Writ in blood : a novel of Saint-Germain Read online

  “Certainly,” said Clarice Pearce-Manning. “There’s no need to feel hurried. We try to let everyone go at his own pace here.”

  As he prepared to mount the stairs to the first floor, he said, “Thank you so much for inviting me. As a stranger in England, I am grateful for your hospitality.”

  She brightened considerably. “No such thing, Coun— Franchot.” If she had intended to say anything more, it was cut short by a voice from the top of the stairs.

  “All right, Mother. Will this do?” By indication, she meant the dark-russet afternoon dress with a deep-brown velvet bolero jacket over it.

  Startled, Ragoczy looked up; the young woman above him was fastenings jeweled brooch to the center of the jacket, her abrupt movements eloquently expressing her state of mind. She was as tall as her mother, but her short-cut hair was strawberry blonde and her eyes

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  were almost gold instead of hazel. Her hands were large, long, and supple, with neat, short-trimmed nails. She was not pretty in the prevailing fashion, but her fine classic features were timeless. “Excuse me,” he said, realizing that she was unaware of his presence.

  “Gracious, Rowena, must you make such a fuss?” said her mother, doing her best to put a good face on their encounter. “Rowena, this is our guest, Franchot Ragoczy, Count Saint-Germain; Franchot, my daughter Rowena.”

  She studied Ragoczy briefly, and said frostily, “Good evening,” before returning her attention to her mother. “I never thought you would make such a fuss about a cycling costume. I thought,” she went on with heavy emphasis, “since we are in the country, it wouldn’t matter.”

  “But, Rowena; for tea?” Clarice laughed artificially, and turned to Ragoczy in order to show her concern. “You have to pardon my daughter. She is used to flouting polite convention.”

  Rowena clicked her tongue impatiently. “Yes. You’d better get up to your rooms, Count, unless you want to witness another family altercation.”

  “I have no intention of intruding,” said Ragoczy, reluctant to push his way past Rowena in order to leave mother and daughter in private.

  “For heavens sake, Rowena,” her mother chided her. “Not in front of our guest. Stop trying to embarrass your father and me. Come down and have tea. Rupert is waiting; he came specially, to see you.”

  Something in her golden eyes told Ragoczy that Rowena was not best pleased with this news. She swept past him as she came down the stairs at last; Ragoczy caught a faint trace of her perfume and saw that she was wearing small rose-shaped cat s-eye studs in her ears; he also sensed her defiance which was barely held in check. “All right. I’m ready. We’re off to feed the lions,” she s&id, more for her mother s benefit than Ragoczy s.

  “Roa?ena, Rowena,” Clarice chided her, preparing to bustle her off to the south drawing room.

  Climbing upward, Ragoczy glanced back once, and saw the two women standing close together at the south-leading corridor, arguing in whispers. Whatever their dispute was, he sensed from the tone of their voices, it was an ongoing one not limited to cycling costumes and afternoon dresses. As he resumed his upward progress, he heard the womens footsteps retreating from the hall. He reached the first floor and paused to look around the gallery; the floor above had been removed and now a vast stained-glass window occupied the top of the hall. It was not light enough to see the window in all its splendor, but the

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  electric lights ranged below showed a fine illustration of an old-fashioned map of the world, with a string of facetted red dots linking the West coast of America to Buckinghamshire, England. He heard the first drops of rain strike the glass and went on down the corridor.

  Roger was waiting inside the open door. “Two rooms, and a bath shared with the next suite on,” he said as he showed Ragoczy the apartment. “A study and a bedroom. Very luxurious.”

  “Hardly surprising, given the rest of the house,” Ragoczy said. “I was warned it might be a trifle grand.”

  Long centuries of familiarity with his master made Roger laugh once. “What will it be like when it is complete, do you guess.”

  “Not as excessive as Versailles.” Ragoczy nodded as he watched Roger unpack his clothes; he stood in the doorway between the two rooms, wondering if he had made an error in coming here. It was, he knew, too soon to tell, but past experience had taught him circumspection. “I should change for the evening. It will buy me some time before I meet the rest of the guests.”

