The Prince in Exile

Chapter 16

They hurried for Gertrude's parlor, though Erzsebet needed to refuse a half-dozen invitations along the way. Even Mog had the audacity to offer his solar, despite the darts of his wife's glare needling his back. Only once they had escaped the hall were they free to walk unhindered to their privacy.

"You could have gone with one of them," Gertrude said as they approached the door to her apartments. "I wouldn't mind–"

"I would," Erzsebet replied. "I feel like I've been holding my breath all night; only out of sight will I be able to exhale."

Genuine concern filled Gertrude's expression. She hastened to open the door and let Erzsebet through, then pulled it shut behind them. "Are you well?" she asked. "What's wrong? What happened?"

"Oh, sweet girl," said Erzsebet, turning to put hands on her arms. "Nothing happened–nothing I could not handle, anyway. Events like this are a drain on me, that's all: keeping the proper face for so long, listening politely to their prattle. I just needed reprieve."

"Ah." Relief flooded Gertrude's face, followed by a questioning arch of brow. "But you seemed to get on rather well with the Hont-Pazmany kinsmen. Was it all truly such misery for you?"

"Pah!" Erzsebet released her hold on Gertrude, spinning away to march off and settle atop the couch. "I admit, they are not so bad. Sandor is a jester, but not so much a fool as I had thought. Marton, too, had his moments–but enough of my night. What ails you, dear?"

"Me?" she asked, surprised. "Why, I'm right as rain. Nights like this are manna to me."

Erzsebet frowned. "Something bothered you," she replied. "Just after the toast, when the prince thanked Tamas–and called him 'Bagoas.' What was that?"

Her expression went slack, then darkened, and she sighed. "I had hoped no one noticed." She shuffled over towards the couch, dropping to sit next to Erzsebet.

"Well? Speak to me, Gertrude."

Primly she put her hands together in her lap, then took a steadying breath. "It is nothing, truly, just some silliness of my heart's making."

"Then speak of it," Erzsebet implored, "that you might laugh together with me, rather than sulk alone."

"I'm not sulking," Gertrude huffed. After another sigh, she explained. "It's only–they have something, the pair of them. Something... intimate."

Erzsebet only barely stifled her gasp. "The prince and Tamas? They are–as the Greeks?"

Gertrude shook her head frantically. "No–I don't know! Certainly don't say that to anyone. I know only that they are close, that they share something, apart from the other men."

Still rocked by the revelation, Erzsebet sat in thought for a moment. "Well," she eventually said, venturing softly with her words, "you told me that Andras was wont to roam, and that you had made your peace with it."

"I have!" There was a hitch in her voice, a quiver in her lips. "Truly! If it was another woman, it would not bother me–I know he has chosen me, that we are to be wed, and so every affair is just a dalliance, just a pastime for him."

"Then why is Tamas any different?"

"Because he's a man!" Gertrude cried. "What they share–whatever it is, it's beyond my touch! I can't compare, can't judge where I stand against it." Tears began to flow, streaking her makeup; Erzsebet handed the girl a kerchief, which she put to swift use. "I don't know, I just don't know..."

"Don't know what?" Erzsebet asked. Gently she put her hand on the girl's back, remembering the comfort such contact had been.

"If they could be..." She struggled through tearful breaths. "If men could–if the world allowed them to be–together..." She cleared her throat, brought her streaking eyes to Erzsebet. "Would he still marry me?"