Flight to Verechenko (2 page)

Catherine, who had heard it all before, excused herself and slipped quietly from the room. Her step-mother's voice floated after her. ‘As for the kitchens: they'll need completely modernising …'

She ran up the balustraded staircase and closed her bedroom door with a sigh of relief. She sank down on the bed, folding her arms behind her head. On the dressing-table Robert's photograph smiled at her, and on the wall behind hung a full-length portrait of her grandmother. The artist had depicted her as the Goddess Diana, clothing her in a wisp of chiffon and a tantalising smile. The likeness was unmistakable. Catherine had inherited the same full-blown beauty that had made Gianetta Dubois the rage of London in the eighteen-sixties and a favourite of the Prince of Wales. Even when he had become king, Gianetta had remained a favourite, her gay wit and high spirits a constant amusement to him. And Edward VII liked to be amused.

Gianetta did not amuse her son-in-law's second wife. On the rare occasions when the latter had been included in the same house party as the king, his eyes slid over her as if she were non-existent although she could trace her lineage back to the Conqueror himself. When first her husband and then the King had died, Gianetta had retired to Paris and no one had been happier to see her go than Lady Davencourt. Even at that distance Gianetta managed to haunt her. Catherine's wedding was one instance. Gianetta would not be able to attend, owing to a riding accident.

‘A
riding
accident!' Lady Davencourt had shrieked. ‘A
riding
accident! Good God, the woman is seventy if she's a day!'

With his usual cowardice her husband had refrained from telling her that Gianetta's companion had been a young man of excessive good looks, somewhere in his middle twenties. What Gianetta did was her own affair, as long as she did it at a suitable distance from his wife. Lord Davencourt shared none of Gianetta's zest for life. He liked a quiet existence. A thing his present marriage made well nigh impossible.

Robert had promised her a long visit to her grandmother after their Italian honeymoon. Catherine's smile of happiness deepened. She rose from the bed and opened the drawer which held her gossamer-light négligée and silken lingerie. She was going to make Robert happy: happier than even he anticipated.

Two days later, as her landau joined in a procession through the park, Catherine caught a glimpse of Eleanor Cartwright sitting on one of the park benches. Her hand was raised to her face and it looked to Catherine as if she was crying.

‘Stop, Ben!' she called to the coachman who had been in the Davencourt employ for generations.

‘Hold ee on, Miss.'

The two horses immediately behind them reared up and there was the sound of feminine squeals. Catherine did not wait to apologise. She jumped from the still-rocking landau and weaved her way through the mass of strolling couples to where Eleanor Cartwright sat, her eyes overly bright, a crumpled handkerchief in her hand.

‘Miss Cartwright. Can I help you? You seem distressed.'

Eleanor raised a startled face. ‘It's nothing, your ladyship, just a slight cold.' She smiled bravely, but the corners of her mouth trembled.

Catherine sat down beside her. ‘I don't think I believe you, Miss Cartwright,' she said gently. ‘You're crying.'

A tear slid down Eleanor Cartwright's pale face as she shook her head in denial.

Catherine regarded the governess with concerned eyes. She had always liked the quiet, rather shy girl who had been engaged only a few short months ago by Mrs Oversley. It had never occurred to her to wonder if she was happy in the Oversley household. Now she was to go to Russia and all because Mrs Oversley no longer required her services. Catherine shivered in the cold, clear air. To her, Russia was a land of fairytale and romance. Perhaps it held no such magic for Eleanor Cartwright.

‘Are you crying because you are leaving the Oversleys?' she asked kindly.

Eleanor took a steadying breath. ‘It would be wrong of me to burden you with my troubles, your ladyship.'

Catherine covered the governess's gloved hand with her own. ‘Nonsense. I wish to know. Are you unhappy at the thought of travelling to Russia?'

Eleanor Cartwright turned her head, the misery in her eyes her answer.

‘There is no need for you to go,' Catherine protested. ‘You could easily obtain another post in London.'

Eleanor shook her head, saying quietly, ‘Mrs Oversley herself arranged my appointment with Countess Vishnetskaya. The Countess is English born and a friend of Mrs Oversley's.'

