The Judas kiss

"God's in His Heaven"

It was two months later when our ceremonial wedding took place, and I was almost certain at the time that I was going to have a child. The thought gave me confidence. My life was here, and the child I carried would be heir to the. dukedom.

Conrad looked splendid. I was dressed in a white gown which was covered in pearls. I had never worn anything so grand. Freya assured me that I looked magnificent, every bit the future Grand Duchess. The Grand Duke's presence at the wedding gave it the seal of official approval, and to my astonishment I came through the ordeal well enough.

I rode through the streets afterwards in the carriage with the ducal arms emblazoned on it. I stood on the Schloss balcony with Conrad on one side of me and the Grand Duke on the other, while the people cheered us.

Conrad was delighted. I had come through with honours; and that night I told him about the child.

My child was due in six months and I was living, as they said, quietly, at the Marmorsaal in the forest. I would take rides out in a small carriage which had been selected for my use, and because it was small and insignificant I could go out unceremoniously.

I had brought the young boy Zig into the household. I could not forget his kindness to me when I most needed it. His gratitude was moving and I knew I had a faithful servant for life.

I often visited Daisy, who was delighted with the way everything had turned out, and whenever I visited her she would be overcome with awe for at least five minutes before she forgot my new status and I became just Miss Pip to her.

And then ... it happened suddenly and when I had no longer hoped that it ever could.

Gisela was visiting Daisy when I called unexpectedly. Daisy was in her usual temporary respectful flutter when she saw who it was, and ushered me into her little sitting room where Gisela's twins, Carl and Gretchen, were playing with Hansie.

"Now then ... where can you sit yourself ..." Daisy was fluttering round pink-cheeked and flustered, and Gisela was almost as bad.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Daisy," I said, "stop it. I'm just the same."

Daisy winked at Gisela. "Now listen to her, and her the Grand-Duchess-to-be. And how are you today, my lady? How's the little 'un?"

"Exceptionally lively, Daisy."

"That's a good sign."

"Good but uncomfortable. And how is Hansie?"

"Hansie's a good boy ... sometimes."

"And the twins?"

They stood up and regarded me solemnly and not without suspicion, for as children will they had caught the uneasy respect which their elders were feeling towards me.

"You know me," I said to Carl.

He nodded.

"So show me your new toys."

Gretchen picked up a furry lamb from the floor and held it out to me.

"He's very nice," I said. "What's his name?"

"Franz," said Gretchen.

"He's a lovely lamb."

The children nodded.

"They play well together—the twins and Hansie," said Daisy. "It's nice for Gisela to come up here and for me to go visiting her. It makes company."

I agreed that it was nice and it did.

"You wait till yours arrives," went on Daisy.

"We shall have all the bells ringing then," added Gisela.

"I've got a bell," Gretchen announced.

"I've got a fox ... a little fox," added Carl.

"And what's his name?"

"Fuchs," said Gretchen.

Carl sidled up to me. "I call him Cubby," he said confidentially.

Everything seemed to stand still suddenly. He had spoken the word with a perfect English accent. I was immediately back in the past reading the letter I had had from Francine and which I could remember word for word because I had read it so many times.

"What do you call him?" I asked, and my voice seemed to be shrill with my sudden excitement.

"Cubby!" he cried. "Cubby, Cubby."

"Why?" I asked.

"It's what my mummy used to call me," he said. "Long, long ago ... when I had a different mummy... ."

There was silence in the room. Gisela had turned very pale. Carl had picked up his fox and was saying, "Cubby ... There's a good Cubby."

I heard myself say: "This is the child then. Carl is the child."

She did not deny it. She stood staring at me, her eyes wide and frightened in her pale face.

Gisela realized that there was nothing to be done but tell the whole story. She assured me that she had never done so before, because Francine had made her swear that she never would until it was safe to do so.

Francine had lived a rather lonely life in the hunting lodge waiting for Rudolph's visits. She had formed friendships with Gisela and Katia, and through Katia she had gleaned some inkling of the intrigues which were building up. She must have been aware that Rudolph's life was in danger, and when she discovered she was to have a child her fears had been doubled. Living obscurely as she was obliged to do, it was not impossible to keep her pregnancy a secret, but she had faithful friends in the two women, a priest and a midwife, all of whom lived not far from the hunting lodge. She and Rudolph determined to conceal the fact that she was to give birth to the heir to the dukedom until such a time as it would be safe to reveal it, and with the help of these friends she was able to do so.

