The Frost And The Flame

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The Frost And The Flame Page 12

by Drusilla Campbell


  ‘It will be a beautiful day,’ she thought, the shadow of a smile on her gracefully curved lips.

  Then why was she so anxious? She frowned as her thoughts returned again and again to Alexei Romanov; and in spite of time and her own determination to be strong, the tears sprang in her eyes and blinded her to the lovely day awaiting her. Months had passed, and yet the pain of loving him was as sharp as it had ever been.

  For the hundredth—perhaps the thousandth—time, she asked herself, ‘How can I live without Alexei?’

  A knock at the hall door stopped her tears.

  “A moment, please,” she called as she hastily dried her eyes with a lace handkerchief. She hurried to the mirror to check her appearance. She did not want anyone to know how her heart longed for one who was forbidden to her, a man who did not want her anyway.

  ‘I must not live in the past! I will forget him,’ she told herself as she opened the door.

  Leo, Prince Oleg’s bodyguard, was on the other side. Before she could ask his business, he pushed past her into the boudoir and kicked the door closed with his heavy booted foot.

  “What do you want?” demanded Katia, uncertainly. She knew Leo by reputation, by servants’ gossip she had overheard; and she knew it was he who had so cold-bloodedly killed Mary’s father. She thought he had the look of a killer with his pinched, close-featured face and glimmering suspicious eyes. “I must ask you to leave. Monsieur!”

  Leo’s voice was breathy and harsh. “My master sent me with a message for you.” He looked about the room and seeing an easy chair near the fireplace, walked to it and made himself comfortable, his legs stretched before him, far apart. There was a neat stack of pen and ink drawings on the table beside the chair. He thumbed through these insolently.

  “Well, what is His Highness’ message then?” The presumption of the man! How dare he come into her room, make himself at home as if he had a right to share her time and company? “What is it you want?” She held her hands together tightly to disguise their trembling. She was frightened of this man and terrified lest he know her fear.

  “You draw these?”

  “I did, though what business it is of yours?”

  “What else did they teach you in that convent, eh?”

  He was sneering at her as his look took in every curve of her voluptuous young body.

  Katia colored. “My education at Troitza is none of your affair.” She tried to sound dignified, important. She wished her voice did not quaver nervously. “You say your master sent you here. If that is so, then I insist you tell me his message. Then leave. You are not welcome in these rooms.”

  Leo sneered more flagrantly. “And who are you, Convent Angel, to speak to me so imperiously? Are you someone special?”

  This was a reference to her dependent status in the palace. But Katia refused to be humiliated by Leo’s veiled insults. She sighed with exasperation and reached for the bellpull near her hand, but Leo leapt to his feet and was there before her. He grabbed her arm at the wrist.

  The pain was like twisting fire when she pulled away. “Let me go!”

  “And if I don’t?” His face was inches from hers. His breath smelled sour.

  “Let me go or I will report you to Prince Oleg. He won’t like this.” She yanked away from him and he let her go. Katia massaged her stinging wrists and didn’t look at him.

  “You won’t tell my master anything.” He leaned against the mantel near the bellpull, sensuously stroking his long drooping moustache and smiling like a cat at the start of its kill. “You won’t say nothing because you know it won’t do no good. Me and the Prince have been together since he was a student. We know each other, know what we like and what we don’t. You might even say we’re friends. We got similar tastes.”

  “Get out!”

  “First I got something to say. This morning, early, Czar Nicholas sent a message to my master telling him to go to the palace. Something important.”

  “What is this to me?” Katia pretended to be unconcerned.

  “My master told me to tell you that tonight he will be dining in.” Leo smiled insolently. For an instant, it seemed that Katia’s heartbeat slowed and stopped. “He will have supper here with you tonight. Miss Katia. He wanted you to know so you would not exert yourself too much today. He doesn’t want you getting sick again.”

  She went pale at his words, and though she tried she could not hide the anxiety she suddenly felt. “You have carried your message, now go,” she commanded, opening the hall door.

