George Washington's Ghost

The nine-year-old Infanta Katherine, and her younger sister, seven-year-old Infanta Margarete gazed curiously at the newcomers with their wide, Hapsburg-Bourbon eyes. Both princesses were dressed as any proud, upper-class middle class mother in New England might dress their daughters, in a style Melody would have called, if pressed, expensively but not in a fussy way which was liable to stop an adventurous young girl climbing a tree or wanting to engage in the normal rough and tumble.

Melody felt a twinge of pain to think that both the royal princes, Alphonse and Charles, aged respectively sixteen and twelve, were with their father, presumably locked away in the Escorial Palace thirty miles from Madrid, where, it was said, the streets were still littered with decomposing bodies.

Just to send a message to any surviving rebels.

Alonso had said it would be alright to bow; Melody was terrified that if she attempted to curtsy, she might, in her agony of nervousness, fall flat on her face.

‘Prostration is not necessary in this enlightened age,’ he had reassured her, smiling wryly.

So, she bowed. And was astonished when the Queen of Spain held out her hand to be, very timidly, shaken by her visitor.

Melody tried hard not to grin like a gargoyle.

“Perhaps,” the Queen suggested to Alonso, in English. “If you might give me a few minutes alone with Miss Danson, Your Grace?”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Melody’s escort assented, with a naturalness which suggested to her that this request had been anticipated in advance.

Melody’s confusion, now peaking, turned her introduction to the two princesses into a blur.

In a moment the youngsters were dismissed.

“Remember not to stray from the gardens!” Their mother called after them in Castilian.

Melody was starting to calm down, and to take in her surroundings. There was a small circular, probably wrought iron, table nearby, with several wicker chairs. A bottle of Champagne and half-a-dozen glasses were neatly arranged.

“My daughters had hoped they would be allowed to sip wine every day now that we are no longer in Spain,” the Queen observed ruefully.

Melody’s heart rate had slowed to a regular, pedestrian pace.

She and the Queen were wearing dresses of a similar style, although Melody’s was a peach-tinted red contrasting with her host’s grey.

“I first tasted wine when I lived in Spain with my parents, Your Majesty,” Melody volunteered in Castilian, rather blurting the words because she was still nowhere near as in control of herself as she thought she was.

The Queen of Spain in Exile smiled, seemingly touched that her guest would volunteer to speak in her native language, as if it was a courtesy she had not expected and was therefore, doubly appreciated for the respect the gesture implied.

“Yes, Alonso reminded me that your parents are Thomas Ransom and Violetta Daingnton; I recollect being fortunate enough to have been present at several of their virtuoso house concerts as a girl.” Queen Sophie made no move to return to her seat.

Melody tried not to flinch under the other woman’s intently sympathetic scrutiny.

“It must have been quite a challenge growing up with two such perfectionists as parents?”

“Yes and no,” Melody shrugged, unsure how to respond. Honesty was probably best: “They taught me the importance of intellectual rigour without ever,” she paused, “holding it against me that I did not want to live the lives that they had lived.” She smiled, tight-lipped. “Well, that they still live, actually. They have a big house, miles from anywhere in the wilds of Vermont…”

“Do they still play?”

“Yes. Every evening.”

“And have they ever forgiven you for not filling their big house in the country with children?”

Again, Melody shrugged.

This was not the conversation she had expected to have with the Queen Empress of Spain in Exile; sometimes, life was full of surprises. So, she went with the flow.

“No,” she shook her head, “I think they got used to that around the same time that I did.”

Queen Sophie gestured for her to walk with her.

Together the two women emerged into the afternoon sunshine. Nearby, there was a sisterly squabble in progress between the two royal princesses.

The Queen looked to her companion.

“You are not at all like me,” she said, sighing a little laugh.

“Oh, I don’t…”

“Forgive me. It is just that I was afraid that you would be exactly like me. But I am glad that you are not.”

Melody halted, unable to do anything about the spontaneous frown forming on her lips or the questions in her eyes.

“You’re the Queen of Spain and I’m a lawyer turned detective turned spook who just wants a quiet life,” she said, despite her best intentions, a little peevishly.

Queen Sophie nodded, seemed to inadvertently chew her bottom lip for a moment.