Rebecca Temple Mysteries 3-Book Bundle

by Warsh, Sylvia Maultash

  From then on we meet as frequently as is possible. At times we transfer our liaisons from the palace to Naryshkin’s house. In this routine, I undress for the night and my most trusted chambermaid lights a candle on the windowsill to signal that all is clear to Naryshkin, who waits outside.

  He is a boisterous clown and has devised his own signal.

  “Miaow!” I hear. A much louder cry than any cat could utter.

  At this I leap from my bed and pull on the breeches and jacket that have become second nature to me. Naryshkin hires a modest droshky that will not arouse interest to drive us back to his house. There my Polish love awaits me.

  Lovemaking alternates with serious discussion. Even after several months his eyes shine while I ramble on.

  “This is why Voltaire is the man of the century,” I say. “With but his pen he combats the enemies of mankind: ignorance, superstition, the tyranny of the church, the abuse of power…”

  “May I say, Your Highness,” he taps me under the chin, “for someone in your exalted position you have a surprisingly enlightened attitude. I hope you are able to maintain those opinions when you are Empress.” He leans back upon my pillows, one arm behind his head.

  “I intend to keep what I want,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him suggestively.

  “And is the list of things you want very long?” he says, pulling me down toward him with his free hand.

  “Not very long,” I say. “It starts and ends with you.” I kiss his sweet bow lips. A flutter in the pit of my stomach.

  “I perceive that’s a lie,” he says, “but a very tender one.” He pushes a strand of hair from my cheek. “What else will you want? When you are Empress.”

  I examine his heart-shaped face to see if he truly wants to hear. The curiosity in his delectable eyes convinces me. I lean against his chest, at ease.

  “My premier concern — that Russia be not left behind. The tolerance and reason that are sweeping through Europe must visit here. Russia is a great empire, but it must change.”

  “Do you imply,” he says impishly, “that Russia suffers from a lack of reason and tolerance?”

  “I do not imply. I shout! But who would bother to listen? Reason and tolerance are commodities the court has little use for. Power and greed are the only coin of the realm.”

  “Strong words for an Empress in waiting. Perhaps things will change when the crown comes to rest at last upon your head.”

  I turn and find his eyes to see if he jests. He is all seriousness.

  “I will never succumb to power and greed,” I say.

  He smiles. “I believe you, but I am curious about specifics, Your Highness,” he says. “How will you visit reason and tolerance on this barbarous land?”

  I pull myself up on an elbow so that I can see his face. He cocks his head, waiting for me to expound. I see the admiration in his eyes. I revel in it. With him at my side I could achieve almost anything.

  “For one, we must establish just laws and enforce them humanely. There must be no arbitrary rule, but legal procedures must govern the exercise of power.”

  “Hear, hear!” he says, clapping his hand against my arm.

  I am encouraged to continue. “We must build schools and educate everyone, to teach them to reason and think judiciously.”

  “Bravo!” he says. “You are a marvel.” He pulls me down to him again. “You are a goddess. Give me leave to worship you.” His tone is ironic, but his eyes!

  “I do not require worship. No one has ever worshipped me.”

  “I can hardly credit that. But if that be true, then I shall be the first. Tho’ you may not require it, you deserve it.”

  “Worship is all very well,” I say, “but it seems a cold thing, directed at statues and altars. What of love?”

  His eyes soften and threaten to run over. “What of love? I shall tell you.” He pulls me to him with resolve. “You have made me forget that Siberia exists. I have never loved as I love you now. I will love you till I die.”

  His lips melt mine, and in a sweet delirium, I lose myself in his arms.

  Later, when I sleep, I dream of coopers and barrels, two souls who once were one, now drifting ever further apart in some dark ether, and the face of a rabbi with tears standing in his eyes.

  In March the air softens. The streets are still piled with snow, but the sun stays longer in the sky and glistens with more brilliancy on the river ice. My ladies have remarked on the new colour in my complexion. Only a trusted few know of my liaison. My Polish lover and I have been so discreet in our trysts that neither the Empress nor Chancellor Bestuzhev has any inkling. Besides, they are both singularly occupied with foreign matters.

