The Dead Travel Fast

Cosmina stepped close and looked from the silhouette to my face. “You have grown into yourself,” she said kindly, and I followed her when she gestured towards a pair of comfortable chairs. One was a small thing, upholstered in blue and silver to match the hangings, but the other was covered in a violently clashing shade of green, a discordant note in the harmony of the room.

Cosmina gave me a shy smile. “I had only a single chair here, but when I learned you were coming I asked Florian to find me another chair so that we might sit together in privacy.”

I was oddly touched by this. My life, as reclusive and quiet as it was, must be a whirlwind compared to the hermetic existence Cosmina lived. The castle with its ruined grandeur and magnificent setting offered less diversion than the small house in Picardy Place, I reflected, and I was suddenly glad I had come. In whom could she confide her truest feelings? Certainly not the countess, for if Cosmina had only meant to carry out the betrothal to please her aunt, the countess could not like any criticism of her beloved son.

I glanced above the mantel and saw a cluster of silhouettes—castle folk, for there were images of the countess and Frau Amsel and Florian, and I saw the servants there as well, Tereza and the pretty Aurelia. A little distance apart, aloof from them all, the count, rendered in black and white and no less arresting than the man himself. I longed to study the silhouette, but I could not permit myself the indulgence, not with Cosmina sitting so near. I tore my eyes from the image and fixed them upon my friend.

“If you do not wish to speak of it, I will honour your wishes,” I began.

She shook her head. “It is not that. I know I can confide in you. But I am so long out of the habit of revealing myself. I think I have only ever really been myself when I was with you at school. There I was Cosmina, nothing more. Here I am poor relation and nursemaid.”

There was a note of bitterness in her voice and she looked abashed. “Oh, do not think me ungrateful. I know what would have become of me without the countess’s kindness. I would have ended in an orphanage and then put out to service. There was no one in the world to care for me but her, and she has been so good to me. She always wanted me for a wife to Andrei, and I thought I must do this thing to repay her for her kindnesses to me, her generosity. I would do anything to settle a score, do you understand?” Her eyes were feverish with intensity and I hurried to assure her. I knew what it meant to be understood, to have a friend and companion to see one’s truest self. I had had that with Anna and Cosmina, but none other.

“Of course. It must rest heavily upon your conscience that she has had the rearing of you. You wish to give to her in return the one thing she asked of you.”

“That is it precisely,” she said in some relief. “How glad I am you have come! It is bliss to be understood. Yes, I wanted to marry Andrei to make her happy. She and my mother are Dragulescus by birth, did you know that? They were of a lesser branch of the family tree, from a younger son who went to Vienna to make his fortune. They had money, but no title, and it burned within them to return to these mountains, to their home. When the countess had a chance to marry Count Bogdan and restore her family’s heritage, she did so, even though she did not love him. I had heard the story so many times, I knew what she expected of me. I was to marry Andrei even if I did not love him. It would be the final link in the chain to reconnect the two branches of the family, and I was prepared to play my part. I studied hard to become accomplished. I learned languages and I learned to dance, to paint, to sing. And all the while I thought I am doing this for him. And it terrified me. I lay awake at night, wondering how I might be delivered, praying for God to show me a way to live here without that sacrifice.” She gave a little laugh. “It never occurred to me that Andrei himself might serve up my deliverance.”

“When did you discover his feelings?”

“When he returned home, shortly before your arrival. The countess expected he would come after his father’s death for there was much to be settled with the estate. She hoped he would choose to make his home here. She loves him so and they have seen each other so little since Count Bogdan became the lord and master. He seldom permitted the countess to travel to Paris to visit Andrei, and Andrei refused to come here after his grandfather’s death. It grieved the countess, and she has been so unwell. I had hoped Andrei would remain here for her sake, but it is not to be. He announced almost as soon as he arrived that he meant only to stay for a month or two and then return to Paris. He will take the countess if she wishes to go, but I think she will not leave her mountain. She has lost the habit of city life and would mourn this place.”

“And you?” I prodded gently.

