Red Magic

By Juliet Waldron

Red-headed Caterina von Velsen, a tomboy and superb horsewoman, detests her older sister's husband-to-be. Christoph von Hagen is handsome and brave, but he is also a Casanova, a man with a reputation that stretches from his mountain manor all the way to Vienna. When Caterina’s older sister dies in a riding accident only a week before her wedding, Caterina is forced to take her place. She now belongs to a man she firmly believes to be “a cold-hearted rake.”
There is magic in Christoph’s lonely mountain home, as well as in the locket Caterina’s aunt gave her long ago. Misunderstandings and preconceptions hinder the coming of true love, as well as the strange attraction she feels toward her husband’s magnetic, foreign horse master. Set in 18th Century Germany, RED MAGIC tells the story of a young woman’s transition from rebellious girl to adored--and adoring--wife.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Feb 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9780228604938

Juliet Waldron

“Not all who wander are lost.” Juliet Waldron was baptized in the yellow spring of a small Ohio farm town. She earned a B. A. in English, but has worked at jobs ranging from artist’s model to brokerage. Twenty-five years ago, after the kids left home, she dropped out of 9-5 and began to write, hoping to create a genuine time travel experience for herself—and her readers—by researching herself into the Past. Mozart’s Wife won the 1st Independent e-Book Award. Genesee originally won the 2003 Epic Award for Best Historical, and she’s delighted that it’s available again from Books We Love. She enjoys cats, long hikes, history books and making messy gardens with native plants. She’s happy to ride behind her husband on his big “bucket list” sport bike.

Book preview

Red Magic

Magic Colors the Series – Book 1

By Juliet Waldron

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 9780228604938

Kindle 9780228604945

Amazon Print 9780228604952

BWL Print 9780228604969

Copyright 2nd Ed. 2021 by Juliet Waldron

Cover Art by Michelle Lee

All rights reserved. Without limited the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by an means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or other) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book

Dedication

To Magic, and to all characters who refuse to leave the room quietly

Chapter One

Goran von Hagen rested on the crupper of his saddle. Clouds and sunshine chased across the mountain looming overhead, but the cheerful view brought no pleasure. He’d ridden directly from Vienna to the Heldenberg, making an eight-and-a-half-day journey of what was normally two weeks. He should have been happy to arrive, but the sight of the great hunting lodge depressed him more than he’d thought possible.

After a decade, he’d resigned his military commission. He’d left a confused, dirty Serbian war that he wanted no part of. For the last months, riding homeward, he’d imagined bringing lovely Veronique to his family’s summer home on a wedding journey which would re-enact the one made by his father and mother many years ago. However, his joy upon returning to Vienna and his fiancé proved short-lived.

Veronique Haineau, the beauty who’d haunted his dreams for the last two years, had, just weeks before, eloped with a wealthy Count, a much older man. Veronique had left only a letter, explaining that this was, in the end, ‘best for both of them.’ She’d decided she would never find happiness living a rural, mundane life with a mere ‘country gentleman.’ The new husband, on the other hand, was a confirmed urbanite, the kind of man who had a banker in every European capitol city.

Veronique of the golden eyes! How often Goran had imagined her delight at the natural wonders along the way—the waterfalls, the tall, whispering pines, the black-tailed deer and golden meadows! How often he’d imagined her, warm and yielding in his arms…

Around his Viennese friends, where news of her defection was already public property, he’d tried to joke it off.

Plenty of pretty women left for me! He’d hoped a display of bravado would ease his heartache, but it hadn’t, not a whit.

Goran urged his tired horse to a trot along the tree-shaded gravel lane that led to the house. The von Hagen family might be a bit threadbare after the Napoleonic Wars, but he would have felt almost naked appearing on anything less than this elegant mount.

Through the terrible years of shortages, famine and plague that had followed the catastrophic Year-Without-a-Summer, Heldenburg lodge had been often uninhabited. Goran noticed the shuttered cottages nearby, one of them beginning a lonely collapse. How much needed to be fixed!

He and Mina—twins—had spent much of their childhood here, in this secluded, peaceful landscape. Today, however, the picture-perfect snow-capped mountain behind the house seemed a malign presence. Looking up at the high peaks where snow always lingered, he wondered if Evil had always been lurking there. The mountain, whose moody beauty his parents had both loved so greatly, today was an oppressive presence.

He looked up, at the gray rubble scar sprawling across the lush upper pasture. There, beneath tons of gray rock lay the body of his mother, Caterina. She and three tenants had been moving cattle out of harm’s way when a sudden avalanche of rock and mud surprised them. It was the first time Goran had been back since the tragedy, and he was surprised by the pain he felt—pain on top of pain—as if his losses old and new had combined. Goran, a brave and much decorated soldier, immediately felt exhausted. It was as if he’d been defeated before he’d even begun.

