Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Occult & Supernatural, #Guardian and Ward, #Vampires, #Nobility, #blood, #Paramours, #Switzerland
Borne in Blood (12 page)
I have the letters of credit you furnished, and so far have not needed to produce them to secure the elegancies of travel. I am carrying a fair amount of money with me, but as I leave Austrian and German territories, I am sure that these letters of credit will be more efficacious than coins or bank-notes. Upon my return, we will regularize all the sums involved.
Tell my wards that my thoughts are always with them, and inform my household of my progress. I look to see you again in October.
Wallache Gerhard Winifrith Sieffert
Graf von Ravensberg
It was mid-afternoon on the twelfth day after leaving Château Ragoczy that Otto Gutesohnes, as dusty and sweating as his team, drew the fine new traveling carriage up in front of Ragoczy’s house in Amsterdam; it was a warm, windy day, smelling of saltwater, tar, wet stone, vegetation, and humanity; the narrow streets fronting the canals were filled with traffic and the sound of busy citizens hastening about their business, for Amsterdam was a commercial center and its purpose filled it as a palpable presence, imbuing everyone in it with determined energy.
The house had been built in 1662 by a successful merchant; situated at the intersection of two canals the front was boastfully and expensively wide and there were four steps leading up to the front door. Ragoczy had acquired the building in 1729 from the merchant’s grandson, and had added his own improvements. The house had recently been refaced and a third floor added to expand his laboratory; new draperies hung in the windows and the shutters were bright with fresh paint. On the narrow, canal-side street, the house stood out for its restrained elegance and advantageous location.
“The stable is behind the house, reached by the alley opposite the canal from the side of the Oude Kerk,” said Ragoczy to Gutesohnes as he got out of the carriage and held out his hand to help Hero get down. “The stable-master will tell you where to put the horses and the coach. When the team has been groomed and fed, and the trunks unloaded, you may have a late dinner and the rest of the evening to yourself.”
“Thank you, Comte,” said Gutesohnes, rolling his shoulders to relieve them of the long strain of driving.
“Unless there is an emergency, present your report on the team and the coach to me in the morning.” Ragoczy nodded to him, allowing him to pass on.
“I will. The horses have done well.” He tapped his driving whip as he put it back in its holder, then lifted the reins and kissed the team to move on. “Almost done, my lads, almost done,” he reassured them.
“This is a very impressive house,” Hero approved when the coach was out of earshot. “Is it the first you have owned here?”
“No,” said Ragoczy. “I have had others before this one.” He did not add that this house had not yet been built when he first visited the island village that had become Amsterdam.
“The location is fortuitous: two stone bridges and a small square in front. It conveys a sense of prosperity,” she said.
“It does, does it not?” Ragoczy asked, amusement glinting in his eyes. He escorted her up the steps and lifted the heavy brass ring-knocker. “Welcome to Amsterdam, Hero von Scharffensee,” he said with a slight bow just as the door was opened.
“Comte Ragoczy!” the steward exclaimed. “We did not expect you until tomorrow.”
“You may thank my coachman for our swift journey,” said Ragoczy. “How do I find you, Kuyskill?”
“You find me quite well, Comte, thank you for asking,” said the middle-aged steward; he stepped back to allow Hero to enter the house. “And so is the rest of the household, except for Ursula, whose eyes trouble her now and again. I shall present that in my report to Rogier when he arrives.”
“Is her work making her eyes worse? Seamstresses often suffer from eye problems,” said Ragoczy as if he had not noticed Kuyskill’s last remark.
“She has spectacles and they help, but there is some sign of veiling, and that causes difficulty,” said Kuyskill.
“I will have a look at her eyes myself, later today. Ask her if she will permit me to assess her vision before supper.” He indicated Hero with a gallant half-bow to show the respect he required his household demonstrate toward her. “Madame von Scharffensee is my guest. She will want the large room overlooking the hot-house for her use: I asked the chamber be made ready in my note in July, as you recall. Her maid is traveling with Rogier, and should be here to supervise unpacking her bags in an hour or so.” He favored Kuyskill with a penetrating look. “There will be no rumors spread about my guest, of course.”
