Dandelions In The Garden

Dandelions In the Garden

A Novel

By Charlie Courtland

Edited by Robert Helle

Copyright ©2009 Kelly E. Lee

Revised 2011

Smashwords Edition

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Dedicated to my family and dog, Ruby, who never leaves my side. Special thanks to Bob Helle for providing proofing and editing on this project. I’m so grateful he agreed to the venture. Also, a shout out to fellow author and friend, Joel Kirkpatrick, who puts up with my whining, comes to my defense and takes the time to read my drivel.

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Dandelions in the Garden is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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The Downfall of Eavesdropping

1628: Present Day Vienna

Although I pretend my daily behaviors are consciously considered, and of my own astute choosing, I know it is likely I will repeat history. In my case, the habits of yesterday and the day before that, and the day before that. It’s harmless really, but if I were truly free I’d like to think I would do something else with my time. However, just like yesterday I am going to drag my body down the block to the Café Sevilen Khan. It is by completing this roundabout cycle that I manage to get through the same old, worn out, ceremonial routine of another day.

Those who pay attention will see what I always do when I first arrive at the café. I pause briefly to remove my gloves before around the room for an available table. It is as if I am saying ‘good-day’ to the shabby wooden legs and tops slathered in thick lacquer as they too, congratulate me on surviving yet another twenty-four hours. Oh, I’m not mad! I know tables most certainly do not speak, but I like to imagine that somehow by just sharing an existence in this world we, the tables and I that is, have something in common. After all, I’m still here and so are they, so that must account for something don’t you think?

I give the tables in the back a moment of consideration. They do look attractive and I wonder what it’s like to enjoy dining in the anonymity that their position allows. The truth is, I will never know, because I will never venture to the rear of the room. I understand my place, and it is not there in the shadows far from the door and view of the street. I let my eyes roam to the middle of the café. I stiffen at the condition of the tables in this section. Such an infinite space of mediocrity flooded in direct sunlight revealing every scratch and dimple on the surface of the wood. The area is too exposed and I resent its obvious vulnerability.

So I will do what I always do, and choose what I always choose, the table near the window. It’s familiar and comfortable and fitting for a lady of my station. It allows for just the proper cast of the Lord’s light and ample unobstructed view of the street performance. It provides air, but not too much and a vantage to be seen, but not gawked at. It is my habit; a part of my history, and it is where I will settle today and tomorrow, and the day after that—God willing.

Mr. Haliem, the decrepit owner of Café Sevilen Khan, greets me with indifference and a steaming cup of Turkish delight. Too often I let eagerness burn my tongue, so today I tip the cup just enough to test the temperature. I take a moment to bless the Pope for proclaiming my favorite vice Christian; praise the Lord his holiness for sharing the addiction I’ve inherited. I inhale the aroma rising up from the hot brew in my cup. It smells like burnt nuts roasting over a pile of autumn leaves.

Mr. Haliem unhooks the shutter latch. His frail body shuffles to the next set of windows and I admire how his bony fingers fiddle with the lock. He no longer asks if I want the shutters open, he knows my preference by now. I smile as it gives way opening to the street scene. There is something settling about the noise and sights of others moving about as they run along, performing daily errands. Carefully, I take another drink and while I observe, I savor the feeling of having warm liquid nestle in my belly. I’m pleased the weather is improving; the fog is lifting, small rays peek through the dissipating clouds and the dampness clinging to my skirt begins to dry.

Mr. Haliem disappears to the storeroom and in a moment returns balancing a tray of glass vases with a few flowers stuffed in each. I notice the petals are browning around the edges. They are a day old, but still have a bit of life left in them. I snort at their appearance, which he pretends to ignore. It’s likely the old buzzard is deaf as well as blind. It’s obvious to anyone with the slightest sense that these flowers are not fresh. Sevilen Khan may not be the most sophisticated shop in town, but I’d like to think the patrons of the establishment deserve fresh flowers placed on their table. I protest by pushing the brown-rimmed bouquet to the side. If I cannot enjoy fresh flowers, then I rather gaze on none! I purse my lips in disgust while glowering in Mr. Haliem’s direction, but he’s not standing in his usual spot at the counter. To my annoyance, he’s changed his routine.

I tap my spoon several times on the brim of my cup. Perhaps, Mr. Haliem is having financial difficulties and this is the reason for the day old flowers. I suppose a responsible shopkeeper must cut corners once in a while, especially in difficult times. I decide I can endure day old posies as long as the goods are not compromised.

I glance over my shoulder to see if he has returned to the counter. Ah, there he is, reading the weekly tabloid. I’m relieved to find his eyesight is not failing and I’m even more relieved that he is going about his regular business.