At the front of the house, he tied his sweating horse to a wrought iron hitching post. He noticed the shiny paint, which signaled that the servants had been preparing for his arrival.

Don’t worry, fellow. Goran patted the horse’s sweaty chestnut neck. We’ll get you rubbed and fed as soon as I look in. He collected his saddlebag, which contained a change of clothes and a few personal items and sighed as he studied the moss-lined brick terrace leading to the entrance.

He could almost feel Veronique warmly holding his arm. The letter she’d left still haunted him. It had said, really, almost nothing about her reasons. It might, he thought for the hundredth time, have been written by a stranger. Something basic, he thought, had somehow changed.

Ah, Herr Goran! We did not expect you so soon—you must please excuse us! I just now saw you. The words belonged to Herr Martin, the same gray-haired butler who’d always been there.

Never mind that, Martin. I’m just relieved to be at the end of a long ride.

Indeed, sir. You must have ridden like the wind! It is certainly a pleasure for my old eyes to see you here again after all these long years.

Thank-you, Martin. It’s good—to be back. Will you tell Herr Stocke I’ve arrived?

Oh, sir, he’s just awake from his postprandial nap. He’ll be in the study in a few minutes. Every day now, directly after dinner, he rests. We are all getting older and slower here, sir. Please forgive us. But Herr Eichel is already at work.

Eichel? Oh yes, father wrote about sending a clerk from his regiment to help out up here.

Well, sir, he and his wife have been a welcome addition to our little society. We’re all pleased to have them. He’s able to ride about and see things for himself, which Herr Stocke can no longer do.

I’m planning to be here well into September, Martin. There will time enough for everything.

The old man bowed him inside. In the foyer, Goran found servants anxiously lining up according to precedence. He would have to greet them all, so he sincerely hoped he could remember everyone’s name. In the old days, his parents had spent every summer at Heldenberg. They’d never stood upon a great deal of ceremony with the staff.

Except for an ancient armoire and a heavy, nicked catch-all sideboard and mirror set beside it, the foyer was bare. The windows had just been cleaned; the smell of vinegar lingered. Sunlight fell onto the slate floor in a bright block, edged with a mosaic of color from the stained-glass border.

Goran, his sister Mina, and all the younger brothers had often risked their necks sliding down the long curving banister. Remembering what had once been scary, fun, and forbidden, remembering how his mother had scolded, his lips curved, but those childish days were gone now, part of his past. Even his most carefree memories ended in sadness.

Yes, there was plenty to fill him with sorrow here, even without Veronique’s crushing defection.

As he came into the foyer, servants with gray hair hurried up to bow before him. There were new young faces, too, freshly recruited for the summer reopening of the house. Outside, beyond the still open door, a pair of stable hands took charge of his horse.

Gentlemen! He retreated into the doorway to give instructions. Take good care of him, please! Turk has just carried me all the way from Vienna.

He’s real beauty, sir! We’ve a fine box ready for him. He’ll be cooled and rugged.

Ahm—Kommandant! The elder of the two grooms put a foot on the step and looked up. Does he have any tricks we need to look out for?

No more than any other stallion. He’s tired, though, so that should help you handle him.

The men touched their caps deferentially, and then led Turk away, one positioned on each side of his tossing chestnut head. As Goran re-entered the foyer, the house servants bowed again.

After speaking with them and trying to catch all the new names, he spoke to the cook, Helma, about supper, and to the chief housemaid, Barbel. Everyone needed to be reassured that his sisters, his niece, and their servants were probably still days away.

Then, with Martin at his side, Goran headed for the study, where the accounts were kept. As the door opened before him, he saw a curly headed, solid man sitting at Stocke’s desk. He leaned forward, pen in hand, before an open ledger.

Herr Sergeant Kurt Eichel, said Martin, the Kommandant is here.

Eichel, surprised, looked up and then awkwardly arose. He used a cane which leaned against the desk and he stood to bow. Goran saw that this new clerk, though otherwise hale, had a bad leg. His father had a penchant for employing old soldiers, the sort whose injuries kept them from combat duty.

You have taken us by surprise, Kommandant.

I rode fast. Goran studied the room. He was tired, but after years as an officer, he was used to giving orders. Perhaps it was a good thing, his early arrival. It was as good a time as any to set the tone. After all, his father said there had been quite a fall-off in returns from the manor, even more than might be expected through hard times. He noted there were quite a few open ledgers piled one atop another at the corner of the desk, as if much business was left unfinished.

