When she emerged from their tête-à-tête, Ella did so composed and dry-eyed. Deeply satisfied with the way she had obviously handled a tricky situation, Sergei strode to her side and put his arm around her waist. The congratulations for them continued. It was Willy’s hoydenish sister Charlotte, never seen without a cigarette in her hand, who asked the question Alicky thought the most important.
‘So how long before the wedding, Ella?’ she asked bluntly. ‘Willy won’t want to be a guest at it. You do know that, don’t you?’
‘That’s up to Willy,’ Sergei said before Ella could make a diplomatic reply. ‘And to answer your question, Charlotte, the wedding will be in six weeks’ time.’
It was an answer that pleased everyone, apart from Alicky. Happy as she was that Ella was going to marry Sergei, she most certainly wasn’t happy at the prospect of being a bridesmaid again – and especially a bridesmaid at a wedding that would, she knew, be far grander and more opulent than Vicky and Louis’s wedding had been.
‘Why so glum?’ Irène asked her.
Alicky told her.
‘I think you can stop worrying, poppet.’ Irène’s eyes were still on Willy’s brother, Heinrich, who was deep in conversation with Uncle Wales. ‘It’s going to be a huge Russian Orthodox affair, and I’m fairly sure there will be no Protestant bridesmaids in attendance. In fact there may not be any bridesmaids at all. Russian Orthodox weddings are very different from Protestant weddings. All I know is that there will be lots of incense and that the ceremony will go on for hours, probably days.’ She changed the subject. ‘It’s a shame Uncle Wales put the kibosh on Eddy and Georgie being here today. According to Toria, he simply refused to allow them to take time off from their studies.’
‘Studies?’
As Alicky looked blank, Irène said helpfully, ‘Eddy is at Trinity College, Cambridge, and Georgie is training to be an officer at the Royal Naval College, Greenwich.’
Apart from Maudie, Alicky wasn’t much interested in her Wales cousins. Nor was she much interested in having a horde of her relatives telling her how much she had grown, and how she had to stop blushing with shyness whenever she was the focus of attention.
She was just about to slide away and feed her rabbit when Vicky marched up to them, not looking at all like the radiant bride of a little while ago. ‘Papa is nowhere to be found,’ she said tautly to Irène. ‘I’ve got the most dreadful feeling that he’s gone to ask Alexandrine to join us and that, when she has, he’s going to announce their engagement.’
‘In front of Granny Queen – and after the way she reacted to news of Ella’s engagement to Sergei?’ Irène was disbelieving. ‘I don’t think so, Vicky. Not even Papa could be so rash.’
‘Let’s hope he isn’t, but he isn’t circulating among the family and I think we need to go in search of him. You check out the east wing of the palace, and take Ella with you. I’ll round up Ernie and do a search of the west wing.’
Still without a word to Alicky, they set off in different directions.
Alicky hesitated, but only for a moment. And then, not wanting to be left out of anything interesting, she set off at a brisk trot in the same direction Vicky had taken.
By now, with the wedding breakfast over, relatives were gathered in little clusters all over the palace, catching up on gossip, exchanging titbits of scandal, discussing how odd it was that Ella should have accepted a proposal from the stern and uncompromising Sergei, when it was well known that she had turned down proposals from both Eddy and Willy. They were also speculating on what had gone on behind closed doors between the Queen and Ludwig, and between the Queen and Ella. Nowhere, though, was there a sign of their father and Alexandrine.
Forty minutes later, Irène, Ella and Alicky met up with Vicky and Ernie in the New Palace’s grand entrance hall.
‘Not a sign of either of them,’ Ernie said, tired of the exercise and impatient to get back to catching up with his Battenberg cousins. ‘And if Pa wishes to marry Madame de Kolémine, surely that’s his affair and no one else’s.’
‘Alexandrine is a divorcee,’ Irène said, annoyed by how dense her brother could be. ‘That one fact alone is enough to make Papa intending to marry her very much Granny Queen’s affair.’
‘Well, neither of them are in the palace, so I suggest we put it to the back of our minds. By now everyone will be wondering where Vicky is, so let’s continue enjoying her wedding day and forget all about Papa. He’ll put in an appearance when he’s good and ready. After all, there’s nowhere else for us to look.’