I wave for him to come over so I can inquire about the freshness of the tarts. I have no intention of eating them, but I want to do my part in helping poor Mr. Haliem in his time of financial straits. I certainly do not want the shop to suffer—if it should fail to provide an environment for respectable customers, I just don’t know what I will do!

I give a nod as he serves my lemon tart on inferior china. I’m comforted by its freshness and quality. Still, he does not say a word about my impulsive request. I’m slightly irritated that he does not notice my change in habit; after all, it is for his benefit. Instead, he returns to his tabloid flopped in a heap on the counter. Humph…it’s shameful not to even say thank you to a conscientious patron taking an interest in his financial distress!

While I pick at my dessert, the tinkling of the bell announces the arrival of two ladies. They do not take as much time as I do to choose a table. Instead, they hurry to the closest seat, which just happens to be near me. As they remove their coats and stuff gloves in pockets, I hear them chatting about the weather and the distress it is causing to their dress hems. I give them a quick once over and deduce the weather is not to blame for their raggedy skirts, but rather an unskilled tailor. I smile with pleasure knowing I remain the most fashionable lady in the room. After all, appearance makes a lasting impression.

The pudgy lady wearing a bright blue turban with a flamboyant peacock feather captures my attention. She is ridiculous, but not as pathetic as her companion, a skinny beak-faced prune wearing a dusty pink gown, which does nothing to complement her bluish complexion, and she sits unnaturally erect. She’s stiff as a board and I wonder what makes her so frigid. I assume by their age and freedom to move about the city unescorted, they are widows like myself. Well, not quite like myself, but sharing similar circumstances.

Mr. Haliem serves the ladies tea, one cup with a wedge of lemon and cream, the other plain. I pull out the novel I’ve been carrying the past few months and open it so I will not seem idle. After several minutes of listening to jibber jabber I realize these two ‘Nellies’ have dull lives.

I read a couple pages of my novel, but the story does not make sense. I flip backwards, read some lines, and then flip backwards again. Why do I not recall this chapter? I must have marked my place incorrectly. As I search for a paragraph I recognize, my keen sense of hearing detects a familiar name crossing the lips of the pudgy lady. Immediately I stop flipping the pages and pretend to be consumed in my book. Ever so slightly I peer over the top of my book to get a better look at the woman who dares speak my mistress’s name. Ha! This might be an interesting day after all!

I notice the pudgy lady sends her tea splashing over the lip of her cup in the excitement of recalling a story the beak-face prune has not yet heard. It seems the pudgy lady has recently become acquainted with a rumor, which she so cleverly attributes to my mistress. She shifts in her seat while clearing her throat. She pauses for effect; the lingering heightens the suspense much like how I imagine a scientist who is about to announce a new discovery does by pausing deliberately in front of an eager audience. I wish she’d get on with it already! All the drama is unnecessary, but I suppose when there is little to amuse one’s self, said person must take advantage of every opportunity.

Again, the peacock feather bobbing from her turban distracts me; the darn thing looks like a piece of winter wheat waving in the wind. Only a foreigner would dress in such dreadful attire, and only a foreigner would be careless enough to speak my mistress’ name in public. Locals deem it taboo to mention her name and are convinced to do so will cause grave consequence. It’s all superstitious hubbub, but nevertheless it is believed.

The pudgy lady speaks my dear friend’s name again as if she was an acquaintance of the countess. I find this annoying and in all honesty, a bit disrespectful. Of course, I’ve always been overprotective, but still these ladies have no right to mention her name. Unfortunately since the trial, my mistress is now referred to as the Blood Countess—a detail I really despise having to repeat. I would gamble a month’s allowance most have heard the rumors and probably wondered, are they true? It’s amusing really; I’m always surprised to hear people still gossiping about her. I suppose a story as fantastic and outrageous as hers tends to survive longer than most. Ah, it is just this kind of delicious mystery that makes for good gossip and conjecture –especially, I imagine at the terribly dull and unpleasant parties given by hideously boring aging women who lack any scandal of their own. ‘Nosy Nellies’ is what I call them. They appear to be everywhere these days and it seems I often have the misfortune of mingling with them whether I wish to or not.

A horse carriage rumbles by and a vendor shouts at another, all of this drowning out the ladies conversation and making my eavesdropping most difficult. Oh, I know it is impolite to eavesdrop on private conversations, but I find this to be another compulsion I am unable to resist. Besides, conversations in the marketplace aren’t really private are they? It is, after all, a public area. These days I find myself a bit short of company and lacking in engaging conversation. Hardly anyone can blame me for eavesdropping once aware of my situation. An old woman with few visitors must be resourceful in seeking entertainment. No harm comes from my liberties. I say! They have more to fear from the person with whom they consent to sharing their tidbits of information with than from me!

