The Brigadier's Daughter

by Catherine March

  Towards evening of the third day, the waters suddenly calmed and there was a strange peace in the air. The rosy amber hues of sunset flooded a pale blue sky, and seagulls wheeled and screamed overhead. Reid rose from where he had been dozing in the chair and peered out of the porthole, but he couldn’t see anything of significance.

  ‘Are we there?’ Sasha asked, her voice weak and rough from the abrasion and violence of her seasickness.

  Reid turned and knelt beside her bed, looking at her pale face as she lay back on the pillow, her sweat-dampened lank hair twisted into a loop at one side of her neck, soft tendrils curling about the curves of her face.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ His voice was soft, concerned and wary. ‘How are you feeling?’

  She smiled weakly. ‘Not so bad.’

  ‘Good.’ His fingers stroked her forearm in a comforting gesture. ‘Here, take this and try to sleep.’

  He held a teaspoon of liquid to her lips, urging her to swallow it down. The ship’s doctor had prescribed the only medicine he thought would help—laudanum. He commented that he had never seen anyone quite so bad as Sasha and the best thing to do was to remove her from the world, so to speak. Reid had been reluctant, knowing how addictive and dangerous such a drug was. Too much could do more harm than good, but the doctor assured him that the dosage was mild, but enough to keep her unconscious for a good twelve hours, during which time, it was hoped, her system would adjust and they would sail into calmer waters.

  It worked like a charm, and Sasha slept soundly all that night, as did he, but he swung down from the upper bunk several times to check on her. His fingers held her slender, smooth-skinned wrist and felt for the flutter of her pulse in the delicate blue veins. He listened carefully to her breathing, recalling to mind the horror of one of his company sergeant majors who had taken his own life by using laudanum, tormented by debt and the loss of his own woman in childbirth. Satisfied that Sasha was safe and well, he watched her sleeping, his gaze roaming over her face, thinking of how she had behaved with the officers of the ship at luncheon, with grace and a quiet, intelligent charm. He wondered how Georgia would have been, his brow furrowing as he imagined her flirting and seeking attention. Was it fate that had taken a hand and delivered Sasha to him? Sweet, innocent, clever Sasha. With a sigh he stroked back tendrils of hair from her forehead, and then climbed up into his bed, and tried to sleep. Yet a barrage of thoughts hammered at his mind and kept him awake.

  What of the future? He had some doubts about his post working as military attaché in the British Embassy, preferring to be in the field with his soldiers, but the offer of promotion had been tempting and it would only be for two years. Then they would return to England; his expectations had been that he would leave his wife and children at home and continue with his soldiering, going wherever the Crown chose to send him. But now there was a fly in the ointment—he had no wife. And what on earth was he to do with Sasha? He feared for her reputation and the scandal that no doubt had already broken in London. How long would it be before the discovery was made that the woman posing as his wife was indeed not his wife? The simple solution would be for Sasha to marry him post-haste, but she had refused. He was at first puzzled, and his ego certainly irked, at her refusal, for there was no doubt that there was an element of attraction between them, and she had already conspired to marry him. He was sure that Sasha did not fully understand that people would naturally assume that if she was not his wife then she must be his mistress. With a sigh, he turned on his side, shrugging off his thoughts until at last he, too, fell into a deep sleep. By dawn they were sailing into the Gulf of Finland.

  On the sixth day Reid decided that enough was enough, and insisted that Sasha rise from her nest of tangled sheets. The air in the cabin was stale and fetid, the porthole shut against the bitter wind that blew across the sea, the temperature well below freezing and the sapphire-blue waters caked with floating layers of ice, like sugar icing that had come adrift from a wedding cake.

  ‘Come on,’ he said firmly, pulling Sasha’s limp body from the bunk bed, holding her with one arm while he snatched up his own thick brocade dressing-robe and wrapped it around her, tying the cord sash securely. ‘The fresh air will do you some good.’

  ‘Oh, please, Reid, let me lie down,’ Sasha begged, brown doe-eyes huge in her wan face, her slender frame swamped by the voluminous folds of his robe.

