Tempting Fate (5 page)

“Certainly, Madame.” He took strength from her determination, confident that she had the situation well in hand.

“The Captain will require a meal after his rest. If there is not ham enough, then tell Nanette to kill a brace of ducks and do what she can with them. While he is resting there is a great deal that must be done. I am sure that you have already opened the vault in the cellar.”

“Yes, Madame. And Félicitié has started setting aside the silver and gold to be stored in it,” he reported eagerly.

“Fine. Take care to put most of the paintings there, as well, and the best of the furniture. I know it is not the intention of the Generals to ruin the houses where they stay, but it inevitably seems to happen.” She brushed her hair back from her face, and made an exasperated frown. “I had hoped that Monbussy was remote enough to allow us to remain undisturbed, but that is no longer possible. Well, you have much to do and I will not keep you.”

“Very good, Madame.” Claude bowed and turned away.

“Oh, one thing more, Claude,” Madelaine said to him. “If it should happen that the Captain notices that furniture and pictures and similar ornaments are gone, he is to be told that I have suffered severe financial reverses because of the war. It is credible enough, and not uncommon.”

Claude nodded. “I will tell the others, as well. Is there any way we can explain the Percherons?”

It was only an instant before Madelaine had an answer. “Do not go out of your way to show them to Captain Timbres, but if he should learn of them, say that they were given in lieu of rent by one of the farmers who feared he would not be able to feed them in any case. And inform David that he must tell the same tale to Jacques Dandeau.”

“Will he agree?” Claude had long been familiar with the stubbornness of the farmers in the valley.

“He will. If he does not, he will dishonor himself, and I don’t think he would do that.” She tugged at the hem of her jacket and nodded once to Claude. “We shall manage, good friend. You will see this is so.”

“Yes, Madame,” Claude said before heading off toward the kitchens and the stableyard beyond.

Captain Timbres was on his second tot of cognac when Madelaine came back into the withdrawing room. He was feeling cheerier than he had in months, and welcomed the return of his sense of gallantry. “Madame, I was beginning to fear you had forgotten me.”

Madelaine had assessed his condition as she came into the room and decided that a bantering tone would be more successful than any other. “Impossible, Captain. When you have brought so much excitement to my life, how could I forget you?”

At this he was chagrined. “It is not my desire to send you away from here, but that I would be filled with regret to know that you were needlessly exposed to danger.”

“I will keep that in mind on my way to Provence,” she said as she sat down. “My household has set to work with packing, and so you must forgive them if your wishes are not attended to as promptly as you or I might wish. We can take little, and it is a difficult matter to know what to choose.”

“My General asked me to inform you that he would not countenance any damage to your property or acts of vandalism by his troops. You have only to store your more prized possessions in a room designated for that purpose and you may be confident that they will be safe.”

“But so much is precious to me, Captain, and my circumstances here are already reduced…” She shook her head, and her brown hair shone with subtle topaz lights in the dim room. “Do not trouble yourself about such matters. Compared to the ordeals you have endured, this must seem surprisingly inconsequential.”

“No, no, Madame. It is for precisely this reason that we fight to defend our homeland from les Boches. You are not to think that your plight does not concern me.” He stared at her fixedly as he spoke, and then quickly downed the last of the cognac in his glass.

“Let me give you some more.” The bottle was proffered, but Captain Timbres waved it away.

“I thank you, but no. I haven’t been much in the habit of drinking fine cognac these last several months, and I fear that if I have any more it will go more to my head than it has already, and then I might behave in a way that
you
would find odious, and
I
would deeply regret.” He put his hand to the front of his tunic and contrived to appear more worldly than he felt.

“As you like, Captain. I certainly don’t want to distress you. But, if you wish, I will have this bottle delivered to your bedchamber.” Her suit was reminiscent of a riding habit, functionally tailored, and included a neckcloth not unlike a stock. She paused to give the muslin a twitch. “If you are ready, I will show you to the bath now, so that you may make whatever preparations you prefer. The heated water will be brought up in less than ten minutes. I am certain that we can lend you a razor, if you intend to shave.”

