Coronets and Steel

by Sherwood Smith

  Jeeves led me inside a handsome hall with gilt molding and eighteenth-century decorative motifs in ovals high under the ceiling, instead of the folk art patterns I’d seen in more humble houses, when glancing in windows.

  The stairway was lined with portraits. Coroneted ancestors in silks and velvets with ribbons and medallions and diamonds gazed into eternity over my head as I trod up the stairs behind Jeeves. One fellow in handsome eighteenth-century garb was tall and blond, another in a military tunic and medals was tall and dark of hair; there was a third, a gorgeous woman brown of skin, her tilted dark eyes smiling, her black hair curling charmingly in Directoire ringlets. She was dressed magnificently in early nineteenth-century velvets; she and the ones whose dates came after her all had the single dimple.

  When we reached the top of the landing, with great ceremony Jeeves opened doors carved in ancient acanthi, discreetly gilt. When I got to the threshold, he announced in a hieratic voice, “Mademoiselle Atelier.”

  My first impression was of light and grace in fine eighteenth-century cabriole furniture. A crystal chandelier—with real candles—graced the rococo ceiling, and one wall comprised an exquisite eighteenth-century trompe l’oeil depicting a sylvan scene with elegantly brocaded and be-wigged ladies and gentleman frolicking in sedate groups on an island among Nature’s delights.

  Aunt Sisi’s guests—my relatives, I mentally tested the idea—wore the elegant modern version of high fashion as they stood in sedate groups near the white marble fireplace. A few sat on delicate chairs with embroidered silk cushions that would have been kept behind museum ropes at home in LA.

  Aunt Sisi stepped forward with her hands outstretched, and folded her fingers around my hand for a brief clasp. She was wearing a beautiful raw silk evening gown of sea green, and emeralds glittered around her neck. “My dear child. May I present to you your family?”

  Silk and emeralds. My pretty floral print day dress—ostensibly something her own daughter would wear—was completely wrong for this gathering. Obviously what she considered informal was my major formal. What’s formal to her? Wigs and brocade? I thought as she made kind, set-the-girl-at-ease compliments on my appearance. I should have let her send me a dress.

  In the background a quick susurrus of whispers, and an audible “Good God! I don’t believe it!” was followed by a hasty “Hush, Percy!”

  With a guiding hand on my elbow, Aunt Sisi took me around and introduced me. Most of them were von Mecklundburgs, but not all.

  Robert von M. was a bulky middle-aged man who flashed a big smile as his manicured hand closed around mine. I gathered he was younger brother to the current duke, who was not there. “Quite a miracle, your popping up,” he said in upper-crust English.

  His wife put out a languid hand and murmured, “How charming,” in Gran’s French accent.

  Parsifal (“We call him Percy”) von M. was an awkward redheaded beanpole around my age with an enormous chin that hinted at Hapsburg connections. He seemed too stunned to speak after his earlier outburst.

  I went around the circle, shaking hands when offered, nodding and smiling at those who didn’t put out a hand. The names began to blend, especially as everybody said some variation on “charming” or “miraculous.”

  By the time I had made the circuit of the room, that “miraculous” began to tweak at the back of my neck. As a kid I was the skinny book-worm nobody noticed. My after-school hours were taken up with books and ballet, so I reached junior high pretty much oblivious to the complicated signals of in-crowds and out-crowds.

  My initiation happened in eighth grade, after I was picked to dance the lead in a school production over a popular girl who had expected to be picked because she was popular. Her posse acted super-friendly.

  I was thrilled to find myself one of the in-crowd until I finally started cluing in to the extra edge to smiles, the extra meaning to compliments, to quick looks when I wasn’t supposed to notice. Then suddenly I was supposed to notice—that’s when they started in on me with the word needles about my dorky clothes, my dorky hair, my dorky books falling out of my backpack, my dorky house and dorky dad with a beard and my dorky life, until I was emotionally bleeding.

  They fed off that, like a bunch of thirteen-year-old vampires. Their enjoyment of my humiliation hurt far worse than their insults about my dorky everything. Mom made my favorite foods and said they must not have happy lives at home to want to make my life unhappy; Dad told me that the less I showed of the hurt, the sooner they’d leave me alone; and Gran had assured me that living well, and with grace, was the best answer. All of which was sensible, but life isn’t sensible at thirteen.

