The Countess (32 page)

The hall seemed to go quite dim, as if a cloud had passed over the sun. I clutched your arm a little more firmly than I meant to, so that you looked up in surprise and asked if I were well. Very well, I said. It would not do to faint there, in front of all my guests. In front of Thurzó, who was suddenly looking right at me. Damn him. He knew I would not make a scene in front of my guests, at my daughter’s own wedding. How long had he been planning this surprise for me? How many times had I written him of my love, urging his coming,
and all the time he was simply waiting for the right moment to push me aside?

I turned to face the young couple instead, but my vision was as black as the inside of a cavern. The priest’s voice droned, and outside the wind caught one of the shutters and banged it against the sides of the wedding hall like a gun report. My hands were cold and felt nothing, not even your warm little arm as you tried to steady me. On the other side of the wedding palace, Thurzó wore a look of remorse—eyes beseeching, shoulders firm as if he were being upbraided in front of his Habsburg master instead of humiliating the widow of his closest friend. That he could even pretend to be sorry was outrageous. Immediately I looked away.

On the other side of me my nephew caught my other arm. “Are you unwell, aunt?” Gábor said. “Can I get you something? Here, sit on this cushion before you fall.”

“No,” I said, brushing off his hand. Kata’s eyes caught mine for just a moment, widening, questioning. She should not be looking at me. The rest of the congregation turned to see what had caught her attention, and a whisper began to work its way through the crowd. Loud, now. Louder. “I am well, thank you,” I whispered, forcing myself to smile. “I lost my balance for a moment. These carpets.” I let go of Gábor, who was still trying to force me into a nearby chair.

“Mother?” you asked. When I looked down, your face was pale.

“It’s okay, darling. Thank you. You are such a little man now, your father would be proud of you.” Your arm clutched mine, and I managed to stand up a little straighter. Like Icarus, I went into the sea before a crowd of people—a ship under sail, a plowman, a shepherd—but no one saw.

The sight I had encountered in the wedding palace was no illusion: the gossips were all abuzz with the news that Thurzó planned to take Erzsébet Czobor as his second wife. The betrothal had been arranged the previous month after Thurzó had stopped for several days with the Czobors during his summer travels. Her mother had sent the girl to play hostess, serving Thurzó with her own hands as if he were the master of the house, strumming the lute for him in the afternoons as they lazed along the river in little boats. Before three days had passed, Thurzó had asked for her hand. Apparently he had told his friend Batthyány that he was so joyous at the prospect of the impending nuptials that he had asked the girl’s parents to shorten the usual betrothal time. The small dowry her parents had saved for her was of little consequence to a man who had already married once, and been widowed, and secured his fortune and political career. A second wife, and a young one too, would give him more children. A blessing, the gossips said, on his lonely middle years.

In my room I sent out all my ladies, my daughters and friends—their words of condolence, their murmurs of shock and dismay, their nervous glances at one another—so that I might think in peace for a moment, without the eyes of the entire world upon me. Only before Darvulia could I let myself be free, so it was to my friend I went, startling her awake as I burst into the small room off the kitchen where she slept. The chamber smelled strongly of roast meat and the herbs she kept in little glass jars, arranged in a row on her windowsill. Darvulia sat up in bed in her thin white shift as I told her what had transpired in the wedding hall, how I had been passed over for a mere girl, a slip of a child with hardly any breasts, with no education and little money. I railed at the cowardice of György Thurzó
in appearing at my daughter’s wedding with his betrothed without the slightest word to me of the change in his affections. Everything Thurzó had ever uttered to me—everything we had said and meant to each other—was a lie. “I’ve become a laughingstock,” I said. “He’s made me the butt of a joke.”

She looked tired but picked up my hands in her thin ones and rubbed the knuckles until I was calm again. The sight was nearly gone from her eyes, which were now the same cloudy blue-green color as the surface of Lake Balaton, but she still managed to fix me with a firm stare neverthless. I should not have burdened her with my troubles, but I could not help myself. Who else had understood so well what Thurzó had meant to me? “You’re only a laughingstock if it matters to you what he does,” she said. “Does it?”

