The Golden Key (117 page)

“I will begin now,” she said, to cover her confusion.

Edoard snapped his fingers and a servant came running, to be sent for easel, parchment, and sketching box.

“I so love dogs,” said Beatriz to Edoard.

Rohario stalked off to stare out into the fields.

Servants returned. Eleyna seated herself and arranged her things about her. “I will start with the hounds,” she said. “Some sketches so I learn to know them.”

“Come, Don Edoard,” said Beatriz in her kind way. “You must show me the gardens.”

“Are you not going to sketch me?” Edoard asked plaintively.

“Of course.” Eleyna sharpened a pencil with a knife. The hounds had such clean, interesting faces, and unlike the pampered, surly dogs owned by the court ladies, they had a lively exhuberance and, like Edoard, a certain amount of simple charm.

“I hope, Don Edoard, that you see that my sister will entertain herself without a thought for us.” Beatriz’s words slid smoothly past. Eleyna caught her sister’s movement out of the corner of her
eye as Beatriz led Edoard away. Mara followed them. “Your father deeded Chasseriallo to you five years ago?”

“Yes, as is traditional. I had just turned nineteen….” His voice faded into the distance. Eleyna marked their going with one part of her mind, but Vuonno had been installed for his sitting, and as he was a good-natured but restless creature, she had to work quickly to capture him.

Rohario still stood off to one side, face in profile. His pose was so strikingly theatrical she could almost imagine he had taken the stance deliberately. She sketched him quickly, frowned, and tried again on a different corner of the paper. That was better, but it didn’t quite capture the set of his shoulders and the peculiar discontented sweep of crossed arms and jutting chin.

She drew him again, this time giving him the whole page. The handler brought Framba up for her sitting. Hastily, blushing, Eleyna got a new piece of paper out, covering up the sketches. But she remained aware of him standing not close enough to speak to her but not so far away that she could forget he was there. Try as she might to lose herself in the sketches, she felt him watching her—or, when he saw her glance his way,
not
watching her. At last he left and she could work in peace. Much later, Beatriz returned.

“Where did Don Edoard go?” Eleyna asked.

“He went to look at his new horse. It has calmed down.” Beatriz busied herself retying her bonnet. Her fingers, damningly, showed stains from digging in the dirt.

“I thank you, Beatriz. I know you are only trying to help, but I must become accustomed to him in the end.”

“Of course you must, but there is no need for you to worry yourself about something that must grow in its own time.”

Eleyna wondered—not for the first time—how someone so understanding and kind could be, at moments, so irritating.

They all met again at supper, which they took in the dining room under the glowing candles of the chandelier.

“You are remarkably lovely tonight, carrida meya,” said Edoard as he led Eleyna to her chair. Then he spoiled the effect by turning to Beatriz and drawing her away from Rohario. “And you as well, Beatriz. If you will sit on either side of me, I would be the happiest man in the world. I have looked over the sketches. I hope you do not mind that I looked at them without asking you first—”

Hands rifling through her sketchbook without her permission! Eleyna strangled a protest and smiled blandly at him.

“—but I could not wait to see my dear creatures, although I noticed
that you did a few little drawings of my brother as well. I am terribly jealous you have not sketched
me
yet….”

Eleyna dared not look at Rohario. “I was just warming up my hands, Don Edoard.”

“You will sketch me tonight, then?”

She blushed, intensely aware of Edoard’s interest in her, of the other meaning behind his innocuous words.

“The flowers from the garden look lovely arranged so in the vases, do they not, Don Edoard?” said Beatriz. “You picked them with such an eye for color.”

Distracted, Edoard turned toward her. “I only followed your wishes. I know little enough of flowers.”

“You know more than you think, Don Edoard. Our grandmother Leilias was a perfumier, and she taught me the knowledge of flowers and scents and herbs. Here are red chrysanthemums for Love, honeysuckle for Affection, and lilies for Peace. Your cook prepared the chicken tonight with a touch of marjoram.”

“What an exceptionally clever woman you are, to have noticed such a thing. Does marjoram have meaning as well?”

Beatriz smiling prettily, her cheeks a little flushed. “Blushes, my lord.”

