Dorchester Terrace

TWO DAYS AFTER THE reception, Vespasia received the news that a woman she had known and admired some time in the past, Serafina Montserrat, was ill and confined to her bed.

It is seldom easy to visit those who are not well, but it is far harder when both you and they know that recovery is not possible. What does one say that has any kind of honesty, and yet does not carry with it the breath of despair?

Vespasia had contemplated this while taking a bath perfumed with her favorite mixture of essences: lavender, rosemary, and eucalyptus in bicarbonate of soda crystals, which always invigorated and lifted the spirits. Now she sat in her dressing room before the looking glass while her maid arranged her hair before assisting with the tiny buttons of her dress. Today Vespasia had chosen a gown of indigo-shaded wool, which was both flattering and warm. She firmly believed that one should dress for the sick with as much care as for a party.

Still, she had not made up her mind about what to say; whether to speak of the present, which was so different for Vespasia than for Serafina. Perhaps remembering the past—rich, turbulent, filled with both triumph and disaster—would be a happier choice.

It was also difficult to know what to take as a small gift. In February there were few flowers; those that were available had been forced to grow in artificial circumstances, and seldom lasted long. There was hardly any fruit at all. Vespasia had then remembered that Serafina liked good chocolate, so a box of carefully selected and beautifully wrapped Belgian chocolates with cream centers seemed a good choice.

She had considered a book of memoirs, or foreign travels, but she did not know if Serafina was well enough to read. She still lived in her house in Dorchester Terrace, with her great-niece as a companion, but was there anyone who would read to her with spirit and charm, if she was not well enough to read for herself?

“Thank you, Gwen,” Vespasia said as her maid finished dressing her hair. Kindness required that she make this visit generously and with good spirits. It would be best that she do it quickly, before her anxiety got the better of her mood.

The morning was brisk and cold, but fortunately she did not have far to go. Her carriage was waiting at the door. She gave the footman the Dorchester Terrace address, and accepted his hand to step up. Seating herself as comfortably as possible in the chill, she arranged her skirts around her so as not to crush them more than necessary.

She watched the tall houses pass by, the few people out walking in the windy streets, heads bent against the first spattering of rain, and thought back nearly fifty years to her first meeting with Serafina Montserrat. The world had been in a turmoil of excitement then. The revolutions of ’48 had filled them with hope and the willingness to sacrifice everything, even their lives, for the chance to overthrow the old tyrannies. It was illusory—perhaps it always had been—but for a brief space their ideas were passionately alive, before the barricades were destroyed, the rebels were dispersed, imprisoned, or killed, and everything was put back as before.

Vespasia had come home again, settled into an acceptable marriage, and had children, but never again had she felt so profoundly passionate about anything as she had then. Serafina had also married, more than once, but remained a fighter, both physically and politically.

Their paths had crossed since, many times. Vespasia had traveled all over Europe. She used her beauty and intelligence to effect good where she was able to, but with a degree of discretion. Serafina had never been discreet.

They had chanced across each other in London, Paris, Rome, Berlin, occasionally Madrid, Naples in the spring, Provence in the autumn. When they met they had spoken with laughter and grief, and exchanged new hopes and old memories. This might be their last meeting. Vespasia found herself stiff. Her hands were clenched as if she was cold, yet she was well supplied with rugs, and the carriage was not uncomfortable.

They pulled up outside the entrance in Dorchester Terrace and Vespasia’s coachman opened the door for her to alight. She accepted his hand and took from him the ribboned box of chocolates. “Thank you. Please wait for me,” she instructed him, then walked across the pavement and up the steps. It was early for a call, and she was very aware of that, but she wished to see Serafina alone, before any others might come at a more usual hour.

The door opened and she handed her card to the footman.

“Good morning, Lady Vespasia,” he said with only mild surprise. “Please do come in.”

“Good morning,” she replied. “Is Mrs. Montserrat well enough to receive visitors? If the hour is too early, I can return.”

“Not at all, my lady. She will be delighted to see you.” He smiled, closing the door behind her. She thought she detected something more than good manners in his voice, perhaps even a thread of gratitude.

She walked into the wide hall with its beautifully parqueted floor and sweeping staircase. She noticed that there was a very handsome lamp built into the newel post at the bottom.

“I’m certain Mrs. Montserrat will wish to see you, but of course I will take the precaution of going up to ask her maid,” he explained. “If you would be good enough to wait in the withdrawing room, where the fire is lit, I shall return in a few moments. Would you care for a cup of tea?”

“Thank you, that would be most welcome. It is inclement weather.” She accepted because it would make him feel less uncomfortable about leaving her, if it should require several moments of assistance before Serafina was ready to receive anyone.

The withdrawing room was warm and elegant in a most unusual manner. The floor carpeting was pale blue, and the walls were papered in the darkest possible green. The somberness of it was brilliantly relieved by furnishings in Indian red and warm amber brocade, with cushions also in amber and green. Thrown carelessly across them were silk blankets with tasseled edges, woven in the same beautiful colors.

The fire was low, but had clearly been lit since early morning, filling the air with the scent of applewood. There were paintings of northern Italian landscapes on the walls: one of Monte Bianco gleaming white in a clear evening sky; another of early morning light on Isola San Giulio, catching the roofs of the monastery, and making shadows in the clear water of Lago d’Orta, where half a dozen small boats lay motionless.

The decor was chaotically eclectic, and full of life, and Vespasia smiled at a score of memories that crowded her mind. She and Serafina had sat at a pavement café in Vienna and drunk hot chocolate while they made notes for a political pamphlet. All around them had been excited chatter, laughter at bawdy jokes, voices sharp-edged, a little too loud with the awareness of danger and loss.

They had stood on the shore at Trieste, side by side, the magnificent Austrian buildings behind them and the sweeping Adriatic skies above, high-arched with clouds like mares’ tails fanned out in the evening light. Serafina had cursed the whole Austrian Empire with a violence that twisted her face and made her voice rasp in her throat.

Vespasia returned to the present with a jolt when the tea was brought. She had nearly finished it by the time a young woman came in, closing the door softly behind her. She was in her mid-thirties, dark-haired, but with such unremarkable brows and lashes that the power of her coloring was lost. She was slender and soft-voiced.

