Iron Butterflies (3 page)

Now I found myself resenting that impression. I would have liked very much to have made plain to him that this visit to Hesse-Dohna meant only one thing to me and I wanted nothing from it except the word of a reputedly dying man—that my grandmother be given at last the honorable position in the sight of the world she had always deserved.

As he turned away abruptly the Grafin pursed her lips in a pout.

“He presumes too much,” she said. “Because his father took service with the Elector, knew him years ago in America, and His Highness is his godfather, he believes himself to be a person of consequence. What is he truly but a hireling, a mercenary! You—” She paused a moment and then continued, “Your countrymen would have none of his family once—they considered them traitors, drove them out after your revolution. So some of them sold their swords overseas. He shall find what is thought of his kind—soon!”

That the Colonel was of Tory descent I had had hinted to me before I left Maryland—when I had had a private interview with Mr. Weston who gave me, at my request, a sum in gold I carried in secret, being prudent enough to want funds if I should need them. But Tories no Jonger were the ogres of one's childhood. Thus I had thought no more of him than that he was an exile who had at last found a place for himself.

Only the present spiteful note in the Gräfin's voice might have been uttered by one of my own countrywomen a generation ago. It was hard, ugly, out of character—making her for an instant something else than she had continually presented herself to be.

Our progress across land was hardly more comfortable than the voyage and far more constricted. The Grafin and I, with Katrine seated with her back to the
horses, were immured for hours in a great lumbering coach which dipped, rattled, swayed from pothole to pothole on ill-kept roads. The Colonel and the Graf had the better of it, for they rode horseback and kept ahead, with the uniformed escort, of our rocking prison. Another detachment of guards behind added to the small train of carriages and wagons, some transporting luggage, others servants which had been waiting for us.

It was the duty of some of these to forge well ahead each morning, take over an inn, getting rid of lesser travelers thinking to shelter therein, prepare the beds with our own linen, cook our meals, have all ready for our arrival. That we used only inns surprised me, for the custom of my own country was to visit the nearest manor or plantation along one's route, strangers being welcomed with openhanded hospitality. But, I decided, European customs were perhaps different.

At last, having survived the queasiness brought on by the imprisonment in the coach, the dullness of long days of riding behind drawn or nearly drawn curtains (for the Grafin had protested on our setting out that too much light gave her headaches), we clattered in the early dusk into the cobbled streets of Axelburg itself.

The Grafin, who had been drowsing during most of the last dreary day, now jerked back the nearest curtain. I could see lamps shining and a bit of house wall here and there. The coach grated to a stop and there came a blaze of dazzling light as the door was opened, the steps let down, and a number of liveried servants moved to greet us.

As I stretched my cramped limbs and looked about I saw we had pulled into a walled courtyard and the imposing house before us was no inn. The Grafin twitched her skirts into order and made me the most formal of curtsies.

“My lady,” she spoke in English, “please to enter. This is Gutterhof, our home.”

The house was at least three stories high and, in spite of many lights in the windows, bad the heavy look of a fortress rather than a home. But the fact we
were at the end of our journey made me welcome this first sight of one of Axelburg's ancient houses, ugly and slightly menacing though it seemed.’ Within I had a confused impression of a large hall through which we followed a lackey holding a branched candlestick. He was quickly joined by a discreetly but richly dressed older woman, while one wearing the apron of a maid fell in behind as I was escorted with some pomp up a staircase and down another but narrower hall. Until at length I was ushered with ceremony into a cavernous room where even four candelabra such as the footman carried made very little way against corner shadows.

It was a chamber of what seemed to me royal ostentation. The bed itself was a hugh cavern, half walled by curtains supported by carven posts, possessing a canopy surmounted at its peak by a shield upheld by fantastical beasts over which the candlelight flickered so dimly their fierce eyes, claws, and other portions of their gilded anatomy only showed at intervals.

The curtains, the thick carpet underfoot, those heavy drapes which must conceal windows somewhere behind their folds were all of a time dulled blue. What could be seen of the walls showed panels painted with sprays of flowers wreathed and intertwined as if to suggest a jungle or a forest such as sheltered Sleeping Beauty in the old tales.

