Authors: Donna Lea Simpson
She spoke briefly with Count von Wolfram the next day, and both agreed that Charlotte was like a rough gem—she needed polishing. He pronounced himself satisfied with Elizabeth’s ideas as to how to go about that, but warned her he would be watching for signs of improvement. They kept their distance from each other, but Elizabeth covertly watched him and could not help but feel that he looked tired and worried, distracted by some deeper trouble he could not share with anyone.
In the next few days a routine of sorts was scheduled. Mornings, she and Charlotte would go to the yellow parlor and spend some time talking about English etiquette. The girl was oblivious to so many things ingrained in the average English girl of the same age and rank that Elizabeth was only beginning to get to the bottom of how much Charlotte would need to learn. She started with simple knowledge, such as how formal affairs differed from informal, and what she could expect at events as different as a Venetian breakfast or a royal ball. She tried to teach Charlotte how to preside at the tea table, but that was difficult when the girl refused to see any use in such skills.
“I do not understand why it matters if I can make a good cup of tea,” Charlotte said, her tone sulky. “Do those in England truly judge one on such things? It is laughable, to think such a thing important when there are serving staff to do so.”
Exasperated, Elizabeth replied, “You’re completely right, Charlotte. It will matter not a whit to those whose opinion is truly worth courting, those of true substance and worth, if you can prepare tea or not.”
“Then why learn?”
“The problem is, Charlotte, that people of substance and depth and intelligence are few and far between. Unfortunately we must live in a world filled with people of no substance at all.
They can make your life difficult if they so choose, so it is for them that you must learn to curtsey correctly, behave in a demure fashion, and pour a perfect cup of tea.” She paused, thought for a moment, and then said with a smile, “And those with true substance will appreciate the ability, too, for a good cup of tea is never amiss in this world.”
Charlotte had not replied. Elizabeth wasn’t sure yet how to break through the girl’s crusty exterior. All she could do was continue to be kind and firm.
Afternoons Elizabeth had free, for Charlotte would only take so much tutoring before disappearing to spend time with Melisande or Christoph. So Elizabeth retreated to the library that Adele had indicated was appropriate or stayed in her room and wrote in her journal, recording her plans for Charlotte and many of her inner thoughts on the odd temper of the household; there was so much she didn’t understand, and her journal received all of her thoughts and worries without requiring her to explain herself, a relief when one felt as alone as she often did. Other free time she spent with Uta and Frau Liebner, beginning to grasp the rudiments of the German language and how it differed from English.
For some reason the tension she had felt in the household the first few nights she was a resident seemed to have eased, but perhaps it was merely her own initial unfamiliarity with life at Wolfram Castle that had made the atmosphere seem so strained. And yet she hadn’t forgotten the naked woman she saw on the road on their way there, nor had she discovered who among the staff Count Nikolas could possibly have been escorting in under cover of darkness, when she had observed the odd scene from the gallery.
Evenings spent with the family were not yet completely pleasant, but she was beginning to relax and find them bearable. The count generally sat alone and read, seldom joining in with the card games or conversation, but on occasion he would join the family and she saw in him the yearning desire he had for his family to be happy and prosperous. It warmed her to see such devotion to his brother’s children, even if it was not reciprocated. Between Christoph and himself in particular there seemed a vast rift, but Elizabeth did not know the full history of that division.
And so she had been there two full weeks. The moon was new and the nights were black, and several successive days of snowfall had made them prisoners in the castle. After dinner they gathered, as usual, in the drawing room; this night was different in that Frau Liebner had attended dinner and joined them for the family time after. She was a welcome sight in the drawing room for Elizabeth, but as Countess Adele monopolized her attention at first, Elizabeth did not intrude. Charlotte and Melisande moved to the piano, which had been brought to the drawing room while the music room was being painted, so Elizabeth sat and listened. Countess Gerta, who had been ill for a week or so with a cold, was finally with the family and though wan appeared quite cheerful. She sat down by Elizabeth.
“We have had, Miss Stanwycke, so little time to talk. I feel I don’t know you yet at all, and yet everyone has such good things to say of you.”