“Lady Vespasia. How gracious of you to call,” she said quietly. “My name is Nerissa Freemarsh. My aunt Serafina is so pleased that you have come. As soon as you have finished your tea I shall take you up to see her. I’m afraid you will find her much weaker than you may remember her, and somewhat more absentminded.” She smiled apologetically. “It has been quite some time since you last met. Please be patient with her. She seems rather confused at times. I’m so sorry.”

“Please think nothing of it.” Vespasia rose to her feet, guilty that it had been so long since she had come to see her friend. “I daresay I forget things myself at times.”

“But this is …” Nerissa started. Then she stopped, smiling at her own mistake. “Of course. I know you understand.” She turned and led the way out across the parqueted hall again and up the handsome staircase. She walked a little stiffly, picking up the dark, plain fabric of her skirt in one hand so she did not trip.

Vespasia followed her up and across the landing, and—after a brief knock on the door—into the main bedroom. Inside it was warm and bright, even in the middle of this dark winter day. The fire was excellent; the logs must be applewood here also, from the sweet smell. The walls were painted light terra-cotta, and the curtains were patterned with flowers, as if Serafina wanted to carry the summer with her, regardless of the iron rule of time and season.

Vespasia looked across at the bed and could not keep the shock from her face.

Serafina was propped almost upright by the pillows at her back. Her hair was white and dressed a little carelessly. Her face was devoid of any artificial color, although with her dark eyes and well-marked brows she did not look as ashen as a fairer woman might have. She had never been beautiful—not as Vespasia had been, and still was—but her features were good, and her courage and intelligence had made her extraordinary. Beside her, other women had seemed leached of life, and predictable. Now all that burning energy was gone, leaving a shell behind, recognizable only with effort.

Serafina turned slowly and stared at the intruders in her room.

Vespasia felt her throat tighten until she could barely swallow.

“Lady Vespasia has come to see you, Aunt Serafina,” Nerissa said with forced cheerfulness. “And brought you some Belgian chocolates.” She held up the box with its beautiful ribbons.

Slowly Serafina smiled, but it was only out of courtesy. Her eyes were blank.

“How kind,” she said without expression.

Vespasia moved forward, smiling back with an effort that she knew marred any attempt at sincerity. This was a woman whose mind had been as sharp as her own, whose wit nearly as quick, and she was no more than ten years older than Vespasia. But she looked empty, as if her fire and soul had already left.

“I hope you’ll enjoy them,” Vespasia said, the words hollow as they left her lips. For a moment she wished she had not come. Serafina appeared to have no idea who she was, as if the past had been wiped out and they had not shared the kind of friendship that is never forgotten.

Serafina looked at her with only a slow dawning of light in her eyes, as if shreds of understanding gradually returned to her.

“I am sure you would like to talk for a little while,” Nerissa said gently. “Don’t tire yourself, Aunt Serafina.” The instruction was aimed obliquely at Vespasia. “I’ll put another log on the fire before I leave. If you need anything, the bell is easy to reach and I’ll come straightaway.”

Serafina nodded very slightly, her eyes still fixed on Vespasia.

“Thank you,” Vespasia replied. There was no escape. It would be inexcusable to leave now, however much she wished to.

Nerissa went over to the fire, poked it a little, which sent up a shower of sparks, then carefully placed another log on top. She straightened her back and smiled at Vespasia.

“It is so kind of you to come,” she said. “I’ll return in a little while.” She walked over to the door, opened it, and went out.

Vespasia sat down in the chair next to the bed. What on earth could she say that would make sense? To ask after her friend’s health seemed almost a mockery.

It was Serafina who spoke first.

“Thank you for coming,” she said quietly. “I was afraid that no one would tell you. I have bad days sometimes, and I don’t remember things. I talk too much.”

Vespasia looked at her. Her eyes were not empty anymore, but filled with a deep anxiety. She was desperately searching Vespasia’s face for understanding. It was as if the woman Vespasia knew had returned for a moment.

“The purpose of visiting is to talk,” Vespasia said gently. “The whole pleasure of seeing people is to be able to share ideas, to laugh a little, to recall all the things we have loved in the past. I shall be very disappointed if you don’t talk to me.”

Serafina looked as if she was struggling to find words that eluded her.

Vespasia thought immediately that, without meaning to, she had placed further pressure on Serafina, acting as if she was hoping to be entertained. That was not what she had meant at all. But how could she retrace her steps now without sounding ridiculous?

“Is there something you would particularly care to talk about?” she invited.

“I forget things,” Serafina said very softly. “Sometimes lots of things.”

“So do I,” Vespasia assured her gently. “Most of them don’t matter.”

“Sometimes I muddle the past and the present,” Serafina went on. Now she was watching Vespasia as if from the edge of an abyss in which some horror waited to consume her.

Vespasia tried to think of a reply, but nothing seemed appropriate for what was clearly, at least to Serafina, a matter of intense importance. This was no mere apology for being a little incoherent. She seemed frightened. Perhaps the terror of losing one’s grip on one’s mind was deeper and far more real than most people took time or care to appreciate.

Vespasia put her hand on Serafina’s and felt the thin bones, the flesh far softer than it ever used to be. This was a woman who had ridden horses at a gallop few men dared equal; who had held a sword and fought with it, light flashing on steel as she moved quickly, lethally, and with beautiful grace. It was a hand that so swiftly coordinated with her eye that she was a superb shot with both pistol and rifle.

Now it was slack in Vespasia’s grip.

“We all forget,” Vespasia said softly. “The young, less so, perhaps. They have so much less to remember, some of them barely anything at all.” She smiled fleetingly. “You and I have seen incredible things: butchers, bakers, and housewives manning the barricades; sunset flaming across the Alps till the snow looked like blood. We’ve danced with emperors and been kissed by princes. I, at least, have been sworn at by a cardinal …”

She saw Serafina smile and move her head in a slight nod of agreement.

“We have fought for what we believed in,” Vespasia went on. “We have both won and lost more than the young today have dreamed of. But I daresay their turn will come.”

