Coronets and Steel (17 page)

“
He
was Daniel Atelier? But he couldn’t be!”

He plucked the forgotten Ruli cigarette out of my fingers, and flicked it spinning into an ashtray stand before it could burn me. “Let’s get out of here.”

H
E DROVE UP to the palisades overlooking the sea, pulled over to the side of the road, and parked. We were alone there along the barren road, us and the rocky plateau. Below us the sea, above the clear night sky.

“You have a right to know the whole story, but I did not want to be the one to tell you,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Because, under the circumstances, everything I tell you seems to worsen the personal consequences.”

I shot back with instant hostility, “My mother and I can handle the consequences of the truth. And it’s no one else’s business.”

Alec showed no reaction at all. He was staring out through the windshield at the bright stars glimmering peacefully in the sky, the distant fairylike twinkle of boats and buildings along the shore.

I got a grip on my temper. “I’m sorry I snapped. It’s so—so disturbing. My grandmother’s life—so awful. So . . . Please go on.”

He was silent a few seconds longer, then said, “When Princess Lily renounced her title she told her father if she could not marry the man she had chosen she would not marry anyone, and she stayed true to her promise.”

As usual, all the implications were slow to hit me. I said, “So he followed her to Vienna, is that it?”

“He took her there, and found her a place to live. He visited her in secret afterward, though not often, as the war made it increasingly difficult to travel.”

“But what about Princess Rose, Gran’s twin?”

“He married her. No difficulties, as far as Lily was concerned: when she left the country she told Armandros henceforth to leave mention of Dobrenica, its affairs, and its people back in Dobrenica. She intended to make a new life, which meant severing the old. This gave him carte blanche to do what he wanted.”

“And so he did, and didn’t get caught. What a sleazebag,” I fumed. “I take it the old—ah, the king gave Rose permission to marry him?”

“No. They married first, then came to the king begging for forgiveness. It was well managed by her family.”

“And
she
wasn’t disinherited?”

“From the title, yes. That was passed to my father, as I told you.”

“So Rose had a daughter, who was not a crown princess.”

“Elisabeth Aurelia. Her nickname is Sisi—”

“Which is the nickname of Emperor Franz Joseph’s wife. I know that.”

“The nickname was chosen to remind the world that Sisi was, or so they thought, the last descendent of the twin princesses.”

“Yeah, a political boost there, eh? But she’s a von Mecklundburg, not a Dsaret. And I suppose Sisi’s son, Ruli’s brother, what’s his name again, is another Armandros—”

“No. The von Mecklundburg heir always has a double first name, beginning with Karl, in honor of the emperor who first granted them their title. He was born Karl-Anton, but he’s Tony to everyone except his mother, who is a stickler for formality.”

“Okay, got that.”

“Armandros was a second son, heir to his brother, who had no sons. They both died in the war. Sisi married the second cousin who inherited the title, so she is now the Duchess of Riev Dhiavilyi. Her son Tony is now heir, which makes him Count Karl-Anton.”

“Okay. And you two Ysvorods—there are only two of you?—are both Marius Alexander, but senior is Milo and junior is Alec. Got it.”

“Right. I should mention that Princess Rose, your grandmother’s twin, died three months after my Aunt Sisi’s birth.”

I gasped. “How awful! What happened?”

“It was winter, she was ill, and rumor had it she became terribly thin by refusing to eat so she could resume court life at Christmas in a new Chanel gown. As soon as Sisi was born, Rose had her packed off to the Eyrie on Devil’s Mountain, where she remained until the family decamped to England. In the people’s eyes, this cemented the fact that Sisi was a von Mecklundburg, not a Dsaret.”

“So she was definitely not a princess.”

“Right. Not long after he abdicated, the king died. My father never had an official coronation, because by then the Germans held the country, but he’s generally regarded as king.”

“Generally. Not universally?”

“Can you guess which family doesn’t?”

He had turned to face me, his right arm stretched along the back of the seat, the signet glinting with cool blue light inches from my tense arm, his palm turned politely away. “That portrait you described was taken of Armandros in the old Dobreni uniform, as I said. There’s a bigger portrait hanging in the family castle on Devil’s Mountain. The print that your grandmother has was probably made from the photograph hanging in the memorial museum in Riev. Armandros was one of the leaders of the Dobreni freedom fighters, young as he was.”

“So he ran back and forth between Gran and Rose?”

“Flew back and forth. He’d learned to pilot after he won a small plane in a card game. He ran a series of bombing raids against the Germans, desperately and brilliantly risky, considering how little we had in the way of materiel and trained men. But in the last days when the Germans had been beaten back, it seemed our world was about to end and the coup de grace was to be delivered by the advancing Russians—with the collusion of the Allies. Much as he hated the Third Reich, he felt that the Nazis were finished. At that point Germany was fighting for its existence. He joined an offshoot of the Ostlegionen under the name Mecklund, in hopes of slowing the Russian advance, until he was shot down.”

“So I was right about the Ostlegionen.”

“But wrong about his name. It was right before he made this desperate gesture that he finally communicated with my father, telling him that your grandmother had parted with him, and gave him her address. He knew he’d never come back alive. Maybe he didn’t intend to.”

“
She
dumped him?
Gran?
I don’t believe it!”

“They disagreed on ideological grounds. He saw a distinction between Germany and Nazism, and further that the Soviets under Stalin were now the biggest threat to all of Europe, not only to Dobrenica. After Rose died, he couldn’t get back across Europe to Paris. So he went to the one person he knew could be relied on to take care of Lily. Four months later Armandros was dead.”

