Authors: Donna Lea Simpson
She nodded sharply, happier at the returning color in her cheeks. Talking to herself occasionally had such a salutary effect, for she rarely heard so much sense as she heard from herself.
Men are brutes
. Elizabeth rinsed the cloth in the warm water and scrubbed her face, blotting her eyes, trying to rid them of the sleepiness and grime of a long, tedious day. That bitter refrain—
men are brutes
—was the philosophy of Elizabeth’s mother, passed on to the daughter, not believed at first but sadly confirmed by unfortunate experiences in the past year.
Men, her mother had told her, preferring scandal and gossip over bedtime stories as fit conversation for her daughter, had the upper hand in all of life and cared little for women.
They all went on their own way, she had said, taking what they wanted and discarding that which no longer suited them.
Elizabeth, as a child, had understood little of what her mother was talking about, but as she grew and saw the fights between her mother and father, the tears and tantrums, the anger and cold silence, she had begun to see. Though they claimed to be extravagantly fond of one another, still they tortured each other with petty quibbling and bitter acrimony. That was what marriage became, clearly, even when one began the lifelong bond as in love as her mother and father said they were. Later experience gave her little reason to think differently as she witnessed much the same in other homes after her parents’ death.
Elizabeth wrung out the cloth and laid it over the edge of the plain porcelain bowl, then she turned to the wardrobe and selected one of her favorite dresses, a pale blue gown of simple cut. Though not in the modern style, which was following the French pattern of higher waists, she had altered it so that it was flattering, if a little worn at the cuffs.
Perhaps it was good that life, for her, seemed destined to be lived as a spinster, she thought, as she slipped the gown on over her head, for she had no good opinion of a woman’s role in marriage. Spinsterhood would require overcoming a shamefully acute physical appreciation of masculine company, but she was stronger than her impulses, and those unfeminine sensations would dwindle with time and self-mastery. She had vowed to put her own good ahead of any urgings of her impulsive nature this time. She would not waste this opportunity to start fresh.
She buttoned her dress, made sure she was neat and tidy, and went to sit by the fire for a while, just to warm her feet and hands. The chair was comfortable and the blaze cheery; she stared into the flickering flames and felt her inner turmoil calm. This was good. This was what she would learn to trust in herself, this strength of character, this coolness, this resolution. No one would ever disturb her peace and convince her against her conscience again.
Just as she was beginning to get sleepy, a rap at the door startled her out of her drowsy state.
She rapidly rose, crossed the room, and opened the door.
A young girl, garbed in a simple but well-made gown that denoted her status as an upper servant, stood in the doorway. She curtseyed and said, “Dinner is about to be served, Miss Stanwycke. I am to escort you.”
Elizabeth was extremely hungry, she realized, retrieving her shawl and joining the girl in the hallway. This was a different maid from earlier, and she spoke perfect English, though it was oddly accented. Someone had thought to send this girl instead of the German-speaking one from earlier, and she blessed the kindness.
“Your English is very good,” she said, closing the door behind her. “What is your name?”
“Thank you, Miss Stanwycke,” she said with another graceful curtsey. She was a pale, plump girl, very pretty, but solemn. “My name is Fanny, miss. My father was English, valet of the previous Graf; because I speak English, Gräfin von Wolfram told me to escort you. I will attend you, also, in the future, and act as your maid when necessary.”
Elizabeth appreciated the gesture from the lady; it indicated a kindness not readily apparent in her bearing, but likely there beneath the surface. She followed Fanny, grateful for the guide, for the castle was daunting in its size. They moved to the stone staircase, descended two flights of stairs, during which she only had the fleeting impression of other halls branching off, and reached the huge great hall, where a cold draft fluttered the pennants. In Fanny’s wake Elizabeth drifted across the cold stone floor until they reached the overhanging gallery, beyond which she could dimly see the large gothic arched doorways, their heavily carved oak covered in a riot of symbols and shields.
Fanny then curtseyed and melted away, leaving Elizabeth to enter alone, past liveried footmen who held open the door for her. It was not the dining room she entered, though, but a large hall with two fireplaces, one on each side, each big enough to walk into if one was so inclined. But only one had a fire in it and she approached, for that was where the group of people was gathered.
