Silver in the Blood

  Once again for my husband

  Contents

  Romania

  Rue Des Blanches

  Calea Victoriei

  The Tuileries

  Strada Silvestru

  The Orient Express

  Strada Silvestru

  La Traviata

  Calea Grivitei

  The Gardens at Strada Silvestru

  Casa Dragoslovean

  Casa Dragoslovean

  Castelul Bran

  Peles Castelul

  In the Forest of Sinaia

  Casa Dragoslovean

  Casa Dragoslovean

  Strada Silvestru

  Strada Silvestru

  Strada Silvestru

  Strada Smardan

  Hotel Bucharest

  The Rembrandt Hotel

  The Hotel Rembrandt

  The Hotel Bucharest

  Castelul Peles

  Peles Castelul

  Sinaia

  Peles Castelul

  Peles Castelul

  Peles Castelul

  Peles Castelul

  The Gardens at Peles

  The Forest of Sinaia

  Strada Silvestru

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Jessica Day George

  FROM THE DESK OF MISS DACIA VREEHOLT

  26 April 1897

  Dearest Lou,

  Whoever said that travel was exotic and full of adventure clearly has not sailed on the White Lady. Before you worry yourself sick that I am sitting in some squalid cabin, suffering from seasickness, fear not! Of course it is all that is respectable and luxurious, and I would never do something so horribly undignified as become seasick. Fear, rather, that I, your dearest cousin and bosom companion since infancy, shall die of boredom before the trip is even halfway through! I do not know why Papa would not allow me to take the train from London. I could have stopped in Paris and waited for you, and we could have made our way to Bucharest together. The Orient Express is all that is fashionable.

  But my mother was adamant that I avoid Paris at all costs. I am to be punished until the end of time for one moment of frivolity! Or do you think it was some fancy brought on by her delicate condition? She couldn’t possibly know that William Carver is spending the summer in Paris, could she? I certainly didn’t tell her! I have been dying to see Paris, and I could have gone shopping with you besides!

  Aunt Kate reminds me endlessly that Bucharest is the Little Paris, and that should be good enough for me, but I disagree! Why limit myself to the “Little Paris” when I could have seen the larger one? And thus far there is nothing to see but ocean, and no shopping, and no Will Carver or any reasonable substitute. I am becoming most disagreeable. Aunt Kate is threatening to lock me in my cabin if I do not shake off my “mood,” as she calls it. She has yet to see me in a true “mood,” dare I say. Much more of this and I shall descend into a despair so black that no amount of elegant dinners in the dining room or walks along the ship’s promenade to take the air will bring me out of it.

  Unless, of course, we are attacked by pirates. Young, dashing pirates. Will Carver would look very handsome in pirate costume, don’t you think, Lou? Oh, you are too far away to ask!

  Dear Lou, the other thing that is missing is you! If you were here this would be far more bearable. I shall console myself that one of us shall see Paris—the real Paris—and that soon we will be reunited! Even if it is in a strange place! And I shan’t even be able to send this letter until we reach land, which I pray is soon.

  Much, much love,

  D

  ROMANIA

  Dacia picked up her book and put it down again. It was good, but rather lurid, with a ghost haunting some young woman trapped in a castle in Yorkshire. She’d bought it on her last day in England, and just couldn’t summon the energy to finish it. Aunt Kate kept accusing her of pouting, but pouting was the furthest thing from her mind. She hated to admit it, even to Lou, but Dacia was worried.

  Worrying was not something that she did a great deal. Dacia was who she was, and she made no apologies for it. One didn’t get to be the most widely admired young lady in fashionable New York by apologizing or worrying. She knew the boundaries of good taste, and she never crossed them.

  Or at least, she had never crossed them before she went to London, met Lord Johnny, and nearly ruined everything. And now she was restless and worried. Restlessness was something she knew well. She had felt this same restlessness all her life.

  But worried was a different matter.

