Daughter of Mystery

by Jones, Heather Rose

  “Then you’re a fool,” LeFevre said in an even voice, as if merely commenting on the weather. But he escorted them out of the room and closed the door before continuing in inaudible tones.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Barbara

  Whatever arguments LeFevre made, they must have bent Maistir Fulpi’s objections. For while no space for her practice could be found at Chaturik Square, allowance was made for her to stable the bay mare there. Not only could she slip out more easily for her lessons but there was more freedom in the hours when Margerit received visitors at her aunt’s side. Or the endless hours with the dressmaker.

  Over the next days, things settled into a routine that passed for normal. Barbara was amused at the narrowed scope of her duties. Though she trained and practiced as if her potential opponents still worked at the highest levels, her everyday chores were more that of a governess or hired chaperone. The potential hazards she had sketched out that first evening might have been exaggerated, but there were everyday pitfalls to navigate, even in those first weeks.

  The visits to Fonten Street and lessons in the management of properties became more common than walks in the park. Margerit claimed the time as private. The aunts might oversee her social visits, but they had no patience for sitting through LeFevre’s detailed explanations. Her uncle didn’t take her interest in the estate seriously enough to pay it any heed. But at least one person had noted that her midday walks to Fonten House were unaccompanied by any of her guardians. From the promptness with which the man fell in beside them one morning, Barbara concluded that he had been loitering for the purpose. He touched his hat and addressed Margerit with, “It isn’t right for a lady to go walking out unescorted,” as he offered his arm to her.

  Margerit paused, appearing to flounder for a response. And yet she clearly recognized the man and Barbara could see he was a respectable gentleman, perhaps a colleague of her uncle? This was not someone to be warned off with a hand on the hilt and a menacing glare. Barbara cleared her throat and sought a safe middle ground. “Maistir, she is not unescorted.”

  He blinked at her as if he had only then noticed her existence. “Hmm. Yes. As you say.” He turned back to Margerit. “Would you grant me the honor of accompanying you on your errand?”

  Margerit threw her a flustered look but this was her lead to take. “Maistir Palmir, I thank you for your kind offer, but there is no need.”

  “Of course not, my dear.” He smiled. “But it would be my pleasure.”

  With that “my dear,” Barbara concluded, he had stepped across the line. She took a step closer to Margerit and said in the most deferential tone she could manage, “If the gentleman wishes to walk out with you, Maisetra, it would be best if he called at your home and spoke with Maistir Fulpi first.” Although she addressed Margerit, her eyes were fixed on the stranger.

  The surest confirmation of his transgression was the promptness with which he demurred, “As you say. As you say.” He tipped his hat once more and strolled in the opposite direction with the self-conscious casualness of a cat.

  Margerit stifled a laugh as they continued on. “Do you think he really will speak to my uncle?” she wondered.

  Barbara considered it unlikely. He didn’t have the marks of high birth, and mere money wouldn’t be considered sufficient attraction now. But he might not have the sense to realize that. He’d lacked the sense to guess how few personal charms a fifty-year-old man might hold for a girl of eighteen.

  There were two other approaches in those first weeks, as clumsy and as easily deflected as Maistir Palmir’s. The serious suitors would take their time and employ more subtlety.

  * * *

  It seemed that no sooner had the Fulpi household settled into its new routine than it was broken again by the advent of Saint Chertrut’s day. They followed the old custom of traveling to the countryside, to the home village of their family, to celebrate the saint’s mystery and decorate the churches with flowering boughs. Barbara could faintly remember honoring the patroness of gardens and orchards in the village church at Saveze. That was before the baron had begun taking her with him to Rotenek. The festival fell too early in the year to return south for no other reason.

