An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6) -Deanna Raybourn Page 0,12
us are afraid, desperately afraid.”
I wanted to console her, but in good conscience I could not. Count von Bismarck, the German chancellor, had spent the better part of a few decades cobbling the small independent states into a German confederation that had eventually been consumed by the gaping maw of the German Empire. Reactionary, conservative, and deeply militaristic, the new German Empire looked back to the grandeur of the bygone Prussian days of glory, longing to rival the power of the Russian and British thrones that hemmed it in. The new emperor, Kaiser Wilhelm, was the grandson of our own Queen Victoria and desperate to prove himself more than a match for his aging grandmother. His enthusiasm for violence was matched only by his ambition and neither by his intelligence. He was a brute, thirsting for glory but lacking the humanity or wisdom to govern well. Continental Europe was rapidly becoming a powder keg, and it was little wonder the Alpenwalders were afraid.
“I am sorry,” I told the baroness truthfully.
She spread her hands. “It is as God wills it,” she said, crossing herself. Like Bavarians, Alpenwalders were nominally Catholics, I remembered, often mingling religion with a hefty dose of fatalism and Germanic superstition. “But we will do all that we can,” she added, her expression briefly fierce.
“In other words, you want no scandal,” I finished for her.
She had the grace to look apologetic again as she touched my arm in an imploring gesture. “Please, do not think too badly of us. I will speak with the chancellor. If there is anything I can do to persuade him, you may rest assured that I will do so.”
She glanced towards the coil of rope, her expression thoughtful. “If it is possible that this is evidence of some misdeed, it would perhaps not be wise to display it.”
“Perhaps not,” I agreed. “What do you suggest we do with it?”
She lifted her hands as if to ward off any talk of authority. “You must not think me more elevated than I am!” she protested, a small smile touching her lips for the first time. “I am merely the lady-in-waiting. It is my task to attend Her Serene Highness, one I am failing at present,” she added with a rueful look. She tipped her head, light glinting off her monocle as she studied my face. “The resemblance is most remarkable,” she said at length.
“What resemblance?” I asked.
Her mouth rounded in astonishment. “Between you and my princess,” she told me.
“Is there one? I had not noticed.”
The baroness seemed inclined to press the matter, but the princess approached us then. “You have done very well indeed,” she said, sweeping her gaze over the mountain tableau that Stoker was creating. “I can see how it will be when you have finished, and it conveys the magnificence of our Teufelstreppe,” she told him, a note of unmistakable pride in her voice.
“Thank you, madame,” Stoker replied.
She looked at her lady-in-waiting. “Why have you gone red in the face, Margareta?”
“Forgive me, madame,” the older woman murmured. “I was surprised to find that Miss Speedwell does not notice the resemblance between you.”
The princess studied me a long moment. “I confess, I do not see it,” she said.
“I must be mistaken,” the baroness told her smoothly. “Has Your Serene Highness seen this part of the exhibition?” she asked, guiding her mistress to the collection I had been unpacking when Stoker discovered the cut rope. The princess stood a long moment and stared, taking in the toilet articles and books and garments, her expression inscrutable.
“A very personal collection of Alice Baker-Greene’s effects,” Lady C. observed. “If Your Serene Highness does not think it appropriate, we do not have to make them available for viewing.”
The princess said nothing a long moment, then shrugged. “It makes little difference to the dead,” she said at last. She clasped her hands together. “Still, I would not like for this to become an exercise in the sentimental. She was a climber, an explorer. That is the story you must tell. That is what will bring other visitors to the Alpenwald.”
I produced the badge I had unearthed from the box of Alice Baker-Greene’s personal effects. “Like this?” I suggested. “A significant piece of Miss Baker-Greene’s climbing memorabilia, I think.”
“Memorabilia?” Her mouth twitched with suppressed amusement. “This is the badge of the Alpenwalder Climbing Society. The usual badge is plain silver, but for those who summit the peak of the Teufelstreppe this enameled version is presented. It is a very great