Alejandro scrutinized the waistcoat. Does this one have horses embroidered on it? Alejandro couldn't tell in the darkness. He thought it might be grey-striped with small red animals of some type.
He was sure Senor Xalvador only had one suit, but his indulgence appeared to be his waistcoats. And his footwear. Even in the darkness he could see the senor’s black leather every day shoes shone to perfection. The professor had a pair of riding boots to equal his Poppy…the king's.
I know! Senor Xalvador looks like he should be carrying an artist's palette! The reflection almost made Alejandro smile for the first time in weeks. And then his eyes moved to Senor Esteban's eyes. There was always a twinkle in his teacher's eye.
Prince Alejandro looked at the stars again. He wondered if there had ever been a twinkle in his eye.
7
I prefer my incognito
“By day and night, they follow me
Keep it quiet!
These people!
Someone may overhear you
I prefer my incognito.”
- Figaro, The Barber of Seville by Gioachino Rossini
Anselmo, 1884
“Aren't you supposed to be in your room preparing for bed, your highness?” Esteban approached the child slowly. “You need your rest.”
The teacher studied the boy hovering in the corner of the porch. The crown prince wore a three-piece suit consisting of a coat, vest, and knee pants which were tight fitting and met high stockings worn at the knee. Not one button of the vest was unbuttoned, even at this late hour.
“Can't you call me Alejandro, Senor Xalvador?” the prince asked, his wide eyes looking up, open to the world.
“In private, if you wish it, your high…Alejandro.” Esteban's heart bled for the boy as he realized no one in the prince's new home called him by his name. He added gently, “But only if you call me Senor Esteban.”
“Yes, Senor Esteban,” he agreed. The boy seemed to be bracing himself for rejection. “May I ask a favor of you?”
“Of course,” Esteban replied haltingly. “It would be my pleasure.”
Slowly Alejandro pulled an envelope from his pocket, caressing the paper with his fingers. Esteban could see the royal seal on the back of the envelope. “Would you read it to me, Senor Esteban?”
Perplexed, Esteban studied the young prince's hopeful face. Alejandro could read passably well in three languages.
In an instant he understood. The letter was Alejandro's treasure and he wanted to share it with someone.
“Certainly I will read it to you, Alejandro. I am here to serve you.”
Esteban detected a slight frown at the corner of the child’s lips. “Thank you, Senor Esteban.”
“Let us read the letter in your room where the lighting is better. After that, you need your sleep, your high…Prince Alejandro.”
As the boy moved to rise, Esteban was reminded of how large and muscular Alejandro was for his age. He never looked at the prince without feeling pride in his country.
Alejandro was, of course, related to European royalty: the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, Louis XIV, and the House of Hanover. Esteban studied Prince Alejandro's tanned skin, dark brown hair and chocolate brown eyes. There was no doubt about it: despite the prince’s French and Austrian lines, he was a Spaniard through and through.
There was some talk that King Don Bartolomé XVII had been sired by the Captain of the Royal Guard rather than by the king. There was evidence in Alejandro's appearance to support the claim. There should have actually been very little Spanish blood in the ruling King of Spain, but it was conspicuously obvious the bloodlines were there.
It was rarely spoken of, but Alejandro’s possible Spanish ancestry was naturally a source of pride among Spaniards. Because all royalty inter-married, Don Bartolomé would still be related to all the same royal personages through his mother, even if the rumors were true and his mother the Queen had shown a particular fondness for the working classes.
Sitting on a stylized, elegant chaise rather than a large cushy couch a child might enjoy, Esteban glanced at the furnishings in the room. Prince Alejandro's room was appointed at great expense in heavily carved, oppressive walnut furniture. There were very few clues to indicate a child lived here: everything was neatly put away in drawers and closets.
The only personal effects were the prince’s books, his school supplies, and pictures of his family. His pencils were lined on his desk evenly spaced apart. There were no games or puzzles or adventure books scattered about, no pets or reptiles. No socks or balls left on the floor.
The Spanish flag was on one wall, and a crucifix was hung on the other.
Nothing appeared to be cherished in the room, and it did not appear to be much lived in.
The only object of warmth in the entire room was a stained glass Moroccan lamp overhead which threw various shades of light everywhere: gold, blue, red, and a rich purple.
The room smelled of furniture polish and cleanser. Esteban rose to the window and opened it. He breathed deeply and listened to the frogs croaking in the nearby pond before returning to sit beside the prince on the uncomfortable couch. Alejandro gingerly broke the letter’s seal and smoothed open the page, running his hand across the ivory paper before he handed it to Esteban.
The young prince moved closer, whether to see the letter as he read or for the human contact, Esteban did not know.
The child was too polite. It was not normal. Though Alejandro made no sound to interrupt his teacher’s thoughts, Esteban sensed Prince Alejandro's anticipation and returned his eyes to the letter in his hand.
