“She’s not involved with John Sinclair. It’s me.”
Clothilde’s mouth dropped open.
“Oh, Charles. I can’t believe that. She’s so young!”
“I swear I didn’t know her age,” Charles protested.
“How could you not know?” Clothilde gasped. “She’s all over the papers, all the time.”
Charles ran his hand over his forehead wearily, as if to massage away a headache.
“I don’t read that stuff. I guess I’m an idiot. Don’t gape at me like that.”
She gulped. “I’m sorry … what are you going to do?”
Charles stood up briskly.
“I promised I would call her later tonight. Right now I need to think.”
Charles Bonnard always went to the top of the house to work out complicated problems. The entire top floor was a large photo studio, reachable by the ornately gilded elevator. Clothilde often used the space to photograph her designs, but Charles also kept his darkroom up here.
He strode through a forest of light stands and walked directly into the small closet, flipping on the safelight. There, in the lurid red glow, he started to develop the film from Capri.
His passion was black and white photography. Today he needed to do something to calm down. Photography was methodical and precise, conducive to deep thought. He started working, knowing that about halfway through he’d settle down and be able to focus on thinking through the problem about Victoria and Karl.
First, he checked over his wet and dry stations. Then he poured out the chemicals to make silver gelatin prints. He had shot some photos at Villa San Angelo, most of them of Victoria.
It took several minutes of preparation. After immersing the contact paper in the solution, he lifted the dripping photo out with tongs and transferred it to the stop bath. The image of Princess Victoria floated in the clear liquid, moving as if it had a life of its own. He had captured her in a moment of carefree joy, head thrown back in a spontaneous laugh.
Charles tilted the tray back and forth to soak the paper, and then, with a fresh set of tongs, shifted the contact sheet to the sodium thiosulfate fixative. That step would take at least ten minutes before he could do a final wash. Time to think.
ROYAL PALACE, OSLO
Victoria sat at the makeup table. Her eyes kept returning to her own image in the mirror. She was dressed in a green silk sheath, stockings, and high heels. The perfectly made-up face gave no indication of the turmoil she was feeling inside.
Karl must have taken the sapphire necklace. How else would he be funding his little excursion? Neither he nor Luca had any real spending money—only enough to pay for a gelato or a snack. Security teams were looking for the boys in Capri and Naples. The strategy was to start at the Villa Brindisi and then fan out, possibly going as far as Mount Vesuvius or even Mount Etna.
She pressed them to try Sicily. Her parents weren’t convinced that Karl would travel that far. Somehow, they assumed because of his age, he’d stick closer to what was familiar. But Karl loved Mount Etna and knew every inch of it as if it were his own backyard.
Not a word had been spoken to the press. The media still thought Prince Karl was visiting a friend in Italy. But that story would not hold for much longer.
The cell phone vibrated on the table, and she answered.
“Hi, V,” Charles said, sounding breathless.
“Oh, Charles. Thank God you called. I missed you so much.”
“Same here, V. But first, have they located Luca and Karl?”
“No, and I’m just sick about it.”
“Well if it’s any help, I’ve known Luca Brindisi since he was a kid, and he’s very sensible. They should be fine together.”
“Brindy is worried they might have been murdered. The Camorra killed her grandmother, and she doesn’t know if it’s some kind of vendetta.”
“Does she have any idea where they might have gone?”
“No. But Karl has lots of pictures of Mount Etna in his room.”
“That’s in Sicily. I’ll see if I can get hold of Sinclair. He knows the area very well.”
“Charles, I’m coming to Paris to be with you.”
There was a slight pause on the phone. His voice was cautious.
“All the flights have been canceled.”
“I can go by overnight ferry from Oslo to Le Havre.”
“What would you tell your parents?”
“That I’m going to fall fashion collections.”
“I don’t know, V. Maybe we should keep apart for the moment.”
“But I need to see you. I feel like … I just can’t take it anymore … Like I am going to explode. Maybe I should just tell my parents about us, and be done with it.”
She sounded desperate. Charles sighed.
“All right, V. But be careful. I’m going to have my sister call you when you get here. It’s safer that way.
Charles walked back into Clothilde’s studio, feeling drained.
His sister wheeled her chair over, reaching for his hand. He sat down in a daze.
“What is it, Charles?”
“I need you to tell Princess Victoria about my father. I haven’t mentioned it to her yet.”
Clothilde pressed her lips into a firm line.
“Of course. But don’t worry, I am sure she will understand.”
“Well, I trust you to put the best spin on it.”
“And what about you? How do you feel about her?”
He looked into her pale gray eyes and smiled. Clothilde was the one person he trusted most in the world. She knew all his secrets and fears.
“I love her,” he said.
“Then I will make sure she understands.”
OSLO–LE HAVRE FERRY
Victoria pulled her collar up and looked out over the water. She was alone for the moment. A male attendant waited inside, where it was warm, and the Norwegian Embassy driver would pick her up at the dock in Le Havre. From time to time, she was allowed to travel incognito. When she dressed down and didn’t wear makeup, she had the ability to look absolutely ordinary. As she boarded the ferry, no one had noticed the young blond woman wearing a knit cap and a navy blue pea coat.