  She knew that her mother would scream and shout and confine her to her room when she got home, but she didn’t know when that would be. What Dacia feared more was that her mother would make Dacia stay in Romania for years, cut off from real society as punishment. Romania was hardly a backwater, nor would Dacia be living alone in some hut. Bucharest was indeed fashionable, and her mother’s family was extremely wealthy. Dacia had scores of aunts, uncles, and cousins there, so she would hardly pine for company. But to be trapped there for years? It could not be contemplated.

  And how much trouble was she in, really? Would her parents see temporary exile as punishment enough, or would they take stronger measures when she returned to New York? They knew everything, of course. Aunt Kate had sent a telegram immediately, and her mother’s answering telegram had resulted in Dacia being hustled onto that dreadful ship. It was only by the sheerest luck that she had managed to break away from Aunt Kate to duck into a bookstore and buy the first two novels that she laid eyes on. Aunt Kate had decided not to add this to Dacia’s list of crimes, however, when she came to the realization that a bored Dacia with nothing to do or read on a long journey would make life hell for her aunt.

  Or, more of a hell than her aunt was already suffering. And that was the other thing that worried Dacia.

  She had looked forward to visiting Romania all her life. The journey had been dangled before her like a treat for “when she was old enough” as long as she could remember. It had never been clear when that would be—until gossip indicated that Will Carver had asked his grandmother for her sapphire engagement ring. There was no other young lady in New York he might offer it to but Dacia. But before he even had the chance, Aunt Kate whisked her away to England to “acquire some polish” before meeting Lou and Lou’s parents in Bucharest. To travel the world with Aunt Kate had been even more appealing to Dacia than receiving Will Carver’s proposal. But now that Dacia was in disgrace, Aunt Kate was talking of their journey as though it were a punishment instead of a reward. Three months had become six, so that they could stay for Christmas, and Aunt Kate had begun to hint that even six months might not be long enough to mend Dacia’s wild ways.

  Not knowing how long that alleged treat would last was a bit alarming, but not half as alarming as Aunt Kate’s behavior. Her aunt, a fixture in Dacia’s life since the day she was born, was quite simply not herself, and Dacia had decided that she couldn’t take the blame for all of Aunt Kate’s behavior. Her chilliness on the ship was certainly because of her disappointment in Dacia, but once they boarded the train? No. That was something else. The closer they got to Bucharest, the more tension radiated from her aunt.

  Romania was Kate’s home—her childhood home, anyway. Her mother was here, her brothers, cousins, her dozens of nephews. Yet to Dacia’s knowledge her aunt had not been back since moving to New York at age twenty with her two sisters.

  And even now, as their train lurched through the countryside, her aunt was smoothing the lapels of her traveling suit with her gloved hands. Smoothing them over and over. Adjusting the belt of her skirt. Repinning her hat. Adjusting her gloves. Dacia had never seen her aunt fidget before. The book Aunt Kate was supposedly reading had
long ago slid down her skirts and onto the floor of their compartment, and Kate appeared not to have noticed.

  What was waiting for them in Bucharest that could make Aunt Kate nervous?

  The train lurched to a stop, and now Dacia’s book slithered down her skirts to the floor. When she picked it up, she picked up Aunt Kate’s as well and gave it to her. Her aunt made no comment, but opened the book to the middle and made the appearance of reading. Dacia watched her aunt over the top of her own novel and saw that Kate didn’t turn the page or move her eyes at all, just stared blindly at the words until the train started up again. When several men strode down the corridor outside their compartment, Aunt Kate put the book aside and didn’t even pretend not to listen.

  “Quite repulsive. And they’ve no idea how it got there.” The man spoke Romanian, with aristocratic accents, and the scent of cigar smoke wafted into the compartment.

  “Some animal dragged it onto the tracks and had to run off without its kill when the train came, most likely,” another man said.

  “What sort of animal can kill something that large?” The first man sounded almost admiring. “That’s a whole cow out there!”