Not a good sign. Not at all as Stocke used to keep things…

You must have ridden like the wind, Kommandant! It is a long way from Vienna. I—we—Herr Stocke and I—hoped to have the books in better trim before you came. Eichel flushed to the roots of his fair thinning hair.

Never mind, Goran said. I’ll be here for the rest of the summer. Time enough to sort everything out. The sigh of relief that came from the man was almost audible. With a sinking heart—this did not bode well—Goran turned the conversation with a question, one intended to put the new man at ease.

Where did you serve, sir?

He learned that Eichel had almost bled out at Leipzig, a leg artery had nearly been severed. He’d taken a shot from a musket, a .76 caliber ball. Against the odds, Eichel had survived and now was extremely grateful for your father’s trust and continued employment.

After a little of this, Goran retreated upstairs, leaving the anxious new employee behind. He had a feeling that Eichel was probably a decent enough fellow, but out of his depth. The notion didn’t do a thing to improve his mood.

A sturdy boy in neat woolen knee-britches trotted ahead of him, carrying a pitcher of water ordered from the kitchen. Goran was pleased with this quick response and more than ready to wash the journey dust away. He left behind Herr Martin busy in the hall, talking with the head cook and the housekeeper about the problems his early arrival had created. He should have realized that his headlong race from Vienna would set everything here at sixes and sevens.

* * *

Years gone since young Master Goran has been here with us! Imagine!

He was a man then, but just look how broad he’s grown after all that time in the wars! And how he’s grown! I never thought that boy would be as tall as his father.

Well, I always thought he looked like his father, even when he was little.

Ah, he’s always favored the Herr Graf, but he’s got freckles like his mother, for all his dark hair and broad shoulders.

Why, I remember the night he and his sister were born… Barbel the housekeeper began to reminisce. I’d just come to work in the house when…

The under-maids, who’d all heard the story of Lady Caterina’s twins a thousand times, shared a look. Barbel’s ramble was cut short by the cook, who took advantage of a pause to say that their young Master had grown into a mighty handsome fellow.

So many years since the family spent the whole summer with us!

Yes. The Graf and Lady Mina always come and go so quickly now. No one stays long here—not since the avalanche.

At the mention of the bad years—1815 through 1817—everyone looked grim. The von Hagens weren’t the only ones who had lost loved ones during that dreadful time of cold, storms, floods, and famine.

Perhaps, if I had another fat estate to live on like they do, I wouldn’t come up here after what happened, either.

Barbel said, It’s certainly felt like a long, sad time since dear Lady Caterina died on our mountain, and that’s the truth. But come on, girls, we’ve all got catch up to do now that Master Goran’s here.

* * *

Goran closed the door of the bedroom to which the servant had brought him. It was the one his parents had shared, and, as he considered it, he didn’t much relish the thought of sleeping there. He wished, now that he was alone, that Mina had arrived, and that he hadn’t been in such a hurry to escape Vienna.

Goran’s father, Christoph von Hagen, had plunged into grief after the death of his wife. Although he’d fought despair with active duty, he had not been able to easily shake his sorrow. Goran thought his virile, vibrant father had aged decades during the last four years. The Graf’s dark hair was now streaked with gray.

His father had been ordered away by the emperor on some diplomatic mission into Hungary. Before Christophe had gone, he’d written to Goran that he was to resign his military commission as soon as possible and return to manage the family estates. His brother Rupert was tending the richer properties, the ones closer to Passau, helped along by his remaining Grandfather. This had left the wilder, and once much beloved Heldenberg property to stagnate.

Mina has been a great help with your grandparents’ estates, but it is more than time for you to take the reins of what will eventually be a part of your inheritance. Someone in the new council seems to think I can assist the cause of Austria in the East, although I’m not certain what they expect. I have no idea why I have been singled out, though perhaps it is because it is no secret what I felt about the Emperor’s collaboration with Bonaparte. Perhaps because I’ve killed enough Turks over the years, it is known that the Bohemians still respect me. I’ve never been much of a diplomat, God Help me, but Francis is still Emperor and I am his to command…

After an exchange of letters, Goran and Mina decided to make a summer journey to the neglected estate. This would be the best time to ride the place over and find out how things were in the fields and forests of their domain. Their younger siblings—all but Rupert—were still away at school.

It was not, as his father had always said, a good thing to leave houses and property in the hands of servants for any extended period. Even the best bailiff and staff could lose their way. Herr Stocke, who had managed the place for so long, had grown frail, and the Graf had concerns about relying so heavily upon a man who long ago should have been comfortably retired. At the time, Goran believed he could face anything with Veronique on his arm. Now, his twin, Mina, would have to help him stay strong, but she, her little daughter, Charlize, and his youngest sister, Birgit, had not yet finished their journey from Passau.