“Of course,” said Kuyskill in a tone of such neutrality that it was obvious he suspected the worst.
“My guest and I will observe all the proprieties due a widow,” said Ragoczy. “You may assure the household that any scandal attaching to her presence will begin with them, and I will know it.”
“No one will talk,” said Kuyskill. “I am confident of that.”
“Tell me,” Ragoczy went on as if he was convinced by Kuyskill’s assurances; he moved down the corridor toward the stairs to the upper floors, “can you spare a footman to carry a note around to Klasse van der Boom? I want to speak with him about the press as soon as possible.”
“I’ll send Koenraad. Let me know when the note is ready.” He swung around as a bell sounded at the rear of the house. “Your coachman will need help in moving your trunks and bags into the house.”
“I should think he would,” said Ragoczy. “Go supervise. I will write my note.” He offered his arm to Hero. “You will want to rest from the journey.”
“I am a little stiff,” she said, and stretched just enough to demonstrate the truth of her assertion. “And a bit tired.”
“Then you will be restored after an hour of quiet. I ask you to be punctilious until the household is accustomed to your presence, especially this afternoon, when you will be under close observation,” he said. “By evening, Serilde will be here, and the luggage and baggage will be ready to carry to your room; the household will have found out about you to their satisfaction. There will be a supper laid by seven in the evening, but if you want something before then, you have only to ask Kuyskill to bespeak it for you.”
“I thank you,” said Hero, stifling a yawn. “You know me too well, Comte.”
“If I had not known you before, I would surely do so now: I have been sharing a carriage with you for a dozen days—I can see when you are tired.” He bent to kiss her hand, then indicated a door at the top of the stairs. “That is the entrance to your chamber.”
“You are very kind,” she said, partly as a show of good manners, partly as the truth.
“I will join you before supper, if you would like. After I tend to Ursula.”
“For conversation,” she said, with the hint of a question in her words.
“Yes, and to review whatever plans you may wish to make for our stay here.”
“And later?” she asked, lifting her brows provocatively. “Will you join me later?”
“Not tonight. But in a day or two,” he said, giving her room enough to open the door. “When the servants are less curious.”
“I suppose you know best; servants are always wondering what their masters do,” she said, and slipped through the door into a room filled with cool, limpid, northern light from four tall windows that overlooked a greenhouse that took up half the cobbled courtyard below. The walls were papered in a pattern of pale forget-me-nots and the shutters were wonderfully white. The bedspread was of a soft lilac satin, and the hangings were a very pale blue-green. “Oh! This is lovely, Comte.”
“Thank you for saying so,” said Ragoczy, taking care not to go beyond the limits of the door, and aware of the covert attention of the household staff. He bent his head. “I hope you will have reason to remember your days here with happiness.”
“I’m sure I shall,” she said, and tossed her reticule onto the bed, watching it fall. As she turned back, she discovered that Ragoczy had closed the door. She shook her head a little sadly, then began to unfasten the frogs on the front of her traveling coat; like it or not, she was weary and glad of a chance to recuperate from the long journey.
Descending the stairs, Ragoczy encountered Kuyskill struggling with the first of his chests. “Madame von Scharffensee is resting. I am going out.”
“But your note?” Kuyskill asked.
“I will go along to see Heer van der Boom on my own; please inform Rogier where I have gone when he arrives. There is no need for you to delay the meal upon my account, although I should be back before suppertime.” He moved aside, allowing Kuyskill to position the chest to be carried up two floors.
“Suppertime. Will you be dining?”
“I hardly know,” said Ragoczy. “Do not wait for me, and do not save food for me. I will attend to my hunger in my own way.” With a curt nod he was off into the brilliant afternoon, moving along the canals, feeling the disconcerting vertigo from the running water and the anodyne pull of his native earth in the soles of his shoes. His stride was long and clean, and in less than five minutes he had reached the square building that housed the Eclipse Press.
Klasse van der Boom himself, a square-faced man with a square body, opened the door to Eclipse Press; his leather apron was heavily stained with ink and his hands were permanently grimed with it. “Comte!” he exclaimed as he flung the door wide. “Come in, come in.”