  “Wolves, perhaps,” his companion supplied. “They hunt in packs, you know . . .”

  Dacia wrinkled her nose, but quickly unwrinkled it when she saw Aunt Kate’s face. Rather than being mildly disgusted, her aunt had gone quite white.

  The train had just reached its normal speed when it slowed again. The only good news was that this time it didn’t stop, but continued crawling along as though it might have to call a halt at any moment. Dacia sighed. This was the longest journey of her life, and the combination of boredom and tension was about to send her screaming down the corridor for air or excitement or something. How did one write a travel journal that would be even remotely interesting to readers? The only thing of note that Dacia had to look at was Aunt Kate’s taut mouth, and it was only notable to her, not to mention extremely worrisome.

  The shade was down over the window to the corridor, but it didn’t quite meet the window frame. Through that crack Dacia saw the red-and-gold livery of a train conductor, and made an abrupt decision. Without asking permission, she tossed aside her book, leaped up, and opened the door into the corridor.

  “Hello there,” she practically shouted in English, momentarily forgetting her Romanian.

  The conductor jumped, startled by her sudden greeting.

  “Good evening, miss,” he said in Romanian, tipping his cap.

  Dacia gathered herself to answer in that language. “What seems to be the problem, if I may ask? We are going dreadfully slowly. Not something wrong with the train, is there?” Dacia knew she was babbling and forced herself to stop.

  “Not at all, miss,” he said. He gave her a rueful smile. “Just some pests bothering the train.”

  “Some pests?” She looked down. She could not abide mice. She had had a spirited argument with Lord Johnny back in London that this was neither a sign of squeamishness nor cowardice, but merely practicality on the part of one who had to wear a great many long skirts and petticoats.

  “A pack of wolves, miss. They’re running alongside the tracks, and sometimes they dart across, like they’re daring each other to play with the train. The driver slowed down so he wouldn’t hit any of them, thinks it’s bad luck. I say, that’s one less dumb animal in the world, and who cares?” He shrugged. “Now they’ve gone and left something . . . unpleasant on the tracks, the filthy beasts.”

  “What a completely appalling attitude,” Aunt Kate said coldly. She had risen and was looming over Dacia’s shoulder.

  The conductor stared past Dacia at Aunt Kate as if he’d seen a ghost. He made a weird little noise in his throat that might have been a whimper.

  “Wolves are not only far smarter than you think; they are far smarter than you,” Aunt Kate snapped at the man. Then she latched on to Dacia’s elbow and pulled her niece inside the compartment, locking the door behind them.

  Aunt Kate settled herself back in her seat with a small huffing noise and picked up her book again. “Don’t fraternize with the staff, Dacia; it’s common.”

  “Asking after problems with the train isn’t fraternizing with the staff; it’s merely being cautious,” Dacia countered, but her heart wasn’t really in the argument.

  Nor was Aunt Kate’s. She ignored Dacia for the next hour, staring out the window with what seemed to be a very real absorption. Aunt Kate’s eyesight was excellent (Dacia and Lou had many times bemoaned both her keen eyesight and hearing as children), but Dacia was quite as sharp-eyed and she couldn’t see anything out of the darkened glass at all. Clearly her aunt was just trying to keep her from talking. Although this wasn’t unusual with Aunt Kate, it was unnerving now the way she kept her eyes glued to the window, and Dacia could actually smell the tension rolling off her aunt.

  The silence went on for so long that Dacia stopped herself twice from asking her aunt what on earth was the matter with her. She decided instead to break the quiet with an innocuous comment about British fashions, when the creeping train came to a complete halt and the night air was shattered by gunshots. Aunt Kate leaped up as though she had been struck by lightning and went to the door of the compartment. Dacia half rose, and her aunt gave her a Look.

  “Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t speak to anyone.”

  Kate went out, slamming the door behind her.

  Dacia waited for ten minutes, which she felt showed herculean forbearance on her part.

