“Alejandro, you listen to me. We have been given a great trust. I will not bear the humiliation of having my name go down in history as the ruler who lost the throne. If you let that happen, you will prove to me that you are not worthy of the Bonifácio name. Do you understand me, Alejandro?”
“Yes, Poppy.” Alejandro nodded, his words barely audible.
“Alejandro, remember that, above all, the monarchy must be preserved.” King Don Bartolomé observed his son swaying and turning red. He frowned. The boy must perform his role. Everything depended on that. He placed his face close to his son’s and boomed, “The Bonifácio family is the monarchy. If the monarchy dies, your family dies. If you do not do as I say, Alejandro, you will have destroyed us all.”
A tear escaped from the boy’s eye, which infuriated the king. “Do not cry before me!” he growled between clenched teeth.
Alejandro made no sound, but he nodded. As King Don Bartolomé observed the flash of determination that crossed his son’s face, his pulse slowed down a bit. As he prepared to send his precious child away to school, he felt hope rather than regret. The thought of not ruling terrified King Don Bartolomé. He was supposed to rule. Anything else was unfathomable. He studied his oldest son and never considered what his son might need.
He might rule, but his son would serve.
Chapter Three
You think to hold it, it avoids you
You think to avoid it, it holds you
Love is the child of the Bohemian
It has never known any law
—Georges Bizet, Carmen
A celestial three-tiered crystal chandelier sparkling like a pirate’s treasure hung from the magnificently painted domed ceiling. Seeking to both steady himself and to escape anywhere his mind would take him, his eyes took refuge in the depiction of Mozart’s The Magic Flute through endless glistening pieces of crystal. The dancing chandelier lights merged with Prelude to the Afternoon of the Faun in white, Romeo and Juliet in green, Firebird in red, Giselle in yellow, and Swan Lake in ice blue, absorbing all the colors in a beauty so intense he could only be in heaven.
Luring him in, the sharpened points suddenly turned toward him, their infinite beauty transformed into a deadly weapon headed straight for his heart.
Prince Alejandro de Bonifácio dug his toe into his shoe as he considered his new home, El Anselmo, from the front porch. It was a magnificent Mediterranean-style villa forty miles from Madrid. The grounds were like something out of a picture book with horse stables, a forest with climbing trees intersected by a river, a swimming lake stocked with fish, and a sky brimming with stars which seemed to go on forever.
He would have lived in a shack if it meant being reunited with his family.
His heart was aching and his head throbbing in struggling to decipher his father’s reasoning. Alejandro knew that he was somehow at the center of all these plans at the same time he was …invisible.
His classes were shared with a small group of boys—the son of an archdeacon, a vineyard owner’s son, a banker’s firstborn, the heir to a textile mill, a labor leader’s son, and an older royal cousin who seemed to resent him.
Alejandro had been determined to make friends, and he had, but they could not replace his mummy and poppy—who rarely telephoned or wrote—nor his brothers and sisters.
It was like they were gone forever.
Staring at the sky, he searched for some answer in the twinkling of the stars. It was as if they were speaking to him but he couldn’t hear them.
Just as he spoke and no one heard him. So strange. Like he was not there at the same time everyone was pushing him from every direction, wanting something from him. How could he be so important to everyone and not matter to anyone?
Alejandro bit his lip. He thought of his brothers and sisters who were allowed to live with his mummy and poppy and each other. He would have given anything in the world not to be the heir to the throne.
But curse Spain he would not. He loved Her, he loved his family, and the two were now inseparable in his mind.
Alejandro’s first duty was as an altar boy at the 6:00 a.m. mass, followed by saying his allegiance with the raising of the Spanish flag. His education began in earnest after breakfast. He had a naval tutor who taught exploration, expansion, all the great war theories, and how to command at sea. He had art lessons from the famed Carbonero. Then English, Italian, French, and, of course, the dreaded mathematics.