Serafina’s eyes were clear for a moment. “We have, haven’t we? That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“What frightens you, my dear?”

“I forget who is real and who is just memory,” Serafina replied. “Sometimes the past seems so vivid that I mistake the trivia of today for the great issues that used to be—and the people we knew.”

“Does that matter?” Vespasia asked her. “Perhaps the past is more interesting?”

The smile touched Serafina’s eyes again. “Infinitely—at least to me.” Then the fear returned, huge and engulfing. Her voice shook. “But I’m so afraid I might mistake some person now for someone else I knew and trusted, and let slip what I shouldn’t! I know terrible things, dangerous things about murder and betrayal. Do you understand?”

Frankly, Vespasia did not. She was aware that Serafina had been an adventurer all her life. She had never let her causes die from her mind. She had married twice, but neither time had been particularly happy, and she had no children. But then she could outride and out-shoot so many men, she was not an easy woman to be comfortable with. She had never learned to keep her own counsel about her political opinions, nor to temper the exercise of her more dangerous skills.

But this was the first time Vespasia had seen fear in her, and that was a shock. It touched her with a pity she could not have imagined feeling for such a proud and fierce woman.

“Are any of those secrets still dangerous now?” she asked doubtfully. It was hard to sound reassuring without also sounding as though she was patronizing Serafina, implying that her knowledge was outdated and no one would still be interested. It was a judgment so easy to mishandle. Vespasia herself would hate to be relegated to the past, as if currently not worth bothering about, even though one day that would assuredly be true. She refused to think of it.

“Of course they are!” Serafina told her, her voice husky with urgency. “Why on earth do you ask? Have you lost all interest in politics? What’s happened to you?” It was almost an accusation. Serafina’s dark eyes were alive now with anger.

Vespasia felt a flash of her own temper, and crushed it immediately. This was not about her vanity.

“Not at all,” she replied. “But I cannot think of anything current that might be affected by most of my knowledge of the past.”

“You never used to be a liar,” Serafina said softly, her mouth a little twisted with unhappiness. “Or at least if you were, you were good enough at it that I did not know.”

Vespasia felt the heat burn up her face. The accusation was just. Of course some of the events she knew, the acutely personal ones, would still be dangerous, if she were to speak of them in the wrong places. She would never do so. But then she always knew exactly where she was, and to whom she was speaking.

“Those sorts of secrets you would keep,” she told Serafina. “You would not mention them, even to the people involved. It would be such awfully bad taste.”

Suddenly Serafina laughed, a rich, throaty sound, taking Vespasia back forty years in the time of a single heartbeat. Vespasia found herself smiling too. She saw them both on the terrace of a villa in Capri. The summer night was heavy with the scent of jasmine. Across the water Vesuvius lifted its double peaks against the skyline. The wine was sweet. Someone had made a joke and laughter was swift and easy.

Then a log burned through and fell in the fireplace with a shower of sparks. Vespasia returned to the present: the warm bright room with its flowered curtains, and the old, frightened woman in the bed so close to her.

“You had better ask Miss Freemarsh to be sure that certain people do not call on you,” Vespasia said with absolute seriousness. “There cannot be so many of them left now. Give her a list, tell her you do not wish to see them. You must have a lady’s maid who would help you?”

“Oh, yes. I still have Tucker,” Serafina said with warmth. “God bless her. She’s almost as old as I am! But what reason shall I give?” She searched Vespasia’s eyes for help.

“No reason at all,” Vespasia told her. “It is not her concern who you will see, or not see. Tell her so if she presses you. Invent something.”

“I shall forget what I said!”

“Then ask her. Say, ‘What did I tell you?’ If she replies by repeating it, then you have your answer. If she says she can’t recall, then you may start again too.”

Serafina lay back on her pillows, smiling, the look in her eyes far away. “That is more like the Vespasia I remember. They were great days, weren’t they?”

“Yes,” Vespasia answered her, firmly and honestly. “They were marvelous. More of life than most people ever see.”

“But dangerous,” Serafina added.

“Oh, yes. And we survived them. You’re here. I’m here.” She smiled at the old woman lying so still in the bed. “We lived, and we can share the memories with each other.”

Serafina’s hand slowly clenched the sheets, and her face became bleak with anxiety again. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she whispered. “What if I think it’s you, but it’s really someone else? What if my mind takes me back to the days in Vienna, Budapest, or Italy, and I say something dangerous, something from which secrets could be unraveled and understood at last?”

Her frown deepened, her face now intensely troubled. “I know terrible things, Vespasia, things that would have brought down some of the greatest families. I dare not name them, even here in my own bedroom. You see …” She bit her lip. “I know who you are now, but in thirty minutes I might forget. I might think it is the past, and you are someone else entirely, who doesn’t understand as you do. I might …” She swallowed. “I might think I am back in one of the old plots, an old fight with everything to win or lose … and tell you something dangerous … a secret. Do you see?”

Vespasia put her hand on Serafina’s very gently, and felt the bones and the thin, knotted tendons under her fingers. “But, my dear, right now you are here in London, in late February of 1896, and you know exactly who I am. Those old secrets are past. Italy is united, except for the small part in the east still under Austrian rule. Hungary is still lesser in the empire, and getting more so with each year, and the whole Balkan peninsula is still ruled from Vienna. Most of the people we knew are dead. The battle has passed on from us. We don’t even know who is involved anymore.”

“You don’t,” Serafina whispered. “I still know secrets that matter—loves and hates from the past that count even now. It wasn’t really so long ago. In politics, perhaps, but not in the memories of those who were betrayed.”

Vespasia struggled for something to say that would comfort this frightened woman.

“Perhaps Miss Freemarsh will see that you are not left alone with anyone, if you ask her?” she suggested. “That would not be unnatural, in the circumstances.”

Serafina smiled bleakly. “Nerissa? She thinks I am fantasizing. She has no idea of the past. To her I am an old woman who enlarges her memories and paints them in brighter colors than they were, in order to draw attention to herself, and to make up for the grayness of today. She is far too polite to say so, but I see it in her eyes.” Serafina looked down at the coverlet. “And she has other things on her mind. I believe she might be in love. I remember what that was like: the excitement, the wondering if he was coming that day or the next, the torment if I thought he favored someone else.” She looked up at Vespasia again, laughter and sadness in her eyes, and questioning.

