Curse Not the King (16 page)

“Merciful God …” he said aloud. Mastering the impulse to hurl the mirror against the nearest wall, he put it down and turned away, his hand pressed to his throbbing head, the other outstretched, seeking for his chair.

A moment later his valet entered the room and bowed before the seated, motionless figure.

“Koutaïssof.”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Send her away. I have just looked at myself.” The valet's black eyes narrowed but his lips smiled down at Paul.

“The lady is already in your ante-room, Sir. She's too distressed to turn away. She begs to see you.… Just for a few moments.”

Paul turned his head away into the shadows. Catherine Nelidoff. He tried to remember what she looked like but beyond the merest outline, his memory could supply no detailed picture. She was small, he thought, and not pretty. And after days of hinting, Koutaïssof had finally informed him that his wife's insignificant lady-in-waiting was in love with her Czarevitch.

Apparently she had cried on this account, and Paul smiled wryly at the thought. In his experience women's tears were weapons of deceit; they wept from fear, like Natalie, when she was lying and cajoling, or from greed like Marie, when she wanted something.

No one had ever shed a tear of love or sympathy for him. No one but this little creature Nelidoff who had sought out Koutaïssof as her advocate. Paul sighed suddenly; he felt ill and desolate in mind as well as body. Koutaïssof was insistent, he thought wearily, he praised the lady for her gentleness and good reputation; he also hinted that the Grand Duchess Marie bullied her, and knowing his wife's tendency towards petty domestic tyranny, Paul quite believed it.

“Please, Sir, see Mademoiselle Nelidoff. Just for five minutes.…”

A sudden temptation assailed him, urging him to listen to that smooth, prompting voice, to take advantage of the situation offered him. Perhaps she could comfort him; perhaps for once it would be pleasant to relax in the gentle company of a woman with the knowledge that he could dismiss her in an instant if she wearied him.…

“Very well. For a few moments then. When I ring for you, show her out.”

Contented, the valet turned and vanished through the door.

When he returned, Catherine Nelidoff was with him. She stood in the centre of the room, uncertain what to do or say, paralysed by shyness, until the Turk pushed a small silver basin into her hands.

“Bathe his eyes and forehead, if he will let you. It soothes the pain. Go to him now.”

Then the door closed softly behind him and she was alone with Paul. She was an emotional woman and her sense of awkwardness suddenly disappeared when she came close to him and saw how tired and ill he looked. She placed the bowl of scented water on a little table, and then knelt beside his chair.

Paul held out his hand to her and glanced down at her face. He saw the expression in it clearly for a moment, before the ache in his head and eyes forced him to give up.

It was a gentle face, as Koutaïssof said, and it was full of sympathy; he even fancied that he saw the gleam of tears.

“Thank you for coming to wait on me, Mademoiselle. It is kind of you.”

She raised his fingers to her lips and kissed them.

“I hardly dared hope that you would receive me, your Highness. Only Koutaïssof encouraged me.”

“He is faithful,” Paul remarked slowly. “And he has spoken well of you.”

She blushed, remembering that hysterical avowal of her love for him, made in that room off the corridor. Hope and fear of what that confession might bring her had become fused in quivering anticipation when she read the valet's scribbled message.

‘He will see you. Come this evening and wait outside his rooms.'

She had come prepared to serve him in any way he wished.

There was silence for some minutes, and while it lasted, Paul found a certain tranquil pleasure in her presence in the room. It was comforting not to be alone; it affected him oddly to imagine the shape and features of the woman kneeling quietly by his chair. He tried to analyse the feeling, and in his attempt to do so, felt suspicion and discomfort rising in him.

She must want something, he said to himself; money, favours, vengeance on an enemy … he shifted uncomfortably, unwilling that these brief moments should be poisoned, however illusory they might prove to be.

“Koutaïssof gave me some scented water, your Highness. Would you like me to bathe your forehead if the pain is bad?”

Her voice was soft, and pitched low; a thin tremor of uncertainty ran through it which made her seem vulnerable, and the sound of it dispelled his evil thoughts.