  “Certainly,” said Roger. “Incidentally, speaking of Versailles,” he added as he came from the bedroom with Ragoczy s evening clothes draped over his arm, “there are four mirrors in the bathroom, one of them full-length, on the door to the other suite.”

  “And the one over the dresser, I see,” said Ragoczy. He drew a long breath. “Well, it can’t be helped.”

  “Should I cover the one in the bedroom?” asked Roger.

  “Best not,” said Ragoczy. “The chambermaids might remark on it. Leave the mirrors as they are. I will be careful of them.” He unbuttoned his jacket and handed it to Roger. “I am going to wash my face.”

  “Are you in any rush? I can have everything ready in ten minutes,” Roger stated as Ragoczy went to the bathroom door.

  “On the contrary, I would be grateful of a delay. I am not hankering for tea.” His ironic smile came and went quickly; Ragoczy left Roger to finish unpacking.

  It was nearing six in the evening when Ragoczy finally left his rooms. He was in evening clothes, his white waistcoat impeccable under his silk-lined wool jacket. The studs in his silk shirt were rubies, and his cufflinks displayed his eclipse device. He had not bothered with gloves nor watch. He wore this elegance with ease and was more impressive because of it. As he reached the stairs, he encountered Rowena once again. “Miss Pearce-Manning,” he said, favoring her with a slight bow.

  “Oh, blast it,” she swore as she caught sight of him. “I’m going to be late again, aren’t I?”

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  “Possibly; I suspect I am early,” said Ragoczy, standing aside for her on the stairs to give her room.

  “Its ridiculous, this constant changing of clothes. You’d think we were in a play.” She stopped two steps below him. “Pray don’t be offended, Count, but I can’t see the purpose of’—she plucked the deep-brown velvet sleeve of her jacket—“all this bother.”

  “Perhaps its value,” Ragoczy ventured, “is in its lack of purpose.” “Form rather than substance, you mean?” She stared at him as if they had never met before; interest sparked her golden eyes. “You may be right,” she said. “But there is so much form and so little substance.” “And that troubles you: I wonder why.” His dark eyes rested on her golden ones.

  For a moment his penetrating gaze unnerved her, then she regained her composure. “Mother would tell you it is nothing more than my willfulness,” she said, and prepared to get by him, taking the next step. He stopped her with a single question. “What would you say?”

  Her attempt at laughter was not a success; she shook her head. “I won’t impose on you, Count. It would be bad—”

  “Form?” he interjected with a lift of his fine brows. “It may be, but the substance interests me.” Because he was a step above her, he looked down into her face rather than directly at her.

  Now she was truly disconcerted. “Surely you don’t want to know. You are being polite, which is very diplomatic of you—”

  “Miss Pearce-Manning, I am not practicing courtesy: I am curious about you, and I would like to know why you are so bothered by this . . . function.” He gave her plenty of room to pass him.

  As she reached the gallery, she hesitated once again, then swung around to look at him, a challenge in her eyes, as if she expected him to be at the foot of the staircase; this was her test of his sincerity of interest. To her surprise Ragoczy stood where he had been a few seconds before, watching her with an enigmatic expression. “Perhaps,” she sa
id, feeling she had to say something, “we will discuss this later. If you are still curious. After dinner, if you like.”

  He nodded to her. “I shall look forward to it.”

  Most of the weekend guests had gone to their rooms to change and only Carlisle Sunbury, still in his afternoon tweeds, an abandoned cup of tea on the occasional table beside him, waited for Ragoczy in the south drawing room, sunk comfortably in a plush-upholstered chair. As he caught sight of Ragoczy, he said lazily, “What, no Orders?”

  Ragoczy shrugged. “I thought they would be presumptuous.”

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  “Oh, they would be; they would be. But Clarice would be enchanted. Particularly Saint Stephen of Hungary. All those diamonds would thrill her, and the sash.” He rose and shook Ragoczy’s small hand, and was, as always, startled by its strength. “She’d love to host a diplomatic reception, and may still achieve her goal.”

  “And offer superior amusements and food,” said Ragoczy. “Women who want to make a mark in society always do.” He realized he sounded cynical, and that shocked him. “I apologize for that,” he added swiftly. “I am not succeeding at my task as I wish to and I am taking it out on others.”

