8: A Proposal and What Followed
A messenger came on the morning with a note from Alicia, Duchess Bellser-Bar, inviting Genevieve to accompany her on a tour of the royal greenhouses. Genevieve gave the messenger her acceptance, with thanks, and the ducal carriage arrived in an hour. The Duchess was well muffled up, her face half-hidden in furs, for though the skies were clear, the weather continued cold. They rode through a city wild with wind, the trees on the boulevards twisting in a frenzy, the banners atop the pinnacles lashing, everything in motion, even the gemmed and broken light that jigged and glittered from the long, jewel-faceted conservatories.
A footman helped them from the carriage, another opened the doors, and inside a cultivation of gardeners stood slowly from their work, tools still in their hands. The Duchess was obviously a well-known and well-liked visitor, for they greeted her with smiles and moved eagerly to help both her and Genevieve with the furs and scarves that were now unneeded, for the women had come from chill chaos into an eden of blooms, elegance, and moist, calm air.
The Duchess, retaining the scarf around her throat and face, thanked each of them by name, then took Genevieve’s hand and walked with her slowly down the graveled pathways among flowering trees laden with epiphytes, urns burgeoning with trailing blossoms, and beds of succulents and rare Old Earth species. As they went she kept her face turned away, drawing Genevieve’s attention to this bloom and that leaf until they were out of earshot of the gardeners, at which point she led Genevieve behind a large pillar draped with fuschias and ivy, removed the scarf, and said in a shaking voice, “My dear, I need to presume on short acquaintance. I need your help greatly, very greatly indeed.”
Now, with the Duchess facing her, Genevieve could see what the scarf had hidden on the way: an unusual pallor, pinched lines around the lips, eyes pooling with unshed tears. She reached out a hand, all sympathy for the older woman’s obvious distress. “Of course, Alicia. What is it?”
The Duchess took her arm again and drew her farther along the aisles, away from the busy men, her voice barely above a whisper:
“My daughter. My daughter Lyndafal. Genevieve, she’s about to have her second child.” She buried her face in her handkerchief, blotting her eyes.
Genevieve waited a moment, then said in a puzzled voice, “Is that a troubling thing?”
“She’s married to Lord Solven, Earl Ruckward of the Sealand. He’s somewhat older than she. She’s his second wife. He already has heirs . . .”
“He didn’t want another child?”
Alicia looked heavenward, hopelessly, making a frustrated gesture. “Genevieve, could you . . . will you do something for me without my having to explain? I really don’t think I can explain. Will you allow that I have good reasons, though they might seem silly? Will you help me without knowing what they are? I must somehow help my daughter get away from Ruckward. I believe with all my heart that her life depends upon it.”
Genevieve stared in incomprehension, her mind tumbling with all the questions she was being forbidden to ask. “You can’t invite her to visit you?”
“She’s due to deliver any day, and Solven won’t let her leave the place now. It’s within his rights, in accordance with the covenants, so I can’t . . . I … Genevieve, please!”
Genevieve bit her lip in indecision, finally shaking her head and saying, “You ask me in friendship, which demands I do what I can, but I must ask you, why do you want her to defy the covenants?”
The Duchess took a deep breath. “Knowing would only endanger you, Genevieve. Sometimes we can do in ignorance what we could not do in knowledge. I can only swear to you that it is a matter of her life.”
“Why do you ask me? I know almost no one, I have very little freedom of action.”
The Duchess grasped her arm. “It’s your being from Langmarsh that makes me think you can help. My daughter is a good sailor. Since she grew up in Merdune, she could scarcely be anything else. The baby is due soon. Lyndafal has sent me word by a trusted messenger that on the tenth of Early-winter, whether the child is born or not, she plans to leave the estate in Nether Ruckton and sail out onto Havenpool as she does, often, in all weathers, sometimes taking her little daughter. This time she will keep going, eastward, along the Randor Islands to Ramspize Point.