The Countesses of Tannensdal

The Countesses of Tannensdal or: The Lady of Mirrors

A Gothic Romance in the Ruritanian Style

I.

Tannensdal, seen from the train, was as I had expected. Gloomy forests covered brooding mountains along the valley's vast length. Mist ventured out from the safety of crevasses and gorges to send probing fingers oozing up the slopes. Small hamlets stood isolated from each other by dark woodland and steep cliffs and, most likely, centuries of mutual dislike and distrust.

Though it was only a little while past noon, the autumn sun felt pale and weak, like the false smile on a villain's face. I shivered inside my greatcoat, more from the sense of cold indifference that leeched out of the place than from any physical discomfort. It was all a far cry from the soft glow of the Mediterranean, the blazing sunlight of Abyssinia, the sweltering heat of India.

More than half my lifetime I had spent away from Europe, and I had grown unaccustomed to the chill and gloom. Even so, this place in the depths of the Continent seemed a far cry from my fond memories of home: England, with its golden light, its rolling hills, its babbling brooks, its stout folk and cheerful beauties.

For that was another realisation. The people I saw were remarkably close-faced. They stood in the fields along the track, and looked upon the steam locomotive with distaste and incomprehension, as if it were some monster that they regretted welcoming into their valley.

I saw in the women none of the pale beauty of England, the dusky seduction of India, the dark promise of Africa. Here, even where the features might be considered attractive, a sullenness prevailed that made eyes suspicious and turned down mouths at their corners.

My travelling companion that morning shared my impression of the place. A short Irish priest with a beaming face, he had boarded the train for this final leg of my journey at the same station I had. Naturally we had fallen into conversation, and I had been struck by his good humour as much as by his wit and learning.

Yet he had frowned at the sight of so many unhappy faces, and drew a comparison to Browning's great poem of Childe Roland.

"A dismal place and a dismal people," he had remarked sadly. "Cursed by a malevolence, a sick presence that infects all nearby."

I raised my eyebrows at that. "Is that not an unusual thought for a Catholic priest, Father?"

My question seemed to take him aback, for he looked at me sharply before giving a wry smile. "Perhaps so, Sir Anthony, perhaps so! Yet I find that the tenets of Mother Church and the beliefs of my upbringing sit comfortably side by side. I believe in God the Father, God the Son and the Sidhe riding the wind, as I once heard an old soldier say."

I recalled his words as the train neared the small station beneath the valley's far slopes. Some distance away, high overhead, a dark castle drew my eye like a lodestone. Despair and wickedness seemed to press down even more tightly here, if possible.

Perhaps I shouldn't have come, I thought to myself. In truth, I had wondered on several occasions during my journey from Trieste on the coast why I was in fact here. Boredom? Curiosity about this unknown cousin? An escape from the violent and meaningless existence of army life?

It had started with a letter, as so many adventures do. The news of my knighthood had been announced -- quite modestly -- in the papers. Major Sir Anthony Woodall KCB, recognised for bravery and resourcefulness during Napier's long slog through the Abyssinian mountains to Mogdala. A succinct description that glossed over a never-ending struggle to avoid unnecessary bloodshed.

The letter had arrived a week later, delivered to the hotel in Cairo where I was staying while I recuperated from a fever and waited for orders. Despite having visibly travelled far, the heavy paper of the envelope looked pristine. The careful hand that had addressed it to me was elegant and distinctly feminine, and the opening words confirmed the truth of its writer's sex.

My dearest cousin, it began. That seized my attention at once. Having no immediate family remaining, I had been accustomed for years now to think of myself as alone. To be hailed suddenly as "cousin" was as intriguing as the writer's identity.

I trust this finds you well, and safely returned from the wilds of the Dark Continent. You will no doubt be surprised to receive this letter, and I hasten to explain.

Perhaps you have heard of Countess Ilira von Tannensdal. She visited London before the years of your Regency, and by all accounts enjoyed her stay. She was particularly close to your ancestor, William Woodall -- this was before his marriage to your great-grandmother, I should add.