The only recesses were the endless visitors, none of them his poppy or his mummy, and all attempting to ingratiate themselves with gifts. His favorite gift was an Andalusian stallion. He could ride and ride and pretend he was someone else. Other than that, he would have rather done without the gifts, which carried with them high expectations of conduct and endless insincere notes of thanks that must be written. He dreaded receiving yet another box of fancy chocolates.
There were, of course, sports requirements, which provided some relief from the regime, though relief was not the intent. In everything the young boys did, Alejandro knew, their goal must be perfection.
“Your Highness? Is that you?” Señor Esteban Xalvador, the fencing master and literature professor at El Anselmo, approached him in the unlit corner of the porch, his secret hiding place. His disappointment at being discovered paled before his pleasure at seeing his favorite teacher. Señor Xalvador was different. He was the best athlete among the teachers, and yet he dressed like…like…well, like no one else. It wasn’t that he was sloppy. No, the good señor was always immaculately dressed, and his suit was always pressed, so that wasn’t it.
Alejandro wrinkled his brow. Maybe Señor Xalvador looked like a stage actor? He wore a dark-black frock coat that reached the knees of his long, muscular legs, a narrow bow tie in black, and always a strangely decorative double-breasted waistcoat. Did this one have horses embroidered on it? Alejandro couldn’t tell in the darkness. Alejandro thought it might be gray striped with small red animals of some type.
He was sure that Señor Xalvador only had one suit, but his indulgence appeared to be his waistcoats. And his footwear. The young teacher had a pair of riding boots to equal his pop…the king’s. Even in the darkness Alejandro could see that Señor Xalvador’s black leather everyday shoes shone to perfection.
A pocket-watch chain trailed from Señor Xalvador’s vest to his pocket. He had short hair and a pointed beard. He looked like he should have been carrying an artist’s palette, Alejandro thought, and the reflection almost made him smile for the first time in weeks. And then his eyes moved to Señor Xalvador’s eyes. There was always a twinkle in his teacher’s eye.
Alejandro looked at the stars again. He wondered if he had ever had a twinkle in his eye.
* * * *
“Aren’t you supposed to be in your room, preparing for bed, Your Highness?” Esteban approached Alejandro slowly. “You need your rest.” He studied the boy hovering in the corner of the porch wearing a three-piece suit consisting of a coat, vest, and knee pants that were tight fitting and met high stockings worn at the knee. Not even one button of the vest was unbuttoned on the child, even at this late hour.
“Can’t you call me Alejandro, Señor Xalvador?” the prince asked, his wide eyes looking up, open to the world.
“In private, if you wish it, Your High—Alejandro.” Esteban’s heart bled for the boy as he realized in that moment that no one in the prince’s new home called him by his name. He added gently, “But only if you call me Esteban.”
“Yes, Señor Esteban,” he agreed. The boy seemed to be bracing himself for rejection. “May I ask a favor of you?”
“Of course,” Esteban replied haltingly. “It would be my pleasure, Prince Alejandro.”
Slowly Alejandro pulled an envelope from his pocket, caressing the paper with his fingers even as he hesitantly extended his arm. Esteban could see the royal seal on the back of the envelope.
“Would you…read it to me, Señor Esteban?”
Perplexed, Esteban studied the young prince�
��s hopeful face. Alejandro could read passably well in three languages.
In an instant he understood. The letter was Alejandro’s treasure, and he wanted to share it with someone.
“Certainly I will read it to you, Alejandro. I am here to serve you.”
Esteban detected a slight frown at the corner of Alejandro’s lips. “Thank you, Señor Esteban.”
“Let us read the letter in your room where the lighting is better. After that, you need your sleep, Your High—Alejandro.”
As the boy moved to rise, Esteban was reminded of how large and muscular Prince Alejandro was for his age. He never looked at the prince without feeling pride in being a Spaniard.
Alejandro was, of course, related to all European royalty, including the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, Louis XIV, and Prince Albert. Esteban studied Prince Alejandro’s tanned skin, dark-brown hair, and chocolate-brown eyes. There was no doubt about it. Despite the young prince’s French and Austrian lines, he was a Spaniard through and through.
