“Banished?” Melody interjected.
“Oh, yes.”
“Because of Pedro?”
The Queen was thoughtful.
“Let us just say that when the circumstances of the child’s birth were brought to the attention of the King’s ministers,” she shrugged, smiling tight-lipped, “there were consequences. Poor Alonso became, unofficially, you understand, persona non grata at the Escorial. What with one thing and another his posting to the Philippines and later to Philadelphia was for the best.”
Alonso had never said anything to Melody about writing letters to his Queen but then she had always allowed the men in her life their little secrets; that was the deal, she had her secrets, they had theirs.
Queen Sophie continued, a wryness in her eyes if not her voice: “You must understand that in Spain there were always several competing courts. The King’s, the Mother Church’s, the Navy’s, and the Army’s, and mine, and imperial diplomats abroad would traditionally communicate, as they saw fit, with each, or all according to the trust invested in them by whichever faction they imagined to be in the ascendant in Madrid; often, although not invariably, a thing determined by the attitudes and vested interests of the aristocratic and military classes. Oddly, and certainly counter-intuitively, it was much easier to sustain a confidential correspondence with Alonso when he was in the Philippines or in Philadelphia, than it was when he was in Spain. But that is by the by, as they say.”
Alonso had warned Melody that the Queen turned away most prospective visitors: although few foreign officials wanted to complicate their government’s affairs by treating with an exile, there was a plethora of private citizens either seeking her support for treason, or to beg for this or that indulgence, few if any of which she was in any position to entertain, and numerous agent provocateurs scheming to implicate her in spurious intrigues against the factions vying for power in Madrid.
So, a purely social visitor, like Melody, was a breath of fresh air.
“I learned many things about New England from Alonso’s letters,” the Queen explained. “For example, he was fascinated when the Governor, Lady De L’Isle’s father, a man for whom he has the most profound respect, brought you in to ‘ventilate’ the Empire Day farrago. Henrietta had mentioned your name to him several times before then but he had taken what he had heard with a pinch of salt. And besides, the only woman in New England who had remotely interested him until you accepted the poison chalice, had always been Henrietta.” The Queen smiled, a little sadly, Melody thought, albeit for a fleeting moment and thereafter she almost suspected she had imagined it. “Whom,” the other woman went on, “he clearly adored, then as now.”
Melody said nothing.
“Poor Alonso, it is just like him to fall for the one woman in New England who was, literally, untouchable.”
They had spoken of other things, both a little distractedly.
Alonso was ex-communicated, his Catholic marriage automatically annulled; and he was, therefore, now free to marry whomsoever he pleased.
“May I write to you, Your Majesty?” Melody inquired when the women were parting.
The Infantas had been summoned and Queen Sophie had walked her visitor to the inner gates of Palace. The two women were simpatico, felt comfortable in each other’s company and had, possibly, already formed the basis of an enduring friendship.
“I would be deeply offending if you did not, Melody,” the other woman replied. “If, and when, we meet again, in private, I would much prefer you to simply refer to me as ‘Sophie’.” This was accompanied by an uncharacteristically nervy, short laugh. “I think in years to come I will be in need of ‘real’ friends.”
Nevertheless, Melody had bowed her head.
“You and me both,” she speculated ruefully.
Afterwards, returning to her hotel room she had laid down on the bed and, exhausted, fallen into a deep dreamless sleep. Everything was clear, her mind was strangely uncluttered.
It was dark when the knock at her door awakened her. Groping for the bedside light switch she had stumbled to the door.
Alonso had smiled.
Melody stifled a yawn.
Oh, God! I must look a mess…
The man stepped into the room and reached for her.
She stepped away.
“No, no,” she muttered, shaking her head.
“What is it?”
If Melody had been more awake, her head less befuddled she might have not have blurted her reply so gauchely, as if she was in some way an injured party.
“Why didn’t you tell me you loved Henrietta all along?”
If Melody had ever suspected – and she had not – that her lover was a natural-born dissembler, she would have been comprehensively disabused of the notion a moment later.
The man hesitated, sighed.
“Because… In Philadelphia… Even had Henrietta done me the honour of reciprocating my affection she would have been in an impossible situation; especially, after the Empire Day atrocities. And yes, before you ask me,” he went on, “I do feel guilty taking you from her, even though I know that sounds ridiculous!”
Melody was not angry.
This was more about resolving her own emotions.
She turned away but did not resist when the man came up behind her and gently wrapping his arms about her, drew her against him, his lips nuzzling her left ear.
That was cheating!
Men!
Chapter 18
Tuesday 2nd May
Charlottenburg Palace, Berlin
“You’re joking!” The King spluttered in disbelief.
Five minutes ago, he had been enjoying a convivial luncheon with his wife and a couple of old Kaiserliche Marine friends and their spouses, confidently expecting to enjoy a few days sightseeing and catching up with a clutch of his godchildren. Everybody had expected the Court of Electors – the twenty-two kings, princes and counts, and two princesses of the German Empire – to sit in deliberation for most of the rest of the week. After the endless, wearying, dispiriting funerary ceremonial of the last three days, it had seemed reasonable to expect the Electors to take their time; not to sit down, shut the doors, cursorily chat amongst themselves for a couple of hours and then come out with a verdict before the crowned heads of Europe, and the world leaders still hanging around in the German capital, had had time to digest their luncheons!
Moreover, despite the nervousness of his advisors, practically everybody had taken it as read, that the Crown Prince, forty-four year-old Wilhelm, the old Kaiser’s eldest surviving son, was the only serious candidate and although the Court of Electors might haggle and privately seek certain assurances – mainly about the status and privileges of individual Electors – that in the end they would surely row in behind him.
This was in no way an unreasonable expectation.
History bore exemplary witness to the fact that the one thing it was safe to take for granted, was that whatever their faults and foibles, the members of the Court of Electors, tended to be a notoriously unimaginative, and very cautious bunch when they sat down to appoint a candidate to safeguard a tradition dating back to the time of Charlemagne the Great.
Which made the transparent eccentricity of what the King had just been told all the more… extraordinary.
Sir George Horace Walpole, the King’s Foreign and Colonial Secretary, was as surprised as anybody. In fact, he was struggling to keep a straight face, undecided whether the whole thing was some huge practical joke or simply, a very, very bad dream.