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“It would be natural to envy that,” Hester said honestly. She would not have found it easy to watch such happiness and not wish it for herself. And if she had at one time been in love with the Prince, it would never really stop hurting. She would wonder why she had not been able to awake that love in him, what was lacking in her. What gaiety or charm, what tenderness or quickness to understand, what generosity or honor did she fail to have? Or was it simply that she was physically not pleasing enough, either to look at or in those areas of intimacy of love in which her only experience lay in the imagination and the longing of dreams? Was all that the wound which had festered in Zorah Rostova all these years, and perhaps driven her a little mad?
Dagmar was absentmindedly picking off the occasional dead leaf and fiddling with the bark around the palms.
“What was the Prince like?” Hester asked, trying to picture the romance.
“To look at?” Dagmar asked with a smile.
“No, I meant as a person. What
did he like to do? If I were to spend an evening in his company—at dinner, for example—what would I remember most about him?”
“Before he met Gisela, or afterwards?”
“Both! Yes, tell me both.”
Dagmar concentrated her memory, forgetting the plants. “Well, before Gisela, you would think first how utterly charming he was.” She smiled as she recollected. “He had the most beautiful smile. He would look at you as if he were really interested in all you said. He never seemed to be merely polite. It was almost as if he were half expecting you to turn out to be special, and he did not want to miss any opportunity to find out. I think what you might remember afterwards was the certainty that he liked you.”
Hester found herself smiling too. The warmth rippled through her at the idea of meeting someone who gave so much of himself. No wonder Gisela had loved him, and how devastated she must feel now. And on top of the loneliness and the loss which darkened everything had come this nightmare accusation. What on earth had possessed Rathbone to take up Zorah’s case? His knighthood had gone to his wits. When the Queen touched him on the shoulder with the sword she must have pricked his brain.
“And after he met Gisela …” Dagmar went on.
Hester jerked her attention back. She had forgotten she had asked that question also.
“Yes?” she said, trying to sound attentive.
“I suppose he was different,” Dagmar responded thoughtfully. “He was hurt that people wouldn’t accept Gisela, because he loved her so much. But he was never so very close to his family, especially his mother. He was sad going into exile. But I think he believed in his heart that one day they would want him back and then they would see Gisela’s worth and accept her.” She looked along the passage between the leaves and fronds towards the windows. “I remember the day he left. People were lining the streets. A lot of women were weeping, and they all wished him well, and cried ’God bless you!’ and waved kerchiefs and threw flowers.”
“And Gisela?” Hester asked curiously. “What did they feel about her?”
“They resented her,” Dagmar replied. “In a way, it was as if she had stolen him from us.”
“What is his brother like?”
“Waldo? Oh!” Dagmar laughed as if some memory amused her. “Much plainer, much duller, at first. He hasn’t any of Friedrich’s charm. But we grew to appreciate him. And, of course, his wife was always popular. It makes such a difference, you know. Perhaps in a way Ulrike was right. Whom we marry does alter us more than I used to think. In fact, only when you ask me do I realize how both brothers changed over the years. Waldo became stronger and wiser, and he learned how to win people’s affection. I think he’s happy, and that makes people kinder, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Hester said with sudden feeling. “Yes, it does. What happened to Countess Rostova after Friedrich and Gisela left? Did she miss him terribly?”
Dagmar seemed surprised by the question.
“I don’t know. She did some very strange things. She went to Cairo and took a boat up the Nile to Karnak. But I don’t know if that had anything to do with Friedrich or if she would have gone anyway. I liked Zorah, but I can’t say I ever understood her. She had some most peculiar ideas.”
“For example?” Hester asked.
“Oh, about what women could achieve.” Dagmar shook her head, laughing a little. “She even wanted us all to band together and refuse to have relations with our husbands unless they gave us some sort of political power. I mean … she was quite mad! Of course, that was when she was very young.”
Something stirred in Hester’s memory. “Wasn’t there a Greek play about something like that?”
“Greek?” Dagmar was amazed.
“Yes, ancient Greek. All the women wanted to stop a war between two city-states … or something of the sort.”
“Oh. I don’t know. Anyway, it’s absurd.”
Hester did not argue, but she thought perhaps Zorah was not as alien to her own thoughts as she had supposed. She could imagine Rathbone’s reaction if she were to tell him of such an idea. It made her laugh even to contemplate it.
Dagmar mistook her reaction, and relaxed, smiling as well, forgetting old tragedies and present threats for a while as they walked the length of the conservatory and smelled the flowers and the damp earth, before Hester went to see how Robert was.
As usual, she climbed the stairs and walked across the landing almost silently. She stood outside Robert’s door, which was open about a foot, as was appropriate while he had a female visitor. She looked in, not wishing to interrupt should they be in conversation.