When Countess Ilira returned home to Tannensdal, she was with child, and I am the descendant of her tryst with William. I even bear her name.

So you see we are related, and you will understand my joy at reading the news of your recent heroics and Her Majesty's recognition of your bravery.

Having no living relations in my own country, I am eager to make your acquaintance and learn more about my family in England.

There had followed details of where she lived, and instructions for contacting her and travelling there.

The letter was signed simply "Ilira".

Enquiries at the Consulate had yielded no information about this mysterious European noblewoman, and very little about Tannensdal. A tiny landlocked area hedged in by larger powers. Exports included wool and lumber, but neither in large quantities, and a variety of schnapps that was said to have the stopping power of a charging elephant.

"Look here, Tony," had said Elsham of the Consulate. "It all sounds very fishy to me. A mysterious lady sees your name in the papers and recognises you for her long-lost cousin? Very dicey."

"I thought you said it was fishy?"

"Fishy, dicey, uncanny, whatever you want to call it." He poured us both another brandy and sat back in his armchair. "I hope you're not thinking of going."

But of course I was. It was more than simple curiosity, more than fatigue with battle and bloodshed and a desire for more meaning. More even than a desire to meet a living relative, no matter how remote the connection.

That her tale was true I had no doubt. The stories of William and Ilira had been part of the family history, whispered with knowing smiles and the occasional joke.

William had been the lion of the fast set in his day, from an old family and with wealth and good looks to spare. He had fought at least two duels, and emerged from both the victor -- and only survivor. The visiting Countess had by all accounts gravitated to him immediately, and together they had set London ablaze. The gossips had had their mouths full with tales of scandalous parties, of highhanded insults, of bold adventures.

Then suddenly it had all been over. The Countess of Tannensdal had returned home one day. No news had ever reached us of a child being born, though her condition would explain her sudden and hasty departure that had always remained a puzzle.

So it was only natural that I should wish to see this newly found cousin, but my desire went beyond that. There was something indefinable about her handwriting, an elegance that bordered on the sensual, and I had always struggled to restrain myself around a sensual woman.

I alighted from the train with Father Doonan. He was travelling the Continent visiting old churches, and there was one nearby with an ancient Bible that he wished to see. I left him standing on the boards that passed for a platform, clutching his hat against the wind and beaming his defiance at the surrounding murk.

The handful of other people -- an old porter, a pair of peasant women -- had the same wary look that I had seen on the other faces. Nothing spoke of sensuality, and I wondered whether perhaps I had been deceived.

The porter took my valise and accompanied me outside, where an open carriage stood waiting with a pair of large black horses. The coachman exchanged a few words with the porter in a language I did not recognise -- it had hints of both German and Italian -- then pointed behind me.

A girl stood there, perhaps not quite out of her teens. She had been in the Third Class carriage of the train, and had followed us out of the station. Now she gazed around with large eyes, a thin shawl held tightly around her and a small bundle clutched to her breast. The porter turned to her and asked a question. She replied in a soft voice, and he gestured towards the distant castle.

The grizzled coachman climbed down and took my valise from the porter. "I will see you to the castle, good sir," he said in heavily accented English as he pulled down the step for me. "My Lady the Countess is waiting."

As I climbed in, I noticed the girl trudging off along the same track. An autumn wind was rising, and her shawl looked unlikely to offer much protection.

"The girl," I asked, "she is also going to the castle, yes? She will ride with us."

The man protested, trying to tell me that it was inappropriate, but I ignored him. Stepping down from the carriage, I strode towards the girl and took her by the elbow. "Come," I said in soothing tones, taking the bundle from her and pointing towards the carriage.

Eventually we set off, despite the coachman's obvious displeasure and the porter's shock. The girl was shivering in her thin clothes. The wind had awoken the buds of her breasts, and they pressed dark pink through the fabric of her pale dress. For a moment I watched, enjoying also the swaying of her mounds with the motion of the carriage, then I decided I had set a standard of gallantry that I could not now abandon. Taking off my greatcoat, I slung it over her shoulders.

