The Dead Travel Fast (17 page)

The act itself I cannot remember, not clearly, for the pieces have broken and fitted themselves together again like tumbling shards of kaleidoscope glass. I remember the feel of his back, the long silken muscles sleek beneath my fingers. I remember the little cries and the sweetly whispered words, those that urged and those that begged, and above it all, the astonishing duality of the act itself. The physical was so much more primitive than I had expected, and yet the emotions were exalted. I had expected release and relief and pleasure, but not tenderness. I had not expected to care for him.

And when it was over and his head rested upon my breast came the rush of sweetness. I knotted my fingers in his hair, thinking of Samson, and how a man is never so vulnerable as when he sleeps in a woman’s arms. And I kissed him then, as I had not kissed him before. I had always waited for him to press his lips to mine, but as he drowsed, sated and entwined, I put my lips to his brow, as if to mark him for my own.

After a little while, he roused and stretched and poured out brandy for us both. “A restorative,” he said, with only a trace of mischief.

I had wrapped myself in the length of dress fabric, preserving the vestiges of my modesty.

“You oughtn’t cover yourself,” he told me. “It is a crime against nature.” He tugged at the cloth and I pushed his hand away.

“Stop,” I said, but the word carried no force.

He regarded me thoughtfully. “You do not see yourself as I do, Theodora. There is much to admire. You are a woman of quiet charms, but charms nonetheless.”

I sipped at the brandy, steeling myself against the fiery sting of it. I said nothing, but he did not seem to require a reply.

“Ah, you are looking sceptical again,” he said lightly. “You think me a poor connoisseur, but I assure you, I speak with a master’s eye.” He put a hand to my hair, stroking it and twining a lock about his palm. “Your hair is lovely, almost as black as the wing of a raven. And your eyes are most arresting, so wide and so bright. Those eyes see everything, do they not? Sometimes when we are at table and your gaze is fixed on your plate, I imagine you still see everything that passes. Tell me, can you look into the heart of a man with those eyes?” he asked suddenly, his tone lightly mocking.

“I am no more perceptive than any other woman, and I daresay less than most,” I replied.

“What do you perceive in me?” He dropped his eyes to the glass he turned in his hands, studying the ebb and flow of the brandy.

I hesitated, casting about for the right words. “A wounded thing. I think you have been hurt much in your life, and you do not want people to know it.”

He lifted his brows in surprise, but did not speak and I went on.

“I think you are kinder than you would own to yourself, and I think your spirit is gentler than you pretend. You have taken up a carapace of coldness and sophistry to protect what you do not wish to expose.”

“And what is that?” he asked, his tone a shade less jovial than before.

“Your most secret hope,” I said, dropping my voice to a whisper. “Restoration.”

“What a pretty picture you paint of me,” he said softly, tracing the length of my neck with his thumb. “Everyone else sees me as a man to be envied, but you see the worst of me.”

“Not the worst of you,” I hastened to say. “Only the most vulnerable. A wolf in a trap will snap and snarl at whoever comes near to him out of fear he cannot protect himself.”

“And I am a wounded wolf,” he finished with a mocking smile.

“You may laugh at the metaphor, but I find it apt.”

“As do I,” he capitulated. “But I ought to warn you that what you have seen thus far is the merest sheep compared to the truth of me.”

“Do you think so little of yourself that you wish me to share your low opinion?”

He drew away from me a little then, and I felt the coolness of it. Neither our minds nor our bodies touched, and though I had felt the connection between us, it was lost.

“I put no value upon my stock,” he said, his tone dropping a little. “I see myself as I am, and you would do well to lose your illusions.”

“Will you take them from me?” I teased, thinking to draw him in with good humour.

But he did not smile, and the eyes that had looked upon me with warmth and approbation had turned cool and appraising. “I ought to. For your own good. I gave you the measure of my character early on in our acquaintance, but I have found it is a peculiar affliction of women that they will believe what they want of a man and ignore what he is, no matter how base, how vicious. A woman sees in a man only what she wishes to make of him,” he added bitterly.

