"Did I not ple­ase you last night, my lord?" Des­pi­te her ex­ha­us­ti­on the­re was a snap to her vo­ice, but Mic­ha­el was so full of his own gra­ti­fi­ca­ti­on he he­ard only what he wan­ted to he­ar.

  "As much as a vir­gin can ple­ase a man," he sa­id airily, ret­ying his gir­d­le. "I'll not re­qu­ire you to ta­ke the ini­ti­ati­ve in the­se mat­ters, but you must le­arn to open yo­ur­self mo­re re­adily. Then you will ple­ase me per­fectly." He stro­de to the do­or, a spring in his step. "Ring for yo­ur ma­id. You ne­ed at­ten­ti­on." He so­un­ded mig­h­tily ple­ased with him­self at this evi­den­ce of his po­tency.

  Cor­de­lia sta­red at the clo­sed do­or, fig­h­ting for com­po­su­re. Then she drag­ged off her so­iled nig­h­t­gown and be­gan to scrub her­self cle­an, to scrub as if she wo­uld re­mo­ve the la­yer of skin that he'd sul­li­ed.

  Mat­hil­de had kept her vi­gil all night, and as so­on as the prin­ce ap­pe­ared in the cor­ri­dor, she step­ped for­ward. "I'll go to my mis­t­ress now, my lord?"

  "Go­od God, wo­man! Whe­re did you spring from? I just told the prin­cess to ring for you."

  "I ha­ve be­en up and wa­iting this past ho­ur, my lord."

  "Mmm. So you're a fa­it­h­ful at­ten­dant at le­ast. Yes, go to her. She ne­eds at­ten­ti­on." He wa­ved her to­ward the do­or with anot­her smug smi­le. His bri­de had fo­und him a most de­vo­ted hus­band, and he co­uldn't re­mem­ber when last he'd be­en so aro­used, so fil­led with po­tent energy. Cer­ta­inly not sin­ce he'd be­gun to sus­pect El­vi­ra's un­fa­it­h­ful­ness.

  But that was past his­tory. He had a new bri­de and a new le­ase on li­fe. Cor­de­lia wo­uld not di­sap­po­int him, he wo­uld ma­ke cer­ta­in of it.

  Mat­hil­de bus­t­led in­to the dimly lit cham­ber. "His lor­d­s­hip lo­oked right ple­ased with him­self."

  "He is lo­at­h­so­me," Cor­de­lia sa­id in a fi­er­ce un­der­to­ne. "I can­not be­ar that he sho­uld to­uch me ever aga­in."

  Mat­hil­de ca­me over to her. Her shrewd eyes to­ok in the wan fa­ce, the lin­ge­ring shock in the blue-gray eyes. "Now, that's a fo­olish thing to say. For bet­ter or wor­se, he's yo­ur hus­band and he has his rights. You'll le­arn to de­al with it li­ke mil­li­ons of wo­men be­fo­re you and mil­li­ons to co­me."

  "But how?" Cor­de­lia brus­hed her tan­g­led ha­ir from her eyes. "How do­es one le­arn to de­al with it?"

  Mat­hil­de saw the bru­ise on her nur­s­ling's wrist and her ex­p­res­si­on sud­denly chan­ged. "Let me lo­ok at you."

  "I'm all right," Cor­de­lia sa­id, "I just fe­el dirty. I ne­ed a bath."

  "I'll ha­ve one sent up when I've had a lo­ok at you," Mat­hil­de sa­id grimly. Cor­de­lia sub­mit­ted to a mi­nu­te exa­mi­na­ti­on that had Mat­hil­de lo­oking grim­mer and grim­mer as she un­co­ve­red every bru­ise, every scratch.

  "So, he's a bru­te in­to the bar­ga­in," Mat­hil­de mut­te­red fi­nal­ly, pul­ling the bell ro­pe be­si­de the do­or. "I knew the­re was so­met­hing dark in him."

  "I got hurt be­ca­use I tri­ed to fight him," Cor­de­lia ex­p­la­ined we­arily.

  "Aye, only what I'd ex­pect from you. But the­re's ot­her ways," Mat­hil­de ad­ded al­most to her­self. She tur­ned to gi­ve or­ders to the ma­id who an­s­we­red the bell. "Fetch up a bath for yo­ur mis­t­ress… And bring bre­ak­fast," she ad­ded as the ma­id cur­t­si­ed and left.

  "I co­uldn't eat. The tho­ught of fo­od ma­kes me fe­el sick."