I’m not one to boast, but I’m quite skilled in the art of eavesdropping. In truth, I am hardly ever suspected. I quite enjoy feeding on juicy conversations taking place all around me. Courtly rakes reciting sonnets, young ladies exchanging intimate secrets and the rubbish of gossiping old Nellies like the two sitting at the table next to me.

The street noise settles to a low hum of mid-morning activities just in time for me to hear the pudgy lady inform the beak-face prune of an acquaintance that while traveling through a village just outside Pressburg, observed the most unusual funeral procession. I hear her say the ceremony was unique because the priest carried a sharp wooden stake in addition to the Bible. When this friend inquired as to what the stake was for, well, she was shocked to hear the answer.

While munching on a crusty roll, the skinny beak-face prune exclaims, it is most improper for a religious man to carry such a weapon and next to the Holy Bible of all things!

I wonder what her opinion is regarding the wielding of a sword in the name of God? Would she find that equally appalling?

The pudgy lady nods in agreement, causing the peacock feather pinned to her turban to convulse above her brow. She adds that it is even more outrageous to learn what the wooden stake is used for. Eager to hear the explanation myself, I shift a bit to my right. Apparently, this friend, the one traveling along the outskirts of Pressburg, was told the wooden stake is driven straight through the heart and into the blessed ground beneath the coffin. The beak-face prune’s mouth gapes in horror at the ghastly desecration of a corpse and a woman to boot! This friend explained to the pudgy lady the staking was necessary because it held the dead girl to the ground just in case she had been infected.

What illness warrants such a remedy? the woman asked.

Blood infection from the bite of a vampire, the pudgy lady replied.

Well, I nearly choked on the last drops of my drink! Being a naturally skeptical woman, I give little attention to nonsense, but it is at this point in the woman’s story my mistress, Elizabeth Bathory, is mentioned again. I shake my head. I should have known she’d come up in this topic of story telling.

It is believed Countess Bathory is responsible for unleashing such evil upon the region. It was those dark practices she engaged in up there in her castle that conjured the curse. She is the reason such rituals now must take place. Now, almost whispering the pudgy lady continues, It is the only defense the poor people have against the bite of the vampire. It cannot be undone by any other means.

The woman crinkles her face in disgust. Is there any truth to the story? Really, it sounds quite unbelievable.

I nod my head in agreement, but quit before they take notice.

I quite agree, but my friend claims several accomplished doctors have evidence to support vampirism as a true affliction. Those most susceptible are people ailing from chronic illness or mental instability, as well as those who commit suicide, said the pudgy lady.

That is a ghastly business!

Indeed! Not that I put much stock in rumors, but it is said the dead girl from the small village whose funeral my friend observed took her own life by drowning. The girl’s family adamantly claims a vampire bewitched their daughter and lured her down to the river. The only way the girl would have followed such a creature was if she had been put under a spell, hypnotized by the vampire trance. The poor girl became paralyzed and was unable to swim.

Blessed Lord! the woman exclaimed.

Given the testimony of the credible family, the priest had no other recourse but to stake the girl’s corpse to the ground. All agreed it was in the best interest and for the safety of the community, continued the pudgy lady. She dropped her gaze.

The other woman was horrified by the very thought of immobility. How does suicide make a person susceptible to vampirism?

Suicide is a sin of course, the pudgy lady politely reminded her friend. The doing makes the soul impure at the moment of death and leaves it open to molestation by evil.

The woman shivers, her underweight frame quivers beneath silk and lace at the very notion that such things occur in the world. To think, young girls enchanted and raped of their souls. It was just too much; surely modern science could find a way to protect against further invasion?

Having no interest in listening to the flaws of science, I take some monies from my velvet purse and place the coins on the tray holding my bill. I’m about to start on my way when the woman admits she’s unfamiliar with the rumors concerning the Blood Countess. The pudgy lady’s eyes light up at the idea of informing her friend of another scandalous rumor. Realizing she requires more tea, she signals to Mr. Haliem by pointing to her empty cup. The soles of his worn leather boots scuff along the floorboards as he brings a warming pot. After refreshing her cup and topping it with a twist of lemon and dab of cream, she begins to recant the whole vicious story with shameless exaggerated detail that inspires an expression of epic shock on her friend’s face. I hang on the edge of my seat as the last juicy tidbit is delivered. I hold my breath waiting for the woman to object to the validity of this unbelievable tale. Surely, she cannot believe it is true.

To my dismay, she takes a deep gulp of tea from her cup, sets it delicately on the table. Unfathomable! she exclaims.

