Daughter of Mystery

by Jones, Heather Rose

  “Then it’s over?” she repeated. It seemed hard to believe things had happened so fast. And then, a more practical thought, “You must be starving, it’s after midnight. I’ll ring to have something brought up.”

  “No, no, don’t disturb anyone. All I want is to sleep for a week.”

  Margerit grinned. “I told Aunt Bertrut that we’d likely be up late talking and they shouldn’t expect your bed to be slept in.”

  * * *

  Waking was once more disorienting. A tap at the door—Iannipirt? No, this was her own bed. She disentangled herself from Barbara just as a maid came in bearing a tray with chocolate and pastries. But someone had already seen to building up the fires while they slept. If there were to be gossip, it would be started already. The maid set the tray on a table by the window and dipped a rather formal curtsy. “Welcome home, Maisetra,” and after the slightest hesitation, as if to rehearse, “Mesnera Lumbeirt.”

  When the door had closed, Barbara rose and poured out cups for the both of them. “As Marken said, that will take some getting used to.”

  It seemed an invitation to the subject. “When did you know?”

  “For certain? Not until Aukust opened the baron’s letter. But it…fit. That night that Sister Anna died, she said some things. About my mother. And that was the one answer that would make sense.”

  “But…but why?” In a gesture, Margerit took in the whole long masquerade.

  An angry look twisted Barbara’s face. “Money,” she said harshly. And then, as if her feelings could not be contained in stillness, she paced the room as she explained. “Do you remember that treatise on the laws of debt that LeFevre sent me? I was the child of two purses. If the baron had acknowledged me, I had a claim by right to his purse. But if Arpik failed to disclaim me, then I was tied to his purse as well—both the wealth and the debts. I was the link by which Arpik’s creditors could sue the baron, even after Arpik’s death.”

  The complexity of it began to sink in. Margerit thought it through aloud. “So if he acknowledged you after you came of age, you’d have no claim by law on his estate, but neither would there have been any bar to him making you his heir. He could have chosen any heir, just as he did me.”

  “Yes, that inconvenient death!”

  “But then why?” Each answer brought only more questions. “Then all this was to protect you from the debts?”

  “It was to protect his fortune!” Barbara seemed truly furious now. “Work the sums out. From the hour that Arpik breathed his last, the size of his debt was fixed and known. It was large—it might have taken half the baron’s fortune to pay at that time—but he could have paid it if he chose.” Almost as an afterthought, as if she were commenting on the weather, she said, “I hate him.”

  “You don’t mean that,” Margerit protested. Always before Barbara had defended him, excused him.

  She sighed. “Margerit, to you he was kindly Saint Nikule, tossing bags of gold over your garden wall at your coming-out. But he was my father. My father. And he raised me in his own household as less than a servant, all for his own greed and the love of intrigue. He’s mine to hate, not yours.”

  Those impressions she had had of the baron came back: capricious, manipulative, always with some deeper, hidden game. She ventured, “He could have raised you as a free woman—as his ward but with no claim on him.”

  “But then he would have had to put a name to me. Arpik’s name. Oh, I don’t really know what he was thinking, but I have to wonder if even that wasn’t part of his greed—that he couldn’t bear to let me belong to another even if he wouldn’t claim me himself.” She stood, staring out the window where the Rotein flowed silently past, like the passage of years. “Well, what’s done is done.” In an abrupt change of mood, she poked through her discarded garments from the day before. “I’m going to need some new clothing. I may have one or two gowns that still fit and I rather think I’ll take advantage of my scandalous reputation and wear breeches when it suits my fancy. But I can’t go around dressed like an armin anymore.”

  “Then we’ll call in the dressmakers and tailors both,” Margerit declared.

  “You know, you aren’t responsible for clothing and housing me now.”

  Was she teasing? Margerit wasn’t certain and answered seriously, “You know this is your home for as long as it is mine.”

