The Cruel Count (Bantam Series No. 28) (19 page)

You are here, my Beloved, and I am waiting to see You more Impatiently than I have ever waited in my whole Life. But because you are a woman, and the most beautiful and adorable woman in the World, I know You will wish to wash and change before We meet. Hurry, my Precious One, because I need You so Desperately. I am waiting and My arms are aching for You.

Miklos.

Vesta closed the letter and resisted an impulse to kiss it. Only the Count, she thought, could be so considerate, so understanding!

It was as if their minds worked in unison, so that he knew that she longed to look her best for him, to discard her travel-stained clothes and change into something in which he would admire her.

It was true also that the journey had been dusty.

There could not have been any rain in Katona for some time and when the carriage windows were open the dust from the horses’ hooves had blown in to cover everything, even her face, with a thin grey film.

The Major-domo preceded her up the stairs. Then there was a long corridor, at the end of which he opened a door.

Vesta passed by him into an attractive, but not an unusually resplendent bed-room. There was however a bath waiting for her and two smiling maids wearing the same native dress as Dorottya, but their blouses were elaborate and there was more lace on their aprons.

Vesta took off her hat and they helped her remove the green riding-habit.

Even though she was in a hurry to reach the Count, it was delightful to sink into the warm scented water of the bath and wash herself clean from the dust and the heat of the journey.

It was only when she had finished drying herself with a big bath towel on which was embroidered the Royal crown that she wondered if the Count had a dress for her to wear.

Then one of the maids brought from the wardrobe a gown she recognised.

It was one of her own, and she knew now that the Count must have managed by some magic means of his own to have her luggage brought from Jeno to Djilas.

There was no sign of her other clothes.

There was only the gown, fresh petticoats and underclothes, and a pair of white slippers besides the cobweb-thin silk stockings which had cost an exorbitant sum in Bond Street.

Vesta was just about to inquire where the rest of her luggage was, when she remembered the Count had told her not to talk to anyone, in any case she thought she knew the answer.

Once she had met the Prince, she and the Count would be going away together, perhaps to his house if he had one in Djilas, perhaps into the countryside. There would have been no point in unpacking at the Palace.

She could not help however being amused at the gown he had chosen for her, because it was the grandest of all the gowns she had in her trousseau.

It was one her mother had bought her to wear if a State ball or a Banquet was held in honour of her marriage.

Of white lace it sparkled with tiny dewdrops of diamante and had cost what had seemed to Vesta almost an astronomical sum.

“It is far too expensive, Mama!” she had protested.

“I should not like them to think in Katona that in England we are not as smart as, if not smarter than, the Parisiennes or those over-decorated aristocrats in Rome,” the Duchess had replied almost tartly.

And Vesta had liked the gown more than any of the others which had been specially designed for her.

‘Will Miklos think I look beautiful?’ she asked herself, and was sure he would.

One of the maids arranged her hair skilfully in the very latest fashion. Then her dress was pulled in to show her tiny waist and the little white satin slippers were placed on her feet.

Vesta glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and realised it was getting late in the afternoon.

She had been as quick as she could in bathing and changing, but even so it had taken time.

She thought of the Count waiting impatiently and could hardly keep still while the finishing touches were put to her hair and the flounces of her dress were pulled into place by the attentive maids.

She thanked them prettily in Katonian, then moved towards the door, which they opened for her.

Outside she found the same gold-bedecked Major-domo who had escorted her upstairs. He bowed when she appeared and preceded her down the corridor.

They walked for a long way.

It seemed to Vesta as corridor succeeded corridor that the Palace must be very big and now she realised that they were in the part of the building which contained the State Apartments.

The pictures were magnificent, as were the chandeliers. The carved gilt tables and the mirrors which decorated the walls would at any other time have evoked her admiration.

On they walked, and now at last after they had passed a crystal and gold stair-case curving magnificently into a huge marble Hall below, the Major-domo stopped and opened a door.

Vesta drew in her breath.

She had one quick glance at the comparatively small room into which she had been shown, and then she saw the Count standing alone on the other side of it.

She gave a spontaneous cry of joy which seemed to echo round the walls as she ran across the soft carpet and threw herself against him.

As his arms went round her she felt the strength of them and knew it was like reaching Heaven to be close to him again.

“My darling, my precious, I have been waiting for you for what seemed like an eternity!”

“I did not know that ... horses could travel so ... slowly,” Vesta murmured unsteadily.

Then his lips were on hers and she could only feel a rapture so intense, so wonderful, that she could think of nothing except that she was with him and they were reunited.

He kissed her until it seemed to Vesta that the room spun round her and she had melted into him so that they were but one person.

Then he raised his head and said, his voice deep with passion:

“Come, my darling.”

He took her hand in his and moving across the room opened a door opposite the one through which she had entered.

“Is ... everything all ... right?” she managed to ask.

It was hard to speak or even breathe because of her love.

“Everything is all right, my precious,” he answered and she saw the fire in his eyes.

He drew her through the doorway and she saw they were in a huge Reception Room with enormous crystal chandeliers.

The room was clear of furniture and Vesta thought at first it was completely empty, until she saw at the far end of it two gold-belaced flunkeys standing on either side of a double-door.

‘That is where the Prince is,’ she thought to herself and her fingers tightened on the Count’s.

