And yet – he had invited them to St. Petersburg! Had he asked them to stay with him? Did he intend to propose to Eglantine?
It took all the self-control Chiara possessed to stay silent and ask no more questions as the ship ploughed on across the choppy waters of the North Sea.
When they finally arrived in Russia, her fears were somewhat allayed by the fact that Count Arkady Dimitrov was nowhere to be seen in St. Petersburg.
The Count was out of town and the servants at his Palace seemed to have no idea who Mrs. Fulwell was when they accepted her calling card.
She and her daughters called several times and left a number of messages, but still there was no reply and all the shutters at the many windows of the Palace remained closed.
The Count was not at home.
Surely that was not the behaviour of a man in love, Chiara thought and, as she leaned a little further out of the window and breathed in the sweet air of the evening, an eddy of hope swirled in her heart.
Every time she went out and walked in the elegant streets between the tall white Palaces and houses, she half expected, even though she knew he was away, to see the Count’s tall elegant figure walking towards her and hear his wonderful resonant voice.
Surely she must meet him again sometime in this beautiful City, which she was growing to love so much.
“Mademoiselle, would you now care for some tea? The samovar is hot.”
A soft voice with a strong Russian accent recalled Chiara from her reverie and she ducked back in through the window.
“Yes, thank you, Karine, I would.”
Karine was a young Russian girl Mrs. Fulwell had employed to look after her daughters and attend to their clothes while they stayed at the apartment.
She was slight and slim with a long plait of ebony hair wound around her elegant small head.
“You are quiet tonight, mademoiselle,” she said, as she brought Chiara a glassful of tea with a large slice of lemon floating in it. “You did not wish to go to the party?”
Chiara shook her head, whilst sipping the delicious, refreshing beverage. Tea with lemon was one of the things about life in Russia that she especially enjoyed.
“But, mademoiselle, I think you should take every opportunity to go out and really enjoy yourself while you are here. There is so much to do. Theatre, opera, ballet, the best in the world.”
“I should love to go to the theatre, but Mrs. Fulwell says it is so difficult to buy tickets and she prefers, anyway, to go to places where she can meet people and mingle with Society.”
Karine looked thoughtful.
“They will not be back for some time,” she said. “I have an idea.”
She leaned towards Chiara and whispered,
“I have a friend who can get me into the Maryinsky tonight – why don’t you come with me!”
*
Chiara felt as if she had been holding her breath for the longest time, as she looked down from her little seat right at the back of the theatre and watched the beautiful spectacle that was unfolding on the stage.
A long line of white-clad dancers, their feather-like tutu skirts revealing slender graceful legs, tripped across the stage.
They were swans!
In their midst the Prima Ballerina, with a crown of sparkling diamonds nestling in her hair, raised her arms with a graceful gesture of delight, as she pirouetted across the stage, flying to the loving embrace of the Prince who pursued her.
“Oh!” Chiara gave a sigh of disappointment as the music and lights died away and a heavy richly embroidered curtain fell, hiding the stage from the auditorium.
“It’s over!”
“No, not at all.” Karine smiled at her ignorance. “This is just the interval. There will be more, much more. Come, let’s take a walk and stretch our legs.”
Everywhere they went was crowded, thronged with bejewelled Russian ladies and their dark-suited husbands and escorts.
There was so much to look at that Chiara found it hard to concentrate, as Karine explained to her the story of the ballet Swan Lake and the beautiful Princess who has been turned into a swan by the evil magician, Rothbart.
“You know so much,” she told Karine, as the two of them stepped out onto the street for some fresh air.
“Yes. I am a dancer,” Karine replied and her pretty face looked drawn. “I should be here tonight, but my knee is not good. I fell in the performance one night as I ran off the stage and now I cannot dance.”
“Oh, but that’s terrible,” Chiara exclaimed.
Now that Karine had said this, she realised that the girl was walking with a slight limp, although she disguised it very well.
Karine shrugged.
“I am lucky. I learned how to sew while I worked at the theatre. So, it’s easy for me to find work with ladies like Madame Fulwell.”
“You must miss the theatre so much and it must be so wonderful to dance like that on the stage and wear those lovely costumes.”
“Yes, it is. I try not to think of it too much. But I am glad we came tonight. I knew you would like it.”
Chiara was not listening.
Someone had come out of the front doors of the theatre.
A tall dark-haired man, who stood with his head thrown back, taking deep breaths of the sweet evening air.
It was the Count.
He must have returned to his Palace!
Chiara felt suddenly faint.
She and Karine were standing in the shadows at the side of the theatre out of the way of all the Society people, and, unless the Count came looking, he would not be able to see them.
“What is it?” the girl was asking. “You have seen someone?”
“No – no, it’s nothing,” Chiara replied.
She now remembered the morning after the ball at Sandringham, when the Count had suddenly appeared from the misty garden and come to her side.
Would he sense that she was here now and come over to her?
But he was turning back, already, to go inside. He had no idea that Chiara was standing so close to him, her heart beating so hard it felt as if it would leap out of her chest.
