Dare to Love (41 page)

“Hungry?” Karl inquired.

“Actually, I'm famished. I never eat before a performance.”

Smiling, Karl poured champagne into our glasses, then took my plate and filled it with food, waiting on me as though it were the natural thing to do. I found myself completely at ease with him, not the least bit of strain between us. Karl was utterly charming, still rather shy, asking me questions about myself and listening with total absorption as I told him about my girlhood in Cornwall and the early days with Madame Olga. I gave him a brief account of my career as Elena Lopez, and he laughed quietly when I described the deception Anthony had so successfully put over on the paying public.

“Of course, everyone knows I'm English now,” I continued. “It was in all the papers—the shocking truth revealed at last. The public found it delightful, and somehow it only enhanced the legend.”

“And your love affairs?” he inquired.

“Vastly exaggerated. They're already making up stories about us, you know. The Paris papers arrived yesterday, and were full of highly colorful accounts of how Elena Lopez conquered the King of Barivna. You have set me up in my own palace and we're shamelessly flaunting our affair.”

“Would that the stories were true,” he said quietly.

He looked up at me with a sad, lost longing in his eyes. Something about Karl had puzzled me ever since I arrived, and I suddenly realized what it was—a total lack of sexuality. He was warm, charming, attentive, clearly interested in me and pleased to have me with him, yet there was not the least glimmer of active desire as he gazed at me. I was beginning to suspect the reason for that haunted look.

“More pheasant?” he inquired.

“I couldn't eat another bite. It—it's very late.”

“Must you go?”

He was clearly distressed at the thought of my leaving so soon. Those sad eyes were filled with concern. I felt a great empathy for him, pitying him without really knowing the full reason. I wanted to take his hand and smile a reassuring smile and speak soft, consoling words. There was a moment of silence, and Karl seemed tense, almost on the verge of panic. This man needed me tonight, and his need was great even though there was nothing at all physical about it.

“I would love to stay, if I'm not intruding,” I said. “I'm always stimulated after a performance. I won't be able to sleep for hours.”

The look of distress vanished. Karl poured more champagne for us and relaxed, looking as though the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. He plainly dreaded being alone tonight. I suspected that there were nights when his melancholia became almost unbearable, that tonight was one of them. I asked him questions about himself, and he talked freely and a bit wistfully about his childhood, his early manhood, his student days in Bonn. He had been an enthusiastic horseman, inordinately proud of his stables, and at seventeen he had owned a fine line of pure-blooded Arabians as beautiful as fresh snow, as fast as lightning.

“I wasn't aware of your interest in horses,” I said.

“I had to give it up. After the accident I—there were a great many things I had to give up.”

“Accident?”

“I was riding one of the Arabians. We leaped a fence, and I miscalculated. The horse fell—on top of me. Two of its legs were broken and it had to be shot. My own injuries were—” Karl paused, gazing into the fire. “I've often thought it would have been better if they had shot me, too. I was engaged to a Romanian princess. The engagement was—tactfully broken off.”

“I—I see.”

“Very few people knew the reason for the broken engagement. All Europe wonders why I have never married, why I have no heir. I'm a great connoisseur of beautiful women—my Gallery of Beauties is quite famous—but I have never shown an interest in marriage. I'm an enigma, they say. Fortunately my companions have been both loyal and discreet.”

Karl fell silent, eyes dark as he remembered the tragic events of his life. I understood now. I understood the haunted look in his eyes, the melancholia, that curious lack of sexuality. He continued to gaze at the fire, and then he sighed and looked up at me and smiled a pensive smile.

“I cultivated an interest in art and architecture, and when I became King I devoted myself to turning Barivna into the Athens of Germany. I had a vision, and I endeavored to bring art and beauty and culture to my people. Instead of factories I built theaters and museums. Instead of manufacturing cannon and guns and establishing an army, I established the university and filled Barivna with bright, vital young men who cared nothing for war. Many people believe I've been very foolish.”

Karl set his champagne glass aside. “You must find this all extremely boring, my dear.”

“Not at all. I was just wondering if it would be presumptuous of me to ask a favor.”

