by Anita Mills
Three more elderly tin bowls joined the others on the table, and the man gestured to Kate to remove her cloak. She was still in her nightgown, so she demurred. But Bell moved to put his hands on her shoulders.
“I doubt they will know the difference, and you are covered,” he whispered. “Besides, I collect they have offered us shelter for the night.”
“Here?”
“There isn’t an inn—it’s just a sort of peasant village, I think, and most houses are like this or worse. I collect they belong to a Prince Bolskoi or something. Go ahead—take off your wrap,” he urged. “I’m going back for what the driver didn’t drink of the vodka. It’s the least we can offer, and I don’t think they have much use for money.”
“No, of course not.”
“Madame.” The man gestured to a bench, shooing his children down to the other end of the table.
His wife reached for Katherine’s cloak, and everyone stared at her high-necked, finely woven rail. The woman’s rough hands smoothed the delicate satin and lace trim, then touched the tiny satin-covered buttons one by one. It was as though she did not know it was a nightgown.
“Za-myichah-tyilnee,” she murmured, making Katherine almost ashamed to be wearing it.
“Yes, it is lovely—spaseebuh.”
Then the woman looked down to where Katherine’s slippers did not entirely cover her feet, and she shook her head. “Plakhoy.”
It was bad. Katherine nodded.
Their driver ate with his feet still in the cold water, while Bell sampled the boiled beets, onions, and potatoes, all of which were dark red from being cooked together. “Go on—it isn’t half-bad,” he urged Katherine. “I think there’s some kind of fat in it.”
“I cannot.” When the woman filled a bowl and pushed it her way, she pushed it back apologetically, then touched her stomach. “Minya tasheet, “ Kate explained.
“Da. “ Rising, she came to stand in front of Katherine. Without warning, she pinched her guest’s cheeks, then stood back, shaking her head. “Plakhoy, “ she repeated. Moving away, she went to a small cupboard and took out a cracked cup, then she reached into a straw-covered cold hole and dragged out a crock of milk. Pouring a little into the cup, she brought it back to Katherine.
With so many children, the milk was precious, but it was a gift that Katherine could not refuse. She managed to drink it down as the woman nodded her approval. After that, a loaf of hard, dark bread was produced, and a chunk given to Katherine first. There was no butter or cheese to go with the heavy, grainy bread, but somehow she ate it.
Once everyone had eaten, a girl removed the dishes into a wash pan while one of her brothers brought in snow to be melted over the fire. The man offered Bell the only real chair in the place, then sat cross-legged on the floor before the fire. With great ceremony, the three men in the room shared the small amount of vodka, making toasts over little more than thimbles of it.
One by one, the children disappeared into a dark corner of the room, where they shed their clothes and rolled into straw-filled sack pallets. Some sort of argument developed, and the man barked out a ruling. One of the pallets emptied as four children scrambled to huddle together.
The woman busied herself shaking out the covers on the bed, then beckoned Katherine over to inspect it. Bell rose and walked to stand behind her. “I think she’s telling you there is no vermin.”
“I cannot sleep in their bed,” she protested.
“I collect they don’t have many guests,” he responded. “Let them enjoy it.”
“Bell, I cannot.”
But the woman had already gestured for Katherine to sit on the side of it, and Katherine understood it when she asked, “You like?” in Russian.
“It’s very nice—Kharooshee,” she murmured appreciatively.
Touching Katherine’s stomach, the woman insisted, using the words for “for you” over and over again. She looked at Bell, smiling broadly, and he nodded. Satisfied, she turned her attention to the pallets.
“I’m afraid we’ve got the bed, Kate.”
“I cannot sleep with you.”
“I told you—I don’t snore. Besides, we’ll be warmer.” His fingers touched the rounded collar of her nightgown. “And you cannot say you are not sufficiently covered. It must have been dashed cold at Domnya.”
She pulled away. “It was.”