  “Ah, I had meant to tell you—” Barbara came to sit on the edge of the bed and took her hand. “Prince Aukust invited me to take rooms at the palace for now. He doesn’t know about what’s between us—how could he? And we need to be very discreet about that. It’s an invitation that would be hard to decline in any case. Oh Margerit, it’s just for a little while.” She traced a hand along her cheek, forestalling the protest that came to her lips. “I think we should be very careful. Just until we’ve found our feet again.”

  It seemed as if Barbara were the only member of the household who had little trouble finding her feet. Aunt Bertrut was entirely confounded by how to say Mesnera to one she had learned to treat as invisible. Uncle Pertinek took refuge in stiff and utterly proper formality. But Barbara left behind the role of armin as if it were a part in a play, discarded after the show like a cast-off costume. She accepted the guest’s seat at dinner with the graciousness of a visiting queen and shared the court gossip with Mesner Pertinek as if they were old friends. Where she once had commanded the servants by proxy, now she begged the loan of their assistance in packing up her things and having them carried off to the palace. At times she seemed a stranger, at others she seemed as familiar as breathing. And when she left, the house felt empty and echoing as if its very soul had gone with her. But reminders were everywhere.

  Sitting in the parlor with Aunt Bertrut, waiting on the chance of visitors, a message came that Marken wished to speak with her.

  “Sorry to bother you, Maisetra,” he began, “but Barbara’s not around to ask—Mesnera Lumbeirt, I mean. Or rather, that’s the problem. Mesnera Lumbeirt may be around but Barbara isn’t. I need to know if you’re planning to hire another full-timer or if you want me to step up. I’ve always kept my own lodgings, you see, but if you want me full time, it makes more sense to live in. I asked Ponivin but he said he’d had no instructions.”

  It was the longest continuous speech she’d ever heard from him. The answer was easy enough. She needed someone to take Barbara’s place as armin—there would be more hazards now than what a mere heiress would attract—and Marken had proven his loyalty quite thoroughly. It was time to start making her own decisions. “Yes, I’d like you to take the position. Tell Ponivin to make whatever arrangements you need.” The butler would know what was required. She tried to think of what else might have changed. “Are you paid through the household or separately? I don’t know what the usual arrangements are.”

  He shrugged. “Barbara handled it before, but armin’s usually a staff position, like butler or coachman. It’s only the well-born duelists get treated differently. Will you be going out today?”

  “No, I don’t think the invitations have caught up with my return yet.” She wondered idly whether it was only that or whether she had become a social hazard. “Barbara said I should expect to be sent for when the trial is settled but I’ve heard nothing yet.”

  He ducked his head, halfway between a nod and a bow. “Then I’ll see about moving my things, Maisetra.”

  * * *

  The summons, when it came, was addressed to Mesner Pertinek, instructing him to see that Margerit Sovitre was in attendance at the court by noon of the clock on the next day. The judgment was already concluded by then. Estefen had met his end at midnight, in private, as befitted his rank. Hennis was in transit to the border under guard. When she heard that, Margerit released some of her anxiety. Whatever happened now was for the living and the remaining.

  Today was not the crowded spectacle of the succession debates; business was being conducted in the smaller drawing rooms rather than the public hall. Still there were always peo
ple coming and going, whether to watch and listen or hoping for a moment of time and a willing ear. It only gradually occurred to her that among those gathering in the anteroom were several others from the ill-fated Guild of Saint Atelpirt. She saw more than one curious glance in her direction—not hostile but wary—and she felt shy of approaching them.

  The doors from the audience chamber opened and several other former guild members emerged: Ainis Nantoz and Iosifin Rezik, looking variously relieved and annoyed, and—before she could step aside—Antuniet as well. Her dark eyes looked haunted and when Margerit first felt them fasten on her she knew what it was to be the prey of some great hunting hawk. But that one flash of passion faded to the same cool, distant gaze Antuniet had always affected. They both stood frozen for a long moment. Margerit could find no words to offer.