There was a dressing table of delicate ivory and gold which might have strayed in by mistake, then been too frightened to escape. For it huddled well back from the bed. Some chairs, a few throne-backed in keeping with an earlier age, others more modern, stood about here and there accompanied by small and large tables.

The lackey had bowed himself out. Now the silk-clad older woman, who might have been sister to Katrine so frozen and correct was her expression, informed me that food and drink was on its way and Truda, indicating the maid, who stood with her hands concealed under her apron, was entirely at the service of the gracious and highborn lady.

I thanked her and she withdrew in a crablike fashion,
making three curtsies, each slightly less deep, before she disappeared through the door. So I was remained with Truda, and any one less like Letty I could not imagine. At that moment I was near overcome by a wave of bitter homesickness. I wanted to be in my own room, in my proper place, so much I could have wailed aloud like a child abandoned in a stark boarding school.

The room did not smell musty, but I felt as if I could not draw a deep breath here. That massive bed appeared to threaten rather than invite one to rest—

Nonsense! I must curb my imagination. It was nothing but a bed, and the girl facing me, her eyes cast down, her face blank, had no reason to greet me as a friend. Her face was round, almost childish, while her hair had been so tightly braided, and those braids fastened back under a half-cap, that the hair appeared near pulled from its roots about her forehead.

‘There is hot water?” I broke the silence between us.

She started and for the first time her eyes met mine. She colored and gestured toward a screen. “But, yes, gracious lady. Water—all else for your comfort. Please to look, if all is not right, then I am to do your will.”

The screen, which was taller than my head, masked a fire on a hearth which was wide enough to be like an alcove. Flames burned bright and hot. There stood a bath and beside it a row of water cans—from others set on the hearth spirals of steam arose. I gave a sigh of relief. Such luxury had not been a part of the service in any of the inns.

Later, some of the ache and stiffness soaked out of me, my damp hair which had been expertly washed by Truda, and brushed and blotted near dry with towels before being coiled up loosely, I sat down, clad in the warmest of my chamber robes, to eat. So soothed was I that even the bed now ceased to wear its forbidding aspect.

The food was very good, a clear soup, duckling with peas, tartlets filled with fruit, cheese, a trifle smothered
in rich cream. I drank sparingly of some wine and perhaps that added to my sleepiness, for I yawned and yawned again.

But I was not too weary to keep close to hand the packet which I had guarded closely during this whole journey. When I settled in the bed, finding it somewhat awkward to edge to the center, I pushed that beneath my pillows. The gold I had begged from Weston, the parchment Colonel Fenwick had brought me, my grandmother's last letter, and the necklace, a talisman to keep my mind firmly on my mission here, formed my secret hoard.

The screen which had hidden the hearth was folded away so I could see the flames. Truda would have drawn the bed curtains, but that I refused. Watching the fire, I drifted into sleep at last.

I was not too tired to dream.

Once more I was back in my grandmother's room, sitting with my shawl about me, even as I had on the day of her death. There she was also, but no pillows backed her now. She sat proudly erect, her eyes holding mine. Though her pale lips did not move, there was that in her gaze which was urgent, demanding, striving to tell me something. I was cold, not chilled by the room, but with an ice of fear which filled me, prevented me from speaking or moving.

Then the walls behind my grandmother's chair changed. From the familiar patterned paper I had always known, they showed gray—they were formed of stone blocks. There was no longer light from any window.

For the windows had narrowed into slits through which only pallid gleams reached us two. Still I sat and stared at my grandmother and she back at me, struggling, I knew, to communicate. I saw one hand rise from her lap, rise so slowly that it was manifest she put into that action the greatest of efforts, or the dregs of some fast-failing energy.

Between her white fingers swung a vividly black chain, moving slowly back and forth as might the pendulurn
of a clock remorselessly counting out vital minutes, hours. I knew what she held was the string of iron butterflies. Their delicate charm was lost, they could be rather the silhouettes of ill-omened bats, or some other creatures of an evil, haunted night.