  Right before they went for blood—when I was wondering if I’d imagined those looks, the extra in voices and smiles and gestures—my neck got tight with warning.

  I felt the same grip of warning now.

  Supermodel-skinny Cerisette von M. gave me a long up and down. You know how usually when you catch people staring they look away, or smile, or at least blink, but she didn’t do any of those things. She gave my print dress—which had been expensive, by the way—a look like I’d been caught Dumpster diving, and then asked what I’d seen so far in Riev. Her tone was polite—barely.

  Honoré de Vauban (not a von M.) was tall and slender, with slicked-back black hair and elegant clothes—he looked to me like a cross between Christopher Lee and Bertie Wooster. He wanted to know how I thought the city compared to Paris. They seemed to find that question funny, for there were quick exchanges of looks, and a politely fake chuckle or two.

  Then Morvil Danilov drawled, his pale blond eyebrows lifted, “Was it amusing, to take the public tour?”

  “Yes.” I fought the urge to back away from them. What had I done wrong? Was it against the law to wear a day dress at a fancy shindig?

  Danilov’s version of the dimple quirked the corner of his lopsided smile so that it seemed more sneer than smile. His voice was soft, his drawl cultured. “And Paris? What amusements did you find there?”

  “Whom do we know in common?” Cerisette asked, leaning against Danilov as she blew cigarette smoke past my shoulder.

  “Atelier,” Robert’s wife repeated. “I don’t believe I’ve met the name in Paris. How odd it is, that we never knew about one another. You did say you live in Paris, Mademoiselle?”

  A servant passed by with drinks on a silver tray with a coat of arms worked into its elaborate frame. I reached somewhat blindly for a drink that I didn’t want as I fumbled mentally. I’d been two seconds from asking their advice—from telling them about my experience in the palace, and winding up with my question about Saint Xanpia. After all, these were my cousins. I’d thought they’d be thrilled to discover that Gran wasn’t killed in the war.

  A fast glance; no, the soignée Cerisette did not look glad, or even welcoming. When I met her gaze she stared back with a hostility I sensed, even if I couldn’t quite see how she did it.

  My question dried up: I could not see her, or any of them, eagerly reading handmade comic books, though maybe they had as kids.

  Meanwhile, there were their questions.

  “Paris,” I repeated, after a couple of pretend sips of whatever it was in that goblet. The fumes were extremely strong.

  Cerisette’s eyes widened. “Pahr-r-r-eee,” she said slowly. “City on the Seine? In France?”

  Robert’s wife made an arch motion toward Cerisette’s diamondbraceleted wrist, a play slap. “Naughty!” She used the French word, then added, “Cerisette has always been naughty. She never believed in miracles even as a child.”

  Robert laughed, and Cerisette pouted in her mother’s direction. Then she turned back to me, and this time she, too, spoke French. “You lived in Paris?”

  I got it then—these people, apparently my only living blood relatives, thought I was a fake. No, that was wrong. They thought of me as a skeleton in a closet, popping out to . . . what?

  I could have reacted a number of ways. Polite and vapid monosyllables
—a sickly grin as I pretended to have fun—fear and a hasty retreat. The decision took no more than a heartbeat: I was glad I hadn’t given them my last name, or anything at all about my life. I was not going to expose to their oh-so-well-bred disdain my easygoing, cake-decorating hippie mother or my wild-haired father and his clocks and Roman miniatures.

  I felt my spine lengthen and my shoulders brace as all my years of ballet plus Gran’s training gave me the sort of weapons-grade deportment we assume for the stage. For I was on stage. “No. My first visit was recently.” I took a single sip from the fragile cut crystal. “I’ve been living in more exotic climes. Think of Rio, or Istanbul, or Florence. Or Venice. Quite inspiring to the artistic soul, is Venice.”

  “Rio?” Robert’s wife repeated, perfectly plucked brows arched.

  So far I hadn’t—quite—lied. Then Cerisette drawled, “Most extraordinary, none of us ever encountered you at our schools.”

