He savored the pleasure of studying her in detail even as he bathed in the caress of her voice. She wore a simple gold crucifix around her neck, and at her ears she wore large gold bangles. Her gown was a black raw silk with a gloriously low décolletage accented by a red rose at a bosom so shapely that an accent was unnecessary. A black lace shawl tantalized rather than covered. As his eyes moved along her legs he saw that the hem of her dress did not even reach the floor. Her ankles were fully revealed.
His lips formed a wicked smile. Revealed ankles, gold bangles, and a plunging neckline. In a culture that corseted and subdued its women, this woman was wild and untamed. But he had never had any doubt on that subject from the moment of meeting her.
“Watch yourself, Alejandro,” cautioned Valentinois smugly. “She is only playing a part.”
Is she? His eyes remained glued to the stage just as she remained intent upon pretending she was ignoring him. It was the oldest game in the book— she was only thinking of him, and her continual coy glances in his direction confirmed it.
Alejandro thought back to her confident, unabashed manner. In truth, he had thought of little else since meeting her. She had made it clear that she had no need to impress him or to gain his approval. He might choose to please her, but she would choose to please herself.
A devotion which he was certain would provide him with unequaled pleasure.
“Do you know her, Alejandro?” asked le comte de Saint-Cyr, waving a lavender glove toward the stage.
“Not precisely. But…I will. Very soon.” His eyes remained fixed on the stage as he shook his head.
“I am pained even now for her inevitable broken heart.” Le duc de Valentinois chuckled, his dark, mysterious looks in contrast to his jovial nature.
“She is…enchanting. I may have to cast her in my next novel.” Gaston Leroux watched her intently while a card slipped out of his hand unnoticed. “Her singing is somewhat disturbing at the same time it captivates.”
“Her voice is so resonant, almost as if there is an echo built into it,” Valentinois agreed, mesmerized, unusual for a man who never exhibited anything except a determination to remain in the bachelor state.
“Can you not envision her in a gondola on the lake beneath this opera house—I have seen it—casting a siren’s spell as she traverses Paris along underground waterways?” asked Leroux, transporting everyone into his imagery, reminding all that he had taken up a successful career as a novelist after squandering his fortune.
“And who will be her dark lord, her benefactor, my romantic friend?” Saint-Cyr asked. “Give her a lover as mysterious and elusive as she.”
“A phantom dark lord?” Leroux asked, barely audible.
“A crown prince, perhaps?” Valentinois asked.
“No,” Leroux replied, deep in thought. “Not dark and twisted enough.”
“That’s where you’re mistaken,” murmured Alejandro without realizing he had spoken.
“It is your turn, Alejandro. Play your card then return to your evil scheming.” Saint-Cyr shrugged and placed his card on the table.
“I am finished playing,” he replied with finality, tossing the queen of diamonds on the table.
“But you won, Alejandro,” Saint-Cyr protested.
Turning his chair to face the stage, Alejandro positioned it against the pillar, ensuring that he wouldn’t be disturbed again. It shouldn’t have been required of him, but he didn’t wish to take any chances. His bodyguard, ever watchful, cast a questioning glance toward him.
Alejandro held up his hand to stop his companion from moving toward him, and the response was immediate. Good. He was in no danger and, at any rate, could take care of himself. On at least one occasion he had saved his bodyguard’s life.
And even if the prince had been in deadly danger, he wouldn’t have cared. He had the strange compulsion to create more distance between himself and the others, as if this music were a private and necessary moment for him.
Music had always been the quickest route to his soul. As was true for many, music elicited passion, not academic treatises. It might end with discourse, but it always began with feeling. Once, as a young man, he had been lying on his deathbed in a foreign country when he had been strangely revived by beautiful music.
He never knew if it had been a strange dream, the angels singing—or both.
But this performance brought music to a new level. Singing clearly was more than a profession for her. She had surely devoted her life, her very being, to transcending barriers and becoming one with the listener through her voice. And she had succeeded. She controlled the mood of the audience.
The sound of her voice produced an ecstasy new to his existence, like a return to one’s Maker after a long sleep.
He knew that his reaction to her came from a distant, previously inaccessible corner of his heart without knowing the full extent of her reach. As she continued singing, unexpectedly her deeply impassioned vocals penetrated layers of his emotions and experiences until the music reached a forbidden memory long imprisoned.
Once surfaced, his emotions found their release.
Unaware of what was happening until it was too late, in an instant fear interjected itself into his pleasure like a starving animal released from its cage, growing in leaps and bounds. It was a train coming at him at full speed until colliding with its destination, followed by an explosion. He crashed into a pain he had never wanted to know again.
He leaned against the pillar, bracing himself so that no one would see his distress. He rarely shared his true feelings with others and certainly not his pain. He longed to escape the opera box, to remove himself from the music, but he couldn’t leave without causing notice.
In the far reaches of his memory, Alejandro recalled only one other time when he had exploded from the inside out. He not only recalled it, the terrible truth was that he began to relive it.
