of her, sitting there, studying him
with eyes that might have been her brother's. 'Hey, Michel! Have
you ever looked at somebody? No, I mean, truly looked at them? Look
at old crook Bannermann there, dishing out the schnapps ration. Go on,
look your hardest. Tell me his past, his hopes, his fears, if you see them.
And I'll tell you if I think you're right . . .'
What did she see?
An unlovely thing, surely: a story of so many failures that they
might almost have been crimes. He winced inwardly. And he
realized that he had committed yet another offence, even as
he had tried to undo his earlier one. Of course no woman in her
position could call him 'Michel', whether at the first meeting or
at their fifty-first. It must always be 'sir' or 'Captain' or 'Count'
or what-have-you. It must always be that polite, protected
distance. Her brother had been free to condescend – free to step
out of his aristocratic skin into that of a petty gentleman and
revolutionary; free, even, to imagine himself as a fat and corrupt
quartermaster's assistant, if the whim took him. For her, it would
never be allowed.
He risked a quick glance from the corner of his eye – quick,
and away at once, as though his attention had never left the
dressing of his hand.
That was Albrecht's Maria, there: his sister, of whom he had
spoken often. Strange! His stories had been of a mischievous
childhood – of shared adventures, tree-climbing, stealing sweetmeats
and smuggling hurt wild animals into the house. He had
talked of a laughing, witty little sprite, who had stolen his spurs
so that he could not be cruel to the horses. Wéry had never
imagined this solemn figure, pitched abruptly into the world of
full adulthood. He had never been told how she could address
idiot brothers and rude strangers with a patience that neither
deserved.
Tell me her past, her hopes, her fears . . .
He stole another glance. She was no longer watching him. She
was waiting, with her eyes on the fire. So now he could look at
her, spying on her from the corner of his eye, while keeping his
chin pointed firmly at the servant who was dressing his hand.
In profile her face had the same delicacy about the nose and
eyes as those of her mother and brothers, although there was a
slight heaviness to her jaw, he thought, that dulled the effect. She
was taller than her mother by a head, but the muted colours
she wore, in contrast to Lady Adelsheim's bold pinks, had made
her almost invisible when he had first stepped into the library.
Now that he looked more closely he saw that the dress was old,
a little short for her, and the lace that trimmed the skirts and
sleeves was tinged with yellow. An orange-gold ribbon drooped
where the overdress joined across her breasts. Her skin was
powdered, and so was her hair – piled and powdered as her
mother's had been. At another time, Wéry thought, looking at
her would have been pleasing enough – although he would also
have liked to have seen her wearing the new classical styles of
France, with her hair left its natural dark colour and done in
ringlets.
But before all that, she should have been happy.
She was doomed from birth: doomed into her narrow degree,
here in this house between that lightning-witted mother and her
father and brother who had no wits at all. All her growing life she
must have watched Adelsheim decay: debts and misfortunes,
exacerbated by the tolls of war. Now, without warning, she was
mourning a loved brother who should have lived. And the hopes
of her house were in ruins around her, and she herself must be
the last asset left: the marriageable daughter who could offer to
her husband the Adelsheim pedigree – the full sixteen quarterings
on the coat of arms, which would open so many doors
among the exclusive aristocratic castes of the Empire. Wéry had
an idea that her hand had already been claimed by some cousin.
Perhaps marriage would change her life for the better. Who
knew?
The servant rose, and Wéry remembered to
with eyes that might have been her brother's. 'Hey, Michel! Have
you ever looked at somebody? No, I mean, truly looked at them? Look
at old crook Bannermann there, dishing out the schnapps ration. Go on,
look your hardest. Tell me his past, his hopes, his fears, if you see them.
And I'll tell you if I think you're right . . .'
What did she see?
An unlovely thing, surely: a story of so many failures that they
might almost have been crimes. He winced inwardly. And he
realized that he had committed yet another offence, even as
he had tried to undo his earlier one. Of course no woman in her
position could call him 'Michel', whether at the first meeting or
at their fifty-first. It must always be 'sir' or 'Captain' or 'Count'
or what-have-you. It must always be that polite, protected
distance. Her brother had been free to condescend – free to step
out of his aristocratic skin into that of a petty gentleman and
revolutionary; free, even, to imagine himself as a fat and corrupt
quartermaster's assistant, if the whim took him. For her, it would
never be allowed.
He risked a quick glance from the corner of his eye – quick,
and away at once, as though his attention had never left the
dressing of his hand.
That was Albrecht's Maria, there: his sister, of whom he had
spoken often. Strange! His stories had been of a mischievous
childhood – of shared adventures, tree-climbing, stealing sweetmeats
and smuggling hurt wild animals into the house. He had
talked of a laughing, witty little sprite, who had stolen his spurs
so that he could not be cruel to the horses. Wéry had never
imagined this solemn figure, pitched abruptly into the world of
full adulthood. He had never been told how she could address
idiot brothers and rude strangers with a patience that neither
deserved.
Tell me her past, her hopes, her fears . . .
He stole another glance. She was no longer watching him. She
was waiting, with her eyes on the fire. So now he could look at
her, spying on her from the corner of his eye, while keeping his
chin pointed firmly at the servant who was dressing his hand.
In profile her face had the same delicacy about the nose and
eyes as those of her mother and brothers, although there was a
slight heaviness to her jaw, he thought, that dulled the effect. She
was taller than her mother by a head, but the muted colours
she wore, in contrast to Lady Adelsheim's bold pinks, had made
her almost invisible when he had first stepped into the library.
Now that he looked more closely he saw that the dress was old,
a little short for her, and the lace that trimmed the skirts and
sleeves was tinged with yellow. An orange-gold ribbon drooped
where the overdress joined across her breasts. Her skin was
powdered, and so was her hair – piled and powdered as her
mother's had been. At another time, Wéry thought, looking at
her would have been pleasing enough – although he would also
have liked to have seen her wearing the new classical styles of
France, with her hair left its natural dark colour and done in
ringlets.
But before all that, she should have been happy.
She was doomed from birth: doomed into her narrow degree,
here in this house between that lightning-witted mother and her
father and brother who had no wits at all. All her growing life she
must have watched Adelsheim decay: debts and misfortunes,
exacerbated by the tolls of war. Now, without warning, she was
mourning a loved brother who should have lived. And the hopes
of her house were in ruins around her, and she herself must be
the last asset left: the marriageable daughter who could offer to
her husband the Adelsheim pedigree – the full sixteen quarterings
on the coat of arms, which would open so many doors
among the exclusive aristocratic castes of the Empire. Wéry had
an idea that her hand had already been claimed by some cousin.
Perhaps marriage would change her life for the better. Who
knew?
The servant rose, and Wéry remembered to
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