The Brigadier's Daughter

by Catherine March

  As he kissed the side of her neck Reid murmured, ‘I will make inquiries, discreetly of course. There must be a reverend of some kind, who administers to the poor—’

  ‘A missionary?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Where will you find him?’

  Reid drew back, sighing impatiently and frowning at her. ‘Sasha, stop interrupting. I don’t know yet, but as soon as this damn ball is over and we’ve moved into our apartment, we will call on him, quietly marry, and then tell everyone the truth about who you really are.’

  As he said the words, they both looked at each other, as it suddenly dawned on them the consequences of such an action. It passed through Reid’s mind that in all likelihood he would be relieved of his duties and sent back to London, for deception and misconduct—for being a liar. He swallowed, aware that his career was in jeopardy, and yet, what else could he do? He and Sasha could not continue indefinitely living a lie.

  The same thoughts possessed Sasha and she whispered, ‘I am so sorry, Reid, I never realised that—’

  He pressed a finger to her lips. ‘Shh. What is done is done, and now we must make the best of it. Go to sleep, Sasha, and tomorrow will soon be upon us. It will be our last day in the Residency and all we have to do is get through the ball, get married and move into our own apartment. All will be well, I promise.’

  When Sasha awoke to the golden glow of a spring morning, Reid had already left in response to an invitation from the Russian Army to join them on manoeuvres for the day, accompanied by several other British and French officers. He had told her not to expect him back before the evening and in all likelihood would only meet her in the ballroom tonight. As she stretched languorously and turned her face towards Reid’s pillow, still aromatic with his male odour, she smiled to herself. They had been in St Petersburg a week already, and tonight they would attend the grand ball that Lady Cronin had been planning and talking about ever since they had arrived. And then tomorrow she and Reid would be properly married, and they would begin their life together. Tomorrow night they would make love, truly, as man and wife, and Sasha rubbed the goosebumps of anticipation that flared on her forearms.

  The maid brought her a tray set with hot chocolate and fresh bread rolls, butter and jam. They chatted companionably, mulling over the clothes in the wardrobe and choosing a pale blue outfit suitable for the morning’s visit to an art gallery, the milliners, and one of Lady Cronin’s English friends for luncheon.

  After a busy morning, on their return Sasha spent the rest of the afternoon and evening lying on the bed, reading Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe. As the shadows lengthened, she dozed, awakened by the apricot bloom of sunset deepening to darkest orange and then crimson, finally extinguishing into darkness. She heard the household rouse, the distant sound of voices, doors opening and closing. Jane came then, to light the lamps and run her bath. She hung up the freshly pressed ball gown upon a wooden dummy designed for such things, and Sasha rose from the bed, gazing at the elegant gown of cream silk, the bodice low cut and encrusted on one shoulder with rosebuds in a shade of ash-rose pink, the train sweeping back in elegant folds over a high bustle. She went to bathe, and then, warm and freshly scented, she donned her underwear of petticoats, stockings and corset before Jane assisted her into her elegant cream gown. She sat down before the dressing table as Jane did her hair, fastening tiny, palest pink silk rosebuds into the mass of dark ringlets gathered at her nape.

  Sasha stood before the cheval mirror, looking at her reflection and adjusting her gown here and there. A short knock on the door preceded Lady Cronin. For a moment she stood behind the open door and simply gazed at Sasha with sharp, shrewd eyes, and then she came in and gave her a most scrutinising examination from head to toe.

  ‘You look quite charming, Georgia.’

  Was it her imagination, or did she place undue emphasis on her sister’s name? Sasha avoided her eye as she tweaked at a silk rosebud. ‘Thank you, Lady Cronin.’

  ‘Although I must say all your gowns do seem a trifle long in the hem. His lordship has still not yet returned, but the ball will begin at nine o’clock sharp, whether he is here or not.’ She came into the room then and surveyed Sasha with a look that could only be described as icy. ‘I would remind you, Georgia, that as the wife of a military attaché, a representative of the Queen’s government, you have a certain reputation to uphold.’

  Sasha felt the blood freeze in her veins, yet she merely answered demurely, ‘Of course.’ And wondered furiously what on earth Lady Cronin was leading up to, hoping that her guilt was not written plainly upon her face.

