“Well, but why not?” She spoke with a chilling indifference. “The opportunity arose. It was too good to miss. There was no danger to me, the old man will be blamed. He is mad, you know. Quite mad. Oh, yes, it was safe, and I will shut you in again when you have told me. My darling will marry Andrea, he loves her, he always has.”
And her voice trailed off into soft murmurs, in which the name of her daughter was blasphemously mingled with fragments of prayer.
There was no point in talking to her any longer. I understood the obsession, underlying her madness, but she was wandering farther and farther from sense every moment. She couldn’t even remember the name of the man she wanted for her daughter.
I caught the rope and pulled sharply. She had not been expecting that move. Off balance, she stumbled toward me. One hard jerk freed my hands, and I struck at her arm with my clenched fist. The knife fell clattering to the floor.
I thought I had won then, but I had not reckoned with the horrible strength of the insane. In an instant the frail old woman was transformed into a raging beast who used teeth and claws as an animal might. I turned my head just in time to protect my eyes from her gouging nails; they raked my cheek instead, and the pain made me cry out.
I had planned to render her helpless, then bind her with the rope she had used on me. I knew I could never do it. My only hope was to run.
I reached the stairs before her, but only because she stopped to pick up the knife. I heard her grunting and scraping along the floor as I scrambled on hands and knees up the steep slippery steps. When I reached the top, the full force of the wind hit me. It was blowing hard; leaves and twigs struck my face and the gusts blew my skirts about. Immediately I threw myself against the door. But she was mad on only one subject; she had had sense enough to prop the door with a stone. My frantic push jammed it. I was tugging ineffectually at its weight when I heard her on the stairs.
I ran, stumbling over rocks and thorny bushes, holding my flying skirts out of the way of my feet. The worst thing about that crazy flight was not the brambles that raked my face and clothing nor the agonized speed that soon made every breath a piercing stab in my breast. It was the fact that I did not dare look back. I had to watch each step for fear of falling, so uneven was the terrain; and at each instant I expected to feel her hot breath on my neck, or experience the stab of a knife in my back. The darkening sky, boiling with rain clouds, was a fitting backdrop for that nightmarish flight.
Yet I reached the gardens of the castle without being caught, and there, in the shadow of the pines that fringed the lily pond, I dared to pause for an instant, my hands clasped over my aching ribs. No time, no time! She was there, some distance behind me but coming on—a lean, dark figure against the gray landscape. It had been clever of her to remove her hoops and veil her face. If she was seen, she might not be recognized. Stefano was right, the mad were not without powers of reasoning.
His name reminded me that I was not far from his house. The castle was still some distance away, across the whole length of the gardens and up a steep slope, but the little house would be inhabited, by servants if not by Stefano himself. Stumbling, I circled the pool and ran along the wall of the enclosed garden till I reached the gate. My goal was the library, whose French doors opened onto the garden.
I burst through them and then my strength failed me. I clung to one of the bookcases, panting for breath. Stefano jumped up from behind his desk. He was in his shirt sleeves, his coat hung over the back of his chair. Then Miss Perkins, who had been pacing agitatedly around the room, turned and saw me. She let out a shriek. I realized that my appearance must be alarming—my face white and scratched, my skirt hanging in shreds. I put up my hand to smooth my tangled hair and tried to catch my breath.
“Francesca!” Miss Perkins exclaimed. “Good heavens, child, what has happened to you? The soldiers are here again; they are searching for the Falcon, and they seem to think—”
“I know,” I interrupted. “And so does the Contessa. She knows that Andrea is the Falcon. She has gone mad, I think; she tried to kill me—”
My breath gave out, but there was no need for me to continue. Through the open window burst the stark black figure of the madwoman.
She had eyes for no one but me. Without pausing, she rushed forward, knife held high.
My strength had deserted me. I couldn’t move. Miss Perkins ran toward us, but it was Stefano who came between.
The confrontation seemed ludicrous—a frail old woman against a man who was, despite his infirmity, tall and broad-shouldered and half her age. But Stefano was handicapped by his inability to comprehend that he was not facing the gentle lady he had learned to respect, but a creature without remorse or fear. She struck him with the full weight of her body, and he went staggering back, trying only to hold her off; whereas she was intent on murder. Their bodies hit the wall with such violence that a picture fell with a crash of glass. Then Miss Perkins picked up a bookend from the desk and hit the Contessa on the back of the head. No sooner had she fallen than Miss Perkins pounced on her.
“Your belt, Francesca,” she exclaimed, tugging at her own. “Seconds count now; she must not be found by the soldiers. Hurry, hurry, we must render her helpless and hide her before they take it into their heads to search this place.”