Her parents were insisting that she stay at the official Norwegian residence in Paris, under the sharp eye of the ambassador and his wife. Frankly she was astonished that her parents allowed her to go. Especially after what happened in Capri. But she needed new clothes from the fall collections. Normally her mother would accompany her, but the queen was too caught up in the search for Karl.
Now that she thought about it, Karl was probably fine. Her brother was one of the smartest, most resourceful kids she knew. He’d surface in a few days, and everything would be back to normal. Brindy’s fear about the Camorra was probably overblown. Victoria pushed down the flicker of fear and tried to relax.
The sun was setting, and the sky was turning brilliant red over the water. The sunset was so intensely crimson, it almost hurt her eyes.
Karl had told her about the beautiful red sunsets that accompanied volcanic eruptions. He said that Norway was often particularly affected because the debris was carried along the jet stream.
He mentioned a famous painting, The Scream by the Norwegian artist Edvard Munch. The painting showed a person howling in horror against a swirling red background, which was meant to depict a volcanic eruption. Most people didn’t realize that the iconic masterpiece was originally titled Der Schrei der Natur—The Scream of Nature.
Edvard Munch had witnessed a volcanic red sky after the eruption of Krakatoa in 1883. Munch wrote in his diary that he stood trembling, because the color of the sunset was so powerful—he actually claimed to have heard a shriek that came from nature.
Victoria felt tears well in her eyes. She felt the same way. It seemed that everything in her life was erupting right now. She had never felt so nervous and unsure. It was as if the whole universe were undergoing some violent change.
NORWEGIAN EMBASSY RESIDENCE, 28 RUE DE BA
YARD, PARIS
Clothilde put her teacup down gently in anticipation of the difficult conversation to come. She and Victoria remained discreetly silent as the waiters cleared the lunch table. She and the princess were meeting at the Norwegian Embassy Residence in the chic eighth arrondisement in Paris. This small, intimate dining room was used for entertaining heads of state and other dignitaries, but today they were by themselves.
Clothilde took the opportunity to look around the room. If it had been a purely social lunch, she would have enjoyed it very much. The elegance was delightful. The china on the table was hand-painted Flora Danica—a set of botanical-themed plates that had been originally designed for Catherine II of Russia in 1790. There was heirloom silver and delicately etched crystal goblets.
Victoria presided over the table wearing a blue linen dress, accessorized with a gold filigree bangle bracelet and pearl earrings. Her hair was caught back in a loose chignon, and she looked absolutely regal.
But Clothilde noticed the princess was nervous. Victoria had barely touched her food even though the Norwegian repast had been delicious: puree soup, lute fish with potatoes, and yellow cake with whipped cream and lingonberries. After the waiters left, Victoria turned to her guest.
“I am so happy to finally meet you,” she said, signaling that the serious conversation could begin. “It was good of Charles to suggest it.”
“Yes, but he thinks there is something you should be aware of before you continue any further.”
“What is that?”
Clothilde paused and took a breath.
“Alphonse Bonnard was not Charles’s father.”
Victoria looked up, surprised. “So Alphonse Bonnard is …?”
“… my father. But I’m afraid my brother’s biological father never married my mother.”
“I don’t … understand,” Victoria said slowly.
“My mother never married Charles’s father.”
“Charles is illegitimate!” Victoria gasped.
Clothilde recoiled from the harsh word.
“Not technically. My parents were married when Charles was born. But his real father never acknowledged him.”
Victoria was staring at her, horrified.
“You realize his parentage determines if I can marry him or not,” Victoria said through pale lips.
“I know. That is why I am here.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Victoria said, shaken.
She picked up a water glass and took a sip.
Clothilde kept her voice calm and factual.
“My mother fell in love with an American student in Paris. They had a brief affair.”
“So Charles is half American?”
“Yes. His father was recalled to the States by his parents. They didn’t approve of him marrying a French girl.”
Victoria frowned. “Why?”
“They were a major political family. A foreign wife would have been a detriment to a political career. The boy later became an important US senator.”
“I see.”
“My mother was devastated when he left. The Americans tried to make amends. They offered a trust fund to pay for Charles’s education, if she would keep his paternity a secret.”
“Surely your mother didn’t need the money.”
“Of course not. She simply hoped to keep the connection alive. She hoped that Charles would get to know his real father someday.”
“But that never happened?”
“It was wishful thinking. In fact, years later, when the man became a politician, she was again forced to sign another legal document saying she would never reveal the baby’s paternal origins.”
“So who was Alphonse Bonnard?”
“He was a family friend who stepped in to marry my mother, to shield her from scandal.”
“That was very honorable of him.”
“Actually, it was rather romantic, because my father had been in love with my mother since she was very young. He was much older, you see. So for him it was a lucky turn of events, because he never thought my mother would ever look at him.”
“But she did,” Victoria said, toying with her spoon.
“Yes. Alphonse Bonnard saved her good name, and I think she always loved him for it.”
