On a sunny July afternoon, after a shopping trip to Harrogate and lunch at a local pub, they had strolled through the gardens at Langley. Diana had spoken at length about her mother and the latter’s state of mind, and then, she had expressed the opinion that there was a grand design to life itself, a pattern that existed everywhere, and for everyone.
‘Things can happen to us, terrible things which we cannot understand when they’re actually occurring. They seem so cruel and unjust and incomprehensible at the time,’ Diana had said. ‘But they are simply meant to be… they are part of the pattern. And I’m certain that one day the pattern becomes clear to us all, takes on a definite shape, so that finally we see its true meaning.’
After several long moments of silence, she had murmured, and so softly Francesca had had to strain to hear, ‘God has His reasons for everything. And there will come a time in all our lives when we do understand His purpose, His divine pattern.’
Francesca had listened carefully, and though she had found her cousin’s words as extraordinary as they were unexpected, she knew Diana had meant everything she had said. Perhaps it was this spiritual knowledge and this inner sureness that underpinned Diana’s natural fortitude.
And remembering those words now, Francesca was again convinced that Diana believed the tragedies which had befallen her parents had been God’s will, and thus were unalterable. She saw them as a fragment of that divine pattern, and consequently they were her own destiny too. This is what sustains her, enables her to shoulder her burdens so stoically, to carry on with the business of life and of living in such a positive way, Francesca whispered to herself. And that’s not such a bad thing, when you think about it.
***
As Victor made his way through the Deer Hall he understood at once the reason for its name. A collection of antlers and stags’ heads were mounted above the archway leading into the gallery and on the walls on either side of the arch. Close by was a glass-fronted gun cabinet.
Being a hunter, and a gun collector himself, he approached this eagerly. The cabinet was locked, and he cupped his hands around his eyes, peering through the glass at a fine collection of hunting rifles and other firearms displayed there. All were in first-rate condition, and some were rare antique specimens. He would ask Diana if he could examine them later. He also made up his mind to pay that visit to Purdey’s when he was back in London, as he had long intended, to pick out a couple of new hunting rifles for himself and Nicky.
Victor moved away from the cabinet and strolled down the gallery, his feet clattering loudly against the parquet floor, and this made him conscious of the lack of rugs and carpets in the Schloss. Were the von Wittingens as strapped as the Earl? It didn’t seem likely. Diana was beautifully turned out, and the house was elegant and well kept. But anything’s possible, he muttered, thinking of Francesca, who was always smartly if simply dressed. He was well aware the aristocracy had a clever knack for keeping up the proper front no matter what. It’s all a question of pride, he said to himself, thinking of his own, smiling wryly as he continued on down the gallery.
A number of sombre oil paintings hung on the walls, otherwise it was unfurnished except for an odd-looking cart in the centre of the floor. As he drew closer he realized this was actually a marvellous old-fashioned sleigh, a charming relic from the past. The sleigh had a colourful painted base, brass ornamentation and polished old leather that gleamed dully in the dim light filtering through several stained glass windows. It had been stacked with greenery, flowering plants, and nosegays of dried flowers tied with moss-green velvet ribbons. He guessed the sleigh was Diana’s artistic handiwork, for it seemed to echo the spirit of the girl, whom he had taken to immediately. He found her an interesting study, a combination of gaiety and gravity which was most appealing.
The gallery led directly into the sitting room, and as Victor meandered in he stopped short, all his senses coming into play. His first impression was visual and it was an impression of that lucent light so peculiar to the mountains. It streamed in glittering cataracts through the many shining windows, glanced off reflective surfaces and objects, washed over creamy colours and delicate jewel tones. Instantaneously he became aware of sounds… the hiss and crackle of the fire, the haunting, bittersweet strains of a piano concerto rising and falling in waves, and wafting to him on the still air was a mingling of the most evocative smells… the pungency of pine needles and wooded hills, the perfume of tuberoses, the aroma of ripening fruit.
