The music gained momentum. Or would diamonds and rubies be more sensational? Or just one magnificent diamond? As the music reached a crescendo and her silver-slippered feet seemed barely to touch the ground, she decided that a solitaire diamond would be far more elegant than a diamond with emeralds or rubies.
She could almost feel the ring on her finger and then she remembered again that Julian Fielding was not a Slav and that even if he were Britain’s heir to the throne she couldn’t possibly marry him. Her decision as to whom she could or could not marry had been made long ago when she was a small child living in exile in horribly boring Geneva. She had vowed then she would never marry any man who would expect her to live anywhere else but the country she longed for with such fierce passion.
Regretfully abandoning all thoughts of diamond solitaires she reflected on other pleasant things. Katerina had not mentioned the affair of the Golden Sturgeon again and so she had wriggled out of that difficulty without having to promise never to go there again. Consequently she had all the excitement of future meetings with Gavrilo and his friends to look forward to as well as the thrill of telling Katerina and Vitza about Julian Fielding’s proposal.
The music came to a thunderous end. Her partner was laughing breathlessly down at her. With sheer animal high spirits she laughed back. Life was wonderful and if it was so wonderful at seventeen how much more wonderful was it going to be when she was eighteen? Nineteen?
As her partner escorted her from the ballroom floor she was struck by another thought, not quite so exhilarating. If her mother and father were to know of Julian Fielding’s proposal, they might assume it had been occasioned because they had allowed her an inordinate amount of freedom. Her hard-won lessons at the Conservatoire might come to a speedy end and she might find herself once again having music lessons at home. If she did there would be no more easy opportunities for sitting in smoke-filled cafés with her friends, discussing all that was wrong with the world and how they were going to put it right. It was a risk that wasn’t worth running. The heady pleasure of telling Katerina and Vitza about Julian’s proposal was one she would have to forgo.
The next morning, as she ate an exceedingly late and light breakfast that had been brought to her in bed, Natalie was too preoccupied in thinking about the meeting she was to have that afternoon with Gavrilo to notice that Katerina was also unusually quiet. Her music lesson was scheduled for three o’clock and she thought it best that she didn’t mention it to Katerina. She didn’t want Katerina suddenly demanding good behaviour and a promise that she wouldn’t abscond if Monsieur Lasalle was so lax as not to turn up on time, or didn’t turn up at all.
And he wouldn’t turn up. At their last meeting she had intimated to him that today was her grandmother’s birthday and that consequently a lesson would not be possible. She had not been telling a lie. It was one of her grandmothers’ birthdays, but the grandmother in question had been dead for over five years. She knew that Monsieur Lasalle would be too pleased at having an unexpectedly free afternoon ever to think of checking up on her story, or of mentioning the missed lesson to her father.
‘I’m going to spend time training Bella today,’ she said, pushing the breakfast tray from her knees and swinging her feet to the floor.
Katerina, who had already had two pairs of shoes and a hat ruined by Bella’s habit of playing and chewing with any and every available object, didn’t attempt to dissuade her. She was wondering if Julian Fielding would call at the house later in the day to ask for an appointment with her father in order to discuss with him the significance the Black Hand might have on British/Serbian relations. If so, and if they should meet in the hall or the garden, then something might be said that would put an end to her uncertainty as to what his feelings for her were.
Natalie, grateful for Katerina’s lack of talkativeness, began to wash and dress without ringing for Helga to help her. She put on a sensible white and mulberry striped piqué dress that would not look too out of place among the poverty-stricken students in the Golden Sturgeon, and tamed her riotously curling hair as best she could before securing it in an uncomplicated and undecorated chignon.
Looking at herself in the cheval-glass she was pleased with the effect she had created. She might be a Karageorgevich but she looked as restrained in appearance as if she were the daughter of a doctor or a lawyer. With the addition of a pair of plain lensed glasses she might even be taken for a student herself.
