Chapter Fifteen
Prince Igor Alekhine awoke with the sunlight flooding into the windows of his room overlooking the blue waters of the Mediterranean. He leaped from his bed, smiling, went over to the windows, throwing them wide, and breathed deeply of the sweet morning air. He tugged at the pull cord for the butler to bring his coffee and began to do his morning sit-ups.
Religiously, in front of the window, every morning. Inhale, two, three, four. Exhale, two, three, four. Each time swinging his arms wide. Twenty times. Then the push-ups. Up, two, three, four. Down, two, three, four. Also twenty times.
By then the butler appeared with the coffee and the morning newspapers. The local
Nice Matin
and the
Paris Herald Tribune
. The butler placed the tray on the small table near the window. “Will there be anything else this morning, sir?” he asked as he had a thousand times before.
“Twenty.” Igor looked up. He got to his feet, breathing slightly from the exertion. He looked down at his stomach. Flat and hard. Not bad for a man of fifty. He smiled at the butler. “I don’t think so, James.”
It didn’t matter that the butler’s name was François. Once they were employed by the prince, they all became James. “Thank you, sir,” he said, his face expressionless. He turned to go.
Igor called him back. “Is the princess awake yet?”
“I don’t think so, master,” the butler answered. “We haven’t received her signal in the kitchen as yet.”
“Let me know as soon as you hear from her,” he said.
“Yes, master.” The butler left the room.
Igor walked to the table, and still standing, poured a cup of coffee. He raised the coffee to his lips at the same time flipping open the
Herald Tribune
to the stock market report. His experienced eye glanced down the columns quickly. Automotives, steady. Metals, steady. AT&T, Eastman Kodak, relatively unchanged. Dow Jones Index up, .09. He put the paper back on the table and took his coffee cup to the window and looked out. All was well with the world.
A yacht was heading toward Monte Carlo, the white sails billowing in the wind as it skimmed the calm blue waters. Another power yacht was going by, heading for its berth in Beaulieu sur Mer. It looked like a good day to be out on the water. He would ask Anne when she awakened whether she would like to have lunch aboard the yacht. Until then, he might as well have a swim and work on his tan. She rarely awoke before eleven thirty.
He took the elevator all the way down to the private beach. He came out of the building, his eyes blinking in the sun. He looked back up at the villa.
It loomed five stories tall. It was built of native Pyraneean stone in a group of turretlike buildings into the side of the cliff that descended from the Bas Corniche to the water’s edge. Inside the house, the rooms were on different levels, each turret connected to the other by an interior archway. It was a crazy house but he loved it. It was the nearest thing to a castle that he could build on this property.
He walked out on the edge of the small dock and knifed his way into the water. The cold caught his breath deep inside him. He came up sputtering. Damn, it was June and the water was still freezing. He began to swim vigorously and by the time he was back on the dock twenty minutes later, he felt warm and glowing.
He climbed the short stairway to the pool terrace and took a towel from the cabana. Rubbing himself vigorously, he went behind the bar and pressed the intercom switch to the kitchen.
“Yes, master?” The butler’s voice echoed hollowly from the box.
“Bring some coffee to the pool, James,” he ordered. He flipped off the switch and came out from behind the bar. He went around the side of the small building to the pool. It wasn’t until then that he saw her.
A broad smile came to his lips. He liked his niece. “Good morning, Betsy,” he said heartily. “You’re up early.”
Betsy sat up on the
matelas
, her hands holding the straps of her brassiere to her breasts. “Good morning, Uncle Igor,” she said.
He laughed. “For all the cover you get from that bikini, you don’t have to be so nervous.”
She didn’t smile, instead fastening the strap.
He turned and looked out at the water. “Another beautiful day on the Riviera.” He waved his arms. He turned back to her. “It’s hard to believe sometimes with all the trouble there is in the world that here the sun is shining.”
She was silent.
He looked at her. It was not like her to be so quiet. “Are you all right?” he asked. Then he remembered. “Weren’t you supposed to go sailing this morning?”
“I didn’t feel like it,” she said shortly.
“Why not?”
She looked at him, her eyes squinting in the sun. “Because I was sick and nauseous all morning.”
“You better let me call Dr. Guillemin,” he said with quick concern. “I thought that bouillabaisse was a little too spicy last night.”
“It’s not the bouillabaisse.”
“What is it then?” He was puzzled.
“I think I’m pregnant,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice.
He stared at her, his dismay showing on his tanned, open face. “How could that be?”
She laughed. “Uncle Igor, for a man who used to be one of the top playboys in the world, you’re remarkably naïve. It’s really very simple. I brought everything to the Riviera with me except my B.C. pills. I forgot them.”
“France is a civilized country,” he said stiffly. “You could have gotten them here.”
“I didn’t,” she said. “So forget it.”
“Are you sure you’re pregnant?”
“I missed two periods,” she said plainly. “And I never did that before.”
“We better make sure,” he said. “I will arrange an appointment with Pierre Guillemin in Cannes this afternoon.”
“Don’t bother,” she said. “I’m leaving for the States this afternoon. Abortions are legal in New York and Max has made all the arrangements. He says I will have the best doctors.”
“Max van Ludwige?” he asked in an incredulous voice. “Was it him? But he is supposed to be so happily married. He has a daughter almost your age.”
“He is happily married,” she said. “But sometimes things like this happen. We were alone on the boat three days while we were sailing to pick up his family.”
“What happens if the doctors think it’s too late to have an abortion?”
“Then Max will get a divorce and marry me,” she said. “After I have the baby, I will give him a divorce and he will remarry his wife.”