So very slowly her hand moved, but the chain swung faster and faster, until it was a whirling blur. Then it flew free of her grasp—spun through the air toward me, as if it were a knife blade aimed at my throat. Still I could not move, or cry out, but was held in the vise of that ice-cold fear. So great was the terror which now filled me that I felt my heart could not continue to beat but would burst apart in my breast.

I made the greatest effort of my life and somehow brought up my arm, holding it as a shield against the threatening whirl of the still-spinning chain. Only that never touched my skin. Instead my eyes blinked open— I lay looking up into the reaches of a vast dark cavern.

Chapter 3

Lying in a cavern? I was sweat drenched, tangled within
the heavy bedclothes of the great state bed. I turned my head and saw, on what seemed a distant night table, a guttering candle set in a safeguard which had the form of a castle—or rather a tower—through the slit windows of which shone the failing light.

The fire had near burned itself out, only a few dull
coals remained. I pulled up on the wide pillows, my hands at my throat, pushing aside the frill of my nightgown, rubbing the skin to assure myself that that whirling black of the butterflies had not struck.

My grandmother—no, even in the dream I was certain she had not flung that threat at me. The chain itself had appeared to take on purpose—She had been striving to warn—surely that was so!

Yet I needed no warning. I had been rash in coming here, too sure of myself. Now I had stepped outside all that I knew and understood. There was no one I could call upon. The Gräfin? I had no trust in her. The Graf— I had seen so little of him and what I had did not impress me. The Elector? A man about whom I really knew nothing good, with whom I had no bond except the accident of birth.

I clutched the edge of the bedclothes with my wet hands. My thoughts traveled on. What of Colonel Fen-wick.

He was the Elector's man, a very loyal one—of that fact I could be entirely certain. So the Elector's wishes would rule with him.

My fingers slid beneath the pillows, closed upon the packet I had concealed there. There was a need to make sure that the necklace still lay in hiding. I was too fanciful, no piece of jewelry could do more than just induce a nightmare.

Packet in hand I slid across the vast surface of the bed and climbed out, my feet bare on the carpet of the dais on which it was enthroned. The season without these walls might be early summer now, but in this room the air of winter held with the fire near dead. I did not wait to pick up my robe, rather I went to that tower-imprisoned candle, scorched my fingers lifting off the shield. That was of no moment now, I must assure myself the packet was intact.

The cord was firm. I picked at its knots, spread out the parchment, and then the roll of brocade. Even in this very limited light the necklace was startling clear.

I did not lift it from its soft bedding, only assured myself that this could never be the weapon I had dreamed it. Before this I had never considered myself burdened with a morbid imagination, yet at that moment nothing would have led me to place the circlet against my throat. Instead my mind dwelled upon that desperate appeal which I had read in my grandmother's eyes. A warning?

Such was pure superstition. Had I been so influenced by Letty that her lore of signs and potents was overriding good sense? I rewrapped the necklace, repacked it with that paper which made of me a Countess—a state I had no desire to grace—and padded back to bed.

Resolutely I pushed the packet once more beneath my pillow and forced myself to stretch out. I had not replaced the tower cover of the candle and I turned my head to watch that tiny beacon of light.

It was my firm intention to remain awake, not to summon any more dream a. But my tired body betrayed me and I do not know when I slipped once more into that place where nightmares lurked. However, those no more troubled me. Or, if they did, I did not remember them when I became aware that someone moved about not too far away and I opened my eyes to uncurtained windows and golden sunlight, warm and welcoming.

In that sunshine the room, which had appeared so filled with foreboding, was altered, though it lost none of its princely dignity. There were mirrors on some of the walls, their gilt frames as ornate as the leafy, flowered panels I had seen the night before. One corner was filled with a huge painted and tiled stove. A solid wardrobe faced it from across the room. Gilded cupids frolicked across that, and smaller ones formed the door handles.

The chamber was indeed a strange collection of old and new. The state bed was clearly of the past, several centuries past. While, save for a chair or two in the same massive style, the rest of the furniture was of a later date.

At a scratching sound from the door, Truda tripped
across my range of view to open that, take in a tray which she brought to one of the larger tables. It bore a silver pot of fanciful design, its handle being a queer dragon beast clinging to the side, its head raised to peer into the interior. The rest were covered dishes.