Francesca was standing at the far end of the long, low ceilinged room, a flash of yellow against the stone fireplace, one so high and wide it dwarfed her. He went into the room, returning her smile, his feet sinking into velvety pile, and he was aware of sudden warmth, understated luxury, a setting of extraordinary loveliness.
He saw, at a glance, antique chests and tables, cream walls, a cream carpet of Persian design, its graceful configurations running from ruby, rose quartz and amethyst to aquamarine and sapphire. Cushions in some of these tints sparked the two huge sofas, covered in cream velvet, which were grouped in front of the fireplace, and there were vases of fresh flowers and plants in profusion, many candles, and a plethora of objects of art that added the gutter of silver and crystal, the sharp clear hues of Meissen porcelain.
‘Diana had to make a quick ’phone call to Munich,’ Francesca explained, coming to meet him. She took his arm with the utmost naturalness, no longer self-conscious, nor intimidated by him, and steered him to the fire. ‘She’ll be back in a few minutes, and Christian will join us in a moment. Apparently he had an unexpected visitor, and he’s just saying goodbye. As soon as they’re both here we’re going to have a drink and a snack.’
‘That sounds terrific.’ He stood with his back to the fire, reached into his pocket for his cigarettes and lit one. ‘You were right about the house. Jeez, it’s just beautiful, Francesca.’ His eyes swept over the sitting room appreciatively. ‘I could sit here and dream the days away, forget about everything. In an odd way, it reminds me of the ranch, although it’s different, of course, as far as the furniture goes. But there’s the same stillness, that sense of peace.’
‘I’m glad you like it,’ Francesca said, filling with pleasure. ‘I was pretty certain you would. Still, I must admit, I was a bit worried you might find it far too isolated, and that you’d be bored, stuck up here on the top of a mountain with only us three for company.’
‘The world well lost, I’d say,’ he murmured, glancing down at her. ‘This music is lovely. What is it?’
‘Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto No. 2 in C minor.’ At this moment the record came to an end, and she moved swiftly to the cabinet adjacent to the fireplace. ‘Would you like to hear the rest of it?’
‘Sure, I’d love it.’
Francesca turned the record over, started the player, and rejoined him. ‘Diana didn’t think you’d want to ski today, after the plane trip. So we’re going to have a leisurely lunch, and take it easy. But we can go for a walk later, if you like. The woods are perfectly beautiful. Come to the window and see the view from—’
She broke off as an oak door on the far wall opened and a grey-haired, middle-aged man appeared. He was dressed in green Loden trousers and a matching high-necked Bavarian jacket. ‘Gnädige Frau… ‘He waited respectfully.
‘Oh Manfred, do come in, please. Victor, this is Manfred, who looks after us so well. Manfred, this is Herr Mason.’ She spoke slowly, enunciating her words with care.
‘Herr Mason.’ Manfred smiled, inclined his head deferentially. ‘Velcom. Luggage iss in your suite. Ja.’ He nodded his head, still smiling. ‘I vill haff Clara unpack, iff you vill, Herr Mason. Ja?’ His English was halting, accented, but easily understandable.
‘Sure. Thanks a lot, Manfred. That’s great, terrific. Thanks again.’
Manfred inclined his head once more, his expression courteous. His kindly blue eyes settled on Francesca. ‘Die Prinzessin hat mir aufgetragen, den Champagner zu servieren.’
?
??Danke schön, Manfred.’ He retreated, and Francesca said to Victor, ‘Diana’s obviously still on the ’phone, and she’s told Manfred to serve the champagne now.’
‘I sort of gathered as much. I also caught the word Prinzessin.’ He looked at her sharply. ‘Is she? Is Diana a princess?’
‘Yes. Oh gosh, didn’t I tell you?’
Victor laughed good-naturedly. ‘No, you didn’t, and it’s not the only thing you forgot, kid. What about her birthday? I wish you’d mentioned it, then I could’ve brought a gift with me from London.’
‘I feel awful about that myself. I remembered on the plane when it was too late.’ Her expression was chagrined, and she rushed on, ‘I would’ve chosen some American records. She loves those, especially anything by Frank Sinatra. I’ll make a trip into town tomorrow, whilst you’re off skiing, to buy something from us both. I think perfume is probably the best thing to get her.’
