Rosetta (18 page)

Charlotte's letters chart her European peregrinations; she writes from half a dozen salubrious resorts and palaces. I read each one, see her hunger, and think of what it must have been like for Zeno to be the recipient of this singular woman's innermost hopes and dreams. It is all there, captured for eternity in her peculiar, glyphic handwriting; Charlotte's frustration and despair, her appalling longing for the ageing Duke's demise.

In the midst of Charlotte's bulletins there is another crisis. Ernesta sends an urgent telegram from Cap Martin.

Charlotte, too, mentions the Princess Jutta, Duchess of Mecklenburg, in her letter of April the 26th.

Next there is a cable from the dashing, moustachioed Crown Prince of Montenegro himself. Despite an international reputation for profligate womanising, the playboy prince is desperately concerned about his wife.

It is little wonder that Zeno is disturbed. In constant demand by a litter of troubled individuals upon whose heads rest so many European crowns, he feels besieged on all sides. Now he is expected to save the life of one royal personage while, at the same time, hastening another towards an untimely end.

If this were not enough cause for consternation, it is at this point Charlotte's letters begin to delve into international matters of concern.

Then, after her signature, comes the intriguing line: ‘
Did you see anything of the King and Queen since their French visit?
'

I am not sure to which King and Queen Charlotte is referring. So many spring to mind; perhaps her brother-in-law Constantine and sister Sophie, the King and Queen of Greece, or possibly her cousins, King George and Queen Mary of Great Britain. It is not important. What strikes me most is the casual assumption this chatty postscript contains. These days, it appears that mixing in royal circles is, for Rosetta and Zeno, so unexceptional that the Emperor's sister regards it as barely worth remarking upon.

 

Charlotte's correspondence now begins to move in disconcerting, rapid fashion between the domestic drama of the ailing Duke's battle to stave off death and a much larger stage: the tumultuous conflicts beginning to erupt among nations.

Charlotte emerges from her preoccupation with the Duke's unwanted recovery to make the observation:

Zeno responds. He counsels forbearance. What else can he do? Charlotte is the least of his worries. He sleeps little, continues to be disturbed by the dreams that fill his mind once his eyes are closed, the ghastly images that even the small grains of opium he has begun to take do little to dispel.

Charlotte is writing from the royal family's estate. She complains that she is:

Charlotte leaves Meiningen, its torments and intrigues, to return to the south of France.

Then the Princess writes:

Charlotte is right. As events unfold, the future will hold little for her brother's son, Germany's young Crown Prince.

Again, politics intrude.

I imagine Zeno, turning to Rosetta with vexation, exclaiming, ‘What exactly does she want me to do? “
Use all your forces
”, she says – what, to cast a spell, to murder the old man by witchcraft? Is that what she wants?' Where once he might have smiled at the Princess's folly, now he is dismayed.

Then Charlotte remarks:

The visions that he described at Torre Clementina in March, the same unwanted visions that visit him at night; Zeno cannot explain how it is that they come to him, but he believes what Charlotte still cannot accept. The world they know will be consumed by flames.

On 25 June, the longed-for death has come: Charlotte's next letter is edged in a wide band of black. At last she has what she wants.

Next Charlotte refers to another death, about which, amazingly, Zeno appears to have warned her. This event will not have anything to do with natural causes. Its consequences will prove both grave and unimaginable.

The first domino has fallen. The murder does not save anyone.

Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir presumptive to the Austro-Hungarian throne, was killed by Gavrilo Princip, nineteen, in the Bosnian town of Sarajevo. On 28 June, this hitherto unknown, unremarkable young man was one of a group of assassins organised and armed by the Black Hand, a secret society devoted to Serbian unification. The Black Hand tried to kill the Archduke and his wife Sophie earlier that day but blundered. The bomb that had been thrown bounced off the archducal car.

Princip did not expect to see his quarry again. Quite by chance he was sitting in a cafe, gloomily contemplating this failure, when to his surprise he caught sight of the distinctive pale-green feathers of Franz Ferdinand's helmet only metres away. This was entirely unexpected; it seems the royal chauffeur had taken a wrong turning. The Black Hand would not miss its chance again. Princip walked over to the near-stationary car. He raised his pistol and shot twice. Within minutes the heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne and his wife were dead.

