Hero crumpled the letter and let it drop from her nerveless fingers. She began to shake, her face now the color of whey. "Oh, God!" she cried and dropped to her knees on the entry-hall carpet, huddling over the paper as she began silently to weep.
Ragoczy, who had been seeing to the unloading of the two coaches, saw her fall and broke off his effort with a quick signal to Rogier. "What is it?" he asked as he went to her and went down on one knee beside her, his back to the open door to shield her from curious eyes. "Hero?"
"She's dead," Hero muttered, and thrust the letter into his hand. She did not sob but tears shone on her face.
"Who is dead?' he asked as he smoothed the sheet and began to read.
Hero shuddered heavily as she tried to speak, but failed.
Ragoczy perused the Graf's note, appalled at the lack of sympathy extended to the child's mother. "What a terrible loss for you," he said as he reached the end of it and reached to set it on a decorative urn near the stairs. "I know it's inadequate, but I am very sorry."
"Annamaria. Annamaria. Annamaria," she said as if repeating a prayer. "I should have gone to her. I should have insisted that the Graf let me see my children." She hugged herself and began to rock back and forth, still bent over her knees on the carpet.
"You had no way of knowing," said Ragoczy, aware this was useless and that Hero was in the thrall of her grief. He motioned to Rogier to keep away.
"I should have known. I'm her ... I was her mother." Suddenly she let out a howl of anguish and fury that made the chateau ring. "God, God, God, what am I going to do? She's buried already. For weeks! I can't mourn her with her brothers." All the warmth had gone out of the bright afternoon; for Hero, everything had suddenly sunk into shadow, and that now held her as if in an invisible shroud. "If we'd pressed through yesterday, I would have learned of it sooner," she said dully.
"And been no more able then to change what has happened than you are now," said Ragoczy with such kindness that she was able to lash out at him. "Had you been here, you still could not have reached Scharffensee in time to-"
"Little you know about it! You, with your centuries and centuries! She didn't have even a decade. She was about to turn nine." She put her hands to her face and finally the sobs came. "Not yet nine!"
"Nine is very young," Ragoczy agreed, unable to think of anything more to say.
"She hadn't any chance. All she did was learn French." Her sobs deepened. "It is wrong!"
Ragoczy laid his hand on her back to steady her as her rocking increased. "Hero."
"Life is cruel!"
"Life is indifferent," said Ragoczy as consolingly as he could. "It is we who are cruel. Or kind."
Suddenly she rose up and lunged at him, but whether to attack him or fall into the haven of his arms, she herself could not tell. "You don't know anything about it! Nothing! It doesn't touch you. It touches me. Annamaria was mine!"
He held her close to him, letting her struggle against him, but supporting her. "You love her and will always miss her. Grieve for her, Hero."
"You are ... you!" She shoved at him and almost pushed herself over. Reaching for the letter, she bundled it into her hand and glared at him. "She's gone. I have lost her."
Without moving, he said, "Sorrow is always private."
She wiped her face with the ends of her shawl. "And so it will be with me." She wobbled to her feet. "You will never be able to suffer as I do."
"No, I cannot; I have never had a child," he said. "But I know what it is to grieve." He took a step toward her; she motioned him away as if in panic. "What will you let me do for you, Hero?"
"I? Nothing. Nothing." She turned and ran for the stairs.
Ragoczy stood still, overwhelmed by the immensity of her sorrow, until he heard her door slam, and then, as if shocked to action, he climbed the stairs and knocked on her door. "Do you want-"
"Go away!" she ordered.
He hesitated, not willing to leave her in such agony. "You need not endure this alone, Hero."
"And why not?" she challenged, her voice thick with emotion. "We all bear our pain alone, don't we?"
"Not wholly alone," he said, thinking of T'en Chih-Yu, of Tulsi Kil, of Heugenet, of Xenya, of Orazia, of Acana Tupac, of Leocadia, of Demetrice, of Ignatia, then, most unhappily, of Csimenae. Each memory was a reproof to him, but he added, "You need not bear all your loss alone."