Looking around nervously for someone she recognized, she saw Gräfin von Wolfram standing alone and moved toward her, welcoming the beckoning heat of the fire. “Thank you so much for sending Fanny to me, ma’am. I will make the attempt to learn German so I can communicate with the rest of the staff.” The woman inclined her head. Elizabeth glanced around. “Is Frau Liebner not coming down for dinner?”
“No, my aunt has taken a tray in her room. She is exhausted, I believe.”
“Miss Elizabeth Stanwycke,” Bartol Liebner cried, approaching with a smile. “How lovely you look, my dear. So beautiful… and how becoming that dress. The color is just the shade of your eyes, so pretty a sky blue, yes?”
Smiling, Elizabeth curtseyed and thanked him. It was reassuring to be welcomed so effusively.
“Enough, Bartol,” the Gräfin said sharply. She turned back to Elizabeth. “I was concerned earlier of whether I should take you immediately to see Charlotte, but I think we decided rightly to give you time. I know how tired you must have been when you arrived, and you will see Charlotte now. Come, I will introduce you.”
With an apologetic smile for Herr Liebner, Elizabeth followed her hostess to the tight knot by the hearth. The French count was there and he bowed and smiled and murmured a greeting to her as she passed. Adele singled out a lovely young woman, pale with blonde hair, who stood by an equally blond young man of startling beauty.
“Charlotte, this is Miss Elizabeth Stanwycke, come all the way from England this day to be your tutor.”
The girl, her face a pale oval and her lips plump and perfect above a cleft chin of molded perfection, curtseyed and opened her mouth to speak, but as she was murmuring a hello, she was interrupted.
“Adele, you should have introduced me first, as the eldest lady present,” a peevish, thin, nervous-looking woman said.
“I thought, Gerta, that since Charlotte is her student—”
“Never mind, I am accustomed to being last always,” the woman said.
“Miss Stanwycke,” Adele said, with restraint evident in her voice, “this is my sister, Gerta von Holtzen.” She gestured with her bony hand at a woman smaller man she and somewhat younger.
“Gräfin von Holtzen,” Elizabeth said, offering her hand and hoping she had addressed her correctly. “So pleased to make your acquaintance.”
The lady, as blonde as her older sister but not as distinguished looking, nodded, but seemed not a bit mollified. She ignored Elizabeth’s outstretched hand and turned away pettishly. She drifted to the French count’s side and took his arm, clinging to him possessively.
“And this is my nephew, Christoph von Wolfram, Charlotte’s brother.”
The young man merely bowed and said nothing. His beauty was almost ethereal, his skin pale, and his hair glittering golden in the firelight, but the luminous affect was spoiled by his peevish expression. A pulse throbbed in his neck, and his lips were pursed in an unattractive pout.
Elizabeth smiled, but he didn’t return the expression. “You will have to excuse me,” she said, taking in everyone with her gaze, “if in the next few days I address anyone wrong. Frau Liebner most kindly has told me much of German ways, so if I misstep in my address or manner it is my own misunderstanding only, and I would appreciate being corrected.”
“Nicely said, Miss Stanwycke,” the Gräfin said, her tone cool. “But on the morrow I will sit down with you and tell you anything you wish to know. We do not stand on ceremony when it is just this family group.”
“No, we don’t stand on ceremony,” the lord of the castle said as he strode toward the group from the doorway.
Among the gathered family and guests he seemed even larger, Elizabeth thought, watching as the others greeted him, each in their own way, and then parted before him. The French count, who, she noted, had shaken off Gräfin von Holtzen’s steely grasp and was standing apart from her, was as tall as he, but slender comparatively, and neither Christoph von Wolfram nor Bartol Liebner were as tall. Far from his disarray earlier, Graf von Wolfram was very correctly dressed in a gray sateen frock jacket, velvet knee breeches, and clocked stockings, but she could not forget how he appeared before, though she would try to erase that image from her mind. It was disturbing to her peace, for some unfathomable reason, the memory of that open-necked shirt and thatch of dark chest hair. Perhaps it was worse for her because unlike the pure and chaste young woman she must pretend to be, she had a too-vivid idea of what taut musculature filled the perfect jacket and formal knee breeches.
