving, verdant valleys, the fierce peaks, the laughing rivers. Transylvania was so beautiful that its inhabitants often said it was hard to discern whether this was for good or for bad, a blessing or a curse.

  Everyone coveted its riches and its natural splendours, as men would lust after a young, nubile, blossoming young girl.

  “Tell me, dear, what are you planning to do now that you have finished college? As you well know, life is hard here and I don't think the four languages you fluently speak will be of much help, I daresay! I was thinking you might return to Arad in the autumn – I have an old friend here, also a priest, who might be able to find you a position as schoolteacher.”

  “I wish to stay here, Father. I could teach the children of the village how to read and write“ Livia answered.

  “But you well know that with the exception of the very young, every child has either to work the fields or tend to the animals. And for the three or four who can really afford to go to school, one teacher is more than enough, and I am that teacher.”

  “I will gather all the village children on Sunday afternoon, and I'll teach them to read!” replied the girl in a decisive tone.

  The man listened calmly – he knew better than to insist, for he knew his daughter well. She had inherited not only her mother's intriguing green eyes, but also her stubbornness.

  “There's our house; finally home! I'm sure Mother must be a little worried!” said the man.

  “I could hardly wait to be home again, I was tired of living amongst strangers!” answered his daughter, studying the handsome, well-built house with its small garden overgrown with flowers and its stone path leading towards the wooden balcony covered in climbing roses, jasmine and vines. The moon had just come out from behind the clouds, and its bluish light imbued the scenery with a romantic, picturesque air. Often while at college she had thought about her beloved house, remembering every little corner, from her Spartan room with its forest-view to the old secret-filled attic, fragrant with memories.

  Livia opened the small wooden gate and stepped on the narrow path; the flowers bordering it a riot of colour and fragrance. The perfumed jasmine, a true queen of the night, was reigning supreme over the subtle roses and the delicate gardenias, while their modest cousins were hiding timidly in dark recesses of the luxuriating garden. Climbing the wooden stairs, she reached the large balcony, where an old rocking-chair sat forlornly next to a yellowing newspaper.

  You would not find any garlic crowns adorning their door as the master of the house was a priest, a man of God. On the contrary, he would try to fight against all these superstitions with the power of the cross, his one strength and pillar of hope. He was not afraid of vampires or other creatures of the night, sprung from the peasants' feverish imagination. The only person he was really afraid of was Catrina, his fierce wife with her haughty manner, her quick temper and her hysterias. He was firmly convinced no werewolf or vampire would ever dare approach their doorstep - not while she was around.

  As for Catrina herself, she didn't care about the creatures of the night at all; the only thing she really feared was poverty. She had seen it rearing its ugly face in too many households, and one thing she knew fo
r sure; it could kill, as surely and as certainly as any imaginary werewolf.

  The door flew open, as if whoever was behind it couldn't wait any more. Catrina had kept watch behind the lace curtains, and now she was appraising her daughter with a look of ecstatic happiness on her face.

  “Good gracious, how beautiful you have become, Livia! You have turned into a real young lady!” she blurted out, measuring her from head to toe. In the eight months since she'd last seen her daughter, this latter had been transformed out of all recognition, and the mother felt an ache course through her bosom. All traces of childhood had disappeared, melted away like snow on a warm spring morning. Gone was the slight, timid teenager with her long dark tresses; she had been replaced by a sophisticated young lady, an elegant person whom she barely recognised.

  “Good evening, Mother. I find you well, I trust” Livia said, kissing her mother on both her vanilla-scented cheeks.

  “But where is George?” she inquired, opening the door to her brother's room. She had missed him and was somewhat surprised that he hadn't yet appeared.

  “Your brother is in Cluj now. As you may know, we spent quite a lot of money on your college education, a bit more than we could afford, in fact – so we had to find a job for him. He always had a fine hand for writing, so he works for a notary.”

  “But he had always dreamed of becoming a priest, like you, Father “Livia said, with a sad and guilty air.

  “My dear girl” retorted her father mildly “it was all decided four years ago, when you started college. You got the education your mother had planned for you from the moment you were born, and your brother will inherit the house and all the land, the fruit of our labours over so many years.”

  “You mean the fruit of my dowry” replied the woman drily while setting the dinner table.

  Livia was watching her mother carefully; she knew that even though warm, happy and smiling, she could easily turn on them all in one of her furious rages. She had always feared her mother's emotional instability, that inferno of words and grimaces, of sadness and accusations which could so easily engulf the rest of the family. Sensing a storm on the horizon, she thought it best to retire to her room.

  A faint scent of lavender permeated the air. On the small table a pile of books was waiting, and beside the bed a small basket with knitting things and multicoloured yarns sat beside an unfinished embroidery. The windows were covered by pristine white linen drapes, their borders embroidered with blood-red roses; the carpet and the tablecloth also covered in the same motif. Everything here, from the delicate flowers in the garden to the decorations on household objects witnessed her mother's passion for these strangely turned-out flowers, with their prickly stems and their sweet fragrance. She loved them, perhaps because she thought of herself as resembling their sweet yet stingy delicacy.

  “Dinner is ready, Livia. Come and have something to eat” Catrina called out.

  “I'll be right there, Mother” she answered tensely, moving towards the kitchen. She knew her mother had assumed her commanding role now, so she'd better not make her wait.

  She ate hurriedly, noticing her father's worried face. Her mother was silent, looking only at her plate.

  After dinner she took refuge in her room again, falling tiredly into her childhood bed. Even after the unpleasant scene she had just witnessed, the cool fragrance of the freshly-laundered sheets comforted her and gave her a feeling of safety, of being protected from any danger whatsoever.

