Labyrinth Gate (9 page)

“I fear that I have to support a daughter and a niece, although neither of them are accustomed to luxury, and indeed help greatly in the economic running of the household. But my previous expeditions have been—” The professor halted suddenly. “Maretha, my dear,” he said, a trifle more gently, “it is an open secret that we are destitute—that we can ill-afford this house and Molly to keep it and a secretary for myself, and that you and Charity must do all the rest. Are you ashamed of that? There is no sin in being poor in one’s search for the truth, only in being rich in falsehood.”

Maretha said nothing.

“In fact,” said the earl, “you have spent your entire inheritance, and your daughter’s inheritance from her mother, on your work, and since your recent theories have met with disdain and ridicule from the members of both the Royal Geological and the Royal Historical Societies, you have been unable to obtain any funding at all.”

Maretha stared at her hands, brown from working in the garden. She had not the discipline of Charity, who bathed hers every night in milk and linden oil to keep them white and who also steadfastly refused to work outdoors at all, for the sake of her complexion.

“That is true,” said Professor Farr.

“Very well,” said the earl. “I am offering you that funding. For an expedition to Topo Rhuam.”

For a long moment Maretha was convinced she had not heard him correctly. Then she looked up, and saw the dawning joy on her father’s face.

“My lord!” he exclaimed. “If your interest extends so far—” He stopped, too overwhelmed to continue.

“There must be a price.” Maretha turned to look at the earl.

“Don’t you believe that I might simply be a generous benefactor?” he said, mocking her. “Of course there is a price. I must go with the expedition. I will not interfere with your work, Professor Farr, but neither will you interfere with my investigations.”

“Of course,” said the Professor. “Of course. That is eminently reasonable, my lord. And a full share in the credit for the discoveries we make will be yours as well, as you know.”

“That’s all?” asked Maretha flatly.

“Why, no, Miss Farr. That isn’t all.” He examined her again, that chill amusement back in his eyes and in his demeanor. “There is one other stipulation.” Now he stood. “Professor Farr. I wish to marry your daughter. When the appropriate papers sealing the engagement and the date of the wedding, to take place before we leave Heffield, are signed, I will settle on you the funds necessary to mount your expedition.”

Maretha was too stunned to do anything but look at her father. But meeting his gaze, she saw not outrage or any intent to deny, but instead appeal. “Mother in Heaven,” she breathed, soundless but to herself.

“My daughter is of age, my lord,” said the professor slowly. “She must say yes or no to your proposal of her own will.” He looked at her.

“Father!”

“Perhaps,” said Monsieur Mukerji quickly, “you would like to talk it over with Miss Farr in your study, Professor. I will gladly remain here with his lordship.”

Maretha cast him a grateful glance as she left the room, forcing her father to follow her out. She turned on the professor as soon as they reached the privacy of his study.

“You can’t expect me to marry him, Father!”

“But Maretha.” His expression was one of gentle confusion. “Any father would wish such an eligible connection for his only daughter. A title. Wealth. And he is well educated as well, will enter into your interests.”

“Holy Lady. Perhaps I can enter into his as well, and we can slaughter infants together. He is a sorcerer, Father. You
know
his reputation.”

“Need I remind you of
my
reputation, my dear? Shall we listen to the common run of gossip, which has not even the sense to accept my many years of research? I hope we are above such talk, and can approach life from a rational and orderly perspective.”

“But, Father—”

He turned, pointedly, to gaze with that vague fondness he occasionally displayed at the portrait of his young wife that hung over his desk. The action alone silenced her. “Your mother would have wanted you to have this opportunity. She would know how important it is to my work, Maretha. Have you not the same care for me? I know you will do what is right, my dear.”

She could only stare at her father’s profile, absent-minded but obstinate. For the first time she recognized truly how selfish her father’s single-minded obsession with Pariamne had made him since her mother’s death; recognized that her unqualified love and support had only fueled his self-absorption. Finally she turned away from the damning portrait and without a word returned to the library. Her father did not follow her. Monsieur Mukerji, with a quick, comprehensive glance at her face, left the room.