‘Yes, there is.’
As usual, everyone had been ignoring Alicky. Vicky, Ella and Irène now turned to look at her.
‘Where?’ Vicky demanded.
‘The family chapel.’
‘It’s a possibility,’ Ella said to Vicky, ‘but why would they be there?’
Even before she’d finished asking the question, the answer was obvious.
The colour left Irène’s cheeks. ‘Papa wouldn’t . . . He couldn’t . . .’
‘He’s wanted to for long enough,’ Ernie said bluntly. ‘But I can’t see a Lutheran pastor marrying him to a divorced woman, can you? If – and when – they marry, it will be a civil ceremony.’
‘A civil ceremony could still be conducted in the chapel.’ Irène looked towards Vicky.
Vicky didn’t speak. She simply hitched her floor-length wedding gown up to her knees and, with everyone following her, set off at a run towards the east wing of the palace and the chapel. They never reached it, for strolling away from it, arm-in-arm, were their father and Alexandrine. Their glow of happiness, and the bouquet Alexandrine was carrying, told them everything they needed to know.
‘Be happy for us,’ Ludwig said swiftly as they all skidded to a shocked, disbelieving halt. ‘When I knew that on Vicky and Louis’s wedding day I would be announcing Ella and Sergei’s engagement, I thought how wonderful it would be to make a hat-trick of it, by marrying Alexandrine – and because of Alexandrine being a divorcee—’
‘And of her being totally non-royal,’ Ernie interjected.
‘And because of other inconvenient difficulties,’ his father continued, ‘I thought it best that we marry as quietly and unobtrusively as possible.’
‘Quietly and unobtrusively?’ There were times when Vicky feared for her father’s sanity. ‘Papa, nearly every crowned head in Europe is at present in the palace. I’m truly happy to have Alexandrine as a stepmama, and I know Ella, Irène, Alicky and Ernie are as well, but to do so now? And when Granny Queen is here?’ Words failed her.
‘I quite appreciate what your grandmother’s reaction is likely to be, which is why I shall not be making our marriage public today. Only when the time is right – perhaps in another few weeks – will I be making an announcement. Until then, my marriage to Alexandrine is to remain a secret.’
Alicky, who had slid her hand into Alexandrine’s, said, ‘I don’t think it’s a secret you will be able to keep, Papa.’
‘And why is that, sweetheart?’ Her father smiled at her indulgently.
‘Because Ernie isn’t with us any more, and the only possible reason that he isn’t is because he has already gone to spread the news.’
Chapter Seven
MAY 1884, FLORENCE
The Villa I Cedri stood within sight of the River Arno, only a short walk from Florence’s medieval Porta San Niccolò gate. It was an ancient house, its flat roof prettily tiled, its pale-yellow walls covered in a riot of sweet-smelling bougainvillea. May was seated in its garden – a garden planted in the English manner with cedars and magnolias – with the letter that had arrived for her that morning lying still unopened on her lap.
Having now been in Italy for a little over eight months any letter keeping her in touch with family events was eagerly received. From the postmark, she knew the letter was from Alicky and had purposely delayed opening it until she could do so in privacy. With the garden to herself, that moment had now arrived and, in considerable an
ticipation, she opened it:
Dearest Kindred Spirit,
I do wish you had been a guest at Vicky’s wedding to Louis, for then I wouldn’t have to be writing such a long letter telling you all about Papa’s wedding to Madame de Kolémine and of the uproar that followed it, although there would have been no uproar at all, if Ernie hadn’t spilt the beans. However, he did, and it was as if the world had ended. Kindred Spirit Willy’s grandfather refused to stay another night in Darmstadt. He said he’d never heard anything more disgraceful in his life than a widower marrying on the same day, and in the same chapel, that his eldest daughter had married; and of course, being the Kaiser, when he left, all our other Hohenzollern relations left with him. Willy wasn’t there – did I mention that? His not being there was perhaps a good thing, as Papa announced Ella’s engagement to Sergei Romanov at the wedding breakfast and everyone would have been looking at Willy to see his reaction, and he would have been terribly upset and would have hated people seeing how upset he was.