  # # #

  Impatient to enter again into her newly-found Eden, Livia skipped lightly across the dirt road, heading towards the hills. At this time of the day the village seemed deserted again, emptied of its inhabitants, with its quiet courtyards left in the care of sleepy dogs and lazily stretching cats. Far away, in the distant fields, you could see men and women, old and young alike, with bent backs as they toiled for their daily bread. Her heart skipped a beat as she noticed the tired, sweaty faces of the peasants under their wide-brimmed straw hats. Although it was early May, the sun was burning fiercely and the men's shirts were glued to their backs with sweat; from time to time, one would pause and mop his face with his arm, then straighten his aching back a little before returning to the arduous task at hand. And to think that almost none of their labour's fruits were for themselves! They were just cattle, she thought bitterly.

  Livia saluted everybody, and they answered, a bit surprised. With her perfectly-combed hair under her little perky hat, with her city clothes but most of all with her milk-white face untouched by the sun, she was a surprising sight for the peasants, who lifted their hats in greeting. Some of them even recognized her, but most would think she was some kind of aristocrat visiting the castle. They didn't associate her at all with the village priest's girl, that skinny thing with her long unruly tresses who would spend all day chasing cats and running through the meadows.

  Out of the blue, a noisy, dust-covered carriage broke the silence of the afternoon, speedily advancing on the dirt road. All the peasants lifted their heads, curiosity and surprise written on their faces. It was massive and richly-ornamented, driven by a moustached, German-looking coachman in city dress. It sprinted through the village like a ghost, followed by many envious eyes; the heavy race horses themselves must have been worth a fortune.

  Livia stepped aside, she was horribly afraid of horses and even though the coachman seemed to know his trade she still was wary. She patiently waited for the carriage to pass; but suddenly the coachman stopped his horses right in front of her, and through the slowly-settling dust she saw a tall, well-built man with thick eyebrows and a proud black moustache. He alighted from the screeching carriage and headed towards her.

  “Good afternoon, miss – is this the road to the castle?” he inquired, with a slight German accent. His fiery gaze seemed to say something else altogether – something along the lines of “who are you, and how did you end up in this God-forsaken place?”

  “Yes, it is“ she answered abruptly, hoping that the stranger would leave without asking her anything else. The man's gaze and countenance had something unpleasant in them, and the way his eyes were openly appraising her and travelling all over her body was positively offensive.

  He was trying to disguise neither his admiration nor his lust for her, as he stared fixedly at her young bosom through the thin gauze shirt she wore.

  He was a hefty, fleshy fellow, in a half-opened shirt through which one could see a sweaty tuft of chest hair, appraising her lecherously as he advanced slowly closer and closer– too close for comfort, in fact.

  “Do you happen to know if there is a fountain around here? My horses are thirsty and so are my men” he asked, his gaze still fixed upon her.

  “I am really surprised you haven't noticed the fountains – look carefully and you'll see them, they are all over the place” Livia answered, drawing back a little. She knew this was just a pretext, the man probably wanted to talk a bit more. There were fountains everywhere, built by the side of the road, and it was unbelievable that either the burly man or his coachman had failed to see them.

  “I wish you a good day “she said, turning on her heels. She could not stand this man's unpleasant scrutiny a moment longer, it was an affront to her purity, to her virginal innocence. In less than half a minute, he had made her blush and shake with a sense of outrage and insult.

  She did not look back, but she could hear him speaking to the coachman in German. Then there was the noise and clatter of the carriage drawing away, and when she finally turned her head all she could see was a cloud of dust through the distant fields.

  She was acutely aware of sweat pouring down her face now, and an aftertaste of that unpleasant encounter still lingered on her tongue. The sun was beating mercilessly down, and she could hardly wait to reach the deep, cool forest shade.

  The road had already turned into nothing more than a steep footpath, the corn fields were far behind now and she was surrounded by thickets and young saplings. Slowly these gave way to tall
, majestic old trees; the green canopy overhead barely let the sun peek through, and the grass was thick, green and wavy in the shade.

  She reached the top of the hill and sat on the old fallen trunk. The view was marvellous, all was calm and all was beautiful.

  She felt drunk on so many colours, extending over the scenery as if by the alchemy of some unseen painter. The deep blue sky, the verdant hills, spotted here and there with minuscule patches of brown earth and tiny white-clad peasant figures; the shiny curve of the river disappearing far away, in the distance, through the deep green of the forest. And the forest itself, bordered by the mountains. Then, in the fields, small colour patches of white and pink, delicate trees in flower; their subtle scent carried on the wings of the evening wind. It was the time of wild orchids and the poppy, the nightingale and the lime tree. In the silence, one could hear the laughter of the small stream hidden amongst the grasses. A lonely bird called once, and a deer shyly crept through the shade.

  As she sat there, in the greenish light, Livia herself seemed to have been painted by the same unknown master whose hand had embellished all nature. She had the most beautiful and delicate features any young woman could have wished for. Large green eyes shadowed by thick black eyelashes, red pouting lips as inviting as any forbidden fruit, a pale milky oval in striking contrast to the jet-black hair whose rich strands were trying to escape the confines of the hat.

  The sound of a horn drew her attention towards the castle, majestically projected on the mountaintop. Often, in college, she had closed her eyes and remembered its rounded walls, like a knight's shield surrounded by the four stone towers with their pointed roofs resembling the arrows of long-dead archers. Although it was built on the edge of a high, steep hill and seemed ready to tumble into the ravine at any moment, the castle had endured for the last four hundred years, ruling over the valleys and the fields below. And for more than four hundred years it had watched the villagers in their small dwellings, and it had demanded taxes and dues; and the inhabitants of the castle were as hated by the peasants as these latter were despised by them. It was an unending war, seemingly as eternal as the stone walls themselves.