The Golden Sturgeon was down a narrow cobbled street in an area thick with coffee-houses. There was the Acorn Garland, the Green Garland and the Moruna, all within a stone’s throw of each other. To Natalie, her first expedition there in the company of Gavrilo and Nedjelko had been a dizzying adventure. Never before had she met with people from a different social class from her own; never before had she walked through the city’s teeming, claustrophobic back streets.
Once inside the kafana, she had found the atmosphere and the conversation even more of an adventure. Nearly all the clientele were young, with only an occasional middle-aged nationalist joining them in order to offer them the benefit of his experience. Nearly all of them were students and those who had fled to Serbia from Bosnia or Herzegovina or Croatia were poor in a way that was almost inconceivable to her. They didn’t seem to mind their poverty. All of them were sure that at any moment some great happening would wonderfully transform their lives.
It was this sense of camaraderie and of being part of the vanguard of a whole new, exciting future, that Natalie found irresistible. Unlike her parents’generation, who merely talked of there being a great united South Slav state one day, Gavrilo and his friends were actively plotting and planning for one. It was unbelievably thrilling. Utterly intoxicating.
Gavrilo no longer met her at the Conservatoire and walked with her to the café. His doing so had become far too conspicuous. Instead, when the family coachman set her down at the Conservatoire’s gates she walked through them and into the Conservatoire, leaving almost immediately by a discreet side-door.
Her only regret as she walked across first one tree-shaded square and then another, was that Bella wasn’t scampering at her heels. The temptation to bring the dog with her had been almost overpowering but she was still too small to be safe on the street and besides, if Katerina had seen her leave the house with Bella, she would have known that she wasn’t truly going to a music lesson.
She turned left at the far side of the square, walking into the maze of streets that formed the Bohemian Quarter. Although it was still only early summer the heat was fierce and she wished she had brought a parasol with her. As a man passed her wearing the shabby baggy trousers of a peasant she changed her mind. A parasol would only have made her look even more out of place in an area where loose Zouave jackets were more common than western clothes.
With a surge of excitement she drew abreast of the café. Here, for the price of a coffee, she could sit all afternoon listening to the thrilling talk of how, one day very soon, all southern Slavs would be united in a powerful empire which would be known as Yugoslavia, the Kingdom of the South Slavs.
With a euphoric sense of destiny she opened the door and stepped into an aromatic fug of coffee aroma, tobacco smoke and plum brandy.
‘Here she is!’ Nedjelko Cabrinovich called out to his companions as he saw her enter the room. ‘Pull out a chair someone. Order another cup of coffee.’
She walked across the crowded room to her friends’discreetly positioned corner table and smiled sunnily, unaware of the quick, meaningful glances that were exchanged between them before she sat down.
‘I’m glad you could make it today,’ Gavrilo said, rising to his feet. ‘I’m going away for a few days with Nedjelko and Trifko and I wanted to be able to let you know.’
Trifko Grabez gave her a slight, acknowledging nod. He was a slightly built, serious young man and she had never felt completely comfortable with him. Though nothing had ever been said she was sure he disapproved of her.
‘
Trifko disapproves of all women,’ Nedjelko had once said to her with a grin. ‘He thinks they distract from the great crusade of freeing Bosnia from Habsburg rule.’
‘Where are you going?’ she said to Gavrilo as she sat down. ‘Is it an assignment? Are you going on a mission?’
He gave her his quiet, almost shy smile. ‘It’s just a training exercise,’ he said, and then turned away quickly from her as he began to cough.
Natalie frowned. Both Gavrilo and Trifko had chronic coughs and on her last visit to the Golden Sturgeon she had brought with her all the cough pastilles she could find. She said now, ‘You really should get that cough seen to, Gavrilo.’
‘And how would he pay the doctor’s bill?’ Trifko asked, an edge of sarcasm in his voice.
Natalie flushed. She hated it when the difference in her circumstances and those of her friends was so brutally pointed out. She was immensely proud of being a Karageorgevich but there were times when her comfortable lifestyle was also an embarrassment.