“Thank you,” said Ragoczy, stepping into the front office of the press.
“It is most fortuitous that you should arrive today,” van der Boom went on with emphatic exuberance. “Just two hours ago, Graf van Ravensberg arrived; he came from Austria to see the preparations for his book on the nature of blood. No doubt he will be pleased to meet the patron of Eclipse Press.” He said
patron
with such heavy emphasis that Ragoczy had to resist the impulse to wince.
patron
with such heavy emphasis that Ragoczy had to resist the impulse to wince.
“Is there some difficulty?” Ragoczy inquired levelly.
“Not precisely that,” van der Boom hedged. “But he will prefer to talk to another man with a title, if you don’t mind?”
“Whatever suits your purpose, Heer van der Boom,” he said, and smoothed the front of his black, fine-wool traveling coat.
“For which I must thank you,” said van der Boom under his breath. “This Austrian is filled with self-importance.”
“I will keep that in mind,” said Ragoczy, and followed van der Boom back into the noise and heat of the press-room.
Amid the bustle and industry of the press-room, a tall, angular man in a high-crowned beaver hat, an elegant dark-blue claw-tail coat, white silk shirt, tapestry waist-coat over buff-colored unmentionables stood with five uncut sheets of printed paper in his hands. He was frowning, muttering in German as he peered at the sheet, paying no attention to the activity around him. As van der Boom approached him, he said in awkward Dutch, “I have corrections.”
“No doubt you do,” said van der Boom. “And we will attend to them directly, Graf. But for now, allow me to present Saint-Germain Ragoczy, Comte Franciscus, who is patron of Eclipse Press.” He bowed between the two men and took a step back. “This is Graf von Ravensberg.”
“A great pleasure,” said Ragoczy with an urbane smile in impeccable German. He held out his ungloved hand as he looked up at the Austrian.
Von Ravensberg set the sheets of paper aside on a rack, clicked his heels, bowed sharply, then took Ragoczy’s proffered hand, speaking German as if his wits had been restored. “Ragoczy. A name of some reputation—in Hungary.”
“That it is,” said Ragoczy calmly, extricating his hand from von Ravensberg’s talonlike grip without visible effort.
“You are of that House?” von Ravensberg pursued.
“Another branch than the part of the family that gained such notoriety a century ago,” he said.
“Very old blood, then,” said von Ravensberg.
This time there was an ironic twist to his mouth as Ragoczy said, “Very.”
“You could be a fascinating study,” said von Ravensberg. “Most of my studies have been conducted with Austrians and Germans, but the descendant of so illustrious a line as Ragoczy must provide valuable information.”
“In what regard?” Ragoczy asked politely, although inwardly taken aback.
“In regard to blood, of course,” said von Ravensberg, pointing to the pages hanging on the rack. “It is the subject of my book, as I assumed you must know.” His face was set in accusatory lines.
“To be candid, Graf, I have just arrived in Amsterdam and have not yet had the opportunity to review the progress of our present projects,” said Ragoczy, and nodded toward van der Boom. “I came here to discuss the publishing schedule. It is an unexpected pleasure to meet you while I am on this most pedestrian task.”
Von Ravensberg relented a little. “Just arrived?”
“Not two hours ago,” said Ragoczy. “My trunks are not yet in my rooms.”
“Then you are most punctilious, Comte; an admirable trait, no doubt one that is the legacy of your breeding.”
“I would like to think so,” said Ragoczy, his face revealing nothing of his long memories.
“It is important for us—the high-born—to preserve the virtues inherent in our kind. There are so many who care nothing for breeding, who are willing to disregard centuries of alliances and unity for the sake of the exotic. I hope you aren’t one of those modern men who see mixed blood as a token of the times.” Before Ragoczy could speak von Ravensberg took one of the sheets off the rack. “You must examine my thesis, Comte, and discuss your thoughts with me.”
“I will try to do so, but I cannot give your work my full attention until the day after tomorrow. On Friday I will read your book, and, if you are still in the city, I will—”
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