Flight to Verechenko (16 page)

As the service finished she rose to her feet, and he laid a hand on her arm, restraining her. At that moment the imposing figure of Lady Cunningham bore down upon them. Catherine's joy vanished. This was reality. Lady Cunningham. Amelia's mother. Dominic's future mother-in-law.

‘My dear Marquis,' Lady Cunningham exclaimed in a loud, carrying voice. ‘ What a delightful surprise.' Her heavy eyebrows rose at the sight of Catherine. She tilted her pincenez to her eyes so that she could assure herself that she had not made a mistake.

Well aware of the hawk-like gaze Catherine met it defiantly. With raised eyebrows Lady Cunningham transferred her attentions back to the Marquis.

‘I suppose this announcement of war means an exodus from Petersburg before the frontiers close?'

‘Perhaps.' Dominic's tone was non-committal, his hand still firmly beneath Catherine's elbow.

‘It would be pleasanter to leave together,' she continued, ignoring Catherine as if she did not exist.

‘My plans are rather flexible at the moment,' Dominic said with a cool smile. ‘Good day,' and holding Catherine's arm in a vice-like grip he led her out of the dimmed church into the blinding sunshine.

‘She is furious with you,' Catherine said bleakly.

A broad shoulder gave a slight shrug.

‘She
is
to be your mother-in-law. Don't you mind?'

He stopped so abruptly that she nearly fell, swinging her round to face him. ‘I would mind like hell if she were! Who filled your head with that nonsense?'

‘Kiril.' Catherine felt herself sway. He wasn't going to marry Amelia. Kiril had been wrong. The heat; the violent swing from ecstasy to misery and back to ecstasy again, was too much for her. With a little cry she felt her knees give way as rushing darkness pressed in on her and she sank into oblivion.

When she regained consciousness it was to find herself being carried bodily in strong arms, pressed close against the hardness of a strongly muscled chest. Her eyes flickered open and he looked down at her, as he said,

‘I shall probably have to carry you all the way back to Verechenko. There won't be a droshky to be found today.'

Catherine suppressed a smile. The expression in his eyes was one she had longed to see: one of tenderness. Her arms tightened around his neck. She knew her happiness could be shortlived. Soon she must tell him who she was, and she had no way of knowing what Dominic's reaction would be, but for the moment the afternoon was theirs and Catherine wanted it to last for ever.

‘I am feeling much better now,' she said. ‘Let's not go back to Verechenko yet. There's too much happening in Petersburg.'

This time there was no mistaking the anxiety in the dark eyes. ‘Are you sure?'

‘Quite sure.'

He showed as little inclination to set her back down on her feet as Catherine felt to be set down. Carrying her as though she were no more than a feather, he strode through the excited crowd, the populace instinctively recognising one of the nobility and making way for him.

St Petersburg was
en fête
, the whole city one incredible gay party. He smiled down at her. A smile that made her heart turn over. ‘Then we'll do it in at least some semblance of comfort.'

Only a man of Dominic's distinctive bearing could have managed to get a droshky on a day when the entire city filled the streets. Head and shoulders above the crowd, a brief nod of the dark head was enough to have a droshky driver force his way towards them, ignoring all other demands for his services. Gently he set her down on a seat, hard after the luxury of the Vishnetski and Dolgorovsky carriages.

Catherine was unaware of any discomfort. Dominic's hand still held hers. The harshness that in repose gave his handsome face such a forbidding appearance had gone; as had the bleak unhappiness that clouded his eyes when none could see. He was a man transformed. His eyes were alight with an expression that sent her heart racing. In a few, brief, magic-filled moments their whole relationship had changed and rejoicing filled her as it did the hundreds and thousands of flag-waving Russians who crowded the streets and squares.

Every turning revealed another party. Hands joined, held high, neighbours danced in huge, boisterous circles, overjoyed at the prospect of an overwhelming victory for their country.

What the war would mean to her, Catherine neither knew nor cared. Before the day was over she would have told Dominic the truth and her future would be determined. For Catherine, love dominated over war. Only when her heart was secure would she be able to take in the full implications of what the celebrations around her signified.

