The Brigadier's Daughter

by Catherine March

  She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief tucked in her sleeve, hearing footsteps in the corridor. The butler, Good, came in, announcing quietly, ‘Dinner is ready to be served, ma’am.’

  Sasha glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was eight o’clock already. With a sigh she rose from her chair, squared her shoulders and replied, ‘I fear Major Bowen has been delayed yet again. Tell Cook to keep his meal warm, and that I will have mine on a tray upstairs.’

  ‘Very good, ma’am.’

  Upstairs in her bedroom Sasha sat down at the small table by the window, gazing pensively out at the inky dark sky studded with stars and a silver moon, as she wondered what Reid was doing at this very moment. He’d had no lunch and he must be ravenous by now. Was he eating with the Cronins? Had he given her no thought at all, not even to send a message round to say he would be late? Had he gone out? Was he enjoying himself somewhere, without her? Did he not feel eager to return to her, to her bed, and explore further the passion they had experienced so briefly? Had he even given any consideration to getting married? The only barrier to their complete fulfilment and satisfaction of their desires was his insistence that they be wed properly, husband and wife in holy matrimony. How? When? She could not stem the hot flush of frustration that coloured her cheeks, as her glance strayed to the still-rumpled bed. Oh, Reid, she thought, sighing, come home soon! Thankfully, she was distracted then by Jane knocking on the door and bringing in her dinner tray. It was so beautifully and carefully set with snow-white linen, gleaming silver, a rose in a crystal vase, that Sasha felt touched.

  ‘Thank you, dearest Jane.’

  The maid smiled, and retreated, pausing at the door, sensing that her mistress was deeply troubled. ‘Anything you want, mum, just ring for me.’

  ‘Thank you, but that will be all for tonight. You go on up to bed.’

  Jane bobbed a curtsy and closed the door, leaving Sasha to eat her supper alone. The food was simple yet delicious as always, a hearty vegetable soup, followed by steamed trout and new potatoes, and a lemon sponge pudding. Afterwards, Sasha had a warm bath and put on her nightgown, pausing as she brushed her hair to stand at the window and peer across the darkened courtyard towards the Embassy. She could see the clock tower glowing, the black hands on the white porcelain background pointing to past nine o’clock. Surely he would be home soon? She got into bed and settled down to read Jane Eyre, leaving her door ajar and the lamp on, in the hope that Reid would not ignore the invitation when he came in. She needed to talk to him, to know what his intentions and feelings were, and that what had occurred between them in this bed was more than just lust.

  By the time Reid had finished it was gone ten o’clock, but at last his work was done and he placed the twenty-page handwritten report on Sir Stanley’s desk before he left. It was dark and cold as he walked briskly across the courtyard, taking a forbidden short cut that would bring him to the back of the apartment building, ringing the bell that would summon one of the footmen to open up the scullery door, and noting with approval that it was stoutly locked.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ young Harry greeted him, opening the door and then thrusting the bolts and bars securely again as Reid came in. ‘Can I take your coat?’

  ‘Thank you. Is my wife still up?’

  ‘Mrs Bowen retired some hours ago, sir.’

  Reid stared around the warm kitchen, neat and tidy, a fire glowing in the range, sniffing at the scent of food. It had been a long day, with only tea and sandwiches, and as he gazed appreciatively at the range with its covered plates kept warm on top, the footman hurried to set out a tray with his meal.

  ‘Shall I bring it to the dining room, or your chamber, sir?’

  ‘No, I’ll eat it here.’ He didn’t want to disturb Sasha, if she was asleep, with the commotion of servants and the clatter of cutlery. He pulled out a chair from beneath the scrubbed pine table, and then turned as Harry stood there staring at him, ‘What’s the matter, boy?’

  ‘Um, er, nothing, sir, it’s just that—’

  ‘What?’ Reid sat down with a weary sigh, as Harry placed before him a tray set with the same meal that Sasha had enjoyed earlier, now not quite so fresh as hers had been, but nonetheless hot food of any kind was welcome.

