Gaelen Foley - Ascension 02

by Princess

  She felt like an elaborate entrée being prepared for a ravenous giant.

  Her maid finished with her nails while the hairdresser brought over the diamond tiara Serafina was to wear tonight and placed it carefully on her head. Snapping orders at another maid to hold a mirror for them, the hairdresser explained several options of what they might do with her coiffure, piling her hair this way and that, coiling here, plaiting there.

  “I shall wear my hair down,” she said.

  “Down? At a ball?” said Madame, aghast. “They will think you a wild savage!”

  Serafina gave her a quelling stare in the mirror. “Down, please.” Darius liked her hair down.

  “But the neckline of your gown—it cries out for an upswept arrangement!”

  “Then I’ll wear a different gown.”

  “But no one will be able to see your neck! You have a perfect neck, like a swan! If I had such a neck, I would cut my hair up to my ears, like a man!”

  Serafina gave a long-suffering sigh. She only tolerated the hairdresser’s fits of passion because the woman was the best in the kingdom at what she did. At that moment, there was a knock at the door. Serafina gestured to the young maid holding the mirror. The girl went to the door and opened it.

  “For Her Highness,” a liveried footman said with a bow.

  “Thank you,” the maid murmured with a curtsy. She shut the door and came back to Serafina, offering a small velvet box.

  She accepted it and opened the box with interest, but her heart sank when she peered inside. On the tiny bed of velvet sat her monstrous diamond engagement ring. It had been flawlessly repaired. Without expression, without flinching, she took Tyurinov’s ring from its bed of velvet and put it back on.

  “More wine, Your Highness?” the young maid asked, stepping forward to offer a fresh glass on a tray.

  “Yes, please,” she murmured, and when the girl brought the glass, Serafina lifted it to her lips and drank deeply.

  At precisely eight o’clock, she gave herself one final survey in the full-length mirror.

  Was that little confection in pink really her? she wondered. She felt jaded and lost inside, but the girl in the mirror looked like a princess from a fairy tale, innocent and fresh. Her mink-black curls were pulled back from her pale, heart-shaped face with a diamond tiara, while the mass of her hair spilled down her back. Her silk gown was a simple sheath with a strawberry sash. The dress was almost white, tinged ever so faintly with seashell pink. The sleeves were small puffs, her hands and arms concealed by high, white gloves.

  What a joke, she thought, wallowing in hidden misery. But the pretty package was what Anatole had paid for.

  She took a final, long draught of wine, turned from the mirror, and left her apartments with Els and a few other of her ladies a step behind.

  By the time the powdered, liveried, and bewigged palace steward banged his gilded baton on the marble floor, announcing her entrance in his nasal voice to the thousand guests in the vast, gilded ballroom, she was feeling quite pleasant—drunk enough not to care what became of her, but not to the point where it showed. To the fanfare of trumpets, she proceeded down the long, curving, white staircase on the arm of her ever-cheerful father.

  The dull roar of the crowd and the lilting melody of the orchestra’s divertimento surrounded her as Papa led her proudly under the pendulous chandeliers to the dais where Mama sat. Anatole was already there and had risen at her entrance.

  He waited for her now, standing like a sentry on duty, hands clasped behind his back, as if to say, None shall pass!

  The savior of Ascencion was in full dress uniform. His black-belted, dark blue coat was heavily decorated with medals of all shapes and sizes, and a gold sash ran across his chest on a diagonal. The gold epaulets on his enormous shoulders and the dress sword at his side gleamed by the light of chandeliers. He had pulled his long, golden hair back in a queue.

  The guests watched as Papa led her up the few steps to the dais. She faced her betrothed at the top. They met each other’s gaze with mutual animosity, cold desire leaping in Anatole’s eyes, hatred snapping in her own.

  She saw he had a light bruise on his left cheek, a faint swelling there, evidence of his fight with Darius. He noticed her gaze on it; his sapphire eyes flickered in reproach. She suppressed a derisive smirk.