Repulsed by my own compulsion to eavesdrop, I push my chair back in haste, causing it to scrape against the wood flooring. The sound startles the pudgy lady, who shoots a sharp disapproving look in my direction. I adjust my superiorly fashioned hat, fasten my well-tailored cape, and snatch my purse. I bid Mr. Haliem a farewell before flinging myself out the door. I suppose my abrupt exit makes no sense, but what does it matter? It is dramatic and to my liking because it makes a statement. I am certain they’ll remember me, even if they do not know my name.

As I walk along the avenue towards home the pudgy lady’s accounts of my mistress’ life replays in my head. The nerve of those Nellies! How they spread tales with careless ease. Hot pokers should brand their tongues. There was no denying the events Elizabeth suffered and those she inflicted were susceptible to gossip, but legendary? I never thought so. How I had hoped all would be forgotten given enough time, but it seems history has another plan and is going to have its way with Elizabeth whether I approve or not. What is to be done? I only wanted her to be remembered like I remembered her, and not for being a monster. There was more to her than that, much more, and the entire story deserved to be known and if God was truly merciful, understood.

My heated temper quickens my pace and soon I find I am nearing the theater. I stop momentarily to view the marquee, which announces a tragedy of diabolical proportions is opening in a fortnight. I notice the stairs leading to the entrance are already cleaned in preparation for tonight’s performance. A young boy sits on the edge of a stone step holding a basket of oranges for sale. I purchase two, placing one in each pocket of my cape.

I continue home noting the day is growing warm and the street bustles with more and more people carrying baskets of goods and mothers holding the hands of their children. I round the last corner before reaching my home. As I get closer, I spot my cat, Ferocious, meowing as she rubs against the front door. I climb the weathered steps and take a moment to bend down and pick up the fat tabby in my arms. Holding her gently against my hip I pop the latch and enter the cool hallway.

I am greeted by the customary noises of maids cleaning and pots clanking. The scent of fresh roses catches my nose and forces my head to turn towards a lovely bouquet placed on the pianoforte. I’m pleased to see that my gardener, with very little effort on his part, was able to acquire my favorite flower. Although not a rarity in color, in my opinion the red rose is the most vibrant breed. My gardener tried to persuade my tastes towards a more tasteful hybrid, but I am set in my ways and prefer the traditional red. It is what pleases me.

I admire the tall-stemmed beauties standing encircled by water, their bulbous lush bodies poised in determined contrast to the sharply cut glass vase. How beautiful is the elegant red rose! It is a timeless symbol of enduring love. Let the others be smitten by and seek the fashionable rarities, but not I. I shall stay with my preferred choice. I remove the oranges from my pockets and place them in a bowl next to the flowers.

Then I sit down at my desk, as I do almost daily, and begin sifting through correspondences requiring my attention. I take a piece of parchment from the drawer and pick up my pen. Again, and to my annoyances, the conversation I overheard at the Sevilen Khan replays in my head. I just can’t seem to leave what I overheard alone. I chide myself for letting gossip get the better of me, noting rumors are a bothersome distraction and I should take more care to ignore the conversation of others from here on out. I vow tomorrow that I will make a concerted effort to resist temptation and promise to actually read the novel I’ve been carrying around for the past months. I suppose I’ll have to start from the beginning since I can no longer recall where I left off, but it will be worth it if I do not have to spend another moment fretting over silly nonsense.

While lamenting over my resolution, it hits me. The beak-face prune asked the pudgy lady a single, specific question, which despite all the chatter had gone unanswered. I slapped my hand down hard upon the desk; the sudden outburst sent Ferocious the cat skirting for cover under a nearby chair. Ironically, the only person who could provide the answer had been sitting at the next table with her nose in a book. I was an inconspicuous party privy to the conversation that could confirm the validity of the rumor. I held the answer—but never confessed! Was it guilt about my indiscretion of eavesdropping, pride in my knowledge or an old duty to a mistress I no longer served? Perhaps it was all of it. Like so many others, I chose to excuse myself from an uncomfortable situation, rather than defend a wrong by setting it right.

I thought about other recent rumors I’d heard. There was the rumor concerning Lord Manning being spotted leaving a less than reputable house. Then there was the rumor regarding the desperate Lady Irving paying Lord Humphrey to escort her homely daughter during the social season. Despite their differences in character and importance I realized the rumors all had something in common; each demanded a single, absolutely predicable and most inevitable response. Simply, was any of it true?

The swirl of rumors flowing from one region to another in vicious waves carried by mouths and passed from one gossip to the next all sought the same thing. Was there any truth to it? Perhaps, the only way to extinguish a rumor and mend a reputation was not by discreetly passing time and hoping it would be replaced by another person’s misfortune, but by finally and most definitely providing an answer. However, this too could be problematic. Giving an answer was one thing, but ensuring people would believe it, well, that was something different altogether.

