“I hope so,” Anastasia said. “Did you see the iron fortress in the Channel? There was something about it, with its holes for the guns, which frightened me. One could almost imagine it being our only defence against an invading Army.”
“1 am sure that whoever is predicting that there will be an invasion of England is scaremongering!” Captain Aznar remarked. “The Emperor himself has said that he has no intention of doing such a thing.”
“The question is, can one believe him?” Anastasia asked.
Captain Aznar did not answer and she knew that he had no real wish to defend the Emperor of the French or any Frenchman. It was just that he was trying to reassure her.
“Don’t let us talk about wars, or the threats of war,” she pleaded. “We have only a short time left. Tell me more stories about Maurona. That is what I like to hear.”
“Folk tales?” he asked, “or real life drama?”
“Folk tales,” Anastasia said firmly. “I have a feeling there will be plenty of drama to cope with later on!”
*
As if her words were prophetic, a day later, as the Warrior moved into the Bay of Sergei, a small fishing vessel rammed another and, amid shrieks and cries of distress, the two boats began to sink.
Apart from this incident, H.M.S. Warrior came smoothly into port, but because she was so big it was impossible for her to tie up alongside the quay and she had to anchor in the centre of the Bay.
Standing on deck, Anastasia saw for the first time the country that was to be her home.
She had expected it to be beautiful, but not as lovely as this.
The houses in the City were white against a background of dark green pines, jutting cypresses and silver grey olives. Towering above the town there were the mountains of the Pyrenees, not very high immediately near the coastline, but far in the distance there were high peaks dazzling white with the winter snow.
The Bay of Sergei was very beautiful with a beach of golden sand at the water’s edge, but, as the Warrior came into sight, great crowds of people surged down towards the sea, lining the jetty and the promenades and even grouping themselves on the roofs of the houses and hotels that faced the Bay.
There was the clang of Church bells, the sound of sirens and ships’ hooters ringing out as the battleship dropped anchor.
There were flags and brightly coloured bunting everywhere and Captain Aznar had already warned Anastasia to expect a profusion of flowers.
“It will not only be the week of your wedding, ma’am,” he said. “It is also Carnival.”
“What happens at Carnival?” Anastasia asked curiously.
“It is the Festival of Flowers. There are processions through the streets and a Battle of Flowers.”
“How exciting! Shall I see it?” Anastasia asked.
“I expect, ma’am, you will watch the procession from the balcony at the Chancellery which overlooks the Main Street.”
“And the battle?”
Captain Aznar laughed.
“You will not, ma’am, be allowed to take part in that!”
“How disappointing! Where do the flowers come from?” Anastasia enquired.
“Our country grows an enormous amount of carnations and all sorts of spring flowers.”
“For sale?” Anastasia asked.
“They are of course sold in the market,” Captain Aznar answered, “but the greater part of them is made into perfume.”
“Perfume! I had no idea!” Anastasia exclaimed.
“The carnation, rose and violet scent you will be given in Maurona is the foundation for many of the perfumes that are sold all over the world as exclusive to the French.”
“How interesting!” Anastasia exclaimed.
“I am told by those who know that our tuberoses are the best in the whole of the Mediterranean, and the women of Paris crave for tuberoses.”
The Captain did not add, because he did not think it suitable for Anastasia’s ears, that tuberoses were the flowers of sensual love and that the courtesans of Paris prized their fragrance more than any other.
“I must see the perfume being made,” Anastasia enthused.
“It is very interesting,” Captain Aznar replied. “They say that one thousand five hundred flowers go to make a single drop of the famous ‘attar’ and the perfume oils have been acclaimed, like those of Grasse, since the time of the Renaissance.”
He saw that Anastasia was really interested and went on,
“You can watch the distillation, ma’am, in Sergei and also at Arcala, which is on the Southern side of the mountains.”
“I will go there too,” Anastasia promised and he looked at her gratefully.
Almost as soon as the Warrior had docked, a very smart white launch with the Mauronian flag fluttering in the stern came speeding out towards the ship.
Nervously Anastasia turned to the Captain.
“Will His Majesty be coming aboard?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“It is arranged that the King will meet you, ma’am, on the steps of the Palace. You will drive through the City in procession escorted by the Prime Minister and members of the cabinet.”
He saw that the launch was nearing the Warrior and added,
“I think, ma’am, you should go below and be with the Grand Duchess and the Baroness when they arrive.”
“Yes, of course,” Anastasia agreed.
She went to the Admiral’s cabin to find her mother waiting for her.
“Where have you been, Anastasia?” she asked sharply.
“I went on deck to see the ship come into harbour, Mama.”
“Then you should have told me where you were going,” the Grand Duchess said. “Do remember Anastasia, to behave circumspectly. It is very important for you to make a good impression. First impressions are always the most important.”
“I will do my best, Mama,” Anastasia said meekly.
