Falling Stars

by Anita Mills

  The black-robed monk took a piece of kindling to light the candles. Making the Orthodox sign of the Cross over the shrine, he said a prayer, then turned to Bell and Kate and blessed them also.

  As soon as he was gone, Bell pulled one of the chairs closer to the fire. “Yuri may lose his toes,” he told her, “so I think we’d best look at yours.”

  “I am all right—if I ever get warm.” Nonetheless, she sat and let him remove the black wool shoes.

  Her feet were swollen more than before, and the skin was mottled, worrying him. He caught her hands and looked at them, seeing the same thing there. He hoped it was just from the cold. Trying to keep his voice light, he said, “They are bringing hot cider, so I expect you’ll warm up soon enough.”

  “I hope so. Bell—”

  “What?”

  “I was so frightened. I thought I should die out there—and—”

  “Don’t—it’s over.”

  “I prayed for you—I prayed for all of us—Yuri even.”

  “Then your prayers must have been answered. We couldn’t see anything, you know, and yet we stumbled straight into here.” He held the woolen booties toward the fire, warming them. “I think that as soon as you drink your cider, you ought to go to bed.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to see what they can do for Yuri.” His gray eyes met hers briefly. The man risked his life for fifty rubles.”

  “It is a fortune to him.”

  “Not if he cannot spend it.”

  He was still on the floor beside her, and as his head bent over her feet while he retied the wool shoes on her feet, his pale hair shone with reflected fire. She had to resist the temptation to smooth the disordered waves.

  “I was terribly wrong, Bell—you aren’t a shallow person at all.”

  He didn’t say anything until he stood up. Then he stared into the fire for a few moments. “No,” he said finally, “you were right.”

  “Bell—”

  “And I cannot say I am very proud of what I am.” He swung around to face her. “I could say the difference between us is that I was born with a pretty face, but it’s more than that.”

  “You wrong yourself.”

  “Kate, don’t let gratitude change your judgment. I am every inch the frippery fellow you have always thought me. I have smiled and charmed and used every ruse at my disposal to gain what I have wanted, I assure you.”

  “Not with me.”

  “No, but do not delude yourself. If I haven’t, it is only because you are not in my style.”

  “And I am Harry Winstead’s sister,” she reminded him.

  “And you are Harry’s sister,” he agreed. “But if I had any real compunction about anything, I wouldn’t have cuckolded Longford. Always remember that, Kate—always remember that.”

  “She was very beautiful.”

  “And I was drunk. But that doesn’t excuse anything. He was supposed to be my friend.”

  “No, I suppose it doesn’t, but everyone says he has forgiven you.”

  “He wanted to be rid of her.” He laughed harshly. “Rich, isn’t it? The pendulum swings, Kate—the pendulum swings. I took his wife, and now the woman I wanted to wed chose Longford.” His manner changed abruptly. “How maudlin we are today—nothing like a taste of mortality to do it, I suppose.”

  “I suppose.” She sighed. “But if I ever told anyone how kind you have been, none would believe it.”

  “Don’t, I pray you. You’d ruin my rep.” He bent to heft another log onto the fire, then poked it until it settled into place. Rising, he dusted his hands on his pantaloons. “Go to bed, Kate, before those feet get any bigger. Pretty soon you’ll be wearing my boots.”

  He was grateful there was no mirror. As she sat across from him at the table, he could see that the swelling had moved to her hands and face, making her appear considerably fatter than she was. And her skin was a mottled pink and gray. When he touched her hand, his print remained for some time.

  She pushed at her food, not eating any of it, despite the fact that it was quite good. He’d tried urging the dumplings on her. And the meat-stuffed cabbage. And the cheese-filled crepes. All to no avail. Despite the fact that she’d eaten little, she felt bloated, full.

  They ate alone in the guest house. He supposed it was due to some reluctance to have a woman at the monks’ table. He didn’t care—he would as soon forgo the religion, anyway. He had no more acquaintance with the Almighty than any other buck of the ton, and probably considerably less.

