“Knowing you as I do, no doubt you receive them often. Oh! The hypocrisy is unfathomable! The insult to my person I can bear, but I can never endure the insult to the music.” Fire leapt from her eyes. “Now you know why I was apprehensive to sing for you privately, Your Highness.”
He glanced around the table, smiling to insure that others were not listening to them and, in fact, everyone appeared absorbed in their own conversations. But he knew very well that it was simply pretense—all would note their whispers and implied prior relationship with interest.
But he had no intention of leaving the conversation there. He placed one hand in front of his mouth and twirled his water glass with the other.
“And why is that, may I inquire?” he asked patiently, looking past her, which he knew would annoy her.
“You must revere Her to receive Her, Prince Alejandro.” She shook her head, her eyes large and glistening.
“Believe me, I do, Señorita Nicolette.”
“I noticed a very beautiful carpet in the hallway, Lady Ravensdale,” he remarked in a raised tone of voice to his hostess. Determined to ignore Nicolette, he caught the eye of Lady Ravensdale and brought up the only subject which came to mind. Women generally liked to speak of the decor of their homes, though he considered that he had to tread carefully not to imply that he found anything amiss in this unusual style of home.
“I remarked it also,” added Esteban, across from him. “The design was very intricate. What is its origin?”
“The carpet was woven in Tibet.” Lady Ravensdale beamed. “The background flower is the chrysanthemum, which confers honor. No doubt you know that brocade was more prized than gold during the time of the Silk Road and was therefore an effective bribe with tribal lords to keep the peace. Being in possession of the carpet brings friendship and harmony.”
It was difficult to picture harmony in a home where Nicolette dwelled, but Alejandro mentally applauded Lady Ravensdale for extending every effort.
“I was gratified to see the fountain in your entryway, Lady Ravensdale,” Esteban added. “It reminds me of home, though it would be tiled in bright colors in Spain.”
“There is no shortage of bright colors in this home, Señor Esteban, as I am sure you have noticed.” Lady Ravensdale laughed easily, and Alejandro could not help but be charmed by her genuine manner. “To be honest, the home is decorated in French design influenced by our years of living in a Buddhist country.”
“Few westerners know that a Buddhist temple is actually rich with color,” added Lord Ravensdale. “We have rock inlays, fountains, marble, and plants—with much color.”
“The grounds are very pleasing,” Madame Delcassé added, fluffing her bountiful skirt around herself.
“Oh, yes, I simply must know who your gardener is.” Madame Loubet smiled. “I will immediately set out to steal him away from you.”
“You cannot have her,” stated Lord Ravensdale with finality, smiling proudly. “My wife does almost all the gardening herself.”
“You can’t be serious,” remarked Madame Loubet incredulously.
“It is only a few hours per day and excellent exercise. It is wonderful sharing the outdoors with my son while he plays. And, of course, the servants assist me as needed.”
Madame Loubet and the French president’s wife looked at each other in astonishment.
“Knowing my great love of gardens, my husband found this home for me,” Lady Ravensdale continued graciously. “Sometimes we lean toward simplicity, sometimes not, but always peacefulness and warmth. I could not be happier here.”
Alejandro glanced at Nicolette. How did such a nice woman beget a demon child?
Nicolette smiled sweetly at him.
Alejandro cleared his throat and looked straight ahead. “I noticed that the entryway, though done in stonework, looked more like pebbles than geometric squares.”
“That was my design,” explained Lord Ravensdale, his expression turning noticeably somber. “It reminds me of the walk up to the Tibetan monastery.”
Lady Ravensdale took his hand, surprising at a formal dinner party. Also surprising that they sat next to each other instead of at opposite ends of the table. At least that fit the pattern—convention flew out the window with this family.
“You see, Your Highness, everything in our home has a special meaning for us,” Lady Ravensdale added softly. “And do you enjoy your home, Your Highness?”
“M–my home?” he stuttered. Was he destined to lose speech with this family?
“The palace,” encouraged Lady Ravensdale.