  ‘This morning I received a calling card from a Countess Irena Sletovskaya.’ She paused, perusing Sasha’s face. ‘She claims to be your mother’s second cousin and was eager to call upon you.’

  Sasha smiled, the name bringing to mind her mother’s pleasure at receiving letters from this distant cousin, light-hearted and full of gossip that had brought a few moments of pleasure into her mother’s somewhat dull world. ‘How wonderful. Of course I would be delighted to receive her.’

  ‘Certainly not! I must hasten to add that Countess Irena has the most lurid of reputations. She is well known to be the mistress of more than one gentleman.’ Lady Cronin sneered the last word. ‘You would do well to avoid her at all costs. I have returned her card and made it quite clear that you do not wish to associate with her.’

  Sasha was taken aback at this high-handed interference in what was, to all intents and purposes, her own personal life, and the obvious insult to a member of her own family. Her reply was cool as she inclined her head in acknowledgement. ‘I will discuss it with my—Major Bowen.’

  ‘I am sure your husband will agree with me.’ And with that rather curt observation and a slight nod of her head she departed, closing the door with a snap.

  In the ensuing silence Jane murmured gently, ‘It’s only seven now, mum, I’ll bring you up some tea and a bite to eat.’

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Sasha, and then stalled the maid with a hand on her forearm. ‘Is Major Bowen back, do you know?’

  ‘No, mum.’ The maid shook her head, the ribbons of her little white cap fluttering as she bobbed a curtsy at the door. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Sasha went to stand by the window, for the hundredth time that day, her figure reflected in the dark panes and the darkness of the city punctuated by yellow lamp lights. Her sense of foreboding had increased. The next two hours seemed both far too long and swiftly over. Her hand shook a little as she drank a cup of fragrant Earl Grey tea and nibbled on toast, ravenously hungry yet slightly nauseated by the anxiety of her thoughts. She tried to convince herself that she was worrying about nothing, and if Reid were here at this moment he would laugh aside her fears. At last the glass-domed clock on the mantel softly chimed the ninth hour and Sasha took a deep breath. As she descended the carpeted stairs, alone, and heard the distant strains of an orchestra, she wished more than anything that Reid was at her side, tall and strong and capable.

  Sasha stood in the doorway of the ballroom, a solitary figure as she gazed upon the magnificent scene. The high ceiling was beautifully decorated with gold leaf and murals, and supported by six marble-and-onyx columns. Along the walls hung several vast mirrors in ornate gold frames, reflecting the colourful array of the guests. The silk and satin of the ladies’ gowns contrasted with the dark coats of the gentlemen in tails, only the braided uniforms of the military officers outshining the beautiful ball gowns and sparkling jewellery of the ladies. An orchestra played in a gallery at the far end of the room, the poignant strains of a Strauss waltz filling the room with vibrant melody as couples on the dance floor swayed and whirled smoothly about.

  She moved forward quickly, before anyone could take too much notice of her arrival unaccompanied; as she did so a familiar face emerged out of the crowd. She looked up at him with a smile of relief.

  ‘Captain Turnbull, how very nice to see you.’

  The Navy man, in full dre
ss uniform, bowed to her and offered her a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, ‘The pleasure is all mine, Mrs Bowen.’ He winked at her. ‘You look a bonnie lass tonight, I must say.’ He looked about. ‘And where is the Major?’

  ‘I believe he is galloping about on the plains with Russian Hussars.’ She sipped golden liquid from the narrow flute glass, the bubbles tickling her nose.

  He snorted on a laugh. ‘Then we should not expect him back any time soon.’

  ‘Oh?’ Sasha looked up at him askance, with a sideways glance. ‘Why is that?’

  ‘My dear, they do like to drink, the Russians. Vodka, and plenty of it.’

  ‘Well…’ Sasha frowned. ‘I hope he won’t arrive in a—a foxed state.’