  Leo was still smiling. She hated the sight of his thin curled-back lips and ugly teeth. He wasn’t ready to go yet. “Why not let me stay, little convent girl?” he whispered. “Who would know, eh?” Suddenly his black-gloved hand grabbed at her bodice. He forced his fingers inside. The leather was cold, like something dead and bloated touching her.

  “Get out!” she screamed, shoving him away with all her strength. She slammed the door behind him, behind his snickering laughter. Furious, she reached for what was nearest her trembling hand…a crystal goblet on the mantel…and threw it as hard as she could. It hit the heavy carved wooden door with a bright ring and then shattered on the tile floor. In the next moment, Nikki ran through the door connecting the bedroom and sitting room.

  “Dearest child, whatever has happened here? You’ve broken a glass? You are so clumsy, Katia. Truly you are.” She noticed Katia weeping silently, her head resting on the mantelpiece. “Lord, child, it’s only a glass. That’s not so serious is it? Certainly there’s no cause for weeping. Shall I ring for someone to clean it up?”

  “No, Aunty. Not yet.” Katia tried to smile. Pray, sit down for a moment. We must talk. I am so glad you have come.” Katia composed herself and urged Natasha Filippovna to sit beside her on the loveseat near the fire.

  “I’ve only been in the next room, you know.” Aunt Nikki sounded indignant. “If I was needed, surely you could have called at any time. Who was with you a moment ago?” She narrowed her watery blue eyes suspiciously.

  “No one. A servant.” Katia caught her breath. “Listen, Aunt, we must leave St. Petersburg.”

  Natasha Filippovna stared at Katia as if she were a madwoman. “Why on earth do you want to leave? You have everything you want here, don’t you? Hasn’t Prince Oleg been more than generous to you? To all of us? Why would you want to go away and leave all this luxury behind? And anyway, where would we go?” She shifted her position on the loveseat once or twice.

  Katia leaned forward eagerly and grasped her aunt’s hands tightly. “We could go back to Three Rivers in Muscovy couldn’t we? Surely the peasant unrest is over by now, and it would be easy to travel in the country at this time of year when the weather is good and the roads are dry and fast. Really, Aunt, what is there to keep us in St. Petersburg?”

  “I have told you that a dozen times or more. I am awaiting word.”

  “But of what and from whom? Please, Aunt. Tell me whatever you know, whatever you can. Why must we stay here?”

  Nikki could not sit still. She got up and paced in her fidgtey manner back and forth before the fireplace, wringing her hands. “You are asking too many questions again, Katia. Why must you do this when you see how it agitates my heart?” Nikki was short-winded, and from time to time pressed her hands against her chest and raised her eyes heavenward. “You must be content. You don’t need to know anything more than that we are to stay here in St. Petersburg. I have my instructions.”

  “But from whom?” If it would have helped to kneel before Nikki, to pray to her for the answers to her questions, Katia would have done so gladly.

  “La, child, I will not break my word. By now I should think you would know that. I have made a bargain with a friend, and I mean to keep it faithfully as any gentlewoman would.” If Nikki doubted the wisdom of her chosen course, it did not tell in her voice; but she twisted her handkerchief into a damp rag as she spoke.

  “Then why must we live here? Could we not have a house of our own? Even
small apartments somewhere. I want nothing luxurious.” Katia’s voice broke. Angrily she brushed away a tear that had wetted her cheek. She felt so weak. So helpless!

  “That is what you say now! It only proves what an innocent you are. You don’t know what it’s like to be poor, so don’t be so anxious to find out. And you know well enough that our little house in St. Crispin Place will be ready for us one day soon. Haven’t I told you that again and again? Until then, try to cultivate a calm and peaceful nature, Katia. Be patient. Soon enough all your questions will be answered.” Natasha Filippovna turned in the doorway to the sitting room. “What has disturbed you this morning, child? Who was your visitor a moment ago?”

  “No one. Only a servant come to take the tray.” Katia was sure her aunt would ridicule her fears if she knew that what had prompted them was nothing more than an invitation to supper. And she was too ashamed to speak of Leo’s boldness. She recalled the touch of his hand and asked breathlessly, “Will you be dining in this evening, Aunt?”

