The Dead Travel Fast (5 page)

“Does it sadden you?” I had no such painting of my own mother and I wondered if my loss had been the easier to bear because I had no image of her face to mourn.

Cosmina thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No. It comforts me. I do not remember her, although sometimes I think she must have smelled of lilies, for she holds a lily in the painting. And it is only because of the painting that I know I have her eyes,” she finished.

“And very lovely eyes they are too,” I said, for Cosmina had fulfilled the promise of beauty she had carried as a girl. It was no surprise to me that the count would wish to marry her; the only surprise was that the betrothal was not announced. Was there some difficulty with the match, some opposition? But from what quarter? His mother was her aunt and guardian. Surely if she approved, others must.

As if intuiting my thoughts, Cosmina raised the subject herself. “I know you must wonder why no one talks of my marriage,” she began.

“It did seem a little strange that I was invited to see you married and yet you asked me not to speak of it,” I said slowly.

She said nothing for a long minute, then stopped upon the path to face me. “There will be no wedding. Andrei came home to settle his father’s affairs and that is all. He has said he will not abide by his mother’s wishes and marry me. It is finished.”

Tears welled and spilled from those beautiful eyes and I felt suddenly, violently angry. How could he hurt so fragile and lovely and loyal a creature as Cosmina?

I put my arms about her. “He cannot do this. If there was a formal betrothal, then surely—”

“There was no formal betrothal,” she admitted. “It was his mother’s wish and mine. Nothing more. It was never fixed. We simply assumed he would wish to please her in this matter.”

“But what reason did he give? Surely there can be no one more suitable than you,” I said hotly.

She gave a shuddering sob against my shoulder. “No. It is not that. There were difficulties because we are cousins, but they are not insurmountable. It has been done before. He refuses because he did not wish to marry
me
.”

I petted her hair. “Then he is a stupid, wretched man,” I said by way of consolation. “He does not deserve such a wife as you would have made him, and I hope someone disappoints him as painfully as he has disappointed you.”

She shuddered again, then lifted her head, and to my astonishment I saw that she was smiling. “Oh, Theodora. You think I am disappointed? I am
relieved
.”

Cosmina fell to silence after her revelation, and resumed the walk back to the castle. I trailed after her, my mind working feverishly. I was grateful she had turned away, for I do not think I could have hidden the confusion that had come upon me. I had seldom in my life suffered such a rapid alteration of feeling. I had been angry with the count for his unkindness to Cosmina, and further angered with myself for favouring a man capable of such ungallant behaviour. And then those three words had changed everything.
I am relieved
. Joy, swift and savage, had coursed through me, and I had been shocked to realise that my first thought had not been for the suffering of my friend; it had been the selfish pleasure of knowing that the count was not attached.

We made our way back to the castle in comparative silence, first because the village was too close upon us to permit intimate conversation, and then because the climb was rather too arduous for us to talk with ease. But once we had gained the castle, Cosmina turned.

“I must see the countess. Come to my room in an hour and we will talk more. I am so changeable these days, I hardly know myself,” she added by way of apology.

She left me then and I went to my room, unravelling the twisted threads of our conversation. Cosmina
had
been changeable, shifting between confidence and evasion during our walk. It was as if she longed to tell me everything, and yet feared to do so as well.

I washed my hands from the dusty walk and changed my boots for lighter shoes and neatened my hair. These ministrations took only quarter of an hour, and so I occupied myself with writing a letter to Anna, saying only that I had arrived safely. Any strangeness or misgivings I omitted, and I was struck by the dishonesty of my words. I told her the truth, but I concealed much besides, and I did not like it. But how could I possibly explain to Anna what I did not yet understand? And how could I describe the count when there were no words yet invented for such a man?

I ended my hasty scribble with fond notes for my nieces and nephews and took my letter in hand when I went in search of Cosmina’s room. She had explained how to find it, and I had little difficulty. It was the ground floor chamber of the tower opposite my own, perhaps a little smaller than mine and furnished in a similar style, with heavy carved wooden pieces and mouldering hangings of pale blue and silver. I saw at once that the room was arranged to suit her favourite hobby and I gave a little cry of delighted recognition upon seeing the small frames upon the walls.

“Your silhouettes! I had quite forgot,” I told her, moving at once to study them. She had been proficient with her scissors even as a schoolgirl, and her talents had been often in demand. Girls exchanged silhouettes with their favourites, but only if Cosmina consented to cut them. For girls she thought fondly of, she demanded little—a pocketful of candy or a length of pretty lace. But there were few enough girls she liked, and once she had made up her mind not to befriend someone, her resentment was implacable. It was one of the qualities that had attracted me to her from the first; no matter how wealthy or fashionable a girl, Cosmina could not be persuaded to friendship unless she genuinely liked her. I had taken it as a badge of honour that she had befriended me, and so we had sat apart from most of our schoolmates, I with my scribbles and Cosmina with her scissors, despising their silly ways and their irritating chatter. We had thought ourselves above such nonsense, and with the wisdom that comes with a few years and a better understanding, I wondered if we had not been frightful bores.

“Why, here is mine!” I cried, peering at the sober black image hung near the bed. “How petulant I look—surely my mouth is not so sulky as that.”

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.