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Authors: Margaret Pemberton

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BOOK: Flight to Verechenko
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‘Oh, Papa!' Alexander hugged his father tightly, his face alight with joy. Natasha clapped her hands delightedly. ‘Will we have fireworks, Papa, and dancing?'

‘If Dmitri can organise the fireworks in time, we will have fireworks,' her father promised.

Alexander crowed with delight. ‘ Cossacks! Real Cossacks!'

Only his wife did not seem overjoyed at the Count's news.

‘What is the matter, Maria?' Alexis asked, noticing a slight frown on her forehead.

She shrugged. ‘You know I do not like him, my love. I never have done.'

‘He's a Cossack. You can't expect him to behave like an English gentleman.'

‘No. But he's so fierce …'

Alexis laughed. ‘He has to be to keep those men in check. He's the finest Cossack officer this side of Moscow.' He turned to Catherine. ‘Wait until tomorrow, Eleanor. Then you will see a glimpse of the
real
Russia!'

All next day the servants scurried backwards and forwards in a frenzy of activity. To Catherine's relief the Marquis was neither at breakfast nor lunch and was nowhere to be seen either in the house or in the garden. Fairy lights were strung along the terrace and through the trees, barrels of beer were rolled from the cellar and giant tables were laden with food. It was dusk when the earth shook beneath the onslaught of hooves and a score of horseman galloped down Verechenko's driveway in a cloud of swirling dust. Minutes later the salon doors opened and Captain Bestuzhev was announced.

Catherine's first impression was that he was enormous. He was even taller than Alexis, with bulging thigh muscles and the neck and shoulders of a bull. His great dome of a head was bald and shiny, his mouth unsmiling beneath a dropping, grizzled moustache. He brought into the room a smell of sweat and horses and something else that Catherine could not define. He bent over her hand and she flinched inwardly, understanding Maria's dislike of him. His eyes, half hidden in thick folds of flesh, drifted over her speculatively and then he was accepting a vodka and Alexis was saying to him, ‘The children are looking forward to seeing your men ride. It was very generous of you to offer to come.'

Bestuzhev shrugged. ‘It gives them a little practice,' he said indifferently, ‘We have to perform before the Tsarina soon and the food and drink that you supply for my men is always generous.'

Alexis slapped him on the back. ‘Then let's get the party under way. Are you ready, my dear?'

The Countess nodded. Dmitri stepped forward, picking her up into his arms and carrying her out onto the terrace to the waiting sofa. Catherine followed, wrapping a fur carefully around Maria's shoulders and handing her her muff.

Lanterns glowed like fire-flies in the dusk and the small lake gleamed dull gold beneath lamp-lit trees. In the light of flaring torches she could see Bestuzhev mounting his horse and Alexis taking the children to a safe vantage point.

The servants crowded the foot of the terrace steps, chattering in excitement. Alexander swung high on Alexis' shoulders, grasped his father's hair, his face enraptured. Slowly the twenty or so men cantered into formation, the giant-like figure of Bestuzhev at their head. For a few seconds there was complete silence, the murmur of voices dying as they all waited expectantly. Then, upright in his stirrups, Bestuzhev waved his sabre high, uttering a blood-curdling cry to charge. Catherine drew in her breath as with loud whoops men and horses thundered down towards the lake, circling it at full tilt. Like avenging furies they began to gallop back to Verechenko, their long whips cracking menacingly, their faces ferocious in the blood-red glow of the torches. Maria shivered.

‘I think I will go in now,' she said to Catherine. ‘ I can't bear to think of the poor creatures who find themselves on the receiving end of those dreadful whips.'

‘They are reining in their horses now. It's nearly over.'

Maria shook her head. ‘No, there will be some trick riding now. I can't even watch that without feeling frightened. Dmitri! Dmitri!'

Dmitri, never far away, stepped forward and lifted her gently in his huge arms, carrying her indoors. Catherine stayed out on the terrace as the Cossacks raced full tilt, swinging, somersaulting, jumping. At last, bathed in sweat and deafened by admiring cheers, they leapt from their horses to be feted with brimming tankards of beer.