She took a long time to answer. "She missed her father so much. At least they may be together now." Again she was quiet. Then, "Go away, Comte. Go away."
He heard the clock in the parlor chime three, and he felt the day slip from him. Many memories crowded in, reminding him of times he had acted to ameliorate a friend's distress and times he had not; neither response had actually succeeded in alleviating the friend's misery. He chose not to intrude. "If you want me, for anything, you have only to ask. I will do whatever I can for you."
"Will you offer to restore her to life?" The accusation cut, as she intended. "You restored Rogier to life, so you say."
"No. That is beyond my skills," he said quietly.
"Then go away while I choose my mourning clothes."
"I'll return in an hour to learn how you are faring." He was about to turn away when her voice stopped him once more.
"And what will you do in the meantime?" she demanded, her voice rising. "Will you do your best to put this behind you? You have put so much behind you already."
"I will spend the time composing a letter to your father-in-law, urging him to permit you to visit as soon as possible, for the sake of your sons, and to do honor to your daughter," he said, and went away from the door before she said anything that might lessen his determination.
At the foot of the stairs, he found Rogier waiting for him. "I have told the staff, my master. Do you want the house draped in black?"
Ragoczy gave a little nod. "I am not a relative; full-mourning would be presumptuous. Half-mourning will serve. And a yew-wreath with gray bands on the door." He started toward his study, then stopped. "Will you have Gutesohnes come to me as soon as he has washed? I fear he must carry a message for me, leaving at first light tomorrow."
Rogier's ascetic features softened. "You are sending him to von Scharffensee, aren't you? You're going to intercede."
He answered in Russian. "That I am. Let us hope I prevail upon him to relent in his efforts to keep her from her sons."
In the same tongue, Rogier said, "It would seem his obduracy is fixed on keeping them apart."
"I believe that is true," said Ragoczy. "But circumstances are different now, and I must apply to him, for her sake, if not for her sons'."
"Do you think you will emerge with what you seek?" Rogier asked. "For her sake, I hope you will. At present, she will not deal with any disappointment well."
"I am going to cogitate on the problem," said Ragoczy in the Swiss version of French. "Do send Gutesohnes to me when-"
"-he has washed," Rogier finished for him. "That I will. He should not be long."
"Already in the bath-house?" Ragoczy surmised.
"In the largest tub."
"Then I will expect him directly."
"And Madame? Will you tell her what you've done?" There was a note of dubiety in his question.
"In an hour, I will see if she is willing to speak with me, and I will decide then what to say. She knows of my intentions." He looked at the fan-light over the door. "It was such a lovely day when we left Saint-Gingolph."
"The day is still lovely," said Rogier sadly.
"That it is," said Ragoczy, and entered his study. He stood just inside the door, thinking, unmoving. Then he walked to his secretaire keyhole desk, pulled down the writing-board, and drew up his chair, but once more, he faltered, lost in thought. When he finally sat down he had an idea that he thought might work. Taking a sheet of heavy, cream-laid paper out of its drawer, he selected a pen, fitted it with a trimmed quill, pulled out the inkwell, and began to write the first of two letters, choosing his words with great care for both. He had just completed sealing the second letter with wax and his sigil when Gutesohnes knocked on the door.
"Comte? You wanted to see me?"
"Yes, I do. Come in," he said, swinging his chair around to face his coachman, whose shock of dark hair was still damp from his bath. "I'm sure you know what has happened."
"Madame von Scharffensee's daughter? Yes. A great pity."
"I am asking the Graf if we might be permitted to visit. And I am sending a note to von Ravensberg to ask if we would be welcome at his Schloss." Seeing the surprise in Gutesohnes' face, he went on very smoothly, "If I have another reason to come into Austria, it will be more difficult for von Scharffensee to refuse my request on Madame von Scharffensee's behalf."