‘You must tell Mrs Oversley you have no desire to take up a post so far away from England,' Catherine said firmly.

Eleanor Cartwright gave a small smile. She liked Catherine but knew she would never be able to understand the difficulties a girl in her own position faced.

‘I have already done that, your ladyship.'

‘Then your troubles are behind you,' Catherine said with a comforting smile.

Eleanor shook her dark head with its neat bun of plaited hair. ‘Mrs Oversley was exceedingly angry at my ingratitude. She refuses to give me a reference so that I may be able to obtain another post, and truth to tell, I have no desire to do so.' She hesitated, and a faint flush mounted her cheeks. ‘I … I intend to marry.'

Catherine gasped and then clapped her hands in delight. ‘But that is marvellous news, Miss Cartwright. Who is he? And why have we not heard of him before?'

Eleanor gave a tremulous laugh. ‘It is not the sort of information that Mrs Oversley would have appreciated me imparting to her children.'

‘Well, you can impart it to me,' Catherine said roundly, perceiving for the first time how difficult life as a governess must be if it held so many petty restrictions.

‘It is a gentleman I have known for many years. A clergyman …'

‘And do you love him?' Catherine asked directly.

The blush on the pale cheeks deepened. ‘With all my heart.'

‘Then you should be radiantly happy and not indulging in tears,' Catherine chided.

The glow in Eleanor Cartwright's eyes died. ‘ I
am
happy. Only Algernon does not receive his curacy for another month and …'

‘A month is nothing,' Catherine said. ‘Now dry your eyes and ride with me a little and tell me where you will live and how you both met and …' She faltered, seeing for the first time the carpet bag at Eleanor's feet. ‘Why ever are you carrying that with you in the park? It looks must cumbersome.'

Eleanor Cartwright looked as if she wished the ground would open and swallow her. Catherine continued to stare: first at Eleanor and then at the bulging bag at her feet. Slowly comprehension dawned.

‘Has Mrs Oversley asked you to leave?' she asked incredulously. ‘Now? Before you can marry?'

Eleanor Cartwright's agonised silence was her answer. Catherine's eyes flashed with anger.

‘Come with me, Miss Cartwright,' she said decisively.

‘I'm afraid I don't understand …'

‘Come with me,' Catherine repeatd and as Eleanor seemed unable to move, she picked up the bag and led the way to the waiting carriage.

‘It's no use taking me back, your ladyship. Mrs Oversley was exceedingly angry.'

‘I'm not taking you back, Miss Cartwright. I'm taking you home.'

‘But Lady Catherine!'

Catherine ignored her protests. ‘Ben, help Miss Cartwright into the carriage.'

Ben, who had been listening with interest, obeyed.

‘Straight home, Ben, if you please.'

Ben picked up the reins, smiling inwardly. Her ladyship was a one and no mistake. He wondered what Lady Davencourt would say when they arrived.

‘I don't understand,' Eleanor Cartwright said bewilderedly.

‘It's perfectly simple, Miss Cartwright. I'm getting married in three weeks' time and until then you will act as my companion.'

‘But won't Lady Davencourt object to such an unusual arrangement?' Eleanor protested.

‘Undoubtedly, but Papa will not.'

To Catherine's surprise her step-mother acquiesced quite civilly to the request that Eleanor Cartwright be engaged as her companion. The wedding had caused extra work and Eleanor Cartwright was personable and well bred. She would be an asset in the flurry of the next few weeks.

That evening Eleanor sent for the remainder of her belongings. Lady Davencourt sat down to review the guest list. Catherine had the final fitting of her wedding dress. And Robert, Marquis of Clare, was brutally robbed and murdered in a London square.

It was her step-mother's piercing scream that jerked Catherine upright in her bed. For a second she thought it had been a dream, and then it came again, a scream of such anguish that Catherine leapt from her bed and fled along the darkened corridor to her stepmother's room. The lights were blazing, the bed empty. Terrified, Catherine raced downstairs, hurtling into the drawing room just in time to see one of the Duke's ashen-faced footmen leaving.

‘Oh my God! It can't be true! Frederick! Frederick!'

Her husband tried to break her hold from the mantle-piece and failed. His wife was as cold and immovable as the marble itself. Catherine seized his arm.

