The Dead Travel Fast. Deanna Raybourn

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СКАЧАТЬ thoughts, drinking his wine and occasionally pushing his food about on his plate but eating little. The countess—who took only a tiny portion, refusing everything but a slice of roast pork and a warming plate of consommé—attempted to compensate for his silence by putting to me questions about my impressions of Transylvania and the castle itself. Her pride in her home was apparent, and I was careful to praise the natural beauties of the place. I remarked to her also that I had made the acquaintance of Dr. Frankopan and found him quite charming.

      “Ah, Ferenc! Yes, he is quite a prop to me. I could not manage without him. He has known me from girlhood, and sometimes it is good to be with someone who knows one best,” she told me. Frau Amsel frowned and studied her plate as the countess continued. “Of course, I have my devoted Clara as well. We were at school together, did I tell you, Miss Lestrange?”

      She had, and I wondered anew how Frau Amsel had come to work as companion to her former school friend. Had the countess climbed so far above her raising or had Frau Amsel fallen so low? She must have married to have borne Florian, yet there was no mention of Herr Amsel, and it suddenly became clear to me that widowhood had likely reduced her circumstances and driven her to take a post in this remote and distant place.

      The countess chatted on, mentioning a few diversions I might enjoy during my stay. “There is a passable inn in the village where you might take a meal. Florian could show you, some morning when he is not occupied with his duties or his lessons with Cosmina.”

      Florian had glanced up at the mention of his name, but upon meeting my eyes, he flushed deeply and fixed his attention upon his roast pork.

      “He is a very talented musician,” the countess explained. “He had just won a place in the conservatory in Vienna when Frau Amsel decided to make her home here. He was but twelve years old, and yet he had already studied for a number of years and was quite accomplished. He plays for me sometimes to soothe my nerves and he gives lessons to Cosmina on pianoforte and harp.”

      “I am afraid I try his patience,” Cosmina said with a graceful drop of the head. “I am passable with the pianoforte, but the harp makes me quite stupid.”

      “No, indeed,” Florian put in hastily. “It is only that I am a poor teacher.”

      I noticed then that the count was watching this exchange with interest, his eyes agleam with speculation. For myself, I wondered at the capricious hand of fate in Florian’s life. To have secured a place in any conservatory in Vienna spoke to both his talent and the habit of hard work. He might have become a great composer or musician, playing to the crowned heads of Europe or the crowded concert halls of the capitals. Instead he had come to live in the distant Carpathians, put to work as a steward with ledgers and books in place of strings and bows. I could not imagine that his occasional performance for the countess or his lessons with Cosmina could satisfy any artistic temperament. Perhaps this was the source of his sadness, I mused.

      With a start I recalled myself to the conversation and Cosmina’s protest that she was an indifferent student. The countess put in matter-of-factly, “Of course you are stupid on the harp, Cosmina. You do not practise. One must work to improve oneself, is that not so, Miss Lestrange?”

      I framed my reply carefully. “It is hardly fair to appeal to me, madam. I am a Scot. It is a point of national pride to prize work above all else, to our detriment at times.”

      The countess seemed intrigued by this, for she left off speaking to Cosmina and focused her attention upon me. “And do you work, Miss Lestrange?”

      “I am a writer. I earn my keep by my pen.”

      The countess snapped her fingers and I noticed then the jewel she wore, a great pigeon’s blood ruby, shimmering in the candlelight. “Of course. Cosmina has told me of this. But I spoke of self-improvement, Miss Lestrange, not employment. Work must be undertaken by everyone according to his station for the development of proper character, but it is not fitting for the dignity of a gentleman or a gentlewoman to accept pay for his or her efforts.”

      “It is if the gentleman or gentlewoman wishes to eat,” I countered too hastily, immediately regretting it. I was not surprised the countess believed work was vulgar; I was only caught unprepared that she should speak of such things so freely, and before so many of us who were bound by circumstance to make our own way in the world. And then I thought of her son, heir to a great estate but determined not to make a success of it, and I felt a rush of anger heat the pit of my stomach. I pushed away the plate of roasted pork, so delectable only a moment before.

      But the countess, either from her own good breeding or perhaps an easy temperament, did not take offence. Rather, she smiled at me, a warm, deliberate smile, and for the first time I felt the strength of her charm. “Of course, Miss Lestrange. You speak of necessity, and I meant something quite different. Ah, here is Tereza with dessert. Miss Lestrange, you must like this. It is a rice pudding, flavoured with caraway and other spices. I would know what you think of it.”

      I dipped a spoon into the pudding and took a bite. It melted, creamy and luxurious against my tongue, the comfort of a nursery pudding dissolving into something quite exotic and otherworldly. What had been bland and uninspiring in Scotland here was mysterious and almost sensual. It seemed a fitting metaphor for the place itself, I decided with a flick of my gaze towards the count. I dipped my spoon again and gave myself up to the pleasures of the table.

      After the meal was concluded, the countess’s energy seemed to flag and Frau Amsel roused herself to overrule the countess’s suggestion of an impromptu concert.

      “You did not sleep an hour last night,” Frau Amsel told her in a gently scolding tone. “You must be put right to bed. If you have a good night and keep to your bed tomorrow, perhaps you may stay up tomorrow evening. Florian will prepare something special for your amusement.”

      At this she threw a look of significance to her son, who responded promptly. “Of course, madame. It would be my pleasure. But I have nothing prepared tonight and would disappoint you, I am certain.”

      “You play like an angel,” the countess rejoined. “But I will play the little lamb tonight and go where I am led. I confess I am just a bit tired.”

      She seemed nearer to exhaustion, for her eyes had sunk into shadows during our meal and her cough had worsened. She leaned heavily on Frau Amsel’s arm and waved the count away when he stepped up to assist her.

      “No, dearest. I have my Clara to help. And Cosmina,” she added. “I think I should like to hear more of the book you began reading to me last week, Cosmina, if Miss Lestrange can bear the loss of your company.” The countess turned to me. “I am longing to hear the conclusion, and unfortunately my dear Clara does not read French. You will not mind an early evening, Miss Lestrange?”

      “Of course not, madame. I am quite content to retire to my room and do a little writing.”

      She nodded her thanks and we moved as a party into the great hall. Tereza and her sister appeared with candles for everyone to light their way to bed. I took mine up hastily, realising that the count and I should be left alone as soon as the others departed.

      “Good evening, sir,” I said, giving a quick nod for the sake of politeness. I scurried from the hall, but not before I caught his expression, mildly amused it seemed, but I did not stop to wonder why. I hurried to my room and closed the stout oak door behind me.

      Tereza, or perhaps Aurelia, had made up the fire, and the room was warm enough, but I was too restless to retire. I sat for a little time in the embrasure of the window, watching the stars rise above the great craggy peaks of the mountains. One СКАЧАТЬ