Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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world well lost, I’d say,’ he murmured, glancing down at her. ‘This music is lovely. What is it?’
‘Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto No. 2 in C minor.’ At this moment the record came to an end, and she moved swiftly to the cabinet adjacent to the fireplace. ‘Would you like to hear the rest of it?’
‘Sure, I’d love it.’
Francesca turned the record over, started the player, and rejoined him. ‘Diana didn’t think you’d want to ski today, after the plane trip. So we’re going to have a leisurely lunch, and take it easy. But we can go for a walk later, if you like. The woods are perfectly beautiful. Come to the window and see the view from –’
She broke off as an oak door on the far wall opened and a grey-haired, middle-aged man appeared. He was dressed in green Loden trousers and a matching high-necked Bavarian jacket. ‘Gnädige Frau …’ He waited respectfully.
‘Oh Manfred, do come in, please. Victor, this is Manfred, who looks after us so well. Manfred, this is Herr Mason.’ She spoke slowly, enunciating her words with care.
‘Herr Mason’. Manfred smiled, inclined his head deferentially. ‘Velcom. Luggage iss in your suite. Ja.’ He nodded his head, still smiling. ‘I vill haff Clara unpack, iff you vill, Herr Mason. Ja?’ His English was halting, accented, but easily understandable.
‘Sure. Thanks a lot, Manfred. That’s great, terrific. Thanks again.’
Manfred inclined his head once more, his expression courteous. His kindly blue eyes settled on Francesca. ‘Die Prinzessin hat mir aufgetragen, den Champagner zu servieren.’
‘Danke schön, Manfred.’ He retreated, and Francesca said to Victor, ‘Diana’s obviously still on the ’phone, and she’s told Manfred to serve the champagne now.’
‘I sort of gathered as much. I also caught the word Prinzessin.’ He looked at her sharply. ‘Is she? Is Diana a princess?’
‘Yes. Oh gosh, didn’t I tell you?’
Victor laughed good-naturedly. ‘No, you didn’t, and it’s not the only thing you forgot, kid. What about her birthday? I wish you’d mentioned it, then I could’ve brought a gift with me from London.’
‘I feel awful about that myself. I remembered on the plane when it was too late.’ Her expression was chagrined, and she rushed on, ‘I would’ve chosen some American records. She loves those, especially anything by Frank Sinatra. I’ll make a trip into town tomorrow, whilst you’re off skiing, to buy something from us both. I think perfume is probably the best thing to get her.’
‘Aren’t there any shops where you can get the records she likes?’
Francesca shook her head, grimaced. ‘There is one shop in town, but I don’t think there’d be much choice. Anyway, I’m sure Diana’s already bought up their entire collection.’
‘Then I guess it’ll have to be perfume. Listen, about the dinner party tomorrow night. I didn’t bring a dinner jacket. I hope it isn’t formal.’
‘Oh dear, I’m sure it will be, but I’ll explain to Diana, and perhaps she can ask her friends to dress appropriately, so you won’t be embarrassed. Victor, there’s something I want to tell you. It’s about Christian –’ Francesca got no further. Manfred returned, carrying a tray of crystal flutes and a bottle of champagne. He was accompanied by a young woman holding a silver chafing dish. She was dressed in a dirndl of Loden cloth and a sweater of the same muted green under a large white apron. They walked, one after the other, across the floor to a console table, and Manfred addressed Francesca. ‘Gnädige Frau, I open, ja?’
‘Please, Manfred.’ Francesca glanced up at Victor. ‘This is Clara, Manfred’s daughter. Clara, Herr Mason.’
The girl returned Victor’s friendly greeting rather shyly, half smiled, excused herself and slipped out. Francesca stepped to the console, lifted the chafing dish lid and looked inside. ‘Wunderbar!’ She turned to Manfred, who was opening the champagne, and began to speak to him in uncertain German.
Victor searched for an ashtray, found one on a long library table behind a sofa, and stubbed out his cigarette. The table held a selection of photographs in silver frames, and he scanned them quickly, his eyes settling on one of a lovely fair-haired young woman wearing an evening gown and a diamond tiara. It had obviously been taken in the nineteen twenties or thereabouts, and he guessed it was of Francesca’s aunt, for he was instantly struck by the family resemblance. The young woman had a look of the Earl around the eyes, the same refined and chiselled features. Victor’s attention strayed to the other photographs, several snapshots of two beautiful children, apparently Diana and her brother when they were young. Placed a little apart from them was another somewhat formally posed portrait, similar to that of the young woman, this time of a darkly handsome man in a rather dated dinner jacket. Their father?
Leaning forward, Victor intensified his scrutiny. The man was exceptional looking, and there was dignity, even regality, in his bearing. However, it was not these characteristics which held his interest so completely. There was a unique quality in the face, a quality of purity, of goodness, but it was the eyes which so stunned in their impact. They were dark, expressive. Powerful, piercing eyes that compelled with their intensity and fervour. Victor stared hard at the photograph, hypnotized by the face. And he, who was only too familiar with the power of the lens and the truth it invariably revealed, thought, with a flash of perception: I am seeing the soul of this man. And it is the soul of a saint …
‘Hello!’ a strong masculine voice rang out.
Victor straightened up and swung around on his heels, and he was jolted. ‘Hello,’ he responded immediately, hoping his surprise did not show on his face. He forced a wide smile onto his mouth.
The young man who had just greeted Victor sat in a wheelchair. It was not so much the chair that startled Victor, but rather its occupant. He was the living embodiment of the man in the photograph. They might be one and the same person, except that Victor knew otherwise, knew this could not be so. Caught on film was the image of the father. Here in the flesh was the son, of that he was quite certain, and if the face he was now regarding was not the face of a saint, certainly it was one of nobility and unusual gentleness.
The young man smiled, and before Victor could make a move towards him he was propelling himself down the long stretch of Persian carpet. He did so rapidly, and surely, displaying the expertise and ease of one long acquainted with this chair.
‘Christian,’ Francesca cried and flew across to the fireplace, positioning herself next to Victor. ‘I just asked Manfred to come and find you. This is Victor.’
‘Of course it is!’ Christian said, laughing. He thrust out his hand as he came to a stop in front of Victor. ‘Welcome to Wittingenhof.’
Francesca said, ‘Victor, this is my cousin, His Highness Prince Christian Michael Alexander von Wittingen und Habst.’
‘Really, Francesca,’ Christian said quietly, ‘we don’t need the whole mouthful.’ He shook his head, as if reproving her, but his smile was fond.
‘I’m delighted to meet you,’ Victor said, also smiling, knowing her recital of the string of names and the title were solely for his benefit, after his mild chastising of a few minutes ago. He added, ‘Thanks so much for inviting me to stay with you.’
‘It’s our pleasure, believe me,’ Christian said, his English as natural and as faultless as that of his sister. ‘And do forgive me for not being here to greet you, when you first arrived. I had a surprise visit from … an old friend … of my father’s, and he stayed much longer than I expected.’
‘Please don’t apologize. Francesca looked after me very well, and I’ve been enjoying this room. It’s lovely.’
‘Thank you. Now, how about a glass of champagne? Francesca, will you do the honours, my dear?’