“You sound very sure of yourself.”
“I am sure,” she said calmly. “The three of us have it all worked out.”
“Three of you?” His voice rose. “Who else is in on this?”
“Rita,” she said. Rita was Max’s wife. “The only sensible thing to do was tell her about it. Neither of us wanted to hurt her. She was very nice. She understands it was nothing but an accident. That Max really and truly loves her.”
The butler appeared with the tray and silver coffee service. “Where will you take your coffee, sir?”
Igor stared at him speechlessly. He pointed to a small table nearby. The butler placed the tray down carefully. Igor finally found his voice. “Get me a cognac, James,” he said, and then, as the butler turned away, “better make it a large one!”
Loren III looked at the tall, good-looking Dutchman. Max van Ludwige seemed to be about his own age, but his blond hair and the blue eyes in the deeply tanned face made him look much younger.
“These things are always embarrassing,” the Dutchman said in his precise English. “One never knows quite what to say.”
“I don’t know,” Loren said stiffly. “I’ve never been in a situation like this before.”
“We both regret it very much,” Van Ludwige said.
Loren was silent. “Where’s Betsy now?”
“She’ll be down in a moment,” Max said. He looked up as the butler came into the living room of the Sutton Place brownstone that his family had owned in New York for many years. “What would you like to drink?” he asked politely.
“Scotch and water,” Loren said automatically.
“I’ll have a dry martini, straight up,” Bobbie said.
Van Ludwige looked at the butler. “My usual Scotch.”
The butler nodded and left the room. An awkward silence fell over them. Van Ludwige tried to break it. He looked at Bobbie. “How long is it since I’ve seen you, Bobbie? Was it at Le Mans in ’67?”
She nodded. “I think so. You had two Porsches entered if I remember correctly.”
“That’s right,” he laughed. “But I had bad luck. Neither of them finished.” The butler returned with the drinks. After he had gone, Max held his drink in his hand. “I was sorry to hear about Lord Ayres but I am very glad that you are happy once again.” He held up his drink. “I hope it is not too late to offer my congratulations?”
“Thank you,” Bobbie said. She looked at Loren. “Today is our anniversary.”
Loren was surprised. “It is?”
“We’re married three months today,” she said.
“Let’s drink to that,” Max said. “To many more happy anniversaries.”
They sipped their drinks and the awkward silence returned. Again Max tried to make conversation. “There is a great deal of interest in Europe in your new car. It’s a turbine engine, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Loren answered.
“Do you expect to have it on the market for the coming year?”
“I don’t know,” Loren said. “We’ve been on our honeymoon the past two months. Actually I was supposed to be in Detroit yesterday for a board meeting this week to make some final decisions. But this came along and I put it off.”
Max got to his feet as Betsy came through the door. She hesitated a moment, then came toward them. “Hello, Bobbie,” she said.
Bobbie looked at her. There were circles of sleeplessness under the young girl’s eyes. Impulsively she got to her feet and kissed Betsy’s cheek. “Hello, Betsy.”
Betsy smiled, a quick smile, then turned to her father who was standing, watching them. She didn’t move. “Hello, Daddy.”
He made an awkward gesture with his hand. Then she ran into his arms. “Oh, Daddy, Daddy! I hope you’re not angry with me!”
He shook his head, kissing her. “I’m not angry with you, baby.”
“I really made a mess of things, didn’t I?”
“It will be all right,” he said. “We’ll get everything straightened out.”
She took a deep breath, regaining her self-control. “At first I was angry with him. But now I’m glad that Uncle Igor telephoned you.”
“He did right. He was concerned.”
“I know,” she said. She turned to Max. “See, I told you my father would understand.”
The Dutchman bowed stiffly. “I am most happy for your sake.”
Loren turned to face him. “Now that my daughter is here, I assume we can discuss the plans.”
“Of course,” Max said. He went to the door and closed it. “The servants have long ears.”
Loren nodded. He sat down again, Betsy next to him on the large couch. Loren picked up his drink and looked at Max expectantly.
“I’ve made arrangements to fly to Nassau with Betsy next week. Preparations have been arranged for the granting of an immediate divorce and we will be married. It’s as simple as that.”
Loren turned to his daughter. “Is that what you want?”
Betsy looked at him, then at Max, then back to her father again. “No,” she said in a firm voice.
For a moment there was a stunned silence, then they all began talking at once. “I thought—” Max said.
“What do you mean?” Loren asked.
Betsy glanced at Bobbie. A look of understanding flashed between them. She turned back to the men. “It’s a farce,” she said. “I don’t see why we have to go through with it. Max doesn’t want to marry me any more than I want to marry him. He’s just being a gentleman. I don’t see why we have to put Rita and him through all this just because I’ve been stupid enough to get pregnant.”
“What do you want to do then?” Loren asked.
“What’s wrong with just having the baby?”
Loren was suddenly angry. “I won’t have any bastards in my family!”
Betsy stared at him. “Don’t be so old-fashioned, Daddy. There are plenty of people who are having children who don’t want to be married. But this is stupid. Getting married just to have the baby and then getting divorced. Why can’t I just go away somewhere quietly and have the baby?”
“Because there have been enough rumors and gossip in the papers already about your being pregnant,” Loren said. “There is no quiet place for you to hide.”
“Then let the papers have it!” Betsy said. “I don’t care.”
“Betsy, listen to me,” Max said.
She turned to him. “No. I’m not going to put you through all that hassle.”
“Betsy, I want to marry you!” Max said.
Betsy stared at him. “What for? You’re not in love with me.”