by Carola Dunn
It would be best to leave by ship, for the nearest border was hundreds of miles away. Yet shipping was already sparse at this season, the traders afraid of being trapped in the Baltic ice. The chance of finding one who was willing to aid the escape of the fugitives seemed meagre. John wondered if it would be possible to hide in his dacha all winter.
Kolya was waiting to hear how the interview with Lord Cathcart had gone. He shook his head.
“As I expected, he can do little. But do not despair, his idea is excellent. Only, I think, will not be order for release, which is more likely to be questioned. We will have papers saying Rebecca Ivanovna is to be transferred to different prison, so will be no questions when she does not return. Perhaps we shall hint also that Tsar is interested in bold Englishwoman who is spy. That will explain my presence. You shall be soldier of my Preobrazhenski regiment. We are Foot Guards, so you will not need moustache. You will drive brichka to carry away prisoner. Ah, is grand plan. I see it all.”
“Do you think it will be safe to spend the winter at the dacha?”
“No, absolutely no. Count Kirsanin urgently wants to buy back dacha. His mother is very angry. Is no problem. If we bring Rebecca Ivanovna safe from fortress, I have ship waiting.”
“How can you do that?”
“Is Finnish ship now loading cargo at quay just down Neva from fortress, will take you to Helsinki. Is best I can do. Finland is part of Russian empire, but Finns hate Russian government. They will help you. Besides, Captain Jotuni owes me favour.”
“A Finnish sea-captain owes you a favour!”
“I am obliging fellow, John. Are many, many people owe me favours like Captain Jotuni, who is smuggler of sables. Is lucky for us, nyet?”
“I am not about to argue with that. I just hope the right people in the right ministries are among those indebted to you.”
“Those who are not,” said Kolya with a gesture that seemed to include half the officialdom of the Russian Empire, “are eager to do favour for son of my father, or at worst can be bought. Is fortunate you are rich man. I go now, is much to be done. You must stay hidden here. Best not to risk going out without need.”
“I wish there was something I could do!”
* * * *
Nothing in John’s life had ever been so difficult as the period of waiting that ensued. He was alone much of the time, since Dunyasha was rehearsing for a new ballet and Kolya could only spare the time for brief reports of his progress. He found it hard to eat, until Dunyasha scolded him, telling him he must be strong to rescue his sweetheart. She had thrown herself heart and soul into the plot. International politics meant nothing to her, but she knew a romantic drama of thwarted love when she saw one.
Kolya’s motives seemed to be a combination of deep, sincere friendship and love of excitement. He approached the task of collecting the necessary documents with a gusto that John had to admire. He brushed aside with a laugh a question as to what the consequences would be when his part in the rescue became known, as it inevitably must.
“Is not important. One must take risk for fair lady in distress, nyet?”
On the third day, Kolya reported that he had all the necessary documents save one. That one would have to be forged but he had found a man to do it, at a price. For a thousand roubles, it could be done in two days. For two thousand, by tomorrow afternoon.
John handed over two thousand roubles, enough to purchase twenty serfs. If providing funds was the only thing he could do to hasten Rebecca’s release, by an hour or by a minute, he would gladly give up every penny he owned in the world.
“Then tomorrow is the day?” he asked eagerly.
“Tomorrow evening,” Kolya confirmed. “Tonight, Mr. Crane fetches servants and child and takes them to ship. I consent to Count Kirsanin’s pleas and sell dacha for gold. Tomorrow you are ready to go at six, dressed up in pretty green and red uniform.”
“Six? It’s dark long before that these days!”
“We wait till Captain of Guard has drunk some vodka to console self for night duty. I have arranged for suitable officer to be at post this week.”
“You are amazing, Kolya. If you ever visit England again...”
“I come to stay with Lord and Lady John Danville. Is understood. Now let us look again at map of fortress.”
