Flight to Verechenko (5 page)

‘Breakfast, Miss?' the steward asked.

She looked at him blankly.

‘Breakfast, Miss?' he asked again, wondering how such feather-brained young women managed to hold down responsible positions in alien lands.

‘Oh yes … Thank you.' She drank the hot, bitter coffee gratefully.

At least she had done the right thing. Left immediately, not giving him the chance to have a joke at her expense. The thought gave her some satisfaction. He had been arrogant enough to have assumed she would marry him sight unseen. No doubt he was used to young ladies, vying for his favours and being grateful for any crumb of attention he should give them. Well, he had made a mistake where Catherine Davencourt was concerned. Instead of receiving news that she had waited to meet him and accept his proposal and been distraught at his rejection, he would hear that she too had never condescended to attend the dinner party their parents had arranged. Perhaps
that
would take the smile off his laughing face.

The steward grinned at her. She might be feather brained, but she was certainly a cut above the usual young women making the crossing.

‘I see the rolling of the ship doesn't upset you, Miss?'

‘No.' Catherine was unaccustomed to those serving her speaking with such familiarity. It was another thing she would have to get used to, and his manner was pleasant enough.

‘Most of the other passengers are keeping to their bunks till we reach the Kiel and a bit o'calm. There's plenty of coffee if you want some more.' He winked at her. ‘You just give me the nod, Miss. I'll see you're all right.'

Catherine ate hurriedly. It had suddenly occurred to her that the Marquis, too, was unaffected by the motion of the ship and would be coming into the dining saloon to eat. She was determined to avoid another meeting whilst they were on board. She walked quickly back to her cabin, leaving it only for meals, until the boat entered the smooth waters of the Kiel Canal. Then, taking care not to walk in the direction of the stern, she stayed for hour after hour at the deckrail, watching the flying spumes of spray as the boat ploughed on into the icy vastness of the Baltic and the freezing cold drove her below decks once again.

‘St Petersburg in the morning,' said the steward who had taken her under his wing. ‘ If you want to see it at its best, get up early, just as the sun is rising.'

‘Will we be there so soon?'

‘Yes. But depending on the ice it could be mid-day before we disembark. How about another cup of coffee. There's some fresh made.'

Excitement woke her with the first pale rays of dawn. Quickly she dressed and went up on deck. The sea was iced over, the cold making her gasp for breath. All around small boats rocked, futilely trapped, but the cargo boat forged slowly onwards aided by a giant ice-cutter. And ahead, breathtaking in its splendour, stood the fairytale city of St Petersburg.

Delicate spires rose ethereally in the early morning mist. Pumpkin-shaped domes glittered. Towers and steeples shimmered under a hoar of frost. Golden turrets and pinnacles pierced the sky, and from giant cupolas there came the magical tolling of bells.

Ecstatically Catherine leaned on the deckrail, the ice cracking as the
Gretel
forced its way nearer and nearer to its dreamlike destination.

Disembarking was more chaotic than embarking, and she was crushed in a rush of passengers and trunks and baggage as she struggled to make her way down the gangplank. Clutching her bag tightly she stared around her in bewilderment on the dockside.

Where should she go? What should she do? As she tried to gather her scattered wits she saw Dominic Harland disembark, his trunks carried by several of the crew, his young companion obviously grateful to feel dry land beneath his feet again. Although Dominic did not look in her direction, his companion did and their eyes met. She saw him touch Dominic's arm and speak to him. Still the Marquis's head did not turn. But his voice carried carelessly over the clamour around him.

‘No one you know. Only a pretty streetwalker out for the better pickings on the Continent.'

If it hadn't been for the mass of people between them she would have flown at him demanding an apology. As it was they were already moving away and a stern-faced official was asking for her passport. To her relief he handed it back to her after scarcely looking at the photograph.

Above the noise of greetings and the sound of church bells there came the not too distant sound of a loud military band. Then, above the babble and confusion, Catherine heard her name being boomed out.

‘Miss Cartwright! Miss Cartwright!'