  The Captain laughed. ‘In the meantime—’ he set aside his glass, and hers, offering his arm ‘—please do me the honour of the next dance.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Sasha smiled and spent a pleasant time dancing and chatting with Captain Turnbull, who then introduced her to friends of his, and she danced with the surgeon from HMS Dorset, and enjoyed conversations with several people, her fluency in French and Russian holding her in good stead and drawing much admiration and interest. Yet her glance frequently went to the door, in search of Reid. She so much wanted to share the pleasure of the evening with him. Despite being entertained by the company, the dancing and the champagne, she felt tension coiled in her midriff, her yearning for Reid increasing.

  ‘Bonsoir, ma petite.’

  A smoky, very low, yet strangely familiar female voice sounded close to her ear and Sasha turned to gaze upon its owner. It was as though she looked upon a twin of her mother, except this woman was slightly taller and her magnificent figure in its cream-and-gold gown the very perfection of tiny waist and voluptuous bosom. She had an alabaster swanlike neck and dark glossy hair coiled on her head, crowned with a diamond tiara.

  ‘I knew at once that you must be Georgia,’ the woman purred in English, her husky voice pleasantly accented. ‘You are the spitting image of your mother.’

  Sasha smiled, and inclined her head slightly. ‘I could say the same, madame, although even my lovely mama could only claim to be a poor likeness.’

  The woman laughed, an enchanting sound that drew glances from those standing nearby. ‘Please, call me Irena.’ She glanced covertly about and gently laid her gloved hand under Sasha’s elbow. ‘Come, let us find a corner where we can talk, before the Dragon Lady discovers that I have found you.’

  ‘You mean Lady Cronin?’

  ‘Of course.’ Countess Irena wrinkled her delicate nose. ‘I think she does not approve of me.’

  Sasha merely smiled, realising that she could not possibly comment on Lady Cronin’s true opinion of this very beautiful woman. Her curiosity was aroused, however, and despite the warning, she was eager to get to know the cousin who had grown up with her own mother and knew of her childhood. Judging from the many male glances that slid her way as they moved through the throng of guests, Countess Irena also had the allure and charm to attract admiration that every woman secretly longed for. Sasha glanced at her from the corner of her eye. Her face was a classic oval, the nose slightly aquiline, full ruby lips evenly shaped, and her dark black eyes fringed with thick, smoky lashes that Sasha suspected were outlined with a hint of kohl. No respectable woman would go about in public with a painted face, but Countess Irena seemed to be a law unto herself, and no doubt a very rich one. Sasha noted the glittering diamonds on her fingers, at her earlobes and sparkling in a delicate necklace upon her bosom, as well as the diamond-and-pearl tiara gracing her head.

  They found two gilt chairs in an alcove and sat down.

  ‘I am very surprised, Countess Irena, that Lady Cronin even let you in the door.’ Suddenly realising how rude that must sound, Sasha held her fingers to her mouth. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I did not mean—’

  Irena laughed, a throaty, husky sound. ‘She could not very well refuse. My escort is godson to the Tsar and a very influential young man.’ She laid a reassuring hand on Sasha’s wrist. ‘Do not worry, I am quite sure that Lady Cronin has already made known to you her own strait-laced and narrow views on the entire population of Russia. Without even so much as leaving the Residency. Now, my darling Olga’s darling girl, tell me all about yourself. I believe you are recently married to a British officer? Is he very handsome?’

  Sasha’s cheek dimpled on a smile, warming to this exotic cousin once removed. ‘Oh, yes—’ she sighed ‘—he is very handsome indeed.’

  Countess Irena was no fool and she was quick to pick up on the wistful note in Sasha’s voice, nor did she fail to notice the downcast expression in her eyes. ‘A bride should be radiant and glowing after only a few weeks of marriage, but I sense this is not so, my dear?’

  Sasha blushed and looked away, the restrictions of her English heritage far too ingrained to begin discussing personal and intimate matters in public. And yet, glancing again at Countess Irena, she realised that there was no one else to confide in and she was most certainly a woman who would have knowledge and experience of—Sasha blushed—relations between a man and a woman. Dare she ask her advice on how to win Reid, body and soul?