I took a breath. “I thought it did. It would have. Until this morning I would have given up everything I have for him. Now I would rather sleep with old fat Rudolf himself.”

“Very well, then, you are both satisfied with where you find yourselves.”

My mouth turned up in a small smile, all vinegar. “More satisfied than I was when I was with him, at least.”

From her bed, my old friend laughed, and I shook my head at my own bluntness. I could say anything to Darvulia. She was failing—I could see it clearly now, how frail and thin she looked—and I knew I should have let her rest, but never did I need her as much as I did then, never. No one else must know the bitterness I was feeling.

“Wash your face, madam. Yes, do it. The cool water will take the puffiness out of your eyes and the redness from your cheeks.” How she knew my eyes were puffy and my cheeks red, I did not know. “Afterward go down and greet your guests. Look pleased with everything. Do not let him or anyone else know he’s hurt you, or you will become the laughingstock you fear.”

As usual, Darvulia was right. I rinsed my face in the basin, arranging my face in the mirror into a semblance of disinterested calm. “Go,” she said. “Enjoy your guests. When the party is over,
come back and tell me everything that was said. You will feel better afterward, I promise.” This last like a benediction. I embraced her and went out again.

The stewards and maidens scurried to and fro to the kitchens with plates of bread and fresh butter, wine in blown-glass Venetian pitchers. A great fire steamed at the far end of the hall, and the room filled with noise so that one could hardly hear the person speaking next to them. Yet the moment I entered all eyes turned to me, and the conversation died down a little, as if the room had drawn in its breath to see what I would do next. Thurzó came closer to speak to me, leaving the little brat who was his betrothed and her mother standing by themselves, looking ridiculous.

“Erzsébet,” he began in a low voice. “Let me explain.”

“There is nothing to explain. Where are your manners, György? Let me look at your lovely little bride.” Immediately, in full view of the company, I approached Erzsébet Czobor and her mother. If Thurzó could debase himself with insincerity, so could I. I took the little simp’s face in my hands and kissed her on both cheeks. Let everyone see how gracious I could be, how forgiving. “She is truly the gem of Hungary, Thurzó. You will be a lucky man.”

The girl’s mother likewise kissed me on both cheeks like a sister and praised the wedding arrangements. “No doubt we will be hard-pressed to offer so much when my own little beauty weds our friend here,” she said. “I have never seen such a lively party. It would rival anything the Habsburgs themselves could muster.” The witch. She knew Thurzó had loved me, and knew that in marrying her daughter Thurzó was spurning me. Now, in her moment of triumph, Lady Czobor had the audacity to offer me her paltry compliments as an olive branch.

“It is true that no one can compete with Countess Báthory for her gracious hospitality,” Thurzó said. “The kingdom has not her equal as a hostess. You should send your daughter to her for a while, to make her better acquaintance. Under no one else could my betrothed learn the art of running a well-kept house better than the court of Mistress Nádasdy.” I forced myself to smile at the compliment as if I found
pleasure in it, wondering if he really thought I would make a good tutor, a friend for his idiotic child bride.

“Would you truly consider it, madam?” asked the wretched mother. “I would be so grateful.”

I would be as likely to murder her with my own hands as I would make her my friend. Instead, I said, “Of course. Send her to me whenever you like. I always have need of ladies who can sing, and play, and dance, and entertain us during the long winter months. Send her to Sárvár and I will take her under my wing, at least until your anticipated wedding can take place. I understand there is some haste about it, but there should be some time for the girl to have a bit of education, and the friendship of other girls of her rank.”

“We would both be most grateful,” said Thurzó, ignoring my remark about the girl’s rank. He took my hand and bent over it. I made myself stay perfectly still and accept his compliment. Around the walls of the wedding palace all eyes were on us. The room was a sea of music and light, and couples dancing to the strains of the lute, the guitar, the sweet high voice of the Italian singer, the smell of roast oxen and turkeys, and the intoxication of the best wine. Myself in the middle of it, my eyes so fixed on the middle distance that all I could see were the stitches in the seams of Thurzó’s coat. As always, I presented the picture of graciousness and nobility and honor, duty and acceptance, as I fell into the sea with my legs kicking.