The Grand Duke had been in ignorance of the marriage, for Rudolph had been afraid to confess to his father in view of the political situation and the need for the help of Kollenitz in dealing with it. There would have been trouble on more than one front if it had been known that Rudolph had spurned the alliance with Freya.

Thus the great wall of secrecy had been built up. Rudolph had been a charming man, but he was weak and as far as I could gather had always taken the line of least resistance to any situation. So he had kept his marriage and the birth of his child secret.

Once the child was born and christened Rudolph, the task was easier. At this time Gisela was giving birth to Gretchen, and it seemed a great stroke of ingenuity to credit her with twins.

Thus Francine had her own child close to her. She could see him every day; and the two children, Gretchen and the little boy, whom they called Carl for safety, were with her constantly.

Francine had hoped that Rudolph would confess to his father, but he put off doing so and finally, when the child was a year and a half old, there came that night when Rudolph and Francine were murdered in their bed.

Now Gisela went in great fear. She loved her adopted child and she knew that if it were realized who he really was, his life would be in great danger. Moreover she had sworn to Francine that she would not betray his true identity until she was sure he would be accepted for who he was.

It was strange that the child himself had made the revelation.

The Grand Duke listened gravely to the story. He then put it in secret to his ministers.

The verdict was unanimous. The law of heredity must prevail. The child in the lodge cottage was heir to the Duchy and must be educated and brought up with a realization of the duties which would one day be his.

It was decided that there should be no covering up. The whole story should be known. The marriage of Rudolph and Francine could be proved. There was the sheet from the church register, and the priest who had married them could be found.

The midwife and everyone who had played even the smallest part in the conspiracy of silence should be brought forward and the truth established.

It was a wild, violent and romantic story—but such stories were not unusual. The truth was plain and the people should know it.

Those days stand out in my memory as some of the strangest in my life. I can remember riding through the streets with Conrad in the ducal carriage with the Grand Duke and little Carl—now Rudolph.

The boy took everything for granted, as though it were the most natural thing in the world for little boys who had been brought up in lodge cottages to ride in a carriage while the people cheered him.

There was one thing that did upset him, however, and that was being parted from Gretchen; so it was decided that Gretchen should be brought to the schloss and that the two of them should continue to be together.

Gisela was beside herself with pride. She was also greatly relieved, because she said it was as though a weight she had been carrying was lifted from her shoulders. She had always been afraid for Carl, and to think of her little Gretchen living in a schloss and becoming something of a scholar and being with Carl—for she would always think of him as Carl —was something she had never dreamed possible.

It was a good day for her when Francine, the beautiful lady from England, had become her friend.

It is amazing how quickly nine days' wonders are forgotten. Within six months the story seemed to have become distant history, and a year later when the Grand Duke died, Bruxenstein had a Regent—Conrad—and a wife who, although she was English and had once been governess to the Countess Freya, was accepted as the Baroness, wife of the Regent. I had a son of my own by this time, whom I called Conrad after his father, and Freya, herself soon to be a mother, had been one of the sponsors at the grand christening.

I had come to accept ceremony as a way of life, and as long as I was with my family I was happy. I was relieved to be accepted, for after all I was not only the wife of the Regent, but the aunt of the heir to the Dukedom. To my surprise, during the last months of his life, I formed a friendship with the Grand Duke who, after the first shocks, was not at all displeased by the turn of events, since the country continued in peace and prosperity.

Freya was happy; Gunther was happy; and Graf and Grafin, whom I had never known very well nor understood, had slipped into a quiet acceptance of the state of affairs. That they had been involved in the faction responsible for the assassination of Rudolph seemed very likely. Whether they had even then had plans for marrying Sigmund to Tatiana or whether they had felt, as so many people seemed to have done, that Rudolph's rule would have been disastrous for Bruxenstein, I did not know. I had discovered that there were many stern patriots who believed that the death of Rudolph was preferable to a war into which weak rule might have plunged the country. It may well have been that the Graf and Grafin had been among these. I did know that Sigmund had had no hand in Rudolph's death; in fact he had preferred the life of freedom he had had before the responsibilities of state were thrust upon him.