“Of course,” Vespasia agreed. “One does not forget. Perhaps one only pretends to now and then, because the sweetness of it comes so seldom as one gets older. We remember the pleasure and tend to forget the pain.” She drew her mind back to the present issue. “Does Nerissa have any idea who you are, and what you have accomplished?”

Serafina shook her head. “No. How could she? The world was different then. I knew everybody who mattered in one empire, and you did in the other. We knew too many secrets, and I wonder if perhaps you still do?”

Vespasia was momentarily discomfited. She did know far more of the present world and its political and personal secrets than she would tell anyone, even Thomas Pitt. How had Serafina seen through her so easily, and in a mere quarter of an hour?

The answer was simple: because at heart they were alike, believers who cared too much, women who used their courage and charm to influence men who held power and could change nations.

“A few,” Vespasia admitted. “But old ones, embarrassing possibly, but not dangerous.”

Serafina laughed. “Liar!” she said cheerfully. “If that were true there would be sadness in your voice, and there isn’t. I hear no regret.”

“I apologize,” Vespasia said sincerely. “I underestimated you, and that was rude of me.”

“I forgive you. I expected it. One has to lie to survive. My fear is that as I get worse, I shall lose the judgment, and possibly even the ability to lie anymore.”

Vespasia felt another, even more painful, wave of pity for her. Serafina had been magnificent, a tigress of a woman, and now she lay wounded and alone, afraid of shadows from the past.

“I shall speak to Miss Freemarsh,” she said firmly. “What about your Tucker? Is she still able to hold her authority with the other servants?”

“Oh, yes, God bless her. I wouldn’t have anyone else. But she is seventy if she is a day, and I cannot expect her to be here all the time. Sometimes I see how tired she is.” She stopped; no more explanation was necessary.

“Perhaps it would be possible to get you a nurse who would be by your side all the time, at least all day, when people might call,” Vespasia suggested. “Someone who understands sufficiently to interrupt any conversation that might veer toward the confidential.”

“Do such people exist?” Serafina asked dubiously.

“They must,” Vespasia said, although she had only just thought of it. “What happens to people who have been in high positions in the government or the diplomatic service, or even the judiciary, and know things that would be disastrous if spoken of to the wrong person? They too can become old and ill—or, for that matter, drink too much!”

Again Serafina laughed. It was a light, happy sound, an echo of who she used to be.

“You make me feel so much better,” she said sincerely. “I am growing old disgracefully, shabbily in a way, and becoming a liability to those I loved and who trusted me. But at least I am not alone. If you are not too busy doing great things, please come and see me again.”

“I shall come with pleasure,” Vespasia replied. “Even if I should be fortunate enough to have some great thing to do—which I doubt.” She rose to her feet. “Now I must see Miss Freemarsh, and Tucker, if I can. Then I will look for a nurse with intelligence and discretion.”

“Thank you,” Serafina replied, her voice for an instant husky with gratitude, and perhaps relief.

Vespasia left the room and went farther along the corridor, hoping to find Tucker. She could remember her as a young woman, just starting out in Serafina’s service when they were all in Italy, when Vespasia herself was not yet twenty. She had seen her again briefly, maybe a dozen times over the years, but would she recognize her now? She must be greatly changed.

There was a young laundry maid with a pile of freshly ironed sheets coming toward her.

“Excuse me, will you tell me where I might find Miss Tucker?” Vespasia asked.

The maid dropped a half-curtsy. “Yes, m’lady. She’ll be downstairs. Can I fetch ’er for yer?”

“Yes, please. Tell her that Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould would like to speak to her.”

Tucker appeared within a few moments, walking stiffly but with head held high along the passageway from some stairs at the farther end. Vespasia knew her without hesitation. Her face was wrinkled and pale, her hair quite white, but she still had the same high cheekbones, and wide blue eyes, which were a little hollow around the sockets.

“Good morning, Tucker,” Vespasia said quietly. “I am grateful that you came so quickly. How are you?”

“I am quite well, thank you, m’lady,” Tucker replied. It was the only answer she had ever given to such a question, even when she had been ill or injured. “I hope you are well yourself, ma’am?”

“Yes, thank you.”

The ritual civilities observed, Vespasia moved on to the subject that concerned them both. “I see that Mrs. Montserrat is not well, and am very anxious that she should not cause any ill feeling by her possible lapses of memory.” She saw instantly in Tucker’s face that she understood precisely what Vespasia meant. They were two old women, an earl’s daughter and a maid, standing in a silent corridor with more shared memories and common understanding than either of them had with most other people in the world. And yet it was unthinkable, especially to Tucker, that the convention of rank should ever be broken between them.

“It might be advisable if you were to remain in the room as often as you may, whether Mrs. Montserrat thinks to ask you or not. Even if you do no more than assure her that she said nothing indiscreet, it would comfort her a great deal.”

Tucker inclined her head very slightly. “Yes, m’lady. I’ll do my best. Miss Freemarsh …” She changed her mind and did not say whatever it was she had been about to.

“Thank you.” Vespasia knew she had no need to add more. “It is nice to see you again, Tucker. Good day.”

“Good day, m’lady.”

Vespasia turned and went to the main staircase.

“It was kind of you to call,” Nerissa said when she met Vespasia at the foot of the stairs by the lamp on the newel post.

“Nonsense,” Vespasia replied rather more briskly than she had intended to. The comfort of speaking to Tucker the moment before slipped away from her. She was deeply disturbed, and it had taken her by surprise. Physical decline she was prepared for—to a degree it was inevitable—but the slipping away of mental grasp, even of identity, she had not considered. Perhaps because she did not want to. Could she one day be as isolated and afraid as Serafina was, dependent on people of a generation who neither knew nor understood anything of who she was? People like this cool young woman who imagined that compassion was no more than a duty, an empty act performed for its own sake.