  Presently the Empress rages about the treaty. She is out of humour that England has signed with Prussia. Perhaps we should not be surprised, since Frederick is King George’s nephew and King George’s chief concern has always been his city, Hanover. Poor Sir Charles is the object of the Empress’s pique since it was he who prevailed upon her to sign the subsidy treaty in which Russian troops would protect Hanover against Frederick. And now Hanover kisses hands with Frederick!

  I heard the Empress tell one of the courtiers, “Hanbury-Williams has grown to be a Prussian and meddles too much with Prussian affairs.”

  She hates Frederick, who delights in spreading outrageously obscene jokes about her and her lovers throughout Europe and who in his correspondence repeatedly calls her a slut. I have owed much to him in the past, but his actions were not unselfish, even when I was fourteen, and I feel no compunction to defend him.

  After everything, the Empress complains openly of being deceived by King George. My Polish love is also lately frowned upon by dint of his connection to Sir Charles. The Count is thought to be an English agent working against the Russian interest. No wonder there is great confusion in the court — what the English call a muddle. The French faction is encouraged and becomes bold. Great Chancellor Bestuzhev, with his English sympathies, is slipping from grace. With Austria drifting closer to France, and the alliance cemented between England and Prussia, war between France and England is inevitable. Russia must choose sides, and it appears certain that the Empress will come down on the French side. The earth is moving beneath our feet and none of us knows where we will end up.

  In July, my life is turned upside down. My Polish love sits on the edge of my bed, his face long. I sense trouble and remain standing.

  “My parents have asked me to go home in time for the Diet,” he says. “There’s a position I will stand for in Livonia.”

  Have I been waiting for this all along? For the axe to fall? I must survive this, tho’ my happiness absolutely depends on him. My stomach lurches; my head throbs with pain.

  “You must give me leave, or I will not go.”

  I tremble at the prospect of the empty space that will fill my heart when he leaves, but I will not add to his sadness. I know he is not in a position to refuse. “Of course you must go if your parents bid it.”

  “Everything is so difficult here now,” he says. “You see how Sir Charles is treated. It will be worse when war breaks out in earnest.”

  “It pains me greatly,” I say. “We both love him, to be sure.”

  “And I am his protégé. Therefore I am seen as an English spy by the court. Under these circumstances, it is better for you, also, if I leave Petersburg. Your position will be harmed if you are connected to me. We will be found out sooner or later.”

  I turn my face from him. “The Empress begins to hear rumours,” I say, a numbness creeping around my heart.

  “It was inevitable,” he says, rising from his seat on the bed.

  I stand transfixed, unable to hide my distress. He takes me in his arms tentatively, strokes my hair, trying to console me.

  “You’ll see, my little Royal Highness, I will be back in a trice. I will come back tho’ hell stands in my way.”

  chapter twenty-two

  In the middle of Wednesday afternoon, Iris knocked on
the examining room door where Rebecca was looking down a little girl’s throat.

  “Sarah’s on the phone,” Iris said through the door, surprise lifting her voice. “She’s at the hospital.”

  Rebecca excused herself to the young patient and her mother and stepped into her private office. Her mother-in-law never called her at the office.

  “Sarah? Are you all right?”

  “It’s Natalka. I’m sorry, I’m a little upset. She’s all right now but… the doctor sent her down to get her blood taken…”

  “Dr. Koboy?” She had almost forgotten Natalka’s appointment with the hematologist.

  “But then it wouldn’t stop bleeding. So he said she should stay overnight.”

  “Did they stop the bleeding?”

  “Yes. She’s fine now. Just nervous. She said this happened before. She said sometimes she had nosebleeds that wouldn’t stop. It’s very nerve-wracking.”

