her downstream. Chasteld’s place had its own frontage and dock on the river. But though the trip down would be swift, it would be slower coming back when there was more chance of rain. Her errand scarcely warranted the trouble of a coach and four, and she preferred to ride in any case.
If Eskamer’s information were accurate she might return with a delightful surprise. The pawnshop owner was better known for less savory merchandise, but he had a talent for finding unusual books, and Margerit had been searching everywhere for more of Tanfrit’s writings. Her work survived in bare scraps and quoted correspondence, for the most part—bare glimpses of what a female philosopher might have accomplished in the time of Gaudericus. In Tanfrit, Margerit saw a reflection of what her own life might have been like in an earlier age.
As she paused to draw on her gloves, Barbara saw a woman entering hesitantly through the arched gateway to the street. With the reflexes of her former profession, she drew a few quick judgments. The visitor’s dress was good, but scarcely fashionable. Provincial—dowdy, even. Yet she wore it with the air of having put on her best. One of Margerit’s country cousins? No, not on foot and unannounced. An older woman, or well into middle age at least. Freshly come to town and not yet aware that it wasn’t at all the thing to go visiting on foot. An old acquaintance of Bertrut’s, most likely. A guest of some friend in the city taking the opportunity to renew ties.
She smiled politely at the woman as she swung into the saddle and touched her hat in the masculine habit she fell into when wearing riding clothes. “I’m afraid you’ll find Maisetra Pertinek away from home. But leave your card with the footman and she’ll know you called.”
The woman stared at her in confusion and began, “Thank you, but I—” The sound of hooves on the cobbles masked what she might have added as the groom fell in behind. Whatever the woman wanted, someone would see to it.
In the end, the errand was for nothing. Chasteld had been away from home and no one could say if he’d be back before dark. They had no instructions about any books. She’d do better to let Eskamer handle the matter. But it wouldn’t be the same as if she’d brought them home in triumph herself.
Barbara had forgotten about the stranger entirely by the time she returned to Tiporsel, so she stared at the card with curiosity and confusion where it lay on the sideboard beside yet another thick letter from Margerit’s cousin Iulien. Maisetra Heniriz Chamering. It was no one she recognized. Perhaps one of her tenants from Saveze? No, at least the name would have been familiar in that case and there wouldn’t have been such formality. Well, either she would call again or she wouldn’t.
* * *
In the baron’s day, the invitations that went out from Tiporsel House were first of all about power and only clothed in the garments of art and pleasure. In the first years of Margerit’s residence, there had been no invitations sent out at all except for the most intimate of informal dinners. An unmarried woman of no great name had no standing to host balls and soirées. Now, under the name of Saveze, the invitations were flowing again and Margerit delighted in using their combined influence to wield her own sort of power. Balls she had little use for, but music was another matter. And through a chance meeting in the university district came the opportunity to play hostess for a different sort of performance.
Barbara’s first impression of Miss Collfield had placed her in that species of mad Englishwomen who went traipsing across the face of Europe in pursuit of adventure and art, accompanied only by one stoic and inarticulate servant. She had fit the mold from the soles of her laced boots to the brim of the weather-beaten straw bonnet that topped her severely drawn-back hair. But that mistaken impression had been corrected in the course of a dinner
If Eskamer’s information were accurate she might return with a delightful surprise. The pawnshop owner was better known for less savory merchandise, but he had a talent for finding unusual books, and Margerit had been searching everywhere for more of Tanfrit’s writings. Her work survived in bare scraps and quoted correspondence, for the most part—bare glimpses of what a female philosopher might have accomplished in the time of Gaudericus. In Tanfrit, Margerit saw a reflection of what her own life might have been like in an earlier age.
As she paused to draw on her gloves, Barbara saw a woman entering hesitantly through the arched gateway to the street. With the reflexes of her former profession, she drew a few quick judgments. The visitor’s dress was good, but scarcely fashionable. Provincial—dowdy, even. Yet she wore it with the air of having put on her best. One of Margerit’s country cousins? No, not on foot and unannounced. An older woman, or well into middle age at least. Freshly come to town and not yet aware that it wasn’t at all the thing to go visiting on foot. An old acquaintance of Bertrut’s, most likely. A guest of some friend in the city taking the opportunity to renew ties.
She smiled politely at the woman as she swung into the saddle and touched her hat in the masculine habit she fell into when wearing riding clothes. “I’m afraid you’ll find Maisetra Pertinek away from home. But leave your card with the footman and she’ll know you called.”
The woman stared at her in confusion and began, “Thank you, but I—” The sound of hooves on the cobbles masked what she might have added as the groom fell in behind. Whatever the woman wanted, someone would see to it.
In the end, the errand was for nothing. Chasteld had been away from home and no one could say if he’d be back before dark. They had no instructions about any books. She’d do better to let Eskamer handle the matter. But it wouldn’t be the same as if she’d brought them home in triumph herself.
Barbara had forgotten about the stranger entirely by the time she returned to Tiporsel, so she stared at the card with curiosity and confusion where it lay on the sideboard beside yet another thick letter from Margerit’s cousin Iulien. Maisetra Heniriz Chamering. It was no one she recognized. Perhaps one of her tenants from Saveze? No, at least the name would have been familiar in that case and there wouldn’t have been such formality. Well, either she would call again or she wouldn’t.
* * *
In the baron’s day, the invitations that went out from Tiporsel House were first of all about power and only clothed in the garments of art and pleasure. In the first years of Margerit’s residence, there had been no invitations sent out at all except for the most intimate of informal dinners. An unmarried woman of no great name had no standing to host balls and soirées. Now, under the name of Saveze, the invitations were flowing again and Margerit delighted in using their combined influence to wield her own sort of power. Balls she had little use for, but music was another matter. And through a chance meeting in the university district came the opportunity to play hostess for a different sort of performance.
Barbara’s first impression of Miss Collfield had placed her in that species of mad Englishwomen who went traipsing across the face of Europe in pursuit of adventure and art, accompanied only by one stoic and inarticulate servant. She had fit the mold from the soles of her laced boots to the brim of the weather-beaten straw bonnet that topped her severely drawn-back hair. But that mistaken impression had been corrected in the course of a dinner
Similar Books