 

I wish I knew exactly what it was that Zeno said to Charlotte, the words that led her to respond to this murderous news without surprise.

As to her query ‘
what will be next?
', opinions varied. The day after Charlotte posed this question, the Austrian newspaper
Neue Freie Press
pronounced, ‘The political consequences of this act are being greatly exaggerated.' Zeno did not share this optimistic view. He believed that evil would ensue.

 

Charlotte's final letter has another thick black border. It has been written just ten days after her brother, Kaiser Wilhelm, promises German support for Austria's revenge against the Serbian outrage.

Despite Charlotte's pleas, Zeno will not come. Patients and work are but a ruse: he has no intention of leaving for Europe in three weeks' time. Indeed, he will not visit Paris, or the Riviera, and certainly not the palaces of Germany, for many years ahead.

On 28 July, Austria formally declares war on Serbia. This brings Russia into play.

In England, the
Daily Mail
's headline of 31 July shouts ‘Europe Drifting to Disaster'.

On 1 August, Germany declares war on its vast eastern neighbour. The following day, fifteen thousand people gather in London's Trafalgar Square. They stand in driving rain and call upon the British government to avoid entering the conflict. ‘Think what war will cost!' their banners say.

The Cabinet is still grappling with its response. It is a ‘moving situation', Britain's Lord Chancellor, Lord Haldane, remarks, ‘like a huge cinematograph show, seen through a mist'.

Each day there is a new announcement. On 3 August, Germany declares war on France. The following day, its army invades neutral Belgium.

Britain can delay no longer. Alliances are invoked. At 7.00 pm the Prime Minister, Herbert Asquith, delivers a solemn statement to the House of Commons. An ultimatum is sent to Germany: withdraw your troops.

At 11.00 pm the ultimatum expires. Great Britain is at war. Kaiser Wilhelm II and his subjects are the enemy.

There will be no more letters from Charlotte.

LONDON, SEPTEMBER 1914

The two women are in Lilian's dressing room, trying on the purchases they have made for the new season. As they are quite alone they play at being ladies' maids, hooking up each other's delectable silken gowns of emerald and scarlet, sapphire and rose; it is an intimate indulgence. Lilian and Rosetta stand before the long double-sided mirror, admiring the images they see. They turn this way and that and, as they do so, exchange confidences. It is what women will do in circumstances like this.

Lilian bemoans her empty marriage. ‘But what is my solution?' she laments, adding that she has no wish to participate in the casual arrangements so many bored, married women of her acquaintance make with the equally jaded men of their aristocratic set.

‘Creeping down cold corridors on country house weekends … Rosetta, that is not for me!'

‘Darling, stop. If we are going to talk about this properly you need to feel much more comfortable than this.'

Lilian stands, compliant, as Rosetta undoes the last dress, letting it fall around her friend in a shimmering heap. Next she unlaces Lilian's corset. The other woman remains motionless as Rosetta removes her fragile drawers. She has never seen her friend completely naked before. Really, she is terribly enticing. What is wrong with Arthur Pakenham?

Rosetta reaches forward and, as she does, allows the tips of her fingers to graze Lilian's breasts. Impulsively, she pinches each rosy nipple hard, feels them rise and stiffen.

Lilian tenses. Then, languidly, she stretches her arms out wide. A tiny shiver runs through her before she drops them back to her side. ‘That was rather nice.' She smiles. ‘If only Arthur would touch me like that.'

‘What a cold fish that man is,' Rosetta says as she reaches for Lilian's loose white satin robe. ‘Look, put this on and we'll sit on the chaise longue. I have an idea.'

 

‘But are you sure, Rosie, really sure?' Lilian's blue eyes are open wide. ‘You say that you won't mind. But how will you feel afterwards?'

‘I will feel safe. Frankly, I will be thankful that I know where Zeno is. Most important, I will be relieved that the person with whom he is spending time is someone I trust above anybody else.'