  “You aren’t feeling very well, are you?” he said finally.

  She was dizzy, nearly too sick to sit up, but she shook her head. “I’ll get better.”

  “You’re lying to me.”

  “All right—I am ill.”

  “What seems to be the matter? Other than the fact I can see you are all swelled up, I mean.”

  “How very kind you are to note it,” she muttered. “As though I cannot see for myself.” She let her head drop into her hands. “I don’t know, Bell—I don’t know. I cannot seem to think. My head pounds, and I am so dizzy I feel as though my mind is separated from my body. There—I have said it.”

  “I’ll get you a doctor, Kate.”

  “And what can he do?” she asked miserably. “He will merely say I am increasing.”

  But she didn’t tell him the worst of it. She was afraid for her babe. In the hours since they’d arrived, she’d only felt the child stir once. It was because he’d gotten cold, she told herself. It was because everything had gone wrong since Moscow. Tomorrow, she would feel it move again, and everything would be all right.

  “If you aren’t going to eat, you’d best get back to bed.” He pushed his own half-eaten food away and stood up. “I’ll find out the direction of the nearest physician.”

  “You cannot go out again in this snow!”

  “I’ll have to.”

  “No! Please, Bell—don’t leave me alone again. If anything should happen to you, I—” She started to say she’d perish, but then realized how that must sound. “—I’ll never see England again,” she finished lamely.

  “Maybe they’ll be kind enough to send someone.”

  “And maybe I don’t need a physician!”

  “And maybe you do!” He ran his fingers through his disordered hair. “I’m sorry, Kate—I shouldn’t rip up at you—not after all you’ve been through. But I have no experience with any of this. Look—I’ll feel better if it is determined you are all right.”

  “And what if Alexei finds me?” she cried out hysterically.

  “Kate, if we cannot get out, he cannot get in,” he answered reasonably. “Besides, I told you—he’ll not want to get out himself in this weather. And I can dashed well guarantee that no one is going to risk his life for another man’s wife.”

  “He came to Moscow!”

  “Which is far different from here. Leave off, Kate—right now I’d say Volsky is the least of our worries.”

  “Bell, I am afraid!”

  “Of what?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Damn!” He walked around in front of her and pulled her from her chair. “If you don’t take care of yourself, we are both in the basket! I’m putting you to bed!”

  “You are shouting!”

  “So are you!” He caught her arm and propelled her toward the bedstead. Still holding her, he reached to yank back the covers, then he pushed her onto the mattress. “If you get up before I get back, I’m abandoning you!” He twitched the heavy blankets up over her, then stood back. “You know, Kate Winstead, if you weren’t Harry’s sister, I wouldn’t be doing this, anyway.”

  She swallowed hard, trying not to be sick before him. “I know,” she whispered.

  The anger left him. Moving to the foot of the bed, he lifted the covers and removed the ugly wool shoes. “I’m sorry, Kate. For once in my life, I don’t know what to do.”

  “Neither do I. Bell, I am so sick—so very sick.�
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  “I know.”

  “I’m going to need the washbasin.”

  He brought it to her and waited, but she merely lay there, her eyes closed. Despite the cold, he could see the perspiration on her brow. He had to get help.

  “Don’t do anything foolish—please. Just lie there until you are better.”

  She swallowed visibly. “All right.”

  Throwing on his cloak, he went out into the bitter, biting wind, crossing the long, narrow courtyard to the chapter house. The monks were still eating—much plainer fare than he and Kate had been given. He walked to the head of the table to speak to the bearded man with the rings on his fingers.

  Speaking in French, he said, “My wife is very ill, and it is not near her time. Is there a physician who will come?”

  Someone down the table spoke up in Russian, then they all shook their heads. “I am afraid it is impossible,” the monk said. “The roads, they are impassable.” He regarded Bell sympathetically. “And we are unskilled in the problems of women.”