There was some talk that King Don Bartolomé XII had actually been sired by the captain of the Royal Guard, and there was evidence in Alejandro’s appearance to support the claim. There should have actually been very little Spanish blood in the ruling king of Spain—and it was conspicuously obvious that the bloodlines were there.
It was rarely spoken of, but the crown prince’s ancestry was actually a source of pride among Spaniards. Because all royalty intermarried, the child would still have been related to all the same royal personages even if one side of his lineage had shown a particular fondness for the working classes.
Sitting on a stylized, elegant chaise rather than a large, cushy couch a child might enjoy, Esteban glanced at the furnishings in the room. Prince Alejandro’s room was appointed at great expense in heavily carved, oppressive walnut furniture. There were very few clues to indicate that a child lived here. Everything was neatly put away in drawers and closets. The only personal effects were his books, his school supplies, and pictures of his family. His pencils were lined on his desk, evenly spaced apart. There were no games or puzzles or adventure books scattered about, no pets or reptiles. No socks or balls left on the floor.
The Spanish flag was on one wall, and a crucifix was hung on the other.
Nothing appeared to be cherished in the room, and it did not appear to be much lived in.
The only object of warmth in the entire room was a stained-glass Moroccan lamp overhead, which threw various shades of light everywhere—gold, blue, red, and a rich purple.
The room smelled of furniture polish and cleanser, and Esteban rose to the window and opened it. He breathed deeply and listened to the frogs croaking in the nearby pond before returning to sit beside the prince on the uncomfortable couch. Alejandro gingerly broke the seal and smoothed open the page, running his hand across the ivory paper before he handed it to Esteban. He moved closer, whether to see the letter as he read or for the human contact, Esteban did not know. Though the child made no sound to interrupt his thoughts, Esteban sensed Prince Alejandro’s anticipation and returned his eyes to the letter in his hand.
“Your mother is well, as am I. Your brother excels in his studies. I hope that you may learn to follow his example. Your sister’s French improves,” the letter began, opening abruptly with a brief and impersonal account of each member of the family. Noticeably missing was any inquiry into Alejandro’s well-being. King Don Bartolomé ended his letter to his son with, “The future of España rests on your shoulders, Alejandro. Do not disappoint us.”
As Esteban forced the words through his lips—there was no point in trying to change the letter, as Alejandro would only read it later—he observed tears welling up in Alejandro’s eyes. The initial joyous anticipation of receiving the words penned by his father dulled until all color had drained from the boy’s face.
Esteban’s stomach twisted into a knot. He knew that he could be dismissed for not showing the proper self-negation before the prince. It was a challenge to navigate meeting the king’s dual expectations of both not pampering the boy and acknowledging the prince’s status.
The other teachers simply kept their contact with Prince Alejandro to a minimum. The path of least resistance was always safest. In this case especially—a cold but deferential aloofness carried the least chance of displeasing King Don Bartolomé. Esteban sighed as he reminded himself for the hundredth time that if he lost this choice post and was in disfavor with the king, it was highly probable he would never have a satisfactory position again.
But he was not a rock. He could not ignore that young face looking up at him despite all the warning bells reverberating in his mind. Seeing the tears in Alejandro’s eyes, Esteban put his arm around the child, offering what comfort he could.
“Prince Alejandro, you have been promised to your family’s legacy from the moment of your birth.” He attempted to smooth over that which he was powerless to change. “You belong to España. You are our crown jewel.”
“I don’t want to belong to España. I want…my poppy and mummy…”
“Alejandro, you are also your family’s treasure.”
“No.” Alejandro shook his head. “I would be with them.”
“You are being trained to rule Spain,” Esteban replied, his gaze fixed on the heir apparent.
“I could be trained in the palace.” The prince swallowed hard, as if he were trying to keep the words from surfacing, but to no avail. “It gives my father something he wants for me to live here. Something he wants more than me.”