He came promptly to his feet and was rocked by a moment’s dizziness. “You’re most gracious, Madame.” As she walked toward the second door to the withdrawing room, she passed quite near him and he was again struck with her very youthful appearance. How old was she? he asked himself, and was the title “Madame” indicative of marriage or widowhood or simply ownership of Monbussy? He could think of no tactful way to inquire.

Madelaine paused in the door, her hand outstretched. “Come, Captain. The stairs are just ahead on the left.”

Captain Timbres nodded and put the snifter down before falling into step a discreet three paces behind her.

The staircase, he noticed, had been carpeted once but was not now. What he did not know was that the magnificent Ottomans with their jewel-bright colors and furlike density were rolled and stored in a sealed cupboard in the attic, where they had been since the outbreak of the war. On the landing there was a seventeenth-century Flemish table with a large porcelain vase standing on it. Captain Timbres was sorry that Madame de Montalia would have to leave these behind.

The green bedchamber was so-called for the spread and hangings of the huge, old bed that dominated it, and for the draperies which were a paler version of them. The spread and blankets had been turned back on sheets of embroidered white linen. Looking at this, Captain Timbres was possessed of the most voluptuous fatigue. It would be so easy to succumb to the promise of that bed.

“I hope this is to your satisfaction, Captain?” Madelaine said politely.

“Yes. Oh, yes.”

“Very good. The bath is across the hall, the second door down. I believe there is a robe in the armoire that you may use. If you will excuse me, I will see to the ordering of your supper.” Her smile was almost audacious as she turned and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Claude met Madelaine on the stair; he was lifting the porcelain vase from the table. “The Captain?”

“He’s getting ready to bathe, and after that I think he’ll sleep for three or four hours. See that the cognac is delivered to the green bedchamber.” She rubbed her hands together once and admitted that as inconvenient as this move was, she could not help but enjoy the sudden, secret flurry of activity.

“David has gone to see about the horses.” He held the vase in both arms and began his precarious descent.

“Fine. Have the carriages been inspected? Have they been readied for travel? Is the harness in good condition?” She walked beside her servant, reaching out once to steady him as he faltered with his burden.

“David has been keeping them ready,” Claude reminded her, panting a little. “We will be able to depart as soon as you wish.”

“Fine.” They had reached the foot of the stair and Madelaine glanced at the ticking clock that stood in an alcove by the hall. “I will want reports from the household every hour. If there are any difficulties at all, I expect to be informed at once. Delays at this time are critical.”

“Of course,” Claude said, preparing to start down toward the cellar and the vault.

Madelaine glanced toward the narrow windows. “I hope the weather does not worsen,” she said quietly, and went to stare intently out into the sleet.

It was quite dark when Captain Timbres came reluctantly down from the green bedroom. His face, clean-shaven, was not unattractive, though the hardships of war had chiseled his mouth to a grim line bracketed by bitter, deep-cut folds. His uniform had been tended, and it was almost presentable. As he was not familiar with Monbussy, he went to the withdrawing room where he had been earlier in the day.

Gas-lights filled the room with their soft luminescence, and a small fire in the hearth gave some warmth to the room. Captain Timbres sat before the fire, wondering if he ought to ring for one of the servants, and had just lifted the little bell from the table when Madelaine came into the room.

She had changed her clothes and was in a beautiful silk gown over a robe of brocade, five years gloriously out of fashion. The waist was high and the crossover bodice had a square neck. The skirt was not cut in the extreme of the hobble, but achieved the same effect by the artful pleating and crossing of the gown which revealed the long narrow panels of the robe beneath. Her hair was brushed back and secured with a jeweled comb, which was her only jewelry. She held her hand out to the Captain and allowed him to kiss it. “You’re looking refreshed,” she said to him as he released her fingers.

“I can’t thank you enough. I was more tired than I knew, and now I feel reborn.” He was being deliberately extravagant, eager to have her respond to him.

“How kind of you to say so,” she said. “Come. The fare is not very exciting, but I am fairly confident that you will have a tolerable meal. It’s actually past the usual dinner hour here, and so you will excuse me if I only enjoy your company.”

