Splendor (5 page)

"Excellency, there is a grave matter we must discuss." The lad shifted uneasily.

Marie-Elena cried out, turned, and fled.

A grave matter. A grave matter, indeed. The groom's ruddy face blurred as he began to talk about the greatest treasure in Nicholas's life, his daughter, Katya. His face twisted, fading, his words incoherent, incomprehensible. And Nicholas's heart was filled with a stabbing pain. His world with sheer blackness.

Katya. Where was she? Where was his daughter?

Panic replaced the pain. Panic and terror. Katya was lost, lost forever, and he could not find her, and now he was running in the snow, fighting the wind, the branches of trees, screaming her name, oblivious to the cold, desperate to find her. But she was gone. Nicholas clawed the bark of a snow-laden pine tree. The snow came up past his knees. Tears burned his eyes, freezing on his skin as they streaked down his face. "Katya!" But she was gone, gone, gone.. ..

"Excellency?"

The dream had changed. Someone was calling his name, but that was not how it ended. It ended with him shivering and afraid in the snow, his daughter lost forever, and when he awoke, he would be weeping.

"Excellency!" And there was knocking now, on the door. Loud and insistent Nicholas did not, could not, move. Caught between sleep and waking, he was trying to recall the results of the investigation he had immediately mounted. Not to find his missing daughter, for she had not wandered out in any snowstorm, but into the activities of his wife.

"Prince Sverayov!"

Nicholas started. His eyes opened suddenly, and for a moment he was confused, not recognizing the oddly appointed room he was in. He expected to be in Tver, at his country home, but that was because of the damned dream.

He sat up, realizing in an instant that neither was he in the lavishly gilded salon of Vladchya Palace, his home in St. Petersburg, where Katya had been born; where he and his brother, Alexi, had been born. Instead, he sat on a crimson damask sofa in a small, wood-paneled library with windows that were undraped, revealing rioting gardens outside and a bright blue sky.

He was in London.

Nicholas brushed a fine film of perspiration from his brow, tears from his cheeks, his pulse pounding far too erratically. He had fallen asleep on the sofa in the library of the Mayfair town house he had leased when he had arrived in London three weeks ago. In spite of the knocking, it took him one more moment to recpver from the dream. He stared toward the windows but really saw nothing in front of him. And he reminded himself that the past, as it could not be changed, was not worth dwelling upon.

As usual, cold logic, which he so often applied when he was commanding his troops, failed to satisfy him now or alleviate the lingering bitter aftertaste of the nightmare—or the daily anguish he now lived with. He could only thank God that Katya was not, and had never been, lost in any snowstorm.

And he forced Piotr's image aside. The groom now lived in Murmansk, rather comfortably, his attempt at blackmail successful.

"Excellency?" The door opened. It was Taichili, his daughter's governess. Comprehension flooded him. Marie-Elena lay upstairs with doctors and nurses, close to death. She had miscarried another man's child just before dawn. A glance at the clock showed him it was after nine. He had only fallen asleep a short while ago.

"Father?" a small, hesitant voice said.

Nicholas rose swiftly to his feet, fully returned to the present now. Katya had been asleep when he had returned home last night. And Marie-Elena had been unconscious, having lost not just the child but a tremendous amount of blood. Three physicians were doing what they could to save

her life. They were not hopeful. A Russian Orthodox priest, attached to the Russian ambassador's household, had already administered the last rites.

Nicholas managed a smile as the six-year-old child hesitated on the threshold. She was so beautiful and so special that his heart twisted as it always did at the mere sight of her. "Come in," he said, his pulse accelerating.

She was a thin child with porcelain skin, black eyes, and even blacker hair—one day she would be a replica of her mother. Katya regarded him with wide eyes that were far too old for a girl of her few years.

Her governess, a tall bespectacled woman with an eternally stem countenance, stood behind her. "Excellency," she said. "I told the princess not to disturb you."

"My daughter is not disturbing me," he said. He continued to smile. "Please come in, Katrushka," he said formally, but he was trembling. He clenched his fists, shocked with the impulse he had—to run to Katya and hold her. But he didn't know how to hold her. Marie-Elena had seen to that.

Katya entered the room, closing the door behind her, Taichili waiting outside. "I hope I am not disturbing you," she said very gravely.

