Chapter 31

Chapter Thirty-One

The children stood in a line; their heads tilted upwards as they gaped up the magnificent baroque mansion that was to be their new home.

"This is a palace." Theo was the first to find his voice.

"Are you sure the coachman didn't make a mistake?" Mona asked sceptically.

Since several footmen rushed out of the front door to help unload the luggage from the second carriage that arrived behind them, Lena assumed that this must be the right place.

They were ushered into a splendid marble hall with a sweeping staircase leading to the upper rooms, from which Mr Mortimer hurriedly descended to greet them.

"His Grace is not here at present, having been called to an urgent meeting. It has therefore been left to me to welcome you here." He opened his arms as if to embrace them all. "Welcome to the current residence of the Duke of Aldingbourne. I hope you will feel at home here. If you would please follow me. "

There were enough rooms in the palace for every child to have their own.

Lena did not have a room; she had a whole suite. The room covered in blue and gold velvet left her speechless. Even the stucco on the ceiling was gilded. It was almost too much.

"The canopy bed is so big, we could all sleep in it," she said to the maid, who was busily unpacking her trunks.

She smiled politely. "Yes, Your Grace."

"Do let me help." Lena took the nightshirt out of her hands. The maid's eyes widened in horror.

"Oh no, Your Grace. You mustn't. This is my work, if you please."

Your Grace!

The words were strange, and Lena's first reaction was to correct her. Then the echoes of the past came back. It was not the first time people had called her ‘Your Grace'.

"His Grace has cancelled all events for tonight, saying you and the children need time to get accustomed to being here. Tomorrow will be a busy day, with the dressmaker coming here to measure you for a new wardrobe."

Lena ran her hand down her faded dress. "I suppose I do need something a little more appropriate to wear." She could hardly continue wearing Emma's dresses from the attic that she usually used for performances. She had to be more fashionable now. She supposed having one or two additional dresses wouldn't hurt.

She ended up having two walking dresses, four morning dresses, four afternoon dresses, two carriage dresses, three ballroom gowns, a riding outfit—even though she protested that she did not know how to ride; or did she? A vague memory of her nervously riding on a vast green estate in England resurfaced, but the image slipped from her mind before she could grasp it. Then two new nightdresses, spencers and redingotes, shawls and shoes and fans and gloves and petticoats, and oh! More stockings! The most beautiful things of the finest silk. Lena stroked them but found the first pair the Duke had given her was her favourite. She was wearing them now.

"That is only the beginning," the dressmaker had said, satisfied when everything fit her to perfection. "More is to come."

Mona and the boys also received new outfits, much to the chagrin of Les and Hecki, who insisted that their new satin suits were stiff and uncomfortable, and "one could hardly go fishing in them."

Lena adjusted the plainly tied neckcloth around Hector's neck after he'd tugged at it. "You look like a young gentleman now, Hector. Behave like one."

"I'll make sure he does. Come on, Hecki, let's slide down the banister in the great hall. I wonder if we can go all the way from the fourth floor to the ground floor in one ride?" Before Lena could say another word, the two boys had scampered off.

Mona was in seventh heaven. Not only was her room pretty in pale lemon, but she had an extra room of her own, her very own drawing room, where she could play her viola to her heart's content, without being disturbed.

"I like it here, Mama. I can read, play my viola, draw, because there's plenty of light, and if I get bored, go shopping, because the best shopping street in Vienna is right outside!" Her eyes sparkled with excitement.

Only Theo was subdued. Lena assumed it was because he was still struggling with his broken heart, because moving into the city meant being away from his Rosalie, even though she had made it clear that they could never be together. She had become engaged to someone else. Somehow this move made things even more final. Also, the hospital and the Josephinum where he had his anatomy and physiology classes were further away.

"On the other hand, it is exciting to live in the heart of Vienna, isn't it? You won't have to perform anymore, and you will be able to focus entirely on your studies. That is an advantage, isn't it?" Lena stroked his hair.

"Yes." Theo moped. "I suppose so."