“Ah, the Palacio Real,” repeated Alejandro. “It serves its purpose.” There was the general hum of laughter, though it was a fact that almost nothing in the palace had any meaning to him.
“It serves its purpose?” Nicolette giggled. “Your Highness, you jest! The Palacio Real is the largest palace in all of Europe!”
“Have you seen it, Lady Nicolette?” he asked with interest.
“No, I have not had the pleasure.”
“It is magnificent,” Alejandro stated.
“Since you have expressed an interest, would you like Nicolette to give you a tour of our home after dinner, Your Highness?” asked Lady Ravensdale.
Alejandro was not so sure that he wanted to be with the hoyden unsupervised. Should he take Esteban along as his bodyguard?
Ah, well, Esteban was never far behind anyway. He was probably safe. Between the two of them, they could likely deflect any damage she would no doubt inflict. And he did have a doctor on his staff for minor cuts and abrasions. He rubbed the side of his leg involuntarily.
“That would be most enjoyable, Lady Ravensdale,” he replied stiffly.
Nicolette cast a dazzling smile upon him, but he knew very well it sprang more from self-satisfaction than from any real warmth. He looked forward to giving her a much-deserved set down, something that was clearly overlooked in her upbringing to her own detriment and to his. He longed to turn that breathtakingly beautiful smile into thoughtful reflection.
The soup was removed, and the next course was brought, a turbotin au champagne, followed by a filet de boeuf La Vallière, then a light and delicious soufflé. Nicolette conversed easily with everyone, he noted with irritation. She reserved her most meaningless and formulaic remarks for him—he supposed he should be grateful—but he found that it aggravated rather than pleased him.
“Your Highness, what do you reply when you are asked if Spain sunk the Maine?” Hamilton Bromberg, a lawyer from the Americas, interjected into his thoughts of complacency. “I would truly like to hear the definitive answer and abandon all hearsay. One acquires so much misinformation. It is marvelous to be able to go to the source for the truth.”
This question had been put to him in many forms over the past six years, with almost as much insincerity. A hush fell over the dining room, and all eyes turned to him. There was a tension in the atmosphere that could have been cut with a knife.
“Possibly this is not an appropriate venue for that conversation, Your Highness,” stated Théophile Delcassé flatly, clearly annoyed with Bromberg.
Alejandro felt the muscles in his hand tightening. He had to prepare himself for these implied attacks and reply cordially if he were to be king, though he would have very well liked to have taken Bromberg by the throat and choked that smug expression off his face.
“The Spanish Government and the sovereign ruler denied sinking the Maine.” He waved his hand to Delcassé. “There is your answer, Mr. Bromberg. Spaniards value their honor above all else and would never deface it with lies.”
“Interesting. President Roosevelt said—quite forcefully, in fact—that the Spaniards sunk the Maine,” Bromberg replied, his manner now more blatantly challenging.
“We will die to protect our honor, Señor Bromberg,” Esteban added softly. “You therefore can well imagine how insulting it is to a Spaniard to question his word.” Alejandro was surprised to see the muscles in Esteban’s face twitching
.
“Americans care about their honor as well, Prince,” Bromberg retorted.
“Of course,” intonated Alejandro with a polite nod.
Alejandro noted that Lady Ravensdale frowned. He turned back to Bromberg, who appeared pleased with himself. Six years ago, no one would have dared or wished to speak thus to Spanish royalty. But no doubt Bromberg would later boast of his rudeness with pride. Since Spain had lost the war of 1898, and thereafter lost Cuba and the Philippines, the once-great imperial power was transformed overnight into a second-ranking nation-state. He did not personally care if people sneered at Spain—all he cared about was the people of Spain and their welfare—but every contact was potentially important.
“How could President Roosevelt have known?” inquired Alejandro politely, though this interchange tested all of his control.
“Excuse me?” demanded Bromberg.