She drew in a deep breath, but she shed no fresh tears. The loss was not a painful one. “They spoke of it in the library one day. They did not realise I was in the gallery above, but I heard them. She demanded an answer as to his intentions, and he spoke plainly. He told her he would never marry me, that he thought of me as a sister, and could never think otherwise. She argued with him, but he would not be moved. He made himself perfectly clear, and there is no hope that he will be changed. And when they left the room, I sat down upon the floor and wept.”

“From relief, you said,” I put in, thinking of her startling revelation on the forest path.

“I have never wanted to marry, Theodora. I am not romantic, nor do I wish for children. I want only peace and quiet, my books and my music and this place. If I were religious, I should have made a good nun, I think,” she added with a small smile. “I am not like you. You have always thirsted for adventure, for independence and exoticism, but I am cut of less sturdy cloth. I am a wren, and I have made my nest here, and I am content to be alone. Perhaps I might be persuaded otherwise for a different man, but not for Andrei. I can think of no man less suited to securing my happiness.”

I chose my next words carefully. “Is there some flaw in him that makes him unsuitable?”

“I loved him once,” she said simply. “I loved him when I came here, as an unwanted child will love anyone who is kindly, for Andrei was kind in those days. I saw him seldom. He was often far from home, but when I did see him, he was all I could admire. He taught me to ride and to shoot an arrow true enough to spear a rabbit and he gave me adventure stories to read. But then he would leave again and I was forgot, cast aside as he would put off his country tweeds or his Roumanian tongue. I was nothing to him but a pretty nuisance,” she added with a rueful smile. “But as I grew older, I realised he was not as I imagined. I had thought him noble and virtuous, in spite of his neglect of me. It was only years later that I began to hear snippets of his life abroad, the seductions and scandals. I saw the countess break her heart over him a hundred times when news would come from abroad. There were duels and gambling debts and unsavoury associations. He has formed attachments to the lowest sort of people, permitted friendships with the scandalous and the insincere.” She leaned closer, pitching her voice low, even though we were quite alone. “It was even said that he was cast from the court at Fontainebleau by the emperor himself for attempting to seduce the Empress Eugenie. He indulges in wickedness the like of which you and I cannot imagine. He dabbles in the dark arts and illicit acts. He is insincere and untrustworthy, the weakest vessel in which to sail one’s hopes. He would dash them upon the rocks for his own amusement and call it fair. He is cruel and twisted and there is no good yet in him, save that he loves his mother and treats her with kindness. Be not mistaken, my dear, he is a monster. And would any woman not rejoice to be delivered from such hands?”

I remained silent during this litany of his evils, thinking back to his peculiar treatment of me since my arrival, his familiarity, his forwardness. It was not the attitude of a gentleman to a guest in his home, and viewed in the light of Cosmina’s revelations, it sickened me that I had been so easily moved by his sophisticated little stratagems.

At length I was aware of Cosmina, watching me and waiting for me to make her a reply. “You are well and truly delivered,” I told her. “And I am glad of it for your sake. One hopes he will discharge his duties by his people as their count. And when he is gone to Paris again, we will have many a quiet night to enjoy the peace of his departure.”

The pretty face was wreathed in smiles. “Do you promise? You will stay, even though I am not to be married? I had not hoped my company enough would be sufficient to keep you.”

“Of course I will stay,” I promised. “I am quite charmed by the castle and the village, and I mean to write my novel.”

“You will have all the peace and solitude you could want,” she vowed. “I will leave you to your work, and when you wish society, you have only to find me and I will be your amusement.”

We concluded the visit by making plans for the rest of the autumn and into the winter when the snows would blanket the mountains.

“Who knows? Perhaps the snows will be too thick and we will keep you here until spring,” she added mischievously.

“Perhaps, although I think my sister might well come and take me back to England with her should I stay gone for so long.” I brandished the letter I had written. “I have been here a day and already I must write her to say I am arrived.”

Cosmina put out a hand. “I will see it is delivered for you. We may not have many of the modern comforts here, but we do have the post,” she told me with a little giggle. I wondered then how long it had been since she had truly laughed, and I was suddenly glad I had come.