  “La, child, I thought I spoke of that! Of course, I did. Where is your mind this morning? Josefinia Rupenskaya has arranged for me to meet the Little Father in a few days time. Tonight I am to dine with her and with others who will testify to that holy man’s miraculous powers.” She giggled strangely and added hastily, “Of course, there’s nothing wrong with me. I am only interested because I am curious. I don’t really need his help.”

  There was a clumsy silence. Natasha Filippovna coughed nervously. “Well,” she said after a moment, “If you’re certain you don’t need me, dear? I shall return to what I was doing before your outburst interrupted me. And do ring for the maid, Katia. That glass must be cleaned up before you cut yourself. You really should learn to be more careful.” Hurriedly, she left Katia’s room. She crossed the sitting room she and Katia shared, entered her own bedroom, and closed the door behind her. She was breathing heavily.

  Natasha Filippovna’s bedroom was—or so she claimed—the noisiest room in the palace. She pretended to be upset by this; but in actual fact, she was frequently thankful for all the confusing hubub that filled her solitary hours with welcome distraction. Now, for a little while at least, the noise of the busy courtyard below helped her to force Katia out of her mind. She stood before her open wardrobe, drumming her fingers on her hips, wondering what to wear that evening. She had a number of splendid gowns—gifts from Prince Oleg; but she was afraid of appearing flamboyant in the presence of religious people who were so often quick to criticize.

  Thoughts of Katia intruded. ‘I should not be leaving her,’ she nagged herself. ‘And I should have gotten to the bottom of what’s bothering her.’ Instead, she was choosing a gown to wear to dine at Madame Anjou’s apartments that evening. She chewed her lower lip and wondered which was better, the blue gabardine with the fox tails or the mulberry velvet. Both cinched her ample waist so tight it was hard to breathe sometimes. Finally, she chose neither. Instead, she went to the back of the wardrobe and found a somber woolen garment, blue-gray and fairly shapeless, which she laid out on the bed.

  ‘How dull!’ she thought staring at the clumsy country cut of the gown. ‘Just a few months ago, when I was back in Three Rivers, this looked like the height of style and sophistication to me.’ She laughed, slightly embarrassed to remember how naive she had been at first.

  Nikki had been an exile from St. Petersburg for eighteen years; and during all that time, she had never stopped dreaming of the day when she would return. The city had welcomed her back enthusiastically. She recalled the thrill of those first weeks wistfully. Day and night she had socialized with friends from her youth who were eager to impress her at countless dinners and teas and luncheons, card parties and seances, musicales and midnight suppers and tea dances on brightly festooned barges. Giddy in the whirl, she was rarely in the palace during those days except to change her clothes, to sleep a bit and look in on the sick Katia. Lately, she had begun to suffer from shortness of breath and a painful indigestion that forced her to limit and finally curtail the gay life she had enjoyed so thoroughly. The pain had been so bad a time or two, she had begun worrying about death.

  She was not a woman given to morbid thoughts. On the contrary, Natasha Filippovna had always been known for her happy disposition. In her youth she had been something of a scandal, though certainly never enough to bring shame or embarrassment to her royal mistress. She had been praised for her willing laugh and jolly conversation; and there had been gentlemen—a larger number than the newly religious Natasha Filippovna cared to recall—who awakened passion in her. There had been gifts then. Little golden trinkets from army officers and government officials with wives in summer homes in Finland. Gifts and admirers, gay conversation and passionate flirtations had been the stuff of her youth. She had no defenses now with which to protect herself from the dark visions that plagued her when she awakened alone and old in the middle of the night when the room was damp with river vapours and the breath of the night brushed across her cheek.

  She shuddered, recalling the most recent and painful such night. ‘I need my peace of mind back. Is there anything wrong with wanting that? Why should I feel guilty for acting in my own self-interest for a change? Don’t I have a right to feel good?’ It wasn’t her fault she felt so bad. She blamed concern for Katia, and the waiting for word that didn’t come. It was the bargain that was ruining her health with worry and making her old before her time.

  “I simply have to see the Little Father,” she declared aloud.

