The Dragonfly Pool (37 page)

“Yes, of course I'll come. Where does she live?”

“It's a place called Rottingdene House—a great gloomy mansion. Her grandfather's the Duke of Rottingdene—why, what's the matter?”

Clemmy had frowned. She knew the name of Rottingdene House only too well. The children had spoken of it when they came back from Bergania—and she could see the name now on the envelopes that Tally left for the postman.

And she didn't want to go there. She understood how easy it must have been for Karil to get drawn back into his former life, but he had hurt his friends.

“What is it?” asked Francis.

“Nothing. It's all right. Of course I'll come.”

It would be as well to keep an eye on Francis, she thought. He had a temper and had walked out of more than one sitting when his subjects had thrown their weight about.

And after all, they were most unlikely to meet the prince: painters in those sorts of places were not usually admitted by the front door.

So the following day, carrying Francis's easel and his box of paints, they made their way down Pall Mall toward Rottingdene House.

As Clemmy had expected, they were shown in by the back door and told to wait in a small cold lobby. No one offered them a cup of tea or suggested that they should sit down, and they saw no member of the household. When they had waited for nearly half an hour, they were shown into a stuffy and overfurnished drawing room and into the presence of Carlotta's mother, the Archduchess of Carinstein.

“My daughter is preparing herself,” she announced. “She will be with you in five minutes.”

Again they waited—not for five minutes, but for fifteen. Then Carlotta swept in, followed by one of the mournful governesses, and stretched out her hand so that Francis could bow over it. At the same time her eyes swiveled over to Clemmy, waiting for her curtsy.

She waited in vain. The painter said, “Good morning”; his assistant smiled—and that was all. It was an outrage, and for a moment Carlotta thought of sweeping out again. But the vision of her picture framed in gold on the wall of the Berganian palace stopped her, and she walked over to a large carved chair, draped in a piece of brocade.

“This is where I'm going to sit,” she informed them.

She had decided in the end to be angelic, and wore a white lace dress and a white ribbon in her hair.

“I'm afraid there won't be enough light with the chair at that angle,” said Francis. “It will have to be moved closer to the window.”

Carlotta scowled, but she allowed him to adjust the chair. Then she got into it, clutched the chair arms on either side and stared at Francis.

“It doesn't matter what you wear today, Carlotta,” said the painter, “because I'm only doing the preliminary sketches, but next time I don't want you to wear a white dress. I'd like you to wear blue . . . or yellow.”

“I always wear white dresses,” said Carlotta, “when I'm being photographed.”

“But you're not being photographed. You're being painted,” said Francis.

Carlotta's mouth shut in a tight line. “I don't see why you should tell me what to wear.”

Clemmy now moved toward Carlotta. “You see, Mr. Lakeland has noticed how beautifully a blue dress would take up the color of your eyes. Your eyes are a most unusual blue—it's more of an azure or ultramarine. On the other hand, yellow would blend with your hair. Your hair is such a rich blond—not boringly flaxen. Of course you can wear white—only it is . . . well . . . a bit ordinary.”

“All right,” said Carlotta. She waved her hand at the governess. “Go and fetch the yellow organdie,” she ordered, “and the blue velvet. The one with the embroidered collar.”

The governess hurried away and came back with the two dresses on her arm.

“There's no need to change this time,” said Francis. “Just tell me which one you'd prefer to wear and then I can block out the color tones before I go.”

“I'll wear the blue.”

She sat back in the chair and Francis began to sketch the outlines of her face and arms.

“That drape is much too fussy,” he said to Clemmy. “I'll have the chair as it is.”

“I won't sit on a bare chair,” said Carlotta.

“But surely you don't want people to look at the drapes rather than at your face?” said Clemmy, deftly removing the brocade. She was getting a little bit worried about Francis.

“Could you perhaps turn your head a little,” he said, taking up his sketchbook. “Just find a position that's natural and comfortable.”

“I don't want to be natural,” said Carlotta. “People like me aren't meant to look natural; they're meant to look important.”

But she allowed Francis to turn her head aside, and for a short time she sat still. Then she began to wriggle and kick the legs of the chair and say she was tired.

“You've done very well,” said Clemmy. “Have a good stretch and then you can come back for a bit longer.”

But when she sat down again Carlotta said that her foot had gone to sleep and she didn't want to sit with her head tilted, because people wouldn't see all of her face.

“You see, Carlotta,” said Clemmy soothingly, “this painting will be shown for hundreds and hundreds of years. People will look at it and say how lucky the prince of Bergania is to have such a beautiful friend. You will be remembered long after you're dead and—”

“I don't care,” said Carlotta. “My shoulder's stiff and I'm bored.”

“Shall I tell you a story?”

“What sort of a story? Will it be about me?”

Clemmy sighed and racked her brains. The kind of story that ordinary little girls might like, about going to live in a castle with a regiment of soldiers to salute her, would hardly satisfy Carlotta, who probably thought that all this was going to befall her in any case. So perhaps a film-star story . . . a story about being discovered and taken to Hollywood like Shirley Temple, who was driven everywhere in a white Rolls-Royce and was a millionairess at the age of seven. It was Clemmy's least-favorite topic but Francis, who had reached for his paints, shot her a look of gratitude, and she cleared her throat and began.

“Once upon a time . . .”