She wanted to ask him questions, she wanted him to reassure her that they could be married. But she could not find her voice and as they reached the footman a little tremor of fear ran through her.

The Count had said it was “all right”, but would she really be free ... free to be his wife?

‘Please God,’ she prayed quickly, ‘please God ... Please!’

The footmen pulled open the doors, the Count drew her by the hand and Vesta moved forward.

There was a noise like the roar of the sea, of great waves thundering on the shore, and for a moment she could only stand still, bewildered, unable to understand, to realise what had happened.

Then she found standing in the sunshine she was not in a room as she had expected, but on a balcony.

Below her there were thousands upon thousands of faces turned upwards, flags and handkerchiefs were being waved as roar after roar came from the lips of the crowd.

It was impossible to move, impossible to do anything but stand and stare. Then Vesta heard the Count’s voice:

‘Smile, my sweet darling, smile, they are cheering you.”

A sudden thought seemed to shoot through Vesta’s mind like an arrow. She turned her head.

She had only looked at the Count’s face when she had greeted him, now for the first time she noticed he was wearing a uniform. His coat was white with gold epaulets and there was a blue ribbon across his chest.

He smiled at her.

“Already, my beloved,” he said, “they are calling you ‘the Princess of the little children’.”

Stunned, Vesta turned once again to look below.

The people were holding up their children so that she could see them. There were women with tiny babies and men with small boys or little girls perched on their shoulders.

“This is a very small country,” the Prince said quietly. “So news travels fast and my people have given you their hearts—as I have given you mine.”

His hand tightened on hers as he finished gently: “Besides before we left I told the Brigands who you were.”

As he spoke, he raised her hand to his lips, and the crowd as if appreciating the gesture cheered louder and louder until the noise of it was almost deafening.

Then with a final wave of his hand to the crowd, the Prince drew Vesta back through the curtained window and they walked hand in hand back down the big Reception Room.

A footman opened the door into an Ante-room. As it closed behind them Vesta stood very still.

The Prince released her hand and she said in a low, almost frightened tone:

“Why ... did you not ... tell... me?”

“Because I was afraid.”

“Afraid?”

He walked away from her towards the fireplace. There was no fire and it was filled with flowers. He stood with his back to her, his hands on the mantelshelf.

“I have a lot of explaining to do,” the Prince said slowly, “and there is very little time.”

Vesta did not speak and he said:

“In a few minutes we leave for the Cathedral. I shall go ahead and you will follow me. That is, if you will still marry me.”

“But why did you not tell me who ... you were?” Vesta asked.

She was suddenly afraid of the strange note in his voice, of the way he was standing with his back to her, and she still could not really believe that he was not the Count but the Prince whom she had made up her mind pot to marry.

She felt as if her legs could no longer hold her, and she sat down on the very edge of the sofa a little way behind him.

“I told you,” the Prince said in a harsh voice, “that I was a paper Prince, weak and despicable. It is true.”

He paused as if waiting for her to reply, and then he went on with an obvious effort.

“I have in fact not lied to you. Count Czako is one of my titles. Alexander is the name under which I rule, but Miklos is the name my mother always called me.”

He straightened himself but he did not turn round.

“It was my mother’s death,” he said, “which changed my whole life when I was only ten. It was then that my father decided to educate me, drill me, regiment me into the position that I would one day hold as the ruler of Katona.”

His voice was sharp as he continued.

“I am not making excuses for myself, I am only trying to describe to you the background of everything that has happened until this moment.”

He went on:

“I was brought up without friends, without anyone close to me except those chosen by my father—who toadied to keep their position, were subservient to be certain of his favour.”

He turned round to look at Vesta staring at him with wide eyes and went on:

“I told you when we were in the cave that everyone is frightened of something, and I had not the courage to confess my fear. I will tell you now. I am afraid, desperately afraid of being alone.”

“As a ... man?” Vesta questioned.

“As a man,” he repeated. “As a Prince there are always hundreds of people at my side, and in their company I feel more lonely than it is possible to explain.”

“I can understand ... that,” Vesta murmured.

“That is why,” the Prince went on in a controlled voice with very little emotion in it, “when my father died I tried to find people who would like me for myself. The war was over when he died in 1816, and I went first to Rome and then to Paris, travelling incognito with as few attendants as possible. It was in Paris I met Ziileyha Bamir.”

Vesta drew in her breath.

“I am not going to pretend to you,” the Prince said, “that there have not been many women in my life. Most of them were produced for me by my father or his advisers, because they thought it was right for their Prince to have feminine companionship.”

His voice was hard as he continued:

“Once or twice, I thought I was in love, but always at the back of my mind I knew I was being manipulated! I knew too that the women who accepted me as a lover were more interested in my rank than they were in me.”

He paused, and then with a bitterness which was very revealing he said:

“When I met Ziileyha I believed in all sincerity that she liked me for myself.”

Vesta had hated the Turkish woman before, but now she felt a jealousy which hurt almost like a physical pain. Because she could not help it the question came to her lips:

“Was ... she very ... beautiful?”

The Prince did not look at her.

“She was exotic, fascinating, calculatingly alluring,” he replied. “She was eight years older than I, sophisticated, a woman-of-the-world, quite unlike anybody else I had ever met.”

“And ... you ... loved her?”

Again Vesta could not help the question.