It turned out to be an excruciating morning filled with domestic needlework and palpable tension. Aunt Honurat was still out of sorts with her and was clearly unhappy that Barbara refused to take the hint and absent herself. Her young cousins were caught up in it as well. Sofi fretted over her stitches, not daring to ask what the adults were not talking about. And Iulien chattered away obliviously until her mother could stand it no more and sent her back to the nursery. And around about the time that Aunt Bertrut began putting things away in preparation for luncheon, they heard a muffled knock at the front door, the sound of men’s voices and footsteps in the hall. Aunt Honurat gave her a sharp glance but it seemed she guessed something of what was going on for she remained seated and distracted Sofi with a new task.
Margerit stood and moved restlessly around the room. There was no hope of overhearing any of what was said. The long minutes stretched out to fill the better part of an hour. She wondered if her uncle were allowing himself to be persuaded after all. Then footsteps again. They paused outside the drawing room door and Margerit saw Barbara tense until they moved on. A few minutes later Uncle Mauriz came in and summoned her with a look.
“It seems you were right,” he said, when they were both private together. “I hope you’re quite certain that you don’t care to be a baroness because he was very unhappy at my refusal. I doubt he would extend the offer a second time.”
Margerit took a deep breath and answered, “Quite certain.”
* * *
Life returned to what passed for normal. As the year turned toward summer, garden parties were added to the schedule and offers of carriage rides along the lanes of Axian Park or out to scenic points in the countryside. Margerit was relieved when Aunt Honurat systematically declined the carriage expeditions.
“That’s too particular an attention,” she explained. “Even in a larger party, people would talk. You aren’t ready to give anyone that kind of expectation.”
If the close confines of a carriage were too particular, other venues seemed too open to all. The warming weather turned her favored walking paths along the river from a matter of brisk exercise to a more leisurely promenade that invited chance meetings and conversation. In sharper weather, Aunt Bertrut had been content to entrust her to Barbara’s sole care but now she claimed a place at her side when she walked out. Margerit could hardly protest that she preferred the faster pace and the wide-ranging conversation that she and Barbara enjoyed. And when Bertrut pointed out that she was well-employed engaging with the near-endless stream of acquaintances that flocked around each time they set out, Margerit refrained from pointing out that Barbara managed to fend off unwanted suitors with a mere look. But if too particular an attention was to be avoided, Margerit knew that too pointed a disdain would also cause trouble. So Bertrut became a fixture on her afternoon walks and only Fonten House remained as a refuge of solitude.
Chapter Twenty
Barbara
Estefen was still in Chalanz. Barbara hadn’t pinned down which of the great houses he was visiting but she’d seen him twice at a distance. She hadn’t told Margerit—no need to worry her. It might be only to save face. He could hardly admit that he’d come all this way to offer marriage to a burfro girl who then refused him. But she kept her eyes open and her nerves were stretched thin until even Margerit noticed and she had to fumble for an explanation. The fine weather only made the job more difficult. She found herself wishing for an unseasonable storm—one that would keep visiting indoors and all travel in carriages. A week passed, then two, and she saw nothing further of him and began to relax.
They had walked along the river wall nearly to the end of Axian Park when Barbara heard the sound. As she turned, she briefly considered and discarded the possibility that the hoofbeats heralded an impromptu race, heedless of the strict conventions of the promenade. Time slowed as she took in and interpreted what she saw. Two men. Their faces masked by scarves. The farther a bold and competent rider, the nearer on a horse wild-eyed and barely under control. No weapons in hand, so it was a snatch and run, not a killing. Her memory searched the area for a barrier, anything to slow or prevent access. The marble bench on the opposite side of the pathway from the river wall, not three steps away.
“Margerit!” she shouted, grabbing her by the arm and pushing her toward the bench. “Behind! Now! Stay there!”
The elder Maisetra Sovitre could fend for herself. She wasn’t the target. But she did carry a useful weapon. Barbara grabbed the daffodil-yellow parasol carried by the older woman and ran toward the oncoming horse, thrusting the bright fabric into its face as she dodged aside. The horse shied violently against the river wall, lost its footing and slipped, throwing the rider over and into the flood with a shout. As the horse scrambled to its feet she turned toward the second man. She heard him curse as he overshot the mark, passing the bench where Margerit crouched and where her aunt stood by, open-mouthed.
He pulled the horse up and turned back toward them. A professional would have continued on, counting the quarry as lost. A desperate man would have ridden her down. Instead he swung down from his mount and drew his blade. His stance spoke of good training but little experience. Barbara met him with her own weapon, simultaneously testing him and working him further away from the bench. One never knew when defeat might turn to sour vengeance. He took her retreat for weakness and lunged. Her blade found its home.
As he fell, she looked around once more. No third man. The first was carried downriver, perhaps drowned. In the distance, other promenaders had seen the struggle and were fleeing or approaching as their natures took them. Barbara knelt and pulled the cloth from the man’s face.
“Damn him,” she said under her breath. Then more loudly, “Damn him!” It was Perzin from the count’s ball. The one who had been so full of himself at being hired as armin to a baron. If she’d needed any proof of who was behind this, he was it. But it would never stand as evidence before a magistrate, not against a titled man. She cleaned her blade on his coat.