  Before the glittering sea of guests, she gave Anatole a sweeping, picture-perfect curtsy as he bowed to her and offered his right arm, the left tucked formally behind his back. She turned away from her father, rested her hand on the conqueror’s forearm, and allowed him to lead her to her chair, beside his own.

  He treated her with excruciating correctness the entire night because her parents were there. Indeed, he was the soul of charm, wooing the prime minister, the queen, and swapping war stories with the head generals of Ascencion. Gallantly, he even took the blame for the fight with Darius.

  A misunderstanding, he magnanimously told them, deftly casting Darius by virtue of his own, breezy noblesse oblige as a volatile, unstable man. Anatole must have realized that if he expressed indignation against Darius, he would alienate Papa.

  There were moments she wanted to scream and topple every fragrant, perfect bouquet on the dais, but she sat still as a china doll, hands folded in her lap, the slight smile carved into her face, dimples aching.

  This was the destiny she had been born for, she told herself. No matter the cost, she would protect her father and Rafael from the loss of the throne; she would protect her people from war. Anatole’s poor Russian conscripts would die in place of the kingdom’s citizens. Was that fair?

  She could merely watch the young war hero with a jaundiced eye. No one suspected what he was really like, she thought. Insulated from her fear of him by the presence of so many people, she laughed at his falseness outright from time to time, but most of the night she scanned the crowd for Darius.

  She struggled to feel his presence as she had the night in the maze and again that day in the field when he had come looking for her astride his hell-horse. The first day they had kissed.

  The memory of it throbbed through her body.

  She knew then that he was not here tonight. She could not feel him anywhere near, and it was as if the world had been abandoned by its guardian angel. Yet she was acutely aware of the bond between them, alive, powerful.

  The bond of blood.

  And she realized: They could never truly be parted, not by any man or distance or the passage of time.

  Be it heaven or hell, they were one.

  Hands in pockets, his face expressionless, Darius stood at the rails as the captain of the small, hired barkentine sailed the vessel into the harbor at Genoa through the warm predawn mist, guided by the light of the port’s famous Lanterna, the sixteenth century lighthouse. Its eerie glow flicked over the grim hulk of the Molo Vecchio, the city’s hanging hill at the harbor.

  At length, the bell clanged as the boat bumped gently into a slip. While the lightening day coaxed the city walls and cathedral spires out of darkness, Darius gathered his leather satchel and the guitar case concealing his weapons, and disembarked.

  The sun had not yet risen as he stepped off the hired boat and onto the quay, feeling strangely detached and cool. Numb, he supposed.

  The quayside was notoriously seedy, lined with taverns and brothels. One hand at the ready to reach for his dagger in so rough a part of town, the other holding the handle of his guitar case, he went into the largest inn, ignoring the whores eyeing him.

  There he was shown to the stables and, after inspecting the animal’s legs and wind, bought a dapple-gray stallion too fine for its ramshackle surroundings, obviously stolen.

  As the bells of San Lorenzo tolled for the early Mass, he galloped down the road skirting the city walls, beginning the four-day trek to his inland destination at Milan. Every stride of the leggy gray bore him farther away from all he loved, but he carried the bond with Serafina deep inside him now, in the very marrow of his bones. He was
serene.

  He had loved her purely and well, and what he had experienced with her, though brief, was worlds beyond anything he had ever dreamed.

  It would be a good death. Serafina would be free, and at last he would be one with his ideals.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “My God, Pauline Bonaparte has had a nude statue made of herself!” cried Els, looking up from the scandal sheet.

  Seated at the vanity as Madame worked on her coiffure, Serafina glanced dully at Els’s reflection behind her in the mirror.

  The morning was bright and clear, but the day did not match her mood. She had a bit of a sore head from the wine last night. She had waited all night for Darius to make an appearance in the ballroom, but he never did. Then, here in her bedroom, she had waited for him come to her by the secret door, but of course he didn’t do that, either.

  She took a sip of coffee, picked despondently at her breakfast tray, then fed her pet monkey another bit of melon.

  “Did you hear what I said?” Els cried. “A naked statue!”

