Then she was half afraid that the valet might take the coffee from her and she would get no further than the door of the room.
She was wondering what she should do if that happened, when there was the sound of much lighter footsteps coming up the stairs, but which had an authoritative sound about them that made her sure it was the King.
She had a quick glimpse of his broad shoulders as he went to the bedroom and, just as he was about to shut the door, Gretel came running up the stairs after him to say,
“Your Majesty!”
The King stopped and turned around.
“I have something to ask Your Majesty,” Gretel said breathlessly. “Would you like coffee or perhaps a glass of wine?”
The King seemed to consider the question.
Then he replied,
“A cup of coffee would be very acceptable.”
“I’ll fetch it immediately, Your Majesty!”
Gretel bobbed him a curtsey and ran down the stairs again and the King closed the door of the bedroom.
It seemed to Zita a long time before Gretel came up again with a tray in her hands, but actually it was only a few minutes.
Zita opened the door and took the tray from her.
“I forgot he would have his valet with him!” she whispered. Gretel raised her eyes.
“I never thought you would want to speak to him alone!”
“I may not get the chance to speak to him at all,” Zita replied, “if the valet takes the tray from me.”
Gretel understood and there was a smile on her face as she crossed the passage and knocked on the door of the King’s bedroom.
The valet opened it.
“Excuse me,” Gretel said, “but a gentleman in one of the carriages wishes to speak to you.”
“To me?” the valet questioned in surprise.
“Yes, he’s found something that he thinks has been overlooked and His Majesty might want to take with him.”
“I will see to it.”
He turned back to say,
“Excuse me, Your Majesty, but I must go downstairs.”
He passed Gretel without speaking and she winked at Zita before she followed him.
Zita drew in her breath and then, carrying the tray carefully, she walked to the open door and knocked on it.
“Your Majesty’s coffee,” she said in a soft voice.
“Bring it in,” the King replied.
She entered the room to find him standing in front of a mirror above a chest-of-drawers, brushing his hair with two ivory-back brushes with the Royal monogram on them in gold.
He was wearing the long black trousers with a red stripe down the seam, which were part of his uniform, and a white linen shirt.
It made his shoulders seem very broad and his hips very narrow and Zita, who had often seen her father brushing his hair in the same way when he was partially dressed, had always thought it made a man look exceedingly attractive.
Now, as she walked across the room, she set the tray down on a round table in the bow window.
It was where her father always had his.
Also on the tray was a plate containing some warm croissants of the type she herself had eaten and a pat of butter in a glass dish.
The King still had his back to her and, after a moment, because she was determined that he should turn round, she asked,
“Shall I pour out the coffee, Your Majesty?”
Without really thinking about it, she addressed him in his own language.
Languages had never caused any difficulty to Zita and she spoke English, French, German and Italian fluently and had also learned from her father the languages of the countries bordering Aldross, which were, he had always said, part of their blood.
They were all based on a mixture of German and Hungarian, but each had a variation that was all its own and an inflection which was particularly characteristic of its people.
The King put down his hairbrushes.
“You are obviously one of my subjects,” he said with a faint smile.
Then, as he looked at her, he was suddenly still.
She was standing in the sunshine that came through the bow window and it picked out the red in her hair, making it glow like the flames from a fire, and her skin was dazzlingly white.
Because she was excited by what she was doing, her eyes seemed to sparkle like emeralds.
For Zita too the King was a surprise, being quite different from what she had expected.
For one thing, he was better looking and far younger than he appeared in the portraits she had seen of him, but it was not merely his physical appearance that surprised her.
Because she was always intuitive about people, she could feel, as it were, vibrations coming from him that made him different, not because he was a King but because he was unlike anybody she had ever met before.
There was, she thought, something magnetic about him and, as she stared at him without really meaning to, she realised that he was staring at her in exactly the same way.
Then, as if he recovered first, the King said,
“You have not answered my question.”
For a second Zita could not remember what it was.
Then she said,
“No, I am not from your country, Your Majesty, but from Aldross.”
“But you have learnt my language?”
“It is not so very different from ours.”
“I agree there are many similarities,” he said, “but you speak it as if you have lived in Valdastien all your life, although that cannot have been very long.”
“I have never visited Your Majesty’s country, but I long to do so.”
“I hope when you do, you will not be disappointed.”
Zita thought they were speaking to each other in a very strange manner. It was almost as if the words came to their lips and yet their thoughts were elsewhere.
Then it was as if, having looked at the King, Zita could not take her eyes from his.
Because she was half afraid that he would dismiss her and she wanted to go on talking to him, she said quickly,
“Your Majesty must drink your coffee while it is hot and I hope you will try the croissants. They are delicious.”