She smiled at me. It was a pretty smile, in a pretty face, even pinched by cold as it was now. She said something, some words of thanks I presumed, and I smiled reassuringly. At least, I thought to myself, I have laid the foundations for some entertainment up at the castle.

The trees lining the road to that edifice were as twisted as our path. Already uninterested, the sunlight never even attempted to break through the canopy, and in the gloom the girl's pale face and dress seemed to glow. My own face, I knew, was dark from sunburn, and I took the opportunity to study my fellow passenger without fear of being caught.

For such a thin, wan creature, she seemed remarkably unaffected by our surroundings. Even I was unsettled here -- I, who had on multiple occasions faced stabbing spears, flying bullets and slashing blades, who in India had once or twice encountered things that surely were undreamt of in Horatio's philosophy, so to speak.

But this girl was unperturbed, and I drew heart from her calm. It must be my imagination playing tricks, I told myself, the lingering effects of my fever and the memory of battles and countless skirmishes setting my nerves a-flutter.

So I took a deep breath and smiled at the girl when she looked at me. She must have seen it even through the darkness, for she gave a shy smile in return.

At that moment we emerged from the trees. The castle loomed ahead, a grey and black mass against a grey and black sky. It seemed to be comprised of a large many-cornered tower and a curtainwall set with a handful of lower, blockier turrets. Hardly the place for a glamorous noblewoman to live, I thought, but perhaps like her ancestor this Ilira spent her time visiting Europe's grander cities instead of remaining in this dismal outpost.

A flock of rooks rose from the gatehouse as we approached, complaining loudly at being disturbed. The coachman pulled up before the gate and spoke to the girl. Silently she shrugged out of my coat, took up her bundle and climbed down from the carriage.

I did not argue this time. Partly this was because I understood the man's reluctance to ride in with a servant in his carriage. Mostly, though, it was because I had an enchanting view of the girl's shapely rear through her flimsy dress.

She spoke again to me as the carriage rode off, with another shy smile that turned suddenly saucy when she was sure the coachman couldn't see. I refrained from adjusting myself in my trousers as I thought of the promise that smile held. I had found something sensual here after all, I decided.

The carriage crossed the drawbridge and passed through the gatehouse. Above my head the teeth of an iron portcullis hung like bared fangs. Then we passed into the courtyard, and all thoughts of dark horrors and soft servant girls fled my mind.

II.

Standing on the stairs leading to the main tower was a vision of beauty. Dark red hair was caught up in charming braids of the local style, framing a pale face. Large eyes almost glowed with a tawny light, but I would learn that they could turn almost golden with passion or near-green with warmth, or even--

But I get ahead of myself.

Between those captivating eyes stood a dainty nose, and beneath that red lips were set in a smile so welcoming that I had to force my eyes down to take in the rest of her.

Unlike the fashions in the glamourous cities of the world, which dictated high collars and stiff bodices, my hostess -- for surely this must be the Countess Ilira -- wore a low-cut dress that revealed an expanse of firm white flesh and clung to hips that were made for grasping. The material was of a creamy gold to match her eyes, set with pearls and embroidered with silver thread. The whole effect was enough to make me forget about saucy servant girls and wipe away any doubts about the wisdom of my coming here.

I dismounted from the carriage, calling on all my self-discipline to move smoothly and with assurance. I could feel her eyes on me, sizing me up. I had no reason to worry about my appearance.

My family have always been tall, and mostly handsome. Our wavy blond hair gives us a rascallish look, and my years of service in India had left my face lean and brown, as I mentioned. I had decided not to travel in uniform, but my suit was perfectly tailored as befitted a gentleman. Having left my greatcoat on the seat of the coach when the serving girl returned it to me, my figure was as plain for the lady to see as hers was for me.

In no time at all I was standing on the steps beside her, making a bow and introducing myself. The smile she gave me was self-possessed and regal, but held hints and promises that made it, in its way, as saucy as the servant's had been.

In my mind, I began to phrase the letter I would soon be writing to Elsham. My dear Harry, it would say, you were sadly mistaken about my cousin. She is a most delightful creature in every way, with nothing of deceit about her, but rather all the charms that must please a gentleman of discernment... I stopped myself before I started imagining those charms in too much detail. My suit was tailored too close for such flights of fancy, as I had already noticed in the carriage.