“If you would be good enough, Mademoiselle.”

There was a cloth in the basin; she dipped her fingers in the sweet-smelling water and wrung it out, then she stood behind his chair and wiped his forehead. For an instant her hand rested on his brow, and the tips of her fingers touched his eyelids. Her touch was light and extraordinarily comforting, her fingers cool and skilful at their task. Catherine, he thought resentfully: who had given her that hated name that suited her so badly? It conjured up visions of hands that bore no resemblance to those that soothed him at that moment. His mother's hands were beautiful, long-fingered and very white; when they moved the brilliance of diamonds dazzled the eye; but for all their beauty they were strong, ruthless hands, capable of directing men and armies, and they were pointed and sensual, made for amorous play. He hated her hands as he hated everything to do with her.…

“Put the cloth over my eyes,” he said. “Then sit by me, if you please.”

She obeyed him promptly and he heard the sound of her silk skirt rustling as she settled at the side of his chair once more.

“Have you any other name besides Catherine?” he asked suddenly.

“No, your Highness. But sometimes I am called Katya.”

He smiled his rare smile, blindly, under the cover of the compress which masked his sight.

“Then that shall be my name for you. Katya.…”

“How is your head?” she asked him, trembling, because he used her foolish nickname and smiled at her, so that his ugliness seemed to have disappeared.

“Much better; you've soothed it, Katya. You have cool fingers; give them to me.…”

She caught hold of the hand he held out to her, and pressed it to her lips in a gesture in which there was no formality; then she held it against her cheek and leant on the carved wood of the chair arm, watching the firelight blaze and flicker in the marble grate. He moved a little and enclosed her hand firmly in his own.

“Stay with me, Katya.”

“I will stay with you; rest now, my Prince. I'll stay with you until you send me away.…”

In his alcove off the Czarevitch's room, Koutaïssof waited, listening for his master's bell. When one' of the palace clocks chimed, he counted the notes and smiled. She had been with him for an hour and the signal for her dismissal had not come.

In the weeks that followed, Catherine Nelidoff came to Paul's rooms almost every evening, slipping away as soon as she dared, often pleading illness to escape the Grand Duchess's service; though the servants watched and whispered, and the other ladies speculated, no rumour reached Marie of the reason for those absences and convenient spells of sickness. She scolded her lady-in-waiting when she remembered her existence, and remained in happy ignorance of the liaison which was being strengthened with every hour they spent together.

If others noticed that the plain little Nelidoff seemed happy, almost gay, Marie remarked nothing to excite suspicion. Instead she busied herself with preparations to return to her own palace at Pavlovsk, and broached the subject to the Czarevitch one evening when they dined together. Their meetings had grown rarer still since his last illness, and no one was more thankful for Paul's absence than his wife, but since permission to leave must be obtained, she sought him out.

It was a silent meal, occasionally punctuated by Marie's attempts at conversation which met with slight response. Privately she thought him excessively moody and abstracted, and longed fervently to turn her back on Gatchina and all it represented.

“I was thinking that Pavlovsk will be very pleasant at this time of year,” she ventured, wondering why making a request of Paul always unnerved her, though she seldom met with a refusal.

The Czarevitch watched her with expressionless eyes, aware that she wished to leave him and as anxious for her departure as she was herself.

“I have no doubt of it. Do you wish to go there, Madame?” His directness always disconcerted her, and she blushed.

“Why, yes. If … if that would be agreeable to you.”

“Perfectly agreeable. I shall remain here and join you in the middle of summer. You may leave whenever you wish.”

The Grand Duchess masked her relief with a smile, and even resigned herself to spending the night with her husband.

That night she lingered, expecting him to approach her, but Paul merely talked trivialities and made no move, and when she rose to leave he kissed her hand politely and wished her a good night.

As soon as she had gone he rang for Koutaïssof.

“Send for Mademoiselle Nelidoff. And hurry; it's already late.” The valet bowed low to him and smiled.

