Page 1 of A Lady's Touch of Sin

Chapter 1

Blonde-haired. Blue-eyed. A woman who'd grown up in the shadow of the gorgeous Alps, attuned to the layered and humble culture of the Austrians. She’d never been one to demand anything else. “In every way, you’re an Austrian girl, aren’t you?” was how her mother phrased it, with a twinge of doubt to her voice.

“You’ve raised me an Austrian girl,” Marta returned each time, genuinely fearful that her mother looked at her—her half-English, half-Austrian daughter, and considered her a mistake. Perhaps she longed for a full-fledged English daughter, a daughter with a better English accent, and a more proper approach to the concepts of courting and love.

Throughout the previous months, Marta had certainly proven herself to be much more like an Austrian girl than her mother wished for.

Marta Schnitzler was nearly 19 years old, which meant her mother, Evelyn Schnitzler, had journeyed to Austria to marry her father nearly 20 years before. Throughout those early years, Marta had lived a stunning, sun-speckled life. But there was always a strange shadow behind that life: the shadow of England, the country her mother had left behind and seemed to miss so desperately.

Throughout Marta’s childhood, she’d demanded of her mother only twice: why had she left her beloved home? Her mother spoke of England with such poetry and nostalgia that it made even Marta’s heart ache. Her mother had said something off-handed about her duty to Marta’s father and left it at that. “It was a different time,” she said eternally, as though that was some sort of bandage over everything else.

Marta had journeyed to England before age nineteen only a few times: at ages four, eight, and twelve. Now, as her mother verbalized to her that she would embark on a journey and remain in England throughout the next courting season, Marta was left only with the images of her twelve-year-old trip. She felt sure it had rained the entire time; the grey clouds above had pressed onto their heads in a formidable fashion, and the accents had been difficult to decipher from county to county, as they’d visited her mother’s various friends and cousins. She glanced up at the gorgeous, white-capped Alps and felt a surging pain in her stomach.

“Mother. You can’t think that I’ll just leave my beautiful Austria all spring and summer long,” she whispered. “You cannot rip me from something I hold so dear. All my friends and my…”

“Yes, your lovers,” her mother said, a note of sarcasm in her voice. “Of course, I wish you to leave your lovers. You’ve created quite a mess of it all, darling Marta. I can see it on you. You’re a shadow of your former self. Moping about the house, your heart aching.” Her mother sniffed and lifted her chin, as though she sensed the power of her words and wanted to allow them to sting another moment more.

Tears collected in Marta’s eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She, too, lifted her chin toward her darker-haired mother, a mother who looked very little like her. When they’d walked down the street together years prior, people had stopped them and asked their relation, as they didn’t seem to be mother and daughter. This had cut Marta’s mother to the core. “She’s my daughter,” she’d insisted, in broken German. “Through and through.”

This was another factor that had altered their relationship over the previous few years. It seemed that Marta’s mother could never master the German language, no matter how often she studied. She’d grown increasingly disheartened about it. When they were in public, Marta ordinarily had to take over the conversation and speak for her mother, who grew aggressively red-faced and normally screeched at Marta afterwards. “I could have handled that myself.”

But Marta had grown up speaking both languages. She felt both sides of her personality as two separate countries. And her mother had pinpointed the Austrian side as the reason for her adventurous nature, the reason she’d fallen into such a strange and sinister love-triangle.

Indeed, her heart felt as though it had been dropped deep underwater. It beat slowly, strained, aching and heavy from all the madness she’d created. It was all her fault. She knew that.

“An entire season in England will be good for you,” her mother continued. They sat in the breakfast nook area with a full view of the mountains. She poured them both another spot of tea and rearranged the shortbread cookies atop the platter between them. The platter, to contrast the tea and English biscuits, had been painted in the Austrian fashion. Here it was, on full display: another contrast between England and Austria.

“Do you suppose?” Marta asked. She moved her biscuit across her plate, unsure if she’d ever be hungry again.

“I do. You remember my sister and her son, Ewan, don’t you?”

“Aunt Margaret. Of course,” Marta returned, remembering the finicky woman, approximately the same age as her mother, who’d insisted that she didn’t run too swiftly with the boys through the forest and moors, as it wasn’t “ladylike.” At this, her mother had told her sister that Marta ran around like a ruffian through Austrian hills. “It just chills me, wondering what sort of woman she’ll grow into,” she’d said.

These weren’t the sorts of things women like Marta could easily forget. She supposed that one never truly forgot the little, strange insults one’s mother cast toward them throughout their early youth. One’s mother was one’s very first audience—and if applause wasn’t heard, what sort of creature had one become?

“You’ve spoken with Aunt Margaret about this, then?” Marta asked. Her throat felt as though it might seal off, disallow her breath.

“Yes,” her mother returned. “She’s entirely thrilled with the idea. Already speaking about the sorts of matches she wishes to procure. She’s quite the meddling woman, of course—always has been. I remember when we were first courting, she had her finger in everyone’s business. If only I had listened to her when she’d told me who to link myself with, perhaps I wouldn’t…”

Here, she paused once more and drew her eyes again towards the biscuits. This seemed to be where the two of them chose to look throughout this strange and alienating conversation. Eye contact wasn't much of an option.

“Perhaps you wouldn’t have moved to Austria to be with Father? Perhaps you wouldn’t have had me?” Marta said, a hint of annoyance in her tone.

She’d felt the words flow from deep in the belly of her mother. She’d resisted them and now resisted asserting that those had been her thoughts. Her mother cleared her throat, shifted in her chair, and then blurted, “You’ll leave in three days’ time.”

This was far too sudden. Marta tore up from her chair and blinked at her mother, aghast. At nineteen years old, she could hardly envision travelling such a distance alone.

“You’ll take Laura with you,” her mother said then, as though this was enough of a gift.

“So, Laura must be forced to abandon her family and friends also?” Marta asked. She sizzled with volatility.

“You can tell her to remain here if you’d like to go on alone,” her mother said, sounding flippant, now. “It’s really up to you. I’ve informed her of the journey, and she seems rather pleased. Excited, even. The prospect of a new country, a new life… Why wouldn’t a young maid like that wish for adventure?”

Her mother placed a dry biscuit across her tongue and slowly chewed it, studying Marta’s face with beady eyes. Marta’s heart leapt into her throat and then floated back down again. She felt aching resentment for what her mother planned to do: rip her away from this wild situation she’d crafted.

But in truth, as minutes ticked on, she did recognise this as an opportunity to become something else, something better.

And, if nothing, talk of her departure would ripple through her Austrian town and make her sound even more exciting: certainly not the sort of woman you didn’t choose over another.

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