Captain Timbres thought that this was a courteous lie, and that in all probability he was being given the last food in the larder. By all the dicta he had ever been taught, he should politely insist that she join him, or not eat himself. Sixteen months in the trenches had changed that in him, and he could not bring himself to utter the formal phrases. He was hungry. He had been hungry for more than a year. He offered Madelaine his arm. “Madame, I will feast on your presence as much as on the meal provided.”

So as Captain Timbres sat at the antique satinwood dining table and regaled himself on soup, stuffed mushrooms, and duck, Madelaine smiled at him and made sure that his glass stayed filled, while in the rest of the château, the last of the treasures were stowed in the vault and the four Percherons were brought to draw the carriages that would carry Madelaine and her five servants away from Monbussy and the privations of war.

Text of a letter from Roger, manservant to Franchot Ragoczy, Count of Saint-Germain, to Sir William Graddiston in London.

Stockholm, Sweden

9 February, 1918

Sir William Graddiston

92 Cadogan Square

London, England

Sir William:

My employer, Franchot Ragoczy, requested that upon my arrival in Stockholm I contact you on his behalf, with the enclosed authorization for the transfer of funds from his account. The amounts are indicated in the accompanying letter, and the specific wishes of the Count are expressed therein: he is confident that his long association with your bank will be taken into consideration by you and your staff as you carry out his instructions.

At the moment, my employer’s whereabouts is not known, and for that reason it is all the more important that you act with alacrity so that the monies requested will be available to him immediately upon his arrival. Most of his Russian holdings have been seized by the new government and whatever wherewithal he had there is now no longer at his disposal. When the political situation there is somewhat more regular, it is my employer’s intention to petition for at least token acknowledgments of the transfer of his various enterprises and holdings to the ownership and control of the emerging government. In the meantime, he is confident that the arrangements he suggests to you will not require him to make any drastic changes in his business commitments.

On behalf of my employer, Franchot Ragoczy, Count of Saint-Germain, believe me to be

Most sincerely yours,

Roger

3

In the past the dasha had been staffed by sixteen servants, but now there were only three: a groom, a carpenter, and a frightened Swiss nanny who kept to her rooms adjoining the empty nursery. Throughout the country house cold and neglect held gelid control. Only the year before there had been a midwinter duck hunt, with two dozen guests. Then the halls had been alive, the rooms rollicking and filled with New Year merriment, and the family had bustled with happy pride. Now the dasha was abandoned, as forlorn as a ruin.

Duchess Irina Andreivna Ohchenov sat in her dressing room, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes on the framed photograph to the right of the mirror. She no longer wept, for the shocks of the last five months had driven the tears out of her. The images of four children, insubstantial as ghosts, smiled back at her, and one of them, the youngest, her Piotr, who would have been six, lifted his hand to wave. Ilya’s collar was askew, Ludmilla had mud on her frilled skirt from fishing with her brothers, and Evgeny still held his buggy whip after driving the rest of the family to a picnic earlier that day. Irina Andreivna turned toward the frosted windows. That day had been so warm, smelling of summer. The only thing that had marred it was Leonid’s hasty departure on urgent summons from Ergli. She remembered the way he had told her he would have to leave for a few days, his affability turned to testiness at the thought of dealing with rebellious Latvians. As he embraced and kissed her, she thought again how fortunate she was to have married him; so many of her friends had been disappointed in the husbands their families had found for them, but Leonid was a treasure. He had looked so impressive in his Guards’ uniform, and he had bent over her, whispering a promise to make up to her the days he would be gone. Then he had mounted his rawboned bay gelding and rode out through the tall wooden gates. The next time she had seen him, he was lying amid the refuse in the corridor of a wrecked hospital. His face was wizened with pain and he was so far gone in fever that he did not truly know her. She had wiped his brow, speaking softly to him, ignoring the hideous smell of his blackened, shattered hands. One of the sergeants who had served with Leonid and respected him had escorted her back to the dasha and later had tried to bring her husband’s body to her for burial, but could not get permission. The graves near the house did not hold Leonid or their children.