“Miss Stanwycke,” the Graf said as he approached. He bowed formally. Glancing around and gathering his family group within his gaze, he said, “I would like you all to make this young lady welcome here. It is a great sacrifice to leave your homeland, as she has done, and it behooves us to show her we appreciate that.” He directed his look especially at his nephew.
“And in her presence, please speak English, as I am sure you have been, all. To do otherwise would be discourteous. For those of you not comfortable in that language,” he continued, eyeing Herr Liebner, “it is an opportunity to practice.”
“Yes, nephew, for I have already said so, have I not?” The older man beamed a smile, glancing around.
Elizabeth, her gaze riveted on her employer, felt that she was missing something and glanced around, but most of those gathered had neutral expressions. Charlotte was quiet, and her gaze was directed to the floor. That seemed odd, for if Elizabeth was in her place she would be examining her new tutor, at least covertly. But for the rest of them, Graf von Wolfram’s arrival seemed to have revivified the gathering, that electricity Elizabeth had noticed earlier in his presence sparking the others to a livelier expression.
“Shall we dine?” he said, glancing around at his family and guests.
He turned and was moving toward her, but his eldest sister, Adele, grasped his sleeve and drew him away from the others for one moment, and Count Delacroix offered Elizabeth his arm in his courtly manner. She gladly accepted and they all strolled to the dining room, which proved to be a large hall adjoining; her escort murmured to her that this was the family dining room. There was another in the new wing— new only in that it was under three hundred years old—that was larger, an even more formal dining hall. Gerta von Holtzen directed the seating, which Elizabeth found odd considering this was supposed to be an informal family dinner according to the Graf, and she ended up last, on the left of the French count, quite a ways down the table from her new employer and across from her pupil. She didn’t mind, because it gave her the opportunity, partially obscured by shadow, to observe this group. She still felt awkward and drained, but she trusted in a night’s sleep to give her more confidence.
When Graf von Wolfram entered with his sister there were only two places left, with him at the head, of course, and his sister on his right. He paused, glanced down the table at Elizabeth, and seemed about to make some remark, but she smiled and spoke to her dining companion, Count Delacroix, and the Graf sat down.
Conversation was desultory at first, as appetites were sated. Elizabeth feared that the Graf’s injunction that they all speak only English in her company had stilted things badly, though most seemed to have an excellent grasp of the language. Some, as time went on, slipped back into their native tongue as they conversed with each other.
The Frenchman, though, offering her wine and taking some with her, said, after sipping, “I admire your bravery, mademoiselle, in crossing the continent so, surely a feat for a gently born English lady?”
They chatted about her trip for a few minutes as they ate, he questioning her closely about the situation of the French armies and their attitudes, gathered as the forces were in the southern and western portion of Germany. The count’s soothing voice was perfectly suited to putting her at ease, and she was grateful to Gerta von Holtzen for her firmness in seating people.
Though the food was delicious and served on the most exquisite of china, and even as hungry as she was, weariness blunted her appetite. She ached all over, but she did her best to stiffen her back and appear engaged and calm. This family’s first notion of her was vitally important, especially so with the absence of her champion, Frau Liebner. It was up to her to fit in seamlessly and make a good impression. She took small bites and chewed thoroughly, leaving much untouched as the footmen removed plates. It was unlike her to eat so little and strange considering her hunger, but she was sure she would make up for it the next day once sleep had revived her.
“Have you formed any opinion of your student yet?” the count said, as a footman placed before him a plate of fish and another refilled their wineglasses.
“Not at all, sir. I will leave my mind open and make her acquaintance on the morrow, I’m sure.”
“She is a lovely young lady, but very shy, I fear. And depressed of spirits.”
“It may just be that she is not sure how we will deal together.”
“I would say shyness is her natural manner. I have long known the family. Was this your type of position before, Miss Stanwycke?”
“I was… more of a governess,” she replied, measuring her words carefully as she picked up her silver fish fork. “The girls were younger. But if you are asking about my tutoring the young lady in manners, my mother was a lady-in-waiting to Her Majesty, Queen Charlotte, for a time, and so I am well acquainted with court ways. My mother spoke of it often.”