While Clemmy was telling her story, adding more and more preposterous details, Karil was walking through St. James's Park, supporting the old Princess Natalia, who was pulling Pom-Pom along on his lead. On the other side of the princess was the Scold, and ten paces behind came the smallest and most useless of the duke's footmen, the knock-kneed George. Because he did not trust George to restrain Karil, the duke had given the Scold a whistle to blow in case the boy showed signs of running off.

It was almost funny, thought Karil, how awful it was, this slow procession through the dank and chilly park. The old princess had arthritis and winced when she put her right foot on the ground; Pom-Pom had a cold, which made it even more difficult than usual for him to breathe through his squashed-up nose, and George had been turned down by one of the housemaids and stared ahead of him, seeing nothing but his sorrow.

The Scold had planned the afternoon carefully. They must stay out till four o'clock at least so that Carlotta's surprise was not spoiled. The dear girl was keen that Karil should suspect nothing and be overjoyed when he received her portrait at Christmas, and this meant prolonging the walk for as long as the old princess could stay on her feet—and after that finding somewhere where they could shelter.

They had not walked far when the princess collapsed onto a damp bench.

“You had better take Pom-Pom, Karil,” she said. “I must rest. My heart is not good.” She sighed deeply. “Oh, when will the messenger come?”

“He will come soon, I'm sure,” said Karil.

Almost every day he had to listen to the old lady as she told him about Pom-Pom's betrothed, the only other Outer Mongolian pedestal dog in the world, who had been taken to Brazil by a Russian count now working as a stevedore on the docks in Rio de Janeiro. A messenger would come to fetch Pom-Pom, Princess Natalia had told him; puppies would be born—and the ancient line of dogs bred by the great khans would be continued.

“And then I can die!” was how the story always ended.

Karil would have liked to let Pom-Pom off the lead—it seemed to him all wrong that a dog bred by the great khans of the Mongolian steppes should be pulled along like a prisoner. Such dogs had been prized beyond rubies; they were offered as living hot-water bottles to honored palace visitors whose feet were cold; they traveled in the khans' own saddlebags when the rulers rode to war—lifted in and out by their topknot. And now the last survivor of this honorable race had to pad through the muddy paths of a London park and lift his leg against soiled lampposts.

After a while the princess struggled to her feet and they set off for another laborious walk of a hundred yards or so.

“I have heard that old Simonova Ravinsky has died,” said the old lady presently. “Ridiculous! She was only eighty-three.”

The Scold agreed that it was indeed ridiculous and they managed to cross a small bridge across a ditch. The park, on this wretched day, was almost empty—even the waterbirds were silent. Only Pom-Pom's wheezing could be heard above the gathering wind.

“And they say that Count Suratov is turning an unpleasant color,” Princess Natalia went on.

“What sort of a color?” inquired the Scold.

“Purple,” pronounced the old lady.

“That is a bad sign, certainly,” said the Countess Frederica. “Turning purple is definitely a bad sign.”

After three-quarters of an hour they reached a small pavilion. It was open to the weather, but at least there was a roof to shut out the rain that was beginning to fall. The Scold looked at her watch. Another hour at least before they could return.

They sat on damp, gilt-legged chairs and watched the rain fall in gray strings into the lake.

The footman shivered and took up his position at a suitable distance. It was going to be a long afternoon.

But now suddenly there was a diversion.

Two rough-looking men in shabby raincoats made their way up the steps. One had a heavy dark beard and wore a battered hat pulled down low. The other was younger, with a chin full of stubble and burning black eyes.

They lurched into the pavilion, hiccuped a few times, and stopped to stare. Then they bent down to pat Pom-Pom.

“Nice little doggy,” said the bearded man. “Come along then. Come to Jack.”

Pom-Pom rolled his bloodshot eyes and rumbled in his throat.

“Now then,” said the man, “I'm not going to hurt you . . .”

He squatted down on his haunches and tried to pull the dog toward him.

“Careful,” said his companion. “He might bite you.”

“No, he wouldn't. Dogs don't hurt me, not ever.”

He belched loudly and tugged at Pom-Pom's topknot.

The next moment there was a piercing scream as the old princess rose from her chair. “Anarchists!” she screeched. “Anarchists. They will cut him up and eat him!”

“No, no,” said the Scold. “I'm sure they're just tramps.” And to the two men: “Be off with you. Go away. Shoo!”

But the men, who were too drunk to understand, showed no sign of moving. They continued to sway slightly and tell Pom-Pom that he was a nice little doggy.

“I know anarchists,” shrieked Princess Natalia. “In Russia they were everywhere! They will eat my Pom-Pom, and he will never become a father in Brazil! Quick, quick, we must take him home.”

“I'll take him,” said Karil.

“No, no!” cried the Scold. “You can't go back now; you'll spoil Carlotta's surprise.”

But Karil was getting bored with the fuss about Carlotta's surprise. “I know all about the portrait,” he said. “I've known about it for ages, but I'll be careful to make sure she doesn't see me.”

“We must get the police . . . the police!” shrieked the old lady. She took a step backward, sending her chair crashing against the metal table, and the tramps, disgusted by the commotion, shuffled out into the rain.

“Silly old geezer,” one of them muttered.

But the Princess Natalia was now in the grip of fully fledged hysterics. “They have gone to fetch bombs,” she cried. “They will explode him and when the messenger comes he will be dead! He must go home!”

“George,” called the Countess Frederica, and the footman who had been huddled into his overcoat moved reluctantly toward her. “Pick up the dog and hurry back to the house with him.”

“He'll bite me,” said the footman. “He doesn't like me and he's all upset now. He'll bite, as sure as eggs is eggs.”