“Come, we should go back to our seats,” Karine said and put her hand on Chiara’s arm. “Are you all right, mademoiselle?”
Chiara nodded.
Sitting through the next act of the performance was agony for her. The Prince left the lake where the swans dwelled to return to his Palace and she waited eagerly for him to be reunited with the beautiful swan, Odette, so that they could dance together once more.
But instead an impostor came to the Court. A Black Swan. And she was the magician’s evil daughter and she enchanted the Prince and then tricked him into promising himself to her.
The dancing was fabulous and Chiara had never seen anything like the passion with which the Black Swan, Odile, spun around and around, balancing upon her pointed toes.
But she could hardly bear to see the Prince spurn his true love.
When the next interval came, the two girls stayed in their seats.
“Karine – does this ballet have a happy ending?” Chiara asked. “Does he find the Swan Princess again?”
Karine gave a sad little smile.
“Yes, but he cannot be with her, as he has promised himself to the other one, the Black Swan. They can only be joined in death and they fall together into the lake.”
Chiara’s heart stung with sadness.
“Would you mind, awfully, if we left?” she asked. “I don’t think I could bear to see it!”
Karine looked at her.
“Of course I don’t mind – I have seen it a thousand times. But I am worried, you don’t seem yourself?”
As they walked back to the apartment beneath the deep velvet blue of the night sky, Karine said,
“It’s that gentleman, isn’t it, who came out of the theatre? You have met him before. He has broken your heart!”
“I danced with him at a ball in England, but please, you must not say anything. Yo
u must forget all about it,” Chiara’s voice was trembling as she spoke.
“Oh, these gentlemen,” Karine sighed. She slid her arm through Chiara’s. “They don’t know how much pain they cause! But don’t despair, I am sure he will remember you when he sees you again.”
Chiara did not know whether she wanted to see Arkady again or not. What if he did not remember her and the wonderful waltz they had shared? She did not think she could bear that.
*
A few days later a visitor was announced at the Fulwell’s rented apartment.
Count Arkady Dimitrov, who had been resident at his country Dacha for so long, had come to call and to take tea with the ladies.
Chiara felt her face turn scarlet as she heard his name.
She was helping Karine to let out one of Marigold’s dresses, a blue-and-green striped silk that the girl could no longer do up, since her passion for blinis with caviar and sour cream had caused her waistline to expand since they had arrived in Russia
What would the Count think of Chiara, if he found her like this, stitching away like a servant?
She did not mind helping Karine at all. It was fun to sit and talk about her days in the theatre, much more interesting than playing childish card games with Marigold or listening to Eglantine dissecting the latest fashions.
But the last time that the Count had seen her, she had been wearing the exquisite white ball gown with the blue sash.
“Out! Quickly!” Mrs. Fulwell snapped at the two of them. “I cannot have all this clutter in the parlour.”
She chivvied Chiara and Karine to tidy away their work.
But the Count was already coming into the room.
“Madame!” he then bowed low over Mrs. Fulwell’s hand. “It has been too long.”
Chiara shivered at the sound of his deep voice, as she stood there, clutching Marigold’s dress in her hands.
Now the two sisters were curtseying deeply with Eglantine hiding her glasses behind her back as she greeted the Count.
“Count Dimitrov. We should be so delighted if you would take a glass of tea with us. As you can see, Mama has invested in a samovar!” she said.
The Count smiled.
“Whyever not?” he replied. “You must be enjoying your stay in St. Petersburg, if you are embracing our local customs.”
Mrs. Fulwell left her elder daughter to escort the Count to a chair. She came over to Chiara and told her in a fierce whisper to leave the room.
But she was too late.
The Count was frozen to the spot, all of Eglantine’s words unheard.
He was staring at Chiara.
“You!” he exclaimed. “But how can this be?”
Chiara heard Karine catch her breath and felt the Russian girl’s hand in the small of her back, softly pushing her forward.
But she was too overcome to speak. To have the Count so close to her was unbearable.
“This is Lady Chiara Fairfax – Count Dimitrov,” Mrs. Fulwell said, speaking the words as quickly as she could and attempting to steer the Count away.
He stayed where he was.
“How good to see you again.”
Once more, Chiara felt Karine nudge her.
She had to say something.
“Thank you – Count Dimitrov,” she managed and forced her trembling limbs into a curtsey.
The Count waited for a moment, as if he was expecting her to say more, but she could only stand in front of him, looking at the polished toes of his gleaming boots and breathing in the strong scent of lime and spices she remembered so well.
Then Eglantine was pulling him away from her, leading him to a chair, telling him how much they had all missed him and how much more exciting their stay in St. Petersburg would be now that he had come.
Chiara sat there quietly in the corner listening to his voice and snatching a quick glance at his handsome face every now and again.
She almost wished that he had not come. For she had been so happy in St. Petersburg, so much so that the memory of him had diminished fractionally in her mind.
But now that he was in the same room, a strange wild feeling possessed her.
She longed for them to be alone together, for him to take her in his arms and dance with her.
And yet, if he did so, her joy would be so intense that she did not know if she could stand it.