"The Graf is an ambitious man," said Gutesohnes. "Von Ravensberg, I mean."
"You are right in that: he is. I am counting on it to ensure our welcome. Their homes are roughly twenty leagues apart. You should be able to stop at Scharffensee, go on to Ravensberg, then return to Scharffensee and bring back the Graf's answer. Von Ravensberg will no doubt consent. It is von Scharffensee who may balk."
"Will he let me deliver your message? He could refuse to see me, couldn't he?" Gutesohnes asked.
"We must hope that he will accept the letter," said Ragoczy, the line of his mouth grim. He could see that Gutesohnes wanted to ask another question, and so told him, "Go ahead: what is on your mind?"
Gutesohnes coughed uncomfortably. "It's just that ... Von Ravensberg's ward-Hyacinthie?-she was very flirtatious in Amsterdam. It may be awkward to see her again. That might turn von Ravensberg against my errand."
"That young woman flirts with everyone," said Ragoczy. "I doubt you have anything to fear from her, or from von Ravensberg on her account."
"I don't want to be accused of attempting to compromise a nobleman's ward," Gutesohnes persisted.
"I doubt that will happen. Her behavior must be known. Her guardian is surely aware that she is entertaining herself, and will put no store in it." Ragoczy realized that Gutesohnes was truly worried. "You may readily avoid her, if you feel it prudent. Keep to the servants' quarters and let the steward carry letters for you."
Gutesohnes was visibly relieved. "Very good. Very good." He gave a forced chuckle. "Rogier told me that I am to leave tomorrow at first light, but surely you mean the day after?"
"No," said Ragoczy cordially. "Rogier informed you rightly. You depart at dawn tomorrow."
"But-"
"You will have the opportunity to sup early and retire ahead of the household. If you are worried you will not sleep, I will provide you a draught for that. If you have trouble rising, I will have another draught to help you waken."
"Yes, Comte," said Gutesohnes.
"It is urgent for Madame von Scharffensee to visit her sons. That requires we make ready promptly, and have her traveling again as soon as may be." He reached into the corner where a tall wooden stand was filled with rolled maps. "So let us plan your route now." He rose and went to the bow-fronted sideboard where he unrolled the map and held it that way with two beautiful paper-weights of cobalt Venetian glass. Using an ivory letter-opener, Ragoczy pointed out the route he had in mind. "Remount at Saint-Gingolph: the stabler has my horses available. Turn south along the river. You should be able to make Martigny by nightfall; it is a hard ride but not impossible." He had made it himself, many, many years ago, under far worse conditions. "Go to Le Perroquet; Angelo will take care of you there. Continue east along the river to Brig. The road is harder and steeper from there, so spend the third night at Oberwald. Another two days should bring you to Chur, unless the weather worsens."
"Two or three days," said Gutesohnes. "The road is a hard one and travel can be very slow on it."
Ragoczy moved his finger along the map. "Ravensberg is near Salzburg, as you can see." He pointed to the place. "And Scharffensee is-" He put the tip of his letter-opener on the place.
"In that case, Comte, I think I had best turn south at Reichenau and not go as far as Chur. I will enter Tirol from Silvaplana and Vinadi. I can travel faster; there is less traffic on that road, and I can take a day off my travels, and ensure I find inns that do not charge a fortune to sleep four to a bed."
"Then, shall we say eight days to Scharffensee?" Ragoczy suggested. "A night there and then two days to Ravensberg?"
"Ten days. That will keep me from exhausting the horses. If the roads were better-or safer-I would try for a shorter journey, but ..." He turned over his hands to show he was helpless to remedy the problems.
"But." Ragoczy tapped Scharffensee again. "Shall I say two weeks? If you can accomplish your work sooner, that will be excellent, but two weeks should suffice to complete your mission. If you can accomplish the journey in less time, you will be rewarded for your efforts." He removed the paper-weights and began to roll the map once more. "Do you need this?"
