Iron Butterflies Read Free

he bowed.
    “Miss Harrach?” His voice was deep, carrying the faintest hint of accent.
    “I am Miss Harrach.”
    “I am Pryor Fenwick.” He paused as if I should recognize the name. Then he must have guessed from my expression I did not. With a hint of frown he continued:
    “Did not Madam Harrach advise you of my coming?”
    “As she was dying, sir, she mentioned a messenger she was expecting. The reason was not given me.”

    “Then you were not told that I was to be your escort to Hesse-Dohna?”
    It was my turn to stare. “My grandmother left no such instruction, sir. As for going to Hesse-Dohna—why should I consider such a journey?”
    Something in his assurance aroused irritation in me. In fact he had an affect which I could not understand, and one which I distrusted. Now he came toward me and I had to force myself to remain where I was when I wanted nothing more than to retreat.
    “How much of the situation do you know?” His question was an abrupt demand. I resented him at that moment with a heat which another part of me found astounding. Unless, as Letty, I was indulging in prophetic “feelings.” At that moment, inwardly distraught by these odd feelings, I replied to his question evasively.
    “Sir, I must ask you to be a little more plain.” I schooled my voice, hoping my composure would appear outwardly unruffled. “Just what am I supposed to know?”
    He looked impatiently at me. His frown was now close to a scowl.
    “When I spoke of Hesse-Dohna, you showed no surprise. I will wager you know the rest well enough, Miss Harrach.”
    Pryor Fenwick he had named himself. ‘P. F.’—My grandmother's correspondent who was so discreet as to use initials only?
    “Sir.” I clung to caution, remembering my grandmother's rule of never acting on impulse. “Are you the P. F. who wrote from Axelburg on the tenth of November last?”
    He nodded.
    “If that be so, in what manner have matters changed since then? Oh, please, be seated, sir.” I waved him to a chair and was glad myself to drop upon a small settee nearby, folding my hands quickly in my lap like a school miss, lest they betray me to what I judged a very acute eye by their slight tremble. Was all my grandmotherhad fought for during the past years come closer to hand now?
    “The Electress Caroline died in January.” My visitor did not seat himself, rather he rested his strong brown hands on the back of the chair, his dark eyes so searching my face that I had to force myself to meet his gaze with a difficulty which had not moved me in the presence of any man I had met before. “The Elector is in poor health. It has long been his wish to—”
    Because he made me so uneasy I interrupted him.
    “To right the old wrong, Mr. Fenwick? In what way can he do that? Will he produce another paper inscribed with official seals to admit he did have a lawful wife, a son who was no bastard? Have you been sent to bring me such a paper, Mr. Fenwick?” My voice carried some of the heat of my inner anger,
    “He has sent for you, Miss Harrach, having had brought to him the fetter from your grandmother. He is old and ill, and he wants to see you—”
    He paused as if awaiting some quick agreement from me. But his mention of a letter written by my grandmother struck me silent. Why had she done this—humbled herself (or so it seemed to me then) to write to a man who had so foully and callously used her? It was not in her to do such a thing—I would not believe it. When I made no answer he continued.
    “I know that in this country the position of your grandmother was made difficult—”
    “How perceptive of you, Mr. Fenwick!” I flared. Was he, a man plainly used to the giving orders, now at a loss because he could not be in command of the situation, that that lay in my hands?
    “My grandmother, sir, was labeled, after the desertion of her lawful husband, a discarded mistress, his son a man without a name. This was the ‘position’ in which your Elector