Once more they went over the details of their plan. John had rehearsed the stride, the salute, the correct stance for “attention” and “at ease,” until he felt sure he could pass as a trooper in his sleep. Fortunately it was most unlikely that a common soldier would be called upon to speak in the presence of an officer. Dunyasha promised to polish his buttons and boots till they shone.
They all avoided mentioning the possibility that something could go wrong.
* * * *
The next evening John was ready well before Kolya sauntered in, promptly at six.
“Let’s go!”
“Patience, my friend.” Kolya went to Dunyasha’s cupboard, took out a bottle of cognac and filled two glasses. “Spot of—Dutch courage, you say?—will not hurt. Drink.”
John was dubious. “I don’t need it. Besides, I’ve not touched a drop of spirits since your infamous celebration.”
“Drink. I must tell you something you will not like to hear.”
“Something has gone wrong!” He shivered, cold with dread.
“No, no, nothing is wrong. Is warning that I did not want to give before.”
Puzzled, John took the glass and gulped the brandy. It left him warmed but clear-headed. “Tell me.”
“Dungeons are most unpleasant. Is possible Rebecca Ivanovna will not be able to walk.”
John fought down the fury that threatened to overcome his common sense. To play his part, he needed to be calm. “It will be my delight to carry her,” he said softly.
“Ah, but you must not carry in arms like lover. Over shoulder is best, I think. Discomfort is small price to pay for freedom.”
He nodded his understanding. “Let’s go.”
With Kolya riding ahead, John drove the brichka through the busy, lamp-lit streets of St Petersburg and crossed the Neva by the Dvortsovy Bridge. He did not spare a glance for the splendid palaces he would never see again, the golden domes and spires gleaming in the moonlight, the myriad stars reflected in the river’s glacial waters. At last they halted before the massive stone gateway of the Peter-Paul fortress.
Kolya gave the password and they trotted beneath the arch.
Chapter 16
Rebecca blinked at the lantern light, raising her head from the straw pallet on the stone floor. In the week she had spent here, she had grown used to seeing no one from dusk till dawn. Any change was threatening.
It was the friendly guard, the one who had slipped her an extra bit of bread with the thin cabbage soup of her daily meal. He had congratulated her solemnly two days ago when they took off her shackles and moved her to this cell above ground. At least it was dry, and though she could not see out of the high window there was daylight for a few hours each day.
There was a rumour, he had whispered to her, that the English ambassador was enquiring after her.
That had given her a measure of hope. She had ventured to ask whether he had heard of an English milord who had been arrested. He had not. If John was free, he would never abandon her. She clung to that certainty.
“Come, barynya,” said the guard, his friendly snub-nosed face worried. “They are taking you away.”
“Who? Where to?” She struggled to her knees and he lent his hand to help her to her feet.
He glanced behind him and muttered in her ear, “They say Aleksandr Pavlovich himself wishes to see you.”
“The Tsar? But why?”
“Who knows?” He shrugged. Incomprehensible whims were to be expected of a being so god-like. “At least, it is one of his officers who has come for you. We must hurry.”
Stumbling along the passage behind him, Rebecca tried to dismiss the fact that Prince Nikolai was one of the
Tsar’s officers. He was only one of many. If she let herself believe that it was he, the disappointment of finding someone else awaiting her would be unbearable.
She knew from the moment she stepped into the office of the Captain of the Guard that Kolya had come for her. He was lounging in a chair with his back to her, a glass of vodka in his hand. With the other hand he was gesturing as he described to the red-faced, fuddled-looking captain the trials of being aide-de-camp to the Tsar.
“Glorified errand-boy, that is what I am. Imagine sending a colonel-prince to fetch an insignificant prisoner!” He tossed off the vodka.
The captain hiccuped and agreed that it was shocking. He picked up a document from his desk and gazed at it with eyes that seemed to have trouble focussing.
“Everything is in order, Nikolai Mikhailovich. One more glass before you go?”
Her presence unacknowledged, Rebecca watched as the prince accepted another drink. She became aware that a man in the same uniform as Kolya was standing against the wall behind her. A sudden fear gripped her. If he had brought a soldier with him, would it not be impossible for him to let her go?