  Oh, why not lie. I was never going to see any of them again, that much was clear.

  “I didn’t attend school.” I gave a tinkly laugh twin to hers—even tinklier, and plunked the crystal down on a passing tray. “I had tutors.” I said it in my best French.

  “Tutors?” She repeated as if she’d never heard the word before, then exchanged looks with Danilov. I sensed her taking aim again.

  “Yes . . . they let anyone into these schools, these days.” I matched her drawl. “Maman says we simply cannot be too careful.”

  “But . . .” A blonde about my own age in a black Valentino dress slid her arm into Danilov’s as she cooed, her lips barely moving a millimeter, “Dear Elisabeth has hinted your circumstances are sadly reduced.”

  “You mean, we don’t have any money?” I waved an airy hand. “Ah, too true! We gambled away a fortune in Monaco. Lost another when Hong Kong reverted to China. And a third vanished into the trunks of multinational corporate pirates. Ah, well, easy come, easy go! After all, what is money for but to be spent?”

  “Yes, what else?” Percy said eagerly, echoed by Honoré de Vauban.

  Waving my hands languidly in the manner I had adopted when pretending to be their missing Ruli, I spun ever-more glorious tales about my bohemian life. Lisa and my other fencing partner Kara would have been staggered to discover that the one wintered in Morocco and spent the rest of the year in her Scottish castle painting miniatures, and the other made her living shooting documentaries in the African wilds so that she could earn enough for her real vocation, which was breeding and training Lipizzaner horses for international dressage.

  The sheer magnitude of my snow job made my reckless temper fade and I began to truly enjoy myself. And they swallowed it right down, as if the wilder I got, the more plausible it all was.

  Robert had begun on my father (who I was about to reveal was a mad scientist genius with secret labs under half the Rocky Mountains, because I knew how much Dad would love it when I got home and told this story) when the door opened on a late arrival. I was finishing up about a bogus paternal cousin, “Yes, she lives in utter seclusion when she composes scores for films . . . pardon? No no, she is forbidden by contract to reveal—” when a male voice, laughing, cut through the well-bred hubbub, “Maman, what did you—”

  Attention snapped to the door. I gazed across the room into slanted black eyes. I comprehended a tall man, a bit taller than Alec and about his age, with wildly curly light hair drifting down onto his shoulders and a rakishly crooked smile.

  Unlike the formal guests he was dressed in a loose shirt, open at the neck, and baggy old slacks. He entered the room with an unhurried, careless step; it was obvious his lack of correct wear didn’t disturb him in the least.

  He exclaimed, “Good God, Maman, surprise is right.”

  Taking no further notice of his other relatives, he strode forward to clasp my hands in his. His long hands were warm and his squeeze firm as he carried my hands to his lips, one then the other. “You must be the missing Marie’s daughter, are you?” He glanced past me to his mother, smiling. “Where did you find her? Or did she find you?”

  “I found her,” Aunt Sisi said, face and tone cool, her hands—long, like her son’s, but thin—posed calmly. “Taking the Sunday tour of the palace grounds.”

  I turned back to the son. He was still smiling, but I noticed a vein in his high temple pulsing. He dashed back the lock of hair that had drifted down on his forehead when he kissed my fingers.

  “Yes.” My heart was pounding, too. “And you’re . . .” The Evil Count. “Karl-Anton?”

  The rakish grin flashed again. “Hell. Where are my manners! You’ll have to forgive me. Yes, that’s my name, but it’s a damned curse. Tony is the best I can make of it. Do you speak English? I was raised in England, unlike Maman and Ruli—damn.” He studied me closely from those slanty, Byzantine eyes. Laughter narrowed them as he added in a provocatively low voice, “Tell me, would it be incestuous to say you’re quite a—”

  “Anton, do not embarrass the child five seconds after being introduced,” Aunt Sisi interrupted humorously. “May I get you something to drink?”

  “Anything, Maman. Does Alec know?”

  “I sent a note around to Ysvorod House,” she said tranquilly. “I have no idea whether he is even in the country to receive it—”

  As if on cue the butler opened the far door and enunciated sonorously, “His Excellency the Stadthalter.”

