Lost love Historical romance

by Adele B.

  “Stop wasting time Lina, unless you want to be sent home! You well know this would be a real tragedy for your mother!“ Helga’s voice resounded from somewhere within the house.

  The girl didn’t seem to pay much heed to this, but as Helga’s steps drew nearer she hurried to sweep the woollen shards which had gathered under the heavy carpet.

  Helga made a hurried entry and after inspecting the way Lina was working she addressed herself to Livia “Good morning, Miss. I brought you a fresh change of clothes” and she held up three elegant dresses, made from the costliest silks. “In a few days a complete new wardrobe will arrive - until then you will have to use these” she went on as she opened the chest and put them inside.

  “Please eat something” she went on, with barely a glance towards the untouched breakfast on the table. “Don’t worry, you will be treated as a queen here. I’ll return at lunchtime; if you wish, there are a few books you can read in the meantime. Master knows you like to read, so he has filled a whole room with books. Some of them have even been brought here!” she continued, as she opened the door to a small bookcase. Some ten books by Russian, English and French authors, all in new costly leather bindings, sat upon the shelves.

  Livia studied her as she was speaking. She could easily work out all about the thin girl and how she had ended up in the house; it was much more difficult to judge Helga. Her German accent didn’t give much away, she could have come either from Germany or from a Transylvanian family where German was currently spoken, impeccably correct and not in dialect.

  She had surely been a great beauty in her time; she surely was unhappy.

  This was only to be expected; what happiness could one find in living isolated in a huge empty house, with a mostly-absent master and only one other servant - and now with a prisoner too?

  Or perhaps she herself was a prisoner, resigned now to her fate, for who knows what obscure reasons?

  Chapter 7

  “Come in” Livia said. A soft knock on the door had awoken her from the soft slumber she had fallen prey to while reading an English novel filled with princes and princesses, counts and duels. She had lost herself wholeheartedly amongst the castles, chivalrous fights and romantic intrigue. In the final chapter the Princess was saved; she even started to wonder whether this possibility existed for her too – despite the fact that she wasn’t a Princess. Maybe Fate would see fit to offer her another opportunity now, seeing as it hadn’t really spoiled her lately. How strange – here she was, thinking about Fate, and at exactly this moment someone was knocking on the door; would that it be some good news! But the door opened to let in only the sprightly-stepping Ildiko.

  “Good morning” she said in awfully-accented Romanian. A slightly embarrassed smile on her lips tried to hide the fact that these were probably the only Romanian words she knew. Her hands were holding a brush, a bucket of water and a shovel. Kneeling, she started to roll the heavy carpet; her delicate spine bent under the weight, her long tresses dragging along the floor. Livia studied her at her exertions and had to admit that she really was good-looking, she had a fresh, rustic, agile beauty as her cheeks glowed rosily with the effort.

  She decided to lend a helping hand, dragging the carpet towards the door. She knew Ildiko would carry it downstairs, then through the large courtyard all the way to the back of the building. There she would insistently brush and clean it, as she had often done with other carpets. As all Magyar women, Ildiko was very hard-working. The large house was shining clean, and it was no easy chore to keep it thus.

  “May I help you?” asked Livia, drawing near. She smiled, trying to befriend her; she was remembering her childhood friend Ilona, with who she had shared many a happy day, even though they couldn’t understand each other at all. A special friendship, just because it was forbidden.