"I think we must talk," he said.

She nodded, her big eyes riveted on his face.

"Please, sit," he said. "Sit with me, dushka.''

Katya, dressed in a beautiful white dress trimmed with ribbons and overlaid with lace, came forward and settled herself down in one of the two large armchairs facing his desk. Nicholas also sat back down. Katya remained impassive.

"You mother is very ill," Nicholas began.

"She is dying." Her tone was flat and without emotion.

Nicholas looked into her eyes. He hesitated. Her eyes were oddly blank. Katya's eyes always were shadowed. How had one so young learned to be so impassive? "I believe so. But there is some hope. Shall we pray for her together?"

Katya nodded, not saying a word.

Nicholas stood, as did Katya. He gestured her forward and they both knelt and bowed their heads. He felt like a hypocrite, but knew he had to do this for the child. He was not a man given to prayer, although he did, he supposed, believe in God. He had seen too many men die to think that any amount of praying might wrest a miracle from the Almighty.

"Dear Father, who art in Heaven," he began, "please spare the life of my wife, Katya's mother. Please let her live. We pray here today together, begging you to spare her life." He crossed himself. "Amen." He looked down at Katya's bent head. "Do you want to add something?"

Katya looked up at him, mouth pursed, eyes tearless, and nodded. She was very pale.

"Go ahead," Nicholas said gently, wondering how he could console Katya if Marie-Elena died. She was hardly the best mother. As often as possible she left Katya in Tver with her tutors and nannies—while she cavorted in Moscow, St. Petersburg, Vienna, Prague, and Rome. While Marie-Elena was gone, Katya eagerly awaited her return. Nicholas had caught her watching out the window for Marie-Elena too many times to count.

But she was not the worst mother, either. When she returned, she did so bearing incredible gifts, at once animated and gay, regaling her daughter with her incredible cosmopolitan adventures. Katya, Nicholas knew, worshipped her mother.

"Dear Lord," she said, hushed, "don't let my mother die.... Please. She is so young, so beautiful, and I know she loves me ... and Father. I will do anything, Lord, if you let her live. Amen."

"Amen," Nicholas echoed, close to tears.

He helped her to her feet. Nicholas did not know what to do. It was so much easier to directly console a soldier dying in the mud and snow than his own tearless daughter now.

Nicholas touched Katya's thin shoulder impulsively. "Do not be afraid."

Katya started at the contact. Then she looked down, away from him, her small mouth pursed. "But maybe I will never see her again."

"If your mother does go to Heaven, one day you will see her there."

Katya stared.

He continued to grasp her thin shoulder. "We do not bargain with God, Katya. Perhaps the next time you pray, you should offer Him something whether or not your mother Hves."

She nodded gravely.

He forced a smile that felt miserable. "I think we should go upstairs to see how she is doing. We will see if the doctors will allow us to visit her," Nicholas said. He knew he had to be careful. If Marie-Elena passed away, he wanted Katya left with memories of her vibrant, beautiful, and alive.

They left the room silently. Upstairs, it was deathly quiet and deathly still. The door to the sickroom was closed. He was reminded of the night when Katya had been bom. "Wait here," he said.

He slipped into the room. Physicians and nurses turned. One doctor came to him immediately. "She was conscious a few moments ago. Excellency."

Nicholas froze, his regard jerking to his wife, who was as pale and lifeless as a corpse, appearing incredibly diminutive in the midst of the large four-poster bed. The sheets around her, thank God, had been constantly changed, and were currently pristinely white. "There is progress?" he asked, incredulous. She had been conscious. What if she regained consciousness again? He desperately wanted Katya to be able to say good-bye to her mother. "Is it possible that she may live?" he asked.

"We seem to have stopped the bleeding. But she has lost blood. I do not think that she will hve. I am sorry. Prince Sverayov," the British physician said. "But she

might awaken again, if you think to speak to her."

"I want to bring her daughter in," Nicholas said, "but I do not want to upset the child."

"I would advise you to bring the child in now," the physician said.

But Nicholas continued to stare at Marie-Elena—and saw her lashes flicker. He did not move. And then her eyes opened slowly—and focused on him.

He went to her side. "I am sorry," he said, meaning it.