  ‘Well, sir, it’s just that upstairs folk don’t usually eat, well, downstairs.’

  Reid laughed, reaching for the salt and sprinkling some on the potatoes. ‘I’m a soldier, Harry, I’ve had worse food in worse surroundings than this, I can assure you.’ He eyed Harry speculatively, and then gestured towards the kettle sat on the range. ‘Any chance of a mug of tea?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Harry dashed about getting teapot, cup and saucer.

  ‘I said a mug.’

  Hurrying to obey, Harry reached for one of the white china mugs used by the servants, found the sugar dish, and went to the pantry for milk. On his return, Reid gestured with his fork. ‘Make yourself one, and sit down. I want to talk to you.’ He smiled at the flash of alarm in Harry’s eyes. ‘Don’t worry, you’ve done nothing wrong.’ Reid concentrated then on eating his meal, enjoying every morsel, then laying down his knife and fork with a sigh, and nodding his thanks as Harry set down a mug of steaming tea in front of him. He waved him to a seat, took a sip from his mug, added two spoons of sugar, and then looked at Harry. ‘I believe you’ve accompanied my wife to visit her cousin, Countess Irena, on a number of occasions.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Harry’s eyes were wide as saucers, still fearing that he was about to be reprimanded.

  ‘You know where the house is, and the servants who work there?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. I’ve got a little task for you, Harry. I want you to keep an eye on that house, see who comes and goes; if my wife goes there without me, I want you to stick very close to her. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  Reid rose from the table, throwing down his napkin. ‘Tell Cook my thanks for an excellent meal.’

  He went upstairs, treading softly, and paused outside Sasha’s room. He could see through her open door that she was asleep, with a book clutched in her hand. He went in very quietly, and turned down the wick of the bedside lamp, until it gutted and the room was plunged into darkness. He resisted the temptation to lean over and kiss her. It was late, and after all the events of the day, he did not know what to say to her.

  The glow of pre-dawn woke Sasha, and her first thought was the disappointing knowledge that Reid had not come to see her. She stirred restlessly, her ears tuned, but she could hear no sounds. Had he come home at all? Well, she would soon find out! She pushed back the covers and climbed out of bed, walking barefoot and on tiptoes as she left her own room and crossed the corridor. She paused in front of Reid’s door, listening, but she could hear no telltale signs of movement. Slowly, carefully, she turned the handle and opened the door, peeping in. To her relief, she could see Reid sprawled on his back in the middle of the bed, bare-chested. She was so glad to see him that she had no thought except to be close to him, and she went in, closed the door behind her and padded softly across the carpet. She lifted the covers carefully and slid into the bed beside him, savouring the warmth of his body, the smell of his manliness. With a sigh she snuggled up against his side, her eyelids drooping as contentedly she settled down to sleep again.

  Reid stirred, disturbed by the mattress dipping beneath his body and the awareness that he was not alone. He turned on his side, his hand sliding over her hip, sleepy still as he asked in a low, gruff murmur, ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I missed you.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He gathered her close, and whispered against her temple, ‘I missed you, too.’

  Then they both fell asleep, at peace in each other’s arms.

  The discordant bonging of the courtyard clock woke them again at seven o’clock. Reid groaned, and muttered, ‘I’m going to get hold of some artillery and blow that wretched clock to smithereens.’

  He made a mov
e to get up, but Sasha pulled him back, her arms around his neck. She urged him closer and pressed her lips to his, parting them, inviting his kiss. He smiled, his hands fondling her hip and her bottom, and then he turned his attention to her mouth and kissed her deeply, but with distraction, aware that he must get up, that he must not give in to temptation. He pulled away, even as she mewed in protest, ‘Don’t go!’

  ‘I must.’ He turned to look at her, lying in his bed. ‘You know I must. Come on, get up and we can have breakfast together.’

  ‘Can’t you take the day off?’ She looked up at him, her eyes glowing with the promise of seduction.