She wished that she had not seen the tragic but beautiful ballet, the tale of the Swan Queen and her Prince, who could never be united except in death – for it had left a strange sense of panic and foreboding in her heart.
Now the Count, having sipped his tea, was standing up to leave.
“I have tickets for a performance of Anna Pavlova tonight and I wonder if you would care to join me?” he was saying to Mrs. Fulwell.
“Of course! It would be utterly delightful, would it not, Eglantine? How thoughtful of you, dear Count,” Mrs. Fulwell spluttered. “My daughters and I would feel most privileged to attend the performance with you.”
There was a pause and then the Count spoke again,
“Lady Chiara, would you not like to come too?” he said. “I have enough tickets. Do you care for the ballet?”
“Yes!” Chiara found her voice suddenly. “I do – I have seen Swan Lake – ”
“What? When was this?” Mrs. Fulwell could not keep the anger out of her voice.
“Oh, then you will appreciate the divine Pavlova,” The Count said. “You must join us.”
Chiara looked up and saw that he was smiling at her and she remembered the look of roguish delight on his face when he had encountered her galloping on the beach.
“I should love to,” she replied, as his glowing dark eyes looked deeply into hers.
And then he was gone and Chiara was left with trembling limbs to endure the incredulous anger of Mrs. Fulwell.
“What are you thinking of, Chiara? How many times have I told you that you must not interfere with my Eglantine’s chances? You greedy thoughtless girl. Is it not enough for you that you have one delightful gentleman at your feet, who would do anything to make you his wife – but you must go chasing after any eligible bachelor that walks through the door?”
“He asked her, Mama,” Marigold pointed out.
“Oh, do be quiet!” Mrs. Fulwell snapped. “Well, my Lady, you had better mind your manners tonight and keep well out of the way or you will wish you had stayed at home.”
“Really, Mama, don’t fuss so,” Eglantine piped up, putting her glasses back on. “The Count was just being polite in asking her. He hardly spoke a word to her all the time he was here, didn’t you notice?”
It was true that Count Dimitrov had spent most of his time speaking to the Fulwells.
But Chiara’s mind was full of the memory of the moment when his eyes looked straight into hers.
He had not forgotten her!
*
As soon as Anna Pavlova stepped into the circle of light on the great stage at the Maryinsky, Chiara knew that she was witnessing something very special.
The fragile ballerina with the slender neck and the enormous dark eyes had a magical quality of beauty and sadness.
Her performance was not of a full-length ballet, like Swan Lake, but a series of short vignettes.
Pavlova drifted like an autumn leaf, fluttered like a butterfly, pranced and twinkled as a Fairy doll and then, last but not least, she enacted her most famous role, The Dying Swan.
Chiara felt tears slip down her cheeks as soft sad cello music filled the theatre and the graceful white bird in front of her struggled over and over to fly away, but at the end sank to the stage to breathe her last.
When the performance came to an end, she rose to stumble out of her luxurious seat in the first circle of the auditorium, hanging her head so that her tearful face would not be noticed.
“What was that all about?” Eglantine said, as they stepped outside the theatre. “It was all very pretty, but I didn’t quite get the point of it.”
The Count
raised his eyebrows.
“Pavlova is one the greatest artists to come out of Russia,” he pronounced in a tone of surprise.
“Yes, but what was the story?” Marigold asked. “It just looked like a lot of dancing around to me.”
“I don’t think there was meant to be a story – ” Chiara found herself saying, “it was more – of a feeling.”
“Or maybe,” the Count came in, “the greatest story of all – the story of life and the struggle against death.”
The sombre tone of his voice as he said these words sent a thrill through Chiara that seemed to chill her and yet warm her all at the same time.
Suddenly she did not care whether he saw her tear-stained cheeks.
But he was not looking at her. He was raising his hand and hailing a carriage.
“Mrs. Fulwell,” he said. “Thank you very much for your company tonight. My coachman is here, let him take you and your charming daughters back to your apartment.”
“Why, Count! What a privilege indeed – we are quite overcome. But will you not be joining us?”
“I prefer to walk,” he replied.
He turned to Chiara, fixing his dark eyes on hers and spoke in a low voice,
“The white nights of St, Petersburg are almost upon us now that summer begins. There is still light in the sky. It would be a great pleasure for me to share a little of this beautiful evening with you, my English angel.”
Then he raised his voice loudly and clearly so that Mrs. Fulwell could not fail to hear him,
“Lady Chiara, will you please do me the honour of walking with me?”
Chiara’s heart took wing with joy.
At that moment she forgot everything but the man who stood before her, his voice still filling her ears.
“Yes!” she replied. “I should – love to!”
CHAPTER TEN
The carriage then rattled away, bearing the Fulwells back to their apartment and the Count took Chiara’s arm and began to walk.
She was giddy with joy.
As she felt his warm strong body pressing against her arm, she was filled with the same spinning, delicious sensation she had felt in the ballroom at Sandringham.
They strolled along gleaming canals and the bright lights in the windows of Palaces shone out to be reflected in the water below.
A Flight To Heaven Page 12