Lena's suite of rooms contained a pianoforte in her drawing room. It was a Walter piano, an elegant pianoforte of walnut wood, the kind that the great masters like Beethoven, Mozart and Haydn owned.

Lena ran her fingers reverently over the black ebony keys and pressed them down.

The instrument was finely tuned with full sound.

She sat down, closed her eyes, and played.

"This Congress doesn't move forwards, it dances!" the Prince of Ligne complained to Julius after a particularly harrowing diplomatic meeting. They'd conversed in French, and Julius had been contemplating the wit of the remark and how difficult it was to translate the double entendre of ‘ ne marche pas ' into English. On the one hand it referred to a lack of forwards movement, but on the other, in simpler language, it meant that the thing was simply broken and didn't work.

Julius could not but affirm the truth of these words. Not only did they all prefer dancing the waltz to sitting down and working in the literal sense, but the few who were actually working—often in smaller, private groups gathered informally amid social functions like balls, soirees, ridottos, and dinners—found themselves treading in place as if stomping grapes in a vat, or, at best, moving round and round in circles, making no progress at all. At least if they'd been treading real grapes they'd end up with some good wine. In this case, there would be no such reward.

It was enough to make even the most patient man lose his temper.

Julius rubbed at his eyes tiredly.

They'd just had another pointless four-hour meeting, and it had ended, as it so often did, with the Tsar storming out of the room and slamming the door like an overindulged infant.

Come to think of it, even infants were better behaved than that.

Then Metternich had sidled up to him with a smug smile and poked him in the waistcoat with his lorgnette. "I know who paid you a visit the other day."

"Do you now?" Julius had replied wearily. "How extraordinarily shocking."

"I have known about your friendship with Lindenstein for a long time, of course. You and Lindenstein and Hartenberg are exceptionally close friends, almost like brothers. The three of you met on a Grand Tour when you were but young, green boys. Where did you meet, again? Ah yes, I recall. I have an excellent memory, you see. I remember every detail, no matter how insignificant. It was at an inn in the Tyrolean Alps, before the revolution and all the other madness broke out." He grinned suavely. "Impressed by what I know, aren't you?"

Julius shrugged. "It is no secret that the three of us have known each other since our youth."

They'd all been stranded in a seedy inn due to inclement weather, the road blocked by a mudslide, making it impossible to continue their journey. Julius had noticed two youths sitting at a table by the window, a good-looking blond and an older, edgier, darker-haired one with sharp eyes, recklessly gambling as if the sky was falling, with real money, too. The older one had a cigar dangling from the corner of his mouth and they were drinking huge jugs of what looked like beer. He couldn't help being impressed by them and sneaking glances at their game, for his tutor had strictly forbidden him to touch cards, cigars, and heaven forbid, beer. His tutor was now sick in bed, and Julius was bored.

The two boys must have noticed his interest, because they put their heads together, whispered, and looked at him slyly.

Without much ado, Julius had got up and walked over to them.

"Julius Stafford-Hill, the Marquess of Drayton." He bowed stiffly.

The blond boy grinned, raised his mug and drank deeply, not wiping the foam from his mouth, never taking his eyes off him. "English?"

"Yes."

"That would explain it."

"Explain what?"

"Why you're sitting there all stiff and straight as if you'd swallowed a steel pole."

The older boy looked him up and down with narrowed eyes, a cigar still dangling from his mouth. "Georg von Hartenberg." He lifted his chin to the blond boy. "My cousin Lindenstein."

"Just Lindenstein?" Julius enquired.

"Just Lindenstein," he confirmed, his teeth still clenching the cigar.

"How do you do." Julius nodded at them both.

"Do you play Faro, Drayton?" Lindenstein smiled beatifically at him.

"I do," he lied.

They'd fleeced him quite spectacularly. In the end, Hartenberg had clapped a hand on his back and declared him a good loser. The next morning, Julius had left his tutor at the inn and gone to Innsbruck with them. He'd been delighted by Lindenstein's wit and daring, and Hartenberg's dry humour and courage. By the end of the week, the three had sworn eternal friendship and blood brotherhood, and to top it all, Julius had promised Hartenberg his sister Evie's hand in marriage.