As they slaked their thirst the musicians began to play, filling the evening air with pulsating rhythms. Servants and musicians surrounded the Cossacks in a large clapping circle and as the men began to swirl and leap to the strum of balalaikas Catherine ran down the steps to get a closer look.

A laughing Alice made room for her in the circle and she joined in the frenzy of clapping as the music grew faster and faster in time to the mens' flashing boots. Then it was the servants' turn to dance.

Gagarin, the under-butler, grabbed at an unsuspecting Alice, pulling her laughingly after him and whirling her round in wild abandon. The next minute Dmitri had hold of Catherine's waist, and was pulling her protestingly into the centre of the throng, spinning her round and round as the music grew faster and faster, so that the faces around her were nothing but a glazed blur. As the music ended and she gasped for breath, Dmitri forced a way through the crowd, searching for beer.

‘My goodness, how do they keep it up?' she asked as the violins began playing and the lawns of Verechenko throbbed to the beat of hands and feet.

‘This is nothing. Ask again in six hours' time. Where the devil is the beer table?'

‘Below the terrace, next to the musicians.'

Dmitri grinned, his teeth even yellower in the torch-light. ‘Wait here while I get myself a glass,' and he shouldered his way through the chanting throng towards the beer barrels.

All around her the embraces of dancing couples were growing more blatant and Kira, Maria's maid, was being kissed passionately by one of the stable boys. Catherine thought it wisest to slip back to the house before Dmitri returned with similar ideas.

She was seconds too late, but it wasn't Dmitri who strode past and gripped her wrist, but Bestuzhev. Politely she demurred, trying to disentangle herself, but Bestuzhev wasn't listening. His huge dome of a head was glistening with sweat, his eyes glazed with alcohol. With a bellow he charged into the throng, dragging Catherine after him. To struggle would have been futile and the only escape that Catherine could see was to keep a frantic look out for Dmitri, and to make a dash for it the first time Bestuzhev's hold on her slackened.

Crushed to his massive chest she was pushed and buffeted, the shrieks of the dancers and the racing rhythm of the music deafening her.

At last, just when she felt she could hang on to her self-control no longer, the music ceased and Bestuzhev threw his arms wide, yelling for more. Before he could regain his grasp, Catherine twisted away, pushing between two half-drunk footmen and racing across the lawns as fast as her skirts would allow. By the time she reached the foot of the terrace steps she was breathless. In the distance the torches leaped and flamed, and she could see the unmistakable glint of Bestuzhev's head as he whirled a more willing partner to the throbbing music.

With a gasp of relief Catherine hurried up the darkened steps. As she did so a broad-shouldered figure swung through the open French windows, leaping down the steps two at a time, knocking her off balance so that she fell to her knees.

‘What the devil …' Dominic said good-humouredly, bending down and helping her to her feet. A firework shot across the night sky and in the golden trail it left behind Dominic saw who it was and the laughter faded slowly from his face.

‘Leaving the party so soon?' There was a strange throb in the rich timbre of his voice.

Her heart hammered painfully. ‘The party has grown a little too boisterous.' She wondered if he had seen her dancing with Bestuzhev and hoped that he had not.

The singing and dancing was growing wilder by the minute and his eyes glinted.

‘So it is. A pity I arrived late otherwise I could have claimed a dance as the Captain did.'

‘I had no desire to dance with the Captain,' Catherine said as freezingly as the tremble in her voice would allow. ‘ He forced his attentions on me.'

‘Did he indeed?' Dominic's eyes narrowed. He tilted her chin upwards with his forefinger. ‘You will forgive my presumption, Miss Cartwright, but the last time we met in such convenient darkness I had the distinct impression that my attentions were not altogether unwelcome, despite your later protestations. I wonder if I was right?' And before she could resist, he had pulled her firmly towards him, kissing her full on the mouth.

She beat her hands frenziedly against his chest, fighting against every instinct that urged her to succumb, to wind her arms around his neck and knot her fingers in the tight, black curls.

His lips seared hers, burning and bruising. Without the strong support of his arms she would have fallen. She could no longer breathe, her heart was beating so painfully, the blood pounding through her veins. There was a strange light in the dark eyes as he finally released her.

‘You are … insolent!' she gasped, blinking back a surge of hot, humiliating tears.

