“What are these dishes?” she asked. “What are these flowers on them?”
“I believe they are sweetpeas,” Lady Werta said haughtily. “Hurry and finish so we can continue our lessons.”
They were in the Lord High Chamberlain’s country house, a place of such spaciousness and grandiosity that Aria vowed to look into the minister’s finances. “I want roses on my tea dishes. Didn’t you say Princess Aria always has roses on her dishes at tea? Then if I am to be her I want roses. And I want fresh cakes. Some of these look like they were left over from the servants’ meal. Do you understand me? I want roses and fresh cakes and then I want a nap. I am tired and I must rest.”
“Yes, You
r Royal Highness,” Lady Werta said, backing out of the room.
Aria smiled to herself. It had been a while since ill temper had got her what she wanted.
She made up for lost time. For the next twenty-four hours she ran Lady Werta’s legs off. There was nothing she didn’t complain of. If it was food, it was too hot or too cold or she didn’t like it. Clothes had to be remade. The Lord High Chamberlain lit a cigarette in her presence and she sent him away with his ears ringing.
“She’s doing better, isn’t she?” the Lord High Chamberlain said in Lanconian.
“In a manner of speaking,” Lady Werta said, pushing a stray tendril of hair out of her eyes. “She is almost as arrogant as the real princess.”
“Shall we introduce her into the family?”
“Tonight. People are beginning to ask me where she is. Have you heard anything about the ransom?”
“They want millions,” the Lord High Chamberlain said. “I do not know how we can raise it.”
“Is His Majesty well? No one has told him yet of the kidnapping?”
“He’s at his hunting lodge. As innocent as a child, although it’s been difficult to keep the secret from him. He’s demanding to see his granddaughter. Princess Eugenia is with him now.”
Lady Werta sighed. “We’ll have to ready her. The king is getting old. I hope he won’t see through the farce. We should be grateful Princess Aria is such a cold woman. No one will miss her lack of warmth.”
Aria listened to this stiffly. She hadn’t been cold in America. “You are very rude to speak a language in front of me that I do not understand,” she said angrily. “Now come and show me these photographs again. Who is at the palace now?”
The oldest part of the Lanconian palace had been built in the thirteenth century by Rowan the Bold. It was a magnificent structure of massive stone blocks, a fortress as strong as the ruler who built it, situated on land that fell away on three sides, the fourth side a gentle slope that in the fourteenth century was used for Hager the Hated’s many public executions. A small river flowed at the bottom of the southeast slope and ran down to the town that the palace overlooked—and dominated.
In 1664 Anwen, the great lover of art, covered the old stone walls, enlarged the palace, and made it look like a very long, very large six-story Italian villa. The old castle was the east wing, with a new, larger central block and a new, matching west wing. At an expense that depleted the Lanconian treasuries, he imported a rare yellow sandstone from Italy for the facade.
In 1760, Princess Bansada, the wife of the king’s fourth son, decided to do something with the grounds after overhearing a derogatory remark by an English duchess. She managed to put the kingdom in debt once again, but she made a splendid garden. There were a dozen hothouses that kept the palace supplied with fresh flowers at all seasons. There were formal gardens at the ends of the east and west wings, a twenty-acre wild garden, a rose garden, a man-made lake with a bridge across it that led to a ladies’ outdoor sitting room. There were three gazebos: one Chinese, one Gothic, and one made to look like a medieval ruin. There were statues everywhere, mostly of handsome young men. Someone unkindly said they were Princess Bansada’s lovers and that when her voracious appetite wore them out, she had them dipped in plaster. When Aria was an adult, she realized the statues were marble and therefore the story could not be true.
When the Lord High Chamberlain rode with Aria to the palace, it was done in great secrecy. She was veiled and swathed in heavy black cloth so that no one would recognize her. She sat in the back of the black limousine and didn’t say a word. With every turn of the wheels, she came closer to the palace and she could feel the pull of the place. It was as if her ancestors were calling her home.
The palace, so remote to some, was home to her and her eyes teared at the beauty of it, the way the sunlight lit the yellow facade, the way the mountains rose behind it. She was glad the veil hid her face and she was glad for the training she had received that kept her from showing her feelings.
The Lord High Chamberlain, who had not deigned to speak to her for the entire trip, now spoke and his tone carried contempt in it, as if he refused to believe she had any intelligence. “You must remember at all times that you are a crown princess. You are to exercise the most rigid control. You must not relax for a second, not even when you think you are alone. For a princess is never alone. A princess is protected and watched and cared for.”
He had not turned to look at her. “You are not to indulge in that despicable American custom of finding amusement in everything.”
Aria opened her mouth to speak but closed it again. Her life could benefit from a little humor. She smiled at the thought of having a jitterbug contest in the Grand Salon. Perhaps she could introduce some of the more lighthearted and frivolous American customs to her relatives who lived in the palace.
She and Julian, that is, she amended. She wondered if Julian would like to grill hamburgers by the river. She would have barbecue grills made, and instead of dressing in a long gown for dinner, they would wear blue jeans. She smiled as she thought of trying to persuade Great-Aunt Sophie to wear jeans.
“You are not listening to me!” the Lord High Chamberlain snapped.
Again, Aria bit back what she wanted to say. While she was princess, he had been the epitome of fatherly gentleness to her and all her royal family. She had, of course, heard rumors that he was not well liked by the people, but she had dismissed the complaints. He was such a sweet old gentleman that Aria couldn’t believe anyone disliked him. He had even generously refused to live in the house provided for his office. Aria had been touched, but now she had seen his country house and she understood he had other reasons for his magnanimous gesture. She vowed to look into her people’s complaints more thoroughly.
He was droning on about her deportment, her duties, her responsibilities, telling how she was to be a machine, an automaton who did nothing but sign papers and dedicate factories.
“Don’t this princess have no fun?” she asked loudly, enjoying his wince at her bad grammar. “I mean, she has a boyfriend, don’t she? When do they get together and have a giggle? You know?”
“Count Julian does not”—he almost gagged—“giggle. He is the perfect choice of a husband for Her Royal Highness. When you are with him, you will not be alone—you are never to be alone together—so your conduct must be beyond reproach.”