Margerit was still huddled behind the bench, despite her aunt’s urging, but at a reassuring word she rose, her hems muddy to the knees and her bonnet askew. Barbara hurried toward her to hide her view of the corpse.
“Is he…?”
“He’s Estefen’s man,” Barbara said, ignoring the more obvious answer. “You’re safe enough now.” She looked around and spotted a handful of young boys among the gathering onlookers. Pulling a small coin from her pocket, she showed it to them and said, “There’s five teneirs to share between you if you run and tell the magistrate’s men.” She shrugged apologetically to Margerit. “Better to send word ourselves than for someone else to report it. But we need to get you home and out of the matter.”
At the edge of the crowd she saw a friend of the Fulpis riding in a light chaise and signaled to them, urging Margerit over toward the carriage. “Your aunt can see you safely home. The magistrate will want to speak to you, but better it’s done in private.”
Margerit was taking the matter more calmly than she’d feared. “But what about you?”
“I need to stay to answer for this. It makes explanations simpler if I don’t leave the…the place where it happened.”
“I’m staying with you,” Margerit said firmly.
Maisetra Sovitre’s urgings had no more effect than her own did, so it was three of them who met the black-coated official and waited while his men examined the body and shooed off the bystanders. He blinked bewilderedly as Barbara recited the standard legal formulas she had last used—was it only four months ago? It seemed a lifetime.
“You are…?”
“Armin to Maisetra Sovitre,” she answered and clarified, “Maisetra Margerit Sovitre.”
His eyes widened slightly and he bowed to the other two women. “My apologies, I didn’t recognize…but you shouldn’t be standing here.” He took in Margerit’s muddied state. “Like this.”
Margerit took a step closer to her and said, “I understand ther
e are certain questions you need to ask.”
Barbara was amused to note that Margerit had the air of one granting, not seeking, protection. With a few brief sentences she laid out the bare facts of the attack, with Margerit adding confirmation. And then more quietly, for the magistrate’s ears only, the other details: what she knew, what she guessed. It made no difference, she knew that. One couldn’t go around accusing a baron of attempts at abduction and rape for no better reason than a jilted proposal.
The magistrate asked only, “What is your proof?” Barbara raised her hands helplessly and he sighed, more in relief than resignation she thought. “Well, there’s no harm done,” he said with an air of dismissal.
It was the best she could hope for: that he would rule the death as falling within the legitimate scope of her employment. There was little doubt of that. There had been no doubt of it the time in Rotenek either. The trouble there had been political, not legal.
He offered his own carriage to carry the ladies home, to her relief. The onlookers had long since drifted off; no doubt some had carried the word ahead to Chaturik Square. Maistir Fulpi had not been home but he had been sent for and arrived hard on their heels. He took only a moment to satisfy himself that Margerit was unharmed, then Barbara found herself the target of his glare and he said shortly, “In my office.”
This was no time to play games of waiting to be questioned. She reported to him as she would have to the baron, sparing no details and omitting no conjectures.
“There is no doubt,” she concluded. “Mesner Chazillen—Baron Saveze, that is—was behind this. If he had succeeded—”
“If he had succeeded then you would have failed at your duty.”
“I didn’t fail,” Barbara said evenly. Years of practice kept her temper on short rein, but he seemed to delight in goading her. “I doubt there will be another attempt of the same nature. He won’t have the resources.” It was tempting to ask him whether he still doubted the need for an armin. She counted that battle as won.
“Was the killing necessary?”
She found the question odd. Did he think it amused her to murder untried boys? “Yes.”
He tried and failed to stare her down but hid the failure in a distant look as if he were thinking of something else entirely. She waited.
“Do you think it is wise,” he asked at last, “to take her to Rotenek? When he will be there?”
Barbara’s mind raced. Nothing must divert that plan. “Rotenek is no more dangerous than any other place. There are more eyes, fewer lonely places. And more people to disapprove should he go too far.”
“Well, perhaps so. And perhaps there are additional measures that can be taken.”
But if he had thoughts on the matter, he chose not to share them.
Chapter Twenty-One
Margerit
The shock of the attack faded but in the days that followed Margerit felt a wall rising between her and her guardians. Uncle Fulpi watched her with a speculative and measuring eye when he thought she didn’t notice. Did he regret refusing Estefen’s offer now that he’d shown his teeth? Was he considering the possibility of hurriedly offering her up to some other noble suitor, less dangerous but just as hungry? He spoke of a season in Rotenek now more in the way of a treat for good behavior and not for the marriage market. Aunt Honurat sorted through her invitations ruthlessly for those she might and might not accept. The favored ones included far fewer of the suitable young men than before. There were no more balls at the great houses. Had her aunt dared to decline them or was she no longer enough of a novelty to be amusing? She didn’t care about the dinners or parties themselves but she was nagged by hints of unknown plans and by the constant scrutiny. Axian Park was banned to her entirely. She protested at last to her uncle, “Am I being punished? Do you think it was my fault?”
“We only want to keep you safe,” he answered in a tone that allowed no contradiction.