‘Aren’t there any shops where you can get the records she likes?’
Francesca shook her head, grimaced. ‘There is one shop in town, but I don’t think there’d be much choice. Anyway, I’m sure Diana’s already bought up their entire collection.’
‘Then I guess it’ll have to be perfume. Listen, about the dinner party tomorrow night. I didn’t bring a dinner jacket. I hope it isn’t formal.’
‘Oh dear, I’m sure it will be, but I’ll explain to Diana, and perhaps she can ask her friends to dress appropriately, so you won’t be embarrassed. Victor, there’s something I want to tell you. It’s about Christian—’ Francesca got no further. Manfred returned, carrying a tray of crystal flutes and a bottle of champagne. He was accompanied by a young woman holding a silver chafing dish. She was dressed in a dirndl of Loden cloth and a sweater of the same muted green under a large white apron. They walked, one after the other, across the floor to a console table, and Manfred addressed Francesca. ‘Gnädige Frau, I open, ja?’
‘Please, Manfred.’ Francesca glanced up at Victor. ‘This is Clara, Manfred’s daughter. Clara, Herr Mason.’
The girl returned Victor’s friendly greeting rather shyly, half smiled, excused herself and slipped out. Francesca stepped to the console, lifted the chafing dish fid and looked inside. ‘Wunderbar!’ She turned to Manfred, who was opening the champagne, and began to speak to him in uncertain German.
Victor searched for an ashtray, found one on a long library table behind a sofa, and stubbed out his cigarette. The table held a selection of photographs in silver frames, and he scanned them quickly, his eyes settling on one of a lovely fair-haired young woman wearing an evening gown and a diamond tiara. It had obviously been taken in the nineteen twenties or thereabouts, and he guessed it was of Francesca’s aunt, for he was instantly struck by the family resemblance. The young woman had a look of the Earl around the eyes, the same refined and chiselled features. Victor’s attention strayed to the other photographs, several snapshots of two beautiful children, apparently Diana and her brother when they were young. Placed a hide apart from them was another somewhat formally posed portrait, similar to that of the young woman, this time of a darkly handsome man in a rather dated dinner jacket. Their father?
Leaning forward, Victor intensified his scrutiny. The man was exceptional looking, and there was dignity, even regality, in his bearing. However, it was not these characteristics which held his interest so completely. There was a unique quality in the face, a quality of purity, of goodness, but it was the eyes which so stunned in their impact. They were dark, expressive. Powerful, piercing eyes that compelled with their intensity and fervour. Victor stared hard at the photograph, hypnotized by the face. And he, who was only too familiar with the power of the lens and the truth it invariably revealed, thought, with a flash of perception: I am seeing the soul of this man. And it is the soul of a saint…
‘Hello!’ a strong masculine voice rang out.
Victor straightened up and swung around on his heels, and he was jolted. ‘Hello,’ he responded immediately, hoping his surprise did not show on his face. He forced a wide smile onto his mouth.
The young man who had just greeted Victor sat in a wheelchair. It was not so much the chair that startled Victor, but rather its occupant. He was the living embodiment of the man in the photograph. They might be one and the same person, except that Victor knew otherwise, knew this could not be so. Caught on film was the image of the father. Here in the flesh was the son, of that he was quite certain, and if the face he was now regarding was not the face of a saint, certainly it was one of nobility and unusual gentleness.
The young man smiled, and before Victor could make a move towards him he was propelling himself down the long stretch of Persian carpet. He did so rapidly, and surely, displaying the expertise and ease of one long acquainted with this chair.
‘Christian,’ Francesca cried and flew across to the fireplace, positioning herself next to Victor. ‘I just asked Manfred to come and find you. This is Victor.’
‘Of course it is!’ Christian said, laughing. He thrust out his hand as he came to a stop in front of Victor. ‘Welcome to Wittingenhof.’
Francesca said, ‘Victor, this is my cousin, His Highness Prince Christian Michael Alexander von Wittingen und Habst.’