“Anything you like.”

“Your Gallery of Beauties—I've heard so much about it. I wonder if you might show it to me?”

He looked pleased. “But of course,” he said, “although I feel sure you'll find it quite disappointing. You see far greater beauty each morning when you gaze into your mirror.”

“You're being gallant again.”

“Merely honest, my dear.”

Taking my hand, he led me out of the room. The palace was still, the silence broken only by our voices and the rustle of my skirt and his brocade robe as we moved down the carpeted corridors with their sparkling chandeliers and exquisite pieces of furniture. All the candles were burning brightly in the dead of night, an indication that Karl's nocturnal habits were well established. Over a hundred people dwelled here, but with the exception of the footmen who kept watch over the candles no one else was visible. I found the atmosphere rather eerie as we moved from corridor to corridor. It must have been ten minutes before we finally reached the gallery.

“Here are my beauties,” Karl said quietly.

The gallery was long and brilliantly lit, and there were thirty-six paintings. Each sumptuously framed portrait was of an exceptionally beautiful woman. Karl worshipped beauty in all its forms, and each time he saw a strikingly lovely woman, be she the butcher's daughter or an elegant aristocrat, he had her immortalized on canvas. I recognized several of the women, one a very famous French actress, one a cool English beauty notorious for her sexual liaisons. The English woman had stayed in Barivna for several weeks, and Karl had given her many expensive gifts. Their “affair” had been the talk of Europe a few years back. Karl was silent as we moved from canvas to canvas, a dreamy look in his eyes.

“They're quite impressive,” I remarked. “You've known a great many beautiful women.”

“None so lovely as you, my dear. I'd like very much to add your portrait to the collection.”

“I'd be quite honored.”

“I already have an artist in mind,” Karl confessed shyly. “Only Joseph Stieler could do justice to you. I'll let him know my wishes and have him arrange with you for your time.” He turned to me, “It's almost dawn. Would you like to see the gardens?”

I nodded, and Karl took my hand once more, leading me down yet another corridor and out onto an open passageway, its roof supported by slender white marble columns. We went down a flight of steps and into the spacious gardens. Shrubs rustled quietly. The breeze caused my black lace overskirt to lift and billow over the oyster gray satin. The moonlight had faded to a milky white, and the sky was the color of pale ashes, faint pink stains beginning to spread in the east.

We strolled slowly toward the low white marble bannister that stood at the edge of the lake. Beyond the rippling blue-gray water we could see the town's majestic white buildings a pale violet in this light, rooftops beginning to catch the first pink stains. I wondered how frequently these periods of acute melancholia came over the King. Was that the reason he had made no effort to see me sooner? I suspected so, but he seemed far more at ease now, as the breeze rippled the water and the sky lightened.

While we watched, the lake turned pink, shimmering as though covered with pink spangles. The spangles changed to gold, becoming brighter still as the first real rays of sunlight touched the water. The buildings beyond lost their violet hue, white and gold now, gleaming as the sun grew stronger and shadows melted away in the morning light. The King was silent, gazing at the town he had created, the vision he had transformed into solid reality. He would leave no heir, but he would be leaving a legacy of beauty and culture far more durable than flesh. Few men had achieved as much.

“I thank you for tonight,” he said. “You've performed a great kindness, my dear, greater far than you suspect.”

“It's been my pleasure,” I replied.

“Have you immediate plans?” he inquired.

“Not really. I thought of returning to Paris, but I have no engagements. Eventually, I'll have to go on another tour. I am a dancer and must dance for my living.”

“Perhaps you'd consent to be my guest for a while? It will take Stieler some time to paint your portrait. You seem pleased with Chez Elena, and I know you've made friends among the students. I would make very few demands on you, my dear. Occasional companionship, nothing more.”

He looked at me with those sad eyes, eyes filled with silent pleading. I was deeply moved. Karl of Barivna needed me as no man had ever needed me before, and there could be only one answer.