"No; I have some from my previous employment. I used to spend my evenings memorizing distances." He frowned. "If the roads were in better repair, I could travel faster. But I don't want to risk the horse, not in those mountains."
"Certainly not." Ragoczy returned the rolled map to the stand in the corner, then picked up the two letters from his secretaire desk. "I would appreciate it if you would report to me on the state of the roads. If there is any part of the road where it would be dangerous for a coach, I will want to know about it."
"That I will," said Gutesohnes, taking the letters and slipping them inside his leather waistcoat. "I have a pocket for letters," he said.
"An excellent notion. Your travel-sack and your waistcoat only."
"A wallet for food and money-although I carry most money in my shoes." He patted the top of his boot.
Ragoczy laughed. "Many of us carry valuable things in our shoes." In his case, his soles were lined with his native earth that allowed him to walk about in daylight and to cross running water without agony. "See that Uchtred provides you with food and water for your first day. I will give you money for your expenses, tomorrow morning."
"When I leave at dawn," said Gutesohnes, sounding worn out.
"Which it is why you must sleep well tonight. You've had a hard few days, and you need to take care." Ragoczy started toward the study door. "Remember my offer-I do have tinctures that will help you sleep, and ones that will help you waken. You have only to ask."
"Did Hochvall take any of your preparations?" Gutesohnes asked suspiciously.
"Yes. In fact, he still does. It helps him to strengthen his leg as the bone knits."
"I saw him in the stable. He's looking better, but he's still using a crutch to get around. A coachman can't use a crutch."
"He will do so for at least a month more, I would reckon," said Ragoczy, who had not seen him since their return. "I will determine his progress later today, after you are ready for your mission."
Realizing he had over-stepped, Gutesohnes said at his most conciliatory, "I probably should have something to help me sleep. If you have a preparation that eases aching muscles, that would be useful as well."
"I have an ointment," said Ragoczy. "You shall have it after you eat."
Gutesohnes ducked his head. "Thank you, Comte."
"Given the task I have assigned you, it is the least I can do," said Ragoczy, holding the door for Gutesohnes.
Astonished at this unexpected courtesy, Gutesohnes almost bowed himself out of the room. He closed the door carefully, then hurried away down the corridor leading to the rear of the house, where he came upon Balduin and Uchtred; he informed them of his early departure.
"I have a duck on a spit even now," Uchtred told Gutesohnes. "It will be ready in a little over an hour. Turnips with butter and onions, new bread, butter, and cheese. I will rise early to make your food for the road."
"Half the chateau will rise to see me off, in fact?" Gutesohnes suggested sarcastically, but unable to conceal his satisfaction at the thought.
"Possibly," said Balduin, and went to pour each of them a large glass of beer from the pitcher of it taken from the barrel that Farold, the local brewer, had just delivered. "We will all wish you a safe and swift mission."
"Amen," said Uchtred.
While the three men were sitting down on kitchen stools to enjoy their drink, Ragoczy left his study and climbed the stairs. He made his way to Hero's door, knocked on it, and said, "Hero, are you all right?" Then he waited for an answer. When none was forthcoming, he said, a bit more loudly, "I am dispatching a letter to your father-in-law, proposing that I bring you to Scharffensee so that you and your sons may condole together. It will be on its way tomorrow morning."
There was a sound from inside the room, not quite a word, but it encouraged him.
"Gutesohnes is going to carry my request to the Graf." Again he waited, and again he heard something beyond the door. "He will probably be gone two weeks, but as soon as we have an answer, I will prepare to take you to them."
"Do you think he will permit the visit?" The question was not loud but there was great bitterness in her question. "Thank you for trying,"
"I cannot promise he will extend an invitation to you, but he is not likely to say no when it is I who will bear the responsibility of getting you to Scharffensee." He was about to go on when she interrupted.
"Of course. You are a titled gentleman of fortune," she said bitterly, "not a widow of limited means."