“Theodore Roosevelt is a brave and honest man who lives by his convictions, an impulsive and energetic man, but he is not omniscient. How could he have known, Mr. Bromberg?” Alejandro shrugged. “The truth of the matter is that, between 1895 and 1898, the United States Navy itself experienced thirteen ship fires caused by spontaneous combustion. Numerous American personnel, including naval officers, explosive experts, nautical engineers, and ship architects, testified to reporters the very unpopular opinion in opposition to their own president that it was their belief that a spontaneous combustion in the coal bunkers—an accident—had very likely destroyed the Maine.”
“Coal-bunker fires are notoriously treacherous,” Dr. Stanton agreed. “An undetected fire could have heated the bulkhead, which separates the coal from the powder. The result would be an explosion. Alternatively, the explanation that Spain set an underwater mine beneath the Maine is far less plausible. It is scientifically unlikely that an underwater mine could have set off the Maine’s munitions in the shallow water which moored the Maine.”
“I know that you wish to believe your American hero, Mr. Bromberg—and I respect him myself—but, if my word is not good enough for you, do not these facts at least raise the possibility of Spanish innocence in this matter?” Alejandro smiled.
“And yet it is an undisputed fact that the United States Navy sunk the Spanish fleet at Cavite and Santiago de Cuba, a deliberate retaliation for a probable accident,” remarked Lady Elaina with unabashed clarity. Alejandro could well see why she was a renowned political hostess. He glanced at Nicolette, wondering what she was thinking. His sudden concern for her opinion struck him as odd.
“And yet,” noted Prime Minister Combes, “I do not support the Spanish position either. Forgive me, Your Highness, but to go to war against one of the world’s leading naval powers, without the backing of a single ally, was unwise.”
Alejandro thought so as well, but he could not very well be expected to criticize his king and father. His composure remained unchanged.
“No doubt those in power knew they could not win before they went to war with the Americans,” remarked Nicolette matter-of-factly, moving a piece of beef onto her fork.
Alejandro turned and stared at her, red flowers peeking out from behind her ear. He was astonished at her observation. The truth was that the politicians and the monarchy had well known that it was a war that could not be won and had yet used every tool at their disposal to incite the general population to support the war with patriotic fervor.
But how could Lady Nicolette have an inkling of this?
There were mutterings with some light laughter, but he noted that Nicolette was nonplussed.
“You intrigue me, Lady Nicolette,” Alejandro remarked sardonically. “You think that Spain went to war with the Americans knowing that She would lose?” Again there was a murmur of disbelief. He bestowed his haughtiest look upon her. He wanted to see if she would wilt under his stare.
She did not.
“How could the government not have known?” Nicolette asked rhetorically, directing her eyes unabashedly to him. “I knew. Everyone here knew.”
“The conditions were not favorable,” agreed President Loubet, “and Spain’s military was not on par with the Americans’.”
“Those in power were well aware of that fact, I have no doubt.” Nicolette nodded.
“Then why did Spain go to war, Lady Nicolette?” asked Alejandro without expression.
“You answered that question yourself, Your Highness.” A slow smile came to her lips.
“Did I?”
“Honor.”
“I see.”
“Why does anyone go to war?” she quizzed him.
“Pride, revenge, acquisition. On rare occasion, defense,” stated Lord Ravensdale.
“I see your point, Nicolette. In this case, Spain could not concede defeat to the Americans without a fight,” added Lady Elaina. “To turn and run with one’s tail between one’s legs—or so it appeared to Spain’s politicians—was unacceptable.”
“The politicians’ reputations and their honor, and more importantly their paid governmental positions, might thus be salvaged. And at no personal cost to themselves.” Nicolette shrugged, taking another bite of filet de boeuf La Vallière.
“An interesting theory, Lady Nicolette,” he remarked in his most flippant tones. “You think that the political elite knowingly sacrificed the lives of brave soldiers to save face?”
“And for personal gain,” Lord Ravensdale added.
“And yet, I hold the Spanish people accountable as well,” Nicolette added thoughtfully.
“How good of you to relegate the blame.”
“For allowing their elected officials to fan their vainglory,” Nicolette continued as if he had agreed wholeheartedly with her in the regal manner he had grown to expect from her. “How can it ever be right to kill in order to heighten national pride?”
“To take a life in order that one might elevate one’s mood for a moment or two,” reflected Lord Ravensdale.