"How old is she?" Hartenberg enquired.

"Almost five."

Hartenberg seemed to think for a moment. "Very well, then. We'll tie the knot in twenty years, brother."

"Don't you want to know whether she's beautiful?" Julius couldn't help asking.

"No. She's your sister. That means she's not a doormat. That's all that matters to me."

That was all that was said on the subject.

Julius sighed. How long ago that was. The years had passed, they weren't boys anymore, but their friendship had withstood time and distance and they were as close to each other as ever. Like brothers, they guarded each other's secrets with their lives.

Metternich still watched him closely. "I am, of course, particularly interested in Lindenstein, as you call him. We all know who he really is, do we not?"

Julius stiffened. He would only reveal that secret over his dead body. "What about Lindenstein?"

"There's been considerable upheaval, I hear, involving the father. Quite shocking, really. The father-son relationship is not the best, I find. There was much shouting, swearing, and slamming of doors." He leaned forwards curiously. "Surely you have heard of it?"

"I don't listen to gossip," Julius said stiffly.

"It involves, as usual, a woman."

Julius shrugged. "What's new? Who isn't involved with a woman these days? What about your own amorous relations with the Duchess—or is it Princess? Or both? You should have heeded my wife's advice."

Metternich grimaced. "Don't remind me. I have had many sleepless nights because of that." He sighed deeply. "But let us not change the subject. You do not happen to know the identity of the woman in question? I have my suspicions, but I must confess, it has been maddeningly difficult to discover the identity of the lady who has captured Lindenstein's heart. She must be someone quite impressive."

"I do not know."

"Somehow, I do not believe you. I suspect an Englishwoman…" His words trailed off.

But Julius' face remained blank.

"As for your own domestic affairs, I see that you have them in good order." The Prince patted Julius on the shoulder, and it took all his effort not to flinch at the touch.

Now, having finally arrived at his residence, with all the windows alight, he found it strange that for the first time the sprawling mansion was full of people.

His family.

His wife.

The tinkling sound of a piano reached him.

He took two steps at a time and reached for the door.

That melody.

A lonely, but sweet tune, simple and charming.

He could play it on the piano with one finger. It had haunted him for eight long years.

He opened the door and entered.

She was sitting behind the piano, dressed in a new gown, her hair coiffed upwards in a new style.

His eyes drank in the image.

Catherine. His duchess.

She looked up and smiled as he entered but continued to play the melody to the end .

"I just remembered that melody," she said with a smile.

"Yes," he whispered.

"I composed it for you."

"Yes." His voice was hoarse.

He'd heard it for the first time in a similar way he'd heard it now. She was playing it, a much younger version of herself, and he'd walked in unexpectedly.

She'd jumped to her feet and joy had lit up her face. "Your Grace!" She'd blushed fiercely. "I composed something for you."

"You composed this yourself?" He was surprised. He knew she played the piano, but not that she also composed.

"Yes." She had blushed scarlet. She handed him the sheets with trembling hands.

"Play it for me again."

She did.

That was the first time he had consciously listened to her play. Certainly, she'd played before, but it had always been calmer, more conventional pieces in the background. He discovered her favourite pieces were by Beethoven; heavy, passionate pieces hardly suitable for a young woman like her. She'd played them perfectly and with verve and zest.

The piece she'd composed for him began with a slow tempo, with long legato notes, thoughtful and slightly heavy, building into an intense, rich, and more complex melody, followed by an unexpected turn that expressed softer, warmer harmonies. It was a beautiful piece that expressed longing and yearning .

When she finished, she waited for the notes to fade. "This melody is you."

He grasped for words. "That was extraordinary."

Her smile lit her up from within and for the first time, he realised how beautiful she was.

That had been in the past. Now, it was the same. Hearing her play the tune that she'd composed for him brought back feelings he'd thought he'd long forgotten.

"This melody is you." She used the same words now as she did then.

"It is beautiful," he heard himself say.

As the last note lingered in the air, so did the memory, refusing to let go.