“I have taken that liberty, Sir. She's waiting in my alcove in case you should desire her company.”

“You're a good servant, Koutaïssof. I shall know how to reward you. Now send her to me.”

The valet remarked his eagerness, and his black eyes gleamed with satisfaction. All was well; he was in love with the woman; he chafed in his wife's presence and refrained from inviting her into his bed even when she dallied in expectation of the summons, as Koutaïssof had noticed.

As he went to fetch the waiting Nelidoff, he decided that in spite of the evidence to the contrary, Paul must have made her his mistress as well as his confidante.

In this he was wrong, for that strange bond which existed between them had not been cemented by passion. Paul sat with her for hours, sometimes talking or listening while she read aloud in her clear soft voice, sometimes in silence, but always contented and at peace. He found her deeply sensitive to his needs, tender in a wordless, servile way, and the sensation of being mothered by her fulfilled an aching need. She was very gentle, yet capable of humour, with a ready laugh that pleased him on the rare occasions when he heard it. And she was virtuous; he sensed that precious quality in her and knew that he was not deceived by the lack of seduction in her manner and expression.

Also he missed her sorely when they were apart, and that night it seemed to him as if the tedious dinner with his wife would never end.

He was trembling with impatience as he waited for her, angry because so many hours of pleasure had been wasted through Marie Feodorovna, and suddenly uneasy for a cause he could not name.

When she came into the room he realized what disturbed him. Pavlovsk. That damned woman would be leaving very quickly now that she had his permission, and Catherine Nelidoff would have to go with her.

Paul advanced to meet her and raised her up when she tried to curtsy to him.

“I'm sorry you had to wait, Katya, but my wife stayed longer than I expected. Come, sit down.”

He examined her by candlelight, still holding both her hands in his and sat beside her on the stiff-backed couch.

“You look pale,” he said. “What have you been doing, what's the matter …? Tell me.”

She looked at him and tried to smile.

“I'm only tired, Highness. It's been a busy day; the Grand Duchess has already begun preparing to leave for Pavlovsk.”

“I gave her permission to go there, this evening.… And that's why you're pale … and low-spirited. Just tiredness, Katya?”

She tried to withdraw her hands but his fingers tightened on them and his eyes searched her face.

“I shall be leaving Gatchina soon. And I've grown so fond of it.”

“You disappoint me, Mademoiselle. I had begun to flatter myself you might be sorry to say good-bye to me,” he said quietly, and felt her stiffen, and knew by the clenching of her hands that she was trembling.

“Why do you make game of me, Sir, when you know this separation from you will be like death?”

Somehow he had never expected to hear her say these words, though he knew then that he had longed for that admission and all that it implied. Koutaïssof had told him that she loved him, but he had doubted, and tried to pretend that he did not nurse a secret hope. No woman had ever loved him; neither his mother nor his two wives. Araktchéief, his commanding officer, his valet, some members of the garrison … they were loyal, but they were men. He might be shorter than they and uglier by far, it didn't matter, whereas with a woman all that counted were the attributes he lacked.…

He gazed at Catherine Nelidoff intently, his expression almost fierce, wondering desperately whether she too lied and acted in order to achieve some object of her own.

Raising her eyes to his face she read the mingled longing and suspicion there. “Try to forgive me,” she said quietly. “I cheated my way into your friendship, because I have loved you secretly for years and something said to me by your valet gave me hope. These last few weeks have been the happiest of my whole life. Just to sit here and talk to you, to feel that you needed me a little.… You can't imagine what that's meant to me.”

“To nurse a sick man, to spend hours in semi-gloom without gaiety or entertainment … has that really made you happy, Katya?”

She smiled ruefully, and withdrawing her hand from his, moved a great silver candlestick that stood behind the sofa, so that the light fell on her face.

“Look at me, Sir. Do you think there's been much gaiety and entertainment for me? In order to succeed at Petersburg, it's necessary to be beautiful as well as nobly born, or at least wealthy. I have no money, and as for beauty … you can see that for yourself.”