Dominic knew only too well what it signified and he knew it was no cause for the rejoicing going on around him. He also knew that he had to talk to the maddening exasperating, beautiful and unpredictable girl he had fallen in love with. And like Catherine, but for different reasons, he dreaded it. He knew, too, that this golden afternoon could well be the only hours of happiness they would spend together, for he had no way of knowing what her reaction would be when he spoke to her. Paper streamers showered into the droshky and Dominic laughed, throwing them back at the crowd, banishing dark thoughts, savouring the precious time they had together. As the afternoon faded into evening, Catherine rested her head happily on his shoulder, the droshky driver, overwhelmed at the number of roubles Dominic had dropped into his hand, driving them slowly back across the Neva to Verechenko.

Dominic gently wound his fingers through her hair that hung waist length, the last of the restraining pins long since scattered on the St Petersburg streets. They tightened as he felt passion rising like a tide within him. Verechenko gleamed pearl-white in the distance. The idyll was almost at an end. His fingers knotted tightly in the gleaming gold hair as he kissed her urgently and hungrily, his longing for her almost unbearable.

The droshky driver coughed loudly. It was no affair of his how the aristocracy behaved, but he could recognise Princess Dagmar Dolgorova when he saw her, and the wizened figure on Verechenko's balcony was unmistakably that of Her Highness.

Abruptly Dominic let Catherine go, glancing intuitively upwards, his eyes meeting Princess Dagmar's. Catherine was too shocked by the violence of her own emotions to be aware of the Princess's presence. Hardly able to breathe, oblivious of anyone or anything, she allowed Dominic to escort her into Verechenko's marbled entrance hall.

‘I must see Dagmar,' Dominic was saying, and all the things she had been going to say to him were left unsaid.

Unsteadily she climbed the wide sweep of staircase to her boudoir. Vilya gasped in horror at the sight of her mistress, hair swinging waist length like that of a peasant. Her pretty dress in such disorder that the hem was not only thick with dirt but torn into the bargain. And the expression on her face! Her eyes and cheeks were radiant, the full curving lips bruised as if by kisses, and she had not been out with Prince Kiril, that Vilya
did
know. She brushed the red-gold hair vigorously. Perhaps Dmitri would know where Miss Eleanor had been. One thing for sure. Princess Dagmar would soon find out. Nothing happened in Verechenko without the Princess's knowledge.

Lena bustled into the room, a yapping Spaniel under one arm, a barking Pekinese under the other.

‘Such excitement! Such activity! Kiril has been summond to see the Minister of War. Naturally he will head a regiment. Oh, the glory he will bring to the family! And Dagmar is still going ahead with her name-day ball tomorrow evening. A double celebration!' She clapped her hands ecstatically. ‘ It will be wonderful. Men look so
handsome
in uniform, don't you think?'

The Baroness chatted on and Catherine wondered when she would be able to speak to Dominic. There could be no more deception between them. She would speak to him immediately after dinner.

The vast dinner table was set for only three. The Baroness still chattering ten to the dozen, the Princess, with a peculiar glint in her eyes, and Catherine.

‘Where is everybody?' Catherine ventured at last.

‘Kiril and Alexis are at the Ministry,' the Princess said, watching Catherine closely.

Kiril. Catherine had not given him the slightest thought all day. She would have to see him the minute he returned, tell him she had made her decision and that she was unable to marry him.

‘And the Marquis,' she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

‘He is at the British Embassy. He wants to know what your country's position is. Whether Britain will enter the war or not?'

‘Britain?' It had never occurred to Catherine that Britain, so far away, could be involved with the events taking place in Russia.

‘They have offered support,' the Baroness interrupted. ‘Not that Russia needs support. We are strong enough to fight our own battles.'

Catherine felt suddenly cold. If Britain were to enter the war, Dominic would have to fight. What if anything should happen to him? The thought did not bear thinking about.

‘You look pale, Eleanor,' the Princess said, ‘Are you feeling all right?'

‘Yes, thank you.'

Only in privacy did Dagmar refer to Catherine by her proper name. She signalled for her glass of wine to be re-filled, her eyes thoughtful. After dinner she dismissed Lena and Catherine with a tired wave of her hand.