She stared at him, and then her mouth twisted slightly— into a shadow of her usual smile. "Are you sorry, Niki? Do not lie. You will be glad when I am gone," she said wearily—bitterly.

"I am very sorry," he said firmly. "I will not be glad. Katya wants to see you."

Marie-Elena made a shrugging motion, telling him that she did not care whether she ever saw her daughter again. He was shocked—and certain he had misunderstood.

' 'Marie-Elena, you are very ill. You may well die. Surely you want to see Katya now."

Marie-Elena's eyes opened and she gasped for breath. "You love her, don't you?" she finally said. "In spite of what you have feared—and been thinking—all these years. You love her—insanely—but you have never loved me."

He was so astounded by her words that he could only stare. She was dying—and admitting to a profound jealousy of her own daughter? It was impossible.

"Do you know," she said slowly, thickly, her words very low now, ' *how many men have loved me? Me. Completely. They still want me. Years later. Would kill to have me take them back." Her eyes, black and glittering wildly, held his.

"How could I not be aware of your conquests?" he said stiffly—thinking of the damned groom, not any of the others. Piotr, the man who was, in all likelihood, Katya's father.

"Even Alexander loves me," she whispered. "He told

me so." And it was suspended between them, unspoken, But not you.

He finally spoke. "There is no point in discussing this now. We did not marry for love—no one does." He turned to leave, in order to get Katya.

"Damn you, Nicholas! Damn you to hell!" she cried.

He froze, facing her, stunned by the anger and hatred he saw. Yet he was the one who had been betrayed, he was the one who had every right to rage and fury—not her. "I am getting Katya," he said. He turned away, motioning for one of the servants to let Katya in.

And Katya came cautiously forward, her wide gaze seeking the figure in the bed. Nicholas immediately moved to her side, overwhelmed with the urge to shelter and protect her.

"Mother?" she whispered shrilly.

Marie-Elena appeared not to hear. She seemed to be asleep. Katya cried out, rushing forward, flinging her arms around her mother, burying her face against her chest.

And Nicholas felt a tear beginning its way down his own cheek. Marie-Elena was dead—and Katya was not his daughter. Had never been his daughter, not even in those first few months after she was bom, before he had learned the hideous truth.

Katya began to cry.

And so did Nicholas.

He walked her into her bedroom. "She is very sick, Katya. We can only pray again." Somehow, Marie-Elena clung to life. And Nicholas felt oddly impotent, offering his daughter only prayers, when he did not believe in their power himself.

Katya faced him, tearless, expressionless, even her eyes blank. She did not speak.

"Do you want to pray with me again?" He tried to smile, knew that this time he failed.

Katya stared.

"Katya, come, please." His chest ached with every

heartbeat, not for himself, and his own loss—the hope that she was truly his daughter—but solely for his daughter and her pain. "Can you speak?" he asked. Of course, Katya did not know. No one knew, not even his brother.

It was a moment before she said, "Yes. Thank you."

He was at a loss. He clenched his fists, realized he still trembled. "Your mother loves you very much," he managed. "As do I."

Katya looked at him and her face began to crumble.

To hell with prayers, he thought. He knelt, and awkwardly, he took Katya in his arms. Waiting for her to weep. But she did not cry.

As awkwardly, he touched her hair. "I know you are afraid. I wish I could take away the fear, but I cannot. I am not that powerful."

Katya pushed back and looked up at him, her face starkly white. "Do you believe in miracles?"

He lied. "Yes."

She stared. "Have you ever seen one?"

He told the truth. "No."

She nodded unblinkingly.

He stood up. "What would you like to do, today?"-Wanting to caress her cheek.

He thought she would not answer. But she said, "I have my lessons. Father."

' T will speak to Signor Raffaldi. Today is not a day for lessons. You may do anything you wish. Even go to a circus," he said. Hoping to make her smile.

Katya said politely, "I think I prefer to stay in my room and read my books. Father, if you do not mind."

He stared at her, this beautiful, expressionless, sober child—this child who was not his. Why was she always so self-contained? Her mother was certainly the opposite—and he knew now that her self-control did not come from him. He could not understand it. "As you wish," he finally said. "But Katya, if you change your mind, that is fine." Yet he knew she was not going to change her mind.