He had never been the same since that unholy day. Like the man who loses his legs in a war, his identity forever entwined with the worst experience of his life. He lost everything he held dear in a moment in time. In that instant, he transferred his identity, his love, his loyalty to Spain. Spain was not the instigator of the abuse, but Her existence required it. From that instant forward, in the debilitating realization of abandonment, he had bonded irrevocably with España. She who had taken everything from him was his love, his life, his soul. And his captor.
His eyes fixated on the soprano and hers on him.
He was reliving the transferal of his allegiance to Spain. He had been conditioned all his life for that moment, taught that his life was not his own, that he must sacrifice it for his country.
He closed his eyes and tried to forget. Instead, the memories came flooding in…
Chapter Two
In vain one calls
Nothing will work, neither threats nor pleading
—Georges Bizet, Carmen
It was happening all over again. Only this time he was being destroyed with a depraved recklessness, reliving his entire life in seconds. The first time he had been forever altered—shattered and recreated.
In this instance it might obliterate him.
“But I don’t wish to be king! I want to stay here with you and Mummy!” the eight-year-old prince exclaimed in astonished dismay. His eyes filled with tears as he struggled violently to hold them back.
“Have I not told you that a Bonifácio never cries before the eyes of others?” Don Bartolomé de Bonifácio XII, king of Spain, demanded. “Do not disgrace me with your tears, Alejandro!”
“What have I done, Poppy? Please don’t send me away.” Alejandro stared at his beloved poppy in disbelief and horror as a debilitating grief invaded his heart so quickly that he found it difficult to breathe.
His father was in ceremonial dress, an awe-inspiring sight in his dark-blue naval officer’s uniform. Displayed on the king’s chest were his medals, and around his neck was a most magnificent ornament, the Sovereignty of the Order o
f the Golden Fleece. Alejandro could almost see his reflection in his father’s boots, shined to perfection, only inches from his face since he stood before the king, now seated before him on a gold and red velvet throne.
“You will go where I tell you to go, Alejandro!” commanded King Don Bartolomé.
Prince Alejandro was confused—but mostly frightened. A picture of fangs and claws flashed before his face as the memory of facing a bear in the woods invaded his mind.
His teeth began to chatter and his hands to shake. He didn’t know why, but he was suddenly freezing. He clenched his teeth. He was ashamed of his fear and didn’t want his father to see it.
No! No! He had to think of something that would keep him with his family. Images and memories whirled around his head as the room began to spin.
His earliest recollections were of his father telling him that he was not only the hope for his family but the hope for his country. Alejandro carried this burden with pride, which might have crushed other children.
Now he was being told that he would be sent away to school to live apart from his beloved mummy and poppy. It had been emphasized as long as he could remember that he would be educated in the palace until military school at age sixteen. It was safer for him in the palace, and his parents wanted him near them, they had said.
“But why, Poppy? What have I done?” Desperately he determined to discover his fault. “I have completed all my studies, haven’t I, Poppy? I go to mass twice daily and say all my prayers before and after each meal. And I speak to everyone just as you taught me.” Hadn’t he stood for hours in those boring ceremonies, wanting nothing more than to sit down? Hadn’t he gone hungry while he smiled and stood in line? Hadn’t he spoken politely to the endless visitors who came to the palace?
Every minute of his day was demanding. He was never alone. He had his own physician, Master of the Hunt, Gentlemen of the Chambers, and Head of the Horse.
And he loved every moment of it. Through any test of will or extraordinary standard to be met, he had nonetheless always belonged to this family. He had a place, and it was with the royal family de Bonifácio.
Until now.
The two gold lions at the end of the king and queen’s thrones, statues which had heretofore always made his heart swell with pride, suddenly seemed to be growling at him. Quickly he glanced around the royal throne room of the Palacio Real to prove to himself that it was as it had always been—his home. “Home,” he whispered, thinking out loud.
“Alejandro, you have not been given permission to speak,” King Don Bartolomé boomed. “I will tell you now about your new school and what I expect from you. And you will listen.”
The eight-year-old crown prince of Spain felt himself going numb. Like that time he had broken his leg. He stared at his father and watched his mouth move, but he heard nothing. None of it was real. It couldn’t be real.
But he knew it was real. He must learn what he had done wrong. He must convince his poppy to let him stay. The thought of leaving his family was so terrifying, so horrible, that he wanted to explode. He would explode, he was sure.
Desperately he tried to understand. Alejandro knew that, though he loved music and especially piano and choir, he wasn’t a very good musician. Maybe that was why. He shook his head. No, Poppy had always stressed languages and military tactics. And mathematics.
“Poppy, is it because of geometry?” The blood drained from his face as the realization hit him. He tugged on his father’s velvet sleeve, the gold cord catching on his fingernails. “I promise I will improve. And, Poppy,” he added desperately, “haven’t I done exceptional in Italian, fencing, and geography? You said I had.”
“Do not”—King Don Bartolomé frowned severely, his long moustache curling up in opposition to his frown—“ever tell me what I have said or not said.”
“Poppy, just tell me,” he begged, his voice shaking, “is it because of the triangles?” Slowly he released the king’s sleeve, his eyes glued to his father’s face.