“Go on to bed,” he advised. “I’m going to drink with Yuri and Vanya until it’s gone. You won’t even know when I come to bed,” he promised. “And I won’t touch you.” When she just stood there, he sighed. “Look—pretend I am Claire, and I will pretend you are Harry.”
She could feel the blood rise in her face, but there was no help for it. As he turned back to the others, she hastily climbed into the bed. The sheets were like ice, making her shiver, but she doubted they had such a thing as a warming pan. The wind outside whipped at the oiled paper over the windows, making a racket, reminding her that she was at least sheltered for the night. But she felt guilty over the thin featherbed. She ought to have insisted on one of the pallets.
As she snuggled deeper, seeking to make a warm place, the woman came to stand over her, smiling down at her. Very carefully, almost tenderly, she placed Kate’s fur-lined cloak over the covers before saying good night.
Ever so slowly, the cold receded in the small place Katherine made in the featherbed. Drawing her knees up against her distended belly, she cradled her pillow and tried to sleep. She was so tired that every bone ached, but it didn’t matter. She was going home.
When she awoke during the night, the room was in darkness, save for the fire at the other end. It was so cold that her nose hurt above the covers, but the rest of her body was warm. She tried to move, to adjust her cramped position, but found she could not. Bell Townsend’s arm was wrapped around her, and his leg lay over hers. She lay there, listening to his even breathing, wondering when he’d come to bed.
She ought to be scandalized, and she knew it. But his body warmed her, and he was asleep, so he did not even know what he did. Lying there, she felt an intense gratitude to him. For all his protests, he’d come to her aid, and now he was risking a great deal, possibly even his life for her. For if Alexei caught them—or Olga—she dared not think of the consequences.
Finally, unable to stand the cramp in her leg any longer, she shook him. “I’ve got to turn over,” she whispered. “Please.”
“Unnnnhhhhhh.”
He didn’t move. This time, she pinched his arm. “Please—I’ve got to turn over. My leg pains me.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled, turning away. “Forgot.”
He didn’t make any sense, but she didn’t care. Almost as soon as he moved, she could feel the cold. Sitting up gingerly, she massaged her leg, trying to work the cramp from the calf. Wriggling her toes, she finally managed it, and she lay back down, pulling up the covers, staring at the blackened ceiling.
Beside her, Bell breathed softly. Her thoughts turned to all the women he’d been with, and she wondered if any of them had meant anything to him. He’d said he’d offered himself and his name to someone, who’d taken another. Somehow it did not seem possible. For as much as she herself had avoided him, she knew that he was considered the premier catch by nearly every female of her acquaintance. She was beginning to wonder if her reasons for disliking him had had as much to do with guarding her own heart as with his reputation.
And yet as she lay there listening to him, he no longer seemed forbidding; he no longer seemed dangerous even. It was perhaps that she was no longer green, that she no longer had a girl’s romantic illusions about any man. All of that had died at Domnya.
She let her mind wander to Alexei, remembering how much she’d loved him, how wonderful she’d thought him, how fortunate she’d believed herself when he’d offered for her. And it had all been a sham. A very real ache tightened her chest, and she wanted to cry. She felt utterly, completely alone, utterly, completely betrayed. Hot tears burned her eyes. He hadn’t wa
nted her, he hadn’t loved her—and neither had Galena.
She was so cold, so cold she felt empty inside. She didn’t want to think of Lexy anymore, she didn’t want to think of Galena. She just wanted to go home. But first she had to survive. And it was numbing cold in the room.
Unable to stand it, she finally rolled over against the warmth of Bell Townsend’s back and pulled the covers over her head. If he said anything about it, she would pretend she’d been asleep.
He awoke sometime before dawn, but no one was about yet. The floor around the bed was a tangle of pallets, and somewhere either Yuri or Vanya snored. When he lifted the covers, he could see his breath. Laying down again, he felt an odd movement against his back, but Katherine hadn’t stirred. Then he felt it again. Something like a bubble or a small ripple. She was lying against him, her stomach pressed into his back, and he realized suddenly that what he felt was her babe.