“Perhaps it is rather that we see what you might make of yourselves. You had no inclination to better the lives of your vassals, and yet you have done so. Does that not make you improved upon what you were?”

Something stirred in his eyes then, some flicker of cruelty that ought to have warned me.

“You think me caring and disingenuous? Even after I told you what I am? Shall I tell you again? I am a seducer of women, child. I take what I want, where I want, and I will employ any stratagem to secure it.” He moved forward, gripping me by the shoulders. “Look at me, Theodora, and without wishing me to be other than I am. See me, and be warned.”

“You do not frighten me,” I told him, the trembling of my hands belying my words.

“Then why do you shiver? Am I not a horror story to frighten the stoutest heart?” he asked, dropping his head to my neck once more. He put his lips to the pulse at my throat and I felt the pressure of his teeth, poised above my heartbeat.

“Yes,” I whispered into his hair, “and for that I pity you.”

Instantly, he reared back, his hands still gripping my shoulders, his complexion dark with fury.

“You pity me?” he rasped.

“I do. There are stouter walls built round your heart than round this mountain. You take women for pleasure but not companionship, and any intimacy besides the physical causes you pain. Oh, I do see you for what you are. You are a man who wants to be understood, to be taken for all his flaws and all his failures and loved in spite of them. You despise my sex for our follies, and yet yours is the greater for at least we will take love where we can. You would throw it back and scorn the gift of it.”

“You do not love me,” he said, his colour fading to paleness. “You came here for the purpose of being seduced. Do not lie. I smelled willingness upon you the moment you entered the room. Do you think I have been blind to your sighs, your trembling, your longing glances? You are curious and passionate and you will use this night as fodder for your imagination, but do not mask it with the veil of love and think yourself better for it,” he said. “We are cut of the same cloth, Theodora.”

I felt a chill at his words, abashed that he had taken the measure of me so keenly. “At least I do not plate my heart with the cynic’s armour. I believe I will love, and I will be loved, but you dismiss it out of hand as so much foolishness with your taxonomy of women and your scientific seductions. You reduce us all to playthings and formulae, to be won with calculation and guile. That is the real foolishness, for if no woman ever sees you, how can she begin to love you?”

“I do not require love,” he said stonily.

“We all of us require love,” I replied. “You think me childish and silly for clinging to the promise of it, but it is human to want happiness, and if there is happiness without love I am not convinced of it.”

I paused then, watching the play of emotion across his face. I could not decipher it, but I knew he warred with himself, as if something I had said had thawed some part of him long-frozen and removed from the rest.

After a moment he put his hands to his temples. “I shall wake from this and find you are a pipe dream, sent to torment me for my past sins.”

I put my hands over his. “I am no dream.” I kissed him then, offering him my warmth. “I am here. I am real,” I said, kissing him again. He embraced me, returning my kisses feverishly for a moment, until he wrenched himself away. He brought my clothes and dressed me, tenderly as any mother will dress a newborn child. I knew it was dismissal, and I felt only tired and much older than I had when I entered the room in search of my own destruction.

At the door, he cupped my face in his hands. “Do not bombard my defences, little one. They are all I have, and I find myself in danger of growing too fond of you. Believe me when I tell you it would be fatal for us both.”

He kissed me one last time, and I felt the finality of it in his lips. “We will not speak of this again,” he said as he opened the door. “It would doubtless improve my reputation, but it would ruin yours, and I am still gentleman enough to care,” he finished. He closed the door, but gently, and I returned to my room, a more experienced and much more confused woman than I had been when I left it.

