Imogen Robertson - Circle of Shadows

‘What’s afoot, Christian?’

The footman held out a note, and Krall took it with a look of great suspicion.

‘From Mrs Westerman, sir. With her compliments.’

He harrumphed then read through the note twice. ‘Looks like I need to ride back to Oberbach tonight, my boy. If anyone needs me, I’ll be back before the Duke wakes in the morning.’

The footman bowed and retreated, and Krall read the note once more. Interesting.

Harriet sat in front of the mirror while her maid arranged her hair. She studied her own face and wondered if it had changed in the course of the day. It was true that she had asked Crowther to make sure the assassin who killed her husband would die. She remembered the weight of the gun as she had it aimed at Manzerotti’s chest and wondered why she had not pulled the trigger. It was not, she admitted to herself, wondering what grief she would cause to her family. It was not even for her children, and it was a lie to say, as she had said, that she simply could not. She could have done it; no hysterical passion prevented her from squeezing the trigger, no sudden regard for the sanctity of life. At first she wondered if she had simply chosen not to be the sort of person who shoots another in cold blood. Manzerotti was clever to provide the gun. If she had had the opportunity to stab him with Al-Said’s file at that first moment of meeting, she might have done it, but the gun, while being a more reliable method of execution, was also slower. She had been forced to hear him speak, and had discovered in those moments that she did not loathe Manzerotti as much as she had thought. It was not his talent, the beauty of his voice, nor of his person. No, suddenly it seemed to her that hating Manzerotti was like hating storms and high-gusting squalls that cracked the masts and cast a ship about with no care for the souls it contained. And in his utter lack of compunction, in his undoubted brilliance, he was like them, in his way, magnificent.

‘Dear God, what have I become?’ she said to the mirror.

‘Madam?’ the maid said, confused, not quite understanding.

‘Nothing, Dido. Fetch me my pearls.’ The girl padded over to the press and returned with Harriet’s jewel case. She unlocked it with the key from her pocket, took out the necklace and matching eardrops, and placed them in Harriet’s hands. They had been a wedding present from James, and an extravagant one it had seemed in those times before his luck and skill as a naval commander had made them rich.

There was a tap at the door and Rachel slipped into the room like a shadow. She was still wearing her day dress and Harriet remembered what she had said about avoiding dining with the court. ‘You look very fine, Harry.’

‘All Dido’s work,’ her sister replied and caught the maid’s smile in the mirror.

‘Harry, do you think, if you are not too tired, I might sit with you a while by ourselves after supper?’

‘Of course, my dear.’

Rachel smiled briefly and retreated as quickly and quietly as she had come. Harriet frowned at her reflection.

Dido began the work of fixing yet more pearls into Harriet’s hair and sighed.

‘What is it, Dido?’

‘Well, ma’am, I have no aim to marry myself, but it seems to me, judging from my sisters and cousins, the first months of marriage are hard enough without your husband being locked away for murder.’

Harriet smoothed down her sleeves. ‘I can hardly remember, it seems such an age since I was a bride. Will you make sure she eats something this evening, Dido?’

‘That I will, ma’am.’ She stepped back. ‘There, Mrs Westerman. You are ready.’

Harriet, Graves and Crowther were gathered in the Garden Salon to meet another officer of the court whose particular business it was to introduce strangers to the nobility in general and to the Duke in particular. This gentleman must be occupied indeed, for it was already a quarter after the hour that they had been asked to meet him. Harriet, as was her habit, paced back and forth, the wide silk skirts of her court dress running after her over the polished boards, while Crowther watched her. Graves, bewigged and in a splendidly embroidered coat he obviously hated, was sprawled in an armchair, admiring the view of the lawns, and entertaining them, in a glum tone of voice, with a list of some of the titles and sinecures available at the palace. Harriet suspected he was trying to stop her thinking about Manzerotti, and was grateful to be distracted.

‘There is an Admiral here! An Admiral for four pleasure boats kept on the Neckar! We now wait for the Palace Marshal, and there is a man maintained in Paris at great expense whose sole, sole duty is to write a monthly report on the fashions.’

Crowther examined his fingernails. ‘You know, Graves, it is not my disposition to praise luxury, but Maulberg is not England. There are many noblemen with titles that will fill pages who dine on soup at home in order to wear silk at court. Status is important here. Do remember to call every man you meet Your Honour, and every woman My Lady, or Gracious Madam. To use a simpler form of address might make you an enemy for life.’ Graves sighed. ‘And stop picking at your lace, Graves! It was a great deal worse when I lived here twenty years ago. Incorrect seatings at dinner could cause a storm of pamphlets and a number of legal cases.’

‘Did it not send you quite mad?’ Graves said.

‘Graves, Crowther would never have come into company. He will have spent his days and nights in study. I can only imagine he read about the pamphlets in the newspaper.’

‘Mrs Westerman is quite right,’ Crowther admitted. ‘I did dine with my professors from time to time, but they did not have the rank to indulge in such flummery, and I did not have the inclination.’

Graves abandoned his attack on his lace cuffs. ‘Still I am curious to see His Serene Highness Ludwig Christoph, Duke of Maulberg. He must cut quite a figure if he is not dwarfed by the magnificence of his surroundings.’ Then he added, ‘Mrs Westerman, are you really resolved to stay here with Manzerotti in residence?’

She stopped walking. ‘I am not happy to be here at all, Graves. But I can bear him.’

‘He is a fascinating man,’ Crowther said.

‘He is a monster,’ Graves said, plucking at his lace again.

Harriet straightened her back. The weight of her gown felt as if it would drag her to her knees.

‘Graves, you have seen enough of the anatomical curiosities Crowther has collected to know there is no contradiction between his monstrosity and Crowther’s fascination.’

The door opened, and a rather wizened-looking gentleman made his slow way towards them with the aid of a pair of ebony canes. He introduced himself, though Harriet got a little lost in the list of titles. He produced a watch, enamelled with the Arms of Maulberg and tapped it unhappily.

‘I must take you in almost immediately! Well, we must do what we can in the minutes that are left to us. Though,’ he squeezed his eyes almost shut, ‘I would normally insist on an hour at least. We have our ways in Maulberg, and we expect them to be honoured. Forgive my lateness. The new Duchess means we have many strangers in court, and they must be accommodated and introduced in the proper fashion. Now a few words on the correct form for meeting the Duke and how to address His Highness …’

The twenty minutes that followed were the longest in Harriet’s life.

As Harriet entered the ballroom on Graves’s arm, with Crowther a pace behind them, she caught her breath. The long hall was lit by a series of magnificent crystal chandeliers, great fountains of light. Above them the ceiling curved, its height amplified by trompe l’oeil that made the walls into the walls of temples, reaching up in romantic pediments and balconies into a false sky of pinks and reds full of angels. The polished floors glistened. The English party found themselves surrounded with men and women in the full costume of the Ulrichsberg court. Every variety of blue and gold was worn, skirts of huge width and flounces, hair piled high and padded, white faces, rouged and painted, in the French fashion, pursed lips. Gold lace, jewels at every neck and waist. It was an assault on the senses that left Harriet’s throat rather dry. There was, she was happy to see, no sign of Manzerotti in the crowd.