She glanced back—and nearly fainted on the spot. It was John! He was gazing rigidly at the wall on the other side of the room, strictly at attention except for his hands, which were clenched into fists.
Rebecca forced herself not to react. For her sake he had come here, under the very noses of the men who were seeking him, and she must not fail him.
Quickly she turned away, just in time to see Kolya rise and shake the captain’s hand.
“Remember,” he said, “not a word about a certain person’s interest in this prisoner. She is merely being transferred elsewhere for interrogation.”
The captain nodded. “Of course. Your signature, if you please, Prince.” He pushed a document across the desk.
Kolya scrawled something across the bottom of the paper. The captain regarded it with a puzzled frown as John, in response to an order from the prince, stepped forward and grasped Rebecca’s wrist.
She could not forebear an exclamation of pain. Though his grip was gentle, her wrists were still raw from the iron shackles. She heard his breathing stop momentarily, and his fingers loosened still more, but he dared not risk letting go, nor did he glance at her. They followed Kolya out of the room.
The moment the door closed behind them, John shifted his hold to her upper arm. She dragged behind, forcing him to pull her along, partly because she felt weak and dizzy, partly to make it seem that she was reluctant to go. There were sentries everywhere.
They reached the courtyard. Rebecca took a deep breath of the cold, crisp air. The gold spire of the Peter-Paul cathedral shone in the moonlight and a million stars twinkled above, but the gatehouse was still ahead. John picked her up, and for a few moments his strong arms held her close and protected before he dumped her unceremoniously in the waiting carriage. He swung up onto the box.
With Kolya riding ahead, waving passes at the guards, the brichka rumbled under the arch and she was free.
She stayed huddled on the floor, pulling the bearskin rug she found there about her. The woollen dress she had been wearing when she was arrested had proved sadly inadequate to keep her warm in the damp dungeon. She thought she had grown used to being always cold, but the biting wind off the Neva cut through her.
The brichka was moving slowly. Though Rebecca wanted to call out to John, to urge him to hurry, she knew he must have his reasons for sitting so straight and soldierly on the box without a word to her, or even turning his head. She thought she heard Kolya speaking, barely audible above the clop of hooves. The reply came with an English intonation—but it was not John’s voice. She thought it sounded familiar.
At that moment the carriage stopped. Someone joined John on the box and he instantly sprang down into the street. Bending low, so that his silhouette would not be seen above the vehicle, John opened the door beside Rebecca.
“Come, quickly,” he whispered, and gathered her once more into his arms. The brichka started off again after barely a pause.
With a little sigh of content, she rested her head against his shoulder as he stepped back into the shadows.
“I knew you would come.”
His only answer as he strode through the night was to bend his head momentarily so that his cheek pressed warm against her hair. She felt a rush of love for him, for his gallantry, his strength, his uncertainties, even for his peccadilloes. She put her arms around his neck and clung to him. She had no idea where he was taking her, what the future held, but for now it was enough to feel his heart beat close to hers.
It did not last for long. They came to some steps leading down the granite embankment and he set her on her feet, then leaned over the railing.
“Rowson?” His voice was low, as was the answering, “Right, m’lord.”
His arm around her waist, John helped Rebecca negotiate the slippery stone steps. At the bottom a small skiff awaited them, with a shadowy figure untying its painter from an iron ring set in the wall.
“‘Tis good to see you, Miss Beckie,” the servant whispered as John lifted her in and followed her, setting the little boat rocking on the river.
He took a pair of oars. Rowson pushed off with the boathook and set the second pair in the rowlocks. Aided by tide and current the skiff slid swiftly through the smooth water, the only sound a slight gurgle as the oars dipped and lifted. Seated in the stern, wrapped in a cloak she found there, Rebecca watched John’s face in the moonlight. He had taken off the black uniform tricorne and the wind ruffled his dark hair. His grin said he was enjoying himself.