“Really? How kind of them,” Elizabeth replied. She watched Charlotte and Melisande consult over a piece of music, but then glanced at the countess, who had sat down beside her on a settee. The other woman was youthfully slender, though her twins would be fifteen within months. Her expression, often peevish and pouty, was this night cheerful and open.
“Our French friend seems especially taken with you,” the countess said, with a glance over at Count Delacroix.
Elizabeth, startled, followed her gaze. The French count was elegantly dressed as usual, and was, with a courtly bow, making his obeisance to Frau Liebner. “I… can’t say he has ever been anything more than polite.”
“Nevertheless I assure you, he finds you very attractive. Is he not elegant?”
“Well, yes, he is certainly elegant.”
“I fear my sister is doomed to be disappointed in him,” she said, on a sigh.
“What do you mean?”
“Have you not noticed? Adele is terribly in love with him, but he has never even noticed she is female. I say if you cannot make a Frenchman in love with you, then you are barely a woman.”
One swift glance at Countess Gerta’s piquant, gamine face left Elizabeth more confused than ever, for though the words sounded mean-spirited, the lady could not appear more mild or cheerful.
“The Countess Adele,” Elizabeth said coolly, “has been very kind to me.”
“Oh, yes, she would be, would she not? She has made such a terrible uh… how is it in English? A puddle? Or no… a muddle, that is it… she has made a muddle of raising Charlotte, and Nikolas is relying on you to correct that, so he has told her to be especially kind to you.”
The young Count Christoph, with an unusual smile on his face, took a violin out of a case sitting on the piano and rosined his bow. He joined the two young ladies in a sprightly piece that had them all laughing merrily at the end. Elizabeth, already wearying of the company of Countess Gerta, stood and strolled over to the piano, clapping at their virtuoso performance.
“How well you play, Count Christoph,” she said.
His pale face flushed and red blotches broke out on his cheeks at the compliment. He bowed silently. Bartol Liebner joined them as Melisande whispered something to Charlotte, and she, out loud, laughed.
“Yes, Christoph,” his sister said. “You must play that piece you composed at Christmas.”
“No, I…”
“Please, you have not played for us for a month almost,” Melisande said, her softer accents a sweet contrast to the rough tone of Charlotte’s inflection.
“Yes, nephew, you should show your skill more often,” Bartol Liebner said, clapping his hands together.
The young count cast his gaze around, and to the others sitting and listening. Elizabeth watched his eyes and could tell the exact moment when he decided to acquiesce. He nodded and brought the instrument up to his chin, closing his eyes.
What she had expected she didn’t know, but what he played was exquisitely sad, the strings singing a lament of lost love and heartbreak. By the end of the piece Elizabeth felt the tears welling in her eyes and she realized as she had listened she had become lost in the old pain, the sorrow of discovering she had not only been abandoned, but she had been maligned, too, and exposed.
“That was breathtaking,” she said, almost not recognizing the thickness of her voice.
“Yes, almost professional,” a new voice said from near the door. Count Nikolas strolled into the room. He had disappeared directly after dinner with a promise to join them all later, and must now have been done with his business, Elizabeth supposed.
“One would surmise,” the count continued, “that you spend far more time with a violin bow than a sword in your hand.”
His seemingly innocuous words had a radical effect on his nephew, who tossed the violin in its case and stalked over toward the fire, staring into it grimly. Again the ugly tension between the two men had reared its head. Elizabeth knew the count wished his nephew to have a career away from the castle—the army had been mentioned, though it was said the young count had been rejected for poor health—but Elizabeth wondered if that was the root of all of the unease between them or if there was more to it. Certainly Count Nikolas could have been milder in his remark, which had been caustic and captious.
“I don’t want to break up this musical party,” the count said, approaching the piano. “Miss Stanwycke, do you play? Will you favor us with something?”
Elizabeth hesitated for only a moment and then acceded to his wishes, not wishing to put herself in the position of having to be urged, as some ladies did, out of false modesty when secretly they wished to show off their skills. She did wish to play and so she would.