“I am sure they are,” the King answered, “and perhaps an appreciation of good food and good wine is something our two countries share.”
“Then, as Your Majesty said to me, I hope you are not disappointed.”
As Zita spoke, she picked up the heavy coffee pot and poured the coffee into the large cup, aware as she did so that the King was watching her in a way that made her feel shy.
At the same time she was excited because she was seeing him and talking to him and even if she would never be able to do so again, at least she would have this to remember.
“What is your name?” the King asked unexpectedly.
Because she was so bemused with what was happening, Zita told the truth.
“Zita.”
Even as she spoke, she wondered frantically if she had been indiscreet.
Then she remembered that officially she was always referred to as Princess Teresa, which was her first name.
‘Zita’ was used only by the family and by the people of Aldross who lived in the vicinity of the Palace, because for them it was a term of affection.
“A pretty name,” the King observed, “for a very pretty person.”
Zita looked at him in surprise.
She could hardly believe that King Maximilian of Valdastien would flirt with the waitress of an inn.
Then she asked herself why he should not do so.
It was the sort of remark her father would have made in his jovial, friendly fashion to any pretty woman he encountered on his travels when he was thought to be incognito.
The King came nearer to the table.
“I have always believed,” he said, “that red hair was only to be found on the ladies of Hungary.”
Zita smiled.
“My grandmother was Hungarian, Your
Majesty.”
“That accounts for it,” the King remarked, as if he was pleased at having been right, “and I presume she also had green eyes?”
Zita smiled again, but did not answer and, after a moment, the King said,
“Do you like working here?”
“I have not been here long.”
“I should have thought with your looks – ” the King began.
Then he stopped as if he commanded himself to do so and, picking up the cup of coffee that Zita had poured out for him, he sipped it.
But while he did so, his eyes were still on her face.
Zita waited and thought that if she behaved correctly she should withdraw, but she wanted desperately to stay.
“How old are you?” the King asked.
“Nearly eighteen, Your Majesty.”
“And this is the first time you have been out to work?”
“It is gracious of Your Majesty to be interested.”
The King put down the cup of coffee.
“I am interested,” he said, “because I appreciate beauty and it seems to me that yours is wasted in a place like this when you – ”
Again he stopped speaking.
“When I – what, Your Majesty?” Zita prompted.
“ – when you could do a great many other things,” the King finished, “or perhaps they would spoil you and that would be a pity.”
“What other things does Your Majesty think I could do?”
As she spoke, she thought that this was a fascinating conversation to be having with a King who had no idea who she was.
It was almost as if she was talking with her father when they sought for words with which they could puzzle or perhaps confuse each other as if in a game.
“Can you dance?” the King asked.
“But of course!” Zita replied. “I can dance like a gypsy or, if Your Majesty prefers, the folk dancers of Aldross, who I imagine are very much the same as the folk-dancers you have in your own country.”
She spoke almost teasingly, as she might have spoken to her father and the King looked at her sharply before he said,
“I find you very puzzling. You speak in an educated voice and both your grammar and the way you phrase your sentences shows that you have a command of my language which I certainly did not expect to find in a – ”
He paused for the right description, but before he could speak Zita added,
“ – in a peasant!”
The King laughed.
“You don’t look like a peasant! Now speak to me in what you tell me is your own language.”
“What would Your Majesty like me to say?” Zita asked in the language of Aldross.
“It does not matter. Go on talking until I can decide something.”
She gave a little laugh.
Then because she thought it would puzzle him even more, she said in perfect Parisian French,
“Perhaps if we are entering a language contest, I should be allowed to hear how fluent Your Majesty is in the language of the gayest Capital in the world.”
The King stared at her in undisguised astonishment.
Then he responded harshly,
“Is this some joke? Who are you? An actress? Who has sent you to talk to me?”
It was a reaction she had not expected, and Zita said quickly,
“It is nothing like that. I just happen, Your Majesty, to be good at languages and I have taken the trouble to learn them.”
“Is that the truth?”
“I promise you – it is.”
She looked up at him almost pleadingly, anxious not to annoy him, not to spoil what had been a few moments of delight before he had become suspicious of her.
Her green eyes met his grey ones and then it was difficult to look away or even to remember what they were saying.
As if the King suddenly remembered that time was passing, he said,
“I want to see you again, Zita, and continue this conversation. Before I leave Aldross I will send you a message saying where we can meet.”
He paused before he added,
“I will either come here or arrange for you to come to me. Are you willing to do that?”
Zita stared at him, not knowing what to say.
Then hesitatingly, because somehow her mind would not work, she replied,
“It – might be – impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible,” the King said firmly, “and, although we will have to be very discreet, I am determined, completely determined, that we will not only meet but that you shall explain three mysteries to me.”