Anyway, no one in Darmstadt was upset at Papa marrying Alexandrine (‘Alexandrine’ is Madame de Kolémine’s Christian name), because she’s been Papa’s special friend for a long time and we all love her – even Ernie, who spoilt things by giving away their secret (although I don’t think he realized how much of a secret it was meant to be). Once he had told one person, the news spread like wildfire and, when Granny Queen heard of what Papa had done (I think it was her lady-in-waiting, Lady Ely, who told her), Aunt Beatrice said Granny Queen was so angry that she feared for her life. What happened next was that Granny Queen instructed Uncle Wales to speak with Alexandrine and, when he did, he told her that her marriage to Papa was to be annoulled (I think that’s how it’s spelt).
An annoulled marriage means that it’s as if it’s never happened. I’m sure Papa didn’t want his marriage annoulled, but Madgie (my governess) says that Granny Queen isn’t Queen Empress for nothing and that Papa should have realized what the outcome was going to be. I’ve stopped crying now, but I cried for ages and ages after Alexandrine said goodbye to Vicky, Ella, Irène and me – and she had to say goodbye. Uncle Wales was implacable about that. She didn’t say goodbye to Ernie, but I expect that was because if it hadn’t been for him, she and Papa would have been able to keep their secret for a little longer.
It’s all so sad that I can hardly bear it. The entire wedding party broke up with everyone scurrying off home (once Granny Queen’s ultimatum had been given, she left for England and Windsor, with all the Waleses in her wake). Ella’s wedding to Sergei is only a few weeks away and, as Granny Queen doesn’t approve of it and isn’t going to attend it, Papa’s relief is vast.
I think that’s all for now. I’ve written so much my wrist is hurting. Please write back and tell me what living in Florence is like. I miss you and I hope that although you and your mama and papa weren’t at Vicky’s wedding, that you will be at Ella and Sergei’s.
Much, much love, your Kindred Spirit Alicky xxxxxxxxx
May laid the letter down on her lap. She felt deeply sorry for Alicky’s father, but thought he should have had more sense than to believe the Queen would have approved of his marrying a divorced woman, especially when his late wife had been one of her much-loved daughters. She wondered where Madame de Kolémine was now and, wherever she was, if anyone would ever hear from her again.
Her writing case was on her knee and she took a pen from it and began writing a reply:
Dearest Alicky,
It was so nice to receive your letter, although it made me very sad to learn of the very unhappy outcome of your papa’s marriage to Madame de Kolémine. I am afraid that not all my news is good news, either, for a few weeks ago my dear papa suffered a stroke and although we hope that he is slowly beginning to recover, his left arm is still paralysed and his left leg is no good at all for walking, which is a great shame since walking in the flower-filled countryside around here had become one of his greatest pleasures.
You ask what living in Florence is like and so, starting with the Villa I Cedri, I will tell you. In English the name ‘I Cedri’ means ‘The Cedars’. It is a very old house. Miss Bianca Light, the English lady who has kindly loaned it to us, claims it was built as long ago as the fifteenth century and I like to imagine Renaissance Florentines such as Lorenzo de Medici or Donatello riding past it on their way to Lucca and Padua.
Mama entertains a great deal, and we give and are invited to lots of tennis parties and, as the weather is so blissful and we do not have to worry about rain spoiling garden tea-parties, we give and go to a lot of tea-parties. We had a lovely such tea-party when it was my seventeenth birthday.
She stopped writing and thought about her seventeenth birthday. The tea-party to celebrate it had been a great success. It had been attended by lots of the new friends that she and her parents had made since moving to Florence, and she had received some very nice presents. Her mother had raided her jewellery box and given her a pair of her diamond earrings and two of her bracelets with pearl clasps. Other presents had included a gold bangle, a beautifully hand-embroidered cushion, an exquisite hand-painted fan, a white leather book for photographs, a prettily beribboned box of chocolate-covered bonbons and a Chinese silk shawl.