She sobered. “And do not worry about Andrei. He behaves badly, but I promise you, I will not permit him to harm you, my friend.”

She looked stalwart as any soldier, and I smiled to think of her, fierce in my defense should I have need of her.

“You need have no worry on my account, Cosmina. I rather like to catch people behaving badly. It gives me something to laugh at and fodder for my stories.”

She slanted me a curious look. “Then there will be much here in Transylvania to inspire you.”

5 (#ulink_25dedea2-657a-51ee-8644-8049fdaff305)

The evening meal was a more formal affair than I would have expected given the quiet and isolation of the castle. But I dressed with care in my one evening gown of deepest black, a slender ribbon of black velvet at my throat as my only adornment. I arranged my hair in the customary heavy coils at the nape of my neck, and as I did so, I thought again of the count reaching past me in the library, his warm breath skimming over the skin of my neck, his hands sliding over mine in the warm waters of the washbasin.

“Do not think of it,” I warned myself severely in the looking glass. “It cannot be.” Whatever my inclination towards the count, Cosmina’s confidences had persuaded me he was not to be trusted, and I freshened my resolve to think upon him only as my host, as an inspiration for my work and nothing more.

The others, including the count, were assembled in the great hall when I arrived. I was pleased to see the countess among them, for her health must be improved if she could rise to dine with us. She was dressed in a beautiful gown of deep green velvet, a little old-fashioned in its style but still magnificent. Perhaps the colour did not suit her, for I thought she looked very pale, and when she rose from her chair she gave a little cough, then mastered herself to greet me.

“Good evening, Miss Lestrange. I hope you will forgive my absence today. I was unwell, but I am better now. Our cook has prepared her very best dish in your honour.” I returned her greeting and nodded to the others in turn. She instructed Florian to lead me in to dinner. She took the count’s arm herself, and Cosmina and Frau Amsel were left to shift for themselves.

“I shall have to acquire more gentlemen,” the countess said lightly as we were seated. “Or the pair of you will have to keep a lady upon each arm, like Eastern potentates.”

The count made some rejoinder in a low voice, but Florian said nothing. His expression was unaltered, and I was struck again by the aura of sadness that surrounded him. His mother seemed unaware of it, or perhaps merely reconciled, for she seated herself with a mien of pleasurable expectation as a dog will when it smells a bone. Whatever disappointments Frau Amsel had suffered in her life, she seemed to have consoled herself with food.

I glanced about the room, recalling the count’s remarks from the morning’s tour of the castle. I noted afresh its splendour, for it was the most luxurious and lavish room he had shown me. The walls were panelled in gilded wood and hung with enormous oil paintings in heavy gilt frames. The table itself was inlaid in an intricate pattern of birds and flowers with no cloth to hide its beauty. The chairs were of a medieval style, with lion’s paws for feet and great high backs upholstered in scarlet velvet. A series of sideboards ranged along the walls, each more elaborately carved than the next with hunting scenes, and heavily laden with pewter and silver marked with the Dragulescu crest. Even the carving set was large in scale and impressive in both design and execution. It depicted a stag chased by wolves, a masterpiece of the silversmith’s art. The lines of it were blurred by use, and it had clearly taken pride of place in the dining hall for many generations.

In all, it was a grand and impressive room, and for a little while it was possible to forget the decay elsewhere in the castle. The candlelit gloom concealed the tarnish and moth I had detected by daylight, and the fire burning in the tremendous hearth and the great dog lounging beside it lent an air of medieval grandeur.

The food itself was excellent, rather heavy and Germanic in flavour, but wonderfully prepared. The conversation proved less palatable. Frau Amsel did not speak, preferring instead to apply herself to the array of dishes set before us, tasting each with a resounding smack of the lips. The count seemed distracted and spoke little, and even then only to a direct question put to him by his mother. Perhaps there was an unspoken rule of etiquette, for I saw that the others did not address him, and as he did not notice them, they took no liberty to engage him. Cosmina darted a glance or two at him, her expression watchful, but when he did not speak, she seemed to give a little sigh and relax. I observed him looking at me curiously once or twice, but apart from that he seemed sunk deep in his own 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.”