The Ouroboros Cycle, Book One. G.D. Falksen
Читать онлайн книгу.
they were among the wealthiest and most powerful—the aristocracy of the new empire. Babette doubted very much that they had a single thought between them that did not pertain to matters of politics, business, or clothes.
Or war. There were far too many men in uniform prancing about like dashing dragoons. And except for the odd hussar in braided dolman, Babette could picture none of them riding into the jaws of death with sabre brandished high.…
Dashing indeed. Many of them were old and gouty. Even the young were overfull with their own pride. Hardly inspiring stuff. They had all gone for glory in the Crimea; but as Grandfather said, it was the English who had done all the real work there.
She shook her head and felt her auburn hair buffet the sides of her face. For a moment she felt like screaming. Her father had insisted upon ringlets for the ball. Even Babette’s protestations to Grandfather had been for naught.
“And how does the evening find you, my dear?” asked a voice at her elbow.
Babette nearly jumped with fright. She turned in her seat, looked up, and saw her grandfather, William Varanus, standing above her in his finest evening dress. His was a kindly face, strong and masterful, with penetrating blue eyes and framed by elegantly graying hair. Babette’s temper softened for a moment as Grandfather smiled down upon her dotingly as he had done since she was a child.
“Hello Grandfather,” she said, folding her hands in her lap and forcing a smile. “It finds me…well.”
“Have I not always taught you never to lie?” Grandfather asked, his smile never fading. “May I sit?”
“In your own house, Grandfather? Of course.” Babette motioned toward the chair beside her.
Grandfather sat and gave Babette another smile, showing his teeth as he always did. He looked out across the ballroom, his smile fading into a dignified frown.
“Abysmal, is it not?” he asked.
By God, yes it was.
“What is?” Babette asked, feigning ignorance. It was only polite to do so.
“Look at them,” Grandfather said, ignoring the question, as he was wont to do. “My friends and neighbors, business associates, well-wishers, and some of the most highly placed people in France.… And all here to celebrate the coming of the new season on my shilling!”
Grandfather was English, of course. Even in France he preferred English vocabulary. Indeed, if not for the ball, they would have been speaking in English, as they always did at home when not intruded upon by guests. Even the staff were required to understand the language, for which they were paid extra.
Grandfather turned back to Babette and smiled again as he regarded her. “And all for you, my darling: the daughter I never had.”
Babette laughed lightly, as was proper, but sincerely.
“I thought that was Father,” she said. She could only have spoken so to Grandfather.
Grandfather barked a laugh and slapped his knee, drawing shocked looks from a gaggle of women standing nearby.
“Ah, dear James,” Grandfather said, studying the throng with his eyes. “Yes, where is my son? No doubt ensuring that everything is parfait for your début into society.”
“My début is not until Paris,” Babette reminded him.
“You avant-début then,” Grandfather said, still searching the crowd, every once in a while sniffing as if he could smell is son.
Babette giggled slightly and hid her mirth behind her fan. Grandfather was such an eccentric at times.
“Your blasted mother may have had the good sense to die,” Grandfather said gruffly, “but I daresay she has possessed your father. He was never so insufferable until after her.” He paused and looked at Babette. “My apologies,” he said. “I should not have spoken so of your late mother, God rest her soul.”
Babette looked away, for the moment stricken not by the pain of loss but by the pain of lacking.
“No need, Grandfather,” she said. “You remember, I never knew her. How can I mourn someone I never knew? Besides, I rather suspect that had she lived, she would have hated me.”
“Nonsense,” Grandfather said, momentarily placing a hand upon her arm. “No, your mother would have loved you. She would have treated you like a doll.”
“A doll?” Babette asked.
“Oh yes. She would have dressed you up in more frills and bows and shackles of lace than exist on God’s green earth.” Grandfather shrugged. “At least, that was what she did to her poor dogs.”
He spoke with such distain that Babette was silent for a moment. Presently, she asked:
“Like father has done to me?”
She motioned to her gown. Though it was impeccably tailored, her tiny waiflike body was all but overwhelmed by the mass of fabric.
“Now that you come to mention it…” Grandfather said.
“Yes, Father no doubt is possessed,” Babette said. She sat in silence for a moment, gently fanning herself. Though the weather outside still held a twinge of winter’s chill, the ballroom was ever so slightly warm. “Are you certain I cannot have a book, Grandfather?” she asked at length. “A small one. I could hide it behind my fan. No one would ever know.”
“Are you dreadfully bored?” Grandfather asked.
Babette sighed and her shoulders slumped briefly.
“As you cannot imagine,” she said. “There is nothing to do. No one speaks to me, you know.”
“What of your dance card?” Grandfather asked.
Babette almost laughed.
“Empty, as it has been all night,” she said.
Not that she minded. All of the possible claimants were unbearably French, a quality that Grandfather had raised her to distain. And all were unbearably boorish besides. She doubted any of them had half a sentence of intelligent conversation. The only thing wrong with her situation that evening was the lack of a book.
And the damned dress.
“It will be different in Paris,” Grandfather said.
“Will it?” Babette asked, disappointed at the prospect.
If Grandfather recognized her tone, he ignored it.
“You are the heir to the Varanus fortune,” he said. “In Paris they will all flutter about you like moths”
“Or flies around rotting meat?” Babette asked. “Truthfully, I would prefer otherwise, Grandfather.” She looked up at him, her green eyes big and pleading. “Must I marry, Grandfather?”
From what she had heard about marriage and motherhood, it seemed like it would all be such a dreadful waste of her time.
Grandfather looked at her sternly, like he always did when she was being difficult. After a token staring match to defend her independence, Babette relented and lowered her eyes.
“Babette,” Grandfather said, “do not ask foolish questions. You are sixteen. You are a woman now. And you are your father’s only child. Of course you must marry. If you do not bear children, our line dies with you. And you would not bring that shame upon me, would you?”
Babette gritted her teeth. Damn Grandfather for asking such a question! He knew that he was her greatest weakness!
“No, Grandfather,” she said softly. After a moment, she added, “But why cannot Father remarry? He could choose a young wife, and she could bear him sons. And I could happily become a spinster.”
“You are far too young to speak of becoming a spinster,” Grandfather said, chuckling. “Wait until you are twenty before harboring such thoughts.”