I had already washed in warm water, but I was still in my chamber robe as I seated myself to breakfast. Truda's answers to my attempts at friendly conversation were strained, nor did she ever look at me directly. I was not used to being so rebuffed, though I guessed that the proper custom here was to ignore the humanity of servants—to consider them only hands and feet to provide one with attention.

As I drank the thick chocolate Truda poured me, I wondered if their masters and mistresses must not sometimes appear to them as dolls, to be dressed and then set into another world altogether. Used as I was to the manor, where the most minute details of daily life were open and known, this stiff separation made me uneasy. Whereas Letty, as she bustled about my room, would have had a tongue busy with reports on a dozen or so small matters she deemed it necessary for me to know, this girl crept as noiselessly as possible, flushed when I spoke to her, took on a ghostlike character I found disturbing.

She had already unpacked my clothing, hanging my gowns in the wardrobe, dealing efficiently with my other belongings. Now she stood not too far away, ready to raise the cover from the plates, to display bread cut into finger-sized bites and already buttered, a small pot of dark red jam, a selection of pastries. I thought longingly of the good home-cured ham and other more sustaining viands which would have been served me usually, provider meant to sustain one through a busy day.

How did a Countess of the Holy Roman Empire spend her days? Certainly, I decided, not at a desk writing out a series of instructions to men of business, nor in riding around fields to check the crops, visiting dairy, kitchen, still room, the hands’ quarters—all
those duties I knew so well. Would boredom itself conquer ray sense of duty? I was never meant to sit with idle hands and empty mind.

My watch reported the hour of nine. At home I would have been already two hours busy. But here— In my survey of the room I had not seen a single book, nor any other aid to finding employment.

Cup still in hand, I went to the nearest window, curious about Axelburg, or what I might see of it. I already knew from the Gräfin's chatter, that the Elector Adolf (my great-grandfather, that is) had torn apart with ruthless energy his ancestral palace and rebuilt it, by vast labor at untold expense, in the style of an inferior copy of Versailles, so that it stretched out from the old city (the VERY old city) in the form of a fan.

This morning I could see beyond a cluster of gabled roofs and some towers which must mark churches the rise of the palace. Notable as a part of that were two towers, totally at odds with the rest of the roofline, one at either end of the structure.

Those were all that remained of the original building and the Grafin had explained the reason for their survival. Elector Adolf—though he had prided himself on foward-looking views and had patronized several men of the newer learning—had also sheltered a certain Count Ladislaw Varkoff of mysterious origin. He had acted the part of the Elector's private prophet and several of his predictions had proven surprisingly accurate. His main claim to fame had been a stern warning that, were either of the ancient watchtowers of the previous castle-palace destroyed, the ruling family of Hesse-Dohna itself would come to an abrupt end. Thus the towers remained to frown at the frivolities which the Elector used to decorate his new home.

The Grafin had pointed out that my grandfather's gutting of the interior of the west tower had indeed been followed by the death of his only direct heir. Now the rule would pass to a cadet House of supposedly inferior standing.

I became aware of Truda hovering nearby and asked what she wanted.

“What gown does the gracious and highborn lady desire? The Gräfin awaits her in the gold room—” This was the longest speech she had made and one she voiced so hurriedly that her words slurred. I half expected her to give a visible sigh of relief as she ended.

What gown indeed? For the first time I seriously considered the contents of that wardrobe. Though my grandmother had made a point of seeing that we were dressed in the best of fashion available, by the time any style found its way from Paris or London to Baltimore it was already probably well out of date. Judging by the Grafin's daily wear, I already appeared most drab and dowdy. I had not missed the glances she had turned upon me when she believed herself unobserved. However, I had no intention of spending any of my guarded secret store of money on dress. I could use my plea of being still in mourning to cover my deficiencies yet awhile.

“The gray silk with the lilac ribbons—”

Now I was sure of Truda's questioning side glance.

“I am in mourning,” I said flatly. Perhaps the high-born ladies of her experience would have given no explanation, but such came natural to me. There were times in the past when I had had heated arguments with Letty over the suitability of this or that gown.