Being alone in the house was painful. As soon as he had finished a good splash in the basin, Goran abandoned the master bedroom. He’d often pictured Veronique there. She’d have teased him, no doubt, laughing mercilessly about the antique bed-curtains. They were embroidered with an erotic subject of nymphs and fauns—not at all to his, or to any modern—taste, but a work of art, nonetheless. They’d been purchased at great expense in pre-revolutionary France. Why his mother had never replaced these wicked bachelor relics he had never understood. Goran had heard stories that his father had been a famous rake before he’d settled down to become a dedicated family man.

Damn Veronique! How often he’d imagined her here, standing before a mirror, letting down her heavy blonde hair. He’d have taken her in his arms, watched her lovely face flush with desire. They’d begin the prelude, as they had many times before, and this time—this time—it would happen, the fiery moment when she would allow him to enter her lush body!

Goran donned his knee-length riding coat. Habit caused him to check that his boot knives were in place. During the war, he’d learned never to trust the safety of even the most familiar places.

He departed in a hurry, banging down the stairs, for the bedroom seemed full of ghosts. From the sideboard in foyer he seized a half-full bottle of brandy. He thought he’d walk—and drink. The house was worse than he’d thought. A sensation of loss and grief pervaded the familiar rooms where he’d spent a happy childhood.

Not to mention what he’d seen in Stocke’s once tidy study!

Goran could only imagine the hours of mind-numbing book work which waited—and right now, he didn’t want to think about it. He stalked through the small, overgrown ornamental garden some grandparent or other had created. It was set in view of the long study windows, and had several slate paths, now narrowed by encroaching flowerbeds. The whole place was overlooked by a lichen-spotted marble faun atop a pedestal. Balanced upon one cloven foot, with his head was thrown back in abandon, the creature cheerfully played a flute. For an instant Goran paused to study it, remembering how Mina had always been a little frightened of it when they’d been children. She’d complained she sometimes had nightmares about the faun chasing her.

He was distracted from this idle thought when a pair of servants came rushing out to attend him. Waving them away, he continued, bottle in hand, disregarding the stares which followed. At the barn, he checked on his horse, well-lodged now as promised, in a roomy box stall. There was food, water and the two grooms were still at work, bringing Turk’s red brown coat to a high sheen, picking his hooves clean. The stallion whickered, happy to see his master, but also pleased with the attention he was receiving. Goran thanked the grooms, who appeared to know their business.

He left the barn and then kept on walking, past the cottages where the once plentiful staff had lived. A few chickens clucked about the shrubbery and smoke rose from chimneys here and there, telling him which were still occupied. Goran continued past vegetable gardens and through a gate into pasture. Horses and cattle dotted the landscape. Tired as he was, he kept walking, sipping brandy as he went. Now and then he told himself to be a man and pull yourself together.

There was, as his father had said, plenty to occupy him here! The sooner he got to it, the better—but, damn it to hell, tomorrow would do…

His bright wonderful mother had been dead for four years. Looking back at the house, his gaze fell again upon the gray scar left by the avalanche. Dead stumps showed where a pine grove had been shattered before the fall finally came to rest. Somewhere, under tons of gravel and rock, lay his mother, the old smith, Zigmond, and stable hands Lukas and Dom, young cousins. He knew crosses had been raised at the termination point of the slide for Caterina and for the others who had been riding with her on that fatal day. His sister had written that the brave farm boys were mourned as too young to die, and Zigmond, of course, they both remembered. He had been something of a legendary character, a man of strength and vitality despite his advanced years.

Goran walked on and on, studying his land. Some fields lay fallow. Tenants had died, gone to the wars, or run away during the famines that had followed the bad years. Somehow, he’d have to attract more laborers. It would be difficult to rebuild a reliable workforce. Europe was in upheaval since the French Revolution and Napoleon’s great imperial gamble. The old order of things, no matter how much politicians and kings denied it, was past.

He continued, drinking until the bottle emptied, increasingly melancholy and exhausted. Alcohol hadn’t improved his mood.

Why did I drink all that? I’m behaving like a reckless boy, not like a seasoned soldier, a mature gentleman of twenty-seven.

The sun lowered, gold draped across the boulder-strewn shoulders of mountain. Pausing to look around, he felt a growing chill. A few clouds had gathered near the high white peak, but otherwise the sky was fair. A dry clear night was ahead, one full of stars.