I tapped my pen against the parchment sending tiny droplets of ink flying. I could write letters to all the pillars influencing society setting straight once and for all the rumors concerning my mistress. Could I clear her name and all those afflicted?

However, I remembered Paul, Elizabeth’s son, already tried such an approach and with little success. Everyone assumed his efforts were self-serving, a way to polish his tarnished reputation by affiliation. Elizabeth’s actions managed to stain the entire Bathory-Nadasdy line, permanently. Paul had the most to lose being the only male heir, so of course he wanted all charges expunged from the court records. Nevertheless, the Bathory-Nadasdy family managed to rise despite Elizabeth’s scandal, both socially and politically, by making good marriages along with political alliances, but all this was solely dependant on wealth not reputation. If it hadn’t been for greed, the family would have surely been ruined by Elizabeth’s susceptibility to scandal.

I tapped my pen a few more times. Composing a letter demanding action seemed strange since a recent incident could not be cited. Nothing occurred to provoke action and I certainly did not wish to name the information I collected from eavesdropping as proof. I’m afraid I’d appear a bit unstable and quite possibly out of my wits. I imagined my letters being submitted to a priest as evidence to my mental instability. I cringed. I too, upon death, might be staked to the ground! How ironic! Even though I’d seen it done before, I did not wish for my body to be violated in such a manner.

My imagination continued to get the better of me, and I pictured a priest standing over my grave while someone in the crowd made a plea. ‘Your holiness, this woman was obviously mad and I have the proof. Read for yourself how she rants in this letter! Sir, she was susceptible; we must drive a stake through her heart to ensure she has not been turned.’ Oh! I did not want to think of such things.

I tried to shake off the daydream. I held my hand to my chest. Composing this kind of letter would be strange indeed and surely diminish my receipt of favorable invitations. No, that would not do—that would not do at all! I’d just have to think of another way. I set down my pen and walked over to the window.

A black carriage pulled up in front of the townhouse across from mine. Two men dressed in dark clothing emerged from the interior cabin. One gentleman paused briefly to give instructions to the driver before disappearing inside the residence. I wondered what business demanded a midday visit?

The Landry’s maid was on the nearby stoop beating the dust from a rug with a wooden kitchen spoon. I imagined the maid using the same dust covered spoon in preparation for the Landry’s dinner this evening.

Ferocious pressed her side against the folds of my skirt leaving behind tiny white and orange hairs along my hem. I bent down and gave her a little pat.

I turned away from the window, my eyes wandering to the rose vase imprisoning rays of the afternoon sun in the glass prism. I plucked one from the water and rolled the tight bud against my maturing lips. The touch of the petals coupled with the lingering smell brought color to my cheeks. I lazily exhaled a deep sigh. I was the only person with intimate knowledge concerning the life and exploits of the Countess Bathory. I was Elizabeth’s companion and confidant since my eleventh year, serving as her lady in waiting at the Castles of Sarvar, Varanno and Cachtice. I carried her secrets well into my old age. Perhaps, it was time to provide the answer to the universal question, ‘Is it true?’

The question has been asked many times, but like I mentioned, it is taboo to speak of it. It is proper to ignore anything ever happened. Besides, the answer is intrinsically complex. It cannot be answered with a yes or no, but rather required careful understanding of circumstance. Oh, I know doing what is right rather than what is wrong seems simple, but in truth we are not always faced with a clear choice. I’ve learned most often what determines our action is considering the lesser evil. In some cases it is a matter of survival. I’ve found when a person does not have the luxury to weigh morality one does not ponder, but does what must be done.

I confess I do have my reasons for staying quiet all these years. But alas, I am growing old. Confession is something I never felt necessary until the grave beckons. Aging has a funny effect on a stubborn mind.

I grumbled to myself as I paced about the room. But, what did I fear? I sighed. I did not know. Perhaps, the unknown of what lies beyond or worse, what remains after we are gone. I crossed my arms. One thing was certain, tradition did dictate a protocol be followed when disclosing truths. However, I’d never been one to follow tradition determined by station or for that matter, my sex.

My thoughts were unkindly interrupted by the muffled voices of two men arguing outside. I went to the front window and peered at the scene from behind the lace curtain. It was the two men from the carriage. They were entangled in a heavy debate. The taller gentleman was obviously upset with his companion. His arms were flapping around as he shouted at the stout gentleman. The two carried on for minutes until both realized they were creating quite the spectacle. The stout gentleman motioned to the carriage where I assumed the conversation would continue in private. As he was about to turn, the taller gentleman’s eye caught my gaze. I froze upon discovery. He gave a slight smile and a sharp nod as if to say, ‘good day and pardon the disruption.’ Embarrassed, I withdrew from the window. I pressed my hand over my heart. Good Lord, he saw me spying! I sat on the settee trying to calm my nerves. Well, if they didn’t want to draw attention, perhaps they should not carry on in the street in the middle of the afternoon!