  ‘No.’ He leaned over then, and hauled her up, despite her protests, swinging her up into his arms, kissing her lips soundly, before setting her on her feet, and playfully slapping her bottom. ‘Get dressed.’

  Sasha, relieved and delighted by his mood, her worst fears laid to rest by his kisses and playfulness, hurried away to her room and quickly washed. She dressed in a lace blouse and chocolate-brown linen skirt, brushed out her hair and pinned it up. She was just adding a cameo brooch to her blouse when Reid passed her open door, and stood there as he so often did, on the threshold. Why was he so reluctant to enter her bedroom? She smiled at him, her eyes searching his face, questions on the tip of her tongue, but she held them back, reluctant to break the magic of these short moments she could spend with him before he would be gone for the day. His answering smile was no different from his usual expression, though what exactly she had hoped for she was not sure. Reid was not the type of man to be spouting poetry on bended knee, but she had hoped for…something, some acknowledgement that their relationship was closer and deeper than it had been before they had made love.

  ‘Come along.’ He took her hand and together they went down the stairs and into the breakfast room.

  The servants appeared quickly, efficiently delivering tea and toast, and whilst they were present Sasha was careful about what she said, listening politely as Reid read his newspaper and pointed out some snippets of information about events going on in London, and then he laid aside his paper and asked her casually, ‘Have you written a note to Irena yet? Thanking her for luncheon and…the gifts.’

  Sasha almost choked on her tea, and quickly set down her cup in its saucer, glanced at Good as he hovered beside the door, awaiting a tray from the kitchen bearing Reid’s bacon and eggs, and asked softly, ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘Just that it would be politic to send her a note. Do it today, please.’

  ‘But, Reid—’

  ‘I thought we might invite her to accompany us to the opera tomorrow evening.’

  Sasha lowered her voice as she stared at him. ‘You can’t be serious?’

  ‘Why not?’ He avoided looking at her, scraping butter on his toast and munching it with apparent devil-may-care. ‘She’s a woman of great influence. We have to be careful to keep her sweet.’

  ‘Keep her sweet?’ Sasha thought her eyes must be about to pop out on stalks, or else the Reid she knew and loved, yes, loved, must have disappeared in the night and been replaced by this…this lunatic. She took a deep breath, quite sure in her own mind that she wished to have nothing more to do with Irena, and could not imagine for one moment why Reid would want to, having told her only days ago to end all relations with her. ‘Are you feeling quite well this morning, Reid?’

  He glanced at her. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, you seemed to have changed your tune as far as Irena is concerned. You were quite adamant only a few weeks ago that I should have nothing to do with her, and—’ she lowered her voice, leaning towards him ‘—I have to say that you are completely right. Irena is not the lady we think.’

  Reid smiled at her, seeing her tension, her outrage, and remembering, too, that scene in the garden, convinced now that something had happened between Sasha and Irena. He laid a reassuring hand over hers, his voice low yet firm. ‘I am sure you are right, but, please, Sasha, just trust me and do as I ask.’

  For long moments she stared at him, filled with misgiving, and then she inclined her head and succumbed with dignity. ‘I will write a note this morning and send Harry round with it. Shall we meet her here tomorrow evening, or at the Opera House?’

  ‘Excellent.’ He paused as he finished a last mouthful of scrambled egg. ‘I don’t particularly want her here in our home; we’ll meet her at the Opera.’ He rose then, dabbed his mouth with his napkin, leaned over and kissed her forehead. ‘I will see you later. Oh, and better invite John Hartley and his wife, too, it wouldn’t be the done thing for Irena…’ He waved his hand. ‘Well, you know, we don’t want to be viewed as a ménage à trois.’