“This is precisely the instance when a monarch can rule better than a politician,” Théophile Delcassé interjected, nodding to Alejandro. “There is no future election to be won. A monarch can choose the right course of action according to his conscience.”
Émile Combes raised his eyebrows in perceivable discomfort.
“I realize that you were not the king, Prince Alejandro.” Nicolette studied him intently. “…but I wonder how you might have proceeded.”
“You cannot expect me to second-guess my king, Lady Nicolette. In addition, there were many players outside of the monarchy, not least of all the Americans, who are likewise characterized by nationalism, an antagonistic foreign policy, and separatism. We have that in common with the Americans.” He nodded to Mr. Bromberg. “I know that you will forgive my plain speaking, Mr. Bromberg, in light of your own.”
“I stand behind President Roosevelt,” Bromberg grunted as he stroked his moustache.
“And I my king. I understand your feeling and commend your loyalty, Mr. Bromberg. We Spaniards are a fiercely loyal people as well,” Alejandro replied, dabbing his mouth with his handkerchief. “On the other hand, I, personally, can admire a great man without viewing him as a god. It is always a mistake to make one’s heroes divine.”
“Mr. Woodford, the American diplomat to Spain during the crisis, was equally naive,” added Théophile Delcassé. “Woodford never comprehended the extent of Spanish patriotism or understood its implications.”
“Woodford had no knowledge of Spanish and was inexperienced in diplomacy. He was wholly unqualified for the job,” muttered Lord Ravensdale nonchalantly. He was clearly accustomed to speaking the truth as he saw it, a strange quality in a diplomat, Alejandro observed with interest. The entire family interested him and had from the instant of seeing Nicolette, he had to admit to himself.
“There truly is a difference in cultures, which must be understood to produce successful alliances,” Lady Ravensdale noted softly, as if she were reading his mind.
Alejandro was momentarily engulfed by t
he aroma of dark French coffee, vanilla, and caramel, as crème brûlée and fresh raspberries were set before them.
“Indeed,” agreed Esteban, nodding to Lady Ravensdale, his eyes suddenly softened. “Lady Nicolette was correct in her assessment. Many outside of Spain do not comprehend that Spaniards would die, would risk everything, would even enter a war they expected to lose in order to defend their national honor.”
“This is why it is so insulting to a Spaniard to insinuate that he would lie.” Alejandro smiled at Mr. Bromberg.
“The Cubans suffered terribly.” Nicolette shook her head in disapproval. “How can all this philosophical banter ever be more important than the lives of real people?” she asked pointedly. There was a general murmur among the guests.
“True, Lady Nicolette,” Alejandro agreed softly, turning his spoon through the creamy custard as if it engrossed him. “It is always the people who matter. And the Cuban people were my people as well.” Inflicting suffering on one’s own people could never be justified. But he could not say it. Without exception, any criticism of the king would show up in Bromberg’s newspaper the next day. Alejandro shut his eyes briefly, feeling as if his heart would break and hating himself for his silence.
He wished he had been king. He would have taken different steps early on. All the funds that were needed for education and agriculture—for the Spanish people—used for a pointless war to reelect politicians. And the lives lost.
To hell with honor. He saw no honor in killing one’s own people to impress outsiders.
“It was at a great cost to Spain on every level,” Esteban stated quietly. “Does anyone here know the lives lost? Lady Elaina, I’m sure you know?”
“Thirty-six hundred on the side of the Americans,” Mr. Bromberg offered abruptly.
“And over fifty-five thousand Spaniards,” stated Lady Elaina.
“Fifty-five thousand!” Madame Loubet was noticeably shaken. “You can’t be serious!”
“Most were lost to disease,” Alejandro explained quietly. “Malaria and dysentery.”
“May their souls rest in peace. Let us toast to the nobility of the Spanish people.” Lord Ravensdale stood and raised his glass with feeling, nodding to Mr. Bromberg. “And to the loyalty of the Americans.”
The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren [Daughters of the Empire 2] (BookStrand Publishing Romance) Page 20