The Virgin and His Majesty Page 13

  ‘And there I always thought you were a runaway romantic,’ her mother said with heavy irony.

  Rosie’s smile was twisted. ‘No, you’re the runaway romantic.’

  ‘Forget about me. Don’t try to persuade me that you’re marrying him for the prestige and the money. I know you’ve been infatuated with him since you were eighteen.’

  Please go right now. But Rosie couldn’t say the words.

  Her mother looked at her with an expression she’d never seen before.

  ‘I’ve made a mess of my life,’ she said abruptly. ‘I married your father too young—I thought he loved me, but all he wanted was to go off on his various expeditions without having to bother about organising child care for Alex. He never got over losing his first wife. Oh, he was quite pleased when I had you, although he’d have preferred another boy, but we weren’t important to him—his research was. Even Alex came a pretty poor second to that.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Rosie said quietly. ‘But it’s not like that with Gerd and me.’

  ‘Gerd is…well, everything a woman could want, but he’s going to be married to Carathia.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I hope you do,’ her mother said bleakly. ‘Otherwise you’ll eat your heart out wanting something that’s never going to happen.’

  But that was exactly what she was going to do, Rosie realised in the sleepless hours that followed her mother’s awkward departure. Thoughts raced through her head, jumbled and anguished, filled with emotions so painful she couldn’t bear them.

  Eventually she got up and walked across to the window. It would be simpler—and easier—if she didn’t love Gerd.

  She looked down on the darkened, silent city, the street lamps lonely beacons, starshine glimmering on a jumble of tiled roofs and the slick of wet concrete.

  Why had her mother’s words unsettled her so much? Easy—they’d struck home only because Rosie was more accustomed to exasperation than concern from her mother.

  And away from Gerd’s compelling presence, without the gloss of sexual passion clouding her brain, Gerd’s proposal and her response seemed a cold, bleakly practical reaction to the situation they’d found themselves in.

  Her hand drifted across to touch her waist. What if she couldn’t have children?

  Too late to worry about that now…

  The words echoed in her head as she got back into bed and drifted off to a restless sleep.

  Church bells woke her—a joyous cacophony that soared up from the city’s churches. She sat straight up in bed, head aching slightly, then got up and inched the heavy curtains open a fraction. Although it was barely past dawn—in fact, over the mountains she saw the last star wink out—already people were moving in the streets below.

  Heading towards the palace.

  ‘Oh, lord,’ she muttered, yanking the drapes closed in case anyone saw her peeking.

  A knock on her door whirled her around. The maid who looked after her clothes came in, beaming when Rosie greeted her. With a little bob she said carefully, ‘A beautiful day for us all in Carathia. I wish you great happiness, my lady.’

  Rosie’s nerves tightened painfully, her sense of doom increasing as the morning wound on. Although a betrothal ceremony was usually restricted to family and closest friends, because of Gerd’s position there would be politicians and important people there too. All dressed to the nines, she realised when she was escorted into the front pew with Eva, who was slim and soignée in one of the vibrant colours she wore so well.

  At least Kelt and Hani and their little Rafi sat with them, with Alex, saturnine as usual. And the service was short; it involved a blessing, the ceremonial bestowal of the ring by Gerd, dark and unsmiling as he slid it onto her finger, and the exchange of a kiss before the altar—both the kiss and Gerd’s attitude being studiously impersonal. A brief homily from the priest, delivered in Carathian, was clearly an exposition of what was expected of them. Unable to understand, aware of Gerd’s withdrawal beside her, Rosie had never felt so alone.

  But walking back down the aisle with him beside her, part of a procession featuring candles and crosses, and choirboys who sang like angels, it warmed her to meet the smiles of those who’d been at last night’s dinner.

  And at the reception that followed, Gerd’s approving nod and murmured words of appreciation, his hand in the small of her back, restored her confidence. It helped that most of the people used their store of English to converse with her. As a child Gerd and Kelt had taught her the conventional greetings and farewells in Carathian, but beyond those she understood nothing of the language as yet.