A burly Russian in flowing driving cloak and knee-high boots was forcing his way through the crowd. She waved and his face lit with a yellow smile. Through a black mass of hair and beard he said in broken English, ‘Miss Cartwright for Countess Vishnetskaya?'

‘Yes.'

‘Dmitri.' He grinned, taking her bag.

The street was nearly as noisy and crowded as the docks and an Arctic blast seared through her thin coat. With a surge of elation she saw a sleigh waiting to take her to Verechenko. Dmitri seated her carefully, wrapping a thick rug over her knees. As he did so she saw the Marquis. No icy blasts were disturbing
him.
He now wore an ankle-length sable coat and was stepping into a luxuriously furred troika. She wrapped the rug closely round her knees, watching as the troika flashed past, bells jingling, lost immediately in the swarming streets.

The sleigh eased away from the docks, speeding over the cobbles, troikas and sledges skimming out of the way. She caught a glimpse of a gilded opera house and bazaar crammed with brilliantly coloured shawls. There were street stalls with live birds for sale and hot pies being sold at street corners. Everywhere there were soldiers in braided overcoats, flying carriages, and over and above all else, noise.

The noise of church bells, of the shouts of the coachmen, of street sellers, of pounding hooves. It was what she had hoped for and anticipated. An entirely new world. She caught a glimpse of fabulous necklaces and bracelets in a jewellers and incredibly ragged children being cuffed and pushed by the police for loitering outside the windows. A lone musician strode casually down the street, the sound of his accordion vying with that of the band and bells.

The sleigh speeded over a crowded bridge spanning the Neva, carriages and pedestrains hurrying out of the way. The early morning sun cast tongues of flame on the steel-grey water and couples sauntered hand in hand along the banks.

They crossed to the Islands and behind gigantic gates she glimpsed beautiful gardens and opulent houses and then Dmitri was turning between towering statues of lions and the noise of the city faded.

The palace glowed like a precious stone in the Northern sunlight. The lower floor was a series of archways leading onto a marble terrace. On the balcony above, white pillars supported a gilded roof. In the gardens were fountains, icicles hanging from bronze dolphins and naiads. Doves clustered for warmth around a dove cote, cooing soothingly. The sleigh came to a halt. Dmitri helped her descend on to the tightly packed snow as her heart hammered in nervous anticipation, a richly liveried footman opened the door and she shook out her skirts, took a deep breath, and entered the palace that was to be her future home.

Double doors opened and closed endlessly as Catherine followed the footman through room after room, up a long flight of red-carpeted stairs, along a gallery lined with marble busts. Open doors patterned in gold gave a glimpse of a ballroom with huge, glittering crystal chandeliers. The rooms they passed through were crowded with small tables strewn with glass-topped collections of miniatures, enamelled scent flasks, jewelled snuff boxes. On heavier marble-topped tables were Dresden shepherdesses, Meissen and Wedgwood, ivory and jade figurines. The walls were covered with exquisite panelling, the high ceilings supported by Corinthian pillars, the furnishings all gilt and brocade. At last the footman opened double doors of delicately carved rosewood and Catherine walked nervously into a salon ablaze with light. A huge log fire leaped and flamed and beside it, her legs covered with a silver fur, a plump woman with fair hair and friendly eyes lay on a chaise longue.

‘The governess, Barina,' the footman said, retreating and closing the mahogany doors behind him.

Catherine stepped forward, encouraged by the sweet expression on the smiling face.

‘My dear, you look as though you have strolled through Hyde Park, not endured a nightmare sea journey.'

‘I enjoyed it,' Catherine said, knowing that she would have been speaking the truth if it hadn't been for Dominic Harland's unwelcome presence.

The countess laughed, indicating a chair with a wave of a soft hand. ‘To be a good traveller is a distinct advantage in Russia. The distances are so vast it is impossible to imagine. And always it is cold.' She shivered. ‘The summer is no sooner here than it is gone. What is the weather like in England now?'

‘Beautiful. The almond trees are in flower and the parks are a mass of daffodils.'

‘And the bluebells? Are there bluebells in the woods?'

