or to my liaison with the count, I did not dare to wonder. But something else he said tugged at me.
“How curious that Dr. Frankopan was disowned by his family. He spoke of them to me as if he is still recognised. His brother is a nobleman living in Vienna.”
“And content to let stand the provisions their father made when Dr. Frankopan was disowned,” Charles revealed. “He was given the hunting cottage and a tiny allowance, but apart from that, he was entirely cut off from the family proper. No visits to Vienna, and none from them. Letters are exchanged once per year, at Christmas. And that is the whole of it.”
“That poor man! How lonely he must have been for all of these years.”
“Yes. Apparently, he gave up his family for love of a woman. The Frankopans did not approve of his beloved, and when the doctor wanted to offer her marriage, they were intransigent. They insisted he take a long sea voyage, doubtless hoping the attachment would not last. But before Dr. Frankopan returned, the poor creature died. He never forgave them for sending him away, and they never forgot he chose her above them. He has been here ever since.”
“How tragic for him-and how providential for the people of this valley. They would have had no proper medical care without him,” I pointed out.
“I suppose. Still, a hard consequence for a love that did not last,” Charles returned.
“A hard consequence indeed.”
Charles left me then to pack his own things, and when I had finished, I went to Cosmina’s room to break the unwelcome news to her that I must leave. I rapped lightly upon the door and she called for me to enter.
“Oh! I did not realise you were not alone,” I said rather awkwardly, for the countess and Frau Amsel sat next to the bed, and the three of them looked for all the world like the weird sisters upon the heath, waiting for MacBeth.
“Do come in,” Cosmina begged. “I have been so bored, and Aunt Eugenia was kind enough to read to me. She is feeling stronger today.”
The countess placed a ribbon in the book that lay open upon her lap, and Frau Amsel began to collect her needlework.
“We will leave you now you have Miss Lestrange to keep you company.”
“If you would delay a moment, madame, I must speak with you as well.”
“Oh?” The lightly marked, aristocratic brows rose. She was not accustomed to doing another’s bidding, that much was apparent. But she obliged me, settling herself back into her chair. Frau Amsel unrolled her needlework with an air of malevolent anticipation.
“I am afraid that my friend, Mr. Beecroft, has had a communication forwarded to him from Vienna. He has urgent business in Edinburgh and must return home at once. And I must go with him.”
“No!” Cosmina cried. Her hair, unplaited, spilled loose over her pillows, and her eyes were darkly shadowed and unnaturally bright.
“I am sorry, dearest. I have no choice in the matter. I must go.”
Cosmina began to speak, but the countess interrupted her smoothly. “Cosmina, you must not importune Miss Lestrange. I am certain she feels quite badly enough to be leaving so quickly as it is.”
The countess was perceptive, and the smile she gave me was almost kind. “We will be sorry to see you go, Miss Lestrange. When must you take your leave of us?”
“Tomorrow, madame. By first light. It is a long way to Hermannstadt.”
“That it is. I will make certain Frau Graben prepares a hamper for your journey. The wayside inns can be quite impossible.”
“That is very gracious of you,” I told her, inclining my head. She returned the gesture, and I marvelled at how civilised we were being. But the countess could afford to be generous. I was leaving, after all.
Frau Amsel did not bother to conceal her glee. She smiled broadly and as she followed the countess from the room, she fairly radiated pleasure.
I settled myself into the countess’s vacated chair, bracing myself for the inevitable scene which must follow. Cosmina had always been quiet, but she was capable of passionate rages when she was thwarted. I still remembered a fairly ridiculous scene over a penwiper at school that had resulted in a broken window.
“Are you very angry?” I asked.
She shook her head, and to my distress, a tear fell to her cheeks. “No, only sad. I have so loved having you here. But Aunt Eugenia is right. I must not be selfish. You have a life to lead, and it is far away from me.”
I plucked at the bedcovers, pleating them between my fingers. “I do hate to leave you when you are ill.”
She gave me a smile, a brave and trembling thing. “I will be well soon. It is just a cold, a trifling matter.”
We fell silent then, and I was deeply relieved that she did not mean to make our parting a difficult one.
“Will you write to me? I mean really write to me? Once a month at least,” she urged.
“Once a fortnight, and that is a promise,” I told her. I rose and placed a kiss upon her brow. It was cooler than I had expected, and I was glad of it. “You’ve no fever now. Perhaps you will be out of bed soon.”
“Tomorrow, I hope,” she said seriously. “I should like to see you off. And Mr. Beecroft,” she added, colouring slightly. I had forgot her fondness towards Charles, and I hoped she would not take his absence too much to heart.
“I would like that. You must rest this evening, and I will come to you in the morning even if you are still abed,” I promised.
I took my leave of her then. I had no desire for company that night, my last at the castle, and Frau Graben was kind enough to send up a tray. She had outdone herself, for the tray groaned under a variety of regional delights. There was a dish of vine leaves, stuffed with meat and rice and spices and smothered in gravy, and half a dozen others besides, as well as the usual accompaniments of pickles and breads and cheeses. I ate little, picking over the delicious morsels with only a feeble appetite. I ached to think of leaving this place, of leaving him. It would have been difficult enough to part from him under any ordinary circumstance. With such questions yet unanswered, it was insupportable. I did not know the extent of his feelings for me, or if indeed any such feelings existed. I did not know the truth of what he was, simply a man or something darker and more sinister. And perhaps most chilling of all, I did not know what he feared. Was it the possibility of his own destruction or mine that caused him to send me away?
Such questions teased and tormented me through the course of the evening, and finally I could bear it no longer. I went to the count’s room, determined to break through his resolve at last. I understood the dangers of it; I had already seen that to prod him beyond endurance would cause him to strip the scales from my eyes and teach me unpleasantnesses. But I could not leave without seeing him one last time, and when I reached his bedchamber, I did not even pause to knock, but opened the door and walked straight in.
He was not there, but a fire burned upon the hearth, and the bed had been turned back as if he had expected to retire soon. I mounted the little stair to his workroom, surprised to find it empty. I had thought to find him there, tinkering with the orrery or reading one of his grandfather’s almanacs. The night was windy and the sky full of cloud, unsuitable for astronomical pursuits. If he had gone to the observatory, he would only tarry a moment or two, and I decided to wait in the workroom for him. Before I could settle, I glanced at the window and gaped. I would have screamed, but my voice was stopped in my astonishment, for a great black shape hung at the window, pressing itself against the glass. It swung wildly, thudding hard against the window, and I realised it meant to break in, to gain entry to the count’s room, and it was then that I recovered myself. I screamed, and before the sound of it died in my throat, the shape hurled itself against the window, destroying it in a shower of splintered glass. The form fell heavily upon the shattered glass with an inhuman groan, and it was only then that I saw it was the count, bleeding freely and insensible. I flung myself to the floor, heedless of the glass, and wrenched open his neckcloth that he might breathe more easily. I put my handkerchief to the jagged wound upon his cheek, but the snowy cloth turned scarlet as soon as it touched him. I ought to have gone for help then or fetched water or done any of a hundred useful things. Instead I knelt beside him in the midst of the destruction, willing him to wake, to speak.
After a moment-it may have been a moment, although it felt an eternity-I was pushed gently aside. “Let me see him, let me see him.” It was Dr. Frankopan, with Florian and Charles hard upon his heels. I had not realised the doctor had even called again at the castle, but never in my life had I greeted anyone with greater pleasure.