“Your mother is well, as am I. Your brother Francisco excels in his studies. I hope you may learn to follow his example. And your sister Bianca's French improves,” the letter began, opening abruptly with a brief and impersonal account of each member of the family. Noticeably missing was any inquiry into Alejandro's well-being. King Don Bartolomé ended his letter to his son with, “The future of Espána rests on your shoulders, Alejandro. Do not disappoint us.”
As Esteban forced the words through his lips—there was no point in attempting to change the letter as the young prince would only read it later—he observed tears welling up in boy’s eyes. The initial joyous anticipation of receiving the words penned by his father dulled until all the color had drained from the boy's face.
Esteban knew he could be dismissed for not showing the proper self-negation before the prince. It was a challenge to navigate meeting the king's dual expectations of not pampering the student while acknowledging the prince's status.
The other teachers simply kept their contact with Prince Alejandro to a minimum. The path of least resistance was always safest. In this case especially: a cold but deferential aloofness carried the least chance of displeasing King Don Bartolomé.
Esteban sighed as he reminded himself for the hundredth time that, if he lost this choice post and was in disfavor with the king, it was highly probable he would never have a satisfactory position again, living out his life in poverty.
But I am not a rock. Esteban could not ignore that young face looking up at him despite all the warning bells reverberating in his mind.
Seeing the tears in Alejandro's eyes, Esteban put his arm around the child, offering what comfort he could.
“Prince Alejandro, you have been promised to your family's legacy from the moment of your birth.” He attempted to smooth over that which he was powerless to change. “You belong to Espána. You are our crown jewel.”
“I don't want to belong to Espána. I want…my Poppy and Mummy…”
“Alejandro, you are also your family's treasure.”
“No.” Alejandro shook his head. “I would be with them if I were.”
“You are being trained to rule Spain,” Esteban’s gaze was fixed on the heir apparent.
“I could be trained in the palace.” Alejandro swallowed hard as if he were trying to keep the words from surfacing, but to no avail. “It gives my father something he
wants for me to live here. Something he wants more than me.”
“Hmmm…What could he possibly…?” Esteban considered the prince's words.
“Do you know what it is, Senor Esteban? And why it is so important?”
Esteban studied the boy. Alejandro's intelligence continually impressed him: the prince could size up his surroundings and companions with astounding clarity. On every level of his being, Prince Alejandro was astute and aware, reading people with an expertise which bordered on genius, had there been a way to measure such a gift.
Esteban wondered, not for the first time, if Alejandro's remarkable gifts were due to excruciating trauma. Clearly Alejandro had resolved on some level never again to be taken by surprise. To add political acumen to Prince Alejandro's perceptivity would prove him a great future sovereign.
Shaking his head in self-disgust, Esteban realized he was treating Alejandro as others did: seeing him solely in terms of his usefulness to Spain.
Alejandro was the ultimate example of the child who was expected to be the parent while the parents behaved as children. Only, in this case, Alejandro de Bonifácio was expected to be not only the parent of his family, but the parent of his country.
The truth was that Spain needed the young prince. Badly.
He might be Her only hope.
“Alejandro, do you know that I love you?” Esteban asked.
Abruptly Alejandro looked up, his eyes shining and his expression hopeful. He shook his head in the negative.
“I do. Even though I have only known you these few months, you are like a cherished son to me.”
Alejandro watched him closely, as if everything he wanted in the world was suddenly in Esteban Xalvador.
“But I cannot spend all my time with you, though I would like to. You have your duty and I have mine.”
Alejandro shook as if he could no longer bear his distress.
“I wish I could give you everything you desire, Alejandro, but it is not in my power to do so.” Esteban hugged the boy again, searching for words. “We are—all of us—dealt a hand in life which we have to play. How do we deal with the hand we are dealt? Do we respond with honor and discipline or with selfishness and slovenliness?”
Touching his heart, he then touched Alejandro's. “Do we come from here in all that we do?”
Esteban knew Alejandro was much like the hatchling craving an imprint, looking out of the egg for the first stirring of life to claim as its mother—in this case its father—because the king of Spain made the decision not to raise his own son. The irony being that King Don Bartolomé considered the raising of his son his most important duty.
And yet it was not a duty which the king undertook himself.
That this boy who would grow to be a man holding the lives of millions of people in his hands should have his ethics, his very nature, determined by chance, by a roll of the dice was almost inconceivable.
“It is time to dress for bed, Alejandro.”
“Can you stay until I am tucked under the covers?” the child begged.
“Yes, I will.” The boy was noticeably relieved with Esteban’s words.
It was terrifying to consider that the character of the man who would someday lead a great country, impacting the world, was at this point not solidified. It was hanging by a thread, as would be the case with any eight-year-old who had been abandoned by his parents, the relationship severed in the most traumatic of methods.
“What is the prayer of your heart, Alejandro?” Esteban got on his knees beside the bed, directing the boy to kneel beside him. “What do you wish for and I will pray with you.”
“The people who say bad things about me—who say that I am too sweet—let us pray that God will enact his vengeance upon them.” Alejandro's expression was troubled but determined as he placed his hands together and bent his head.