  "Non­sen­se. You ne­ed all the strength you can get. It's not li­ke you to wal­low in self-pity." Mat­hil­de was not pre­pa­red to in­dul­ge we­ak­ness, ho­we­ver unu­su­al and well jus­ti­fi­ed.

  Cor­de­lia wo­uld ne­ed all her strength of cha­rac­ter to sur­vi­ve un­to­uc­hed by her hus­band's tre­at­ment. "You'll ha­ve a bath and eat a go­od bre­ak­fast and then you'd best set abo­ut ma­king yo­ur mark on the ho­use­hold. The­re's a ma­j­or­do­mo, one Mon­si­e­ur Bri­on, who's a for­ce to be rec­ko­ned with, I gat­her. And then a go­ver­ness.

  "What abo­ut the go­ver­ness?" Cor­de­lia, as al­ways, res­pon­ded to Mat­hil­de's bra­cing to­nes. She wasn't such a mil­k­sop as to be crus­hed af­ter one wed­ding night. The­re was much mo­re to this new li­fe than the mi­se­ri­es of co­nj­ugal sex. Ti­me eno­ugh to fret abo­ut it aga­in to­night, when pre­su­mably it wo­uld be re­pe­ated. She shud­de­red and pus­hed the tho­ught from her. She must not al­low fe­ar of the nights to ha­unt her days.

  Mat­hil­de tur­ned from the ar­mo­ire whe­re she was se­lec­ting a gown. "Dusty spin­s­ter, I un­der­s­tand from the ho­use­ke­eper. Ke­eps to her­self mostly, thinks she's too go­od for the ser­vant's hall. So­me dis­tant re­la­ti­ve of the prin­ce's."

  "And the chil­d­ren?" Cor­de­lia's legs se­emed to be lac­king in strength. She sat on the ed­ge of the bed.

  "No one se­es much of them. Go­ver­ness pretty much has so­le char­ge." Mat­hil­de ca­me over to the bed with a cham­ber ro­be.

  Cor­de­lia slip­ped her arms in­to the cle­an ro­be. "Do they say whet­her the prin­ce has much to do with his da­ug­h­ters?"

  Mat­hil­de bent to gat­her up the blo­od­s­ta­ined nig­h­t­gown. "Hardly se­es them. But it's his vo­ice that ru­les in the nur­sery even so. That go­ver­ness, Ma­da­me de Nevry she's cal­led, is sca­red ri­gid of him. Or so the ho­use­ke­eper says." She glan­ced sharply at Cor­de­lia. "The­re's a bad fe­eling in this ho­use. They all fe­ar the prin­ce."

  "With re­ason, I ima­gi­ne," Cor­de­lia sa­id. She frow­ned. "I won­der why the vis­co­unt didn't say an­y­t­hing when I as­ked him abo­ut my hus­band. I ga­ve him every op­por­tu­nity to tell me the worst."

  "May­be he do­esn't know. A man can ha­ve one fa­ce for the out­si­de world and anot­her for the in­si­de. And you've got to li­ve in a ho­use to know its spi­rit."

  "But what of Leo's sis­ter-El­vi­ra? She li­ved he­re, she must ha­ve known the­se things. Didn't she tell him?"

  "How are we to know that?" Mat­hil­de sho­ok her he­ad in brisk dis­mis­sal of the to­pic. "We ma­na­ge our own af­fa­irs, de­arie."

  Cor­de­lia had al­ways had ut­ter fa­ith in Mat­hil­de's abi­lity to ma­na­ge af­fa­irs of any kind. She didn't al­ways know how she did it, but she hadn't yet co­me ac­ross a si­tu­ati­on that stum­ped her old nur­se. The tho­ught ga­ve her re­ne­wed strength and co­ura­ge. "I shall go and vi­sit the nur­sery as so­on as I'm dres­sed." For­get­ting her ear­li­er qu­e­asi­ness, she bro­ke in­to a ste­aming bri­oc­he from the tray the ma­id­ser­vant had pla­ced on the tab­le. In the small bat­h­ro­om adj­o­ining her cham­ber, fo­ot­men fil­led the cop­per tub with jugs of wa­ter bro­ught up­s­ta­irs by la­bo­ring bo­ot boys.

  "What sho­uld I we­ar, do you think? So­met­hing gay and bright. I want them to think of me as so­me­one che­er­ful and not at all stuffy."

  Mat­hil­de co­uldn't hi­de her smi­le at the qu­a­int no­ti­on that an­yo­ne might think Cor­de­lia stuffy.