  In a quiet icy voice, Antuniet said, “You once asked if I hated you and I told you it wasn’t your fault that my brother was a fool. Well, I had no idea how great a fool he was but this time you have blood on your hands. This time, I do hate you.” She brushed on past and out the far door without looking to left or right.

  Ainis came over and with a pitying look—though whether for Antuniet or herself, Margerit wasn’t sure—said, “You didn’t know. Mesnera Chazillen—her mother—took poison this morning after the…after it was done.”

  And then they were summoned into the presence and there was no time to digest that further blow.

  There was little enough to be said. The Guild of Saint Atelpirt was disbanded and banned. There would be no further pursuit of the former members and her own pardon was confirmed. She had seen Barbara watching anxiously from one side where those waiting on other business were gathered, but when she was released and Uncle Pertinek had guided her through the formal leave-taking it seemed there would be no chance for a word or a touch. They had retired nearly to the doorway when Margerit heard Barbara’s name called by the usher. She pulled at her uncle’s sleeve to see if they could linger.

  Barbara again seemed almost a stranger, startlingly feminine in a pale blue gown, moving through the formal courtesies as if born to it. As she knelt at the prince’s feet he rose unsteadily and said, “It seems the title of Saveze is vacant and there is a taint on the line that last held it. Since it falls to me to choose, I think I need look no further than a return to the house of Lumbeirt.” He held his hand before her and when Barbara took it, somewhat uncertainly, he slipped a heavy old-fashioned signet onto her finger. “I think you know it’s no favor I do you, Baroness Saveze, but if you’re your father’s daughter you’ll be up to the task.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Barbara

  Barbara stared down at the thick gold ring loosely encircling her finger. Mechanically she transferred it to her thumb where it fit more snugly. The baron’s signet. At once it felt unreal and as if this were the natural course of her life. Thinking back, so much of her childhood could have been preparation for this moment. Had it been? Had he somehow foreseen this? Impossible. A bastard daughter would never have been considered except for Estefen’s treason. She barely heard the words that accompanied the token but at the appropriate moments she kissed the prince’s hand and rose and curtsied. She had gone no more than a few steps from his presence before the first of the well-wishers and interest-seekers descended. Of course. Now I have a voice and a vote in the succession council.

  She had glimpsed Margerit briefly, lingering at the entrance to the hall, but now when she looked again the doorway was empty. And there were documents to deal with. The ring might serve as a symbol, but the title and lands required charters and deeds and official letters. It was an hour before she could think of what to do next. She would need someone to help sort through and secure the properties, to assess how dire the finances were and how she might best balance the demands of the title and the need to disencumber it.

  Her thoughts turned at once to LeFevre, if he would take it on. There’d been no time to do more than send him reassuring notes in the past days. But she needed to see Margerit first. Alone, in the small chamber she’d been allotted, she worked through her options. Barbara Lumbeirt might wander the streets on foot alone, if she dared, like any common tradesman or student, but the Baroness Saveze had standards to maintain. It was the same bind she had once found amusing for Estefen. Here she was, without a single coin in her purse, dependent on the prince’s charity and yet trapped by the dignity of rank. Well, if she couldn’t yet hire a carriage, she might borrow a horse from the palace stables. Having no riding habit, that meant breeches. Even more than before, anything she might have worn as an armin would be completely unsuitable. She dug through one trunk and found the outfit she had used for her disguised visits to Eskamer’s shop. She had no need or desire to pass for a man now, but with suitable substitutions it would do for an aristocratic Eccentric. She should take Margerit up on her offer regarding tailors and dressmakers. No doubt Margerit would provide her with a carriage and a full purse, if she asked, but that seemed…she wasn’t sure what word to put to it. The thought made her strangely uncomfortable. Like a kept mistress, she concluded, wincing.

  But when she rode at last to the doors of Tiporsel, it seemed Margerit was not at home. “Truly?” she inquired of the footman who opened the door to her. He was flustered for a moment that she behaved as a visitor.

  “I swear, Mesnera, she and Mesner Pertinek haven’t returned yet. The elder Maisetra is home.”