  Evidently Maistir Fulpi’s people lived too far away for the trip to be practical but his wife’s family had a manor near Mintun and the entire household was to go. For that, several carriages were required, and even with one of Margerit’s new acquisitions pressed into service, space was tight. At first Barbara was grateful that her duties gave her a seat outside, up with the coachman. Another pair of sharp eyes was always useful, though any lurking highwaymen would be better addressed with the coachman’s musket than her sword. But even the one-day’s journey stretched out well after dark. At dusk a bitter wind sprang up, reminding her that Saint Chertrut’s Day brought only the promise of spring, not the season itself. And when Margerit noticed that at every pause she stamped around briskly to loosen up her frozen muscles she insisted that she join the rest in the interior.

  Barbara squeezed into one side, between Margerit and the door, with the girl Sofi on Margerit’s far side and Maisetra Fulpi, a nurse and little Iulien ranged opposite them. The children had long since dropped to sleep and Margerit herself was yawning constantly although she had the excuse of a late dinner party the night before. Finally she gave up and leaned against her saying, “I hope you don’t mind,” as she closed her eyes. Barbara shifted enough to get her arm free and draped it across Margerit’s shoulders to help steady her against the lurching of the road. Margerit sighed again and leaned in closer, her breathing soon falling into the slow rhythm of sleep.

  It should have been an awkward arrangement but Barbara found herself relaxing as the miles rolled by. Margerit’s warm presence against her body seemed to belong there like one of her own limbs. She hadn’t expected to become resigned to her fate so quickly, much less to become comfortable. Her duties themselves were both easier and more complex than they had been under the baron but they were beginning to untangle themselves. If Margerit convinced her uncle to let her go to Rotenek—or more likely, let him believe he’d convinced her to go—even the work of protecting her would be easier. There were more watching eyes in the city. Accidents would be more difficult to arrange and she knew the players more intimately. If she could see her safe past a year’s cycle of university terms and balls…two years? It occurred to her that she didn’t know the precise date when the conditions of the will would be complete and she would be free. And would she?

  To be sure, the baron’s will had no power to enforce what happened afterward, but if Margerit had been willing to forego her inheritance entirely to see justice done, why doubt that she would do right when the terms were fulfilled and it would cost her nothing? In the meantime, one must serve someone, after all. Though her service was constrained, there was still pride and honor in doing the job well. Loyalty—that was in her own gift and it had been earned in that first afternoon. Loyalty and more. To the baron, she had been like a hunting dog or a fine sword—a tool to be employed to his ends. But with Margerit she felt more like a cloak to protect her from the wind or a hawk mantling over her chick. She smiled at how the image matched their posture.

  Barbara had been staring out through the glass window of the carriage door, catching glimpses of the landscape as the moonlight allowed. But as they passed through a long patch of darker road, the reflection of Maisetra Fulpi’s pale face, lit by the wan carriage lamp, replaced the silvered fields. The woman was staring at her with a blend of fear and disgust. Barbara froze. That look had not been meant for her eyes and she tried to give no sign acknowledging it. She knew Margerit’s aunt had been far from happy about her presence in the household but what had inspired this? Margerit sighed in her sleep again and snuggled closer. The aunt’s look grew sharper. Realization ran coldly through her veins. Did she think…? Did it look…?

  It was the masculine clothing, in part—it put curious ideas in people’s minds. There ha
d been men at the court who found it exciting to flirt with a boy-girl. Even if the hazards hadn’t been so great, they’d sparked no interest in her. But there had also been a few women who played the same game. And for a brief time, intrigued and flattered by the interest and starved for the human touch that she was denied in the ordinary way, she had let things go further than had been wise. Her cheeks still burned at remembering that glorious imprudence.

  Was that what Maisetra Fulpi suspected of her? With that thought lodged in her brain, Barbara became exquisitely aware of every inch of contact between Margerit’s body and hers. Of the alternating heat and cold where Margerit’s breath caressed her wrist between the glove and the sleeve. Of the way their breathing had fallen into synchrony. No, it was madness. She sealed the matter away in the corner of her heart that was reserved for the impossible.

  Only five more miles lay between them and the crossroads at Mintun. It was an eternity and heartbreakingly short.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Margerit

  At the barking of dogs and the rattle of carriage wheels over stones in the yard Margerit woke with a start. In the first moment she couldn’t quite place whose arm would be holding her so closely. Then she breathed in the mixed aroma of leather and lavender that she had come to associate with Barbara’s working clothes. She pulled herself upright, feeling strangely self-conscious.

