Dorchester Terrace Read online

  Tucker appeared within a few moments, walking stiffly but with head held high along the passageway from some stairs at the farther end. Vespasia knew her without hesitation. Her face was wrinkled and pale, her hair quite white, but she still had the same high cheekbones, and wide blue eyes, which were a little hollow around the sockets.

  “Good morning, Tucker,” Vespasia said quietly. “I am grateful that you came so quickly. How are you?”

  “I am quite well, thank you, m’lady,” Tucker replied. It was the only answer she had ever given to such a question, even when she had been ill or injured. “I hope you are well yourself, ma’am?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  The ritual civilities observed, Vespasia moved on to the subject that concerned them both. “I see that Mrs. Montserrat is not well, and am very anxious that she should not cause any ill feeling by her possible lapses of memory.” She saw instantly in Tucker’s face that she understood precisely what Vespasia meant. They were two old women, an earl’s daughter and a maid, standing in a silent corridor with more shared memories and common understanding than either of them had with most other people in the world. And yet it was unthinkable, especially to Tucker, that the convention of rank should ever be broken between them.

  “It might be advisable if you were to remain in the room as often as you may, whether Mrs. Montserrat thinks to ask you or not. Even if you do no more than assure her that she said nothing indiscreet, it would comfort her a great deal.”

  Tucker inclined her head very slightly. “Yes, m’lady. I’ll do my best. Miss Freemarsh …” She changed her mind and did not say whatever it was she had been about to.

  “Thank you.” Vespasia knew she had no need to add more. “It is nice to see you again, Tucker. Good day.”

  “Good day, m’lady.”

  Vespasia turned and went to the main staircase.

  “It was kind of you to call,” Nerissa said when she met Vespasia at the foot of the stairs by the lamp on the newel post.

  “Nonsense,” Vespasia replied rather more briskly than she had intended to. The comfort of speaking to Tucker the moment before slipped away from her. She was deeply disturbed, and it had taken her by surprise. Physical decline she was prepared for—to a degree it was inevitable—but the slipping away of mental grasp, even of identity, she had not considered. Perhaps because she did not want to. Could she one day be as isolated and afraid as Serafina was, dependent on people of a generation who neither knew nor understood anything of who she was? People like this cool young woman who imagined that compassion was no more than a duty, an empty act performed for its own sake.

  “I came because Serafina and I have been friends for more years than you are aware of,” Vespasia said, still tartly. “I am gravely remiss in not having come before. I should have taken the care to know how ill she is.”

  “She is not in pain,” Nerissa said gently. Something in the patience of her tone irritated Vespasia almost unbearably. It was as if, in her perception, Vespasia was also unable to grasp reality.

  Vespasia bit back her response with a considerable effort, because she needed this young woman’s cooperation. She could not afford to antagonize her.

  “So she assured me,” she said. “However, she is in distress. Maybe she has not told you so, but she is convinced that in her memory lapses she may be indiscreet, and the thought of it troubles her profoundly.”

  Nerissa smiled. “Oh, yes, I’m afraid she is not always quite sure where she is, or what year it is. She rambles quite a bit, but it is harmless, I assure you. She speaks of people she knew years ago as if they were still alive, and frankly I think she romanticizes the past rather a lot.” Her expression became even more patient. “But that is quite understandable. When the past is so much more exciting than the present, who would not want to dwell in it a little? And we all remember things with perhaps more light and color than they really possessed.”

  Vespasia wanted to tell this young woman, with her indifferent face and healthy young body, that Serafina Montserrat had a past with more vivid color than any other woman Nerissa was likely to meet in her lifetime. But her purpose was to safeguard Serafina, to remove the fear, whether founded or not, rather than put Nerissa Freemarsh in her place.

  “The reality doesn’t matter,” she said, ashamed of the evasion but knowing that it was necessary. She could not afford to tell Nerissa more than a suggestion of the truth, since the young woman clearly did not consider it important enough to guard with discretion.

  “Serafina is anxious that she may unintentionally speak of someone else’s private affairs,” she continued. “Would it not be possible to see that her visitors are limited, and that someone is with her who would interrupt if she seems to be wandering in her mind? Such assurance might relieve her anxiety. Tucker is excellent, but she cannot be there all the time. I can look for someone suitable and suggest a few possible names.”

  Nerissa smiled, her lips oddly tight. “You are very kind, but Aunt Serafina would dismiss such a person within a short while. She hates to be fussed over. Her fantasy that she knows all kinds of state secrets and terrible things about the private lives of archdukes and so on is complete imagination, you know. The few people who call on her are quite aware of that. It pleases her to daydream in that way, and it does no harm. No one believes her, I promise you.”

  Vespasia wondered if that was true. In the past, thirty or forty years ago, Serafina had certainly known all manner of things about the planned rebellions within the vast Austro-Hungarian Empire. She had been part of some of them. She had dined, danced, and very possibly slept with minor royalty—even major, for all Vespasia knew. But that was all long ago. Most of them were dead now, and their scandals were gone with them, along with their dreams.