I rang the bell for the maid to bring in some lunch. Before it arrived, I tiptoed over to the window to see if the gentlemen were still lingering outside. The carriage was gone. I pulled back the lace curtain and looked to the right and then to the left as far as my neck would bend, but it had vanished. I wondered if the men would have business at my neighbor’s any time soon. What was the argument about? Finances I assumed—arguments between men were usually financial. They were either collecting on a debt or trying to extend payment on a loan. I made a mental note to remember to inquire the next time I saw Mrs. Landry about the residence across the street.

The excitement was over and there was nothing more to see. For the rest of the day I’d go about my business, following my daily routine, wasting away the ticking of the minutes and hours until today turned into tomorrow.

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A Familiar Stranger

I am afraid I hurt myself on purpose today. Maybe it was boredom or perhaps it was something else. Either way, the café was uneventful. While sitting at my usual table by the window, I took a dull knife and began to saw the fatty pad on the back of my wrist. The knife did little damage to the skin leaving only a pathetic scratch about as harmful as a paper cut. I suppose it seems mad to cut myself, but I felt it necessary, necessary because I woke today with the reoccurring fear that I am completely unable to feel anything. When I look out the window, I see people moving about their daily lives in rhythmic unison and with little purpose. But, what do I know about their lives? Can I assume the only logical reason for my emotional indifference is complete numbness? Defeated and bored, I put down the knife. I’m let down by the day’s development so I decide to pay my bill and head for home. I hate days like this when all that waits is monotony, and the tick, tick, ticking of the clock.

As I stroll along the sidewalk I continue watching people weave around each other in choreographed movement, each stepping in a calculated effort to avoid collision. Suddenly, and without much care, a lady darts across the street right in front of an apple wagon. I hold my breath; my ears ringing with shouts to watch out and curses from the driver who is yanking on the reins. Everything slows down as the woman’s shawl falls from her shoulders and catches in the wagon wheel. I think this is it, this is the moment of excitement I’ve been waiting for; something different is going to happen.

Thank God it is only her shawl, the man standing beside me exclaims. That was a close call.

The wagon nearly misses the woman, but the shawl is not so lucky. She is now safely on the other side of the street surrounded by well-wishers inquiring if she is all right. I take in a deep breath; hold it for a moment, and let out a long exhale. I was displeased the scene was not more gruesome. No one wants to hear a story about a near miss. At least she could have lost a limb, spilled some blood or suffered a mild disfigurement. Then, I’d have something to share at my next ladies club meeting. Disappointed once again by the day’s events, I continue homeward. As I walk I find myself glancing at the faint red line teasing from beneath my glove. Perhaps I could find some satisfaction that I’d at least I felt a little sting. That’s something don’t you think?

Not long after I return home I hear my front bell ring. I listen from the comfort of my settee in the drawing room to the clip-clopping of my maidservant’s shoes. I follow the uneven pace along the hall listening to the fading sound as she nears the front door. I lean over the sofa arm straining to hear the conversation, but cannot make out the murmurs being exchanged. I assume it is a lost gentleman mistaking my address for a neighbor’s. I tried to remember the last time I had a visitor call. It’d been some time since I heard my bell ring. For a moment I think maybe I’ve imagined the noise in a daydream. I sit up. I’m certain it is my servant’s voice. She is instructing the guest to wait in the foyer while she asks if the mistress of the house is available to receive visitors. I fidgeted with the fringe of a throw pillow. The clip-clopping grows louder as she approaches the drawing room door.

Pardon Milady, but a young gentleman is calling. He informs me that he does not have an appointment but wishes to speak with you if you’d be kind enough to receive him. Shall I show him in or tell the gentleman to return at a later time?

Does the young man have a name?

Realizing her error in introduction, she turns her eyes downward. Please forgive my mistake, Milady. The gentleman states his name is Count John Drugeth.

Did you say Drugeth?

I’m certain the gentleman says his name is Count John Drugeth. He mentioned you are a friend of his grandfather’s?

How very curious. Please, show Count Drugeth to the drawing room and fetch a pot of tea and some biscuits.

Very well, she said.

She returned shortly with Count Drugeth trailing behind. However, the man stopped just short of the archway as if something had startled him. Unable to maintain my own indifference, my hand found my gaping mouth. The gentleman’s likeness to his grandfather was shocking. He was the spitting image of his ancestors, effeminate in stature but possessing a masculine expression capable of charming the most guarded woman.