We were interrupted momentarily by the wedding steward, Istók Soós, who nodded his head to get my attention. I was so grateful I could have thrown my arms around his thick neck and wept. Instead I followed him away from the guests to a quiet corner where he complained that we were short of maidservants for the dinner, two of the girls who were supposed to have been serving having fallen ill earlier that day. “Ill how?” I asked.

“Dorka decided they needed some bit of punishment,” said the steward, “but she beat them so badly they cannot stand, either of them.”

“She should know better. They must be able to work still, even after their punishment. She is getting sloppy.”

“There is still the matter of the dinner this evening. Two tables have no servant to wait on them. I spoke to Miss Modl and Miss Sittkey at the suggestion of Dorka, but Miss Modl said she would not wait at table since she is a married woman. Dorka says if she is, then it is news to the court, and she calls you to the kitchen courtyard to speak with Miss Modl yourself.”

Now Dorka had overstepped her bounds completely, summoning me to deal with a serving girl in the middle of my daughter’s wedding. She was getting a bit overambitious about her place in the house, and though I valued her help, she must remember that it was I who was mistress here, and not Dorottya Szentes. “Come with me,” I said to Istók, and together we went out to the kitchen in the rear of the castle.

There the cooks were roasting a great oxen over a spit, and the servants whose jobs were done for the day were gathered to drink wine out of horn cups and wait for the cook to slice the meat. The pages had gathered there, and the seamstresses and chambermaids, released from their duties for the evening, assembled in clumps to gawk at the retainers of great men, to flirt and dance. A few old gypsies played music, and the smell of sizzling meat and charcoal, the smoke and closeness of the space, made me dizzy. Great piles of wood sat at one side of the roasting pit, while the head cook ordered more logs thrown on the fire to keep it hot. A whisper rose up through the crowd as I crossed the courtyard to find Gizela Modl sitting on a bench whispering with one of the chambermaids, laughing like anything and drinking cup after cup of wine.

“Miss Modl, Miss Sittkey,” I said, “I’m glad you’re here. I have need of two girls to wait at table tonight, since Éva and Aranka are ill. You can wear their clothes.”

Gizela seemed surprised to see me there. “I can’t, madam. I already told the steward as much.” She was not only drinking, but
drunk. Very drunk, in fact—her words slurred together so thickly it took me a moment to realize what she had said.

“Why won’t you?” I asked.

“Only maidens wait at table.”

“Are you not a maiden?”

“No, madam. I have a son.”

“Since when do you have a son?” I asked. “I’ve never heard of this son of yours.”

“You never asked.”

“How old is your son? What is his name?”

“He is three years old, madam. His name is Ferenc.”

“Is it.”

“Like his father.”

“Where is his father, then?”

“Dead. Dead nearly three years now.”

Here and there the flames licked at the carcass of the dead ox, singeing the tail. The courtyard darkened, despite the firelight. I reached up and slapped the girl first on one cheek, then the other. She clutched her face, but her eyes blazed. “You will wait at table tonight,” I repeated. “Now.”

“No. I will not.” She swayed and then steadied herself.

The courtyard went utterly still. The gypsy music died down, and the horn cups stilled in every hand as the servants, the pages and cooks and chambermaids who just a minute before had been celebrating the wedding of my daughter watched Gizela Modl defy my will. Drinking my wine, and eating my oxen, and sneering at me with every breath they drew. I would not have it. I would not.

The steward was behind me. “Very well,” I said. “Pick up that log.” I motioned to the woodpile. The steward walked over to the pile and chose one from the top, about the length of a man’s thigh and as big around. “Now hand it to the girl.”

“Madam?”

“Give Miss Modl the log, Istók.”

The servant handed the girl the log. She did not dare refuse it,
having refused so much else, but it was heavy, and it took both arms for her to hold it up. “What shall I do with it?” she asked.

“Since you are a mother, let me see your mothering. This is your child, my dear. What do you do with a child who has not yet been weaned?”

Her eyes grew wide when she understood my meaning. “You are mad,” she said.