It was reassuring to know that her pale blue gown was very becoming and her bonnet, trimmed with pink rosebuds like her small sunshade would, she was certain, not be rivalled by anything that could be bought in Paris.
At the same time it was impossible not to feel nervous as the first dignitaries of Maurona were piped aboard and escorted by the ship’s Captain to the Admiral’s cabin.
The Prime Minister was a distinguished looking man, growing bald, and with shrewd and, Anastasia thought, somewhat calculating eyes.
He greeted her in French, but, when she answered him in Mauronian, he was obviously delighted.
“Your Royal Highness can speak our language?” he enquired with surprise.
“I have a very able teacher,” Anastasia replied, “and I hope I shall not disgrace myself by being ungrammatical.”
“I am sure Your Royal Highness could never do that,” the Prime Minister replied.
There was a long exchange of greetings, before the English party finally went ashore in the white launch to where the open carriages of the procession were waiting for them.
To Anastasia’s delight not only were the horses decorated with flowers but also the carriages themselves.
She sat back against a hood covered with carnations and found that she was to travel with the Prime Minister sitting beside her, and Sir Frederick Falkland, resplendent with his ambassadorial hat trimmed with white cock feathers, and Captain Aznar opposite her.
Sir Frederick had made her a long apology when they reached Gibraltar for succumbing to seasickness.
She found him rather dull and uninteresting and wondered why, since Maurona was so important, a more inspiring Ambassador could not have been found to represent England.
At the moment Anastasia wanted to make a good impression on the Prime Minister.
However, it was difficult to talk above the noise of the cheering crowds once the procession had set out towards the Palace. It stood high above the town, encircled by green forestry, which made it look like a glittering jewel in a velvet setting.
The streets were tran
sformed with banners, flags, arches of flowers and garlands of every shape and size.
On balconies filled with waving people there were patches of brilliant colour from shawls, bunting and streamers of coloured paper reaching to the streets below.
Carnations, roses, lilies and wild orchids were thrown into the carriage until they covered the floor and the rug over Anastasia’s knees.
It was all very gay and the populace smiled, waved and cheered while Anastasia responded with a sense of rising excitement and delight.
“They look so gay and happy,” she said to the Prime Minister.
“We are, on the whole, a very cheerful people,” he replied, “and if I may say so, ma’am, you look exactly as we all hoped you would.”
“How is that?” Anastasia enquired curiously.
“Like a Princess in a Fairy story,” he answered.
He smiled and added,
“You must forgive me, ma’am, but our usual impression of the English is of very tall, supercilious ladies and gentlemen with protruding teeth, wearing, when they are abroad, the Scottish tartan!”
Anastasia’s laugh rang out spontaneously.
“I know exactly what you mean,” she said, “and some English people do look like that. I hope I am different.”
“You are indeed very different, ma’am,” the Prime Minister said and, as she turned to smile at him, she was almost certain that once again she had made a conquest.
They drove on through streets that seemed endless and because they were so full of people they all looked very much alike.
At last the horses began to climb, until Anastasia saw just ahead of them a huge white Palace.
It was very impressive and, as they turned in through the enormous wrought-iron gates decorated with gold, she saw a classical fountain, its water being thrown up iridescent in the sunshine, and beyond it a long flight of steps leading up to the main doors.
There was a red carpet and a resplendent guard of honour, and arrayed on the steps was an impressive gathering of elegantly dressed people.
The gentlemen, mostly in uniform, were covered with decorations, and the ladies wore enormous crinolines and held small lace-trimmed sunshades to ward off the bright rays of the sun.
Anastasia’s carriage rounded the circle where the fountain played and came to a standstill at the foot of the steps.
As she stepped out she raised her eyes to see a tall figure in a white uniform come through the door of the Palace and start to walk down towards her.
She felt her heart give a thump and she realised she was frightened in a way she had never been frightened before.
The King was approaching, the stern, dark-eyed man of the portrait!
King Maximilian III of Maurona – her future husband!
Chapter Four
“Kiss me again, mon cheri,” a voice said softly in French.
The man lying back with his hands behind his head on the silk cushions of the divan did not move.
“You are insatiable, Yvette,” he said with a hint of laughter in his voice.
“If I am insatiable, you are irresistible!” came the reply. “It’s getting late. You must go back.”
“As a matter of fact it is early and I am in no hurry to face today.”
She said ‘today’ with particular emphasis, and King Maximilian made a sound that was something like a groan.
“Is it really today?” he asked. “I had half hoped it would never come.”
“Yes, it is today,” the woman said relentlessly, “the day when my husband returns from Marseilles and your German bride arrives.”
For a moment there was silence, and then the King said almost as if he was speaking to himself,
“I had not thought of her as being German, but English.”
“Either nationality is distasteful,” the woman said. “To the French the Germans are an unceasing threat, while the English – helas! How shall I describe the English?”
“I see no reason why you should describe them at all, Yvette,” the King remarked.
“I detest the whole race!” Yvette le Granmont said passionately. “They are supercilious, arrogant and, I am delighted to say, their women are extremely unattractive!”
