The Golden Key (115 page)

Looking relieved of an onerous burden, Bernadin showed them into a parlor made gaudy by the amount of gilt ornamenting the ceiling. He retreated, closing the door behind him. Eleyna, watching
him go, could not but be struck by the monumental frame of marble columns, one on each side, that encased the door, which was surmounted by a marble frieze of cavorting nymphs. She might as well be in a mausoleum.

A slight man stood warming himself by a brazier. He stood next to a huge window that looked out over a field of poppies and wild grass. This window was framed by an imposingly ugly window case, columns of gilded wood and a pediment topped by two reclining ladies carved in blond wood.

After a pause, the man turned. An almost comical expression crossed his face: dismay quickly smothered by a noble attempt at polite interest. He was young, with light hair and attractive features. But it was not his face that caught Eleyna’s eye: it was the perfection of his clothing. He was so terribly well-dressed that of himself he seemed a commentary on the appalling decor of the room.

“That is not Don Edoard,” said Beatriz in a low voice.

Eleyna tore her gaze away from his perfectly tied cravat. She felt herself blush. “That is Don Rohario.”

The young man touched his cravat, inspecting it with his fingers. “You are here,” he said; unnecessarily, Eleyna thought.

There was an interlude of silence while they all collected their thoughts. Footsteps sounded above, the servants moving through the upper level. The clock on the sidetable clicked over the quarter hour, chiming merrily. Finally, Rohario cleared his throat and ventured forward a few steps. “It appears I am to be your host for a day or two. My brother is, unfortunately, not here.” He took three more steps forward. “You are Eleyna Grijalva.”

“Yes, I am. We have had the honor of meeting, have we not, Don Rohario? May I present my sister, Beatriz, and Maessa Mara? Where
is
your brother?”

He rubbed his hands together as if they were cold. He coughed. “Eiha. Yes.” He went on haltingly, obviously embarrassed. “Edoard heard there was a fair—”

“In Ramo Treio. Your steward mentioned it.” Despite everything, Eleyna was beginning to enjoy herself. Let
him
squirm now.

“Yes. My brother is enthusiastic about—” He coughed again. He wasn’t just embarrassed; he was mortified. “Horse racing is one of his enthusiasms. I, ah, I—”

“You don’t care for horse racing?” Eleyna asked sweetly.

“Eleyna!” scolded Mara in a whisper.

“No, I don’t. He intends to buy a horse or two, but he has a terrible eye for horseflesh. If one of the grooms isn’t there to advise
him, he buys the worst broken-down old hacks—” He stuttered to a halt.

With each passing minute, as the absurdity of the situation mounted, Eleyna’s heart lightened. “When will he be back?”

Rohario turned his head and looked mournfully at a panel of men riding to the hunt, painted in an overly-colored style, copying the Old Masters without the least understanding of their genius. “That’s just it,” he said reluctantly. “I don’t know.”

“Matra ei Filho,” said Beatriz under her breath.

Mara pressed a hand to her bosom. “Neosso do’Orro!”

Eleyna snorted. Unable to stop herself, she began to laugh.

  SIXTY-THREE  

It
was an unmitigated disaster. Rohario could only assume that he was doomed to humiliate himself in front of Eleyna Grijalva time and time again. He fiddled with the buttons on the sleeve of his coat, caught himself, stopped, and cleared his throat.

“Dinner will be served in three hours,” he said finally.

The two sisters looked much alike, attractive as most Grijalva women were rumored to be. Eleyna was petite, Beatriz more robust and slightly taller. But for all the seeming fragility in Eleyna’s build, Rohario did not trust the iron gleam in her eye; she was being pleasant now, but he had heard her explode in temper. Beatriz looked more tractable.

The duennia whispered to Eleyna.

“I’m not tired.” The gleam in Eleyna’s eye brightened dangerously.

“I would be honored to show you around,” said Rohario hastily. In fact, he had been bored.

“Are all the rooms like this?” asked Eleyna. “It reminds me of the Galerria.”

Matra Dolcha! Rohario bit down on a grin, since it was unseemly of a man to make a jest of anything related to his mother. “Grand Duchess Mairie was a fine woman, may her memory be blessed, but it is true she and my father believed that gold and ornament are the chief marks of good taste.”

“‘Solidity, conveniency, and ornament.”’

He laughed. “The three qualities that make a magnificent building. You have read Ottonio della Mariano’s monograph?”

“His architectural studies are very good. If there must be so much ornament, however, I would rather it be less solid and more of a piece.”

“Eleyna!” This blunt speaking clearly shocked the duennia.

But Rohario was delighted. “You must see the banquet hall! It hasn’t changed in three hundred years. Most of the suites upstairs were redone twenty years ago when my mother decided to use Chasseriallo as a retreat. That’s when the lower rooms were redecorated as well, and larger windows added.”

“All in this style?” Eleyna asked, looking dubious. As well she might.

“Less monument, more ornament,” he said, and she responded with a chuckle. At last! He had found someone who detested these styles as much as he did.

“Might we tour the gardens as well?” asked Beatriz in a prettily hesitant voice.