Nevertheless, something of what was on my mind must have been visible on my person, for the Countess gave a knowing smile as she took my hands in both of hers and spoke.

"Dearest cousin, I am so pleased that you have finally arrived." Her voice was like warm honey, her English flawless, though it sounded perhaps a little old-fashioned to my ear. "It feels as if I have been waiting for ever -- which is foolish of me, I know. Only three weeks ago I had never heard of you, but already it seems like you were destined to come to me."

Giving her servants instructions in her own tongue, she led me inside and guided me to my chambers, pointing out features of the castle as we went. The room where we would dine, the salon with views out across the valley, the library with scores of antlers hanging on the wall in the manner that is so beloved of the European aristocracy.

As we climbed higher up the tower the details became more grisly. The chamber where a long-ago Count had burned to death in his bed. The window from which his mother, the Dowager Countess, had flung herself when she thought she saw his scarred ghost appear before her. The corridor with an ancient suit of arms that was said to march about with the full moon.

My face must have betrayed my alarm, for my new cousin suddenly gave a laugh. "Oh, these are but foolish stories that the servants tell! In truth, the castle has seen its share of horrors, but that particular suit was a gift from a visitor from Vienna. It is the least haunted object here." She laughed again, a delightful sound, and her fingers rested lightly on my hand. "I tease you, of course. You have nothing to fear in my house."

I returned her smile with an offhand jest of my own, but I was not reassured. The priest's words echoed in my mind. A malevolence, a sick presence that infects all nearby.

One heard, of course, strange tales about this part of the Continent. Whether they held any truth, or were inspired by despotic lords and ladies ruling their peasants with an iron fist -- well, during my years in India I had seen enough strange sights to lend credence to the notion of a supernatural. And this valley, with its gloomy hills and cold mists, looked a likely place for either.

Then I looked at my cousin again and the doubts fled from my mind like morning fog running from the sunlight. She looked so radiant, so lovely, so gentle that I could not imagine her staying in a place of dark deeds or horrors.

We arrived shortly thereafter at my room, where we parted ways. My valise was already there, as was a bath and a bowl for shaving. The Countess promised to send someone up to help me dress, and extracted a promise from me in return that I would attend her in the salon before dinner.

I shaved first, then undressed. The bath was hot and welcome after my long journey, from Cairo to Trieste to Tannensdal. Naked, I luxuriated in the warm water, which seemed to be enriched with some potent oil that relaxed my mind and stimulated my body.

I must have dozed, for I was awakened by the sound of a door shutting. The water in my bath was cooling, I noticed, and the sun outside the window was already descending towards the dark hills.

I looked round, and saw who had closed my door. It was the servant from that afternoon, watching me with those large eyes. She had exchanged her threadbare dress for the sturdier garment of a maid. I noticed regretfully that it did not reveal her body in the same way, but it presented a fetching contrast with her pale skin.

Seeing that I was awake and aware of her presence, she spoke. The words came out as if rehearsed. "Master, the Lady sends me to help you." She gestured towards my bed, where I had laid out my evening clothes. Then that saucy smile returned again, and she gestured at the water around my waist.

I glanced down and saw the stimulating effect that the bath and the scented oil had worked. My swollen head was emerging from the water, purple and shiny at the end of my shaft.

Looking up, I grinned at the girl and beckoned her over. Smiling as if we shared a secret, she knelt down by the bath and leaned forward. Taking my cock in her hand, she ran her tongue over it, then suddenly sucked me into her mouth.

Appreciating the need for haste -- for a glance at the window showed me that I had little time before I was expected in the salon -- I took hold of the base of my shaft and tugged. Her hand let go and she grasped the side of the copper tub as her head bobbed up and down. A strand of hair escaped from beneath the white cap she wore and trailed into the water.

I was tempted to reach around to run my hands along her body, but decided that she would rather leave my room with her dress still dry. So I concentrated on the sensations of her mouth and my own hand.