  The chaos of unloading passengers and baggage was cut though by the brisk efficiency of Maisetra Saldirenk, pulling her guests into the common hall where a bright fire and food waited. They were not the only group of cousins who came to Mintun for Saint Chertrut’s feast-day pleasures, so the arrangements were cramped and cozy. A group of dairymaids had been evicted temporarily from their shared dormitory by the kitchen to make way for the girls. Margerit didn’t mind being lumped in with the children one more time but she pointed out, “We’re going to be dreadfully snug this year,” looking from the two beds to the people—augmented by one—who would share the room.

  Aunt Honurat gave her an odd look but Barbara said, “Find me a pallet for the floor and I’ll do well enough.”

  The worst part of the arrangements, Margerit realized, was the loss of any hope of sleeping late. Sofi was a restful bedmate but little Iuli was up with the sun, chattering with her nurse until led away to the kitchen to break her fast. Even so, the bustle of the kitchen and yard leaked in easily. It was supposed to be part of the charm of Chertrut’s Day—the return to country habits and schedules. The charm had lost a little of its luster for her over the years given its way of turning schedules topsy-turvy.

  Those who planned to keep wake through the night would normally take the excuse for indolence and a nap before dinner. The rest would be content to be woken before dawn the next morning to go out to the hills to celebrate the mysteries and take in the Mass afterward in the village church. Margerit would have been glad to be one of the latter but Aunt Honurat took her aside to ask whether she would be one of the celebrants in the mystery. “If you’re going to be spending all that time reading books, you might as well put it to some use.”

  It was a flattering request despite the wording, more so given that she was related to the hosts only by marriage and participation was usually saved for daughters of the house. But there had been an underlying edge in Honurat’s voice that belied the kindness of the offer.

  “Aunt Fulpi,” Margerit asked hesitantly. “Have I offended you?” Her overt displeasure was rare and not to be ignored.

  Her aunt pressed her lips together and looked around briefly as if worried who might be listening. “I’m concerned about…that woman.”

  “About Barbara?” Margerit asked.

  She nodded and seemed to make a decision. “There are things it isn’t appropriate for a young woman—a decent young woman—to know about. But I think you should be warned. That woman has led a very irregular life. While I’m sure the baron was a respectable man, still a girl growing up in that sort of household, allowed to run wild and to fall into habits of depravity—”

  “How can you say that?” Margerit protested hotly.

  “Margerit, open your eyes. You’re not a child. She takes the part of a man in her dress, in her duties. Who’s to say she doesn’t take a man’s part in…in private, as well? And that will reflect on you and your reputation if you aren’t careful.”

  It took her some moments even to begin to imagine what that might mean. “But how could…what…?”

  “Never you mind. Just consider: while she’s guarding you from the intentions of unscrupulous men, who’s guarding you from her?”

  To her surprise, she felt not embarrassed but angry. “Anyone who thinks that has an evil mind! Barbara would never…I trust her with my life!”

  Aunt Honurat shrugged. “What do you know about her really? What can we ever know about what goes on in servants’ minds? But you’ll do as you please, now that you’re rich. All I can ask is that you don’t allow her to practice indecencies under my roof.”

  It was the most forthright speech Margerit had heard from her aunt—at least for anything outside of manners—and she was startled by how much venom it contained. The confusion lingered long after Aunt Honurat’s demeanor had returned to its accustomed calm. What had she meant about “playing the man’s part in private?” At the time, she’d reacted to the tone of the accusation; now the substance exercised her imagination.

  It still teased at her that afternoon when it was time to catch some sleep before dinner. Margerit claimed the tiny room from her cousins, and Barbara—hesitant to leave her unattended in a strange place—settled a comfortable chair across the doorway to be able to rest and guard at the same time.