  “Nem tudom” Ildiko answered, serious all of a sudden. She had not understood a word of Livia’s speech, but she somehow guessed it was a help offer; she did not want to be helped at all, and she hoped this “nem tudom” would clearly convey the message to Livia. Actually, besides Petros who had a smattering of Hungarian, no one else in the entire household understood her or spoke to her. She talked to Helga using sign language and a few German words. She kept repeating “nem tudom” trying to keep everybody at a distance. She would have liked to tell them how she could barely wait to leave the house, how much she missed her small Hungarian village, hidden amongst softly rolling hills. She missed her father and she missed his horses. But she would have to serve in this house for at least one more year, until she gathered all the dowry money she needed. Although Petros was a generous man and paid her well, and although she had already amassed the amount a young wife would need for starting a household, she had started to wish for more than that. Ordinary tableware was not enough now; she wanted a Bavarian set, and Italian gauze curtains, and fine silk bed sheets. She had become accustomed to the luxury surrounding her in this house, and she had started to wish for more even for her own little village home. On the other hand, her Janos was also working hard on the Grof’s land, earning the money needed to build that little home. Sometimes she could picture it quite clearly in her mind, with white gauze curtains and flower-filled windows. But time flew; she had come to work for two years and already four had passed. She would leave at the end of this year, though; she would leave even without the Bavarian set. With Livia’s arrival the atmosphere in the house had become oppressive, the calm before the storm.

  She had seen Livia on that first day when Petros had brought her in, more dead than alive; she had seen the desperation growing in her breast in these past three days. It did not look as if she could easily resign herself to her fate – and she really had no idea how she should behave in the young woman’s presence. In her village she had been taught never to mix with Romanians, but Livia elicited a sentiment of pity in her. Romanian or not, she was first and foremost a woman as herself.

  # # #

  The day passed slowly, and Livia was getting ready for bed. Wrapped in a sheet, she washed her clothes in the small boudoir adjoining the room. They would be dry by morning, when she would wear them again; refusing to put on any of the dresses Petros had brought her. She would rather prefer to wash her modest things every evening than accept anything from him. She finished, then forcibly squeezed them to take the water out, afraid they might not be dry in the morning.

  She was hanging them on a clothes rack near the open window when a noise startled her. Alone on the deserted, moonlit street, Petros’s carriage was drawing near. She watched from behind the curtains as he alighted, a heavy, thick garment protectively held in his arms. She studied him as he climbed the stairs, the weirdly white cloth trailing behind him in the pale moonlight.

  It was only then she understood, and a horrible, deathly cold made her shiver under the sheet she was wearing. The cloth Petros was carrying was a wedding dress; but for her broken heart, it was more like a death shroud.

  She heard murmuring voices in the hall, footsteps drawing near, a knock; then in came Helga.

  “Petros has decided the wedding date – it will be tomorrow. He wishes to know if you desire anything in particular” she said in a dry voice, as Livia tried to cover her bare shoulders with her frail hands. She looked ravishing, with the white sheet knotted above her breasts, long, jet-black hair flowing over her white shoulders, her delicate hands and shapely lips now drawn in a desperate pout, as her green eyes drowned in tears of desperation.

  After a moment’s silence Livia regained her composure enough to answer “I do not want to see anyone from my family; they should not be invited! More, no member of my family should be allowed to set foot in this household – ever again!”

  “As you wish” the woman answered as she left the room in order to deliver Livia’s message to the waiting Petros.

  In tears, Livia heard the entrance door slam shut, Petros’s heavy steps on the marble stairs, the carriage door closing and the diminishing noise as it drew away.r />
  “Tomorrow! What could change until tomorrow?” Livia desperately asked herself.

  So her fate was sealed, without giving her any possibility of escape - she thought to herself, as she sat on the bed, still wrapped in the sheet. Starting tomorrow, she would join the ranks of forcibly-married women; she would play her part for society’s sake, pretending to be a happy and fulfilled wife; then she would cry bitter tears, in secret, in her room. She would become sour, perhaps even hysterical like her own mother – or even totally mad. And what if she were to have a daughter? Would she destroy her life, one day, in the same way her mother had ruined hers? Was this an unknown curse, inherited from mother to daughter and set upon poisoning their destinies?

  # # #

  At the break of dawn, strange turmoil filled the usually quiet house. Between themselves, Helga and Ildiko managed to sound like a whole troop of noisy warriors. They ran up and down, here, there and everywhere, arranging things and losing themselves in pointless preparations; pointless, because this was going to be a wedding with no guests.