14

To my surprise, I slept deeply and dreamlessly that night—whether from the brandy or my physical exertions, I could not say—and I rose the next morning feeling much clearer in the mind. I had gone to the count’s room deliberately, and although he was the experienced seducer, it was I who had gone to him. My courage had failed me once or twice, yet when the moment came, I had seized it. I was fully a woman now, and I felt the difference of it. So many things that had been veiled from me were now revealed, and although my experience must remain secret, I knew I should never be the same. I had gone boldly to claim that which I wanted, and in doing so, I had thrown down the barriers of my diffidence. It seemed astonishing to me that I had ever considered making a home with my sister or a life with Charles Beecroft. I was another person then, a child; I had existed only as a possibility. But now I truly lived; I was creating the life I intended to have for myself and I was filled with the power of it all.

Perhaps I should have left the castle that morning. I wonder how much of what followed would have come to pass had I not remained. But I felt the pull of the place and of the man himself, even if our parting had not been a romantic one. It was my own fault, I decided. No man likes to have his weaknesses prodded, and I had been ruthless in my examination of his. I believed what I told him, but I also realised that he might never rise equal to the task of reclamation. So much at the castle had been left to fall to ruin, so much beauty wasted and decayed. Little wonder the master of the place should prove the same, I reflected. But how I longed to try. I had seen the satisfaction to be had in restoring the village; how much greater the satisfaction in restoring a soul! I romanticised him, but it was to be expected. I was young and foolish, and he was my first lover. I could no more have left him then than I could have cut out my own heart.

Besides, as I reminded myself stoutly, I had promised Cosmina to stay. Guilt pawed at my stomach over the question of Cosmina. I knew she did not want the count for her own; she harboured no secret passions, nursed no girlish dreams. She was repulsed by marriage, and I strongly suspected would have been horrified by the act I had embraced so fully. There was something cool and untouched about Cosmina, and it occurred to me that even if she were to marry and bear a dozen sons, she would always remind me of the Madonna, remote and beautiful and above the squalid and the mundane. I was grieved to find that the little necklace of blue beads that Cosmina had presented to me was gone, lost somewhere in the workroom, and I determined to find it as quickly as possible.

I meant to visit the workroom during the day, but my book intruded. I wrote for hours in the library, Tycho resting at my feet as I scribbled, and when I emerged, it was to find I was very nearly late for the evening meal. I hurried through my ablutions and joined the company in the great hall, surprised to find the countess holding court.

“Good evening, my dear,” she said, inclining her head slowly.

“Good evening, madame. How nice to see you,” I returned, rather breathlessly.

Frau Amsel stood at the countess’s shoulder, hovering protectively and refusing to look directly at me, as if I were a basilisk. I did not mind; if she were as vile as the count suggested, then I should prefer to keep my distance. Florian looked exhausted from his efforts in the village. His hair was newly slicked with water and he rocked a little on his heels from fatigue. Cosmina was still a trifle paler than I would have liked, but she greeted me with a warm smile. I did not dare look directly at the count, but I fancied he was regarding me thoughtfully, and I felt the heat rise in my cheeks at the memory of what we had done together.

The meal was rather more formal in view of the countess’s presence, and when it was concluded we repaired to the library for an evening of piquet and music. It was a pleasant enough time, or would have been, were it not for the things that went unspoken. There was much we might have said to each other, and much that we concealed.

But the evening passed and when the clock struck eleven, we rose to retire. Just as we reached the great hall, a tremendous thud echoed throughout the room. Cosmina gave a little gasp, and the countess’s hand flew to her heart.

“Someone is at the door,” said the count.

After a long moment of breathless silence, the sound came again, harder this time. At the count’s side, Tycho stood, watchful and bristling slightly. The count nodded almost imperceptibly, and Florian moved forward and threw open the door. Lit from behind by the pale starlight, a man stood silhouetted in the doorway, his shadow looming long against the floor, almost touching our feet. He stood there for the space of several heartbeats, then moved out of the shadows and into the room.

He was just above average height and solidly built. He was dressed for travelling with a long coat of chamois over country tweeds. He carried a small leather bag in one hand, and a wide-brimmed hat shaded his face. The candlelight was deceiving; for the space of a heartbeat I thought there was something familiar about him, something in the way he held himself, but how could that be? I was a stranger in this place, and with the exception of a handful of villagers, I had no acquaintance.

