Sonnet to a Dead Contessa (11 page)

Margaret was not finished, however, and for the next fifteen minutes she sat there talking about how she longed for a walk with God, and she finally said, “I’m going to one of the services at the house there to listen to Lorenzo preach. I think I would like it.”

“Well, you’ll certainly
hear
it. He’s very loud, but he is a fine man. They helped me greatly when I thought David was in danger. They gave up everything and came and stood guard over him.”

“That is wonderful. I wish you didn’t have to go, Serafina, but I know you’re tired.” She got up, and Serafina rose with her. Suddenly Margaret came forward, embraced Serafina, and kissed her on the cheek. “You’re my dearest friend, Serafina. I treasure our friendship more than you’ll ever know.”

Serafina was touched. She smiled and said, “That’s the way I feel, Margaret.”

David came in, begging to stay for the night, but Serafina said firmly, “Charles and Roger are coming to spend the entire weekend with you next week. Come along now.”

The two of them left, with Margaret going out to the carriage to see them off. She gave Serafina a hug. “Good night, my dear.”

“Good night, Margaret. It’s been a wonderful day.”

“Indeed, it has! We’ll do it again next week.”

Serafina got into the carriage with David and leaned out the window to wave to her friend. “I’ll see you soon,” she called out, and was rewarded with a smile from Margaret. She settled down in her seat and felt a sudden thankfulness that she had such a friend. But her next thought was of Meredith Brice and how she had looked with such adoration at Dylan.

SEVEN

A
bar of golden sunlight streamed through the window from Serafina’s right, illuminating the study with its clear, pure light. She glanced around and thought, not for the first time, how pleasant this room was. She loved books, and the study had been one of her favourite rooms since early childhood.

Two walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling. In front of that wall was a large oak desk with an orderly stack of papers on it and a small plain lamp. A green leather wing chair was nearly drawn up to it, two others on the far side of the desk. On each side of the fireplace was a massive portrait. One was of her father in full dress with his hair combed, for once. The other was of her mother, who wore a long, sweeping green gown and stood by a short Corinthian column that held a vase of red roses. Both portraits were excellent likenesses and expertly done.

A small sound from David caused Serafina to turn her head quickly and study the boy. Even as she did, she thought of how this world held nothing more treasured to her heart than this small boy. She smiled at the studious look that wrinkled his brow, and, as usual when he was thinking deeply, he took his right ear-lobe and tugged at it as if trying to separate his ear from his head.

The ormolu clock on the mantel over the fireplace sounded its steady ticking, and from outside the sound of a sweet birdsong drifted in, mellow and soft. The only other sound was the voice of one of the maids, dimmed by the closed door, and from far off the sound of a dog, probably Napoleon, barking steadily.

Finally David reached out tentatively and moved one of the draughts. He loved the game of draughts, known to the Americans as checkers, and he suddenly looked up at her and smiled brilliantly. “I’ve got you, Mum!” he cried.

For one instant Serafina could not speak. He looked so much like his father, and, as always, a slight fear touched her spirit as she had a faint premonition that he might turn out to be like the man she had married. But then he smiled, and the sweetness of it drove the fear from her heart. “Well, I don’t think you do. I’ll just move here.”

Instantly David crowed and, reaching out, took two of her pieces. “There! You see? You might as well give up, Mum. You’ve only got one piece left, and I’ve got three kings.”

“Never give up, David.” Serafina smiled. “No matter how hopeless it looks.”

“Really? But it seems like such a waste of time.”

“You never know what will happen.”

“Go ahead, then.” David watched the board intently, and with a few swift moves, managed to pin Serafina’s remaining piece. “Now,” he said triumphantly, “I win!”

“Yes, you do. You’re a fine player.”

David smiled brilliantly at her, and she admired him.

“You ought to write a book on how to win at draughts.”

“I’d rather write a story about a princess who is captured by an evil knight.”

“And I suppose she gets rescued by a very handsome, courageous knight.”

“Yes, that’s the kind of story I like.”

“You’ve been listening to Dylan’s stories too much.”

“No, I haven’t, Mum. He tells
great
stories. They always end happily.”

“But life isn’t like that, I’m afraid, David.”

David looked at her steadily, and finally he said in an altered tone that she seldom heard, “Was my father good at games?”

“You mean like draughts?”

“Yes, like that.”

“He didn’t play games much. I expect he would have been good if he had put his mind to it.”

“Did you ever play with him?”

Suddenly one of the bad memories that lay dormant in Serafina’s mind surfaced. The memory was as clear as a painting on the wall. She had been sitting across from Charles and had just beaten him at a game of chess. His face had turned red, and he had reached out and swept the chess pieces in a gesture of anger. Then he had slapped her face. His eyes had been blazing with fury, and she could resurrect the feeling the imprint of his hand on her cheek had left, although that had been years ago.

“Not very often.”

David was silent for a time, and Serafina could see his mind working. She knew him so well. She was afraid at times, for this boy now fully occupied her heart and mind and soul. She waited for him to speak, and finally he said, “It might be nice to have a father.”

“I suppose that would be good.”

“Do you think—”

“Do I think what?” Serafina asked when he broke off.

“Do you think you might ever marry again?”