  “She is bloated to twice her size,” Bell argued desperately. “Her hands and feet—”

  The monk lifted his ringed hands, then dropped them. “We can pray, monsieur—it is all we can do.”

  But another monk rose and came to whisper in his ear. As he nodded, the man turned to Bell. “There are herbs for too much water in the body, monsieur. But if it is anything else, there is nothing we can do.”

  “We can pray,” his superior reminded him. “For Madame Chardonnay, we can pray.”

  “Pray!” Bell fairly spat the word back at him. “She doesn’t need prayers! She needs a doctor!” Turning on his heel, he strode from the chapter house angrily. Did no one understand? Unless he did something, he was going to take Harry Winstead his sister’s corpse—he knew it in his bones.

  When he went back to her, Kate was sitting on the edge of the bed, her head hung over the basin. The very little she’d eaten had come up. Cursing silently, he found a cloth and wiped her face.

  “You are all right, Kate—you are going to be all right.” But his voice rang hollow in his own ears. “Just lie down a bit.”

  “The doctor?”

  He didn’t know why he did it, but he lied. “He’s coming.

  “Good. The pain—”

  “What pain?” he asked sharply. “What pain, Kate?”

  “I don’t know—in my back—it hurts.”

  “In your back,” he repeated, relieved. “That’s good, isn’t it? I mean—”

  “I think so. It is probably from riding in the carriage so much.”

  “You are unused to traveling.”

  “Yes.” She lay back. “I’m just tired, Bell—so very tired.”

  “You are going to be all right.” He walked to the window and looked out into the dusk. “We shouldn’t have tried this, you know. We should have tried to hide in Moscow.”

  At least he hadn’t said he should have left her. But she did not see how she could go on—even if the snow ended, she didn’t see how she could go on.

  “Bell?”

  “What?” He swung around almost angrily.

  “You won’t leave me, will you?”

  “No. For what it’s worth coming from a scoundrel, I won’t leave you.” He walked back to the bed and sat on the edge. Taking her hand, he leaned over her. “If I knew how to help you, I would.” He felt her hand tighten in his. “It’s all right, Kate.”

  “No.” She sucked in her breath, then let it out slowly. “The pain is getting worse.”

  “Where?”

  “In my back.”

  He squeezed her fingers reassuringly, then released them. Finding a towel on the washstand rack, he carried it to the fireplace and held it close to the heat, the way his old nurse had done for his growing pains in what seemed an age ago. As it warmed, he folded it, keeping one side to the fire. Satisfied that it held the heat, he carried it back to her.

  “Here. Let me put this under your back.” He waited a few moments, then dared to ask, “Is it any better?”

  “Yes,” she lied. “When does the doctor come?”

  “It’ll be awhile.”

  He went back to a chair and pulled it to the warmth. Sitting, he stared morosely into the fire. He was discovering what he’d suspected for a long time—he was an utterly useless man. None of the things he’d pursued—the women, the games, the admiration of his fellows—none of that really mattered. He had no truly useful knowledge, only Latin and Greek, history and grammar, literature, and a smattering of politics. Very futile things when one was pitted against imponderables like weather—and mortality.

  Damn her! Why hadn’t she told him she was sick before they left Moscow? Why hadn’t he insisted she see the damned doctor there? The answer, he had to admit, was there had been no time. They’d set off pell-mell, at a time not determined by them but by some over-decorated colonel named Bashykin.

  He glanced around the darkening room, wishing he had something to drink. But here, as everywhere else, there was the ubiquitous vodka. Didn’t these fools know potatoes were to be eaten? Nonetheless, he heaved himself up and went to get the bottle that had been left with supper. Uncorking it, he carried it back to the fire and began to drink. By the time he was a quarter of the way through it, he wouldn’t mind it.

  Someone rapped on the door, and he rose reluctantly to answer it. One of the monks held a small flask in one hand, a lantern in the other. “Pour madame, “ he murmured, holding it out.

  “What is it?”

