Félicia was now very near the realisation of her hopes. Princess Amalie, who was her great-aunt, was to take charge of her at Nice and deliver her over to Don Ramon of Arragon, who was to await her with his family at the Pannonian seaport close to which her father’s youth had been passed. Her position was now recognised in the Court circle, and after the reception by her uncle it would be made evident to the world. With considerate regard for the endurance both of Félicia and her new-found relatives, it had been arranged that her marriage with King Michael was to follow as soon as the long journey from the coast to Molzau would allow, and this visit to Nice was for her a delightful whirl of congenial toils. Dresses, jewellery, furs, decorations and furniture for the palace at Bellaviste, servants’ liveries, the exact constitution of her court, all these things had to be thought of, discussed, decided upon. King Michael was determined to spare no pains nor expense in gratifying the wishes of his bride; and it was well that Félicia had the good taste and loving advice of the Baroness Radnika at hand, and also the wide experience of Mr Hicks, whose sarcastic humour restrained her from not a few follies. Revelling in the interest she excited, for her story had long since leaked out, she was absolutely busy and perfectly happy, save for one shadow of a cloud in her sky.
“Maimie,” she exclaimed incredulously, as they were looking through the letters and papers that awaited them on their arrival at Nice. “Come and look here—right now. Usk is married!”
“Well, I guess he hasn’t wasted much time lamenting you,” said Maimie.
“It’s to the Grand-Duke’s daughter, the little pale girl—and they haven’t ever told us!”
“Why, you know every one said she must be in love with some other man when she was engaged to the Scythian Prince and looked so miserable. Of course it was Usk, and now Count Mortimer has had him marry her.”
“He’ll be real good to her,” said Félicia slowly.
“What’s that to you, any way?” was the sharp response.
“Oh, I don’t know. Say, Maimie, is the ‘chapel attached to the Grand-Ducal Palace at Molzau’ the same as the Schlosskirche where I’m to be married? No bridesmaids, of course—I do hate that. I always meant to design the cunningest costumes for my bridesmaids. ‘The Marchioness of Caerleon was gowned in panne of an exquisite shade of heliotrope, with the famous family emeralds’—guess she looked just elegant, don’t you? ‘Her Royal Highness Princess Florian of Arragon in gris argent brocade, the corsage almost covered with the magnificent Mohacsy diamonds,’ ‘the Princess Franz Immanuel of Schwarzwald-Molzau’—that’s my cousin Resi, of course—‘in pink satin and pearls.’ What did the Grand-Duchess wear, I’d like to know? Crimson velvet, I guess. ‘The bride’s travelling-dress was trimmed with exquisite Eastern embroidery, sent from Palestine by the bridegroom’s sister, Lady Philippa Mansfield.’ Did Phil mean that for me when she bought it, do you think, Maimie? But there don’t seem to be much to say about her wedding-gown—just that she wore the Caerleon pearls. I guess I shall go one better in gowns, any way.”
“I just know you will,” responded Maimie. “Why, you’ll be a queen, Fay.”
“That is so.” Félicia’s tone sounded a little wistful. “I can’t seem to feel real happy, Maimie. It’ll be you and me one side, and Michael the other, all the time. Being queen will be just elegant, but—— Michael’s awfully in love with me, but I don’t trust him, and he don’t trust me.”