  Cor­de­lia eased her body in­to the hot wa­ter with a gro­an of re­li­ef. Mat­hil­de had sprin­k­led herbs on the sur­fa­ce and em­p­ti­ed the frag­rant con­tents of a small vi­al in­to the wa­ter. Im­me­di­ately, Cor­de­lia felt the so­re­ness and stif­fness fa­ding away with the throb­bing of her bru­ises. She let her he­ad rest aga­inst the cop­per rim of the bath and clo­sed her eyes, in­ha­ling the de­li­ca­te yet re­vi­vif­ying scent of the herbs.

  Mat­hil­de pla­ced the bre­ak­fast tray be­si­de the tub, and af­ter a whi­le Cor­de­lia nib­bled on the bri­oc­he and sip­ped hot cho­co­la­te as the ste­am wre­at­hed aro­und her. Her ha­bi­tu­al op­ti­mism fi­nal­ly ba­nis­hed the lin­ge­ring hor­ror of the night. It had be­en hell, but the worst was over be­ca­use she now knew the worst. And now the­re we­re two lit­tle girls in a nur­sery wa­iting to ma­ke her ac­qu­a­in­tan­ce. We­re they sca­red? she won­de­red.

  Ma­da­me de Nevry was in a very bad tem­per. Ame­lia and Sylvie, well ver­sed in the­ir go­ver­ness's mo­ods, knew they we­re in for a mi­se­rab­le day the mi­nu­te she mar­c­hed in­to the nur­sery so­on af­ter dawn and or­de­red the­ir nur­se to pre­pa­re cold baths for them.

  "But I am al­re­ady so cold," Sylvie whim­pe­red, stan­ding on the ba­re flo­or­bo­ards, shi­ve­ring in her nig­h­t­gown. It was too early for the ri­sing sun to ha­ve ta­ken the chill off the night air that fil­led the nur­sery from the per­pe­tu­al­ly ope­ned win­dow.

  "It is yo­ur fat­her's wish that you sho­uld le­arn to en­du­re dis­com­fort," Ma­da­me sta­ted, pin­ning the child's ha­ir in a tight knot on the top of her he­ad. The prin­ce had ac­tu­al­ly sa­id only that his da­ug­h­ters we­re not to be pam­pe­red, but the go­ver­ness cho­se to in­ter­p­ret the in­s­t­ruc­ti­on ac­cor­ding to her own mo­od.

  Sylvie whim­pe­red aga­in as her scalp was pul­led back from her fo­re­he­ad and the pins dug in­to her skin. Nur­se, lo­oking very di­sap­pro­ving, lif­ted her and dum­ped her skinny lit­tle body in the tub of ice-cold wa­ter. Sylvie cri­ed out at the top of her lungs and re­ce­ived a slap­ped hand from the go­ver­ness for her pa­ins. Ame­lia sto­od and wat­c­hed, wa­iting her turn with rat­her mo­re sto­icism than her sis­ter.

  They had he­ard the so­unds of the party the pre­vi­o­us eve­ning as they'd la­in in bed lis­te­ning to the con­fu­sed no­ises of car­ri­age whe­els, sho­uting lin­k­boys, do­ors ope­ning and clo­sing in the ho­use far be­low the nur­sery, the fa­int stra­ins of mu­sic. They'd ima­gi­ned the fo­od at the ban­qu­et, but sin­ce the­ir own di­et was pla­in to the po­int of tas­te­les­sness and had ne­ver be­en an­y­t­hing el­se, they co­uld only ima­gi­ne a tab­le la­den with the straw­ber­ri­es and cho­co­la­tes they had so­me­ti­mes be­en gi­ven by Mon­si­e­ur Leo, when he co­uld sne­ak the tre­at in­to the scho­ol­ro­om.

  "Co­me, Ame­lia." Ma­da­me snap­ped her fin­gers im­pa­ti­ently as Nur­se lif­ted the still-squ­al­ling Sylvie out of the fre­ezing wa­ter and wrap­ped her in a thick to­wel. Ma­da­me's fa­ce was thin and pin­c­hed, and her lips and the tip of her no­se had a blue tin­ge to them as if they'd be­en in­ked with a qu­ill pen. On her che­eks bur­ned two ver­mi­li­on spots of co­lor. She lo­oked li­ke a pa­int pa­let­te, Ame­lia tho­ught, ra­ising her arms pas­si­vely as Nur­se drew off her nig­h­t­gown.

  Sylvie's whim­pers fa­ded as she hud­dled in the to­wel. The go­ose­bumps on her skin went down and her shi­vers les­se­ned whi­le her twin was do­used and so­aped and do­used aga­in, her lips blue with cold, her te­eth chat­te­ring.