“I am told that my future bride is very pretty,” King Maximilian remarked again, as if he was speaking to himself.
“And who could have told you?” the Comtesse enquired, and answered her own question. “Diplomats? Statesmen? Or doubtless the insufferable, autocratic Queen of England herself?”
She gave a light laugh, but there was no humour in it.
“I know how much such descriptions are worth because I am married to a diplomat, and what Henri says and what he thinks are two very different things.”
“Let’s hope that your husband neither thinks nor speaks where you and I are concerned, Yvette.”
“I am very discreet,” the Comtesse said in a soft, caressing tone, “and I cannot give you up, you know that.”
“What do you expect my bride to say?”
The Comtesse laughed.
“She is young, presumably innocent, and to the pure all things are pure! Unless someone gossips about us to her, which I imagine is extremely unlikely, she will remain in blissful ignorance.”
“We must behave with propriety, Yvette.”
“And what do you mean by that?” the Comtesse asked. “Are you so afraid of the British lion in the shape of Queen Victoria, or should I say ‘lioness’? What is it about that woman which enables her to have a finger in every pie in Europe?”
The King did not answer and after a moment the Comtesse continued,
“If you had any strength of will you would have refused this marriage, which has been thrust upon you against your every inclination. You know as well as I do that you have no wish to marry, mon brave.”
“That is indisputably true,” the King agreed, “but as you say, I had not the strength of will to refuse the considerable pressure the British employed in making me marry the Princess they have chosen for me.”
“Mon Dieu, it is too wicked, too unfair!” Yvette le Granmont cried. “But she can provide you with an heir while I will keep you happy and amused.”
“I have a strange feeling,” the King said, “that in English parlance that is not ‘cricket’.”
“The English! Always the English!” Yvette said petulantly. “Bah! They make me sick! If you had to marry, it should have been a Frenchwoman!”
“Unfortunately, there is no French Princess available,” the King replied, “and besides, Queen Victoria would not have approved!”
Deliberately he spoke provocatively and with an exclamation of anger Yvette sat up.
She was wearing very little apart from the emerald necklace that echoed the green lights in her dark eyes.
Now, without bothering to turn his head, the King could see the curve of her breasts and the grace of her long neck, her piquant fascinating face, surmounted by a wealth of black silky hair.
He looked at her for a long moment and then slowly and without haste he swung his legs to the ground and rose from the divan upon which they had both been lying.
Covered with a number of silk cushions it was very Eastern in appearance and His Majesty had in fact copied it from one he had seen in the Palace of the Sultan of Morocco.
The rest of the room was typically French with its inlaid marble topped commodes, its gilt console tables and elegant carved mirrors.
There was a Boucher picture over the mantelpiece, a riot of blue, pink and soft toned flesh, and a picture by Fragonard on one of the other walls.
The room was in fact quite small. It was the King’s private sitting room where no one was received without a special invitation.
Situated at a corner of the Palace at the end of his official suite it had the added convenience of a small staircase leading down to the ground floor, where there was a door that led out into the garden.
The King crossed the room and pulled back the draped satin curta
ins to look out.
“It will soon be dawn,” he said. “You must go, Yvette.”
“It is quite safe,” she answered soothingly. “My carriage will be waiting for me the other side of the Palace wall and my servants are entirely trustworthy, I am sure of that.”
“What you mean,” the King said laconically, “is that they have assisted you in the past in such amorous escapades, and as they neither attempted to blackmail you nor informed your husband then, you suppose they are not likely to do so now.”
“Why should they?” Yvette asked.
“Because for the moment I am in a particularly vulnerable position, as you well know,” the King answered.
“You are worrying too much about yourself,” the Comtesse replied. “Think of the Emperor. There is not a beautiful woman in Paris who has not entertained him in her own bed. I at least, come to you.”
“For which, of course, I am very grateful!” the King said mockingly.
“Let me say again,” Yvette said softly, “I have no intention of giving you up, mon cheri. Never has any woman had a more fantastic, more irresistible lover!”
Her voice was very caressing and the King turned from the window to look at her where she still sat on the divan, with only a diaphanous wisp of emerald green gauze to prevent her from being entirely naked.
He stood looking at her, and her eyes were on his face.
“What are you thinking?” she asked after a moment.
“I was wondering what it is about you that is so exciting,” he replied. “You are an inveterate flirt, an unfaithful wife and, if I am not mistaken, your head will always ultimately rule your heart. What is it that makes you so alluring?”
“I can answer that question quite easily,” the Comtesse replied. “It is because I burn with an unquenchable fire. What I can give you is something that your German-English wife will never be able to give.”
“How can you be sure of that?” the King asked in an amused voice, his eyes still on her vivacious face.
“German women are stuffy, stolid and without a particle of imagination,” she replied, “while the English are cold and very self-conscious, both of their bodies and of propriety. How can you imagine that passion can flourish on such barren ground?”
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