  “Why do I care what Pauline Bonaparte does?”

  “That tramp,” Madame muttered under her breath.

  Serafina had never met Napoleon’s youngest sister. She had only seen a miniature of her once and heard, as did the rest of the world, the shocking tales of the famous beauty’s countless conquests. Pauline collected men the way her brother collected countries.

  Unfortunately, the beautiful twenty-five-year-old had also declared unofficial war on Serafina ever since some of the newspapers had begun making a contest of which of the two princesses was more beautiful, Serafina or herself.

  “But Cricket, it’s too delicious! You have to hear this,” Els protested.

  “Well, go on,” she sighed in dejection.

  Nearby, Els lay on her belly on Serafina’s canopy bed, reading to them from the scandal sheets, for she had despaired of drawing Serafina into conversation. “It says here Princess— ahem—Pauline—”

  “Princess!” Madame snorted.

  “Princess Pauline has posed for a new statue by Canova— Venus Victrix—practically nude!” Els laughed as she followed the story. “Poor Prince Camillo, her husband, is so obsessed with jealousy, he keeps the statue locked in an empty room in the Villa Borghese!”

  “If he was smart, he would lock her up there with it,” Madame declared. “Such a fine young man, and he lets her make a pathetic cuckold of him before the whole world!”

  Madame slanted a glance at Serafina. “You should have told him yes. And why not?” Madame went on as Serafina rolled her eyes. “He’s from an excellent family. He’s Italian, handsome, rich.”

  But he’s not Darius, she thought, tears suddenly flooding her eyes. Abruptly, she shoved off Madame’s fussing, pulling fingers and dropped her face in both hands. Resting her elbows on the vanity, she held her throbbing head in both hands, raking her fingers into her half-coiffed hair. She could feel both women staring at her. The room was filled with a tense silence until Els murmured a dismissal to Madame. Serafina heard the door click, then Els was standing beside her, leaning down to peer into her face in gentle concern.

  “Cricket, what on earth? Pauline Bonaparte is not worth this. What is going on? You haven’t been yourself since the night you left for the country.”

  She did not know how to answer. The need inside of her to see Darius felt something akin to panic. “Els,” she said slowly, not opening her eyes, “please fetch Colonel Santiago for me.”

  She could feel her friend gazing at her in bewilderment. “Why?”

  “Don’t question me! I am the Princess Royal—just do it!”

  Els folded her arms over her chest. “What is going on?” she demanded. “Are you Santiago’s lover? Did he hurt you? Oh, God. Serafina . . . are you pregnant?”

  “No, I am not pregnant.” She almost wished she was. She just sat there for a long moment, slumped in silence. “Oh, Els,” she whispered at last, “I love him so much. I need to see him. I just need to see him,” she whispered in despair.

  Els promptly sat down on the stool next to hers. “Tell me everything. Now. If you don’t, I am going for your mother and you can talk to her.”

  “No!” She shot Els an aghast look. “If Mama knew the things I did with Darius, she would fall into a dead swoon.”

  Els snorted. “How do you think she came to be with child, dear?”

  Serafina winced in disgust at that thought and massaged her throbbing temples.

  “You know nothing you can say can shock me. Now, my dear,” Els said as she poured her some more coffee, “begin at the beginning.”

  Els listened with compassion while Serafina related what had happened between them at the yellow villa, how deeply she had fallen in love, how he had given her the cut direct upon returning to the palace, only to defend her yesterday from Anatole. Teary-eyed, she told of the secrets Julia Calazzi had known about him which he had never confided in her.

  “I did not realize at the time,” she whispered with a pensive, downward stare, “but I think that I gave more of myself to him than I could safely part with. I could not help myself. He needs me. I know he does.” She turned her brimming eyes to her friend. “If I could just see him one more time . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Very well.” Els patted her arm comfortingly. “I will go find him and bring him here to you.”

  Serafina turned to her, painful hope in her eyes. “Do you think he’ll come?”

  “I will make sure that he does,” Els said stoutly. “No man gets away with treating the Princess Royal this way, not even the great Santiago.”