“When did Charles find all this out?”
“When he was a teenager. It was devastating to him.”
“Oh, how awful.”
“My father made it work. He embraced Charles even more and took him everywhere with him. They became inseparable.”
“He sounds like a lovely person.”
“Yes. I think that is why Charles is so honorable. He understands that doing the right thing under difficult circumstances is very important.”
Victoria sat back in her chair, thinking. “Thank you for telling me.”
“Charles thought you should know. But he finds it hard to talk about.”
“Well, it does matter, I’m afraid. I’ll have to tell my parents.”
“I should add one thing,” Clothilde said.
Victoria turned, her eyes questioning.
“You are the first woman Charles has ever loved. He told me.”
Tears welled in Victoria’s eyes, and she took a moment to compose herself, blinking hard and looking out over the lawn. But then, with supreme effort, she spoke.
“So just to be clear, none of this has ever been made public?”
“That is correct,” Clothilde assured her.
“So technically, on paper, it would still be a perfect match.”
“Yes, but the press will certainly investigate Charles.”
“Well, let them. I like that he is half American. And I suspect my parents will approve.”
“They will?”
“Your mother’s aristocratic heritage is sufficient.”
“But there’s still a problem,” Clothilde pointed out.
“What?”
“My mother risks her reputation by opening up the past.”
“I’ll meet with her,” Victoria said, lifting her coffee cup to her lips.
“I don’t think you know what you are saying. She can be extremely difficult.”
Victoria laughed. “Mine is much worse. Now, how do we arrange this?”
“Are you free tomorrow? I can set up a meeting.”
“Yes, of course. And thank you, Clothilde.”
“Don’t thank me quite yet. You haven’t met my mother.”
The small bedroom at the top of the Norwegian residence was cozy and pleasant. The ambassador and his wife were off to a dinner party, and no one was here except for her security guard downstairs.
Victoria walked to the window and looked across the dark rooftops of Paris to the beautifully illuminated Eiffel Tower. Just beyond in the sixth arrondissement, Charles Bonnard and his family were all at home, having dinner. Clothilde had called with a daring plan. Everything was set.
Victoria walked over to the closet to select an outfit to wear tomorrow. It was important to look her best when she met Charles’s mother.
CARROUSEL DU LOUVRE, PARIS
At eleven o’clock in the morning, six hundred people sat in an auditorium waiting for a fashion show to begin. It was the famous glass pyramid of the Louvre—La Pyramid Inversée.
Madame Bonnard walked hesitatingly down the aisle, looking for her seat in the first row. She settled in next to a lovely young girl with her blond hair pulled up into a graceful chignon.
The lights dimmed. Right on time, the boom of rock music throbbed, and pink lasers sliced the air. Then a curtain opened, and a young model walked out, her skinny legs scissoring in time with the beat. The skirt—a drift of gray chiffon—swirled around her knees.
The girl next to her made a comment.
“I like the color of that dress, don’t you?”
Charles’s mother turned, surprised.
The girl introduced herself in a cursory fashion. “We haven’t met. I’m a friend of one of your children.”
M
adame Bonnard brightened up, delighted.
“You must know Clothilde? Are you one of her models?”
“No, I’m Princess Victoria of Norway.”
Madame Bonnard nearly gasped, but then responded smoothly.
“Oh, I thought I recognized you, your Highness. So how do you know Clothilde?”
“Actually, I know both Clothilde and Charles.”
Madame Bonnard looked astonished.
“Charles? He never mentioned …”
“Yes … both your children are lovely. They speak so highly of you. Would you have time to join me after the show for lunch?”
HOTEL GEORGE V, PARIS
Le Cinq restaurant in the Hotel George V was the perfect spot for a private tête-à-tête. As Victoria walked in, the maître d’ did a double take, then smiled and bowed.
“Two for lunch, please.”
The man frantically searched his seating chart.
“Somewhere discreet,” she told him. “Perhaps over there, away from the window, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, your Highness.”
He led the way, carrying the menus. Victoria kept her eyes focused on the center of the room as they walked. The restaurant was crowded, and conversation flowed at a high pitch. Suddenly people started to notice, and they passed through a wake of whispers, as they settled into their small table in the corner.
Victoria and Madame Bonnard remained quiet as the waiters set silverware, poured water, and offered bread. The head waiter took out a pencil and wrote down the order as carefully as if he were drafting the Magna Carta: lobster bisque and grilled lamb for the Princess, green salad and halibut for Madame. The man bowed and set off to supervise.
Victoria surveyed Charles’s mother. Madame Bonnard sat as erect as a ballet mistress. Her lavender couture suit was the picture of respectability. Nothing about her appearance now would suggest her history of youthful passion.
If Madame Bonnard was curious about the invitation, she didn’t let on. Her lips were set in a pleasant smile; her bright little eyes watched as waiters placed an amuse-bouche on the table. She bent over to survey the thimble-sized puff pastries: one filled with beet mousseline, the other a single braised scallop topped with a drop of Japanese tamari sauce.
Summer of Fire Page 13