He turned his head, surveying the company from under the brim of his hat, saying nothing. Then, with an exclamation of satisfaction, he tore the hat from his head.

“Theodora!” cried Charles Beecroft.

I stared at him, wondering what sort of mad dream I had conjured that I should see Charles in Transylvania, in the Castle Dragulescu of all places.

But he was real. I could smell him, horse and sweat and leather mixed with something sweet like honey.

“Charles,” I said, moving forward. Behind me I could feel the count stiffen like a pointer. “Charles, what are you doing here?”

Charles puffed a little. “What am I doing here? Isn’t it perfectly apparent that I have come to see you?”

I turned swiftly to the countess. “Madame, may I present Mr. Charles Beecroft of Edinburgh, my publisher. Charles, this is the Countess Dragulescu, my hostess. And her son, the Count Dragulescu, master of the castle.”

Charles bowed, a trifle awkwardly to the countess, but she inclined her head graciously.

“You have come a very long way, Mr. Beecroft.”

“Aye, I have. And I apologise for disturbing the household at this hour. It took a bit longer than I expected to ascend the mountain.” He smiled at her, his gentle, winsome smile, and I could see that she was charmed.

Charles turned to the count. “Sir, my apologies to you as well.”

The count regarded him coolly, canting his head as he assessed him.

Charles looked abashed and turned to me. “Does the fellow have no English? What language does he speak? My French is fairly abysmal, but I could try.”

“He speaks English,” I said,
sotto voce
. “His excellency was at Cambridge.”

“Indeed?” Charles raised his brows, and I knew he was not pleased to hear it. He had been schooled before his family had risen to prominence in publishing, and his own education had been spotty. It was one of his few shortcomings and one that Charles felt keenly. He fixed the count with a smile I did not quite believe. “I must again extend my apologies for the intrusion.”

The count smiled coolly. “Accepted. If you will excuse me, I wish to retire.” He gave me a significant look, then turned on his heel and left us, the dog trotting after him.

Florian and Cosmina hovered near and I took the count’s departure as a chance to introduce them. The countess was still watching Charles carefully.

“You must be tired, Mr. Beecroft. You will of course remain as our guest here.”

“Oh, I couldn’t, madame,” Charles protested. “That is very kind of you, but I only wished to see Theodora as soon as I arrived. It was impetuous of me, and as I say, I misjudged the distance to the top of the mountain. I can easily hire a room in the village.”

I stared at him. Charles, impetuous?

The countess merely waved her hand. “I will not hear of it, and the villagers are nervous of strangers. You will stay here for the duration of your visit, Mr. Beecroft. You will be a welcome distraction,” she added.

If Charles thought her choice of words odd, he gave no sign.

“That is very kind of you, countess. I will accept then.”

“Excellent. Miss Lestrange, will you be kind enough to show your friend to the room next to Cosmina’s? It is always made up. I think he will be comfortable there. Come, Cosmina. You may light me to bed. Florian, bolt the doors, and Clara, I should like some milk.”

They departed, but I noticed Cosmina, lingering a bit behind, casting the odd speculative glance at Charles. When she had gone, I turned to him.

“Charles, what—”

He stopped me short, his voice clipped and cold, unlike I had ever heard it.

“Theodora, I have not slept in three days. My last meal was yesterday morning. I am filthy, I am starved, and I am in an extremely bad temper. We will talk later. Now be a good girl and show me to my room.”

I obeyed, lighting him to the room the countess had specified. The hearth was swept and freshly laid, and it took but a moment to kindle a bright fire to banish the chill from the room.

“You ought to have something to eat,” I told him.

“In the morning.”

I hesitated at the door. “If there is nothing I can get for you, then I will bid you goodnight.”

“You look different,” he said suddenly. I turned back. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, one boot still on, the other in his hand.