  Language lessons, and soon, she decided sturdily.

  Eventually the family was marshalled into order in the drawing room. Stomach flipping, she shivered at the murmur of the crowd in the huge square below.

  ‘It sounds as though everyone in the city is out there,’ she said to Gerd.

  ‘Just about,’ he said. ‘Come on, it’s time to go.’ He looked down and his serious expression lightened. ‘How do you manage to walk in those heels?’

  ‘It’s a technique small girls study from the first time they try on their mother’s shoes,’ she said, repressing another, quite different shiver at the glint in his gaze. ‘By the time they reach adolescence it’s completely automatic.’

  And then it was time to move out onto the balcony. The hairs on the back of her neck lifted at the sight of the people packed into the square and the wild roar that greeted them as they moved across to the balustrade. Everyone in that huge, seething mass of people seemed to be waving something—brightly coloured streamers, flowers and handkerchiefs.

  And the noise was indescribable—breathtaking and almost terrifying, except that everyone seemed to be smiling.

  Gerd looked down at her. ‘Smile, Rosemary. This is for you.’

  But it wasn’t. His people loved and respected him; they trusted him to marry a person who would fit into their world, and they believed she was that person.

  Then and there, Rosie decided that such trust deserved to be honoured. She would become the person the Carathians believed her to be.

  ‘Nonsense—they don’t know me at all. This is all for you,’ she said, and pinned a smile to her lips as she waved back.

  Gerd said coolly, ‘The Chief Minister has suggested that we travel into the mountains next week. The people there have a tendency to feel neglected.’

  And that, of course, was where the last rebellion had been fomented. Rosie’s stomach clenched, but she nodded and smiled brightly up at him, only dimly hearing the renewed burst of cheering that provoked.

  Gerd said, ‘We’ll visit the largest town there, and it would be politic to go down to the coast.’

  ‘That sounds great,’ she said, waving again at the excited, happy mass of people who seemed determined to let their ruler know they shared his happiness.

  His supposed happiness, Rosie corrected herself.

  The crowd cheered anew and began throwing their flowers and ribbons in a shower of colour into the sparkling, sunlit air until eventually Gerd said, ‘Time to go.’

  With a final wave the family turned and filed back inside, adjourning to Gerd’s private apartments, where they were served lunch.

  Kelt gave Rosie a hug, saying, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘For what?’

  He grinned. ‘For taking Gerd on. I didn’t realise it, but he needs someone like you—he’s far too autocratic, and you’ll keep him on his toes. And the Carathians will love you.’

  Rosie laughed, but his words made her feel oddly disconnected, as though by marrying Gerd she’d turn into a different person.

  She glanced across the room and saw Gerd watching them, his face impassive. Something tight and hard contracted inside her. He looked bleak and almost angry.

  But only for a second. When he caught her eye he lifted his brows and came towards them and, as always, her breath shortened and she felt that secret heat stirring in her body.

  Kelt gav
e him a brotherly cuff on the shoulder. ‘About time,’ he said obscurely.

  Gerd’s brows climbed again. ‘I think Hani wants you,’ he said.

  Both Rosie and Gerd watched Kelt set off purposefully across the huge, gilt-decorated drawing room to his wife, who was perched on the edge of an ornate sofa. Hani’s face lit up when her husband approached.

  Pierced by a depressing envy and a feeling of intruding on something special between Kelt and his wife, Rosie turned away. ‘It looked as though most of the city was there this morning.’

  Gerd’s voice was coolly non-committal. ‘Quite a few,’ he agreed. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, surprising herself with the realisation. ‘The betrothal ceremony made me realise that I need to start learning the language straight away, but you don’t need words to wave from a balcony!’ She thought for a moment, then said, ‘I feel welcomed. Which sounds silly, because that crowd gathered for you, not me, but everyone there looked warm-hearted and pleased for us both.’

  ‘Carathians enjoy a good party.’ Although he smiled down at her, his eyes were still remote. ‘And you were welcomed, and are welcome. You did very well.’