Esteban stroked his beard. While most endeavored to insinuate themselves to the young prince, there were enough who fell on the other side of the fence: those who made every effort to assassinate his reputation. If there is power at stake, there were always those who sought to destroy their competitors with lies.
“When you are king you will have a great deal of power. You may have to crush your enemies. But you must do it for your people and your country, not for your own personal vendettas. Do you understand?”
“No.”
“It would be a misuse of your power given to you by the people. It would be beneath you. And the misuse of power corrupts one’s soul. I have seen something better in you, Alejandro.”
“You must remember the exceptional person you are,” Esteban continued. “Brave and smart, sincere and full of empathy for others. You are the tallest and the strongest in your age group and you apply yourself with a vengeance to all sports, in which you excel.” Prince Alejandro particularly liked fencing and horse-riding, but there was no sport he could not and did not show to advantage.
“Even what I'm good at is used against me.” Alejandro sniffed, turning his head towards Esteban, his face contorted. “Didn't you see the cartoon where they made me look huge and clumsy? They called me The Loggerhead Prince.”
“I have seen it.” He had hoped Alejandro hadn't.
Esteban wondered how to respond. Anyone might feel the same, longing for the day when one's persecutors received their just rewards.
“It isn't true!” Alejandro exclaimed.
“No, it isn't.” Studying Alejandro's forlorn expression, Esteban knew the child would not survive if he did not learn to create his own sense of self-worth, dismissing his enemies’ lies from his mind. “Indeed, they deserve God's vengeance and judgment, but it has already been taken care of.”
“It has?” Alejandro beamed as a smile expressed itself for the first time that evening since producing the unopened letter.
“Yes, being who they are is the worst punishment.” Esteban lowered his head in prayer, waiting until he could see, out of the corner of his eye, Alejandro lower his head as well. “We pray, heavenly Father, that we would not do harm to another in that way. We thank you for the kindness in our hearts. And we ask that you might help us to be even better. Thank you for our many blessings, and thank you for the love you have shown us in our Lord Jesus Christ. Please fill our hearts with that love.” And, please, dear God, let Alejandro know how much you love him.
Esteban helped the boy get into bed. “You will survive, Alejandro. And you will shine like a beacon of light for Espána. You might always carry your heartache, but you will also know who you are and why you were born on this earth. And you will contribute more of value in a day than these slanderers will in an entire lifetime of spreading their lies.”
The young prince took some moments to reflect. And then, as if to answer his concerns, the boy gave Esteban a sign. “I will do my best, Senor Esteban.”
Alejandro patted his heart. “To come from here.”
It was Esteban’s turn to feel the tears well up in his eyes. “Then you will succeed, Alejandro. It is time to go to sleep, querido.”
“I wish to pray for you, Senor Esteban. And then, let us pray for my family and…for Espána.”
Esteban covered Alejandro with blankets, making the sign of the cross on the young prince’s forehead. As he studied the boy, it was his turn to discover a tear in his eyes. At eight years old, Alejandro de Bonifácio had left his childhood behind.
8
Debut
“That sounds so glorious!
That sounds so beautiful!
Never have I heard or seen such a thing”
—THE MAGIC FLUTE by Amadeus Wolfgang Mozart
The Great Palace, Constantinople, 1895
It was the most extravagant feast she had ever attended. The smells more exotic, the courses more amazing, and the guests more pleased.
And Nicolette ate nothing, drinking only water.
She was proud of her grown-up look. She wore her best dress, a white silk tied at the bodice with a maroon satin ribbon and a matc
hing maroon velvet jacket. Her dress was a little tight since she had last worn it, but her mother had managed to let the seams out in the few hours preceding the concert.
“Do you think I look too plump?” Nicolette asked.
“You are quite beautiful, Nicolette. The velvet jacket is slimming,” Lady Ravensdale said. “And there is no match to your arresting eyes and captivating voice.”
My ma-ma always makes me feel better.
Captain Lord Ravensdale said nothing but glowered at her, as if he were biting his lip. Ma-ma raised her eyebrows at him. The truth be told, her father did not appear to have much appetite either.
“Your hair looks very nice, Nicolette,” he grumbled.
Nicolette ran her fingers along the small pearl necklace which she was allowed to wear for the occasion. Her mother had arranged her shiny black hair atop her head and placed tiny white pearl droplets in the curls. To complete her ensemble, she carried a white lace handkerchief in the pocket of her velvet jacket which her mother had sewn quite charmingly. And, of course, she wore white gloves.
“What is that scent, Mama?” She stared at the sherbet now being served as she felt her mouth watering. She took another sip of water.
“Mango and pineapple, I believe.” Her mother took a bite and closed her eyes momentarily. “Oh, my. The sherbet is concocted of the essence of roses and fruit juices.”
“Roses? In the sherbet?”
“It is delicious, I assure you…”
“You need to eat something, Nicolette,” Lord Ravensdale commanded.
“Under no circumstances would I eat before singing.” She shook her head vehemently, taking a sip of water and staring at her father in disbelief. “You know that Papa. It interferes with the purity of the voice.”
The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren Page 5