Lilian looks a little flushed. Rosetta kisses her on the cheek.

‘You both care for each other. Yes, it has never been in that particular way. But it could be. Dearest Lilian, just let him give you the pleasure that I know you need. All I ask is that you do not speak of it to anyone. Oh, and there is no need to speak of it to me.' Rising smoothly to her feet, she moves towards the brass bell on the wall beside the marble mantelpiece. ‘Now, let us call for tea.'

 

Rosetta waits until late on Sunday afternoon. She and Zeno have returned to their mansion flat in exclusive Portman Square after
a pleasant visit to that nearby temple of British culture, the Royal Academy in Piccadilly. Here, several happy hours have been whiled away, viewing a procession of commanding portraits by Gainsborough and Reynolds, some of Constable's bucolic landscapes and a number of J.M.W. Turner's more turbulent canvases. Zeno's interest in painting is as strong as ever. Sometimes he speaks of his wish to stop his ceaseless work and devote himself to art. ‘One day,' he says, ‘I really think I will.'

This particular Sunday has about it a warm, dreamy quality that makes it difficult for Zeno and Rosetta to believe they live in an era of such bloodshed and disarray. On a day like this, only the sight of so many khaki-clad men in the streets and tranquil parks signifies that dreadful things are taking place just across the Channel, that alarmingly narrow stretch of sea.

Once home, Rosetta wonders if she should make a pot of Lapsang Souchong tea but, on reflection, decides perhaps a fine malt whiskey might induce a more persuasive atmosphere. She begins to speak cautiously, does not make her intention clear. There is no reference to her fears, no mention of any liaisons in which Zeno might currently be involved. She speaks only of their vulnerability, observes that in these uncertain times there must be nothing in their behaviour that might lead them to be compromised.

‘We have done well here,' Rosetta says to her husband. ‘But despite your powers of prophecy,' she smiles, ‘we don't know for how long this can continue. I am worried we might overreach ourselves. Oh, they can't seem to have enough of us now, but we must not forget that society is fickle. You have said it yourself. It will not last.'

Zeno, an intensely percipient man by nature, is on this occasion puzzled as to the direction that Rosetta's train of thought is taking.

‘And there's the war,' she continues, adding, ‘you are an admirer of Mr Churchill: for months now you have been reading
what he's said in the Parliament and even heard him speak. In fact, sometimes I think it is Mr Churchill's incessant thundering that has been responsible for you imagining such gruesome things.

‘Anyway, you both seem to think that this talk of the fighting being over in a few weeks or months is nonsense. Well, you have convinced me that you and he are right.'

Rosetta adds more whiskey to Zeno's crystal glass.

Then she speaks of Lilian, of how lonely and neglected her dear friend feels. ‘All that Arthur Pakenham seems interested in is politics and soldiering,' she says. ‘Do you know, Lilian told me she thinks he was secretly delighted that war broke out? He went straight away to Ulster, raised the 11th Royal Irish Rifles and took himself and his loyal Ulstermen off to fight on the Western Front. She'll never see him now, and I don't think she cares. Poor Lilian.'

‘Yes, indeed,' Zeno says. He sips his drink and frowns, glances at his wife. ‘You know how fond of her I am. It's a pity there's nothing I can do to help.'

‘I think there is,' Rosetta replies. She looks into her husband's panther eyes. ‘Go to her.'

Zeno is taken by surprise. ‘And?'

‘Make her happy, do those things you know how to do best.'

‘Rose, you don't mean …?'

‘I do. I have always found her beautiful. After all this time you can hardly have failed to notice her appeal. It is what I want for her, for all of us.'

Zeno places his glass onto a side table with a slow deliberation that belies the impact of his wife's unexpected statement. ‘Rosetta, really, you are the most astonishing woman. I never dreamt you would suggest such a thing.'

Rosetta takes a breath. ‘I won't say more. Only this. I do not need to know when. I do not want you to speak about it. Only – go to her. I have already talked it over with Lilian. She is uncertain.'

‘Well, if that is the case …'

‘You will ensure she has no doubts.'