“Hmmm…What could he possibly…” Esteban considered the prince’s words, not meaning to speak out loud.
“Do you know what it is, Señor Esteban? And why it is so important?”
Esteban studied the boy. Alejandro’s intelligence continually impressed him. The prince could size up his surroundings and companions with astounding clarity. On every level of his being, he was astute and aware, reading people with an expertise that bordered on genius, had there been a way to measure such a gift.
He wondered, not for the first time, if Alejandro’s remarkable gifts were in part due to excruciating trauma. Clearly the prince had resolved on some level never again to be taken by surprise. To add political acumen to Prince Alejandro’s perceptivity would prove him a great future sovereign.
Shaking his head in self-disgust, Esteban realized that he was treating Alejandro as others did, seeing him solely in terms of his usefulness to Spain. Alejandro was the classic and ultimate example of the child who was expected to be the parent, to set aside his own needs and to lead the family while the parents behaved as children. Only, in this extreme case, Alejandro de Bonifácio was expected to be not only the head of his family but the head of his country.
And the truth was that Spain badly needed Alejandro. He might be Her only hope.
“Alejandro, do you know that I love you?” Esteban asked.
Abruptly Alejandro looked up, his eyes shining and his expression hopeful. He shook his head in the negative.
“I do. Even though I have only known you these few months, you are like a cherished son to me.”
Alejandro watched him closely, as if everything he wanted in the world were suddenly in Esteban Xalvador.
“But I cannot spend all my time with you, though I would like to. You have your duty and I have mine.”
Alejandro shook as if he could no longer bear his distress.
“I wish that I could give you everything you desire, Alejandro, but it is not in my power to do so.” Esteban hugged the boy again, searching for words. “We are—all of us—dealt a hand in life which we have to play. How do we deal with the hand we are dealt? Do we respond with honor and discipline or with selfishness and slovenliness?”
Touching his heart, he then touched Alejandro’s. “Do we come from here in all that we do?”
He knew that Alejandro was much like the hatchling craving an imprint, looking out of the egg for the first stirring of life to claim, even as the king of
Spain made the decision not to raise his own son. The irony was that King Don Bartolomé considered the raising of his son his most important duty. And yet it was not a duty that he undertook himself.
As Esteban directed Prince Alejandro to dress for bed, he reflected that it was terrifying to consider that the character of the man who would someday lead a great country and thereby impact the world was at this point not solidified. It was hanging by a thread, as would be the case with any eight-year-old who had been abandoned by his parents, the relationship severed in the most traumatic of methods. That this boy, who would someday hold the lives of millions of people in his hands, should have his ethics, his very nature, determined by chance, by a roll of the dice, was almost inconceivable.
And then, as if to answer Esteban’s concerns, the boy gave him a sign. Alejandro patted the older man’s hand as if to comfort him, and his lips began to form a shaky smile through his tears. “I will do my best, Señor Esteban.”
“Then you will succeed, Alejandro.” Esteban almost choked on the words. “It is time to go to sleep, querido.”
Alejandro yawned, despite his alert expression.
“What is the prayer of your heart, Alejandro?” Esteban covered Alejandro with his blankets and made the sign of the cross on the prince’s forehead. “What do you wish for, and I will pray with you.”
“The people who say bad things about me, who say that I am not strong and cannot lead, let us pray that God will enact his vengeance upon them.” Alejandro’s expression was troubled but determined.
Esteban stroked his beard. While most endeavored to insinuate themselves to the young prince, there were enough who fell on the other side of the fence, making every effort to assassinate the royal prince’s reputation.
“You must remember the exceptional person that you are, Alejandro. Brave and smart, sincere and full of empathy for others. You are the tallest and the strongest in your age group, and you apply yourself with a vengeance to all sports—in which you excel.” Prince Alejandro particularly liked fencing and horse riding, but there was no sport he could not and did not show to advantage.
The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren [Daughters of the Empire 2] (BookStrand Publishing Romance) Page 3