"It is in the past," was his comment, "and there is nothing to be gained by trying to unravel it ... even if we ever could get to the whole truth."

And he was right, of course.

Tatiana remained in her convent. Whether she was indeed of unsound mind or whether she found it expedient to appear so was something else of which I was not sure. She had attempted to murder both Freya and myself, but as long as she remained shut away we were both prepared to forget what she had planned for us. Thus the months slipped by.

When our son was two years old, Conrad and I took a trip to England. The Grange was made ready for our arrival, and it seemed so strange to go back there and see the row of cottages where Daisy's mother still sat outside on summer's evenings and could be seen pegging her clothes on the line.

Daisy accompanied us, which gave me a lot of pleasure, but we did not plan to stay long, for we hated leaving our children.

I stood and looked at the grey walls of the manor. It seemed different now, for there were children playing on the lawn. There were three of them—two girls and a boy.

These must be Cousin Arthur's children.

Sophia made me feel very welcome. She was clearly happy and I thought how extraordinary it was that Cousin Arthur, who had seemed to Francine and me quite impossible as a husband, should have turned out so satisfactorily for Sophia.

I was even more astonished when I saw Cousin Arthur. He had grown plump and he looked amazingly contented. He clearly enjoyed family life and I was astonished to see that his children were not in the least in awe of him. I wondered what he was like when he gave them religious instruction.

When I was alone with him he became a little embarrassed, as though he was trying to tell me something and didn't know how to begin.

I said to him: "Marriage has changed you, Cousin Arthur."

He admitted that it had. "I must have seemed insufferable to you and Francine," he muttered.

"You did," I agreed. "But you are like a different person now."

"I was a hypocrite, Philippa," he confessed. "When I look back I just despise myself. And that's not all. I have been really criminal... ."

I laughed. "Surely not. What do you call criminal? Forgetting to say your prayers one night?"

He leaned towards me and took my hand. "I was afraid of poverty," he said. "I didn't want to have to eke out some poor living as a miserable curate, which is what I should have done but for your grandfather. I wanted Greystone Manor ... I wanted it desperately. It came to me ... but I didn't deserve it."

"Oh, nonsense. You have made it a happy place. The children are adorable."

"That's true," he said, "but I don't deserve my good fortune. I'm glad to have an opportunity of talking to you. I wronged you, Philippa. I was ready— But let me explain. I wanted Greystone Manor badly so I made myself exactly what your grandfather wanted so that he made up his mind that I should marry either you or Francine. We know what happened about that. Well, I didn't want to marry either of you. It was always Sophia for me."

"Oh, Cousin Arthur, if only we had known!"

"I dared not let it be known. Sophia and I had been in love for some time... . Then, she became pregnant. I had to do something. There came that night when your grandfather died. You had quarrelled with him and everyone heard. He was in an excitable mood. I thought that now he had lost all hope of getting you to fall in with his wishes, he wouldn't want to lose us all, and while he was in this mood was the time to tell him what I had done. So I went to his bedroom. I had confessed that Sophia and I must marry now. I shall never forget his face. He was in his nightcap and his fingers trembled as he grasped the sheet. He stared at me unbelievingly and then got out of bed. I think he was going to strike me. He came towards me and I put out my hands to ward him off. I don't know whether I pushed him or not. It all happened so quickly. He fell backwards and struck his head. I was panic-stricken, for I realized that he was dead. I didn't kill him. He fell. I saw that there would be a great deal of trouble. Everything would come out... . I had to think of Sophia. ... I had to act quickly... ."

"So," I said, "you set fire to the place."

He nodded.

"I should never have allowed you to suffer for it, Philippa," he said quickly. "If it had gone further ... I should have had to tell the truth. But there was Sophia and the child she was carrying— You understand. If we could keep it quiet... if it could all blow over ..."

"Even though suspicion rested on me."

"They never brought a charge. It was accidental death. It was accidental death and, Philippa, you were young ... you went away. I felt no guilt—except where you were concerned."

My thoughts slipped back to those strange days. I remembered how kind, how unexpectedly sympathetic he had been to me. I could hear the shouts of the children on the lawn, and I gripped his hand.

I was suddenly very happy. I looked up and saw a blackbird flying high.

I said:

" 'The lark's on the wing;

The snail's on the thorn:

God's in his Heaven-

All's right with the world.'"