Conspicuous by their absence had been presents or cards from anyone in England. In previous years Aunt Queen had always remembered her birthday, as had Aunt Alix and her Wales cousins. This year none of them had sent so much as a birthday card. Nothing could have shown her more clearly that, as an exile, she was out of sight and out of mind.
It didn’t trouble her too much that Aunt Alix had forgotten about her, or that Georgie, Toria, Looloo and Maudie had forgotten about her, but she had been hurt that Aunt Queen had forgotten her. And then there was Eddy. It wasn’t surprising, of course, that she hadn’t received a card from him. Even in past years, when Eddy had always dutifully sent her one, she had suspected it had only been because he’d been chivvied into doing so by his mother. This knowledge didn’t alter the fact that if he had sent a card – or, better still, a short letter – it would have meant an awful lot to her.
She bit her lip. It was no use thinking of what might have happened. The reality was that it hadn’t happened, and dwelling on things that hadn’t happened was pointless. She picked up her pen again:
When not playing tennis, or attending tea-parties, I visit museums and galleries – there are lots and lots of wonderful art galleries in Florence – and I accompany my mother when she takes her daily carriage ride through the city’s central park, the Cascine. I have also been busy sitting for my portrait (if you can call sitting perfectly still while someone paints a portrait of you being busy). The artist is one of the new friends that, as a family, we have made. His name is Thaddeus Jones and I am sure that if you were to meet him, you would like him. He is known to everyone as Mr Thaddy, and he is Irish.
May paused, the pen still in her hand. There was a lot more that she could write about Mr Thaddy, but a sixth sense told her it might be best if she didn’t write that he was only six years older than her, that he was terrific fun and possessed the dramatic good looks of a certain type of Irishman, having blue-black hair and ravishing blue eyes. Such a true description could, if Alicky were to share the letter with her father, be misconstrued. She didn’t want lurid rumours about the nature of her feelings for Mr Thaddy spreading from Darmstadt to Windsor and Marlborough House, and Aunt Queen telegramming her that their friendship was most unsuitable and one that had to be terminated immediately.
She chewed the corner of her lip and then, to emphasize Mr Thaddy’s respectability, wrote:
Shortly after we arrived in Florence, Mr Thaddy was introduced to Papa by the President of the English Club, and he and Papa have become great friends. Since Papa’s stroke, Mr Thaddy has been kindness itself to Papa, sitting with him and keeping him amused in a way that, under the circumstances, isn’t easy.
She then added, to make it clear that Mr Thaddy wasn’t an amateur artis
t:
He has trained both in London and in Paris. In Florence, a city famed for its art, his work is very highly regarded.
Which was true, for although the portrait he was painting of her had not been commissioned, portraits that he had been commissioned to paint included one of Russian Princess Woronzoff, wearing twelve ropes of priceless pearls, and one of Queen Natalie of Serbia, her little Pomeranian dog in her arms.
Thinking it best, May now changed the subject:
My life is now far busier than it was when I lived in England. I go to singing lessons, painting lessons, and Italian and French lessons. Thanks to my many visits to the Uffizi and Pitti galleries, I am also becoming quite knowledgeable about Italian Renaissance art and can tell a Bellini from a Botticelli at a glance. (Something that wouldn’t, I think, ever have happened if I had remained living in England.) As for the family wedding in St Petersburg, we shall sadly not be attending it, as to do so would be very costly for us and our being there would be too obviously an instance of Mama still being heedless of her expenditure – something none of us want to bring to Aunt Queen’s attention.
Her writing came to yet another halt. Certainly her parents knew of the St Petersburg wedding, for her mother had brought up the subject of how extraordinary it was that the Romanovs were uncaring of the possibility that Ella might bring her branch of the family’s bleeding disease into their bloodline. No one, of course, knew when, or if, the bleeding disease might strike, and in lots and lots of cases it never struck at all, which was presumably why Louis of Battenberg, with so much to gain from his marriage to Vicky, had thought marriage to her well worth the risk. Another reason was that neither he nor Vicky was in direct line of succession to Aunt Queen’s throne, and so if a child of theirs did inherit the disease, the tragedy would be a personal one, not a major dynastic one.
The Summer Queen Page 7
