Princess Daisy by Judith Krantz Page A

accustomed to the ways of Stash’s crowd of servants who treated Francesca with a mixture of irrepressibly loving concern and overbearing curiosity. She found herself virtually engulfed in—not “staff” she thought, nothing that starchy, not “help,” nothing that casual, certainly not “domestics,” nothing that removed, but rather a tribe of what she could only think of as semi-in-laws.
    She had married into a way of life, a life which included Masha, who, as a matter of course, invaded Francesca’s lingerie drawers in order to fold each object with exquisite care, Masha who hung up her bathrobes and then tied the sashes and buttoned the buttons, so that it was no longer possible to put on a robe quickly, Masha who had her own way with scarfs, arranging them according to color rather than according to utility or size, so that old favorites had a way of disappearing into the spectrum, Masha who appeared in Francesca’s bathroom as she got out of her tub,with an enormous warm towel unfolded and ready to wrap around her.
    Within a few weeks Francesca felt entirely comfortable with Masha’s ministrations and allowed her to brush her hair and even help her into her underwear, quite, Masha told her, as she had been allowed to do for Stash’s mother, Princess Titiana, when the Princess’s own maids were unavailable for one reason or another.
    “Is that so, Masha,” said Francesca with lazy interest, but as she relaxed and gave herself over to the gentle brushing, she saw herself vividly, lying there on the heap of lace-covered pillows in a velvet dressing gown with her hair being tended devotedly. She had only to ask for a luxury in order to have it brought to her immediately—or, in the case of the men who came from Cartier to show Prince Valensky jewels for his wife, she had only to indicate which of the jewels pleased her, to own it. Yes, now when she walked, she walked like a princess, Francesca thought, and didn’t even ask herself what she meant.
    The inquiries Stash had made among his friends in Lausanne had indicated that Dr. Henri Allard was the most highly considered specialist in the city. He ran a private clinic which was, in effect, a small, extremely well-run, modern hospital, much favored by wealthy women from all parts of the world.
    Dr. Allard himself was a compact, beaming, competent and energetic man who grew tulips almost as well as he grew babies. He told Francesca that she could expect her child sometime at the end of May. Her monthly visits to Allard were a small and mildly annoying interruption of the great dialogue on which she and Stash were embarked until February. That day Dr. Allard bent over Francesca’s belly with his stethoscope for an unusually long time. Afterward, in his consulting room, he was more cheerful than this perpetually jovial man had yet been.
    “I believe we have a surprise for the Prince,” he announced, almost bouncing in his chair. “Last month I was not completely certain so I said nothing, but now I am. There are two distinct heartbeats, with a difference of ten beats a minute. You are carrying twins, my dear Princess!”
    “A surprise for the Prince? ” Francesca’s voice rose in astonishment.
    “Is there no history of twins in your family then?” he asked.
    “History? I don’t … no, no history. Doctor, is there anything special … is it harder to have twins … I can’t believe … twins … you’re sure ? Don’t you have to make an X ray to be sure?”
    “I would prefer not to do so yet. Perhaps next month. But both heartbeats are there, each quite separate, so there can be no doubt.” He beamed at her as if she had just won a gold medal. Francesca was unable to sort out her feelings. It was almost impossible to imagine the reality of one baby, let alone two. Lately she had been dreaming of a baby, always a boy, who lay in her arms looking a great deal like Charlie McCarthy, and spoke to her as if he were an adult—happy, funny