Empress Bianca Read Free Page B

did with that treasured glimpse of the Caribbean Sea; as he looked for a job; as he went down to the docks to arrange for thedelivery of the furnishings they had shipped with them; as he and Leila discussed Bianca’s schooling, Bianca remained oblivious of everything but the final result. To her child’s eye, it all seemed so seamless, so effortless. She would, as a consequence, spend the rest of her life moving home and country without a glimmer of anxiety.
    Although Harold and Leila had radically different views on how much information to provide a child, on the issue of Bianca’s education, they were in perfect accord. ‘It’s crucial that she mixes with nice girls,’ Harold said. ‘The friends she makes in childhood might stand her in good stead for the remainder of her life.’ Ever practical, Harold solved the problem of finding out where to educate his daughter in an unfamiliar country by resorting to the simple expedient of getting the British Consulate to inform him where the diplomats sent their daughters. And so it was that Bianca Barnett was enrolled at the Catholic Mercy Academy in Panama City as Bianca Barnett Milade. She was seated, in Latin alphabetic fashion, in front of Begonia Cantero Gonzalez: something that seemed to be without any importance whatsoever at the time, although it was the first step along Bianca’s route to success and murder.
     
    At the very moment Harold, Leila and Bianca were walking down the gangplank of the SS Sao Paulo in Panama’s harbour, halfway across the world, in Bucharest, a motor vehicle was pulling into the courtyard of Palatul Cotroceni, the official residence of the King of Romania. Emanuel Silverstein had been one of King Carol II’s jewellers since that monarch had returned from exile in 1930. Before that, he had enjoyed the patronage of his father, the late King Ferdinand, after whom
    Emanuel named his only son, and Queen Marie, who was then one of the most famous women in the world. Emmanuel Silverstein was used to coming to Palatul Cotroceni. At least three or four times a year, His Majesty’s Equerry would telephone his shop on the Boulevard Regina Maria with the suggestion that ‘Mr Silverstein might care to call at the palace.’ The Equerry always indicated what to bring with a comment such as: ‘His Majesty would appreciate it if you could provide him with some examples of your more important earrings in coloured stones.’ Courtiers, Emanuel Silverstein had learned, are so cultivated, so well mannered, so used to having their own way that their every command was couched as a request, their every direction as a suggestion. Their world, the royalworld, was truly one where velvet and satin reigned, where the occupants were not merely rich but were bred to a mode of behaviour, a standard of cultivation and pedigree that separated them from other beings.
    This time, however, when the Equerry telephoned, his direction, while delivered as smoothly as ever, took Emanuel Silverstein’s breath away. ‘His Majesty wants to cast a wide net this time and would like you to bring whatever stock you have available for purchase.’
    This could mean only one thing, Emanuel Silverstein realized. The King was preparing to flee. ‘Remember every detail of this visit,’ he had cautioned his son as they rode together to the Palatul Cotroceni. ‘It may well be your only one.’
    As Emanuel’s motor vehicle came to a stop, four sentries who were obviously watching out for their arrival stepped forward. ‘Mr Silverstein,’ the most senior officer, a major, said, ‘May we assist you with your boxes?’
    ‘Thank you, Major,’ Emanuel Silverstein replied, indicating the back seat and the boot, which were packed to capacity with black velvet boxes in various shapes and sizes.
    Emanuel Silverstein barely had time to adjust to the glare of the sun before an elderly gentleman stepped forward from beneath the portals leading into the palace’s trade entrance. ‘Mr