“I came because Serafina and I have been friends for more years than you are aware of,” Vespasia said, still tartly. “I am gravely remiss in not having come before. I should have taken the care to know how ill she is.”

“She is not in pain,” Nerissa said gently. Something in the patience of her tone irritated Vespasia almost unbearably. It was as if, in her perception, Vespasia was also unable to grasp reality.

Vespasia bit back her response with a considerable effort, because she needed this young woman’s cooperation. She could not afford to antagonize her.

“So she assured me,” she said. “However, she is in distress. Maybe she has not told you so, but she is convinced that in her memory lapses she may be indiscreet, and the thought of it troubles her profoundly.”

Nerissa smiled. “Oh, yes, I’m afraid she is not always quite sure where she is, or what year it is. She rambles quite a bit, but it is harmless, I assure you. She speaks of people she knew years ago as if they were still alive, and frankly I think she romanticizes the past rather a lot.” Her expression became even more patient. “But that is quite understandable. When the past is so much more exciting than the present, who would not want to dwell in it a little? And we all remember things with perhaps more light and color than they really possessed.”

Vespasia wanted to tell this young woman, with her indifferent face and healthy young body, that Serafina Montserrat had a past with more vivid color than any other woman Nerissa was likely to meet in her lifetime. But her purpose was to safeguard Serafina, to remove the fear, whether founded or not, rather than put Nerissa Freemarsh in her place.

“The reality doesn’t matter,” she said, ashamed of the evasion but knowing that it was necessary. She could not afford to tell Nerissa more than a suggestion of the truth, since the young woman clearly did not consider it important enough to guard with discretion.

“Serafina is anxious that she may unintentionally speak of someone else’s private affairs,” she continued. “Would it not be possible to see that her visitors are limited, and that someone is with her who would interrupt if she seems to be wandering in her mind? Such assurance might relieve her anxiety. Tucker is excellent, but she cannot be there all the time. I can look for someone suitable and suggest a few possible names.”

Nerissa smiled, her lips oddly tight. “You are very kind, but Aunt Serafina would dismiss such a person within a short while. She hates to be fussed over. Her fantasy that she knows all kinds of state secrets and terrible things about the private lives of archdukes and so on is complete imagination, you know. The few people who call on her are quite aware of that. It pleases her to daydream in that way, and it does no harm. No one believes her, I promise you.”

Vespasia wondered if that was true. In the past, thirty or forty years ago, Serafina had certainly known all manner of things about the planned rebellions within the vast Austro-Hungarian Empire. She had been part of some of them. She had dined, danced, and very possibly slept with minor royalty—even major, for all Vespasia knew. But that was all long ago. Most of them were dead now, and their scandals were gone with them, along with their dreams.

Nerissa smiled. “It is kind of you to care, but I cannot limit Aunt Serafina’s visitors. It would leave her terribly alone. To talk to people, to remember, and perhaps romance a little is about the only real pleasure she has. And it is generous of you to consider another servant, but that is not the answer. I don’t wish to tell Aunt Serafina, but it is not economically wise at present.”

Vespasia could not argue with her. It would be both impertinent and pointless. She had no idea as to Serafina’s financial situation. “I see.”

“I hope you will come again, Lady Vespasia. You were always one of her favorites. She speaks of you often.”

Vespasia doubted it, but it would be ungracious to say so.

“We were always fond of each other,” she replied. “Of course I shall come again. Thank you for being so patient.”

Nerissa walked with her across the parquet floor toward the front door, and the carriage waiting at the curbside, the horses fretting in the wind.

VICTOR NARRAWAY WAS ALREADY extremely bored with his elevation to the House of Lords. After his adventure in Ireland and his dismissal from Special Branch—which had stretched him emotionally far more than he had foreseen—he wanted something to occupy his time and his mind, a position that had use for at least some of his talents.

But for Narraway to interfere in Special Branch now that Thomas Pitt was head would imply that he did not have confidence in Pitt’s ability; it would undermine any action Pitt took, not only in Pitt’s mind, but also in the minds of those he commanded and those to whom he reported. It would be the greatest disservice Narraway could do him, a betrayal of the loyalty Pitt had always shown. Pitt had trusted in Narraway’s innocence in the O’Neil case when no one else believed him and his guilt seemed clear—indeed, it was morally true that he was partly at fault. Still, Pitt had refrained from blaming him for anything.

So Narraway was left bored, and felt more acutely alone than he had expected to; able to watch but unable to participate.

Not that there was much to participate in; in the months since Pitt had been in charge, nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, nothing to challenge the imagination or the nerve.

Narraway had considered foreign travel as an option, and indeed had taken a late autumn trip to France. He had always enjoyed its rich countryside. He had walked around some of its older cities, reviving his half-forgotten knowledge about them, and adding to it. However, after a while it became stale, because he had no one with whom to share it. There was no Charlotte this time, no one else’s pleasure to mirror his own. That was a pain he still preferred not to think of.

He had had the time to attend more theater. He had always enjoyed drama. Comedy was, for him, profoundly bereft without the presence of Oscar Wilde, who had been stigmatized for his private life, and whose work was no longer performed on the stage. It was an absence Narraway felt with peculiar sharpness.

There was always opera, and recitals of music, such as that of Beethoven or Liszt—two of his favorites. But all these pursuits only stirred in him the hunger for something to do, a cause into which to pour his own energy.

He sat in his book-lined study with its few small watercolor seascapes, the fire burning and the gaslamps throwing pools of light on the table and floor. He had eaten a light supper and was reading a report of some politician’s visit to Berlin; he was looking desperately, and without success, for a spark of intrigue or novelty in it. So he was delighted to be interrupted by his manservant, announcing that Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould had called.

He sat upright in his chair, suddenly wide awake.

“Ask her in,” he said immediately. “Bring the best red wine.”

“White, sir, surely?” the manservant suggested.

“No, she prefers red,” Narraway replied with assurance. “And also bring something decent to eat. Thin brown toast, and a little pâté. Please.”

“Yes, my lord.” The man smiled, rolling the title around on his tongue. He was inordinately proud of his master. He did not say so, but he thought Narraway was a great man, underappreciated by his government, a trespass for which he did not forgive it.