  “My dear boy, this is a day for surprises.” Aunt Sisi’s well-modulated voice broke through the elegant chatter without her lifting it at all. She moved forward with outstretched hands as Alec walked in, giving a polite smile at everyone, his cool blue gaze coming to rest on me.

  TWENTY

  THE PARTY NOISE started up again immediately: polite laughter, chiming crystal glasses, Robert von M.’s bluff male voice exclaiming in hearty welcome, as the entire party rearranged itself. Aunt Sisi touched the sleeve of Alec’s beautifully tailored coat sleeve and guided him to the older generation, who circled big, cigar-smoking Robert. At my end of the room, Tony was the center of attention.

  Tony asked in a lazy drawl who among them had attended the latest horse races in England, and what came of that recent drinking trip through the Bordeaux section of France in search of a new source for good wine? I saw no sign of evil, or even of political ambition in his breezy manner; he didn’t act the snob like the rest, though his conversation was entirely leisure-oriented.

  Twice he tried to disentangle himself from his relations in order to talk to me. The woman in the Valentino sheath leaned closer, pouting as she tried to tease out of him whether or not he was going to the Mediterranean for the rest of the summer. Tony’s attention strayed my way, his smile as lazy as his half-shut eyes.

  More drinks were brought around. I passed, as I’d begun to feel the effects of being in a small, tense room with too much smoke and noise; my temples twinged warningly and I wondered how long a stay would be considered polite.

  Without any difficulty I picked out Alec’s quiet voice from among the louder ones of the other guests on the other side of the room. Waiting for him to confront me was like waiting for an ax to fall: I could feel he was furious at finding me there, and I ached to inform him that these were my relatives, not his, and furthermore, I was free to go where I pleased and do what I pleased.

  But he did not come. In fact, judging from the light murmur between the well-bred titters and chuckles, he was moving farther away.

  Resisting the temptation to peek at him, I clamped my jaw against a huge yawn.

  “Tired?” Tony had freed himself from the knot of relations. I found him next to me, brows raised.

  I stepped back a pace. “Headache.”

  He made a careless gesture toward the door. “Come along, I’ll see you off. No, you needn’t pry Maman out. I’ll stand host.”

  He gave a casual farewell to the group, and I followed him to the door.

  Aunt Sisi exclaimed, “What, leaving, dear child?”

  “Ye
s, thank you, but I—”

  She smiled kindly. “I am so glad you were able to come. I shall hope to see you again before you decide to leave our little city.”

  Voices were raised in farewells; homely Percy, flushed with liquor, elbowed his way forward and planted a smacking kiss on my hand.

  Alec lifted his glass in salute, his smile enigmatic. I zapped him with my forefinger, then got out of the room.

  Tony spoke a few low-voiced words to the butler, then turned my way. “Car will be outside in a second. Here—” He reached behind me and shut the parlor door as he made a comical face. “Why Maman thought to call out the hounds of hell is beyond me. Must have been pretty fierce.” He grinned engagingly, then waved a lazy hand for me to precede him downstairs.

  I said, “Maybe she didn’t want to raise false hopes. About your sister, I mean, and them thinking I’m Ruli. I guess gossip is going out all over to that effect.”

  “Do you care?”

  I hadn’t expected this question, but I shrugged and went for the casual. “Nope. I’ll be gone soon. But hey, maybe hearing about me here might get your sister to show up. Do you think so?”

  “Oh, hell, don’t ask me. Everyone will tell you I don’t take anything seriously. Including my sister. Who, everyone says, is probably off shagging the sort of tosser Alec will expect her to chuck when he does marry her.” He laughed. “Here’s what I think: do what amuses you most. How long are you staying?” he asked, opening the front door then lounging back against the car, arms crossed.

  “Haven’t decided,” I said firmly. “I’m here to see the sights.”

  “Would you like a look at the best sites?” he asked as the Volvo pulled up. “Free tomorrow?”

  “Well, I did have plans.”

  “Somewhere or someone?”

  “Huh?”

  Gesturing toward the car, he said, “If it’s somewhere, I’d like nothing better than to give a new cousin a personal tour of our famous sights. All three or four of ’em.”