‘Really, Francesca,’ Christian said quietly, ‘we don’t need the whole mouthful.’ He shook his head, as if reproving her, but his smile was fond.
‘I’m delighted to meet you,’ Victor said, also smiling, knowing her recital of the string of names and the title were solely for his benefit, after his mild chastising of a few minutes ago. He added, ‘Thanks so much for inviting me to stay with you.’
‘It’s our pleasure, believe me,’ Christian said, his English as natural and as faultless as that of his sister. ‘And do forgive me for not being here to greet you, when you first arrived. I had a surprise visit from… an old friend… of my father’s, and he stayed much longer than I expected.’
‘Please don’t apologize. Francesca looked after me very well, and I’ve been enjoying this room. It’s lovely.’
‘Thank you. Now, how about a glass of champagne? Francesca, will you do the honours, my dear?’
‘Of course.’ She hurried to the console, poured the champagne and brought the tray of flutes over to the low, glass and brass coffee table situated between the sofas. She passed the glasses around and sat down. Victor joined her on the sofa, and they all raised their glasses as Christian said, ‘Prosit.’
‘Prosit!’ Victor and Francesca reiterated in unison.
‘I’m sorry Diana is delayed. Some problem with her boutique in Munich,’ Christian remarked, resorting to a white he in order to avoid a long explanation about his mother. He took a sip of champagne, smiled broadly and continued, ‘But she’s pretty good at sorting things out, and I don’t suppose she’ll be very long. You must be hungry after your trip. Bertha made some Swedish meatballs. They’re delicious. Please, do help yourself.’
‘I think I will.’ Victor half rose.
‘I’ll serve you,’ Francesca said, and was across the room in a flash. ‘Can I get some for you too, Christian?’ she asked as she spooned meatballs onto a glass plate.
‘Not at the moment, thank you.’ He pushed his chair closer to the coffee table, bent forward and took a cigarette from the silver box. After lighting it, he said to Victor, ‘It’s simply marvellous for us to have guests at this time of year. It’s generally very quiet. After the onslaught at Christmas, we don’t have many friends visiting us again until the summer. They like to come for the Salzburg Festival. The music’s the attraction, of course.’
‘Yes, so I’ve heard,’ said Victor. ‘And I understand the festival’s the whole enchilada.’
Christian looked at Victor in puzzlement. ‘The whole enchilada?’
Francesca, returning with the plate of food, grinned and said, ‘That’s Victor’s favourite expression. It’s very Californian, and it means the whole works, Christian.’ She put the plate in front of Victor, glanced at him under her l
ashes, and remarked, ‘You promised to explain its derivation, and you never did.’
‘Sorry. An enchilada’s a corn tortilla, a Mexican flat bread, something like a pancake. It’s filled with a variety of things, chopped beef, cheese, vegetables, then rolled and served with any one of a number of sauces. It’s sort of…’ He stopped, grinned back at her, and finished, ‘Well, it’s the whole works.’
‘Also rather colourful,’ Christian pronounced, obviously amused. ‘I think I might adopt it myself.’
‘Adopt what?’ Diana asked from the doorway.
Christian swung his head, and repeated everything Victor had said whilst she poured herself a glass of champagne. Munching on a meatball, Victor scrutinized them, very much intrigued by this brother and sister. Not unnaturally he was riddled with curiosity, and it was a curiosity that ran on a variety of levels. Innumerable questions about the von Wittingens, those both present and absent, floated around in his head. Perhaps Francesca would enlighten him later. Apparently she had been on the verge of explaining Christian’s disability when Manfred had arrived with the champagne, cutting her short. He glanced at the young prince surreptitiously. Christian looked extremely healthy, despite his confinement to the chair, and there was a certain vitality about him. Victor recognized immediately that this was not so much physical as mental, had more to do with his state of mind and his personality than his bodily well being. Victor detected a forcefulness in him, just below the level of the gentleness.
Diana joined them, seated herself on the hearth, looked across at Victor and said, ‘Can one use that expression, the whole enchilada, to describe people, or houses, for instance? I mean could one say that Wittingenhof was the whole enchilada?’