The Ambassador Read Online Free
touch – it must have been an enormous sum for its day. He could not help noticing that the chairs in the Green Drawing Room were a mite threadbare, but they were probably three hundred years old too, owned by a Royal Family that had been strapped for cash for generations.
The room he found himself in was as magnificent as any he had ever seen; the grandeur took his breath away. No Las Vegas imitation could compete. Gold and red, purpleand white, imperial colours, gleamed everywhere. The wallpaper was of red watered silk, the curtains, two metres or more high, with braided pelmets, of crimson velvet trimmed in purple. His feet sank into a patterned carpet laid on a wood floor polished to a high sheen, which creaked as he walked. Above his head seven chandeliers sparkled; in the ceiling frieze he could make out the symbols of what once had been the United Kingdom – the harp, lion, the leek and the thistle. Under a richly carved canopy, heavy with more velvet, stood two thrones on a dais, their backs embroidered with the ‘WVIR’ and ‘P’ of King William VI and his queen, Patricia.
The English (though not the Scots) had decided they liked their monarchy, despite oscillations of opinion over the century. Strether managed to identify the initials on the backs of the other chairs: EIIR must be Queen Elizabeth II, who died in – when was it? – 2030 at the age of 105, her son Charles having predeceased her. So there was no chair for Charles III. The line had passed to his son William V (after whom the liner had been named), who abdicated during the middle years’ uprising: by then he had become a nervous recluse who had never enjoyed his regal status and was, the history books implied, glad to go. His daughter Anne II took over at the Restoration and did an excellent job of re-establishing support for royalty as an institution. She retired in favour of her son, Prince Mark, who died tragically in an accident before he could be crowned. Thus from his accession in 2090, and for the first time in living memory, the nation had a young king, Anne’s grandson William VI. The monarch was about thirty.
‘Good morning, good morning!’ A stocky man in a simple blue tunic and trousers hurried in. He was fresh-faced, sandy-haired, with the prominent Windsor nose. ‘I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. Do pull up a chair.’
Strether was taken aback. This was the King? He had expected a much grander entry. The monarch’s unassuming manner was infectious, however, so he shook the hand that was offered and decided to dispense with the bow. The envelope with its crest of the Office of the President of the United States of America was duly presented.
Behind the King entered a slim, taller man, a little older, dark-haired and sallow-complexioned with a cool, intelligent expression. He, too, wore the day suit of tunic and narrow trousers but with a more military cut. The newcomer glided smoothly to position chairs – thrones, Strether realised wildly, as he seated himself gingerly on the edge of one – until the trio was comfortably intimate, knees almost touching.
‘Oh, sorry, I forgot. This is Prince Marius Vronsky. He’s my cousin, and representative here of the other crowned heads of Europe. And an elected member of the House of Lords, of which he’s far too proud. But mostly he’s my friend.’ Strether and the Prince shook hands and eyed each other. A door opened and a maid entered with coffee on a tray. Marius brought a small table and helped her to pour.
‘So! Welcome to the European Union,’ the King continued. ‘Been over here before, have you?’
‘No, not at all, sir,’ Strether answered. ‘Not seen that much of my own country either, to tell you the truth. I was a rancher, out west.’
‘Like in the old movies. Did you ride a horse?’
‘Oh, yes, I was brought up on them. Mostly we ranch with microlites and trail bikes, but there’s something special about a horse. They’re cheaper, and
The room he found himself in was as magnificent as any he had ever seen; the grandeur took his breath away. No Las Vegas imitation could compete. Gold and red, purpleand white, imperial colours, gleamed everywhere. The wallpaper was of red watered silk, the curtains, two metres or more high, with braided pelmets, of crimson velvet trimmed in purple. His feet sank into a patterned carpet laid on a wood floor polished to a high sheen, which creaked as he walked. Above his head seven chandeliers sparkled; in the ceiling frieze he could make out the symbols of what once had been the United Kingdom – the harp, lion, the leek and the thistle. Under a richly carved canopy, heavy with more velvet, stood two thrones on a dais, their backs embroidered with the ‘WVIR’ and ‘P’ of King William VI and his queen, Patricia.
The English (though not the Scots) had decided they liked their monarchy, despite oscillations of opinion over the century. Strether managed to identify the initials on the backs of the other chairs: EIIR must be Queen Elizabeth II, who died in – when was it? – 2030 at the age of 105, her son Charles having predeceased her. So there was no chair for Charles III. The line had passed to his son William V (after whom the liner had been named), who abdicated during the middle years’ uprising: by then he had become a nervous recluse who had never enjoyed his regal status and was, the history books implied, glad to go. His daughter Anne II took over at the Restoration and did an excellent job of re-establishing support for royalty as an institution. She retired in favour of her son, Prince Mark, who died tragically in an accident before he could be crowned. Thus from his accession in 2090, and for the first time in living memory, the nation had a young king, Anne’s grandson William VI. The monarch was about thirty.
‘Good morning, good morning!’ A stocky man in a simple blue tunic and trousers hurried in. He was fresh-faced, sandy-haired, with the prominent Windsor nose. ‘I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. Do pull up a chair.’
Strether was taken aback. This was the King? He had expected a much grander entry. The monarch’s unassuming manner was infectious, however, so he shook the hand that was offered and decided to dispense with the bow. The envelope with its crest of the Office of the President of the United States of America was duly presented.
Behind the King entered a slim, taller man, a little older, dark-haired and sallow-complexioned with a cool, intelligent expression. He, too, wore the day suit of tunic and narrow trousers but with a more military cut. The newcomer glided smoothly to position chairs – thrones, Strether realised wildly, as he seated himself gingerly on the edge of one – until the trio was comfortably intimate, knees almost touching.
‘Oh, sorry, I forgot. This is Prince Marius Vronsky. He’s my cousin, and representative here of the other crowned heads of Europe. And an elected member of the House of Lords, of which he’s far too proud. But mostly he’s my friend.’ Strether and the Prince shook hands and eyed each other. A door opened and a maid entered with coffee on a tray. Marius brought a small table and helped her to pour.
‘So! Welcome to the European Union,’ the King continued. ‘Been over here before, have you?’
‘No, not at all, sir,’ Strether answered. ‘Not seen that much of my own country either, to tell you the truth. I was a rancher, out west.’
‘Like in the old movies. Did you ride a horse?’
‘Oh, yes, I was brought up on them. Mostly we ranch with microlites and trail bikes, but there’s something special about a horse. They’re cheaper, and
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