  ‘No.’ He reached for his Army great cloak and fastened it about her, then sat her down on the chair while he rummaged in her bags and found a pair of thick warm stockings. ‘You’ll feel much better, believe me.’

  ‘I’ll be sick.’

  ‘No, you won’t.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘No,’ he said with a note of weary patience, ‘you will not. There’s nothing left in you to bring up.’ His large hands pushed up the layers of linen nightgown, brocade robe and his cloak, and then picked up her foot, a frown of concentration on his handsome face as he wrestled her stockings on. ‘And you can stop pouting at me like that.’

  Sasha gave up then, rendered dumb as she sat there and watched him, all her attention drawn to his strong lean hands, tanned golden-brown, the fingernails short and neat, very clean, his touch impersonal yet gentle as he pulled the stockings up over her legs and fastened them with a plain garter just above her knees. Then he reached for her boots, his blond head bent down as he tied the laces and she could not see his face, her glance straying instead to the broad width of his shoulders.

  ‘There.’ He sat back on his heels with a satisfied nod, his hands reaching out for her waist. ‘Up you get.’

  He lifted her from the chair, and for a moment she hung limply, her body like a rag doll’s in his grasp. Then, with an effort, she straightened, levering herself up by grasping the lapels of his jacket. How tempting it was just to lay her head upon his chest, to surrender, safe in the certain knowledge that Reid would put to rights everything that was wrong. She lifted her eyes to his face, and for a moment they stood there, looking at each other.

  ‘You have such beautiful eyes,’ Sasha murmured, gazing at him. ‘They are blue like the deepest, darkest sea.’

  He smiled, his voice just as soft, his smile rueful. ‘Don’t you know that it’s the man who is supposed to pay compliments?’

  ‘Why?’

  He shrugged, and then took her by the elbow and manoeuvred her to the door. ‘Come on, while the wind has died down.’

  Out in the corridor Sasha swayed and moaned, but he was unrelenting as he propelled her towards the gangway and up a flight of brass-and-wood steps to the closed sliding door that led out to the deck. Sasha gasped as the cold air hit them when Reid slid it back an inch, and he was forced to admit that it was indeed far too cold and windy to take her out to the deck. She sagged with relief as he closed it, not realising how near he was until her back came into contact with his warm, solid chest.

  His arms folded around her, as he steadied her swaying form. ‘We’ll just stand here for a bit. Try to stare at the horizon for as long as possible. I’m told by the sailors that it’s the best way to orientate the brain and stop the motion sickness.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Sasha replied drily, anxiously waiting for the surge of nausea that had plagued her for days to come rushing at her, with all the force and vengeance of an alien monster that had invaded her being.

  ‘Yes, Miss Packard, that is so.’ He leaned down, the better to see her face. ‘I do believe you have some colour in your cheeks. How are you feeling now? Has it worked?’

  Sasha hesitated for a moment, waiting, squinting at the far-off cobalt line of dark blue sea, above it the paler band of the sky. With a note of surprise in her voice, she confessed, ‘I don’t feel anything.’ Half turning in his arms, she smiled up at him. ‘Goodness, I feel…completely better! Isn’t that wonderful?’

  ‘Excellent.’ He smiled, too, and then asked, ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Starving!’

  ‘I’ll get the steward to
bring you some tea. What would you like?’

  ‘Hmm.’ Sasha thought for a moment, holding thumb and forefinger to her chin. ‘A ham-and-tomato sandwich, please.’

  He laughed. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘And a piece of fruit cake, if there is any.’

  ‘I’m sure the cook can rustle up something. Come on, let’s get you back to the cabin.’

  That evening Sasha dressed for dinner, wearing a dark burgundy gown with velvet bodice and satin skirts that had been designed for Georgia, an elegant masterpiece that rustled seductively as she moved. When she walked into the officers’ dining salon, on Reid’s arm, a round of soft applause from the officers’ gloved hands echoed about the small room. The Captain himself hurried to draw out a chair at his right hand and, blushing profusely but glowing with delight, Sasha sat down.

  ‘Glad to have you back, ma’am,’ Captain Turnbull murmured.

  ‘Thank you.’

  The waiters poured wine into crystal glasses and the gentlemen remained standing as they raised their glasses in a toast.