Vespasia came in a moment later. She was wearing a deep shade that, in the gaslight, was neither blue nor purple but something in between—muted, like the night sky. He had never seen her in anything jarring; though she was always dressed subtly, when she was in the room, one looked at no other woman.

He considered greeting her with the usual formalities, but they knew each other too well for that now, especially after the recent fiasco in Ireland, and then with the queen at Osborne.

“Good evening, Victor,” she said with a slight smile. She had taken to using his Christian name recently, and he found it more pleasing than he would have admitted willingly. There was no one else who called him by his first name.

“Lady Vespasia.” He looked at her closely. There was anxiety in her eyes, though she maintained her usual composure. “What has happened? It’s not Thomas, is it?” he asked with sudden fear.

She smiled. “No. So far as I am aware, all is well with him. It is possible that what I have to tell you is nothing of importance, but I need to be certain.”

Narraway indicated the chair opposite his own. She sat with a single, graceful movement, her skirts arranging themselves perfectly without assistance.

“You would not come unless it mattered to you,” he replied. “I have not made my boredom so obvious that you would come simply to rescue me. At least, I hope not.”

She smiled with real humor this time, and it lit her face, bringing back all the grace of her beauty and the sharp realization of how radiant she could be.

“Oh, dear, I had no idea,” she murmured. “Is it that dreadful?”

“Tedious beyond belief,” he answered, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair comfortably. “Nobody tells me anything of interest. Either they assume I already know it—and very possibly I do—or else they are afraid they will be seen talking to me and people will assume they are passing me dark secrets.”

The manservant reappeared with the wine and food. He served it with only the barest questions as to its acceptability, and then retreated.

Narraway waited as Vespasia sipped her wine.

“Do you know Serafina Montserrat?” she finally asked, in a quiet voice.

He searched his memory. “Is she about our age?” he asked. That was something of a euphemism. Vespasia was technically several years older than he, but it was of no importance.

She smiled. “The manners of their lordships are rubbing off on you, Victor. It is not like you to be so … oblique … toward the truth. She is somewhat older than I, and considerably older than you.”

“Ah. Yes, I have heard of her, but only in passing. Mostly in reference to certain European matters, those brief sputters of revolution in the Austro-Hungarian Empire and Italy,” he replied.

“She would not like our efforts to be referred to as sputters,” Vespasia observed drily. There was amusement in her eyes, but also pain.

“Indeed. I apologize. But why do you ask? Has something happened to her?” he asked.

“Time,” she replied ruefully. “And it has affected her rather more severely than it affects most of us.”

“She’s ill? Vespasia, it is not like you to be so evasive.” He leaned forward uneasily. “What is it that concerns you? We know each other well enough not to skirt around the truth like this.”

She relaxed slightly, as if she was no longer bearing her great tension alone.

“She is becoming very severely forgetful,” she said at last. “To the point of slipping back into the past and imagining she is young again, and in the midst of all manner of intrigues with people who are no longer alive—or, if they are, are long since sunk into decent retirement.”

He was still not sure why this would trouble her so much. So he waited, watching the firelight on her face.

She took a slice of toast and spread pâté on it, but did not eat.

“She is afraid that she will accidentally betray some secrets that still matter,” she told him. “Do you think that is possible? Her niece, Nerissa Freemarsh, feels that Serafina’s talk is largely fancy. She did not say so in so many words, but she implied that Serafina is creating a daydream to make her essentially tedious life more exciting than it is. And it is true that she would not be the first person to embroider the truth in order to gain attention.”

She lowered her gaze, as if she was ashamed of what she was about to say. “In her circumstances it would be easy enough to understand. If I were bound to my bedroom, alone and dependent upon others for virtually everything, and those others were far more concerned with their own lives, I might well retreat into memories of the days when I had youth and strength, and could do what I wished and go where I pleased. No one likes to be constantly obliged, and to have to plead where they used to command.”

Narraway nodded. He also dreaded such a fate; he was still in excellent physical health and his mind was as sharp as it had ever been, but here he was becalmed in a professional backwater. Perhaps a slow decline into complete obscurity was what awaited him, and eventually even the helplessness Vespasia spoke of with such pity.

“What would you like me to do?” he asked.

She considered for only a moment. “I know something about Serafina, but what I know has mostly to do with the revolutions of ’48, and of course the Italian unification and freedom from Austrian rule. But we have met seldom since then, and when we have spoken, it has been without details. I know she fought hard, and was physically extraordinarily brave, far more so than I. But does she really know secrets about anything that could matter now? Those revolutions were so long ago. Does anyone care anymore who said or did what at that time?”

Narraway thought about it for several minutes before answering her. The coals settled in the fire and he took a pair of delicate brass tongs to replace them.

“Politically, I doubt it,” he said finally. “But if she knew of some personal betrayal … people’s memories can be long. Although, as you say, most of the people from that time are gone. But I can ask a few discreet questions, even if it is just to set your mind at rest, and to confirm that there is no one left whose life she might jeopardize. I’m afraid that is the best I can think of to do, at present. I wish I knew how we might persuade her that it is 1896, rather than whatever year she believes it to be.”

Vespasia smiled at him, gratitude warming her face. “Thank you. It will be a beginning, and perhaps all we can do.”

“Is she afraid for her own safety?” he asked.

The question startled Vespasia. “Why, no. I don’t think so. No. She’s concerned that she might unintentionally betray someone else, not being fully aware of who she is talking to or where she is.”

He looked at her steadily across the low table with its tray of food. The firelight winked on the dusty glass of the wine bottle.

“Are you sure?”

Her eyes widened. “No,” she said very softly. “I thought it was the confusion of not knowing that frightened her most, the dread that she might betray all that she has been in the past by speaking too much now. But maybe you are right. Perhaps she is afraid of someone trying to ensure her silence for some reason, even at the cost of her life. But why would she worry about such a thing?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, picking up a slice of toast. “But finding out will give me something worthwhile to do. I shall be in touch with you as soon as I learn anything beyond what you already know.”

“Thank you, Victor. I am grateful to you.”