  Sleep eluded her at first as her aunt’s words echoed in her mind. Of course she knew the ways of men and women. She might have been sheltered but you couldn’t read widely in the classics and remain ignorant. That was a different matter than thinking what it might mean to her personally. How would a woman kiss when playing a man’s part? Differently? She looked over at Barbara obliquely and imagined what it might be like to kiss her, to be kissed by her. It had never occurred to her to imagine kissing any of her prospective suitors. She’d simply accepted that it would happen in its own time.

  Margerit had danced with girls—one did, after all, at family parties when no thought for careful balance had been taken. It was different dancing with men who saw you as a potential wife. There was a possessiveness in their hands, an assumption of control in the way they guided you through the figures. What might it be like to dance with a woman who danced as a man? Who treated it not as a pastime but as the allegory for a further act? And how…? What…? In her mind, she offered her hand to Barbara and led her out onto the floor as the music began.

  Barbara noticed her intent stare and rose. “Is something wrong?”

  Margerit looked away guiltily and shook her head. Barbara sat on the edge of the bed, frowning at her in concern. “Are you sure?” She raised a hand tentatively, paused, then reached out to tuck in a hairpin that had come loose.

  Margerit shivered at the unexpected touch and two thoughts came simultaneously into her mind. I could find out what it’s like. I could command her to kiss me and she would. But then: She would be blamed, if someone discovered us. She would get the censure and punishment. Because of who she is and what she does. And for what? To satisfy my curiosity? She knew her duty and responsibility better than that. She sighed and said, “I’m too tired to sleep, that’s all. And it’s so hard in the daytime, even when I know I’ll be up all night.”

  Barbara picked up the copy of the Life and Mysteries of Saint Chertrut that Margerit had left at the bedside. “Would you like me to read to you? The baron always said it helped him sleep.”

  Margerit giggled unexpectedly. “He told me that improving texts were the best for the purpose!” The two shared a grin as she settled back against the pillows and closed her eyes. Barbara’s voice followed her deep into her dreams.

  Chap
ter Sixteen

  Barbara

  Dinner was a plain affair: the fast before tomorrow’s feast—such as it was for a feast day that inevitably fell during Lent. But what passed for a simple country meal among the propertied families still stretched out to several courses. Barbara had been wary of the crowd of strangers at first but none of them were strangers to Margerit. It was safe enough to leave her in their company for a time. There was no chance that she’d ever be alone. The day still had an hour of light and she took the opportunity to have one of the stable boys show her up to the shrine where the mysteries would be held at dawn. It might not be necessary—more a matter of staying in practice—but to someone accustomed to the hazards of city alleys and palace corridors, it was difficult to predict what sorts of dangers could lurk in the open countryside.

  The shrine was a small stone building set against the hill where a stream sprang forth from the rocks. It was placed to catch the very beginnings of the spring sunlight and at some early date the clearing in front of it had been planted with wild plum and sour cherry trees—the sorts known to bloom earliest. It was considered the greatest of luck if the trees were blooming for Chertrut’s feast and flower-laden branches could be brought down to adorn the altar for the Mass. But though the buds were swollen fat and showing promise of color, it seemed unlikely that this would be a lucky year.

  Mintun lay just at the edge of the hills and it was one of those crisp, clear days when the entire Tupe valley spread out below like a carpet pattern. The silvery thread of the river rushed in spring torrent down to where it would join the Rotein. From the rise where the shrine stood, she could see the black and gray slate roofs of the village, wreathed about with tendrils of blue smoke. Chalanz was well out of sight around a curve of the hills behind her but in the other direction, to the south, she could see all the way to where the mountains rose, snowcapped, on the southeastern border of Alpennia, guarding the roads to Switzerland and places beyond. She could almost pretend to spot the white speck at their base where the convent of Saint Orisul stood in the Saveze lands that had been home until a month ago. The lines from Pertulif ran through her mind: Our fortress walls, frost-capped, white, first watch against what lies without. A faint cough behind her broke the reverie. It was an honest cough from the sharpness of the air but her guide looked mortified that she might think him impatient. “It’s enough,” she said and let him lead the way back down the hill.