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“Yes, of course, Baroness.”
She decided not to correct him about her rank. So far as he was concerned, she was and would forever be the wife of the Baron, and thus the Baroness. It would be of little interest to him that, because she was his widow, she was no longer the wife of the Baron or that, in those circumstances, the title would pass to Manfried’s nearest surviving male relative. Which meant that she was the “Baroness” only by courtesy. He would be even less interested to know that in the circumstances, she had reverted to being in her own right what she had been before she married Manfried, the Countess Batthyany.
She pulled open the heavy wooden door to Voltan’s stall, pulled him out of it, and led him to the stable yard. The groom came out a moment later carrying a saddle and a blanket. She took the blanket from him and threw it on Voltan, and then, after the groom had put the saddle in place and tightened the girth, she mounted the horse and directed the adjustment of the stirrups.
Satisfied, she rode out of the stable yard, walking Voltan long enough to start his blood flowing. Then, touching her heels to his sides, she put him into a canter. He would like to have been given his head, put into a gallop, she sensed, but she didn’t think that was wise. There might be ice under the layer of snow.
She allowed herself to think of nothing but the chill wind in her face, the drumbeat of hooves, and the animal beneath her until his heartbeat against her inner thighs told her that he had had enough. She turned his head then and started to walk him back toward the Schloss.
It was only then that she could begin to face the day ahead of her. She would much rather not have come to the Schloss at all. She had wept when they told her in Budapest that Manfried had been killed. Manny had been a good man, and he had died too young. He was—had been—thirty. She was twenty-nine. They had been married not quite seven years and she had come to like, even admire him. And he had loved her, which had been very sweet indeed. She mourned him in her own way, and that should have been enough.
But, of course, it was not. Manny had been Oberstleutnant Baron von Steighofen, and there would have to be a public memorial for the people on his lands, for the soldiers of his regiment, and for what Der Führer called “Das Volk” of the “Thousand-Year Reich.”
And she was the Countess Batthyany and realized the obligations of her birth. In public, she would be the grieved aristocrat whose husband had made the supreme sacrifice for his country, his Führer, et cetera, et cetera.
An assortment of Manfried’s relatives (none of hers; she had no living close relatives) headed by his cousin the Baron von Fulmar would be at the Schloss. Plus an assortment of dignitaries, local and from Berlin. They included Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz, representing the Foreign Ministry, and two Standartenführers of the SS-SD. One of these, Kramer, was the SS-SD man for Hesse, and the other, representing the Reichsführer-SS, was a peasant named Müller.
Müller had arrived with von Heurten-Mitnitz, which the Countess had thought a little odd, until Kramer had announced at cocktails that the two of them had been together in Morocco and had barely managed to escape when the Americans had invaded North Africa.
War, like politics, makes strange bedfellows, the Countess thought wryly. She rather liked von Heurten-Mitnitz, the little she’d seen of him. There were two kinds of Pomeranians, the ugly kind and the other kind—lean, lithe, leopard-like. This one was the other kind. It was a shame that under current circumstances there would be no opportunity to get to know him better.
On the other hand, if he could procure an assignment in Budapest, as now seemed likely—
When there had been hints in Berlin that such an assignment might be available, he had made it as clear as he could that he was prepared to make whatever sacrifice asked of him.
“I was rather afraid, my dear Countess, that if I suggested in any way how pleased I would be to return to Budapest, they would send me to Helsinki. Or Tokyo.”
She’d laughed, not because she was expected to, but because she liked his humor. She hoped he would be assigned to Budapest.
“If the Gods smile on me,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said,“might I call?”
“I would be pleased to receive you,” she said.
She had a strange feeling: Did his desire to call upon her have anything to do with her? Or was there something official in his interest?
When she returned to the Schloss—tired, sweaty, and in desperate need of a drink and a bath—she saw von Heurten-Mitnitz having a conversation in the formal drawing room with Baron von Fulmar. The Baron was visibly uncomfortable, which made the Countess wonder again if there was more to Herr von Heurten-Mitnitz’s friendship with Standartenführer Müller than their escape from North Africa.
Two days before, Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz had telephoned Baron Karl von Fulmar in his offices at Hoescht am Main, an industrial suburb of Frankfurt am Main.
Von Heurten-Mitnitz expressed his condolences then over the death of Oberstleutnant Baron von Steighofen and announced that the press of other duties made it impossible for the Foreign Minister to personally attend the Baron’s memorial service. Thus he had been delegated as the Foreign Minister’s personal representative.
“The family will be honored, Herr von Heurten-Mitnitz,” Baron Fulmar had replied.
“I deeply regret intruding on your grief, Herr Baron,” von Heurten-Mitnitz went on,“but do you think that while I am in Hesse, you might spare me, say, an hour of your time?”
The Baron von Fulmar hesitated.
“Either at your office, Herr Baron,” von Heurten-Mitnitz went on, “or at the Schloss. Whichever would be most convenient.”
“I gather this is of an official nature?” the Baron asked.
“Let us say I would like to discuss something with you personally,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “Certainly not over the telephone.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged, Herr von Heurten-Mitnitz,” the Baron said. “And I think it would be most convenient to do so at Schloss Steighofen.”
“Then I look forward to meeting you, Herr Baron, at the Schloss,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said,“and once again, my most sincere condolences.”
The Baron von Fulmar was apprehensive that a highly placed official of the Foreign Ministry wanted to talk to him privately. His concern took a quantum jump when von Heurten-Mitnitz arrived at Schloss Steighofen accompanied by a Standartenführer SS-SD.