  Even af­ter they we­re dres­sed, they we­re still not pro­perly warm, and a me­ager bre­ak­fast of bre­ad and but­ter and we­ak tea did lit­tle to im­p­ro­ve mat­ters. Ma­da­me's blue no­se tur­ned pink as she drank her own tea. The girls had no­ti­ced it al­ways did when she po­ured so­met­hing from a lit­tle flask in­to her cup. And her che­eks grew even red­der.

  "We will study the glo­be this mor­ning." Lo­u­ise ges­tu­red to the lar­ge ro­und glo­be with her po­in­ter. "Sylvie, you will find En­g­land and tell me the na­me of the ca­pi­tal city."

  Sylvie pe­ered at the bumps and squ­ig­gles and li­nes. Ever­y­t­hing lo­oked the sa­me to her. She clo­sed her eyes and stab­bed with her fo­re­fin­ger.

  Lo­u­ise put up her pin­ce-nez and exa­mi­ned the spot. If as­ked to per­form the task she had set Sylvie, she wo­uld ha­ve had dif­fi­culty. Ho­we­ver, Sylvie's cho­ice ap­pe­ared to be in a ran­ge of mo­un­ta­ins, and Lo­u­ise was fa­irly con­vin­ced that En­g­land was not a mo­un­ta­ino­us land.

  It was at this po­int that the do­or ope­ned to re­ve­al an as­to­un­ding vi­si­on, shim­me­ring, glo­wing with co­lor in the drab ro­om.

  "Go­od mor­ning. My na­me is Cor­de­lia and I ha­ve co­me to ma­ke yo­ur ac­qu­a­in­tan­ce."

  The girls sta­red open­mo­ut­hed as a black-ha­ired girl in a gown of tur­qu­o­ise silk step­ped in­to the ro­om, her jewe­led he­els tap­ping on the oak bo­ards. She was smi­ling, her mo­uth red and warm, her eyes so big and blue they se­emed to swal­low them.

  She bent and held out her hand to Sylvie. Leo had sa­id so­met­hing abo­ut ha­ir rib­bons, but she co­uldn't re­mem­ber which was which. "Are you Sylvie or Ame­lia?"

  "Sylvie. The­re's Ame­lia."

  Cor­de­lia to­ok both the­ir hands in hers, over­po­we­ring-ly awa­re of how small they we­re. She had ne­ver be­en much awa­re of chil­d­ren be­fo­re, but the­se two, ga­zing at her with such so­lem­nity, fil­led her with a stran­ge awe.

  "Prin­cess, we we­re not ex­pec­ting you." The gla­ci­al to­nes drew Cor­de­lia up­right aga­in.

  "You must be the chil­d­ren's go­ver­ness. Ma­da­me de Nevry, I be­li­eve?" She smi­led warmly, ref­lec­ting that not­hing wo­uld be ga­ined by ali­ena­ting this di­sag­re­e­ab­le-lo­oking wo­man.

  "That is so, Prin­cess. As I sa­id, we we­re not ex­pec­ting you. The prin­ce ga­ve me no in­s­t­ruc­ti­ons as to re­ce­iving you." She strug­gled to hi­de her dis­ma­yed shock at a vi­si­on that bo­re no re­sem­b­lan­ce to her ima­gi­nings of the new Prin­cess von Sac­h­sen. The girl was ba­rely out of the scho­ol­ro­om her­self, and she was be­a­uti­ful. Even to Lo­u­ise's ja­un­di­ced eye, the vib­rant be­a­uty pul­sing from the prin­cess was un­de­ni­ab­le.

  "No, well, I da­re­say that's be­ca­use he do­esn't know I'm he­re," Cor­de­lia sa­id che­er­ful­ly. "I tho­ught it wo­uld be much ni­cer to me­et Sylvie and Ame­lia wit­ho­ut any for­mal fuss and bot­her." She tur­ned back to the girls, who still re­gar­ded her with open­mo­ut­hed dis­be­li­ef. "Shall we be fri­ends, do you think? I do so ho­pe we shall." She to­ok the­ir hands aga­in, hol­ding them in her own warm grasp.

  "Oh, yes," they sa­id in uni­son on a lit­tle gasp of de­light. "Do you know Mon­si­e­ur Leo? He's our fri­end too."

  "Yes, I know him," she sa­id, ig­no­ring the pre­pa­ra­tory mut­te­rings from the go­ver­ness. "I know him very well, so we shall all be fri­ends." She stra­ig­h­te­ned aga­in to in­c­lu­de the go­ver­ness in the con­ver­sa­ti­on. "I un­der­s­tand from my hus­band and Vis­co­unt Ki­er­s­ton that His Lor­d­s­hip is a fre­qu­ent vi­si­tor to his ni­eces."