  Impassive, as if all this concerned someone else, still wrapped in the sheet, Livia headed for her old peasant dress, which had dried during the night. She had just finished putting it on when Helga came into the room, holding the wedding dress in her arms.

  “Good morning, Miss – in half an hour the hairdresser will be here, so you just have time to take a bath. I prepared a hot tub, but please hurry; in less than two hours we must be in church” she said as she carefully laid the wedding dress on the large bed. Then she hurriedly left the room.

  Without answering her, Livia headed for the window. She wondered whether he was already in the house or was about to arrive. What a strange day, this day of her wedding; how different from anything she had ever imagined; and how different the groom was from the person she would have wished to share her life with!

  A terrible despair gripped her heart; she wanted to scream, to tear all the precious fabrics in the room to pieces – but all she did was break into a long, painful bout of crying. Resigned and somehow abstracted now, she studied the bridal dress. It was indeed wonderfully made, from the finest silk, and painstakingly embroidered in some Italian workshop. One could see Petros had not cared about money here. She headed for the small boudoir, where an inviting hot tub, filled with perfumed water, was waiting for her. After washing her tired and tense body, she hurriedly combed her long, rich dark hair.

  She emerged from the boudoir and slipped with ease into the bridal dress.

  The sun had just risen and pleasant golden light was bathing the sumptuous room. In the mirror, Livia gazed at herself. She was shocked by her image. In the richly elegant bride’s dress, her shoulders, breasts and arms were candidly covered by the fine white gauze; her waist tightly embraced by precious embroideries. Delicate silken waves were covering her slender thighs and long legs.

  For a moment, she could clearly imagine Edward standing to her right, attired in the officers’ gala costume and answering her beatific smile with one of his own. Him and her, bridegroom and bride. How beautiful it could all have been - alas, it was fated never to happen. And her eyes filled with tears. She felt lonelier than ever, on this the most important day of any woman’s life, when her life was changing course forever. For a moment she remembered the noisy, happy gatherings of the peasant weddings she had seen in the village. For a few days all worries were cast aside as the whole village feasted and celebrated. The bride was treated as a princess, she was dressed and adorned by all the village women, she was admired and praised, the little girls rapturously observing all the ceremony and dreaming of the day when their turn would come. The whole place was filled with joy and laughter, songs and dances.

  But all she had for company was the rhythmical noise of the grandfather clock, reminding her that in just two hours she would become Petros’s wife.

  A hurried knock on the door heralded the entrance of Helga, accompanied by an elegant, thin woman.

  “Good morning, my name is Rita” this one said smiling, as she studied Livia’s long dark waves of hair.

  “You have such long and beautiful hair, I’ll have to start working on it right now or else I won’t be able to finish in time” she continued, taking out her tools from a small leather bag.

  “Do you have any preferences for the hair?” she asked.

  “I’ll rely on your choice, it has no importance for me” Livia answered as she seated herself in front of the mirror.

  The woman understood it all in the blink of an eye. The deserted house, the lack of guests, the tears in the young woman’s eyes; this was not a happy occasion, at least not for the bride. It was not the first time, she had seen other brides like this one and she was always saddened by it. She looked again at Livia, so young and yet so desperate and sad.

  She went to work, energetically combing every strand of hair, again and again, until it took the exact shape she wished. The hairdresser’s hands were thin and elegant, seeming even more handsome as she worked on the thick strands of hair, always with a smile on her face. Livia’s long mane was a challenge for her, but she really wanted to create a wonderful coiffure for this young woman whom she had started to like. She worked in silence, sensing Livia didn’t feel much like talking.