  Sunbury gestured his lack of concern. “Not that what there isn’t some truth in what you say. And you must have had a chance to see such women in many places other than London and Saint Petersburg.”

  It was not a matter Ragoczy wanted to discuss, for it led to speculations he had learned over the centuries were not to his advantage. “When one travels ...” He left the rest unspoken.

  “I would think so,” said Sunbury, hardly noticing when two servants came and drew the heavy draperies across the window, though they gave Ragoczy a sense of relief, for now that it was almost fully dark out, reflections were forming on the glass. “You haven’t met the rest of the Pearce-Mannings, have you?”

  “Only mother and daughter,” said Ragoczy.

  “Daughter, is it? I take it you don’t mean Penelope; she’s only ten and not prepared to take on Clarice.” He rocked back on his heels. “Not that Penelope won’t be her own kind of handful, one day.”

  “Rowena,” said Ragoczy, not interested in having their conversation wander too far afield, “Handsome woman, in her twenties, modish red-blonde hair? We were introduced shortly after I arrived, when I seem to have stepped into a dispute between her and her mother.” He gave Sunbury a long, speculative look, seeing something in the solicitor’s usually stoic expression that prompted him to add, “I would not be far wrong, I suppose, if I guessed you know what the dispute is about.” “Painting,” said Sunbury succinctly.

  “What painting?” Ragoczy asked, intrigued. He had not anticipated anything of the sort: only then did he realized he had been more than idly speculating about the woman.

  “Whose painting is more like it. Rowena has decided to become an artist and her mother is beside herself. She’s been trying to get Rowena properly married for seven years; Rowena won’t have it.” Sunbury made a gesture to show he thought the whole thing ridiculous.

  Chelsea Quinn Yarhro

  “The parents are refusing to support her painting, I gather,” said Ragoczy, puzzled. “There seemed to be a degree of animosity that—” “They can’t,” said Sunbury, cutting in. “Not in any material way. The girl’s about to come into a trust fund from her grand-father, so there’s nothing much her mother or father can do to stop her. According to what I’ve been told, Rowena has threatened to take a place of her own and take up the study seriously. The family may not like it, but there is little they can do. She’s of age.” He coughed discreetly behind his hand. “I’m not betraying any confidence, saying this to you. You’ll hear about it soon enough, one way or another. Clarice has been complaining about it since everyone arrived yesterday, and very likely longer.” Ragoczy listened with increasing interest. “Does she have talent?” “How would I know? I’ve never seen her work. I wouldn’t think so, given what she comes from.” He stopped short as he nodded slightly to the man in evening clothes who came into the room. “Good evening, Geoffrey. Let me make the two of you known to each other.”

  Geoffrey Pearce-Manning was tall, loose-limbed and square-jawed, between fifty and fifty-five, with receding dark-auburn hair going white at the temples, and a neat mustache over a small mouth in a pleasant but unremarkable face. More noticeable than his features were the eyeglasses in tortoise-shell frames he wore, and to further distinguish himself, he sported a deep-blue waistcoat under his black jacket, and a matching silk handkerchief in his jacket pocket. Catching sight of an unfamiliar guest, he held out his hand as he came forward, filled with conviviality. “You’re Ragoczy, aren’t you? We’d about given you up.”

  “I am,” said Ragoczy, taking Pearce-Manning’s hand and noticing the lack of firmness in his grip, so much at odds with the line of his jaw. “I apologize for having to come late, but unexpected obligations kept me in town.”

  “It is often difficult to break away, especially for those at the beck and call of the mighty. No matter; at least you arrived ahead of the rain,” said Pearce-Manning, meaning it. “Saturday evening is generally our best in the weekend.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” said Ragoczy, realizing there was actually some truth in his assertion. “But I fear,” he said, “I do not motor well. It would be wise for me to—”

  Again Sunbury interrupted. “What Ragoczy is trying to say is that he has a delicate constitution and coddles it shamelessly. He does not take his meals with anyone, not in all the years I’ve known him.”

  “I do not like to impose . . . my necessary tastes ... on those unwilling to share them,” Ragoczy said very quietly.