“What – are – they?”
“The colour of your hair, the expression in your eyes and your aptitude for languages.”
There was a mocking note in his voice, but Zita knew that he was speaking seriously.
Then before she could reply there was the sound of footsteps outside the door and the King’s valet came hurrying into the room.
“I don’t understand who sent for me, Your Majesty,” he said. “The carriages have left and, if anything’s been forgotten, there’s nothing I can do about it now.”
The King did not answer.
He was lifting his tunic off the bed and the valet hurriedly helped him into it.
“They asked me to tell Your Majesty,” the valet said as he did so, “that the carriage carrying the Grand Duke is in sight.”
“Then I must hurry,” the King replied.
As if his words awakened Zita from a dream in which it was hard to think clearly or to understand what was happening, she picked up the King’s discarded coffee cup, put it on the tray and, without saying anything, walked towards the door.
She had reached it when the King looked towards her and said almost sharply, as if it was a command,
“Do not forget what I said to you, Zita.”
“I will not forget, Your Majesty.”
She dropped him a little curtsey and, as she did so, she had no idea how extremely graceful her movement was.
Then without looking at him, but aware that he was watching her, she went from the room.
Only as she closed the door behind her was she aware that her heart was beating frantically in her breast and she felt as if she had been swimming in a rough sea.
Although it had been exhilarating, exciting and dangerous, she felt almost exhausted from the drama of it.
*
Riding home, Zita recalled everything that had happened and could hardly believe the whole scenario was not part of her imagination.
She had seen the King, she had talked to him and, incredibly, he had said that he wanted to see her again.
This was something she had not expected, but now she knew that he must forget her if only for Sophie’s sake.
Then she told herself that whatever the King might suggest to her, it must not encroach in any way on his feelings for Sophie or his courtship, if that was what he intended.
Her status in his eyes would in fact be the same as that occupied by La Belle and the other ladies of the demi-monde whom he entertained in Paris or in the Château that adjoined the Palace in Valdastien.
She thought how horrified her mother would be if she knew not only what she had done but also the manner in which the King had looked at her and spoken to her.
‘I suppose all men are the same,’ Zita thought. ‘A pretty face and they are ready to become familiar, which is something a Princess should not allow.’
At the same time she thought how very much easier it was to talk to the King as a pretty waitress than it would be at a formal dinner party.
There they would have courtiers to the right of them and courtiers to the left of them and her mother with an eagle eye watching from the far end of the table.
Then she had the strange feeling that it would be easy to talk to the King in any circumstances. It was not so much what they said, but what was left unsaid and the vibrations that linked them together.
‘That is what I felt about him,’ Zita thought to herself
as she rode back to the Palace. ‘I wonder if he felt the same about me?’
There had been no doubt that, as his eyes looked into hers, it had been impossible for her to look away and she had felt almost as if he was reaching out towards her and it was impossible to stop herself from responding.
“He is fascinating, just as I knew he would be,” she said aloud.
Pegasus pricked up his ears at the sound of her voice and she bent forward to pat the horse’s neck, saying,
“Yes, he is magnificent and at the same time unpredictable and of course attracted by any pretty face wherever he finds it.”
All the stories that she had heard about the King came rushing back to her mind.
There was not only La Belle, there were the famous beauties of le monde in Paris, as well as the ladies of the demi-monde, both of whom Madame Goutier had described to her and the actresses that the Professor had spoken about with a note in his voice that had told Zita he was not too old to be attracted by them himself.
‘The King is sublimely unconcerned,’ she thought, ‘whether they are actresses from Le Théâtre de Variétiés or waitresses at The Inn of the Golden Cross.’
She wondered what the King would feel when, having sent her a note as he had said he would, he received a reply from Gretel that Zita was not there.
She thought it would serve him right if she let him wait for her either at the inn or wherever he told her to come to him in the City.
Then she had thought that was too unkind, so instead she had told Gretel what was happening and asked her to open any note that was addressed to her.
Gretel listened wide-eyed.
“You have made a conquest of him!” she exclaimed. “But be careful, Princess, or you will be getting yourself into trouble.”
“I certainly will if Mama or Papa find out what I have been doing,” Zita agreed.
“How are they likely to?” Gretel asked. “His Majesty has the reputation of being a Don Juan, but nobody has ever heard of his taking up with the pretty waitress of an inn before!”
She thought it over before she added,
“You don’t look like one and it’s no use pretending that you do.”
“Then what do I look like?” Zita asked defiantly.
“A Princess!” Gretel retorted and they both laughed.
A King In Love Page 6