should be so.”
“My grandfather was a scholar, sir, and born in England. He had the raising of me, as well as that of my sister, and while he maintained there was no finer city than Edinburgh to achieve an education, he was careful of his vowels to the end.”
“Just so, just so,” he replied, nodding. “And do you consider yourself a Scotswoman or an Englishwoman?” The question was an intimate one, and yet I could not feel the intrusion of it, so genial and open was his manner.
“Both and neither,” I answered truthfully. “I remember no home but Edinburgh, and yet I am a person without a country at present.”
“As I am!” he exclaimed, sitting up excitedly. “I have come to live here in Transylvania, but I was reared between Buda-Pesth and Vienna, one foot in Hungary, the other in Austria, and my heart in the Carpathians,” he finished, sweeping his hand dramatically to his chest. “So, this we have in common. You must tell me more.”
He commenced to ask a series of questions about Scotland and my travels and my perceptions of Transylvania, and so thorough was his inquisition that I was hardly able to manage a sip of my tea or a crumb of the delicious cake. But I enjoyed the conversation immensely, and in turn I learned that the doctor was the son of a noble Hungarian family, the house their hunting lodge. His elder brother was a baron and happy to leave the lodge in the doctor’s hands while he lived in Vienna.
“And Vienna no longer entices you?” I asked before taking a hasty, stolen bite of my cake.
For a moment, his eyes seemed shuttered and his animation faltered, and I wondered if Vienna held a sad memory for him. But as soon as the melancholia touched him, he recovered himself. “Not at all,” he said heartily. “I believe country air is necessary for good health. Country air and brisk walks, wholesome food and good friends. These are the key to excellent health, my dear Miss Lestrange. Besides, Transylvania has other attractions.” He fell silent then, and although the topic of conversation wandered, he never seemed to entirely recover the high spirits of his welcome.
At length we finished our tea and cake and as we rose to leave, he pressed a bottle upon Cosmina. “That is for the countess. Three drops in a glass of wine before retiring. I will call upon her tomorrow. Three drops, no more, no less,” he said firmly to Cosmina.
“I shall remember,” she told him.
He gave her hand an avuncular squeeze. “I know you will. You are a good girl.”
His expression grew pensive again and we made our goodbyes.
“What a charming man,” I said as we gained the little path through the trees.
“Do you think so? I have always been so fond of him. He has lived here for many years. He knew the countess as a girl, can you imagine that?”
“I wonder what she was like as a girl,” I mused, thinking of the austere and remote lady I had met so briefly.
“Beautiful,” Cosmina said promptly. “There is a painting in the castle of her and my mother, painted the year of their debut in Vienna. It hangs in the countess’s bedchamber. I suppose she keeps it to remember Mama. I would have thought it would make her sad, but she says it is good to remember.”
“Does it sadden you?” I had no such painting of my own mother and I wondered if my loss had been the easier to bear because I had no image of her face to mourn.
Cosmina thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No. It comforts me. I do not remember her, although sometimes I think she must have smelled of lilies, for she holds a lily in the painting. And it is only because of the painting that I know I have her eyes,” she finished.
“And very lovely eyes they are too,” I said, for Cosmina had fulfilled the promise of beauty she had carried as a girl. It was no surprise to me that the count would wish to marry her; the only surprise was that the betrothal was not announced. Was there some difficulty with the match, some opposition? But from what quarter? His mother was her aunt and guardian. Surely if she approved, others must.
As if intuiting my thoughts, Cosmina raised the subject herself. “I know you must wonder why no one talks of my marriage,” she began.
“It did seem a little strange that I was invited to see you married and yet you asked me not to speak of it,” I said slowly.
She said nothing for a long minute, then stopped upon the path to face me. “There will be no wedding. Andrei came home to settle his father’s affairs and that is all. He has said he will not abide by his mother’s wishes and marry me. It is finished.”
Tears welled and spilled from those beautiful eyes and I felt suddenly, violently angry. How could he hurt so fragile and lovely and loyal a creature as Cosmina?
I put my arms about her. “He cannot do this. If there was a formal betrothal, then surely—”
“There was no formal betrothal,” she admitted. “It was his mother’s wish and mine. Nothing more. It was never fixed. We simply assumed he would wish to please her in this matter.”
“But what reason did he give? Surely there can be no one more suitable than you,” I said hotly.
She gave a shuddering sob against my shoulder. “No. It is not that. There were difficulties because we are cousins, but they are not insurmountable. It has been done before. He refuses because he did not wish to marry me.”
I petted her hair. “Then he is a stupid, wretched man,” I said by way of consolation. “He does not deserve such a wife as you would have made him, and I hope someone disappoints him as painfully as he has disappointed you.”
She shuddered again, then lifted her head, and to my astonishment I saw that she was smiling. “Oh, Theodora. You think I am disappointed? I am relieved.”
Cosmina fell to silence after her revelation, and resumed the walk back to the castle. I trailed after her, my mind working feverishly. I was grateful she had turned away, for I do not think I could have hidden the confusion that had come upon me. I had seldom in my life suffered such a rapid alteration of feeling. I had been angry with the count for his unkindness to Cosmina, and further angered with myself for favouring a man capable of such ungallant behaviour. And then those three words had changed everything. I am relieved. Joy, swift and savage, had coursed through me, and I had been shocked to realise that my first thought had not been for the suffering of my friend; it had been the selfish pleasure of knowing that the count was not attached.
We made our way back to the castle in comparative silence, first because the village was too close upon us to permit intimate conversation, and then because the climb was rather too arduous for us to talk with ease. But once we had gained the castle, Cosmina turned.
“I must see the countess. Come to my room in an hour and we will talk more. I am so changeable these days, I hardly know myself,” she added by way of apology.
She left me then and I went to my room, unravelling the twisted threads of our conversation. Cosmina had been changeable, shifting between confidence and evasion during our walk. It was as if she longed to tell me everything, and yet feared to do so as well.
I washed my hands from the dusty walk and changed my boots for lighter shoes and neatened my hair. These ministrations took only quarter of an hour, and so I occupied myself with writing a letter to Anna, saying only that I had arrived safely. Any strangeness or misgivings I omitted, and I was struck by the dishonesty of my words. I told her the truth, but I concealed much besides, and I did not like it. But how could I possibly explain to Anna what I did not yet understand? And how could I describe the count when there were no words yet invented for such a man?
I ended my hasty scribble with fond notes for my nieces and nephews and took my letter in hand when I went in search of Cosmina’s room. She had explained how to find it, and I had little difficulty. It was the ground floor chamber of the tower opposite my own, perhaps a little smaller than mine and furnished in a similar style, with heavy carved wooden pieces and mouldering hangings of pale blue and silver. I saw at once that the