‘This is Clara, Manfred’s daughter. Clara, Herr Mason.’
The girl returned Victor’s friendly greeting rather shyly, half smiled, excused herself and slipped out. Francesca stepped to the console, lifted the chafing dish lid and looked inside. ‘Wunderbar!’ She turned to Manfred, who was opening the champagne, and began to speak to him in uncertain German.
Victor searched for an ashtray, found one on a long library table behind a sofa, and stubbed out his cigarette. The table held a selection of photographs in silver frames, and he scanned them quickly, his eyes settling on one of a lovely fair-haired young woman wearing an evening gown and a diamond tiara. It had obviously been taken in the nineteen twenties or thereabouts, and he guessed it was of Francesca’s aunt, for he was instantly struck by the family resemblance. The young woman had a look of the Earl around the eyes, the same refined and chiselled features. Victor’s attention strayed to the other photographs, several snapshots of two beautiful children, apparently Diana and her brother when they were young. Placed a little apart from them was another somewhat formally posed portrait, similar to that of the young woman, this time of a darkly handsome man in a rather dated dinner jacket. Their father?
Leaning forward, Victor intensified his scrutiny. The man was exceptional looking, and there was dignity, even regality, in his bearing. However, it was not these characteristics which held his interest so completely. There was a unique quality in the face, a quality of purity, of goodness, but it was the eyes which so stunned in their impact. They were dark, expressive. Powerful, piercing eyes that compelled with their intensity and fervour. Victor stared hard at the photograph, hypnotized by the face. And he, who was only too familiar with the power of the lens and the truth it invariably revealed, thought, with a flash of perception: I am seeing the soul of this man. And it is the soul of a saint …
‘Hello!’ a strong masculine voice rang out.
Victor straightened up and swung around on his heels, and he was jolted. ‘Hello,’ he responded immediately, hoping his surprise did not show on his face. He forced a wide smile onto his mouth.
The young man who had just greeted Victor sat in a wheelchair. It was not so much the chair that startled Victor, but rather its occupant. He was the living embodiment of the man in the photograph. They might be one and the same person, except that Victor knew otherwise, knew this could not be so. Caught on film was the image of the father. Here in the flesh was the son, of that he was quite certain, and if the face he was now regarding was not the face of a saint, certainly it was one of nobility and unusual gentleness.
The young man smiled, and before Victor could make a move towards him he was propelling himself down the long stretch of Persian carpet. He did so rapidly, and surely, displaying the expertise and ease of one long acquainted with this chair.
‘Christian,’ Francesca cried and flew across to the fireplace, positioning herself next to Victor. ‘I just asked Manfred to come and find you. This is Victor.’
‘Of course it is!’ Christian said, laughing. He thrust out his hand as he came to a stop in front of Victor. ‘Welcome to Wittingenhof.’
Francesca said, ‘Victor, this is my cousin, His Highness Prince Christian Michael Alexander von Wittingen und Habst.’
‘Really, Francesca,’ Christian said quietly, ‘we don’t need the whole mouthful.’ He shook his head, as if reproving her, but his smile was fond.
‘I’m delighted to meet you,’ Victor said, also smiling, knowing her recital of the string of names and the title were solely for his benefit, after his mild chastising of a few minutes ago. He added, ‘Thanks so much for inviting me to stay with you.’
‘It’s our pleasure, believe me,’ Christian said, his English as natural and as faultless as that of his sister. ‘And do forgive me for not being here to greet you, when you first arrived. I had a surprise visit from … an old friend … of my father’s, and he stayed much longer than I expected.’
‘Please don’t apologize. Francesca looked after me very well, and I’ve been enjoying this room. It’s lovely.’
‘Thank you. Now, how about a glass of champagne? Francesca, will you do the honours, my dear?’
‘Of course.’ She hurried to the console, poured the champagne and brought the tray of flutes over to the low, glass and brass coffee table situated between the sofas. She passed the glasses around and sat down. Victor joined her on the sofa, and they all raised their glasses as Christian said, ‘Prosit.’
‘Prosit!’ Victor and Francesca reiterated in unison.
‘I’m sorry Diana is delayed. Some problem with her boutique in Munich,’ Christian remarked, resorting to a white lie in order to avoid a long explanation about his mother. He took a sip of champagne, smiled broadly and continued, ‘But she’s pretty good at sorting things out, and I don’t suppose she’ll be very long. You must be hungry after your trip. Bertha made some Swedish meatballs. They’re delicious. Please, do help yourself.’
‘I think I will.’ Victor half rose.
‘I’ll serve you,’ Francesca said, and was across the room in a flash. ‘Can I get some for you too, Christian?’ she asked as she spooned meatballs onto a glass plate.
‘Not at the moment, thank you.’ He pushed his chair closer to the coffee table, bent forward and took a cigarette from the silver box. After lighting it, he said to Victor, ‘It’s simply marvellous for us to have guests at this time of year. It’s generally very quiet. After the onslaught at Christmas, we don’t have many friends visiting us again until the summer. They like to come for the Salzburg Festival. The music’s the attraction, of course.’
‘Yes, so I’ve heard,’ said Victor. ‘And I understand the festival’s the whole enchilada.’
Christian looked at Victor in puzzlement. ‘The whole enchilada?’
Francesca, returning with the plate of food, grinned and said, ‘That’s Victor’s favourite expression. It’s very Californian, and it means the whole works, Christian.’ She put the plate in front of Victor, glanced at him under her lashes, and remarked, ‘You promised to explain its derivation, and you never did.’
‘Sorry. An enchilada’s a corn tortilla, a Mexican flat bread, something like a pancake. It’s filled with a variety of things, chopped beef, cheese, vegetables, then rolled and served with any one of a number of sauces. It’s sort of …’
He stopped, grinned back at her, and finished, ‘Well, it’s the whole works.’
‘Also rather colourful,’ Christian pronounced, obviously amused. ‘I think I might adopt it myself.’
‘Adopt what?’ Diana asked from the doorway.
Christian swung his head, and repeated everything Victor had said whilst she poured herself a glass of champagne. Munching on a meatball, Victor scrutinized them, very much intrigued by this brother and sister. Not unnaturally he was riddled with curiosity, and it was a curiosity that ran on a variety of levels. Innumerable questions about the von Wittingens, those both present and absent, floated around in his head. Perhaps Francesca would enlighten him later. Apparently she had been on the verge of explaining Christian’s disability when Manfred had arrived with the champagne, cutting her short. He glanced at the young prince surreptitiously. Christian looked extremely healthy, despite his confinement to the chair, and there was a certain vitality about him. Victor recognized immediately that