He was surprised to see how far toward the village of Heldenruhe he’d strayed. Doubtless he’d missed the early supper that was customary at the manor. Although he felt hunger pangs, he wasn’t moved to retrace his steps. Not yet, anyway. Again, he wondered why he’d ridden here as if the Devil was after him, imagining he could endure that lonely house all by himself—without the woman for whom he still yearned, without the comfort of his dear twin and the little girls’ funny chattering?

He knew he should have returned to talk to Herr Stocke, who’d borne the burden of the place for so long, get started on the business of taking charge, act like the Herr Graf he someday would be. But so many things he’d held dear had been lost—friends from childhood who’d died in the war, an adored parent, the betrayal of his golden beauty. It was as if anything he counted on, anything that was solid ground had been swept away.

Napoleon, that arrogant madman, had brought ruin to all of Europe and to Russia beyond, had destroyed thousands upon thousands of lives. And now, at the end, a rich decadent old man had swept Veronique into his arms! Goran was a leader of men, battle-hard—but tonight, back on this perilous mountain, he felt like a child, one who’d been, despite all his bravery and valor— unfairly thrashed.

Wandering to the top of a rise, he heard music and voices and spied a curling cloud of smoke. Remembering that tonight was Midsummer’s Eve, he started toward it. He was suddenly ready to talk to someone—anyone—even if it meant the beginning of business with his tenants. He was heartily sick of his own company.

Some minutes of brisk striding and he arrived at a clearing among the larches. Amid the gathering, a huge bonfire roared skyward. Around it, men, and women in bright skirts, whirled to the rhythm of an old drum and the tinny shrilling of pipes. He knew that many peasants kept the ancient holiday, as they kept many old traditions, and that this festival would end only with the sun’s rising on the morrow. There was a tapped barrel set up on one of several trestle tables, and another squatting on the ground, waiting for later. The rich smell of roast pork floated past on greasy smoke.

At dawn tomorrow, lovers would emerge from the woods, smudged and grass-stained. Faces shining, everyone would feast again, this time upon fresh milk, bread and strawberries. He’d planned to show Veronique the sights—and delights—of this lusty rural festival. Thinking of her again, his heart ached.

Good evening, Mein Herr.

A girl appeared beside him, although he had not noted her approach. She was a local maid, wearing a low-cut white blouse and a gray, much-embroidered wool skirt. She was crowned with flowers; her dark hair fell over her firm young bosom in heavy braids. Boldly, she laid a tanned hand on his arm. She had the high coloring of someone who worked long out-of-doors.

Good evening, Madchen.

Madchen indeed, Herr Goran von Hagen! Her rosy, round checks dimpled prettily. Don’t you recognize me? I’m Sabine Maier, your Cattlemaster’s daughter.

And so, you are. It now occurred to him that Sabine, who he’d thought daring in strolling up to a noble stranger, was probably about the age of his brother Albert, around seventeen. She’d been a chubby child when he’d been here last—and now, suddenly, here she was, a tall, shapely young woman, boldly taking his arm.

Come down to your people, sir, and stay with us a while. We heard you were coming home, but not so soon. It will be an honor for us if you would break bread at our feast.

The older folk had apparently seen him, too, for many faces had turned expectantly in his direction. It was too late to leave, even if he’d wanted to.

So, Goran, with pretty Sabine familiarly holding his arm, went down into the glade. Here he was greeted by his tenants. Some, he knew were kinfolk of young men who’d gone with him to war, some of whom had not returned. These people tended his herds, his flocks of sheep and cattle. They tilled his land. Goran was a little drunk, of course, but he could certainly talk with them and hear some of what was on their minds.

For a time after he joined him, nothing was unusual. They led him to a seat in a circle of stumps at a little distance from the cheerful route of the dancers. Here he talked with local leaders, the saw mill overseer and the farmers, with a new, muscular young smith, and a few herders down from the mountain. They were uniformly glad to hear that he was to stay for the whole summer. There were some concerns voiced about how things were being managed at the big house.

Not to say anything against Herr Stocke, you know, for he is a wise old gentleman, only, so it happens, he was ill most of last year and some things have been let slip…and the new man…well, he doesn’t know us, not the way Herr Stocke does.

Goran had learned from his father that it was always a good idea to listen to the tenants. They knew first-hand what was wrong and often had workable ideas about how to make things better. He promised he would visit them one at a time and find out what their problems were.

Roast piglet and sauerkraut, skewers of roasted goat, blood sausages, and flagons of black, hoppy beer were brought to him with some ceremony by Sabine. She smiled and flushed, and her big dark eyes brightened when she spoke to him. Goran had a passing erotic memory of a new-to-the-game whore he’d had one night in a Leipzig tavern and felt a corresponding