  Livia was silent too. Proudly she tried to wipe the sadness from her face, but still her eyes would fill up with tears from time to time. The hairdresser pretended not to see them, concentrating on her long dark tresses. She finished much earlier than she would have thought. She had chosen a simple style, letting the hair fall free below waist level, in contrast to the virginal white of the bridal dress, accenting Livia’s extraordinary beauty. A crown of white, little flowers and a delicate gauze veil, foamy and ethereal, completed the work.

  The woman took a few steps back and, after gazing at her, said “You are the most beautiful bride I have seen so far!”

  “Thank you, you are most kind” Livia answered. And by far the unhappiest - she would have liked to add, but stopped in time.

  “May you be blessed with a stone house and many healthy children” she went on, as she gathered the tools of her trade; another bride was waiting for her in another corner of the city.

  While Livia was seeing the woman to the door, Helga entered bearing a heavy necklace in her hands. The usually-impassive Helga seemed delighted by what she saw.

  “You look ravishing” she said as she was closing the necklace clasp around Livia’s neck.

  “Yes, ravishing” Lina’s voice echoed; she had crept in the room unseen and now she stood entranced by the sight she beheld. Without any make-up, using no trick, Livia’s face seemed etched in the finest porcelain and her eyes burned with an even more intense light, their colour set off by the emeralds shining on her breast.

  “I’ll see you to the carriage, we are running a little late” she said hurrying to close the windows.

  Livia headed for the door and Helga hurried after her. She took her arm and held her tight until they both entered the carriage. The young woman understood; Helga was afraid she might try to run away. But where could she go? She pictured herself, in her richly-adorned bridal dress, running through the streets, fields and forests until she’d just drop dead from exhaustion.

  She meekly entered the carriage, Helga at her side. The two women avoided each other’s eyes, looking out the windows; each with her thoughts. Livia took in the gaily-coloured Saxon buildings, the noisy children, the women and men hurrying to their chores. She would have wished the carriage to just drive on forever, never stopping anywhere, for all eternity; and she would happily spend that eternity gazing out the window at unruly children and Saxon houses.

  But the carriage stopped in front of a church door, on a side street. The coachman opened the door and Helga alighted first, helping Livia and holding her long dress. Then they both headed for the church.

  Helga opened the heavy door and invited Livia in with a gesture. After the bright sunlight, the church seemed to
o dark and forbidding, but the familiar scent of camphor, burning candles and mixed flowers soon made her feel at ease. The silence was deep, heavy and solemn, and the few people inside the church were lighting candles in silence and reverence.

  As her eyes grew accustomed to the faint light, Livia could now see two men and a woman standing near the altar. Too elegantly dressed for the hour of the day, they could only be her godparents, she thought. She disgustedly recognized one of them as Petros, impeccably dressed and with a serious, even preoccupied air.

  On seeing her, his eyes lit up, he was bewitched and enchanted, as were the others, who had never seen her before and were not expecting her to be such a beauty. Petros took a step forward and bowed deeply. He was clearly entranced by her and the fact that he was totally in her powers was obvious to everyone present, including the priest.

  “Livia, these are our godparents” he said, with an easy familiarity, as if they were just continuing a conversation interrupted a few moments ago.

  “My name is Elena; may I introduce Gabriel, my husband” the woman said, with an admiring glance. “We are deeply honoured to be chosen as your godparents”

  Livia let her eyes travel over the woman’s face and answered with an icy smile which froze the woman in her tracks.

  The priest, who had seen the way the bride had arrived, her lack of enthusiasm and her outright indifference towards both groom and godparents, thought it was time to do something.

  He stood in front of them, dignified and solemn. He was about forty, tall, dark-haired and bearded; with a deep and at the same time sympathetic voice.

  He tried not to show the pity he felt for this couple, for their modest company - just the two of them and the godparents. Indeed the ways of the Lord were unfathomable - he sighed, and this marriage would probably be a strange one indeed.

  He therefore hurried to start the service, without any preliminary small-talk, as he would have usually done, just to put the young couple at ease.