"If that will suffice to get you to your sons, then so be it," Ragoczy said.
There was a sharp intake of breath, and then the latch moved and the door opened. Hero, pale and shaken, stood blocking the way. "Whether you succeed or not, I do thank you for trying." She had a damp linen handkerchief in her hand and she pressed this to her eyes. "Please."
"What is it?" Ragoczy asked gently.
"I need time to myself." She said it in a rush, as if she expected to be chastised.
"As long as you like," he said, hearing the slight trembling in her voice.
"But perhaps tonight, you would come to me?"
He looked at her in some surprise. "If that is what you wish, I would be honored."
"Not to do anything," she went on. "Just so I will not sleep alone."
"That is doing something," he said, his dark eyes fixed on hers. "I would be honored," he repeated.
She held out her hand to him, her fingers cold; her nails had all been bitten and the edge of one was bleeding. "I don't deserve your kindness, Comte."
"Hero." He touched her cheek, so lightly that she barely felt the caress; there was a world of sympathy in her name.
"But extend yourself a bit more: have Wendela bring me a glass of wine and a bowl of broth in an hour," she said hurriedly, then stepped back and closed the door.
Ragoczy stood still, waiting in case she should open the door again, then, when he heard the clock strike four, he went back down to the ground floor, his attractive, irregular features set in lines of concern. He returned to his study and lit the oil-lamp on the lowboy, dispelling the first gloom of the coming evening. After pacing the room slowly, he sat down at his secretaire-desk, where he sat staring blankly at the windows.
"My master?" Rogier ventured from the door.
Ragoczy looked up as if startled. "What is it, old friend?"
"Hochvall is here." He coughed diplomatically. "I can arrange for him to return, if you would prefer?"
It took several seconds for Ragoczy to answer, but when he did, he rose from his chair. "No. There is no reason to do that." He started toward the door, paused to turn down the lamp, then went to Rogier. "Where is he?"
"In the servants' parlor. He has lost flesh while we were away." Rogier held the door for Ragoczy and closed it behind them.
"How is his demeanor?"
"Uncertain. I suspect he has found his recuperation difficult." Rogier opened the door that led into the servants' wing of the chateau. Located to the west of the kitchen, its lower floor had the parlor and dining room of the household servants, with two floors of bedrooms above, one for men and one for women. The parlor, with west-facing windows, was bright still, although the shadows of the mountains were spreading toward them. An oil-lamp had been lit and placed on the small chest on the far side of the room.
Ulf Hochvall was seated in one of the upholstered chairs, his crutch lying beside it. As Ragoczy came into the room, he struggled to his feet, hopping to keep his balance. "Comte."
"How do I see you, Hochvall? Are you improved? Is your leg healing?" Ragoczy studied him as he spoke: Rogier was right. The man had lost flesh, and his skin looked dry and slack.
"I am better but I am not yet strong," said Hochvall. "I have had a fever. Levien came from Yvoire to bleed me four times."
Ragoczy sighed, thinking of the many arguments he had had with Levien's physician on the subject of bleeding. "That may not have been entirely wise. Bleeding can sometimes increase a fever."
"It relieved mine," said Hochvall.
"Then you are one of the fortunate," said Ragoczy. "Your leg-how does it hold up?"
"It pains me if I use it much," Hochvall said with a motion of defiance.
"Not surprising, given the severity of the break." He stepped back. "Come toward me. Without the crutch." This last instruction made Hochvall stare. "Lean it against the chair and try taking a few steps toward me."
Reluctantly Hochvall did as he was told, making sure the crutch would not fall before he turned toward Ragoczy. "I do not walk very well," he said before he took his first few steps.
Ragoczy could see that the injured leg was twisted inward, and he frowned. "Did anyone rewrap your leg after I set it?"
Hochvall halted. "Yes," he admitted. "I know you said not to, but it was itching so ferociously that my woman insisted I scratch it. That was shortly after you departed. She and my son worked to rewrap it correctly."