  But half an hour later, Els returned alone.

  “Where is he? Is he coming? Did you give him my message?”

  Her expression was grim. “There was no answer when I knocked at his suite, so I went looking for Alec to find out where he might be. Alec suggested Darius had gone on the morning gallop with His Majesty, but I found one of the courtiers, and he told me, no, Tyurinov was there, but no Darius. Then I ran into your brother.” She hesitated.

  “Els! What?”

  “Rafe said he left Santiago’s suite last night when Julia Calazzi arrived to pay a call on him.”

  Serafina gasped. “No!”

  “Your brother seemed sure Darius would not be available till well after breakfast, if you take my meaning.”

  “Julia Calazzi!” she wailed. “He wouldn’t, Els, surely! She slapped him across the face last time they met! Did you check if he is practicing at swords in the gymnasio, or exercising his horse?”

  “He’s not.”

  “Maybe he went into the city or had errands to run,” Serafina said helplessly, but she could not ignore the feeling of terrible foreboding that promptly settled in the pit of her stomach.

  Everything in Darius’s past pointed to the worst possible conclusion. Julia Calazzi!

  “I don’t know where he is, dearest. I’m so sorry. The one thing I do know is that I’m not going to permit either of us to sit around here moping over that man and waiting for him to show his face. I know exactly how to keep you preoccupied for the day.” Els grasped her hand and pulled her toward the door. “I’m taking you shopping!”

  The northward route followed the valley of the Scrivia River, flanked on both sides by the soaring peaks of the Italian Alps. The road wound through woods of pine and chestnut trees, and past medieval villages built spiral fashion around hilltops with terraced fields planted with fruit trees and vineyards.

  Darius saved the horse’s strength, content to take the winding, hilly, and well-trod road at a brisk walk with an occasional canter to break the monotony. All there was to do was think.

  He stopped now and then to let the horse drink while he gazed at the jagged outline of the soaring mountains surrounding him, their snowcapped peaks dreamy white against the blue sky. He sampled the river’s rushing alpine water, breathed the crisp, thin freshness of the air.

  By his estimate, he passed over the bor
der from Liguria into the Piedmont at about sunset. Already the mountains had dwindled to rolling, vineyard-clad hills. He would only cut through the southeastern tip of this region once ruled by the Savoy kings, now the territory of Napoleon. Tomorrow he would gain Lombardy and the flat expanses of the rich Po Delta.

  When the centuries-old way-station town of Busalla came in sight, he stopped, gazing down at the little handful of buildings scattered in the green vale in the shadow of the mountains.

  What a lonely, country place, he thought.

  But he dismounted, stiff after the full day’s ride. He led the weary gray down the hill and took lodgings.

  After a fruitful day of shopping, Els and Serafina returned, half-buried under packages in the open landau. As their carriage rolled up the long, landscaped drive to the palace, they heard the flare and booming pound of drums. An impressive military demonstration was in progress on the parade ground between the two broad, ramrod-straight avenues leading up to the palace.

  Smartly uniformed soldiers marched the intricate geometry of configurations from the manual of arms, parade rifles gleaming in the setting sun as they twirled them and slammed them against first one shoulder, then the other. Serafina spied Anatole standing at the side of the field before the small crowd of onlookers. Chin high, hands clasped behind his back, critically he watched his colonels drilling the troops.

  “The newspapers told the truth. He does have an army of giants,” Els said in quiet awe, staring at the tall, powerfully built Russian soldiers.

  “He is flexing his might for us,” Serafina murmured in foreboding.

  When Anatole spotted her from far across the parade ground, he swept off his bicorne and sent her a bow of acknowledgment. A wave of cold seemed to wash over her but she lifted her hand in greeting, lowering it slowly.

  “Drive on,” she commanded.

  A few minutes later, Els and she strode into the palace. She had bided her time and been patient all day; she had tried not to think or talk about him too much, but now the need to see and touch and be with Darius was paramount. She went over to the palace steward and inquired after his whereabouts, but Falconi knew nothing.