Clearly Nerissa had warned her that Vespasia was already here.
“Good morning, Lady Vespasia,” she said with a smile of pleasure. Then she turned to Serafina. “How are you today? I brought you some lilies from the hothouse. I gave them to Nerissa to put in water.” She perched on the edge of the bed, far from where she would disturb Serafina’s feet.
“I’m well, thank you,” Serafina replied, blinking and looking puzzled. “In fact, I can’t think what I’m still doing in bed. What time is it? I should be up.” A look of alarm filled her face. “Why are you here in my bedroom?”
“You’ve been unwell,” Adriana said quickly. “You are recovering, but it’s too soon to be out yet. And the weather is very cold.”
“Is it?” Serafina turned to face the window. “Is it autumn? The tree is bare. Or winter?”
“Winter, but nearly spring,” Adriana told her. “Rather raw outside. The sort of wind that bites through your clothes.”
“Then it was nice of you to come,” Serafina remarked. “Do you know Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould?”
“Yes, we have met,” Adriana assured her.
“Vespasia and I are old friends,” Serafina said, nodding a little. “We fought together.”
Adriana looked confused.
“Oh!” Serafina gave a little laugh. “Side by side, not against each other, my dear, never against each other.” She shot a glance at Vespasia, a secret, amused communication.
Adriana looked at Vespasia for confirmation, or perhaps for help.
Vespasia tried to keep the surprise from her face.
There was no possible course but to agree. “Certainly,” she said with as much enthusiasm as she could. “Each in our own fashion.” She must steer the conversation away from further trouble. How much did Serafina remember? Was she now recalling actual past events, or was she about to start one of the rambling journeys of the imagination that Nerissa had referred to?
“It sounds exciting,” Adriana said with interest. “And dangerous.”
“Oh, yes.” Serafina leaned back a little against her pillows, her dark eyes gazing far away in the distance of recollection. “Very dangerous. There were deaths.”
“Deaths?” Adriana’s voice was a whisper, the color fading from her face.
Vespasia drew in her breath to interrupt. There had been, of course, but it was long ago, and there was no point in raking over tragedy now. But Serafina continued before she could break in.
“Brave people,” she said softly. “Passions were very high. Men and women sacrificed their lives for the cause of freedom.” She frowned and studied Adriana closely for several moments. “But you know that. You are Croatian. You know all these things.”
Adriana nodded. “I’ve heard the stories.” Her voice choked, and she coughed to clear her throat, and perhaps to give herself a moment to master her feelings. “I wasn’t there myself.”
Now Serafina seemed lost. “Weren’t you? Why not? Don’t you want freedom for your people? For your language, your music, your culture? Do you want to wear the Austrian yoke forever?”
“No,” Adriana whispered. “Of course I don’t.”
This time Vespasia did interrupt, politely but firmly. “That was all ages ago, my dear. Mrs. Blantyre was hardly even born then. Those are old griefs. Much has happened since that time. Italy is united and independent, at least most of it is.”
Serafina looked at her as if she had momentarily forgotten Vespasia’s presence. “Trieste?” she asked, hope flaring in her eyes.
Vespasia thought for an instant of lying, but it was such a condescension, such a denial of respect, that she could not do it.
“Not yet, but it will come,” she assured her.
“What are you doing about it?” Serafina asked. She was puzzled, as if raking her memory, but there was also challenge in her question.
“Do you not think it wiser to discuss other things just now?” Vespasia suggested. “Fashion, perhaps, or the latest art exhibition, or even politics here at home?”
“Prince Albert is German, you know,” Serafina said. “The Saxe-Coburgs are everywhere. Everybody who is anyone at all has at least one of them in the family.”
“Prince Albert is dead,” Vespasia assured her firmly.
“Is he? Oh, dear.” Serafina blinked. “Who killed him? And for heaven’s sake why? He was a good man. How terribly stupid. What is the world coming to?”
“Nobody killed him.” Vespasia glanced at Adriana and back again to Serafina. “He died of typhoid fever. It was many years ago now. And yes, you are quite right, he was a good man. Perhaps next time I come I shall bring you the latest edition of the
Serafina turned her hands outward in a gesture of resignation. “Perhaps. That would be kind of you.” She closed her eyes. Her face looked pale and strained, her brows a little wispy, her eye sockets hollow.
Vespasia rose to her feet, staring at Adriana. “I think perhaps we should leave Mrs. Montserrat to have a little rest. She seems tired.”
“Of course,” Adriana agreed reluctantly. She looked at Serafina. “I’ll come back and see you again soon.”
Serafina did not answer. It appeared that she had drifted off to sleep.
Adriana led the way out, followed by Tucker. Vespasia was at the door when she turned one more time to look at Serafina. The older woman was staring wide-eyed, suddenly very much awake, her expression one of terror. The next moment the look was gone, and her face was completely blank again.
Vespasia closed the door and, leaving Adriana outside on the landing with Tucker, she went back to Serafina. Gently putting her hand over the stiff, blue-veined ones on the coverlet, she asked, “What is it? What are you afraid of?”
The fear returned to Serafina’s eyes. “I know too much,” she whispered. “Terrible things, plans of murder, the dead piled up …”
“Plans about whom?” Vespasia asked, trying to keep the pain out of her voice. “My dear, most of them are gone already. These are old quarrels you are remembering. They don’t matter anymore. It’s 1896 now. There are new issues, and they don’t involve us as they used to.”
“I know it’s 1896,” Serafina said quickly. “But some secrets never grow old, Vespasia. Betrayal always matters. Brothers, fathers, and husbands sold to the executioner for the price of advancement. Blood money can never be repaid.”
Vespasia stared at her and saw the clear, sharp light of intelligence in her eyes. There was nothing blurred now, nothing uncertain. But she was afraid, and she could not hide it. Perhaps that was what shocked Vespasia the most. In all the times they had met-in London, Paris, and Vienna, in the ballrooms or at a secret rendezvous in some hunting lodge or backstreet room-she had never seen Serafina white with terror.
“Who are you afraid of?” she whispered.
Serafina’s eyes filled with tears, and one hand closed over Vespasia’s, her thin fingers desperate. “I don’t know. There were so many. I’m not even sure which ones matter anymore. And half the time I don’t know what I’m saying!” Tears filled her eyes. “I’m not sure who is allied with whom these days, and if I make a mistake, they’ll kill me. I know too much, Vespasia! I thought of writing it all down, and letting everyone know that I had, but what good would that do? Only the guilty would believe me. It’s all so …”
Vespasia held Serafina’s hand with both of hers. “Are you certain there are still secrets that matter, my dear? So much has changed. Franz Josef is a relatively benign old man now, broken by tragedy …”
“I know. And I know what that tragedy was, more than you do, Vespasia.”
“Mayerling?” Vespasia asked with surprise. “How could you know more about that than what was public information? They burned the place to the ground, and all the evidence with it.”
“Not all,” Serafina said softly. “I know people. I’ve only lost my wits in the last year.” She searched Vespasia’s eyes. “But there are other secrets, older ones. I know who shot Esterhazy, and why. I know who Stefan’s father really was, and how to prove it. I know who betrayed Lazar Dragovic.” The tears spilled down her tired cheeks. “I’m so afraid I’ll forget who I’m talking to, and say something to give it away.”
Vespasia realized that Serafina was frightened not only of letting the secrets slip, but also that whoever was