‘Don’t mind Trifko,’ Nedjelko said with a grin. ‘Tell us if you’ve managed to speak to Prince Alexander yet.’
Both Trifko and Gavrilo adjusted their chairs, bringing them in closer to the marble-topped table, looking towards her intently.
Natalie forgot her discomfiture and said with quiet triumph: ‘Prince Alexander is with us heart, mind and soul.’
‘And deeds?’ Trifko asked, cynically. ‘Is he with us when it comes to deeds?’
‘Be quiet,’ Gavrilo said to him abruptly. He gave Natalie his slight, endearing smile. ‘What Trifko wants to know is, will he meet with us?’
Natalie shifted uncomfortably on her chair. Alexander had said that she could tell her student friends that if they were working for the unity of all southern Slavs, irrespective of religion, then they had his whole-hearted support. He could not, however, meet with them.
‘In a kafana?’ he had asked disbelievingly. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Natalie. Think of the attention I would attract if I stepped into a kafana.’
‘A meeting would be difficult,’ she said prevaricatingly. ‘He would be recognized and…’
‘I knew it!’ Trifko slammed his fist down exasperatedly on the table. ‘Prince Alexander has no intention of coming out in the open and supporting us! When it comes to talking militant action for the creation of a united South Slav state he and his father are just as supine as Alexander Obrenovich was!’
‘No, they’re not,’ Gavrilo said, his annoyance obvious.
Trifko folded his arms and pursed his lips and there was a short, uncomfortable silence.
Gavrilo smiled at Natalie again, this time apologetically. ‘Ignore Trifko. He has a hangover and he’s not happy at the thought of going back to Bosnia on a training mission.’
Natalie remained stonily silent. Trifko hadn’t apologized to her himself for his ridiculous outburst and she had not the slightest intention of saying that she forgave him.
‘Bloody Habsburgs,’ Nedjelko said cheerily, changing the subject, ‘here’s to their downfall!’ He raised his coffee cup high in a toast, as if it were a glass of plum brandy.
Everyone laughed, even Trifko, and Natalie’s crossness with him ebbed. Happy that the atmosphere was again relaxed and friendly, she said to the table at large, ‘Will you all be seeing your families when you return to Bosnia?’
The laughter drained from Nedjelko’s face. ‘Gavrilo and Trifko might see theirs,’ he said, looking suddenly very young and very vulnerable, ‘but I doubt if I will see mine.’
‘But why not?’ Natalie was bewildered. She couldn’t imagine being away from home for months and months and not taking advantage of any opportunity for being reunited, however briefly, with her family.
‘Nedjelko’s father is an Austrian police spy,’ Trifko said dryly.
‘I’m sorry.’ Natalie’s eyes were wide with shock. ‘I hadn’t realized…’
‘No reason why you should have.’ Nedjelko shrugged his narrow shoulders philosophically. ‘The old ba…’
Gavrilo cleared his throat.
‘… the old devil once locked me up for three days for being rude to him. God knows what he would do if he knew I was a member of…’
Gavrilo cleared his throat again, this time loudly.
‘… a South Slav nationalist organization.’
‘I doubt if I shall visit my father either,’ Trifko said sombrely.
No-one made any comment. Trifko’s father was an Orthodox priest and there had been no contact between them since Trifko had been expelled from school for striking a teacher who had been trying to indoctrinate his class with Austro-Hungarian sympathies.
‘I’d visit my family if it were possible,’ Gavrilo said to her quietly, an odd expression in his voice, ‘but I don’t think it will be.’ He was silent for a moment or two and then he said, ‘Will you approach Prince Alexander again, Natalie? Will you tell him that there are things he needs to be told? Things that can’t be put down on paper.’
She nodded, determined to be useful to them, determined to play an active part in the dream of building a federated South Slav state.