He smiled. “I can do nothing tonight. Have some more wine and let us finish the pâté.”

THE FOLLOWING MORNING NARRAWAY began to search for any reference he could find to Serafina Montserrat. In the past he would have had access to Special Branch files. Or—even more simply—he could have gone to his predecessor and asked him for whatever information he could recall. But now he had no authority, no position from which to ask anything, and—perhaps more important—no ability to demand that whatever he said be kept private.

He could have gone to Pitt, but Pitt had enough to be concerned with in his new command. Moreover, he certainly would know nothing himself; he was far too young. He had been a child at the time of Serafina’s activities.

Narraway began at his club on the Strand, approaching one of the oldest members quite casually. He learned nothing at all. A second inquiry gained him exactly the same result.

By midafternoon he had exhausted the obvious avenues, which were certainly few enough. He did not want to raise interest or suspicion, so he had kept his questions very general. He simply asked about the times and places that concerned Serafina, but mentioned no individual people. The answers had been interesting: memories of a year that had contained a brief hope for freedom, a hope that remained elusive, even now. Vespasia’s name had come up briefly, but not Serafina’s. If indeed she had known anything of danger or embarrassment to anyone, she had kept her own counsel quite remarkably.

By late afternoon it was growing colder, and he was beginning to believe that Serafina’s imagination was a great deal more colorful than the reality had been. Walking briskly across Russell Square under the bare, dripping trees, he accepted that he would have to go to a more direct source and ask his questions openly.

He smiled at his own inadequacy. He should have more sympathy with Serafina Montserrat, especially if she had been as dynamic as Vespasia had said. To lose power, he thought, is like watching yourself fade away, pieces of you slipping out of your control and vanishing so that you grow ever smaller and more helpless, until there is nothing left of you except a tiny heart that knows its own existence, but can do little to affect anything else.

He should have more pity for the old, treat them with the same dignity he would have given someone more powerful than he. He made the resolution then and there to do so, hoping he would always be able to keep it.

He came out in Woburn Place and hailed a passing hansom. Giving the driver his home address, he climbed in with some relief.

THE NEXT DAY HE telephoned Lord Tregarron at the Foreign Office, an acquaintance from his days at Special Branch. He arranged to call upon him that evening. Tregarron’s father had been dead some years now, but he had been an expert on the Austro-Hungarian Empire. He had spoken both German and Hungarian, the predominant two of the twelve different languages spoken among the mass of peoples and nationalities that had been loosely joined in the empire.

Narraway spent most of the day reading in the library of the British Museum, reminding himself of the history of the Austro-Hungarian Empire in the last fifty to sixty years, the empire that claimed to be the descendant of the Holy Roman Empire of medieval Europe, heir of the might and influence of Rome itself. He read about the various rebellions of each of its constituent parts, their passion to gain more autonomy.

Serafina was Italian. Venice and Trieste were swallowed up by Austria, losing their ancient culture and their ties to their own people. Venice had regained its freedom, but Trieste and its surrounds had not yet done so.

But he found little mention of Serafina’s name, and even when he did it was oblique. Was she in fact making up her knowledge of dangerous secrets, as Vespasia half feared, to color in retrospect a life that was rapidly slipping away from her?

IT WAS AFTER DINNER when Narraway reached Tregarron’s house in Gloucester Place. He stepped out of his hansom into the first scattering of freezing rain. The footman showed him immediately into the oak-paneled study, where rows of bookcases were filled with leather-bound volumes, and pictures of Cornish seascapes hung in the panels free for such decoration. Tregarron himself came in a moment later.

“Evening, Narraway,” he said cheerfully. “Can I offer you something? Brandy? A decent cigar? It’s a miserable night. It must be a matter of some importance, to bring you away from your own fireside at this hour.” He waved toward a large leather chair, indicating that Narraway should be seated.

“No, thank you.” Narraway declined the offer, but sat down comfortably. “I don’t want to keep you longer than I need to. It is gracious of you to spare me the time.”

“Old habits,” Tregarron said drily, sitting in the companion chair opposite him and leaning back, crossing his legs. “How can I help you now? You said something about the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Pretty good shambles, especially after that awful business in Mayerling.” He pulled his face into an expression of regret and a certain unmistakable degree of disgust. “Emperor’s only son, heir to the throne, commits suicide with his mistress in a hunting lodge. If that’s what it was, of course.” He let his words hang in the air. “Maybe it was just the best interpretation they could put on it, under the circumstances.”

“I think it’s rubbish,” Narraway said briefly. “Unless he was insane. No royal prince takes his own life because he can’t marry his mistress. His wife might have been any kind of a bore, or a harridan—even then, you just live separately. It’s been done by more kings than I’ve had good dinners. The old emperor himself has a mistress, in spite of having married for love.”

Tregarron smiled widely, showing strong teeth. “My father spent years in Vienna. He said Franz Josef was supposed to marry the empress’s elder sister, but he fell madly in love with Sisi on sight and wouldn’t have anyone else.”

“Yes. And your father probably would’ve been the man to know,” Narraway agreed. “But that makes it even more unlikely that Rudolf would have taken his own life. Simply because he couldn’t possibly make her empress, when the time comes? I don’t believe it.”

“Was it the Mayerling business you wanted to speak to me about?” Tregarron asked curiously. “How does that concern our government, or Special Branch, for that matter?”

“No, it has nothing to do with Mayerling, or Rudolf,” Narraway said quickly. “It goes back much further than that, possibly thirty years or more, forty, even fifty.”

“Good heavens!” Tregarron looked startled, and amused. “How old do you think I am?”

Narraway smiled. “I was actually thinking of your father. You said he spent years in Vienna …”

There was a brief tap on the door and, without waiting for a reply, Lady Tregarron came in. She was in her mid-forties but still extremely attractive in a quiet, comfortable way. Her features were unremarkable, her coloring quite ordinary, but she carried with her a kind of serenity. It was impossible to imagine her troubled by any sort of ill temper.

“Good evening, Lord Narraway,” she said with a smile. “How pleasant to see you. May we offer you something? Perhaps a fresh cup of tea? I assume you have dined already, but if not, I’m sure Cook could find you a good sandwich, at the very least.”