The duennia coughed again, meaningfully, but Rohario was not in a mood to placate old-fashioned notions of propriety, not after his father had exiled him to this awful old house that had only two fireplaces and the most execrable wallpaper.

“It would be my pleasure,” he said enthusiastically.

Afternoon quickly became evening as he showed them round the apartments. The women finally left him to go upstairs and dress for dinner. In his bedchamber, Rohario whistled as he tied his cravat, adding an extra flourish. Should he leave the lowest button on his cuffs unfastened, as was fashionable these days at Court? Or ought he to be more formal? After much consideration, and examining the effect from every possible angle, he decided in favor of the more conservative style. Grazzo do’Matra his waistcoat did not clash with the wallpaper; that had been chance good fortune. And since he preferred evening coats of the finest subtle gray, a color beyond reproach, he was certainly safe there. At last he was satisfied. Even a woman with as sharp an eye as Eleyna Grijalva would notice nothing amiss.

But soon enough Edoard would return. Rohario grimaced. Edoard had been so keen to take a Grijalva Mistress, but like most of his enthusiasms this one had as much permanence as the wink of frost on a cool morning. As soon as the sun rose, it melted.

But Edoard was not here now.

Over dinner Rohario and Eleyna argued about which of the Old Masters was best. “No, I can’t agree,” he said over fricando of veal. “Just because Guilbarro Grijalva’s life was cut tragically short doesn’t mean he can’t be counted among the finest masters.”

“I will agree that his
Birth of Cossima
is a masterpiece.”

“Why not Riobaro? Everyone acknowledges him as one of the finest painters of the Grijalva line.”

She considered while a servant offered her curried rabbit. “His work is beautiful, of course, but I can’t help thinking it derivative. As if he was trying to let someone else speak through his hands. I can’t explain it.”

Rohario laughed. “Then who?”

“Sario Grijalva, of course. His altarpiece, his portrait of Saavedra—”

There was an uncomfortable pause.
The First Mistress.
Rohario fidgeted in the silence while the servants brought round puddings and a buttered lobster.

Mara coughed. Eiha! What an annoying habit. But Rohario was grateful to her for breaking the silence. “Any painter would wish to emulate Sario Grijalva,” Mara said.

With a flourish made dramatic by the use of a silver fork, Eleyna came back to life. “But too many painters have tried to copy Sario’s style rather than creating their own. Aldaberto and Tazioni painted in their own way. There is much we can learn from them. Miquellan Serrano was—”

“Eleyna!” The old duennia looked scandalized. “That any Grijalva would praise the man who painted that insulting
Rescue
!” Then she looked abashed, as if she had not meant to remind Rohario of the Grijalva’s chi’patro origins.

“He was a fine painter,” insisted Eleyna. “No matter that he feuded with our family. It is ridiculous we only praise Grijalva painters. Others have genius as well. There was a painter in Friesemark named Huesandt who died about fifty years ago.
He
is a true master! He paints his subjects so beautifully that you feel as if you know their inner hearts. And there is another painter from Friesemark, Meyseer. He uses light beautifully. He had a pupil known as The Vethian.’ She abandoned her family and husband in Vethia in order to study with Meyseer, throwing her old life away only to paint.” Her face shone when she spoke so passionately. It startled and disturbed Rohario. In his father’s court, enthusiasm was suspect. He pretended to indifference. “Have you seen these reproductions? The work of these painters?” she continued, leaning forward. Her hair, bound up with ivory combs, and the simple necklace of pearls she wore shone in the unsteady light of the candlabra.

Her words made him remember with awful clarity the Iluminarres riot: the young apprentices who had attacked him with such anger; Sancto Leo’s senseless death. What had provoked it all? What else was out there in the world that he had ignored, or never known existed?

“No,” he said quietly, chastened. “We have seen none of their work in the Palasso. My father wants only the paintings from Tira Virte displayed in the Galerria, and Grand Duchess Johannah is not interested in art.” Then, wanting to see her face light up again, he asked: “But perhaps you could tell me more about them.”

The next morning Rohario got up at midday as usual, but he found the breakfast room empty. He barely tasted fresh rolls and tea before he ventured outside.

The gardens lay beyond the courtyard wall. Once part of the fortifications for the lodge, the wall was now a picturesque ruin, worn down by time and rain. Through gaps in the wall he saw the winding trails, the topiary, and swathes of white flowers coming into bloom with the rains. The last droplets of morning rain still clung to the blossoms and to the leaves of trees, although by now the sky had cleared, bringing with it the sun.

There, among the flowers, he saw Beatriz. She looked lovely, carefully cutting stems and placing flowers neatly in a long basket. She wore a handsome bonnet and a morning dress cut to reveal her graceful neck.

She greeted him prettily and without the least sign of self-consciousness. “It is a lovely garden, Don Rohario. Your gardener tells me the herb garden has been let run wild.” Thus she pleaded, with a nicely understated silence.

He smiled politely. “I am sure he would let you take the garden in hand.” As he spoke, he looked around. “I have not seen your sister.”

“She is painting,” said Beatriz.