  ‘Perhaps this is not the time or the place,’ murmured Countess Irena, delving into the sequined reticule dangling from her wrist. She extracted a card and pressed it into her hand. ‘We will talk when you call at my home.’ She rose from her seat. ‘I see my escort, it seems we are about to leave.’ She leaned down, wafting a subtle scent of expensive perfume as she kissed Sasha upon her cheek. ‘I am sure Olga said in her letters that her daughter Georgia was fair.’ She stared hard at Sasha for a moment, and then smiled. ‘Au revoir, ma chérie.’

  Chapter Seven

  Sasha watched as Countess Irena swept away upon the arm of her escort, a Russian prince bedecked in the splendid regalia of a military uniform, his jet-black moustache matching his hair and eyes. He seemed quite a few years younger than Irena and Sasha envied the Countess her grace and beauty. She rose from her seat and glanced down at the card in her hand, about to discreetly slip it into her reticule when Lady Cronin barked, ‘Georgia, I hope you have no intention of having anything to do with that dreadful creature!’

  ‘I— I—’ Sasha flushed, hiding her hand behind her back and desperately searching for a reply. Her first choice was a scathing one, but then it would not do to alienate the wife of a man Reid must work closely with. As her mouth opened and closed she suddenly felt warm fingers press into her waist, her slender back encircled by a scarlet-sleeved arm.

  ‘And what dreadful creature would that be?’ asked Reid. ‘Don’t tell me my wife has a roving eye already!’ He frowned ferociously and said in a mock voice of deep anger, ‘Wife, I shall beat you soundly!’

  ‘Oh, no, not at all!’ exclaimed Lady Cronin. ‘I— I merely meant—’

  Sasha glanced up and smiled with pleasure as well as relief at Reid, standing tall and very handsome in his dress uniform of scarlet-and-gold tunic, dark blue breeches and gleaming boots, a sword latched to his waist.

  He winked at her and turned her away from Lady Cronin towards the dance floor. ‘My apologies, ladies, for attending this magnificent occasion so late. Come, my little wife, I shall teach you to be obedient to your husband!’

  Lady Cronin gasped, her eyes flashing with shock, for it was obvious from Reid’s slurred tone of voice and the way he pulled Sasha close against his body, that he was well oiled and dancing was not the only obedience he had in mind. Sasha let him take command as they swept away into a waltz, the sensuous strains and Reid’s surprisingly nimble footwork wheeling them about the dance floor in perfect rhythm.

  ‘Look at her, the old trout.’ Reid laughed. ‘What’s got up her nose, then?’

  ‘Shh,’ Sasha berated him, glancing about to see if anyone had overheard, and then looking up into Reid’s face as he pulled her even closer against his chest, her slender body fitting between his legs as he manoeuvred her about
. She gasped and shivered as his lips toyed with the curve of her ear. ‘Are you drunk, Major Bowen?’

  ‘As a lord, Mrs Bowen.’ He groaned, his hand moving from her waist to clasp her bottom. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’

  Sasha arched her neck away from his exploring lips and snatched his hand away from her bottom, placing it firmly on her waist. ‘Behave yourself. People are beginning to titter.’

  ‘Titter?’ Reid threw back his head and laughed. ‘Oh, my little virgin, how delightful you are!’

  Sasha was now greatly alarmed and dragged Reid from the dance floor. ‘For goodness’ sake, do be quiet!’

  Reid swayed, peering at her, his hair ruffled and grinning as he replied in a mock whisper, ‘Sorry, old girl, almost gave the game away.’ He took her hand. ‘Come on, let’s go to bed.’

  Sasha thought it best to comply, fearing that Reid would blow their carefully constructed charade and bring disaster upon both their heads. Glancing about, she managed to catch Captain Turnbull’s eye and with his assistance they led Reid up the stairs and to their bedchamber.

  ‘Thank you,’ Sasha said, as Reid began singing and tossing off his jacket, ‘I can manage from here on.’

  Captain Turnbull smiled, and made a swift drinking motion with his hand. ‘It’s the vodka, Mrs Bowen.’

  ‘No doubt.’ Sasha closed the door and then ran back to the bed as Reid began fumbling with the belt at his waist, singing a bawdy song at the top of his voice as he divested himself of his military trappings.