"I am sure they did," said Ragoczy. "But they did not-" He stopped, knowing it was useless to say anything more.
"They did their best not to hurt me," said Hochvall in their defense.
"I am certain of that. But in not hurting you, they have harmed you," said Ragoczy with great patience. "When a bone is just starting to knit, it can easily be unseated from its alignment, which is what has happened here." He went and picked up Hochvall's crutch and handed it to him. "If you will practice walking without it, you will be stronger and will improve, but, I fear you will always limp." Ordinarily he would have tried to soften that blow, but with other demands weighing on him, he could not summon up the words.
"Limp?" Hochvall repeated, unbelieving. "But can I drive a coach with a limp?"
"I do not know yet," said Ragoczy. "In time you may recover enough to manage it," he said, all the while trying to decide which of the various tasks that needed doing could be assigned to Hochvall.
"I'm a coachman," Hochvall insisted, his eyes growing wet.
"I know Yvoire needs a good drayer," Ragoczy suggested. "If you start there, you can build yourself up again, regain your strength. I am willing to help you establish yourself."
"A drayer? Wagons and carts!" he exclaimed scornfully. "I am a coachman! A coachman!" He flung his crutch down, slewed around, took a half-step, stumbled, and fell.
As Ragoczy went to help Hochvall to his feet, he wondered how many other things would be broken that day.
Text of a letter from Reinhart Olivier Kreuzbach, attorney-at-law and factor, at Speicher near the Kyll River, Rhenish Prussia, to Saint-Germain Ragoczy, Comte Franciscus at Chateau Ragoczy near Lake Geneva, Yvoire, Switzerland; carried by postal courier.
To the Honorable Comte Franciscus, Saint-Germain Ragoczy, my most cordial greeting on this, the 27thday of September, 1817,
Regarding the progress of restoration of your castle above Zemmer since you stopped to inspect it on your way to Amsterdam, there has been much activity. Most of the kitchen is now in good repair, and the storage cellars are once again clean, drained, and sound. For foodstuffs, wine, clothing, furniture, and other such items, the cellars will now provide reliable protection through the winter. There will be windows installed on the ground floor in the Great Hall, the withdrawing room, the morning parlor, and the sitting room, which should then be capable of coming through the winter relatively unscathed. The dining room and servants' quarters may also be finished shortly, if the rains hold off for another month.
I have taken your advice and retained Pasch Gruenerwald as supervisor of the rebuilding. He has chosen most of the workmen, hired a cook for them, and allocated places for their occupancy in the castle so that their own comfort is contingent upon their proper performance of the work they are paid to do. He reports that most of the men are more than willing, good-paying work being so hard to find, although he has had to dismiss two workers for pilfering goods and supplies. Most have been satisfactory.
The amount you have deposited to cover the expenses through the coming winter are more than adequate. I have assured the men that they need not fear they will not be paid the full amount agreed upon. The joiners and carpenters will arrive in the spring to continue the finishing of the interior. Your wishes are clearly expressed in the instructions you provided and I will keep current on the progress being made, so that you will not be disappointed at the standards upheld by these craftsmen.
I am still puzzled by your intention not to occupy the castle yourself, but to have Madame von Scharffensee and her children as your tenants. Surely that is a most extravagant gesture. Do you realize what an expense it will be to maintain the castle and staff suitably for them. I am aware that your fortune is vast and that you have sufficient wherewithal to provide for Madame and her family, and that you are not constrained by religion or politics from putting your funds to this use. You say the castle is a small one, and I concur, but I also know that it is much more than most widows with children can hope for. Still, your business is your own, yet I would be failing in my fiduciary responsibilities not to bring this to your attention. Having done so, I will
Commend myself to your good service,
Reinhart Olivier Kreuzbach
Attorney-at-law and factor
Speicher, Rhenish Prussia