The conversation moved on. Both Gavrilo and Trifko were high-school students, studying hard in order to graduate and they began to talk of their studies and of the differences between the Serbian and the Bosnian educational system. As they began to argue whether there was less Latin and Greek taught in Serbian schools than Bosnian schools Natalie, who had never come to grips with either subject, glanced at her watch.
It was nearly half past three. In five more minutes the family coachman would be waiting for her outside the front entrance of the Conservatoire. Reluctantly she rose to her feet.
‘I must be going,’ she said regretfully. ‘I’ll do as you ask and speak to Prince Alexander again.’
‘And King Peter,’ Trifko said suddenly. ‘He’s the one who should really be supporting us.’
‘And King Peter,’ she said, trying to keep doubt out of her voice.
She still hadn’t told Alexander that her friends were members of a militant organization so secret she hadn’t yet been told the name of it and she couldn’t quite see herself having the nerve to tell her uncle. It would be foolish, however, to make such an admittance to Trifko. If she did, she would lose all credibility.
They had all three risen to their feet with her.
‘See you when we return from Bosnia,’ Nedjelko said with his usual cheeriness.
Trifko merely shook her hand. Only Gavrilo walked with her to the door.
‘I can’t come with you back to the Conservatoire,’ he said with genuine regret. ‘There’s a lot of things to be discussed before we leave for Bosnia.’
‘When do you leave?’ For the first time she realized that she hadn’t asked him exactly what they were going to do in Bosnia. He had said their trip was a training exercise but a training exercise for what? It was too late now to ask.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said, as they stepped out on to the cobbles. He began to cough again and then said, ‘We leave in the morning.’
‘Goodbye.’ She determined that next time they met she would bring him some more cough pastilles. ‘Good luck.’
As she walked away up the narrow alley he stood watching her, a troubled expression on his olive-skinned, high cheek-boned face.
When he returned to the table Trifko said bluntly, ‘You’re too fond of that girl. If you weren’t, you would see that she’s never going to be of any real use to us.’
Gavrilo frowned slightly. He was renowned for being too committed to the nationalist cause to have time for girls. If there was a lady-killer in the group it was Nedjelko, not him.
Unaware of the role Gavrilo was mentally allotting him, Nedjelko grinned. ‘Trifko’s right. You are too fond of her.’ He began to chuckle. ‘You’d make a damned odd pair! The son of Bosnian peasants and the daughter of a Vassilovich and a Karageorgevich! Can you imagine the wedding. There would be …’
‘Shut up.’ A faint
flush of embarrassed colour had heightened Gavrilo’s cheeks. ‘I’m always happy to see Natalie because I believe she can be invaluable to us. With royal support there’s nothing we couldn’t achieve.’
‘I still don’t believe she will gain us that support,’ Trifko said obstinately. ‘I think she’s going to be far more of a liability than an asset.’
‘Trifko could be right.’ There was a slight frown on Nedjelko’s usually cheery face. ‘It was rash of you to mention our going to Bosnia. What if after our mission is completed she puts two and two together and comes up with four?’
‘She won’t.’ Gavrilo’s voice was sharply abrupt. He already knew he shouldn’t have told Natalie of the trip to Bosnia and he wasn’t enjoying having it pointed out to him by Nedjelko. ‘We’re going to be in Bosnia a month before we carry out our mission. I’ll make sure she believes we’re back in Belgrade long before then. She won’t connect us with what happens in Sarajevo. No-one will.’
Chapter Four
It was three weeks before Julian had a satisfactory pretext on which to visit the Vassilovich residence. Rumours had reached the British minister that King Peter was considering abdicating in favour of Crown Prince Alexander and as no confirmation was forthcoming from official channels the minister had decided on an unofficial approach.
‘Alexis Vassilovich will know,’ he had said to Julian. ‘The King relies heavily on him for advice. Be open with him. Tell him we’ve heard the rumours and that His Majesty’s Government is anxious to know whether or not there is any substance to them. Any such change at the moment could have far-reaching consequences. We know where we are politically with Peter Karageorgevich. His son may not be such an open book. Especially where the Austrians are concerned.’
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