It was not the first time David had broached this question. She had seen it rise to his lips more than once, and now she knew that it had been something deep in his heart, and something he had thought about for a long time. It frightened her what deep thoughts he had at times, and she had no idea what to answer until finally she struggled to come up with one. “Your grandfather is like a father to you.”

“No, he’s like a grandfather.”

Another thought seemed to be birthed within David’s head, and she finally said, “What is it, son?”

The words came out reluctantly and almost as if they had to be pried loose. “Dylan is like a father.” He was watching her eyes, Serafina saw, and he spoke quickly. “He takes me places, and he plays games with me—and he tells me stories. He’s always ready to help me when I need something. That’s what a father does, isn’t it?”

Once again Serafina could not find an answer that seemed satisfactory. “I suppose so. Dylan is a good friend to you.” Quickly she rose, saying, “That’s three games you’ve beaten me. I refuse to be beaten again! Come along. Let’s go see how the roses are doing . . .”

Septimus’s hand moved with precision and firmness. The scalpel opened the body on the table in front of them, and Serafina quickly tied back the flesh with sutures. They worked quickly and easily; the dead body might have been a melon or a piece of cake for the emotion that
didn’t show in either of their faces. There must have been a time when Serafina was apprehensive about cutting into human flesh (even though it was dead), but that had been long ago. She had long since steeled herself to take no thought of what the human being had been like before death. It had been part of the process of learning that she had received from her father, and she often felt a wave of thanksgiving that she had had this man to teach her all that she knew.

“Does David ever talk to you about Charles?”

Serafina’s head lifted, and she blinked with surprise. It was like her father, she thought suddenly, to come out with something totally unrelated to the affair at hand. She had thought his attention was totally on the body of the middle-aged man that lay before him, and the question had disturbed her and had caught her off guard. She looked up and studied her father. As usual, he wore a dirty white smock, and his hair was waving wildly as if in a stiff breeze. His eyes were dreamy, as they often were when he was dissecting. But she was so uncomfortable that she could not answer, and finally Septimus spoke again. “Your mother and I knew you weren’t happy with Charles, but you’ve never told either of us what the problem was.”

Indeed, Serafina had told her parents little of the horror that her marriage to Charles had been. They had been excited when she met Count Charles Trent, for he had all that a man should have—at least on the surface. He was handsome, cultured, wealthy, positioned, titled, and, of course, he had been pursued by half the women in the English court. She herself had looked forward with great excitement to becoming a bride, but the romance had never come. She thought of his cruelties and of the twisted part of his mind that he always kept hidden from others, allowing it to come out only when he was with her. She did not like to speak of these things and could not think of a proper answer. Finally she said, “He was not a good man. Not what I thought he was.”

Septimus responded, “Well, your mother and I thought it would be a good match for you.”

“So did I, Father. I had a rather romantic fantasy about marriage. I found out that I was very wrong.”

“I’m sorry, my dear. I can see that you don’t like to speak of it.”

“It’s best not to. Memories like that shouldn’t be paraded, and I appreciate you and Mother not pressing me.”

Septimus studied her and finally gave a weary sigh and turned his head to one side. “Do you think, daughter, you will ever marry again?”

“I doubt it. It’s too big a gamble.” Serafina was glad when the door opened and Barden, the butler, said, “Lady Trent, Superintendent Grant would like to see you.”

Relieved to get away from the conversation that had shaken her, Serafina said quickly, “Take him to the study, Barden. Tell him I’ll be right there.”

“Yes, madam.”

Grant rose as Serafina came into the room. He wore a soft, white silk shirt, a plain black cravat tied meticulously, and a casual jacket. His trousers were a rich brown and had a razor-sharp crease, and his black boots gleamed as if made out of glass instead of leather. Serafina thought,
He’s one of the best-dressed men I’ve ever seen. No one would ever take him for a superintendent of Scotland Yard
. But his haggard expression countered the rest of his appearance.

“How are you, Matthew?”

“Well, not too well, I’m afraid.” Matthew hung his head, not meeting Serafina’s eyes.

Serafina looked surprised. “What’s the trouble?”

“I’m afraid I’m the bearer of bad news.”

Serafina blinked for a moment. “What is it? Is someone ill?”

“Worse than that, I’m afraid. It’s about your friend Lady Acton.”

“Why, she was all right when I saw her yesterday.”

Matthew Grant was a plainspoken man, and in most situations had no difficulty conveying information. He was well aware, however, of the close friendship of Lady Margaret Acton and Serafina Trent. He had been surprised to find that the relationship between high-class noble-born ladies could be so firm and so very real. He had marked it often, although he had never commented on it, and now he wished that he were anyplace in the world except in this room, facing the woman in front of him. Finally he gave a slight shrug of his shoulders as if shaking off a burden. “I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but Lady Acton is dead.”

For a moment Serafina did not understand him. The liveliness of Margaret on their last meeting leapt into her memory, and she was in a state of shock. She felt as if she had been struck.

“How can she be dead? Was she ill?”

“I’m afraid not, Lady Trent. She was murdered in her bed-room—exactly like Lady Welles.”

“Murdered?” The word hardly would say itself, for Serafina’s mouth felt dry and her lips seemed almost paralysed. She had been shocked by the murder of Lady Welles, but Margaret was more than an acquaintance. The two were almost like sisters, and now she stared at Grant, willing him to unsay his words. Finally she cleared her throat.