  Sasha watched as he left her side, and listened to his footsteps as he went down the stairs and the front door banged behind him. How very strange, she thought, mulling over their conversation. He wanted to continue fraternising with Irena, but he didn’t want her in the house! Sasha shook her head, confused and puzzled, and then left the breakfast room to go to the study, find pen and paper and write a suitably polite note to Irena, however galling it was to have to do so. She rang for Harry and despatched him with it, and by late afternoon a reply came from Irena, saying that of course she would be delighted to meet them at seven o’clock at the Opera House.

  The following day Reid was home by five o’clock, in good time to prepare for their evening. They met in the dining room to share a light supper before going out and her heart drummed at the sight of him, so handsome in his black tails and white bow tie. His jaw was scrupulously clean shaven and Sasha breathed in the scent of him, a clean, masculine tang of sandalwood soap and a subtle aftershave, and that elusive essence she could only describe as eau-de-Reid.

  He drew her to him, raising her hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to the back of her gloved hand. ‘You look lovely.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Sasha glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She wore one of Georgia’s creations, an ivory and coral-pink off-the-shoulder gown, with clusters of tiny rosettes on each shoulder. Her dark hair was coiled up on her head and fastened with matching pink rosebuds. She had done her best, but, as she feared, when they met with Irena in the foyer of the Bolshoi Theatre, her cousin was quite stunning and drew many a glance. Irena wore a dark red velvet gown adorned with jet beads, her luxuriant hair swept into ringlets, her pale marble skin and voluptuous figure perfectly accentuated by the rich red velvet and haute couture design of her gown.

  Throughout the evening Sasha sat next to Mrs Emily Hartley, a quiet, middle-age woman with greying hair who was quite painfully shy and had little to say for herself. Irena sat between Reid and John Hartley, seated to Sasha’s left. It was an awkward party, she thought, with three women and two men, and Sasha was somewhat surprised that Irena had not brought a gentleman along as her escort. She tried not to pay too much attention to Irena, as she chatted with Reid. It was nothing, just a social occasion. She concentrated on the programme, on listening to the music, on smiling gently at Emily as she bent her head to try to catch her occasional murmur.

  The magnificent Bolshoi was full, tiers of ornate boxes forming a curve around the stage, and it was also very hot, with ladies fanning themselves and sipping on glasses of iced pink champagne. Once the music began and the lights dimmed, Sasha glanced over to Reid and tried to catch his eye, but he seemed busy showing Irena how to use his opera glasses, leaning towards her, his arm as he held out the glasses almost touching her bosom. Sasha felt a wave of acute anger and jealousy surge through her, but resisted the urge to leap across the intervening space and haul Irena away from him. The music began, an opera entitled Vakula the Smith by a composer named Tchaikovsky. Sasha was not greatly familiar with his work, and it was somewhat dreary, but she sat with a smile politely fixed upon her lips and her eyes fastened upon the stage. It was a very long evening, and by its end she had the beginnings of a thumping headache. Irena invited them all to return home with her for nightcaps, but John Hartley, after one mea
ningful glance from his wife, declined, and Sasha, too, cried off, rubbing her temples delicately with gloved fingers.

  Irena placed her arm around Sasha’s waist, an intimate gesture. ‘My poor little one, another time perhaps.’ She laughed, a low, sultry sound as she glanced at Reid. ‘Thank you for the evening, Major Bowen, you will of course let me return the kindness. I am having a little musical soirée on Wednesday evening. Please do attend.’

  ‘We’d be delighted,’ Reid replied, offering his arm as he escorted Irena to her carriage.

  Sasha waited in the foyer with Mr and Mrs Hartley, and then bade them farewell as Reid returned and they went to their own waiting carriage, borrowed from the Embassy for the evening. Reid handed her up the steps and she sat down in the middle of one seat, spreading out her skirts, cloak and reticule, forcing him to take a place on the bench opposite. She sat silent and rigid as the carriage pulled away and rattled over the cobblestones homewards, her gaze turned towards the window of the carriage, although of course she could see little of the dark streets as they rumbled along.

  Reid pinched his forehead with thumb and middle finger, as though he, too, had a headache, and then glanced at her, noticing her silence. ‘Sasha?’