She riffled through the sheet music that was spread carelessly across the top of the piano and found an old Gluck piece she knew reasonably well as Melisande and Charlotte retreated to some chairs near the fire to whisper together. She sat on the bench and placed her hands on the keys, playing a practice scale to warm her fingers and familiarize herself with the instrument. She had not played in a couple of months, and she would be rusty at first.
She flexed her fingers, finally, feeling them warm and become more agile, and she placed the music correctly and took a deep breath. Then she lost herself in the music, at first needing to concentrate because it had been a while since she had played the piece, and then at the joy of playing once again.
She was momentarily distracted as Count Nikolas sat down beside her to turn her music for her so she didn’t need to pause. He proved himself able, for he clearly read music as well as she did, turning at just the right moment so she did not need to break her rhythm. And yet the warmth of him, the feel of his muscular thigh pressed close to hers, was terribly distracting.
More powerful than that was his scent; he smelled musky, like the forest at night, Elizabeth thought, and his scent filled her nostrils, making her light-headed and slightly euphoric. He murmured how well she played and smiled over at her, the shadow of his beard darkening his chin. She lost her way for a moment but then regained control, finding her place in the complex web of music. How dark he was, compared to his niece and nephew, who were so fair, she thought as she carefully worked through the music, her play becoming more mechanical as skill took over in her distraction. They must take after their mother, and yet Adele and Gerta were both slim and blond, so perhaps there were two distinct strains in the von Wolfram family—the light and dark.
She wound down to the end and finished with a flourish that left her breathless and smiling.
Applause from a couple of the others made her smile over at them, but then she met the count’s intent gaze.
“You are much better than I expected, Miss Stanwycke. It makes me wonder,” he said, folding the music, tossing it up on the piano, and turning toward her, “what other hidden talents you have.”
The intimate tone of his voice made her shiver, and she felt an unwilling trill of attraction down her spine as he straddled the bench; now the inside of his thighs cradled her in a most intimate position, pressed to her bottom and thigh. Well, so that was his game—he thought to seduce her. Perhaps all that had kept him as chaste as his great-aunt seemed to think he was, was a lack of appropriate targets for his lust. She stiffened as that thought crossed her mind, for she had no intention of becoming his mistress.
Once, another man had given her such looks and spoken to her in such a tone, and all it had left her with was heartache and shame. Seduced and promised marriage, the cold shock of being exposed and then abandoned by the man who had sworn he loved her still throbbed within her, raising her ire whenever she remembered her feelings of helplessness and humiliation as she was tossed from the household as a whore. Never would she allow herself to be in such a position again. She was not ashamed of her actions, but she was ashamed of her gullibility.
The count said, “Miss Stanwycke, I feel you have not been paying attention while I’ve been speaking.” He put his hand over hers where it rested on the piano keys and caressed it with his thumb. “I will forgive you if you will tell me what you were contemplating so seriously.”
“Nothing at all, Count.” She moved away from him and jerked her hand out from under his, making the piano keys jangle; some of the others glanced over, but there was nothing to see, as there was a foot or more between them now on the piano bench.
At her obvious dismissal, he stood and stalked off, crossing to stare into the fire, away from anyone else.
It was clear that he was mistaken, Nikolas thought, as he stared at the flames licking hungrily at a thick log. He had thought that in their friendly talk of late there had been a faint encouragement, a hint of womanly interest in her eyes and bearing. She had almost leaned into him as she finished the piano piece, and he had felt her warmth invade him, heating his loins with disturbing sensation. A little flirtation, he had thought, would hurt no one, and so, shielding her from the others with his own body, he had enjoyed the intimate sensation of her nearness. Though accustomed to quelling or dispelling his body’s mechanical cycle of sexual appetite—any healthy male was so afflicted—there was in his attraction to her more than a purely physical response. It was as though her very proximity breached his defenses and left him vulnerable to waves of sweet and fervent yearning he had thought long dead, defeated by the need to be a harsh and austere master. And yet by her abrupt manner of moving away from him, she had signaled her disinterest.