The gray silk was produced and I had some difficulty in persuading Truda I was not a doll to be dressed but could put on garments by my own efforts. The gown was indeed plain, with a ruffle of discreet lace high, about my throat and only a procession of small, precise bows down the bodice, and narrow puffed-ribbon banding to weight the flare of the skirt. In this stately room I was now a stray from another world, perhaps a humble governess peering daringly into the mirrors of her mistress.

Under my orders Truda coiled up my hair in the sensible crown of braids I always wore. My reflection
told me I looked neat and respectable. Only, was either term the proper one to be applied to the granddaughter of a ruling prince? Neatness was a virtue, but respectability in my present surrounding was, by the Grafin's hints and lively comments, not an attribute much cultivated at court.

A lackey, with powdered hair and a crested coat bearing bunches of ribbons on either shoulder, bowed me out and ushered me as a guide though several corridors, down the main flight of stairs again, to bring me at last to a door he threw open with a flourish.

The sun was very bright across a thickly Deflowered carpet which set a whole garden underfoot. There was no gloom here, the furniture was all white and gold, covered with golden velvet. The carvings on the wall panels had also been gilded, so that the wreaths of impossibly plump fruits glittered.

In contrast to the spill of brilliance around her the Gräfin appeared in a light shade of blue. To my eyes that dress was more elaborate than any which might have been worn to a Maryland ball. The neckline was very low and the guimpe which filled it was only a hint of modest covering, being of a fine net which concealed nothing of the rise of her full breasts.

She wore a heavy necklace over this gauzy shield and there were jeweled drops in her ears. In addition a sparkling buckle latched a ribbon belt which accented the smallness of her waist, meant also, I presumed, to draw attention to those higher mounds where nature had been so generous. To my eyes there was a vulgarity in such a show which made me vow inwardly that if she represented the high fashion of Hesse-Dohna, then I would remain a down by choice.

“Dear Countess!” She jumped up as might a vivacious girl, hurrying toward me with both hands outstretched, as if I were her dearest friend. I did not miss the shadow of dismay in the blue eyes which surveyed me from head to foot. “I trust you rested well. Does Truda satisfy you? She has been well instructed, I assure
you. She knows even the latest styles of hair dressing—”

“She is most deft and pleasant.” I could not escape the stab of irritation at that suggestion that I was no good advertisement of Truda's skills. “But, as you must remember, Grafin, I am in mourning—”

“But you cannot keep to that—not here!” Her sharp protest startled me. “It is not the way of the court. Private mourning must not exist when one goes into public. You will come to understand our ways soon.”

“When I meet the Elector?” I wanted to know just how soon I could carry out the purpose which had brought me here. “Just when can that be arranged, Grafin?”

“Please,” she pouted, “let us not be always so stiff with one another. We are kinswomen, I want us to be friends also. Let me be Luise—not always ‘Grafin.’ It will be so pleasant, as you shall see. His Highness”— her face turned sober—“your meeting with him must be most carefully arranged. He is ill, his doctors forbid excitement for him. There are others who might make trouble. We must wait—”

Her words now did not agree with what Colonel Fen-wick had told me of the need for haste, his insistence that the Elector's health was so precarious that I must travel at bone-racking speed to reach the bedside of a dying man before it was too late. I had not seen the Colonel since my arrival. Of course he was not a member of this household, but I had thought that he would keep in closer communication with me—some message— It struck me then that I had no idea at all how I might get in touch with him should the need arise.

“We shall be told at once when it is possible,” the Grafin continued. ‘This is a most private matter, you understand. Only a very few people close to the Elector know of his earlier marriage at all—fewer still that he has moved now to have it declared a legal morganatic one—”

I looked at her steadily. “By the laws of my country
he has had only
one
legal marriage—that which united him to my grandmother. My father was his single legal heir—”

The Grafin threw up her plump white hands in a gesture which might express either surprise, or some exasperation at my dullness. “The laws of your country mean nothing here, that you must understand. Also”— there was a very distinct sharpness in her tone—“there are those who would not wish the Elector to show any favor, even at this late date to—” She hesitated.