  Nerissa smiled. “It is kind of you to care, but I cannot limit Aunt Serafina’s visitors. It would leave her terribly alone. To talk to people, to remember, and perhaps romance a little is about the only real pleasure she has. And it is generous of you to consider another servant, but that is not the answer. I don’t wish to tell Aunt Serafina, but it is not economically wise at present.”

  Vespasia could not argue with her. It would be both impertinent and pointless. She had no idea as to Serafina’s financial situation. “I see.”

  “I hope you will come again, Lady Vespasia. You were always one of her favorites. She speaks of you often.”

  Vespasia doubted it, but it would be ungracious to say so.

  “We were always fond of each other,” she replied. “Of course I shall come again. Thank you for being so patient.”

  Nerissa walked with her across the parquet floor toward the front door, and the carriage waiting at the curbside, the horses fretting in the wind.

  VICTOR NARRAWAY WAS ALREADY extremely bored with his elevation to the House of Lords. After his adventure in Ireland and his dismissal from Special Branch—which had stretched him emotionally far more than he had foreseen—he wanted something to occupy his time and his mind, a position that had use for at least some of his talents.

  But for Narraway to interfere in Special Branch now that Thomas Pitt was head would imply that he did not have confidence in Pitt’s ability; it would undermine any action Pitt took, not only in Pitt’s mind, but also in the minds of those he commanded and those to whom he reported. It would be the greatest disservice Narraway could do him, a betrayal of the loyalty Pitt had always shown. Pitt had trusted in Narraway’s innocence in the O’Neil case when no one else believed him and his guilt seemed clear—indeed, it was morally true that he was partly at fault. Still, Pitt had refrained from blaming him for anything.

  So Narraway was left bored, and felt more acutely alone than he had expected to; able to watch but unable to participate.

  Not that there was much to participate in; in the months since Pitt had been in charge, nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, nothing to challenge the imagination or the nerve.

  Narraway had considered foreign travel as
an option, and indeed had taken a late autumn trip to France. He had always enjoyed its rich countryside. He had walked around some of its older cities, reviving his half-forgotten knowledge about them, and adding to it. However, after a while it became stale, because he had no one with whom to share it. There was no Charlotte this time, no one else’s pleasure to mirror his own. That was a pain he still preferred not to think of.

  He had had the time to attend more theater. He had always enjoyed drama. Comedy was, for him, profoundly bereft without the presence of Oscar Wilde, who had been stigmatized for his private life, and whose work was no longer performed on the stage. It was an absence Narraway felt with peculiar sharpness.

  There was always opera, and recitals of music, such as that of Beethoven or Liszt—two of his favorites. But all these pursuits only stirred in him the hunger for something to do, a cause into which to pour his own energy.

  He sat in his book-lined study with its few small watercolor seascapes, the fire burning and the gaslamps throwing pools of light on the table and floor. He had eaten a light supper and was reading a report of some politician’s visit to Berlin; he was looking desperately, and without success, for a spark of intrigue or novelty in it. So he was delighted to be interrupted by his manservant, announcing that Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould had called.

  He sat upright in his chair, suddenly wide awake.

  “Ask her in,” he said immediately. “Bring the best red wine.”

  “White, sir, surely?” the manservant suggested.

  “No, she prefers red,” Narraway replied with assurance. “And also bring something decent to eat. Thin brown toast, and a little pâté. Please.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The man smiled, rolling the title around on his tongue. He was inordinately proud of his master. He did not say so, but he thought Narraway was a great man, underappreciated by his government, a trespass for which he did not forgive it.

  Vespasia came in a moment later. She was wearing a deep shade that, in the gaslight, was neither blue nor purple but something in between—muted, like the night sky. He had never seen her in anything jarring; though she was always dressed subtly, when she was in the room, one looked at no other woman.

  He considered greeting her with the usual formalities, but they knew each other too well for that now, especially after the recent fiasco in Ireland, and then with the queen at Osborne.

  “Good evening, Victor,” she said with a slight smile. She had taken to using his Christian name recently, and he found it more pleasing than he would have admitted willingly. There was no one else who called him by his first name.

  “Lady Vespasia.” He looked at her closely. There was anxiety in her eyes, though she maintained her usual composure. “What has happened? It’s not Thomas, is it?” he asked with sudden fear.

  She smiled. “No. So far as I am aware, all is well with him. It is possible that what I have to tell you is nothing of importance, but I need to be certain.”

  Narraway indicated the chair opposite his own. She sat with a single, graceful movement, her skirts arranging themselves perfectly without assistance.

  “You would not come unless it mattered to you,” he replied. “I have not made my boredom so obvious that you would come simply to rescue me. At least, I hope not.”

  She smiled with real humor this time, and it lit her face, bringing back all the grace of her beauty and the sharp realization of how radiant she could be.

  “Oh, dear, I had no idea,” she murmured. “Is it that dreadful?”

  “Tedious beyond belief,” he answered, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair comfortably. “Nobody tells me anything of interest. Either they assume I already know it—and very possibly I do—or else they are afraid they will be seen talking to me and people will assume they are passing me dark secrets.”

  The manservant reappeared with the wine and food. He served it with only the barest questions as to its acceptability, and then retreated.