  After a while, she had convinced herself that another night alone would not be dangerous for Katia. Prince Oleg was too much involved with affairs of state to bother with a convent child no matter how pretty she was. He had stayed away from her for weeks now; perhaps he had forgotten her entirely.

  At any rate, she told herself he was much too involved just now to be thinking of Katia and that was all that counted. That very morning, she had heard his carriage leaving early—about the time the kitchen maid brought the milk and cream from the dairy across the cobbled courtyard. A man whose workday began before breakfast was no one for Natasha Filippovna to worry about.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Good morning, Prince Oleg. His Imperial Majesty will see you in a few moments.” The stiff-mannered imperial aide was uniformed in crimson velvet emblazoned with dots and twists and swirls of gold braid and buttons, and his high black leather boots were polished to mirror brightness. Oleg was irritated by the man’s arrogance and by all the prudish formality with which Nicholas habitually surrounded himself.

  ‘In Alexander’s time, the Czar would have come out to greet me himself,’ thought Oleg petulantly. ‘I can hardly be considered a stranger to these halls.’

  Though the prim sobriety of Nicholas and his family had dulled court life by making it less opulent than in previous reigns, the royal apartments in which Oleg attended the Czar’s pleasure appeared to have retained all their lavish appointments. The room where Oleg waited was long and narrow; and its walls were finer, floor to ceiling, with splendid examples of the golcer art and iconography of Russia. At the center of its array was a life-sized portrait of the great Czanra. Catherine, Nicholas’ grandmother.

  Oleg’s delicately fashioned table and chair of carved rosewood were set among others equally fine far from the inlaid doors of the Czar’s study. Behind Oleg, several tall French windows were opened to the broad warming rays of the morning sun. The room seemed to brim with radiance. The superabundance of light had given Oleg a headache. With thumb and forefinger, he ground the space between his eyes. Unconsciously, his patent leather boots tapped impatiently on the pink and green marble that tiled the reception room floor.

  Prince Oleg was feeling particularly out of sorts that morning. He had been in St. Petersburg for months now and almost every moment of that time had been spent binding the diplomatic wounds opened by Nicholas’ abrupt authoritarianism and lack of tact. Tb make matters worse, his affairs at home were strained and difficu
lt. His wife, Elizabeth, had been in an ominously quiet rage for weeks now. The princess was in a jealous fever over Katia’s continuing presence in the Romanov palace. She had even dared to accuse him of molesting Katia.

  He and his wife had met briefly at breakfast the morning before. Elizabeth had risen early that day to take advantage of the fine weather for a ride. She was an accomplished horsewoman; and, Oleg admitted ruefully, slightly intimidating in her austere maroon wool riding costume, a short leather riding crop tucked under her arm.

  Without acknowledging her husband’s presence in the room, she strode to the sideboard and lifted the lids of several silver chafing dishes: sliced ham, herring, coddled eggs, a steaming breakfast pudding savory with apples and raisins. Nothing pleased her and she slammed the lids down.

  Seeing his mistress’ displeasure, an obsequious young footman—new to the Romanov palace from the country—stepped forward. Oleg watched the scene, vaguely amused by the young man’s quite obvious fear of the Princess.

  “Does cook actually expect me to eat this swill?”

  What could the servant reply? He shifted his weight uncomfortably.

  “How many times must she be told that the smell of fish nauseates me in the morning?” Elizabeth drummed the butt of her crop against her gloved palm and almost snarled at the frightened servant. “Bring me dry toast and tea.”

  The footman was foolish enough to try to explain. ‘Beg pardon, Your Highness, Cook thought…”

  “I don’t care what Cook thought. She is a mindless pig and deserves to be cooking for barrack soldiers.” Elizabeth started to amplify on this suggestion, but stopped herself. The footman still stood before her, the perspiration beading on his brow and upper lip: “Must I serve myself, you cretinous boor? Toast and tea. Immediately!”

  Only after the servant had scurried away did Princess Elizabeth appear to notice her husband who was seated at the head of the highly polished walnut dining table, a plate of rich food before him, an amused smile on his pale lips.

 

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