“A cup of tea would be excellent,” Narraway accepted. “It’s a miserable night.”

“Are you sure that’s all?” she asked with concern.

“I don’t want to disturb you for long. In fact, I can come to the point rather more quickly than I have been doing.” He turned to Tregarron. “Have you heard of a woman named Serafina Montserrat? Perhaps in some connection with Austrian affairs?”

There was a slight flicker across Tregarron’s face, but it was impossible to read. “Montserrat?” he repeated. “No, I don’t think so. It’s the kind of name one would remember. Italian? Or Spanish, perhaps?”

“Italian,” Narraway answered. “From the north, Austrian-occupied territory.”

Tregarron shook his head. “I’m sorry, I have no idea.”

Lady Tregarron looked from one to the other of them, then excused herself to ask the maid to bring tea.

Narraway knew Tregarron was lying. The expression in his eyes, the repetition of the name to give himself a moment to consider before denying, gave him away. But there was no point in asking again, because he had already chosen his position. He could not go back on it now without admitting he had lied. And what explanation could there be for that? If Narraway had asked him with Lady Tregarron not present, would the answer have been different?

Was Tregarron’s denial due to a desire to remain uninvolved in something? Surely anything Serafina knew was too old to affect anyone now, and certainly couldn’t affect any current government concern. But could it affect someone’s reputation? Or a friend?

Or was it simply that since Narraway was no longer in Special Branch at all, let alone head of it, Tregarron did not trust him, but did not want to say so? That thought was peculiarly painful, which was ridiculous. It had been months now since his dismissal. He should be over it. He should have found some new passion to consume his energy. There were years of spare time stretching ahead of him.

He forced his voice to sound light, free from emotional strain.

“I don’t suppose it matters,” he said lightly. “It was an inquiry for a friend. Something to do with informing those who might wish to contact her before it’s too late. Apparently Mrs. Montserrat is getting very frail.”

Tregarron did not move at all. “Do I take it from your remark that Mrs. Montserrat is dying?” he asked.

Narraway shrugged. “That was what I gathered. I think she is of very advanced years.”

Tregarron blinked. “Really? I suppose it was all a very long time ago. One forgets how the years pass.” He smiled ruefully, but the expression stopped far short of his eyes.

Narraway hesitated. Should he let Tregarron see that he had observed the slip, or might he learn more if he let it pass? He decided on the latter.

“Yes,” he agreed with a sigh. “We were all a lot younger, with dreams and energy that I, at least, no longer possess.”

Tregarron appeared to relax, easing further into his chair. “Indeed. Matters are always more complicated than the young suppose them to be. Perhaps that’s just as well. If they grasped all the reasons why things won’t happen, or can’t be made to work, nothing would ever be tried. It’s certainly a hell of a mess now. We don’t need firebrands of any sort, especially in Austria. They have got little enough grip on their crumbling empire as it is, without harebrained idealists running amok.”

He shifted a little and recrossed his legs before continuing. “The emperor’s son died in one of the ugliest scandals of the century, and God knows, there have been other bad ones. We’ve had the odd few ourselves. Now his nephew, the only heir left, is wanting to marry a woman the old emperor considers beneath the position that will be thrust upon her. The Hungarian situation is bad, and growing worse. Most of Europe recognizes that the poor devils are second-class citizens in their own land. Italy and the Balkans are increasingly restless. And I’m afraid all of that is to say nothing of the chaos in Russia, and the very considerable rising power of Germany, which, united, is now tasting its own strength.”

He bit his lip and stared gravely at Narraway. “We have more than enough to worry about. Let the past lie in whatever peace it can.”

“It wasn’t important,” Narraway lied. “A passing kindness I might have been able to do.” He smiled apologetically. “I’m a trifle bored with listening to their lordships in the House. Perhaps I should find myself a country pursuit, except I am not a countryman, apart from the odd weekend.”

“Perhaps you should remain in London and listen more closely to their lordships. I’m sure you could find something to argue about, concentrate their minds now and then on a useful issue.” Tregarron frowned slightly. “I … I hate to ask this, but are you confident in this fellow Pitt that they’ve put in your place in Special Branch? I know he was a good policeman, but this is not quite the same thing, is it? He’ll need judgment, a keenness of perception that police experience won’t have taught him. He might be brilliant at solving mysteries and be able to unravel criminal activity and tell you exactly who’s involved, but can he see the larger picture, the political ramifications? Has he actually mastered anything beyond the art of solving crime? Does he understand anything deeper than that?”

Narraway knew exactly what Tregarron meant, but he affected a slight confusion to give himself time to think.

Tregarron leaned forward, filling the silence in an abrupt way, as if worried that he had offended Narraway. “I know he’s a good chap, and probably as honest as the day is long, and after that disaster with Gower, we’ll destroy ourselves without honesty. But for God’s sake, Narraway, we need a little sophistication as well! We require a man who can see ten jumps ahead, who can outwit the best against us, not just put a hand on the shoulder of the actual perpetrator of a crime, the fanatic with a stick of dynamite in his pocket.”

“I think one of Pitt’s greatest assets will be that men who think they are clever will always underestimate him,” Narraway replied.

Tregarron’s eyebrows shot up and a faint humor lit his face. “Should I consider myself suitably rebuked?” he inquired.

Narraway smiled, this time with genuine amusement. “Not unless you wish to,” he said smoothly. “I have every confidence in Pitt, and you may also.”

But as he went outside into the rain half an hour later, he was less certain than he had led Tregarron to suppose. Was Pitt’s own innate honesty going to blind him to the degree of deviousness in others?

Pitt had been born a servant, and had spent his boyhood with respect for the master of the estate, Sir Arthur Desmond, a man of unyielding honor and considerable kindness. Might Pitt, at some level below his awareness, expect others of wealth and position to be similar?

How would he cope with the disillusion when he discovered that it was very often not the case?

Then Narraway remembered the affair at Buckingham Palace, and thought that very possibly his anxieties were unnecessary. He lengthened his stride toward Baker Street, where he would assuredly find a hansom to take him home.