“I did not know flowers and herbs could speak of so much.”

“There are many hidden meanings in the things of the world, if we only know where to look.”

Something about the way Beatriz said those words made the hair on the back of Eleyna’s neck prickle. She glanced toward Rohario, but he was sitting sullenly, fork in one hand, staring at his giblet pie, which lay eviscerated on his plate. Mara watched her charges with misty-eyed approbation.

“Whatever can you mean?” Edoard leaned toward Beatriz, his eyes alight. “You sound positively mysterious.”

Mara came alive. “It is time for us to retire to the parlor.” She rose briskly and whisked Eleyna and Beatriz out with her. The steward led them to the parlor, where Eleyna found her sketchpad sitting neatly on a sidetable.

Mara sat down on a couch and began embroidery. Eleyna drew Beatriz aside. “What did you mean by saying such a thing to Don Edoard?”

Beatriz was unrepentant. “If what Grandmother said is true, then he will have to know the secrets of the Limners sooner or later.”

“But—”

“
But
? He obviously knows and suspects nothing. You can tell it from his face.”

“I’m not sure he’s intelligent enough to understand—”

“Eleyna! He speaks sensibly enough about gardening and estate management.”

“Is
that
what you spent the afternoon discussing?”

The door opened and Edoard entered. “I beg your pardon,” he said lightly. “My brother has a headache and had to retire.”

“I’m not feeling well either,” said Mara, rising. “Beatriz, will you escort me to my room? I need an arm to lean on.”

Beatriz touched Eleyna on the hand, fleetingly, but the brush of her fingers comforted. The ploy was so transparent, and yet … there was no reason to put off the inevitable. They left. Eleyna stood, one hand resting on her sketchpad, and smiled nervously at Edoard.

“Sit, carrida meya.” He prowled the room. She had a sudden idea he also was nervous.

“I’ll draw you,” she said.

He smiled and sat in a plain oak chair. Its simplicity set off his golden evening coat and silver waistcoat. The pale watercolor wallpaper was a fitting backdrop for his brown hair and dark eyes. But he could no more sit still than could a toddler, or his hounds. Yet while he sat
there
, he could not be close to her
here.
Why had she ever agreed to this? The evening’s likely progression unfolded in her mind: conversation, a glass of madiera, intimacy, lovemaking. She burned with embarrassment. He fidgeted.

“I am reminded of the family portrait we had done some years ago, before the fever, for of course that was when poor departed Mama was still alive and little Mechellita and Alessio, and my poor brother Benetto who was quite stricken with fever. He’s never been right in the mind since. It’s true that Grandmother Mechella would not abide her sons having a Grijalva Mistress. I should not have mentioned it in front of your sister, she is very young and innocent—”

Matra Dolcha! What would Edoard think if he ever learned about the Confirmattio, which Beatriz had, by her own admission, enjoyed immensely, or about Beatriz’s infant son who was at this hour asleep in the crechetta in Palasso Grijalva?

“—but now that Grandmama is dead I saw no reason not to ask Patro if I might restore the Marria do’Fantome.” Here he paused, waiting for her answer. For her invitation.

“Arrigo’s mistress Tazia was my great-aunt.” She bent her head over the sketchpad. The far corner of the parlor took on immense interest. Her thoughts in tumult, she concentrated on rendering the
corner in exquisite detail, its simple table and vase and single burning oil lamp set against the pale striped wallpaper.

She felt him stand. Her face flushed with heat. If only she could concentrate enough, she could somehow banish him from the room, as if, not existing in her thoughts, he thereby could not exist beside her.

But she was no Gifted Limner.

He stopped beside her and, ever so lightly, rested a hand on her shoulder.

Agustin.

Agustin was a Gifted Limner.

“I thought you were drawing me,” he said.

“It is for my brother Agustin,” she said wildly. They called her unGifted because she was a woman, and yet she knew in her soul that she had been granted the gift of art and that it was her duty to Matra ei Filho to make the world come to life in her paintings. This moment, now, would never have happened to her had she been, like her brother, a Limner.

