Her voice calm, almost distant, Catherine said, “Merci, Variam. I will never forget your assistance, and your discretion.” She turned to Wake. “Thank you for the wonderful conversation, Peter. It is a memory that will last my lifetime.”
Wake started to reply, but she had already begun to go down the steps again, calling back, “Come Variam, and bring that light so I do not fall. I need to take that stroll on the patio. Right now.”
Variam glanced at Wake, nodded at the door, and said, “Yes, Madame Faber. As you wish.”
The small light flickered as they moved downward in silence. Soon Catherine was lost to Wake’s view as they rounded a corner in the steps. He quietly walked down the hall of his floor, went into his room, and sat on the bed. Lifting a hand, he saw it shaking uncontrollably and tried to will it to stop, but it wouldn’t. He went to the window and looked around at the cliffs and the sea, previously magnificent in their beauty but now ghostly and ominous in the pale light.
His instincts returned and he secured the room’s lock, then reclined on the bed, trying to reason out what he was doing, but a swirl of emotions negated the workings of his usually analytical mind. Shame, fear, anger, and confusion took over. Deep breaths and slow exhales were of no use. His heart was beating as it had in the moments before past battles. He lay there, eyes staring at the ornately plastered ceiling, his mind dreading the inevitable pounding on his door, wondering what had happened with Catherine and her husband, worrying about the consequences of his weakness. Dozens of horrific scenarios flashed before him of what was to come in the morning, and for hours he lay there, senses acute, depressed over what he had done and had been about to do. His predominate emotion was anger—at himself.
“You’re an idiot, Wake,” he growled to the ceiling. “A frigging bilge-to-topmast, incredibly stupid, number-one idiot. . . .”
***
Wake’s eyes were open but heavy when he realized it was getting light outside. He saw by his watch it was six a.m. and remembered Brown saying that breakfast would start to be served at seven, “for those naval early birds who can’t break their rustic habits.”
Shaving with his hand still shaking proved to be difficult and he cut himself on the jaw, inches below the old wound on his right temple. After changing his underclothes and shirt, he tied his cravat, put on his coat and unlocked the door. Then Wake made his way to the castle’s main patio, scene of the previous night’s revelry, where a long table covered with fruit and breakfast dishes awaited.
Variam was there, as starched and inscrutable as ever. “Good morning, sir. Unfortunately you’ve missed the British naval officers. They just left. However, sir, there is still plenty of breakfast left. We have an English country breakfast, along with fruits. And some French pastries.”
Wake winced at the last and checked Variam’s eyes, but they revealed nothing. Wake moved closer. “I didn’t get a chance to say thank you last night, Variam. I am now.”
“It is the duty of a major-domo to make his master’s house tranquil, sir. I was merely fulfilling my duty.”
“And that duty includes briefing your master on last night’s events?”
“Of course, sir. But last night the order was reversed. The consul general briefed me on the situation and directed that I assist you and the lady.”
Variam saw Wake’s face blush and anticipated the next questions. “The lady and her husband have not come downstairs yet this morning. And there was no confrontation between them last night. I believe the gentleman’s intoxication led him to pass out after walking up all those steps, sir. I helped him to his room, where the lady was already ensconced and evinced surprise upon our arrival.”
Wake abruptly remembered Faber’s challenge to Moltke. “Oh, what about the German? There was to be a duel at sunrise.”
“Last night Consul General Brown spoke with Bishop Ferro, who counseled the gentlemen involved in that dispute. They were dissuaded from continuing with it, but I’m afraid there is still much ill will, sir. I believe that was the initial reason for Monsieur Faber’s alcohol intake last evening. Then, as such things tend to do, one thing led to another and he began to search for his wife.”
“Where’s the German now?”
“He departed last night, sir. Quite upset with the Frenchman.”
Variam bowed deeply to the bishop of Genoa passing by, then continued his aside to Wake. “Consul General Brown will be down momentarily to greet his guests and enjoy his breakfast.” He swiveled his head as if on parade, small black eyes locking on Wake’s. “And no, sir, I cannot answer if anyone else has knowledge of last night’s events on the parapet.”
The major-domo’s demeanor was daunting to Wake, who managed to croak out, “Yes, well, again Variam, thank you for your considerable help. You’ve been very candid this morning. May I ask why?”
“You are entirely welcome for the assistance, sir. These things sometimes happen here. As for my candor . . .” A flicker of a smile crossed his face. “I was ordered to assist you all that I can, sir. It’s seems you have friends you don’t know about.”
Before Wake could ask the obvious, the Sikh executed a right-face as Bishop Ferro approached, trailed by an aide holding a plate mounded with food. Wake couldn’t get away as the bishop enthusiastically queried him, “Ah, you are the American naval man here, yes?”
“Yes, Your Excellency,” responded Wake, concerned about what Ferro had heard about him. “I am Lieutenant Peter Wake, of the American Navy.”
“Well come join us, Lieutenant Wake,” offered the bishop in good English. “These large British morning feasts require an equally large amount of