  Narraway waited as Vespasia sipped her wine.

  “Do you know Serafina Montserrat?” she finally asked, in a quiet voice.

  He searched his memory. “Is she about our age?” he asked. That was something of a euphemism. Vespasia was technically several years older than he, but it was of no importance.

  She smiled. “The manners of their lordships are rubbing off on you, Victor. It is not like you to be so … oblique … toward the truth. She is somewhat older than I, and considerably older than you.”

  “Ah. Yes, I have heard of her, but only in passing. Mostly in reference to certain European matters, those brief sputters of revolution in the Austro-Hungarian Empire and Italy,” he replied.

  “She would not like our efforts to be referred to as sputters,” Vespasia observed drily. There was amusement in her eyes, but also pain.

  “Indeed. I apologize. But why do you ask? Has something happened to her?” he asked.

  “Time,” she replied ruefully. “And it has affected her rather more severely than it affects most of us.”

  “She’s ill? Vespasia, it is not like you to be so evasive.” He leaned forward uneasily. “What is it that concerns you? We know each other well enough not to skirt around the truth like this.”

  She relaxed slightly, as if she was no longer bearing her great tension alone.

  “She is becoming very severely forgetful,” she said at last. “To the point of slipping back into the past and imagining she is young again, and in the midst of all manner of intrigues with people who are no longer alive—or, if they are, are long since sunk into decent retirement.”

  He was still not sure why this would trouble her so much. So he waited, watching the firelight on her face.

  She took a slice of toast and spread pâté on it, but did not eat.

  “She is afraid that she will accidentally betray some secrets that still matter,” she told him. “Do you think that is possible? Her niece, Nerissa Freemarsh, feels that Serafina’s talk is largely fancy. She did not say so in so many words, but she implied that Serafina is creating a daydream to make her essentially tedious life more exciting than it is. And it is true that she would not be the first person to embroider the truth in order to gain attention.”

  She lowered her gaze, as if she was ashamed of what she was about to say. “In her circumstances it would be easy enough to understand. If I were bound to my bedroom, alone and dependent upon others for virtually everything, and those others were far more concerned with their own lives, I might well retreat into memories of the days when I had youth and strength, and could do what I wished and go where I pleased. No one likes to be constantly obliged, and to have to plead where they used to command.”

  Narraway nodded. He also dreaded such a fate; he was still in excellent physical health and his mind was as sharp as it had ever been, but here he was becalmed in a professional backwater. Perhaps a slow decline into complete obscurity was what awaited him, and eventually even the helplessness Vespasia spoke of with such pity.

  “What would you like me to do?” he asked.

  She considered for only a moment. “I know something about Serafina, but what I know has mostly to do with the revolutions of ’48, and of course the Italian unification and freedom from Austrian rule. But we have met seldom since then, and when we have spoken, it has been without details. I know she fought hard, and was physically extraordinarily brave, far more so than I. But does she really know secrets about anything that could matter now? Those revolutions were so long ago. Does anyone care anymore who said or did what at that time?”

  Narraway thought about it for several minutes before answering her. The coals settled in the fire and he took a pair of delicate brass tongs to replace them.

  “Politically, I doubt it,” he said finally. “But if she knew of some personal betrayal … people’s memories can be long. Although, as you say, most of the people from that time are gone. But I can ask a few discreet questions, even if it is just to set your mind at rest, and to confirm that ther
e is no one left whose life she might jeopardize. I’m afraid that is the best I can think of to do, at present. I wish I knew how we might persuade her that it is 1896, rather than whatever year she believes it to be.”

  Vespasia smiled at him, gratitude warming her face. “Thank you. It will be a beginning, and perhaps all we can do.”

  “Is she afraid for her own safety?” he asked.

  The question startled Vespasia. “Why, no. I don’t think so. No. She’s concerned that she might unintentionally betray someone else, not being fully aware of who she is talking to or where she is.”

  He looked at her steadily across the low table with its tray of food. The firelight winked on the dusty glass of the wine bottle.

  “Are you sure?”

  Her eyes widened. “No,” she said very softly. “I thought it was the confusion of not knowing that frightened her most, the dread that she might betray all that she has been in the past by speaking too much now. But maybe you are right. Perhaps she is afraid of someone trying to ensure her silence for some reason, even at the cost of her life. But why would she worry about such a thing?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted, picking up a slice of toast. “But finding out will give me something worthwhile to do. I shall be in touch with you as soon as I learn anything beyond what you already know.”

  “Thank you, Victor. I am grateful to you.”

  He smiled. “I can do nothing tonight. Have some more wine and let us finish the pâté.”

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING NARRAWAY began to search for any reference he could find to Serafina Montserrat. In the past he would have had access to Special Branch files. Or—even more simply—he could have gone to his predecessor and asked him for whatever information he could recall. But now he had no authority, no position from which to ask anything, and—perhaps more important—no ability to demand that whatever he said be kept private.

  He could have gone to Pitt, but Pitt had enough to be concerned with in his new command. Moreover, he certainly would know nothing himself; he was far too young. He had been a child at the time of Serafina’s activities.