‘What is it, Papa? What has happened?'

Lord Davencourt gazed at his daughter awkwardly. Damn it all, it was his wife who should be telling her, not him.

‘Shocking news, m'dear. Tragic.'

Icy fingers closed around her heart. ‘Is it Robert?' she asked fearfully.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. ‘Dead, m'dear. Robbed and murdered. Found him not an hour ago.'

She stared at him, not hearing his clumsy words of comfort. Robert dead. Robert, with his slow smile and gentle eyes. Robert, who loved and teased her. Robert, whose calm good sense she so relied upon. That she would never feel his arms around her again seemed a thing too monstrous to be true.

‘Have a brandy,' her father said inadequately, wishing she would cry, scream, anything but stare at him with that ghastly expression on her face.

She brushed the glass away, walking unseeingly back to her room. Her wedding dress hung in splendid mockery in the wardrobe. Robert's photograph smiled at her as it had always done. Outwardly everything was the same, yet in that moment Catherine knew the whole course of her life had changed. Tenderly she lifted Robert's photograph from the dressing table, holding it close to her heart, drowning it in a sea of tears.

It was two days before she emerged. Pale and hollow-eyed, and silent.

Lady Davencourt's grief was of a quite different nature.

‘The fool! To
walk
home at that time of night!'

Clenching and unclenching her fists, she strode up and down the room. ‘And now what? What happens to Catherine? What happens to
us?
'

‘Damn it all, he didn't get murdered on purpose,' her husband said bad-temperedly, casting anxious eyes towards his daughter's room. ‘Have a little charity …'

‘Charity!' his wife screamed. ‘
Charity!
That's just what we'll be needing now that fool's got himself murdered!' and she continued her ceaseless marching, her fist pounding into the palm of one hand as she tried to think her way out of the impasse Robert's death had brought. Not once did it occur to her to go upstairs and comfort her bereaved step-daughter.

A week after Robert's funeral the Duke's limousine purred to a soft halt outside Lord Davencourt's London home. Catherine viewed the arrival from her bedroom window with mild curiosity. The Duke and Duchess, heavily swathed in black, disappeared from view as the butler opened the door. She looked at the clock. It was after ten. Tentatively she wondered if she should go downstairs and then decided against it. If her presence was wanted, her father would send for her.

There was no tap on her door, no summons to go downstairs, and she changed into her nightdress, brushing her hair, watching the hands of the clock move from eleven to twelve. Then, finally, there came the quiet closing of doors.

Seconds later Lady Davencourt entered her bedroom, her eyes alight with suppressed excitement.

‘Catherine, I want you to listen to me most carefully. I have the most
wonderful
news.'

She sat on the bed, taking Catherine's hand in a maternal gesture, seldom used.

‘The Duke and Duchess have called. There has been a complete reconciliation between Dominic and his father. The Duke has insisted that Dominic change his way of life, and that when a period of mourning is over, he marries.'

‘How nice for Dominic,' Catherine said uninterestedly. ‘I don't envy the girl being married solely to give Dominic respectability.'

She was glad for the Duchess's sake that the Duke had finally relented and that Dominic was once more to be welcomed at Geddings, but she couldn't share her step-mother's apparent joy at the news. After all, it was only due to Robert's death that the reconciliation was taking place.

Lady Davencourt drew a deep, trembling breath. ‘Catherine! Imagine his parents' joy when he said he was prepared to marry you! That for Robert's sake …'

‘Marry me?' Catherine stared. ‘What do you mean? Marry me? Robert has only been dead a few weeks and I've never even
met
Dominic.' For the first time since Robert's death she gave a small laugh. ‘I'm afraid you've been taken for the most awful leg-pull, Mama.'

Lady Davencourt clenched her teeth. ‘I have
not
been take for a leg-pull, Catherine. I am perfectly serious. You know how the Duchess adores you. The Duke has insisted Dominic marries if he is to return and so naturally the Duchess suggested …'

‘Oh, I can imagine the Duchess suggesting it. But I can't imagine anyone taking her suggestion seriously.'

‘
Dominic
took the suggestion seriously.'

Catherine's amusement waned.