  What finally drove her from the compartment was the sound of running in the corridor, followed by more gunshots and shouts from outside the train. Her heart was pounding and her legs shook when she stood, but if bandits were attacking them, she certainly wasn’t going to sit in her compartment and wait for someone to attack her. And where in heaven’s name was Aunt Kate?

  The corridor was eerily silent. The shades of every other compartment were closed, and the train seemed almost abandoned. She wanted to go to the front of the train and demand to know what was happening, but the gunshots were coming from that direction and Aunt Kate had gone to the rear. Dacia was certain that her aunt knew more than she was letting on, so she decided that following Aunt Kate was the better idea.

  But by the time she had reached the second-to-last car there was no sign of her aunt, and she worried that she had passed her in one of the compartments. Dacia hoped that she hadn’t been foolish enough to get off the train entirely! The last car was a smoking car for the gentlemen, and Dacia could not imagine her aunt setting foot in there. Not only would it be highly improper, but Kate was very sensitive to strong odors. She often claimed that she had never married because she couldn’t find a man who didn’t reek of cigars.

  Still, Dacia was sure that her aunt had gone this way. And she could see a dim figure through the back window, standing on the deck in front of the smoking car. Taking a deep breath, because she also had a sensitive nose, Dacia opened the back door.

  To her utmost shock, she discovered Aunt Kate wrapped in the arms of a tall man in a long cloak. Dacia nearly choked on her own breath. She had never seen two people kiss so passionately, and had certainly never suspected her Aunt Kate of being capable of such . . . scandalous intimacy.

  “Aunt Kate!” She found her voice.

  The couple broke apart, and Aunt Kate turned toward her as though there were nothing out of the ordinary, despite her red lips and disheveled hair. The man bowed as elegantly as if they were in a ballroom. Then he gathered up his cloak and leaped off the train, disappearing into the darkness.

  “I told you to stay in the compartment,” Aunt Kate said coolly.

  She went past Dacia into the train and started down the corridor without looking back. Not knowing what else to do, Dacia followed her in silence. At the door of their compartment, the conductor was waiting for them, wringing his hands. His face went white again when Aunt Kate looked at him, but he gathered himself to speak.

  “You have t
o put a stop to this, doamna mea,” the man said with respect and even a little fear. Dacia could hardly blame him, but she did think it was a bit much to address her aunt as “my lady.”

  “They were only paying tribute,” Aunt Kate said, her tone even icier than before. “They have our attention, and are done now.”

  The man began to babble his thanks, but Aunt Kate ignored him as she went into the compartment. As they sat down and took up their books again, Aunt Kate leveled one of her sternest Looks at Dacia.

  “Don’t ever disobey me again,” she said.

  Dacia was dying to ask who that man was, and who was trying to pay tribute to them, and to get out her stationery and write down the whole incident for Lou, but she did nothing. Instead she found the marker in her book, opened it up, and from behind this barrier announced softly, “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  FROM THE DESK OF MISS MARIA LOUISA NEULANDER

  26 April 1897

  To my dear Dacia,

  I am writing to you even though this letter will probably reach you long after I arrive in Bucharest and we are together again. Even so, I must confide this strange thing that has happened to me, and I know that Mama and Papa would be very upset if I were to tell them. I have no desire to be mewed up in my cabin for the remainder of the journey, and I am sure that would be the consequence of my confidence.

  There, enough teasing (you know I didn’t mean to)! I will tell you that yesterday as I took the air upon the west deck, a strange young man approached me. There was no one else nearby, and I was watching the waves by myself. (They are quite mesmerizing, and I am often drawn to the promenade.) Quite suddenly there was a man at my elbow! I did not see him approach, he was simply there. He was very tan, or perhaps naturally swarthy, with very dark hair that had a reddish tint because of the setting sun. I had ample time to note all this, you see, as he also looked me over in the most blatant fashion! I became quite flushed and turned to walk away, when he began speaking to me.