She smiled in response, and he winked at her.
A ship loomed ahead. The boat glided alongside, slowing, and Rowson caught hold of a dangling rope ladder. Rebecca knew with absolute certainty that she could not climb it.
John must have read her expression of dismay for he leaned forward and squeezed her hand reassuringly. He held a muttered conversation with Rowson, then took his place steadying their craft while the manservant swarmed up the ladder. A few anxious minutes later, a canvas sling was lowered. John helped her to sit in it, made sure she was gripping the rope securely, and briefly explained how to fend off the ship’s side with her feet.
“I shall climb alongside to steady you,” he promised.
Abandoned, the rowboat slipped silently away downstream as some invisible agency on the deck above hauled Rebecca upward. It was not the most dignified method of going aboard, but as she swung over the rail and scrambled free of the contraption with the aid of willing hands, she did not care a whit.
Orders were barked in some unrecognizable language. There were sounds of rattling chains and creaking windlasses, the slap of bare feet on wood.
“This way, Miss Beckie, m’lord.” Rowson’s voice was no longer hushed.
John at her side, his arm once more supporting her, Rebecca followed Rowson below deck. There was a narrow passage with a door on either side. The servant stopped and turned to face them. A slight flush mantled his weatherbeaten cheeks.
“This here’s me and Annie’s cabin.” He gestured at one of the doors. “We got Miss Esperanza in wi’ us, and Gayo too. T’other’s for your lordship and Miss Beckie.”
“What the devil?” John exploded, dropping his arm from Rebecca’s waist as if it burned him. “There must be another cabin, or Annie and the child can share with Beckie.”
“‘Tis right sorry I am, m’lord, but it seems as Prince Nikolai had to up and tell the captain as you’re married. These Finns be Lutherans, he said, and right straitlaced. The captain wouldn’t take you aboard if he knowed you wasn’t man and wife. Start switching things about and there’s no knowing what he’ll be thinking.”
“Damned—dashed—if I care what the man thinks.”
“Trouble is, he’ll likely tell his friends in Helsinki, and then we s’ll be in the briars right and proper.”
“He’s right, John.” Rebecca put her hand on his arm
. He looked down at her, his dark eyes softening. She met his gaze steadily. “I trust you. You know that I trust you.”
For a startled moment she thought he was going to kiss her. Then he seemed to realize that this was the wrong time and the wrong place, or perhaps he saw her slight withdrawal. In any case, he shrugged and turned back to Rowson.
“I suppose it can’t be helped. Fetch Annie, if you please, to help Miss Nuthall retire. She is exhausted. And I trust a bed can be made up for me on the floor?”
Rowson opened the door of his cabin, stuck his head in and said something. Annie came out immediately.
“Hush, now, the child’s asleep. Oh, Miss Beckie, I’m that glad to see you. And your lordship too, of course. Just come with me, Miss Beckie, and we’ll soon have you tucked up cosy.” She led the way into the other cabin.
Rebecca followed, feeling tears of weakness rising in her eyes. The black maid’s motherly kindness threatened to overset her fragile composure.
Behind her she heard Rowson speaking soothingly. “There’s no reason to fear Miss Beckie’ll be compromised, m’lord. Nor Annie nor I’ll speak a word, and none o’ these here Finns is like to go to London.” The door clicked shut on John’s reply.
“And if they did there’s only one of them speaks a word of English,” Annie told Rebecca, “and not much more nor a word, neither. Here, now, let’s get that dress off. It’d best be tossed overboard, I daresay.”
“I never want to see it again, but it is all I have.” She summoned up a wavering smile.
“Bless you, miss, we’ve almost everything aboard.” Annie undid buttons as she spoke. “Lord Cathcart sent that nice Mr. Crane to fetch our bits and pieces from the house, and his lordship’s too. Even the blessed parrot, believe it if you will. A right helpful gentleman, Mr. Crane. He came to Peterhof with a carriage and brought us all here, and I heard talk of him driving off with a brichka tonight.”