An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6)(85)
Standing in front of the table was a diminutive figure dressed all in black. For a moment, my heart stilled in fear at the notion that it might be my grandmother. But this woman was too slender; although her figure was lushly plump, it had not yet achieved the dumpling roundness of the queen’s. Her face bore traces of grief, marking a visage that had never been pretty but might once have been handsome. It was a purposeful face, full of character, with a stubborn chin and a level blue gaze. Her gown was the latest Paris fashion rendered in stark black silk and heavily embroidered in jet which clacked when she moved. Dark hair, threaded with silver, had been pinned tightly back beneath a widow’s peaked cap. A long black veil hung to her ankles, and at her neck a brooch of enormous diamonds shimmered and shattered the light.
She held up her hands, more diamonds glittering as she moved. “Welcome, friends,” she said in English accented by an edge of German. “Welcome to Windsor Castle, where we take our first steps towards a lasting peace.”
She came towards me, hands outstretched. I recovered myself just in time to make her a low curtsy. “Your Serene Highness,” she said, taking my hands in hers and lifting me.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” I returned in a low voice.
She looked at me a long moment, studying me. Then her face wreathed in smiles. “We will not stand on ceremony, Gisela,” she said, wrapping her arms about me. “Give me a kiss, child.”
There was no response to make except to return her embrace. I had recognized her at once from her photographs, of course. This was Her Imperial Majesty, the Dowager Empress of Germany, Princess Royal of Great Britain.
And my aunt Vicky.
CHAPTER
25
The next several minutes were occupied with the handing out of champagne glasses and the greeting of the other dignitaries. Toasts were proposed and drunk, and through it all, I felt nothing but a blank calm I could not escape. I said the proper things and made the proper gestures, and yet I wanted only to run.
The chancellor crept close to me at one point. “You said she was at Sandringham,” I hissed at him through smiling teeth.
He glanced at me in surprise. “It was thought so, but she clearly wishes to celebrate her achievement in bringing this about. Do not distress yourself, my dear. You are doing perfectly well.”
He moved away and I realized he did not—could not possibly—understand the true source of my distress. He did not know of my relationship with the royal family. But Stoker and Rupert did, and between them, they managed to keep close to me, one or the other always near at hand should I have need of them.
The toasts were finished when the empress rang a little bell. A footman appeared with a leather folio, presenting it to her with a flourish. Another small table had been draped with a cloth and atop this were three pens, each resting in a narrow tray of mother-of-pearl.
The empress opened the portfolio and produced the copies of the treaty. It was a single page, shorter than I expected, but beautifully rendered with elegant copperplate and flourishes. At the top, it read Treaty of Windsor Castle, January 1889. A moment of history, I thought as I gripped the pen tightly in my gloved hand.
The general, entirely revived by the excellence of the champagne, beamed at me. He bent and scrawled his signature on the first copy as I put the pen to mine. I glanced at the chancellor, who gave an almost imperceptible nod of the head.
Gisela Frederica Victoria Helena. I had practiced the princess’s signature until my fingers cramped, and the result was a triumph. There was a little stutter on the “G,” a hesitation as I held the pen poised over the paper, ready to commit forgery on an international and most likely felonious scale. But then I had taken a deep breath and pressed on, gaining confidence with each letter.
As I signed, the general applied his own signature to his copy, a trifle unsteadily, shaking his head once or twice to clear the cobwebs, no doubt.
It was done. We exchanged copies and countersigned, then Rupert stepped forward to put his name as witness to the treaty. The general straightened and saluted me, wobbling only slightly. “I am your servant, Your Serene Highness. It is my ardent hope that the bonds of our friendship will never be tested by the ambitions of the kaiser, but if they are, you may rest assured that the Alpenwald will never know a truer ally than France.”
He took a deep breath, summoning his composure, and bowed deeply, executing a perfect curtsy in my direction.
“Thank you, General,” I said gravely. “The Alpenwald is grateful for the friendship of France.”
Everyone applauded then and fresh champagne was poured. As the glasses were passed, the door opened and a plump gentleman in elegant evening dress entered. He glanced around the room.
“Have I missed the party, then?” he asked, rubbing his hands together.
I gripped the pen in my hand so tightly I heard it crack.
A footman stepped forward, blushing for his tardiness at not announcing the newcomer as soon as he arrived.
“His Royal Highness,” the footman proclaimed. “The Prince of Wales.”
* * *
? ? ?
I had seen my father only twice before and both times in passing. He advanced, smiling broadly and gesturing for a glass of champagne. I could not move or speak, but stood, staring at him in mute . . . what? Horror? Longing? Resentment? There were no words for what I felt in that moment. I was unmoored, as adrift as I had ever been in my life, and a roaring sound rose in my ears, shutting out the sudden burst of excited conversation at the prince’s appearance in the room.