  The monk gestured to his hands and feet, then puffed out his cheeks. It was for the swelling. He spoke again, this time in rapid Russian, indicating it was to be mixed with something. When Bell couldn’t understand him, he left the flask and went back outside. Returning with his hands full of snow, he put it into one of the cups, then carried it to the fire. Before it melted, he poured some of the contents of the ornately painted flask into it. Then he pointed to where Katherine lay on the bed.

  “I’ll give it to her. Merci.”

  After the monk left, Bell stirred the slushy snow and medicine together, then tried to rouse Katherine.

  “Kate, you are to drink this.”

  She raised a hand to push the cup away. “Can’t.”

  “Come on.” He lifted her shoulders and held it to her mouth. “For God’s sake, drink it. It’s for the damned swelling.”

  She swallowed some, then pushed the rest back. “Ugh—what is it?”

  “I don’t know. One of the monks brought it.” He let her lie down. “Maybe you’ll feel better.”

  “I hope so,” she whispered. “I hope so.”

  It was dark and cold away from the fire. He set the cup down on the floor and reached to touch her forehead. It was cool and damp. Sighing, he removed his boots and lay down beside her. Pulling the covers up over them both, he turned to her.

  “I expect everything will look better tomorrow, Kate. At least you have not gotten an inflammation of the lungs from the weather,” he consoled her. “For that alone, we ought to be thankful.”

  “Bell, something’s wrong—something’s very wrong!”

  He came awake with a start, aware only that she clutched his shoulder convulsively. He tried to roll over and draw her into his arms, but she was frantic.

  “Bell, I cannot stand this!”

  “You are all right,” he mumbled, stumbling from the bed. “You must be dreaming.” As he tried to soothe her, he fumbled for the flint and managed to spark a candlewick. “Do you need something?”

  “The pains—” She sucked in her breath and held it, then exhaled with a moan.

  “What the devil—?” Still holding the candle, he threw back the covers with his other hand, and then he saw the dark, wet stain. “Oh, God,” he groaned.

  Her eyes were dilated, and she was panting. “Got to get up—going to ruin the bed—”

  “No—don’t move, Kate.” He looked wildly around the room, then saw the tablecloth on the small table
. He grabbed it, sending the evening’s dishes clattering to the floor. Wadding it, he thrust it under her. “Where does it hurt?” he asked foolishly.

  “My back—everywhere. My babe—”

  “It’s too early for the babe, Kate. It must be something you ate.” But she hadn’t eaten anything, and they both knew it.

  “The doctor—”

  “I’ll go now.”

  The pain must’ve been intense even before she awakened him. She’d bitten her lower lip until it bled. He felt utterly, totally helpless, and he knew something was very wrong. He flung himself across the room, pulled on his cloak, and raced to the door.

  “Please don’t leave me, Bell!”

  “I’ll be back in a trice,” he promised.

  The chapter house was dark, but he pounded on the door loudly, shouting until he was hoarse. Finally, he could hear the muffled shuffling of feet, then the ancient door swung inward. It was the brother who’d brought the medicine.

  “She’s got to have a doctor!” he shouted at the monk, as though the very volume could make him understand. “Her time has come!”

  “Le medicine—”

  “It didn’t help! I tell you she’s bleeding!”

  “Monsieur.” An older, austere brother appeared behind the other one.

  “Tell him to get a doctor for my wife! A physician!” He groped for the Russian word, then shouted, “ Vrach! She needs a vrach!”

  “Oui, monsieur, mais—”

  “I’m telling you there is something wrong! Vrach! Vrach! Can you not understand? She needs a vrach!”

  The older monk indicated the younger one. “Yvgeny—”

  “He damn well poisoned her!”

  He didn’t have the time to argue with them. Spying the table behind them, he pushed past them and took the cloth from it. “She’s bleeding,” he muttered as he left.

  When he returned, she was lying on her side, her knees pulled up, and her head hung over the edge of the bed. On the floor, he could see where she’d vomited again. “It’s the babe!” she gasped. “It wants to come!”