While she bound the Contessa’s hands, I fastened her ankles together with my belt, and then Miss Perkins gagged her with a strip of petticoat. I felt contemptible as I held the fragile limbs in my hand; unconscious, the Contessa looked as gentle as she was before madness had twisted her mind. But Miss Perkins’ hands were steady and her face was hard. When we had finished she lifted the Contessa in her arms, quite easily, and carried her into another room. Where she meant to hide her I didn’t know, but she seemed to have some place in mind.
It struck me then that Stefano had given us no help in this unpleasant business. I turned. He was still standing against the wall, where the Contessa’s rush had driven him, and I thought at first that the knife must have struck him after all. His face was as white as his shirt, his eyes were closed; his hands, pressing hard against the gilded panels, were all that kept him on his feet. As I stared, thunderstruck, his bright head fell forward and he slid to the floor. I reached him and was kneeling at his side before I realized that he could not have been wounded in the brief struggle. I had watched the dagger with the intense concentration of fear. Never once had it come near his body.
I knew then, even before I saw the first crimson drops stain his white shirt. It was the first time I had seen him without a mask—the muffling folds of a disguise or the equally concealing mask of conscious playacting. Without its mocking smile, his face was dignified and gentle. I opened his shirt and saw what I expected to see—folds of bandaging, reddened by the reopened wound, and the birthmark—the sign of his race he and his brother shared.
I was still staring, frozen with shock, when Miss Perkins returned. She dropped heavily to her knees.
“Stefano,” I said numbly. “It was not Andrea. It was—”
“Of course it was Stefano,” Miss Perkins snapped. “How could you have thought Andrea was the Falcon? He is a charming, handsome, quick-tempered fool. It is this boy who has risked his life and fortune for his dream of freedom, and if we don’t act quickly, he will be made to pay the full price. There is brandy in that cabinet. Fetch it—run!”
As she spoke, her stubby, efficient fingers were working at the bandages.
When I returned with the brandy, Stefano’s eyes were open and he was trying to sit up.
“Not yet,” Miss Perkins said. “Brandy is a poor substitute for blood, but it will help. Francesca, support his head while I—”
“Francesca will do nothing of the kind,” Stefano said. “Get her away, Miss P. Hide her—you know the secret room—”
“The Contessa is already occupying that hiding place.” Miss Perkins said calmly. “Francesca, do as you are told.”
So I sat down on the floor and lifted Stefano’s head onto my lap. I got no thanks from him, only a wicked glance from his blue eyes. As my hands touched his disheveled fair curls I wondered how I could have been so deceived, even with an actor of Stefano’s skill deliberately misleading me. I had never been able to reconcile Andrea with the man I had held in my arms. If I had ever touched Stefano, even his hand…. There was no mistaking that sort of recognition, the instinctive knowledge of the flesh. He had been careful to avoid physical contact in recent days, but heaven knows he had good reason to shrink from even the gentlest touch. That morning in the library it must have cost him dearly to sit upright, much less converse so coolly.
Stefano started to speak again. Miss Perkins cut him short by pushing the glass of spirits against his mouth. He had to drink it or choke.
“Don’t waste your strength arguing,” she said. “If De Merode comes here, you must be on your feet and seemingly uninjured. He already suspects you. The slightest sign of weakness—”
“Nonsense,” Stefano interrupted. “He suspects Andrea.”
“He is not such a fool. We haven’t fathomed his real intentions yet, I feel sure. The time is critical. You know that better than I do.”
“The crisis is closer than you think. I have had to move the time forward; I got word from Turin this morning. Parezzo must rise tomorrow at dawn, and I must be there.”
“You aren’t fit to go.” Miss Perkins said.
“I am perfectly fit. That damned woman only jarred me.” Stefano rolled his eyes up so that he was glaring straight into my face. “I forget myself. Forgive my language, ladies—and leave me! Francesca, if you aren’t out of this room in thirty seconds….”
“Where is she supposed to go?” Miss Perkins demanded. “You are most unfair to her, Count. If she hasn’t earned your trust by now…. You aren’t deceiving me, you know,” she added cryptically.
A wave of color flooded into Stefano’s pale cheeks. I did not understand its meaning, but I was fascinated by this new display of emotion from a man I had considered without feelings.
“You are the most frightful busybody,” Stefano said with a resigned air. “Help me up, Francesca, if you please. I assure you, I am not as weak as you think. That infernal woman pushed me into the wall, and the frame of the picture struck the wound. It hurt abominably, but no real damage was done.”