  Sarah had been through enough with David. She didn’t need to get emotionally involved with another family’s illness. Especially one with a rotten prognosis. Bleeding was one of the symptoms of leukemia. On the other hand, it was also a symptom of a legion of other disorders.

  “Let’s wait till we hear from the hematologist,” Rebecca said.

  “I’ve got to go home,” Sarah said. “I’ve got a student coming for a lesson after school. I just wanted to let you know she’s here.”

  “You haven’t heard from Halina?”

  “No.”

  After she hung up, Rebecca wondered, where was Halina? She had left Sarah holding the bag with Natalka. Didn’t she care about her daughter? She had certainly given the impression of caring. But what did Rebecca really know about her? Maybe she was just a good actress. Rebecca wondered if she could be that wrong about someone. She prided herself on her ability to assess people, but maybe the cultural divide changed all the rules. Maybe she ought to stick to assessing the people who walked into her office and whose bodies she could probe with her instruments. For all she knew, John Baron was right and Halina had killed Michael.

  Rebecca finished out the afternoon in the office. It was after six when her last patient left. She slunk past Iris to avoid any long explanations, then marched down the stairs and out the front entrance of her building, her olive-coloured suit jacket over her arm. The hospital was a ten-minute walk away. She crossed Beverley Street, heading east on D’Arcy, glad for the chance to get out.

  It was still light, but the energy of the day waned with the sun. A stillness hung in the air, a harbinger of fatigue. She resisted it.

  In five minutes she had crossed McCaul and walked up to Elm Street. Her chest went tight as she marched past the hospital residence on Elm where she had lived with David while interning at Mount Sinai hospital. One of the happiest years she could remember. Small two-room apartment, galley kitchen. Nowhere for the TV but in front of the bed. David in the bed when she had a few hours off. Who could have known they would have so little time.

  She came up to Murray Street, the back entrance of the hospital, still lost in David’s arms. Her energy was flagging. She’d had a small sandwich for lunch hours ago, and though she didn’t really feel hungry, she recognized that empty space in her stomach that pulled the strings to the rest of her.

  She settled for a half-pint carton of chocolate milk from the coffee shop on the first floor of the hospital. She hated milk and could only face it when it came gooey-sweet and brown. Standing near the glass wall of the shop, she sucked up energy through the straw, watching the crowds rush up and down the corridor. After tossing the carton into a trash can, she headed toward the elevators.

  Her mind had gone pleasantly blank watching the light above the elevator descend from floor to floor, signalling its approach. Two elevators arrived at the same time, and she was about to step into one, surrounded by the other passengers, when someone getting off the next elevator caught her eye. Out of context she almost didn’t recognize her. A blonde profile walking briskly toward the front door of the hospital in low pumps and a grey suit. It was Halina.

  Instantly Rebecca swivelled her body amid the throng of people moving into the elevator. “Excuse me!” she said.

  The momentum of the crowd pulled her along like a river. “Pardon me!” she said, pushing her way backwards, raising some scowls on people behind her trying to get on the elevator.

  She escaped and rushed out the front door. People filled the wide sidewalks on their way home from work. She narrowed her eyes, looking north, then south, watching for the white-blonde hair, the grey jacket. She stared at a line of people waiting for the light at Elm Street. When the light changed, a grey suit stepped forward, separating from the crowd. It was her. She was heading south along University Avenue. Somehow she must have found out about Natalka and was now returning to her lair.

  Rebecca was too far away to call out. And if she saw Rebecca she might bolt. The woman may have been over sixty but she was in good shape.

  Rebecca followed her down University to Dundas. Halina showed no signs of slowing down. She kept walking until Queen Street loomed up ahead. At Queen, Halina turned right. Rebecca followed at a discreet distance. People were milling about after work, meeting friends on street corners, smoking in front of restaurants.

  They passed Beverley Street, still continuing west. When Halina was partway across Spadina Avenue, the light changed and stranded Rebecca on the wrong side of the street. She tapped her toes on the curb at the edge of the noisy traffic while her quarry marched obliviously into the distance.