Lady Amara forgive me for seeming a bit taken aback just now, but seeing you here on the sofa appearing exactly as I imagined, it is as if you’ve managed to elude time all these years – well, it is quite remarkable, Count Drugeth said, as he resumed entering the room.

No, it is I who should beg your pardon, Count Drugeth. I was equally startled. For a moment I thought it was your grandfather standing before me. The resemblance is astonishing!

He cracked a slight grin. Yes, I’ve been told that all my life.

Forgive my manners. Please, have a seat, I said patting the cushion.

Lady Amara, I want to thank you for receiving me this afternoon. I really should have written…well, I intended to do so, but business brought me to Vienna sooner than expected. I realize it is rather bold of me to drop in on you like this, he said taking a seat.

What kind of business?

Trade matters.

Ah yes, I remember your family being associated with the trading business. You carry on then?

Yes, I manage various exports and imports throughout the region.

So you are finished with your studies?

Just recently I’ve completed my courses.

Do you plan to attend the Imperial Court?

Perhaps I will spend some time becoming better acquainted with a few of the King’s commissioners, but mostly I plan to oversee the family estate.

It all sounds very good, very thought out, I said. So, Count Drugeth what business brings you to my home this afternoon? Of course, I’m not complaining! I’m always willing to receive company, especially on a fine spring day.

He crossed his legs and stroked the arm of the chair with the tip of his forefinger. I understand you are an old friend of my grandfather. In fact, I’m told you were godmother to my mother, he said.

Yes…yes I was. But, you did not come all this way to have tea with an old friend of the family, now did you?

He ran his hand through his hair smoothing it back in place. His heavy lids blinked slowly in an attempt to conceal his nervousness. He shifted in his seat as an awkward pause in our conversation hung in the air.

I’m sorry to stare, but you look so strangely familiar, so much like my dear George, I said, breaking the silence. Absentmindedly, I touched my nose. Your elongated nose, and the way you smooth your hair back when nervous, I pointed out. May I ask how old are you? Eighteen would be my guess.

Nineteen, he said, smiling as Ferocious rubbed against his leg.

The maid returned carrying a tray with tea and biscuits.

Ah, I was close, I said. I poured hot water in a teacup. However, I notice you have your mother’s eyes, soft, almost sleepy just like hers. I passed Count Drugeth a cup of tea. Your grandfather’s eyes were much different in character. They possessed such intensity and the inherent ability to evade.

He chuckled. You know my grandfather well.

There was a time, but it was long ago, I said, beginning to fidget with the fringe on the pillow again. It was something I did when I was nervous.

Count Drugeth paused. The annoying ticking of the clock reminded me just how many seconds passed when there was a lull in the conversation. Hesitantly, he continued. I do agree with your assessment; I have my mother’s eyes. I believe it is the only feature I possess of hers, he said.

It is the very best and most discerning feature to inherit, I said. Not knowing where to place my hands I decidedly smoothed out the tiny creases in my skirt.

You mean the Nadasdy eyes? he asked raising a brow.

No, I said.

No? he asked.

"Not Nadasdy,’ I replied.

Then you suggest it is a Bathory feature? he questioned. He leaned forward in his chair seemingly more interested in my response.

No, not Bathory either, I answered. I gestured to the maid to take the tray. What was I thinking? I had no business traveling down this path with the young gentleman. I could have easily continued with small talk, easily avoided family history, especially intimate family history.

Lady Amara, whose eyes do you think I’ve inherited? he asked. His lip curled into a slight, but eerily familiar smirk.

His expression disclosed his suspicion. He was on to something. Perhaps I sensed it when he arrived for our visit. Nevertheless, it was not my place to bring to light anything unknown, but something stirred inside and I could not prevent a single name slipping from my tongue.

George, I whispered touching my lips with the tip of my finger.

No, Lady Amara, my name is John, he corrected.

Yes, I know…perhaps, you can tell me what this visit is concerning before we talk any further about family and inheritance, I said, realizing I was behaving senile in front of my guest.

I understand you do not know me Lady Amara, but I feel as though I know you, he began. I must confess I’ve stared at your portrait for years. It hangs in a private room at my grandfather’s estate. I expected to find you changed by the years, but today when I entered this drawing room I discovered you look alarmingly familiar, so remarkable is the likeness to the portrait I’ve admired for so long. How is this possible?

I heard the maid shift in the hallway as she tried to hear my answer. She was eavesdropping so she’d have something to gossip about with the cook later that evening.

George has the portrait? I asked.