Maretha sat down in a chair, unable to support this illumination of her father’s character. Instead, she stared at the wall opposite, the tapestry of Saint Maretha—at the final scene, her martyrdom at the hands of the worshippers of the Daughter of Darkness, eldest child of the Queen of Heaven—and shuddered. So selfish had he become that he was willing without a second thought to sacrifice his only surviving child.

The earl remained silent.

“Surely,” said Maretha at last in a low voice, still not looking at the earl, “surely with your wealth and your title you could easily marry a young woman whose fortune and background are far better than mine.”

“Surely?” he mocked. “When you yourself acknowledge the—ah—potency of my reputation. Be assured that I have tested the waters, that I would prefer a gentlewoman whose noble lineage matched my own, rather than a gentlewoman whose birth is merely respectable. But for some reason, the parents of these eligible young females seem to believe that any wife I take will come to a very painful and tragic end. My wealth and title are of no good to her, or to her parents, if she is dead, are they?”

She lifted her head to glare at him, a better response than admitting her fear. “Then surely you can buy some girl off the streets, if that is all you have in mind for your wife.”

“But isn’t that what I’ve done?” he asked. “It is self-evident that the Countess of Elen must be a woman of good birth.”

“And my father is destitute enough, and desperate enough, to agree to it.”

“Exactly. And you are too dutiful a daughter to refuse. I am very thorough in my research.”

Since there was nothing to say, she did not reply.

Into their silence, the door opened. Charity walked in, halted, looking prettily confused. “I beg your pardon,” she said in her light voice. “I had no idea you were still in here, Maretha.” Her eyes remained fixed on the earl.

“My lord,” said Maretha. “May I present my cousin, Miss Charity Farr. Charity, may I present the Earl of Elen.”

Charity curtsied with elegance. The earl inclined his head slightly.

“I won’t interrupt another moment, my lord,” said Charity, and swept out.

“There,” said Maretha, succumbing to bitterness. “She is a dutiful niece, of equally respectable birth, destitute, a beauty in the bargain, and preserving herself in that state, as you can see, for the best marriage she can possibly make. She would be
eager
to marry you.”

“Tempting,” he said, “but Miss Charity Farr lacks a vital qualification which, despite your lack of—ah—eagerness, you possess.”

“I can’t imagine what it might be.”

“Then I won’t enlighten you. Well, Miss Farr, what is your answer?”

She had to look away, at first. Despair and anger mingled equally within her. She forced herself to face him, finally, because she would have despised herself if she did not. “You must know,” she said, her voice tight, “what my answer has to be. You judged the price correctly. But never believe that under any other circumstances I would ever choose to marry you.”

He smiled. “I have always found it expedient to determine my circumstances, Miss Farr, rather than to endure them. But in any case, I grant you fully the right to hate me. After all, it will only enhance my reputation. My secretary will arrive tomorrow morning with the preliminary agreements.” He picked up his gloves.

“But why?” she asked, spurred on by his movement to leave. “Why do you want to marry?”

“Society will say,” he paused, pulling on his gloves, “that I need an heir. That is the usual reason given. Now I bid you good-day, Miss Farr.”

She scarcely noted him leaving the room. An heir. It was, indeed, the obvious reason for his sudden decision to marry.

At this moment, the thought of what she would have to do, with him, to produce a child, was so horrifying that she succumbed to an urge she had not felt since the age of ten, the day her mother and two younger siblings had died and left her bereft, with an absent father.

She flung herself over the pillows of the sofa, and wept.

“N
O,” SAID SANJAY. “I
don’t think you would like to meet him. But I also don’t think he’s necessarily—what is the phrase—as black as he’s painted.” He shook his head. “Don’t ask me to explain that.”

“So, Julian,” said Aunt Laetitia. “The wicked earl, whom Monsieur grants to be wicked, but not perhaps as wicked as he ought to be, has stolen your bride from beneath your nose. You shall have to settle for the beautiful but impoverished niece.”

“Please do,” said Kate.

“Please
don’t abet her,” said Julian to Kate. “Although I will admit I am as astonished as any of you. When did you say it happened?”

“The final papers were signed today. And the wedding itself set for six weeks from Sonsday. Oh, and—where is Chryse? Still at lessons?”