‘You are bewitching,' he said, and his eyes were bold and black and blatantly appraising.

She gave a strangled sob and slapped him across the face with all the strength that remained to her, running blindly inside as he stood, one hand to his face, watching with a curious expression in his eyes as she disappeared into the chandelier-lit rooms.

Catherine ran along the crimson-carpeted corridors to her room faced with a bitter truth. She did not hate Dominic Harland. Her feelings for him were far more turbulent. Far more disturbing. Was it possible she was in love with him? A man she had left England rather than marry? A man who had left England rather than marry
her?
She lay on her bed and stared into the darkness with anguished eyes.

All through the night she tossed and turned restlessly. She was under no delusion that Dominic's kiss had meant anything to him more than another chance to humiliate her. If only she had taken Caroline's advice and stayed to meet him …

But then, she thought savagely, pummelling the pillows, he wouldn't have been there
to
meet. What if she had gone immediately to Geddings and confronted him before he had left? Would that have made any difference? Would he have reconsidered then?

A fresh wave of misery swept over her. He wasn't in love with her now, so why should he have fallen in love with her then? Only now it was worse. Now he thought her a woman of light virtue. She wasn't at all sure that he believed her explanation for being alone in the London streets in the early hours of the morning. And seeing her dance with that great oaf Bestuzhev would have only reinforced his opinion.'

She stared sleeplessly at the cherub-encrusted ceiling. As a governess he would never entertain any serious ideas about her no matter what she did. She wondered if Amelia Cunningham was pretty. Springing from the bed she lit the lamp and surveyed her hair in the mirror. Dominic had been right. The dye was fading, the copper-coloured glints showing clearly. With her hair its natural colour she would stand far more chance of attracting his admiration, but how to explain to the Countess that she had had it dyed?

Despondently she climbed back into bed and tried to sleep, but even in her dreams he followed her: sensually aware, mockingly confident. Worst of all, indifferent. When she woke she felt as if she had not slept at all. Heavy-eyed and weary she took the children downstairs to the salon.

Outside the salon doors Olga waited, fat arms folded across her bosom, black silk straining at the seams.

‘It is
my
turn to take the children this morning,' she said triumphantly as Catherine approached.

Puzzled, Catherine halted, a child held by each hand.

‘Every month
I
take the children to Cheka,
my
village.'

‘Then I must see the Countess.' Catherine said reasonably.

Olga laughed, showing small, crooked teeth.

‘Come to Olga,' she said, bending down towards the children.

Alexander pouted. ‘Don't want. Want to stay with Eleanor.'

‘Now come along, Barinushka,' Olga coaxed, ‘You come with old Olga.' Olga pulled him towards her.

He tried to wriggle free. ‘Want Eleanor,' he persisted. ‘Love Eleanor.'

Olga's eyes hardened, her grip tightening.

‘Do as you are asked,' Catherine said gently to him, sensing another scene. ‘And I will go into Mama and make quite sure that today is the day that you are going to Cheka.'

Reluctantly the children stayed with Olga while Catherine entered the salon.

‘I'm sorry I didn't warn you before, Eleanor,' Maria said, laying down her book. ‘I quite forgot with the hurly-burly of yesterday. But each month Olga and Dmitri take the children to Cheka. It is on our estates but a good twenty versts from Petersburg. They won't be setting off till eleven, but it will give you enough time on your own to see something of the city without having the children at your heels.' She picked up her book again, saying as an afterthought, ‘Oh, by the way, the Cunninghams are coming to stay. I had a telegram from Princess Dagmar saying the Crimea is boring and that she can't wait to get back to civilisation. The next few weeks should be quite hectic!'

With mixed feelings Catherine went back to a gloating Olga.

‘The children will be ready for you at eleven.'

Olga's eyes narrowed, her smile disappearing, but Alexander's face lit up with joy.

‘Does that mean we can go fishing first? There's no ice left on the lake now.'

‘If you go straight away.' Catherine said indulgently.

Alexander clapped his hands. ‘I
love
fishing. I caught ever such a big fish last year. If I catch a big fish today can we have it for dinner?'

BOOK: Flight to Verechenko
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