"Yes, it is grandfather’s most cherished piece of art. Over the years my grandfather has made it a habit to avoid large parties by disappearing to his private room. I find him always in the same place, sitting quietly in front of a fire staring at the portrait hanging above the mantel. For years, he’d wave for me to leave and I always obeyed. However, as I grew older I finally found the nerve to ask my grandfather why he retreated to the room. He told me it was to find peace. I asked him why he needed peace and he said in drunken fashion, ‘My heart needs peace dear boy.’ He mimicked his grandfather’s slurred speech, perfectly.

I nodded. Sadly, I understood his grandfather’s need.

He continued. Several Christmases ago after a holiday meal I followed my grandfather to his private room. I found him crying in his favorite armchair. I asked him what was so terribly wrong to cause him to suffer so? He looked up at the portrait hanging over the mantle and uttered your name. He said ‘Amara’.

Did he? I asked. The words coming out more breathy than I intended.

When I probed further my grandfather withdrew. He shook his head. Lady Amara, I’ve never seen my grandfather in such a state. I admit it frightened me. Soon after, I was sent away to school and the events of that night were never discussed again. Every once in a while I still find him sitting in his isolated retreat muttering to himself. He let out an exasperated sigh.

How is your grandfather faring? I asked.

He is still old-fashioned.

I smiled. I imagined George’s lectures on tradition were bothersome to the younger generation. Did you come all this way to ask me about the portrait? I asked.

I admit I am curious, but it is not the purpose for my visit. If you do not mind, I have a favor to ask, he said. He set down his empty cup.

A favor…but how can I help you?

Given we have never met, and you do not know me…Oh, this is a bit awkward, he said, shifting in his seat again.

Go on, I insisted.

No one is able to talk with my grandfather, not even I. He listens…well, to no one – never has. Until recently I’ve been inclined to submit to his stubborn character. I’ve accepted all his advice and demands.

"But, something has changed?’ I interjected.

Yes. I’ve met someone.

And your grandfather does not know?

My grandfather does not approve. He has made other plans, rather other arrangements for me.

Ah, you are betrothed, I sighed. The notion stung like the tiny scratch on my wrist.

I’m afraid so, he said. He averted his eyes from connecting with mine.

I still do not see what this has to do with me?

I come today out of desperation and on the advice of my mother.

Your mother? I believed her to be dead! I said, stunned.

Sadly, she has been dead for years. However, she told me something just days before the tragic accident. He went on to say how his parents were killed instantly when their carriage flipped. They’d been running from highwaymen when the driver lost control. At the time it was completely out of context and I gave little thought to her instructions. One evening while my father was entertaining in the gaming room my mother requested I follow her into the library where behind closed doors she whispered that if there was ever trouble or if I sought answers I should find Amara Lorant. That much I remember. She was very insistent.

I wanted to speak, but refrained.

Confused, I asked my mother why she was telling me this. She confided you were a true and trusted friend – someday, I’d understand. With a shrug he continued, So, here I am seeking the help of my family’s most true and trusted friend.

I am a friend of your mother’s, not necessarily your family, I corrected. What is it you want me to do?

Perhaps, you can talk to my grandfather. It is your portrait he speaks to night after night. He must also trust you.

John, may I call you John?

Certainly.

John, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen your grandfather. Talking to a portrait is much different from conversing with a real person. I’m afraid I too have never been able to influence your grandfather, I admitted. May I ask who the young lady is you wish to marry?

John’s eyes lit up as he spoke her name. The Baroness of Orbova, Kate Jakassich, he said.

Surely, your grandfather does not object to you marrying a baroness?

My grandfather has plans to regain control of the Humenne estate. As you may recall the Catholic loyalist, Prince Bethlen confiscated our family property. My father was accused of deceiving him by allowing Jews to inhabit the region—an unmentionable and most liberal act. This plan to regain Humenne hinges on my marrying into a rising and prominent family. My Kate does not bring wealth, she brings only inherent breeding and title, and of course, love. Unfortunately, this does not interest my grandfather. I tried to tell him I wish to marry for love, but he rants on and on that marriage has nothing to do with love!

No, it has to do with trading routes! I snapped. Is that all the Drugeth family cares about? I asked rather sharply. My tone caused John to squirm in his chair. I admit I was quite out of line.

My grandfather sacrificed for his family only to watch my father lose everything because of liberal principles, he said, suddenly jumping to his grandfather’s defense.

I checked myself. I suppose it is hard for him to realize all his sacrifices were for naught. However, your grandfather and father’s poor choices should not become your burden.

My grandfather is obsessed with regaining his family’s land and rights. I’m the only male heir so the burden must fall to me, he said. The struggle between desire and duty was too much. John dropped his face