“He is just learning to paint,” she went on, not knowing what words would come next, not wanting to insult Edoard, “and I promised him I would make sketches so he could see other houses, other places. His health isn’t very good, you see, and he almost never leaves our Palasso, so this is my way of giving a gift to him. …” She trailed off.

“I will call Bernadin and have this perfect sketch sent immediately to Meya Suerta.”

“It isn’t necessary—”

“Of course it is not necessary, but since I can do it, why should I not? You must write a note to your brother. I will ring for Bernadin. No, no, you must write. I will keep silence. What is his name?”

She took out paper, uncapped her pen, and blotted the ink. She hardly knew what to write. “Agustin. He is just fifteen.”

“Ah, he is the same age as my sister Timarra. She is a sweet girl, very quiet. My father scares her. Not that he means to, but he has strong views and, alas, Timarra has none. She would be perfectly content to sew in the garden and will make a dutiful wife when it comes time for her to marry, although knowing Patro, he will send her to farthest Vethia where she will be perfectly miserable and cold. But forgive me.” Bernadin came in. “You will wish to send your letter. You are finished? Bernadin, have this delivered to Palasso Grijalva. Yes, send a messenger along
now.
He may wait for a reply if the boy wishes to send one. Agustin Grijalva, that is right.”

When Bernadin had left, Eleyna said, voice caught on a tremor, “Thank you, Don Edoard. You are very kind.”

He turned at that instant, and his face wore a mocking expression which vanished as soon as he spoke. “Am I? I think I am rather selfish.”

She flushed. He approached her cautiously. She was afraid to look away. Stopping beside her chair, he extended a hand. Obediently she took it, and he lifted her to stand close beside him. With his other hand he brushed a stray curl of hair back from her face. “Are all Grijalva women as lovely as you and your sister?”

She smiled but could think of nothing to say. If she spoke, she would betray her fear. Matra! What had she to be afraid of? This was nothing new for her.

He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the mouth. She struggled to relax into him, but her free hand clenched tight and her whole body stiffened.

After a moment he pulled away from her and dropped her hand. The barest smile was caught on his lips, lingering there, but she could not interpret it.

He took a step, circling her to look down at her sketchpad. “I can’t imagine how it is that you make these lines on the page to create pictures. It is as if I am seeing through your eyes, no? Rohario has told me many times I have no ‘eye’ for art, whatever that means, and what Patro says … eiha! It is not worth boring you with what Patro says. He is not fond of his children—”

“Surely not!”

“We disappoint him.”

She forced herself to swallow. It was the only way to get herself to breathe. These confessions made her wildly uncomfortable.

“Benetto is an idiot—I mean it not to castigate the poor boy, it is not his fault—and Timarra cannot bring herself to utter two words together and she is not even a pretty girl, which is a terrible thing for her since Grandmother Mechella and our own dear departed Mama were both beauties. Rohario—eiha!” He flung a hand up in exasperation. “
Rohario.
So Patro has married a new wife and hopes to sire more suitable children.”

At her exclamation, he lifted a hand. Edoard was not precisely smart, but he was, she was coming to see, not precisely stupid either. “Do not worry for me, corasson. My claim to the throne of Ghillas is fully as legitimate as King Ivo’s, more legitimate, some would say. Patro wishes to marry me off to Ivo’s daughter—what is her name? I just saw a fine sketch of her the other day, it was
brought back by one of your cousins or at least J assume you are all cousins of one sort or another.”

He smiled at her. It was the same smile he offered Mara, or Beatriz. Or his hounds.

Eleyna had a sudden revelation: this endless talking was Edoard’s way of putting other people at their ease with him, or himself at his ease, she could not tell which or even if his monologues served both purposes.

“I am not as clever as you, corasson. You can create such beauty and I … I can only enjoy my hounds and admire beautiful women.”

He rested a hand on her arm, still smiling, and she tried, oh she tried mightily, but she could not help herself. He was too close.

“It is too soon,” he said as he released her, turning away. But not before she saw his smile fade.

“It is not you. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive. Bernadin will show you to your chamber.”

Flushed, humiliated, she fled the room without gathering up her things.

  SIXTY-FIVE