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  “Hum!” Pearce-Manning said, revealing he did not know what was appropriate to say. “Dashed inconvenient for you. Well, if you get peckish, spnd word down to the kitchen. They’ll boil up some broth for you, or whatever else you would like.” He knew his duties as a host and did what he could to execute them graciously.

  “You’re good to offer, but it will not be necessary,” said Ragoczy. “I will fend for myself, thank you.”

  “You are of a robust nature, by the look of you,” said Pearce-Manning, surveying Ragoczy’s compact, powerful body. “I won’t bother myself about your well-being.” His smile was automatic, revealing little of his thoughts. He took a cigarette case from inside his jacket and, opening it, offered it to Ragoczy.

  “He doesn’t smoke, either; I used to think he had taken a religious vow,” said Sunbury, a curious satisfaction in his eyes.

  “I suppose I have, of sorts,” said Ragoczy lightly, recalling that night four thousand years ago when the god of his people had given Ragoczy his blood to drink, assuring that he, too, would one day be a god to his people, and provisionally immortal.

  “Oriental or Catholic?” asked Pearce-Manning, taken aback, his good manners nearly failing him.

  “Nothing so dramatic. It is a . . . tradition for those of my blood.” Ragoczy said. “I strive not to impose on anyone in this regard.”

  “Commendable, I’m sure,” said Pearce-Manning, his urbanity firmly back in place.

  “No doubt you will want to talk without my interference,” said Sunbury, apparently convinced that Ragoczy and his host would find much to discuss. “And I must go change. Cocktails in the main hall in what?— forty minutes or so?” He turned on his heel and loped off, leaving Ragoczy and Pearce-Manning to continue their conversation as best they might.

  “My wife tells me you arrived in a Silver Ghost,” said Pearce-Manning after he had lit his cigarette.

  “Yes. A superior motor car,” said Ragoczy. “I also keep a Vauxhall for my manservant’s use.”

  “Good English companies,” said Pearce-Manning. “Solid.”

  “That they are,” Ragoczy agreed with the ease of a man long familiar with the rules of small talk, which the English cultivated assiduously.

>   “You might want to tell Asquith. Or Churchill, over at Trade. It’s the sort of thing he likes to hear.” His smoothing of his mustache was his single concession to pride. “He’s coming over in the morning—Asquith,

  not Churchill—weather and politics permitting—to do some shooting with us.”

  “Your wife must be delighted to have the chance to entertain the Prime Minister,” said Ragoczy, not making it apparent that he was choosing his words carefully.

  “As to that, IVe known H. H. for donkeys’ years. We were at school together; he was two years ahead of me, but we occasionally spoke; you know, as you do at university.” The use of Asquiths Balliol College nickname was not as calculated as it would have been had his wife spoken it, but he had intended to impress Ragoczy, or at least startle him; the foreigners self-possession unnerved him. “Done a very creditable job thus far, though it’s early days yet. Not that I agree with him on all the issues; I’m not a Liberal, myself. This determination he has to limit the power of the Lords could well lead to a ruction in Commons. Who knows what would happen, once they get the bit in their teeth?” Having made his point, he said, “Would you like to meet him?”

  “Actually, he and I met briefly seven years ago,” said Ragoczy quietly. “I would appreciate renewing my acquaintance with him, if you would be kind enough.”

  “Certainly,” said Pearce-Manning, disappointed that his ploy had not gone as he had hoped. He was spared any more surprises from Ragoczy as the sound of high heels announced the arrival of his wife. With an emotion very like relief, he took half a dozen steps toward her. “Clarice, my dear. I was just wondering what had become of you. You look superb.”

  “Geoffrey,” she exclaimed. “And .. . Franchot.” She relished the approval her husband offered her, but wanted to find the same endorsement from her guest. “I wanted to remind you that it is about time for cocktails. In the main hall. Waithe is setting everything out.” She came a little further into the room so that the light struck her more fully. Her evening dress was a fashionable concoction of gossamer silk, in tiered, deep-ruffled sleeves to match the tiered, deep ruffled skirts, all in varying shades of rose; the bodice was a soft-mauve satin over which she wore a triple-rope of pearls.