An odd longing washed over him. He was nearly thirty, and he’d sown far more than his share of wild oats, yet he did not know if any of them had resulted in a child or not. And until now he hadn’t cared. Very gingerly, he turned onto his back and reached to touch her abdomen. For a moment, there was nothing, then he felt it move again. Alexei Volsky’s child, gotten by a cruel hoax. Once it came into the world, she would be forever reminded of how deceived she’d been.
He removed his hand guiltily, thinking how very hypocritical he was. In his own way, he’d been no better than Volsky. No, that was not quite true—he’d never promised to love anyone. Except Elinor Kingsley.
Ahead of them, the horses plodded on the snow-packed road. Inside the coach, Katherine rested her feet on a rock heated from Vanya’s fireplace. She wore loose, black wool shoes, having traded her kid slippers to his wife for them. And beside her, on the seat, a dingy cloth held the rest of the loaf of dark bread.
“You know,” she said finally, “over here the boyars do not even believe Vanya or his family are people. They are merely property.” She looked at Townsend. “They shared the best they had with us.”
“I know. I gave the woman a few small coins to buy food. More than that would have raised suspicion.”
“Do you think she believed we were French?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t show the papers, because I didn’t think they could read.”
“No, of course not.”
“She seemed rather disturbed by your feet. I think she wanted you to do something about them.”
“No. I am all right.” But even as she said it, she looked at her hands. Her wedding ring was nearly cutting her finger. Covering it, she tried to work it off, but couldn’t. “I am all right,” she repeated.
“I don’t know.” He studied her face for a moment and frowned. “You look as though you have put on weight overnight.”
“It is the child. None of us look very well when we are increasing, I expect.”
“Well, when we reach Kharkov, I think we ought to find a doctor before we go on.”
A wave of dizziness hit her, followed by nausea. She gripped the rope that hung over the door and held on until it passed. She felt cold, damp, and utterly sick. “All right,” she managed, swallowing. “At Kharkov.”
“Kate, you look like death. Here—” He caught her as she leaned forward. “You’d better lie down.”
She didn’t protest when he pushed her back against the seat and lifted her legs. Instead, she drew them up against her and lay with her eyes closed. He leaned to pull her cloak more closely about her.
“I don’t think I was meant to do this,” she whispered.
“What are you feeling?” he asked anxiously. “Does anything hurt?”
“No. Dizzy—that’s all.”
“God, Kate—you gave me a fright.”
“I’ll be all right.”
She looked little, fragile under the cloak, and the fur was dark against her pale face. He reached to clasp her hand where it held the cloak above her breast. “It’s not all that far to Kharkov,” he tried to reassure her. But he knew differently—it would be days before they got there. “Maybe there’s something on the way. Surely we’ll pass something.”
“Tula.”
“What?”
“We can stop at Tula.”
“All right.” He released her hand and sat back, but as his head passed the window, he didn’t like what he saw. “Damn.”
“What?”
“It’s started snowing again. And Yuri’s already turning to ice. He won’t want to go on in this.”
“He’s got to—we’ve got to escape,” she said miserably. “We’ve got to.”
“We will.” He looked out the window again and muttered, “I expect the weather is better at the poles, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Feeling more the thing yet?”
“No—but I daresay I will.”
He didn’t have much hope of it. She didn’t look well at all. He stared bleakly at the falling snow, seeing not the beauty of it, but rather the hardship it brought. And he wondered how far it was to Tula.
The carriage wheels would not turn, despite the fact that the horses strained in their harnesses. The man Yuri plodded back to the coach itself and opened the door. The biting wind had burned his face raw, and his blue eyes had nearly disappeared behind the ice that hung from his eyebrows.
“No go—we die,” he said.