XXX

The studio was bright and sunny, and through the bank of windows to my right I could see the small, lovely garden with lush purple bougainvillea spilling over the wall and vivid blue larkspurs in neat beds. I had grown very fond of the garden as the weeks went by. The birds that splashed in the white marble bird bath were almost old friends. The chair used for my sitting stood on a low wooden dais and was covered with worn maroon brocade. It wasn't very comfortable, but it suited Stieler's purpose. He wanted me sitting very straight, resting my left elbow casually on the arm of the chair, my head turned slightly to the right.

Stieler had been working on the painting for over six weeks. For two hours each day during the best afternoon light, I posed, wearing a black velvet gown with long, tight sleeves and a form fitting bodice, the skirt spread out in lustrous folds. My ebony hair was pulled back sleekly, and just above my temple was a spray of three vivid red carnations. A drift of fine, flowered black lace floated around my face to create the Spanish mantilla effect Stieler wanted. These sessions provided serene interludes, and I had come to enjoy them despite Stieler's fawning, ingratiating manner. The final sitting came at last.

“Are you growing tired, Countess?” he asked.

“I can manage for a while longer.”

“Half an hour more and I'll be finished.”

“Completely?”

He nodded, stepping back from the canvas to gaze critically at his work.

“I'll want to do some work on the background, but today will be your last sitting. I must say, I'll miss working with you. I've never had a more cooperative model.”

“Indeed?”

“Most of the ladies can't sit still. Either they want to chatter away with a flock of friends who come to keep them company, or they sit and eat chocolates or play with their lap dogs. Most trying. You've been a joy, Countess.”

Stieler dipped his brush into the paint on his palette and moved back to the canvas, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth, a look of intense concentration in his cool gray eyes. Tall, slender, older than he cared to admit, he sported a neat ginger goatee and long sideburns, looking far more like a diplomat than an artist. The long frock coat he wore in lieu of the traditional artist's smock was always spotless. Stieler had painted so many aristocratic ladies that it had gone to his head. Rarely had I encountered a greater snob, yet he was unquestionably a superb artist. Each painting he did glowed with life.

“This shall be my masterpiece,” he declared. “It's going to eclipse everything else in the Gallery.”

“Do you think so?”

“There's no question about it.”

Karl's decision to include my portrait in the Gallery of Beauties had caused a great stir at Court. Count Arco-Valley had adamantly declared that if a painting of “that whore” was to be included, Stieler's portrait of his wife would promptly be removed from the gallery. A surprising number of Karl's courtiers and advisors had Sturnburgian connections. They resented my presence in Barivna, and their resentment had flamed even more when, two months earlier, Karl decided to bestow citizenship on me and make me Countess of Landsfeld, granting me an annuity of twenty thousand florins a year and the Landsfeld estates. He had done so against my wishes. Insisting that he wanted to show his appreciation, that he wanted me to have security, he explained that, as King, he had the power to do anything he pleased and it pleased him to do this for me.

“I'll wager your blood is as blue as the blood of most of those parasites and hangers-on who surround me,” he claimed. “I'll brook no further argument, Elena. You're going to be a citizen of Barivna, and you're going to become a countess whether you like it or not.”

My elevation to the aristocracy had been a great boon for the press, providing even more material for the sensational stories that had appeared in every paper in Europe. It was the most delicious scandal in months, making my affair with Franz seem a trifle in comparison, and the writers outdid themselves. I was a scheming, mercenary temptress taking advantage of the poor, deluded King. I was ruling Barivna from behind the throne, advising Karl on every move. The papers reported that I was brazenly carrying on affairs with a number of students as well, a new one each night, and that I had already caused numerous riots because of my outrageous, immoral conduct.

Smiling a rueful smile, I gazed out at the garden again. If only they knew, I thought. If only they knew how many nights I had done nothing but sit with Karl in his private apartment, amusing him with bright chatter and the gossip that he adored, playing cards with him, discussing painting and literature and music, doing my best to keep away those dark demons that so often threatened to take hold of him. The title he had bestowed upon me, the gifts he insisted on giving me were tokens of appreciation, yes, but not for favors granted in the bedroom. The sensation-seeking newspaper writers would never have understood our platonic relationship, a relationship I could never discuss wtih anyone.