  Cars, trucks, trolleys streamed in front of her. She squinted through the gasoline vapours, trying to keep the grey suit in her sights. Finally the red light turned green. She bounded across the street, avoiding the streetcar tracks. She was shooting toward the sidewalk when a car inching into a right turn on the red nearly collided with her. She glared at the startled woman driving, then resumed the chase.

  Except when she looked up, her quarry was gone. She rushed past shop after shop selling fabric; schmata stores, her mother called them. Had Halina gone into one of them? Rebecca glanced through each window as she flew past. Nothing. She must have turned a corner. When Rebecca reached Augusta Avenue, she turned right. Still nothing. No, not nothing.

  A few buildings up from Queen, behind a tall wrought iron fence, stood an imposing mansion that looked out of place on this street of small, semidetached houses. A pale gingerbread trimmed the rich brown brick that erupted into many gables; contrasting cream-coloured bricks edged the corners of each wall. A grand tower soared from the centre toward the dusky sky. One of the front windows had been replaced by stained glass, a spare modern design with a large cross at its centre. But what gave Rebecca hope was the shrine in the backyard: a painted plaster Madonna in a blue robe, her arms spread beneficently. Perhaps Halina had found some kind of retreat. Rebecca opened the gate and stepped toward the heavy wooden door.

  Her hand reached for the doorbell. In that moment she thought, What am I doing here? Did she really believe that John Baron was accusing Halina for any other reason than to get Rebecca off his scent?

  The door opened. Rebecca was at a loss for words at the sight of the diminutive elderly woman who stood before her. She was dressed in a nun’s habit, a starched white headband fronting a black wimple that covered her hair. A large gold cross hung around her neck over the floor length black dress. She smiled shyly, her head on a slight inquisitive tilt.

  “I’m looking for Halina,” Rebecca stammered. She realized she didn’t remember Halina’s last name.

  “Who are you?” the woman said in accented English. Her plump face shone white against the backdrop of black. Pale downy hair grew on her upper lip.

  “I’m her daughter’s doctor.”

  “Something wrong? She sick?”

  “She’s in the hospital.” Rebecca neglected to mention Halina already knew that.

  The woman nodded with concern and turned aside to let Rebecca in. “Please wait.”

/>   The nun began to climb the oak staircase as if each step was an effort.

  A lamp had been turned on in the fading light of the hall. The walls were half panelled in dark oak, the upper half of the room filled with pictures of Jesus and Pope John Paul II. The scenes of the crucifixion made Rebecca uneasy. All those nails in the hands. The depiction of torture and death seemed an odd image for people to worship. Was that really what God wanted? For people to suffer?

  On a small table she found brochures about the Felician Sisters, a group started in Poland by Sister Mary Angela in 1855. A convent. It seemed a strange place for a Communist to hide. Natalka had said her mother was not a good Party member.

  After a few minutes, the nun stepped slowly down the stairs, followed by Halina. The nun continued walking and disappeared into a room off to the side.

  Still in a grey skirt and white blouse, Halina watched Rebecca nervously, her hands clasped tightly in front.

  “Everyone’s been worried about you,” Rebecca said.

  She looked with hard eyes at Rebecca. “Did Janek send you?”

  “Of course not. Why would you think…?”

  “How did you know I am here?”

  “I followed you from the hospital. I was just on my way up to see Natalka.”

  She looked behind Rebecca at the door. “How you know Janek did not follow you here?”

  “Why should he?”

  She stared dumbfounded at Rebecca. “Because he kill Michael and now he want to kill me.”

  Was that the real reason she had fled? Or was the show of fear just good acting. “Baron says it was you who killed Michael.”

  Halina blinked several times, but her face did not betray her thoughts. She played the game well. “Of course he say this. You believe him?”

  “I know you called Michael the night before he died.”

  “So?”

  “You said you were coming over.”

  Halina looked momentarily confused. “No.”

  “You didn’t go to Michael’s house that night?”