‘Yes …' Catherine's heart was touched by the wistfulness on the pretty face. She had no idea how to address her and ended up awkwardly as the footman had done, saying: ‘Yes, Barina.'

The Countess smiled. ‘You are already picking up correct expressions. Your position is higher than that of a servant. They will refer to you as Barishna. The children will speak French or English at all times and to them you will be Miss Eleanor.'

‘My duties …' Catherine began apprehensively.

‘To speak French and English to them and occupy them during the day. The Russians have very different ideas on bringing up children than we English. I did have a French governess, but she left after a few months. She was totally unable to control them. Natasha is seven and Alexander is four. All those years with a Russian nanny cannot be eradicated in only months. I am afraid you will have to be very strict with them. Olga will feel she is being usurped, but it is my wish that the children are brought up with English manners and I give you complete control over them. If I were not so handicapped,' her soft hand moved slightly to indicate her legs hidden by the fur, ‘I should have been able to have influenced them myself. As it is I must rely on you, Eleanor.'

With a surge of pity Catherine realised that the semi-recumbent position was not one of grace or idleness, but one of sickness. The Countess saw the expression before she could hide it.

‘I was thrown from a horse shortly after the birth of Alexander. You can imagine how much it means to me to have a fellow-countrywoman to talk to when my world is so restricted.'

‘I'm sorry …'

‘Don't be,' she said gently. ‘Everything is God's will. That is what Russians believe and it helps to believe it as well. Alice, my maid, is English. She came out with me when I married. She will be pleased to have someone to talk to. She cannot speak French and in nine years has learned no Russian. She will also be an ally if Olga should prove too awkward.'

‘Is Olga the children's nanny?'

‘Yes. But don't let her intimidate you. I want you to be happy with us, Eleanor.'

‘I will be,' Catherine said with growing confidence. ‘When do I meet the children?'

‘The morning will be soon enough for that ordeal,' the Countess said with a smile. ‘There's a hot meal waiting for you and then you can settle yourself in your room. Goodnight, Eleanor.'

Relieved that her role was going to be so easy to play, Catherine followed the footman back through interminable rooms, to a magnificent dining-room where she ate in solitary splendour. Then he led her upstairs. No meanly furnished room here as there had been for Eleanor Cartwright in the Oversley household.

There was pretty patterned wallpaper and lilac upholstery and a sumptuous bed draped in chiffon. A fire burned brightly, casting a rosy glow onto a sturdy desk and comfortable-looking chairs. Slim windows looked out over the moonlit grandeur of sparkling snow and the black silhouettes of pine trees. She put the few things she had brought with her into the drawers and set her brush and comb on the desk top, changing into her nightdress and snuggling down into the big bed without the least trace of homesickness. One phase of her life was over, another was about to begin.

She woke to find two laughing fiends bouncing on her bed and pounding her with pillows.

‘I'm Alexander!'

‘I'm Natasha!'

The pillows rained on her shoulders as she struggled to sit up.

‘Stop it this minute.
Immediately!
'

‘Speak French,' Natasha chanted, jumping off the bed out of reach. ‘You have to speak French.'

‘And you have to behave,' Catherine said, struggling into her dressing gown as Alexander did his best to pull it away from her.

‘Oh, but we
always
behave, don't we, Alexander? Olga says we're perfect angels.'

‘And do you behave like this with her?'

‘Yes, but Olga can't catch us. She's too old and fat.'

The two children, temporally exhausted, sat crossed legged on the floor.

‘She's prettier than Mam'selle,' Natasha said to her brother, as if Catherine were non-existent.

‘Pretty,' her little brother agreed.

‘And she doesn't cry like Mam'selle did.'

‘Doesn't cry,' Alexander agreed solemnly.

Catherine was already feeling a great deal of compassion for her predecessor. She shooed them from the room while she washed and dressed and then, as the noise from the far side of the door reached alarming proportions, she bade them enter while she finished braiding her hair and then turned to them, her hands folded in her lap, trying to look as commanding as possible.

‘Mam'selle was French.
I
am English.'

The children waited expectantly, chins resting on their hands, eyes unwavering.