Bell got out and tried to help him, but nothing moved. Finally, he came back. “We’re going to take the horses and try to ride for help, Kate. Keep inside, and for God’s sake, keep bundled up.”
“Bell—”
“There’s no help for it, Kate. And there’s no time to argue. It’s freezing out here.”
“Please be careful.”
He forced a smile. “I do what I can.”
She pulled her cloak tight over her arms and watched them until they disappeared in the snow. Everyone was wrong, she decided wearily—hell wasn’t hot—it was Russia. And Bell Townsend was going to freeze to death because of her. Then she would die there. No one would even know what happened to them.
As forsaken as she felt, she tried to pray. Please, God, deliver us. Please let them find help … please. Poor Bell—he’d not asked for this, and she was sadly regretting that she’d begged him to do it. Please, God, watch over him, for he has done this for me. It was as though she spoke to no one.
She drew her legs up onto the seat and lay on her side, trying to shelter the life within her. She did not mind dying so much, she reflected unhappily, but she did not want to take her child or Bell Townsend with her. No, that wasn’t even true—she didn’t want to die either. She wanted to live to hold her son or daughter in her arms. She wanted to live to see her child grow. She’d left Domnya for him, and she’d fled Omborosloe for him, and now possibly it had all been for naught.
She didn’t know how long she lay there, only that she was cold. And so very, very tired. She closed her eyes and tried to think of other things—of summers long ago at Monk’s End, of Papa swinging her in the air, of Harry slipping on the rocks and falling into the stream, of the profusion of roses and honeysuckle in the garden, of playing Find Me in the maze …
“Madame! Madame!”
At first, she thought she had dreamed it, but then someone was pounding on the door. She sat up and straightened cramped legs. The window was frosted over, but she could see the distorted image of a bearded man. And she heard the crack of ice breaking as he pried open the door.
“Madame Chardonnay?”
Help had come. Her throat was too tight for speech. All she could do was nod.
He turned to say something to others behind him, then thrust himself through the door. His arms slid under her, and he lifted her as he backed out. Other arms caught her, passing her down a line, until she was laid among the furs on a heavy, horse-drawn sled.
The driver spoke to her, telling her she was going to be all right, adding that Monsieur Chardonnay was also. But the other fellow was not so fort
unate—or at least that’s what she thought he said. Something about his feet.
The snow fell so hard that she could see almost nothing, and the man’s black coat disappeared in a thick layer of white. But ahead of them, the bells on the horses jingled, keeping time to the plodding steps. Behind them, riders disappeared, obscured by a vertical blanket of snow.
She felt an intense gratitude to God, to Bell, to everyone. She was going to live and so was her child. She was still going to have someone to love, someone to hold, after all.
Seemingly out of nowhere, tall spires of a chapel rose, and stretching behind them was a charter house. Bells pealed, cutting through the air, and the smell of bread was everywhere. The sled moved the length of the long building, then stopped at the end, where bearded, black-robed men waited. They were perhaps the most welcome sight of her life.
“You are all right, Kate?” Bell Townsend whispered as he reached for her.
She nodded.
“Ah, Elise, we are saved by monks!” he said more loudly in French. “So fortunate, do you not think?” He put his arm around her, steadying her. “Can you walk?” he asked low.
“Yes.”
“There are some younger sons of the nobility here who speak French,” he cautioned her.
They were shown to the guest house: a small, square room, adequately furnished, but austere. The monk who led the way announced proudly that it had once been occupied by Peter the Great during a crisis of faith. Walking to the bed, he gestured with his hands to show how far the tall monarch’s feet had extended from the end of it.
Already a goodly fire blazed in the hearth, and heavy tapestries covered the windows to shut out the cold. Beside the fireplace, there was a small shrine made of a simple table, a clean linen cloth, an icon of Christ, and two candles. As Katherine’s gaze moved around the room, she saw the single bedstead, a table, several wooden chairs, and a handwoven rug between the bed and the fire.