“Her last pupil today is the Countess of Gosson’s youngest.”

“My, Lady Trent,” said Kate. “You do move in exalted circles.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll see if she’s finished yet.” Julian rose. “The rest of you can finish your tea.” He left the room before anyone could respond.

“It is a peculiar business,” said Aunt Laetitia. “Very peculiar.” She took another slice of cake from the tray. “Tell me again where this expedition is going.”

“That is the one piece of information Professor Farr has not told anyone, except perhaps his daughter,” said Sanjay. “But I’ve looked over his maps and his notes, and I can make a guess.”

Kate grinned. “But the question is, will you?”

“No,” Sanjay replied. “I feel it is only right to show a certain measure of loyalty to my employer. However, be assured that you will be the first to know once the professor allows the location to become public knowledge.”

“Will he?” asked Lady Trent. “Despite Julian’s claim that the professor’s work is considered nonsense by his esteemed colleagues, I frankly imagine that an announcement of an expedition to the lost city of Pariam would create quite a stir, and perhaps interfere with the professor’s plans.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Sanjay. “I suspect it isn’t the professor we need fear disturbing. I suspect it is the earl.”

Upstairs, Chryse turned her head as the door into the music room opened quietly and nodded to Julian as he came inside, but did not stop playing until she came to the end of the piece.

“Is your pupil gone already?” he asked.

“This hour or more,” she said. “I was playing for myself, really.”

“I hadn’t realized you knew Bach.” He walked forward to look down at the manuscript paper on the fortepiano.

Chryse was caught speechless for a moment. “Why, yes,” she said finally, standing up and moving to one side. “I transcribed that particular set of pieces from memory. They’re good for the younger students.”

“May I?” When she nodded, curious, he seated himself, flipping the tails of his coat out over the back of the bench with a practiced gesture, and played a few bars. “Of course not everyone has heard of her,” he said. “This is the Notebook she wrote for her husband, isn’t it? She is growing in stature now, of course, and being recognized for the fine composer she was. She was never appreciated in her own time.”

“No, no,” said Chryse. “I suppose—ah—she’s been neglected, until—ah—Mendelssohn—” She hesitated.

“Yes, Fanny Mendelstochter.” He stopped playing and turned to look up at her. “Imagine finding the manuscript of the Saint Miriam’s Passion used as butcher’s wrapping paper.”

Chryse laughed suddenly. “It strikes me, Lord Vole,” she said, “that you are particularly interested in finding things—Professor Farr’s studies in old cities, the origin of the name of Bishop’s River, and now, old manuscripts.”

“Please, Madame Lissagaray,” he said, standing now to lend his words a more formal bearing. “After more than a month at Vole House, I would hope we could descend to a less formal mode of addressing one another. I notice you and Kate have long since dispensed with such formalities.”

“With Kate it’s rather difficult not to.” Chryse smiled.

He smiled back at her. “Then perhaps you will call me Julian. And you are right. Having been at a loss for any other occupation since I came of age and inherited my position in society, I have occupied myself with looking for things that are lost. That is why I agreed to accompany Kate on that ill-fated expedition to Goblinside where we found ourselves
not
at Master Cardspinner’s, whoever he may be, but in the middle of a riot for emancipation.”

“But you did find something that was lost, did you not, Julian?”

He smiled again, and gave her a little bow before he opened the door and offered her his arm to escort her downstairs. “That I did, Madame Lissagaray.”

“Chryse,” she said.

“It is a beautiful and unusual name,” he said. “The lament of the ocean.”

“The lament of—?” She laughed. “I see. Cry-sea. I hadn’t thought of it like that. It’s actually an old family name, although I’m not certain how it got into the family since it’s a different nationality entirely. Some scholarly connection, I think.”

“Yes,” said Julian smoothly. “Both your parents are associated with a university, are they not? Professors, I believe.”

“Not quite.” Chryse felt inexplicably that he was testing her in some way. Sanjay had always been more easygoing than she, not extroverted exactly, but certainly more convivial; she usually felt more restraint with people she did not know intimately. “They are both university educated, like me, but only my mother teaches at that level. My father teaches younger students.”