‘I am going to bed. The arrangements for tomorrow have tired me out,' she said, and she walked slowly out of the room accompanined only by her maid and little negro servant.

Catherine stared after her. It was the first time she had known the Princess admit to tiredness or to walk without her customary sprightliness.

Much as she liked Lena, she felt unable to endure an evening of enthusiasm about the war and Alsace and Lorraine. Instead she joined Maria, sitting with her as she had done before becoming Dagmar's companion, finding Maria's gentle company soothing. Several times she nearly confided in her and asked her advice, but each time the moment passed. What advice could Maria give her? She knew what she had to do. She waited impatiently for the sound of any arriving carriage or automobile, but none came. At eleven Maria's maid came to prepare her for bed and Catherine wandered restlessly back to her room. She would have to contain herself. Wait until tomorrow. She felt a surge of relief. If Dominic's reaction was what she feared, then she had been spared it a little while longer. She dismissed Vilya and climbed into bed, re-living again all the events of the day, with that last, passionate embrace that had evoked feelings in her so strong and disturbing that even in the darkness she felt her cheeks flush.

The next day was chaos as the servants made the final preparations for the ball. The cooks and kitchen maids worked ceaselessly, preparing pastries and delicacies for the evening. Crate after crate of champagne was chilled. Strange carriages arrived, early visitors being shown to the prepared guest roooms and vast armies of maids scurried up and down corridors with armfuls of glittering dresses.

Endlessly the day wore on and still there was no sign of Dominic. The Princess and Lena disappeared to begin their toilettes and Vilya grew impatient, feeling herself personally responsible for Catherine's appearance that evening. At last, reluctantly, Catherine left the terrace where she had waited all day, and allowed Vilya to brush her hair into elaborate curls, decorated with diamond butterfly pins.

There was a soft tap on the door and Vilya draped Catherine's naked shoulders with a negligé before answering it. A footman stood there, a gold wrapped box in his hands.

Vilya took it, shutting the door quickly before the man could get more than a brief glimpse of the Princess's companion in nothing more than a confection of silk and lace, and handed the package to Catherine. Inside, lying on a bed of moss, lay a single, perfect rose. The petals were milk-white, velvet soft, the perfume heady and intoxicating. The card had simply Dominic's name scrawled across in powerful black lettering. With trembling hands she laid the rose back in its box, determined to wear no other ornamentation that evening. Her dress was of heavy sea-green satin, a colour matching exactly that of her eyes, the décolletage daringly low and edged with seed-pearls, hugging her breasts, the skirt falling behind her in a small train. Vilya had brushed her hair till it shone like fire, bringing out tray after tray of jewellery for Catherine to choose from.

‘No thank you, Vilya,' Catherine said. ‘ I shall wear only my rose.'

Vilya stared at her appalled. ‘No jewellery? But you
must
wear jewellery. The emerald tiara and necklace? Or the rubies? Or perhaps even just pearls?' Her voice faltered as she saw the determination in Catherine's eyes.

Catherine smiled at her. ‘ No Vilya, only my rose.'

As Vilya saw her mistress in the full length triple mirrors she ceased to protest. Catherine's judgement was faultless. The colour of the dress showed off the fiery nebula of her hair to perfection. The low bodice revealed perfect breasts and Vilya doubted if there would be another woman in the ballroom with a waist as small. Catherine had removed the carefully placed diamond butterfly pins from her hair and Vilya pinned the rose in their place. With not a jewel on her, Catherine's youth and beauty would stand out from the other guests like that of an exquisite dove amongst a bevy of poppinjays.

Dominic would surely be downstairs at the ball. With her throat tight and her mouth dry, Catherine allowed Vilya to spray her with perfume and prepared to join the Princess.

The Princess had forsaken the heavy ropes of pearls she loved so much and was wearing a breathtaking collar of emeralds, her silvergrey dress shimmering with a hundred thousand brilliants. The plucked eyebrows rose as Catherine entered the room. All those necklaces pendants, bracelets from Fabergé, the tiara specially made for this evening, all were missing. Even, the Princess noted quickly, the sapphire ring. Nothing but a white rose nestling in her hair. Did the girl know the ravishing effect she had created?