  No. That one day had been awkward enough when Bertrut had been adjusting to treating her as an equal. Let her hear this news from Margerit. “Tell the Maisetra—Maisetra Sovitre, that is—that I was here. I haven’t a card to leave.” One more petty expense that must be managed. How long might it take LeFevre to determine if some spending money might be freed up from the estate?

  * * *

  She found him in his office. He looked up at the door’s opening and rose with a delighted cry, “Mesnera! How good to see you! We’ve been following all the news, of course. Is everything sorted out at last?”

  She grinned at him. “There’s been a new complication.” She held up her hand, displaying the ring. It occurred to her wistfully that he would never again call her by her given name.

  He recognized the ring, of course. He’d used it often enough to seal the baron’s papers and letters. She saw his eyes go wide as he realized the significance. “Dear God!” He fell silent again, not so much at a loss for words as from the need to calculate the consequences. “He wasted no time about it. But then, there’s no time to waste. Even one person might make the difference on the council. Have you…? No, never mind. And what has Maisetra Sovitre to say to all this?”

  “I don’t know. She was there, at the court, when it was done, but we had no chance to speak afterward.” She settled into the chair opposite him at the desk and waved him to sit as well when he remained standing. “I was wondering…might you find time to do a little management and clerking for me? I have no idea what sort of salary I might be able to pay you—that would be one thing for you to discover. Or perhaps you could recommend someone?”

  LeFevre made a rude noise. “If you dared ask anyone else to touch the Saveze estates I might never speak to you again. Maisetra Sovitre’s affairs are light enough work at the moment—at least when she isn’t stirring up trouble.” He smiled to make sure she knew it for a joke. “And I handled the whole of it in the baron’s time. I can’t imagine there would be any conflict in handling matters for the both of you. I don’t suppose you know who Estefen’s business manager was?”

  “No. I suppose it’s possible Antuniet might know, but you—ah—have heard about the elder Mesnera Chazillen?”

  He nodded soberly. “Gossip flies like the wind. No, I won’t bother her at a time like this. The staff at the Chazillen house should know. Or at worst I can send off to Saveze. Is there anything you need at the moment?”

  “Everything!” Barbara laughed. “But I’m lodging by invitation at the palace and Margerit has s
uggested she might make me a present of a new wardrobe, so at least I’m clothed and housed and fed.”

  “At the palace?” he asked curiously. “Not at Tiporsel?”

  “Things are…complicated. Not between Margerit and me,” she hastened to reassure him. “But there are deep currents flowing and I’d rather Margerit didn’t get pulled under by accident. We’re both under such close scrutiny at the moment. I’m not sure her good name could bear the weight of one more scandal just now.”

  “And what does she say to that?”

  Barbara shrugged. They hadn’t really had a chance to discuss it, but surely she understood.

  LeFevre took a key from his pocket and unlocked a drawer behind the desk. “If you will permit, I can advance you whatever you might need for immediate expenses.” He brought forth an envelope of notes and counted out a generous number. “These are my own funds, so you needn’t concern yourself with the terms of repayment. I know you too well to worry that you’ll spend it on gambling and vice. Consider it my part in upholding the dignity of Saveze.”

  * * *

  On returning to her room at the palace, she was waylaid by one of the ubiquitous pages responsible for errands and messages for the in-dwellers. He handed her a small collection of cards and she sorted through them as he waited. It seemed Margerit had been busy: there were notes from one Mefro Dominique, dressmaker and Mefroi Perkin, tailor, both indicating their eagerness to wait on the baroness at her convenience. And Margerit’s own card with a plea to join her for a private supper. She had underlined the word “private.” The page seemed inclined to look askance at the breach of etiquette in that note but she gave him a quelling look and he thought better of commenting. Evidently they had entered a comedic farce and were destined to duck in and out of opposite doorways for a time. All it needed was for Margerit to be visiting LeFevre at this very moment. But supper, that was manageable, especially if her clothing could be forgiven.