“I see,” I said, but I didn’t yet, not at all. “And so, by the time your father got around to checking—”

The even voice did not increase in volume or sharpen in tone, nevertheless Alec cut across my sarcasm. “He was in the midst of the battle at home, and by the time he made it across the ruins of Europe to look for her, he found the rue de l’Atelier had been bombed, and the people were beginning to deal with the aftermath.”

The facts began to make sense, puzzle pieces drawing slowly together. But the reasons, the motivations still were a mystery.

“He tracked down a few dazed former inhabitants, none of whom could account for Madam von Mecklundburg and her daughter. People shrugged, said that they must have been among the casualties, if there was no sign of them. He searched for several weeks, until forced to return to his work at home. There were no leads whatsoever, and so he was forced to accept that she was dead.”

“That kinda goes with what Mom remembers about Paris,” I said, feeling chilled to the bone as images fled through my mind, memories of photographs I’d seen of Europe in ruins—followed by memory of Gran’s quiet face. “So, my grandmother never knew about Rose dying?”

“All I can tell you is that she never communicated with anyone in Dobrenica again.”

“But what about the name Daniel Atelier? She would not have made that up. It doesn’t sound like her at all.”

“The flat your grandmother first moved to was on the rue de l’Atelier. She must have adopted the name when she fled France, which helps explain how they disappeared. They had lived in Vienna, then in Paris, under the name von Mecklundburg.” The light, careful voice finished, “The name Daniel probably was adapted from Danilov, Armandros’s second name.”

“I wonder how she managed to get on the refugee ship,” I said.

“I suspect the pearl gown your mother was photographed in as a baby was the Dsaret baptismal dress,” Alec said slowly. Like he was feeling his way. “For two or three generations the heir had been baptized in it. It vanished when your grandmother did—she must have felt it was hers, but sold it to fund the journey to the United States.” Again that tone, like he was waiting for a clue from me.

I took a deep breath. “So he was a bigamist and never got caught. Poor Gran!”

“There was no legal marriage,” he said, so carefully his tone had flattened. Like he was hiding his emotions. Judgment? Against Gran? “Armandros confessed as much before he went off to be killed.”

“I don’t believe it.” I smacked the dashboard. “I can’t. She wouldn’t have. Not Gran, not in those days—not at
any
time. Even if the guy she married was a louse and a slimebag, Gran is too old-fashioned. She’d never do one thing and preach another. I have no proof, obviously—” I faltered as something flickered in my mind, too quick to catch. I shook my head, fighting a tide of grief. “Not Gran. Never.”

Alec was still and silent. The roof of the car cast a shadow over his face so I could not see his expression; starlight glowing softly on his shirt showed not even the shifting of breathing. He could have been a statue.

Hot rage replaced the cold, sickening sense of grief. I have never cared who is with whom or how many, when, or how, but Gran’s honor had become my honor. I said through gritted teeth, “At least she had the courage of her convictions.”

Leaning forward to start the engine, he answered, “A quality to be admired.” His tone was mild. “I think we’re done.”

Because he knew he was right, and I was wrong.
Gran
was wrong.

I swept on rudely, “It’s something you’d do well to learn.”

And as he did not respond, I added angrily, “All this stuff today, yesterday . . . not that I didn’t have fun, but it means nothing to me. But it’s disgusting because it doesn’t mean anything to you, either. You’re not into Ruli, you’re into politics. She’s a thing to you, a marker on your royal chessboard. Even if all Gran’s high and mighty relations call my mother a bastard, at least Gran chose love over rank or wealth or titles!”

Alec drove in silence, his hands steady on the wheel.

“At least you could admit that I’m right,” I said at last.

“But you’re not right,” he replied, still in that flat, even voice. “Unlike you, I acknowledge the existence of other points of view. And I don’t want to argue.”

“Points of view? How can you say there’s another point of view besides honesty? And living up to one’s convictions?”

“Because, if you will have it, ‘honesty’ for one person is ‘selfishness’ for another.”

“Selfishness?”

“I’m glad your grandmother found a life of contentment with your mother and father and you. Glad you admire her excellent qualities. But under no circumstances would I want to adopt her convictions for my own.”

“Honor? Being true to her vows?”

“I’ve no desire to emulate someone who in a time of impending crisis, when strength and unity were especially required, put personal inclination above duty.”

I said slowly, “Even if you say politics are stupid, you put it—them, I mean—above everything.”

“I put Dobrenica above everything,” he said, “and therefore I get trapped in politics. Have you decided whether you would like to visit the Greek isles, or Italy, or perhaps a Mediterranean cruise?” Invincibly polite as usual.

“Any of ’em,” I said, my mind two exchanges back and floundering, as I struggled to fight back the anger.

“I think an early and quiet departure tomorrow will finish the business, then,” he said pleasantly. “And I wish to thank you for—”

“You don’t have to take me to Dubrovnik.” Hearing how rude my words came out I stuttered, “I mean, you must have stuff to do with whatever you planned next, and I am used to taking care of myself.”

He stated quietly, “Emilio will take you there, and he will see you comfortably established on the ship you choose.”

I was too upset to argue.

As he pulled into the parking lot, he said, “Since it is unlikely that we’ll meet again, I want to thank you for your help, and I’m sorry I handled things so badly in telling you about—”

Hot tears blurred my vision. I fumbled in the handbag and pulled out the gold case and lighter. “Here,” I cut in, and slapped the smoking stuff down onto the seat between us. “Give that to Ruli as a wedding present from me.”

I pulled open my car door, slid out, and went straight up to my room.

I cried hard, washed my face, then dropped flat on the bed, exhausted, bewildered, angry, sad. Sleep was beyond me. My thoughts had splintered like a jigsaw puzzle, and the wherewithal to identify the pieces and fit them together had disappeared.