Caprice and Rondo - Dorothy Dunnett [328]
‘From Gelis? Of course! You know how silent she is, when her feelings are touched. But she waits for you, minute by minute. The child also.’
‘And Katelijne Sersanders?’ Nicholas said.
‘Ah, that is sad,’ his hostess said, with warm sympathy. ‘Of course, she is surrounded by family, friends; she is very much loved. She has the children. But it was a strange little marriage, in its way: people look forward to her next choice.’
Nicholas said, ‘That was her choice. She will not make another.’ He would not have said it, except that he was in no doubt, and others ought to recognise it as well. He was torn between thinking of Kathi, and wondering what was passing between Anna and Julius. He didn’t know enough about their feelings for each other. He had always suspected them to be tepid, since it had been, in a sense, an arranged marriage. Julius’s vanity had been engaged, and he was man enough to respond to her calculated, experienced lovemaking, although it would never play a large part in his life. Driven by wounded pride, nevertheless, he might go to the most unwise of extremes.
On the other hand, Anna was strong enough to check anything that would frustrate her intentions. With her emotions frozen since childhood, she prized, Nicholas thought, her indifference to men, and the ease with which she could rouse them. Then she had practised the same arts with himself and had failed; but not because he did not want her, or believed her craving assumed. He had felt, even earlier than she did, the signs of something deep-settled between them. He would not let it happen, that was all. And that, she could not endure.
It meant that she would not forgive; that she would make him pay so long as it lay in her power. It meant that she did not care for her own life or her own future. She had none, and she knew it. So he was not surprised when the manservant came to ask if M. de Fleury would object to joining the Gräfin and her husband in the locked room. He apologised for the precautions. Needless to say, Tobie came, too.
Adelina sat in the light by the window. She looked the way Tobie said his grandfather had looked at Montello: fresh and well groomed and aware. She was, after all, Thibault’s daughter. Her hair, brushed and loose, was the colour of a ducat seen through red glass. She was smiling. ‘I am being sent into exile on a pittance. Your idea?’
Nicholas seated himself on the bed-step. ‘I could have asked for your life, but I didn’t. This is between you and Julius.’
‘I don’t mind being hanged by my loving family,’ said Adelina. ‘I do object to being relegated to tedium because you are too terrified of your own conscience to act. What else should I have done to strike a spark from you? Killed your disgusting friend Ludovico da Bologna as well as Ochoa? I did give away Karaï Mirza: I trust he is dead. And I am sure the Greek died a noble death in your place: that was a mistake I do regret.’ She was flushed. He had expected measured refutations, and possibly threats. He had underestimated her. She had never been interested in saving herself: only in punishing him.
Julius said, ‘I don’t want to hear any more. You said you had to tell Nicholas something.’ It sounded commanding, but in fact he looked devastated, standing with his injured arm by the fire. He had been informed about Anna. He had not, until now, heard it all from her lips.
‘I wanted to tell you both something,’ Adelina said. Lying back, smoothing the chain of her pendant, she was the opposite of disturbed. She was, Nicholas thought, deliberately reminding Julius and himself of her physical beauty. Tobie, leaning against the post of the bed, gave a snort.
Julius said, ‘What is there left that we don’t know? You deceived me, and you deceived Nicholas. I’m only surprised that you didn’t try to deceive me with him.’
Nicholas shut his eyes and opened