  "That may be so," Lo­u­ise al­lo­wed wit­ho­ut mo­ving so much as a mus­c­le. "Ho­we­ver, if you'll ex­cu­se us, Prin­cess, the chil­d­ren must do the­ir les­sons."

  "Oh, how dre­ar that they sho­uld ha­ve to ha­ve les­sons on the day I ar­ri­ve." Cor­de­lia's no­se wrin­k­led and she mo­ved clo­ser to the go­ver­ness on the pre­text of stud­ying the glo­be. "Are you ha­ving a ge­og­raphy les­son?"

  "We we­re," Lo­u­ise sa­id po­in­tedly.

  Cor­de­lia nod­ded as her sus­pi­ci­ons we­re con­fir­med. The wo­man smel­led li­ke a so­used her­ring, and it was ba­rely ni­ne o'clock in the mor­ning. Su­rely Mic­ha­el co­uldn't know that his da­ug­h­ters' go­ver­ness drank. But for ti­me be­ing, she wo­uld ke­ep the know­led­ge to her­self. She had much to le­arn abo­ut this ho­use­hold.

  "Then I'll le­ave you for the mo­ment," she sa­id ame­nably. "But I'd li­ke the girls to vi­sit me in my bo­udo­ir be­fo­re din­ner. The­re's no ne­ed for you to ac­com­pany them." She tre­ated the go­ver­ness to a daz­zling smi­le. "At one o'clock, shall we say." Ben­ding, she swiftly kis­sed the chil­d­ren. "We shall le­arn to know each ot­her so­on." Then she was go­ne, le­aving Sylvie and Ame­lia in a warm da­ze and the­ir go­ver­ness as fro­zen ri­gid as a sta­lag­mi­te.

  "Prac­ti­ce yo­ur wri­ting," she com­man­ded, ges­tu­ring to the tab­le and the pens and par­c­h­ment.

  She sat down ab­ruptly by the empty he­arth and sta­red at her ref­lec­ti­on in the bur­nis­hed gra­te. Sur­rep­ti­ti­o­usly, she wit­h­d­rew the lit­tle sil­ver flask from her poc­ket and to­ok a swift gulp. She co­uld not be­li­eve that the prin­ce had co­un­te­nan­ced his bri­de's sur­p­ri­se vi­sit to his da­ug­h­ters. He li­ved his li­fe by ri­te and ro­te and la­id down strict or­ders for the scho­ol­ro­om as he did for the rest of the ho­use­hold. But what was Prin­ce Mic­ha­el do­ing with such a fri­vo­lo­us, vo­la­ti­le, vib­rant, unor­t­ho­dox yo­ung bri­de?

  Lo­u­ise to­ok anot­her gulp. From what she knew of her re­la­ti­ve, he wo­uldn't to­le­ra­te tho­se qu­ali­ti­es in the girl for very long.

  Cor­de­lia re­tur­ned to the ma­in part of the pa­la­ce and des­cen­ded the cur­ving sta­ir­ca­se to the ca­ver­no­us hall with its mar­b­le pil­lars and vast ex­pan­se of mar­b­le flo­or.

  Mon­si­e­ur Bri­on ap­pe­ared from now­he­re and ca­me to the sta­ir with sta­tely step, bo­wing low as she re­ac­hed the bot­tom. "Is the­re so­met­hing I can do for you, Prin­cess?"

  "Yes, I sho­uld li­ke to be shown aro­und the pa­la­ce, ple­ase. And I sho­uld li­ke to me­et with the ho­use­ke­eper and the co­ok." Cor­de­lia's smi­le was warm, but the ma­j­or­do­mo had the as­to­nis­hing fe­eling that his new mis­t­ress, for all her yo­uth, was not go­ing to be easy to ma­na­ge.

  "If you ha­ve in­s­t­ruc­ti­ons for eit­her the co­ok or the ho­use­ke­eper, ma­da­me, I will be ple­ased to re­lay them for you."

  Cor­de­lia sho­ok her he­ad. "Oh, I don't think that will be ne­ces­sary, Mon­si­e­ur Bri­on. I am per­fectly ca­pab­le of gi­ving my own in­s­t­ruc­ti­ons. Ple­ase ask them to co­me to me in my bo­udo­ir at no­on. Now, per­haps you wo­uld li­ke to show me aro­und."

 

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