“So do you, Charles.” I went to him and knelt swiftly, drawing off his other boot. I put them aside, a little distance from the hearth so as not to damage the leather. I took his hat and his coat from the bed and placed them on hooks by the window. I drew the curtains closed and by the time I was finished, he was fast asleep, sprawled over the bed, fully clothed.

I took up a coverlet, another of the great furry robes that abounded in the castle, and draped it over him. He murmured something unintelligible, but it sounded like my name.

The next morning I went to Charles’s room just as Cosmina was approaching his door with a tray for breakfast.

She did not seem entirely pleased to see me.

“I thought your friend might be hungry. It is the day for laundry and poor Tereza is run off her feet this morning.”

“How kind of you,” I said, embarrassed that she should wait upon Charles. She was of the family, after all, and it was my fault he had come. If there was a burden to be borne, it ought to be mine.

“Let me take that.” I lifted the heavy tray out of her hands, but she released it a trifle reluctantly. She turned and tapped her way down the corridor as I kicked lightly upon the door. Charles answered, rested and in good spirits it seemed. He was half dressed, wearing the same breeches and boots of the night before and a clean shirt open at the neck. He held a razor in one hand and a towel in the other.

“Thank God,” he said upon seeing the tray. “I was about to gnaw upon the bedposts.” He waved me in and went back to his ablutions, shaving carefully as I watched.

“You will forgive the impropriety, I am sure,” he said lightly as he caught my gaze in the looking glass. I turned away and began to uncover the dishes.

“There are bread rolls and a maize porridge called
mămăligă
. It is rather tasty. The maid ought to have brought it, but she has not been herself of late. Her sister died a fortnight ago.” I was chattering from nerves. This new Charles was a stranger to me, cool and aloof where my Charles had always been kind and undemanding.

He turned from the looking glass, wiping at the traces of shaving soap with his towel.

“I will pour out the coffee. It is Turkish-style, quite thick and very bitter. Cosmina did not bring sugar. I will go to the kitchens for you and fetch some.”

“Theodora,” he said, his voice low. I did not look at him.

“There is new butter for the bread rolls. You might like a bit of that, and here is some honey for the porridge.”

I reached for a spoon for the little honeypot, but he took it from me. I put my hands behind my back and stepped away.

“I ought to be rather angry with you, you know,” he said mildly as he sat to his breakfast.

“Angry with me? Whatever for?” I plucked irritably at the withered basil tied to the window latch.

“You have been here the better part of six weeks and you have not written a single line.”

“I wrote to Anna.” I heard the note of sulkiness in my voice, but I could not help it. Something about Charles’s presence had aroused my petulance.

“And Anna wrote to me. She was not at all pleased to hear about the dead maid, and she said your letters have been peculiar. She wanted me to come and take matters in hand.”

“Matters here are not yours to take in hand,” I retorted, now thoroughly annoyed. I did not like the familiarity with which Charles referred to my sister. It bespoke a conspiracy between them I could not like.

“You’ve no call to be crabbit,” he said mildly.

I took a deep, slow breath and strove for patience. “I am sorry. I did not mean to be ill-tempered. Not when you have come so far to fetch me.”

He folded his arms over his chest and raised his chin, affecting a rather mulish expression. “Sit down, Theodora. I cannot think with you flitting about. And I did not come to fetch you.”

I obeyed and took a chair, sagging into it in my relief. I had feared a scene, imagining myself a reluctant Helen, dragged back to Sparta by an importuning Menelaus. “But why else—”

“Oh, I came to see you, partly to ease Anna’s mind, but also because there is unfinished business between us.”

He went to his leather bag and withdrew a notecase. He dropped it into my lap and resumed his seat, rubbing his hands together in anticipation as he looked over the food.

“What is this?” I asked. The case was thick with Scottish banknotes.

“The proceeds of the sale of your last two stories,” he explained, spreading the bread rolls thickly with sweet butter. “You did not leave your bank details. Most irresponsible,” he finished severely. “But the money belongs to you and have it you shall.”