King Don Bartolomé stared at him unrelentingly. “You shall have an excellent mathematics teacher at El Anselmo, Alejandro.”
Alejandro’s hand shook violently in midair. He must not have worked hard enough, and now he would be cast out from his family because of his laziness.
“But no,” King Don Bartolomé added. “It has nothing to do with a specific subject. It has to do with the fact that you shall do as I tell you.”
Alejandro studied his father’s face as he released his breath. Poppy never lied to him. It wasn’t geometry. But it was because he had not been good enough in some way. Why else would Poppy send him away? It would have to be something terrible to do that.
He had to think. He had to think hard. He had teased his brothers and sisters, but Poppy always laughed. If his poppy had even raised an eyebrow, Alejandro would have stopped. He always followed every dictate from his father, no matter how difficult.
“But, Poppy,” Alejandro murmured, tears forming in his eyes against his will. “What did I do? Why don’t you love me anymore?”
“Do not speak such nonsense, Alejandro. This is your duty. Love is immaterial.” King Don Bartolomé glared disapprovingly at his son, waving his hand as if dismissing him with the motion.
What did Poppy mean? Love is imm…imma…what? But he knew. He took the meaning clearly from the king’s tone. The heat rose in Alejandro’s cheeks as he strove to contain his tears.
“Poppy, won’t you miss me?” He barely choked on the words, afraid to hear the answer. If his poppy’s heart was breaking like his was, he wouldn’t be able to send him away. And why was Mummy silent? She must have stopped loving him, too.
He watched his poppy’s face anxiously, and the expression the young prince saw there gripped him with pain. As the royal expression conveyed that Alejandro’s question did not warrant an answer, in an instant he knew the excruciating pain of rejection in equal measure to the love he felt for his family.
After a long pause, King Don Bartolomé deigned to reply. “It is not for me to decide what I want or don’t want,” he retorted, his eyes steely and determined. “Nor for you. Alejandro, you are the crown prince, you were born to serve your country, and you have no say in the matter. You will fulfill your destiny and be the king you were born to be.”
“I will be…king…if you wish it, Poppy.” Reluctantly he presented his best offering with every ounce of strength left to him. Barely able to speak the words, which tasted like poison on his lips, he added, “But why can’t I go to school here and live with you and Mummy? You always said…”
“I will be the judge of what is best.” The king’s expression was stern.
As he looked up, King Don Bartolomé’s large stature towering over him, Alejandro had never before been so aware of his father’s height. Under the king’s harsh and unrelenting expression, Alejandro’s hands shook as he realized the unthinkable was happening and that there was nothing he could do to stop it. With no warning and for no reason, his power was now gone. And far worse, he was no longer loved.
He suddenly felt dizzy and started to sway. He bit his lip hard in order to maintain his balance, and he wanted to cry out from the pain. But he must…he must impress his father. Maybe then he would be allowed to return home to live with his mummy and poppy.
* * * *
King Don Bartolomé studied his son. Alejandro was large for his age, with dark-brown hair, large chocolate-brown eyes, long eyelashes that were too feminine, a perpetual half grin on his face, and a sparkle in his eyes. He had a mischievous disposition, as any young man adored from birth and born to advantage would have. Any young man born a king.
He and the queen had spoiled the prince in all the wrong ways. That was at an end as of this moment. Fortunately, Alejandro was also uncommonly driven. He had an enormous amount of energy for anything that pleased him, and it pleased him to do anything that was set before him. The young prince would exert himself to excel at every task.
King Do
n Bartolomé thought with satisfaction at the brilliance of his plan. Alejandro would prove a useful tool. It was true that there were excellent reasons for Alejandro to be schooled at the palace, as he had always ordained the heir to the throne would be, in terms of the prince’s education. But there were other, more significant, factors to consider.
The sons of the “favored” societal leaders would be taught with the prince. Naturally the boys couldn’t be brought to the palace. The association with the monarchy and the impression of elitism would be too strong.
No, the prince would move among the people and be one of them. He had to be taken from the palace. Prince Alejandro would then proceed to military school at the appropriate time. He would be the people’s prince, the people’s choice, and the monarchy would be saved.
King Don Bartolomé reflected that he was the supreme ruler of a once-great imperialist country that had claimed fully one-third of the globe. It was now the year 1884, and sixty percent of Spaniards were illiterate, the country was poor, and Spain was behind other European countries in industrial advances. There was much unrest in Spain, and the country was torn between parties of the far left and the far right.
There was no middle road in Spain. Spaniards were too passionate a people to adopt a neutral position. True to his heritage, the king embraced a path.
The monarchy was threatened, and King Don Bartolomé de Bonifácio knew his greatest tool was the crown prince. Everyone was enamored of the heir to the throne. Don Bartolomé would use the prince to court desirable factions, playing one side against the other.
He stroked his moustache. Possibly a false threat to the crown prince’s life…whatever it took to keep the Spanish people behind the monarchy.
The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren [Daughters of the Empire 2] (BookStrand Publishing Romance) Page 2