  ‘To Mrs Bowen,’ the Captain declared, with a knowing wink.

  The officers echoed his salute, and across the table Sasha stared up at the man who was supposed to be her husband. Reid bowed to her, a slightly sardonic smile upon his firm lips.

  He raised his glass to her, saluting her fortitude. ‘To Mrs Bowen.’

  Two days later HMS Dorset nosed her iron-clad prow through the thin layers of ice that crusted the waters of the Neva. Sasha stood on deck to catch her first glimpse of St Petersburg on the far horizon.

  ‘The city was built on the orders of the Russian Tsar, Peter the Great, in 1703, and is spread over more than forty islands and dozens of rivers and canals.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Sasha half turned as Reid joined her, now dressed in his military uniform beneath his cloak, scarlet jacket encrusted with gold braiding and epaulettes, leather belt and sword scabbard attached to his waist, the snug fit of dark blue breeches tucked into shiny black boots. To her eyes he was more breathtaking than the famous city the ship was gliding into. She looked away, leaning on the rails as she peered ahead, the cold wind teasing tendrils of hair from beneath the fur hat she wore to keep warm, her long coat securely fastened. ‘My mama has never ceased talking about the most beautiful city on earth since the day I was born.’

  Reid smiled, nodding as he drew on his leather gloves, his glance sweeping about the low yet massive buildings crowding the shoreline. ‘I forgot your mother is a native of the land. But still, to see it for the first time is quite impressive.’

  ‘Yes.’ Sasha smiled in agreement. ‘It is indeed the Venice of the North. Look—’ she pointed to a slender gold spire rising from the tiers of an elegant building ‘—that must be the Peter and Paul Fortress. And that other golden steeple must be the Admiralty.’

  With a nod Reid gazed in the direction of her finger, but he was not looking at the imposing buildings, thinking rather how exquisite her small and ivory-pale hand was, just like the rest of her. How would she survive in this harsh place? He was sure that her mother had only told her romantic tales of palaces and balls and dashing princes, and that she was completely naïve as to the realities of life here in Russia for the poor and common folk. And how would she react if she ever found out that his job was to spy on the Russian military and report his findings to London? They were a dangerous enemy, he knew from his years of experience in India and Afghanistan, and he would certainly not be falling under the spell of any charming or dashing princes, and as a military wife he must ensure that neither did Sasha.

  The ship glided along the wide cobalt waters of the Neva, slowing down and gradually inching its way into the docks of the naval base and mooring at the quayside; Russian sailors scurryed about to fasten the ropes as the anchor was weighed with a rattle of chains and splash of water.

  ‘Well,’ said Reid, looking down at Sasha, ‘we are here.’

  ‘At last.’ Sasha looked up at him for a moment, a blush adding to the crimson colour staining her cheeks from the icy sting of the wind. ‘Thank you, Reid,’ she murmured. At his puzzled frown she added, ‘For looking after me so well in these days past. What will we do now? Where will I stay? How will I get back to England?’

  He took her arm, and they began to walk across the deck to the gangplank. ‘Let us not worry about such things.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Just play along for now.’

  Her brows creased in a frown as she glanced anxiously sideways at him, but here was Captain Turnbull, waiting to bid them farewell, shaking hands heartily with Reid, and kissing her on both cheeks as he wished them goodbye and good luck.

  ‘No doubt we will see you at the Embassy,’ Reid offered, in way of thanks for the Captain’s good humour and assistance throughout the voyage.

  ‘A pleasure I look forward to.’ He turned to look at Sasha for a keen moment. ‘Mrs Bowen, at your service.’

  The two men saluted each other and then Reid took Sasha by the arm and guided her down the steep wooden gangplank. She was greatly tempted to drop to her knees and kiss the solid ground as her feet, at last, touched on a base that did not move. Although, she felt as if the ground was indeed still moving, and she looked to Reid to voice this strange occurrence, but all at once they were surrounded by a group of people, several men in dark coats, two in military uniforms, and two elegantly dressed women much older than herself, and there was not a moment for a private word.