If the strictures had kept her from going to Fonten Street she would have rebelled. LeFevre’s lessons and the treasures of her library remained as consolation. But even those visits were more closely watched. There were no more walks across town accompanied only by Barbara. Now she was required to send for her carriage and there was always another in attendance, even to the transparent stratagem of sending Sofi and her governess along to try her hand on the clavichord in the yellow parlor.
Once, she might have turned to Aunt Bertrut, who seemed unchanged through all the shifting tensions. She went on as she always had: playing vizeino when it pleased her, retreating to the company of her own friends when she quarreled with Uncle Fulpi. But Bertrut would never support her at the cost of her own comfort. And, as LeFevre repeatedly cautioned her, her uncle had both the right and duty to do as he thought best for her. So she walked meekly and patiently on the paths they allowed and kept her eyes on the distant goal of Rotenek.
On the first day of summer, the tension eased abruptly with the unexpected arrival of Cousin Nikule. To be sure, the university term was over. Last year he’d returned early and there were shouted arguments behind closed doors. But she knew he’d had other plans this year: friends to visit, a more meandering path back from the freedoms of the city to the smaller world of Chalanz. She felt suddenly shy in his presence. Three years past, when he’d first been sent off at considerable expense and trouble to collect a gentleman’s education, she’d pounced eagerly at every return visit for stories of Rotenek and the university. And when he’d deigned to humor her with droll stories of his fellows and their adventures, it was with the air of indulging a baby sister. He found her zeal for scholarship amusing. His own studies were clearly fit in between less mentionable masculine pursuits to the barest extent necessary to satisfy his father’s ambitions.
Now so much had changed between them. Even simply being out in society might have been enough to shift the balance and there was so much more. Nikule clearly looked at her in a new light, bowing formally and kissing her hand, in contrast to the light-hearted teasing he’d shown previously. She saw him in a new light as well. When he was her only window on those distant lecture halls, his scraps of stories had fed her fantasies. Now she was impatient with his indifference. She would have made any sacrifice to be in his place and he’d always treated his studies as a tedious chore. If he looked at her as a grown woman now, she saw him as a careless boy, breaking his toys in the certainty that he’d be given new ones.
The attention that would have been flattering the year before left her skeptical and curious. He was attentive over dinner. Instead of disappearing afterward to spend time with old friends, he was content to enjoy a quiet family evening, listening to Sofi play and sing and even indulging Iulien by joining in childish card games. And in the morning, when he saw her and Aunt Bertrut putting on their bonnets to go out to the waiting carriage, he offered to escort her instead.
“After all,” he said, “you need to have more care taken of you now.”
Margerit laughed and gestured at Barbara who had come up the back stairs to join them. “You’re quite unnecessary on that account! Didn’t Uncle tell you? My fortune came with its very own bodyguard.”
She saw his eyes narrow in annoyance as he looked around. Barbara, in turn, bristled at the scrutiny. “Indeed?” he said. “Well, today you can dispense with all that.” He took her gloved hand in his own and tucked it under his elbow. “It can be just us two, like old times.”
It was tempting to ask him which old times he was thinking of, but she only slipped her hand free and said, “If I go out, Barbara goes with me. Your father is quite firm on that point. But I’d be happy to have you accompany me as well. I have some books to deliver back to Fonten Street, which you may carry for me. And Aunt Sovitre finds LeFevre’s account books hopelessly boring so I’m certain she’ll be delighted to let you take her place.” She took mischievous delight in handing him the two substantial tomes waiting for her on the sideboard and watching him juggle them along with his brass-knobbed walking stic
k as they climbed into the carriage. Clearly the illusion of assistance would have been undermined by simply handing them off to the footman.
He bore patiently with her errands or at least he pretended to. It was tempting to see if he would suffer having a visit to the milliners inflicted on him after the long hour with LeFevre, but since she found the choosing of bonnets equally tedious, it hardly seemed worth the entertainment.
That entertainment wore thin over the next week. He must have been called home to help watch over her, for now Aunt Honurat presented her with a new and more extensive list of social engagements to attend and it seemed that Nikule would be available to escort her to most of them. It wasn’t entirely a burden; he was a competent dancer and a witty enough dinner partner. But if she’d been eager to secure a fiancé, the hovering presence of someone who was practically an older brother wouldn’t have been welcome.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Barbara
Barbara didn’t care much for Nikule Fulpi. Perhaps it shouldn’t be counted against him that his looks echoed his father’s so strongly: the same long face and arrogant mouth. He had picked up a dandy’s habits in Rotenek and his light brown hair was more daringly styled, but there could be no doubt whose son he was. No, it was the clumsy attempt that was being made to throw him in Margerit’s path. Margerit had laughed when she pointed that out. “Don’t be silly; he’s my cousin!”
“Dispensations can be had for a price,” she’d countered.
What confirmed her opinion was the principle that the servant reflected the master, and the fellow Maureld that Nikule kept as his valet was a poor reflection. He was boastful, his hands made too free with the younger kitchen maids and he was working to discover exactly how far he could needle her without giving her an excuse to respond. He was, for all of that, harmless in the ways that mattered to her. And so she ignored him.
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