  His words should have warmed her, but the more legalities bound them together, she thought unhappily, the more distant Gerd became. She wondered if they would ever regain the laughter and burgeoning closeness, the thrilling hope, of those few crazy, passion-filled days on the island.

  So far away they seemed now, so impossible to retrieve…

  The next day Kelt and Hani took her to the town house, and for a little while she could relax in their undemanding company, playing with their little boy before being shown over the old, beautifully appointed building.

  ‘I hope you enjoy living here,’ Hani said, looking around. ‘Kelt said it was still firmly Victorian until he inherited it; he had all the plumbing and wiring redone, and when we got married I organised the most hideous of the furniture into storage. We don’t stay here much because of that legend, but it’s very comfortable. And the Carathians are very kind.’

  ‘Hani, it’s lovely. Both you and Kelt have done a great job on it. But even nicer is that I can feel your presence here.’

  Hani smiled mistily at her. ‘Dear Rosie,’ she said. ‘We’re all going to miss you like crazy, but I think the Carathians already know how lucky they are to have you.’

  To Rosie’s horror she felt tears sting her eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she said on a gulp. ‘Oh, hell, I never cry—this is ridiculous. I’ll miss you too, even though I expect to see lots of you and Kelt and little Rafi.’

  She waved them off the next morning, with her mother, as they were all travelling back to New Zealand together. ‘I have to tidy things up at home,’ Eva said briskly, ‘and then I’ll be back.’

  Rosie said, ‘I know it will be a sacrifice for you. Thank you.’

  Eva looked a little startled. With a hint of sarcasm she said, ‘I didn’t make any sacrifices for you as a child, so it’s probably only fair that I should now.’

  They looked at each other for a moment. Eva shrugged and went on, ‘We should be able to live together for a couple of months without coming to blows.’

  ‘I can’t see why not. We’re both adults,’ Rosie said firmly.

  ‘Think of it as training for all the sacrifices you’re going to make for Carathia,’ her mother advised.

  In spite of that, Eva’s attitude gave Rosie hope that perhaps she and her mother could form some sort of relationship.

  ‘Not a real mother-daughter relationship,’ she said to Gerd as they travelled back from the airport. ‘But some sort of friendly association. She’s changed.’

  ‘How?’ he asked, his tone disbelieving.

  ‘She’s a little softer—just as cynical, but somehow not so bitter. And there’s no man in tow, yet she doesn’t seem to care.’

  Gerd leaned back in the car. ‘Let’s hope it lasts. Are you ready for our quick tour of the mountains?’

  ‘Yes. Will the white lily be blooming?’ She wanted very much to see Carathia’s national flower.

  ‘It’s usually over by now, but there might be some pockets of it left.’

  There were, and after an excited and friendly reception from the people who’d flocked into the biggest town in the mountain region, they flew by helicopter up to the edge of the winter snowline.

  ‘There, my lady,’ the guide said, indicating a plant nestled in against a rock.

  Rosie gave an excited squeak and crouched down. Fragile and fleeting, white petals airily danced above the grim rocks and the matted tangle of its leaves.

  ‘They’re tough, aren’t they?’ Rosie said, crouching beside it. Carefully she stroked the flower, wondering at the resilience of such a lovely thing in this hard landscape.

  The botanist and the mountaineer who’d accompanied them both nodded, the botanist saying in her limited English, ‘Strong and beautiful—like the mountains.’

  ‘Like Carathians,’ the mountain guide said proudly. He glanced at Gerd, and said something in their language.

  Gerd translated as Rosie stood up. ‘He’s recited a local proverb that compares a beautiful woman to the summer sun, warming the eyes and the heart.’ His smile was swift. ‘He means you.’

  Rosie flushed. ‘Thank you very much,’ she said to the guide, who made a little bow.

  She and Gerd could afford only a short time there in the cool, crisp air, and too soon they were back in the helicopter. As they swooped down into the valley, Rosie hugged the memory of the flowers and the look in Gerd’s eyes when he relayed the guide’s compliment.

