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 glitter 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