  ‘Sir Stanley Cronin, British Ambassador, glad to meet you at last.’ The short bald man in dark suit and coat introduced himself, waving to the others in quick succession. ‘This is my wife, Lady Cronin, that’s John Hartley, my Secretary, and over there is Major Anthony Hope-Garner, whom you are replacing, and his wife, Charlotte.’ Sir Cronin turned towards Sasha with a small bow. ‘And I presume this is your wife, Georgia—’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Stanley,’ interrupted Lady Cronin, ‘let’s get out of this freezing wind and back to the Residency. We can do the introductions there.’

  ‘Quite, quite, my dear,’ agreed Sir Stanley, turning to Reid as they walked along the quay to where a carriage awaited them. ‘We’ll do a briefing later on this afternoon—’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ said Lady Cronin, ushering a bemused Sasha aboard the carriage. ‘Tomorrow will do well enough. They’ve only just arrived, and only just been married, so do be a dear and give them a chance to settle in.’

  A sigh heaved from Sir Stanley’s portly jowls, and he shrugged, though there was little amusement in his dark, narrow eyes. ‘We will see.’

  Amidst the mutterings of the Ambassador and his wife, Sasha was ushered aboard and wedged in between Lady Cronin and Mrs Charlotte Hope-Garner. Opposite sat Reid, between Sir Stanley and the Secretary, Mr Hartley, his broad shoulders turned slightly sideways as the three men jostled for position and settled back. There was a shout and crack of a whip as the coachman set off. The carriage lurched, and Sasha instinctively flung out her hand to grab hold of something, encountering Reid’s knee, so close as to be almost between her own. However, she need not have worried about being thrown from her seat as the carriage set off at a cracking pace, for she was firmly bolstered by the two ladies. Her glance went to the window and she peered out, wondering why the other four men had mounted horses and were riding close alongside.

  Lady Cronin leaned towards her as she noticed Sasha’s curious glance. ‘Our bodyguards. We just can’t be too careful, you know.’

  Any hopes Sasha had of viewing the magnificent buildings of St Petersburg were soon dispelled, as the blinds were drawn and the horses urged on at a fast canter. She raised her eyes to Reid, trying to discreetly impart to him her sense of alarm as they proceeded through the streets as though the very hounds of hell were nipping at their heels, yet without alerting the other passengers to her feelings, but his expression was bland and she followed his cue, holding her tongue and casting her features into a mask of blankness.

  ‘You will be stayi
ng at the Residency for the next week or so,’ said Sir Stanley, raising his voice above the thunder of the carriage wheels on the cobbled paving. ‘When Anthony has taken himself and his family off, you may move into their apartment.’

  Reid nodded, and then conversation turned to their voyage, and the weather, and their recent wedding. Here Reid deftly manipulated the conversation elsewhere, bringing in comments about his recent years in India, his progress with the Russian language, until Lady Cronin grew bored with shop talk and announced that they would be holding a ball in a week’s time, to bid farewell to the Hope-Garners and welcome the Bowens.

  ‘Of course, it will be nothing compared to the grand affairs they have at the Palace—’ said Lady Cronin.

  ‘Well, no,’ retorted her husband, ‘my pockets are not as deep as the Tsar’s.’

  Lady Cronin merely sniffed.

  It was a relief to them all when the carriage rumbled beneath the arched gateway of the courtyard leading to the back of the Residency. On their arrival, Reid noticed the sturdy twelve-foot gates were firmly barred and bolted behind them. The party stepped down from the carriage and climbed the steps that led to the rear entrance hall of the Residency. Several uniformed servants waited to take their hats and coats, then Reid and Sasha were escorted to their bedchamber. Lady Cronin urged them to return downstairs as soon as they could for refreshments in the drawing room, followed by luncheon at noon.

  Sasha fell into step at Reid’s side as they followed the maid up two flights of broad marble stairs, lined with a dark emerald-green carpet, the walls of the corridor hung with portraits of the Queen and her many children, as well as military paintings of various battles and flags from different regiments. Sasha glanced about, noticing the high ceilings and how opulent the furnishings were of satinwood chiffoniers and Chinese vases, marble Grecian statues and numerous hot-house plants, giving the impression of luxury and grandeur. It was not at all what she had expected.