  Whatever his reason for keeping such a distance between them, it was not because he didn’t want her. For a precious second she had seen a flare of passionate need turn his eyes to gold.

  That night they attended a formal dinner with the local dignitaries before returning to the hotel, a large, tourist-oriented building, where they occupied the whole top floor. Dismissing her maid, Rosie got ready for bed, only to be surprised by a knock on the door.

  Gerd?

  And it was him. Her heart pumping into overdrive, she opened the door wider. ‘Come in,’ she said, hoping, hoping…and then hoping her eyes didn’t betray her disappointment when he shook his head.

  ‘Kelt’s on the telephone,’ he said. ‘He’s being put through to your phone, but I thought I’d warn you.’

  ‘Warn me?’ Instantly her confusion and hope were banished by fear. ‘Is anything wrong?’

  ‘No, but he has news for you.’

  Bewildered, Rosie closed the door behind him and went back to the telephone, anxiously waiting for it to ring. When the sound burred into the quiet air she snatched up the receiver and said urgently, ‘Kelt?’

  ‘Rosie. I just thought I’d ring to tell you that Hani and I are expecting another baby.’

  So relieved her knees felt weak, she collapsed onto the sofa. ‘Oh, Kelt, that’s wonderful! I did wonder while she was here—a couple of times she looked a bit peaky, but I thought maybe she was just tired. So when’s the baby due?’

  ‘In six months’ time,’ he said cheerfully.

  ‘And you’re still determined not to know what sex it is?’

  ‘Absolutely. Hani says the desire to find out is the only thing that keeps her going through labour and the birth.’

  The tenderness beneath the laughter in his voice made Rosie blink back tears, but she retorted, ‘I don’t believe that for a moment. Kelt, that’s fantastic news! I’m so glad for you and for Hani. Can I say hello to her?’

  ‘Actually she’s in bed—no, she’s all right, it’s just that this one does seem to make her more tired than Rafi did. She’s fine, and once you’re back in the capital she’ll ring and you can have a nice, long, feminine gossip.’

  Rosie was laughing as she put the telephone back into the cradle, but her laughter faded, and unbidden, painful tears scalded her eyes and clogged her throat.

  A familiar loneliness seeped through her
, draining her of strength. She fought it with everything she could, but the tears came just the same, slowly falling. It was horrible to cry because Hani was going to have a baby.

  She said aloud, ‘No, it’s not the baby.’

  Her stupid tears were because Hani’s children were the product of a union completely different from the marriage she had agreed to. When she was with Kelt and Hani it was impossible not to feel that unworthy envy of their profound and enduring love for each other. Their children were not symbols, not conceived to hold together a country.

  For the first time Rosie wondered about the children she and Gerd would have—would they hate living in the royal fishbowl, wish they’d been ordinary children born to ordinary parents and an ordinary life, able to work out their own destiny instead of being chained by tradition and the needs and expectations of millions of people?

  The door opened and she turned, gulping back her tears, but it was too late. Gerd stood there, looking at her, his expression unreadable.

  He walked into the room, closed the door behind him, and asked curtly, ‘I knocked, but you didn’t hear me. What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing. I m-must be tired, I think,’ she said, and wiped her eyes with one hand, looking around vainly for tissues.

  Gerd came across and dropped an unused handkerchief into her lap. ‘Use this,’ he commanded, and walked over to the window.

  She eyed his silhouette, big and lithe and forbiddingly distant, and her heart ached painfully in her breast. She loved him so much, yet it wasn’t enough. If only she knew what it was that had made him decide to pull further and further away from her.

  Without looking at her he said, ‘Kelt told you his news?’

  ‘Yes. It’s lovely for them both, isn’t it.’

  ‘Is that why you were crying?’

  Rosie flinched, then looked up anxiously. He’d turned and was watching her, but she could gain nothing from his expression. ‘No,’ she said too quickly. ‘No, of course it’s not. I’m thrilled for them. Hani’s always said she wanted four children.’

  She very much wanted to get to her feet, to draw herself up to her full height, but she didn’t trust her legs to sustain her.