by Judith Gould
She sighed heavily, her bosom rising slowly, than falling. It was a fine time to discover that she had deluded herself. Not that the lines weren't on the tip of her tongue at all times. But getting them out at will, adding the necessary emotions, and following the stage directions—well, it was simply too much to have to concentrate on all at the same time.
Frowning, she tapped the open script against her right thigh. Her heart-shaped face was creased with anger and disillusionment. Could it be that she was trying to force things too much? After all, the rehearsal earlier that afternoon hadn't gone so badly. She'd only needed to be prompted . . .
. . . only about two dozen times or so. Only!
Far too often.
But still . . .
Wearily she tossed down the script and sank onto a silken red Empire settee which was to be used as a prop. She silently gazed out at the empty theatre. She nodded to herself, already feeling herself relax a bit. Now she could at last take the time to study the little theatre. And what a jewel box it was!
She marvelled at the unabashed luxury surrounding her. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined such fairy-tale trappings to exist in real life. It was a feast for the eyes. Each seat was Louis XVI in style, handsomely hand-carved and heavily gilded, with plush powder-blue velvet upholstery—a hundred and sixty seats altogether. Added to that was the balustraded, magnificently curved little balcony at the back, a rococo symphony of design which could seat another thirty spectators, as well as the two individual wedding-cake boxes, swagged with rich draperies, which overlooked each side of the stage. Those seated six apiece.
She shook her head incredulously as the numbers sank in. It seemed unbelievable that this theatre—a private theatre in a private home—could have a capacity for an audience of two hundred and two. Most theatres in the provincial towns they had played were much smaller than this. And nowhere near as lovely.
Her visual inspection over, she tightened her lips determinedly and pushed herself to her feet. Enough lounging. It was time to get back to work.
She scooped up the script and once again took her position at centre stage. She stood there for a long moment in the silence, then drew a deep breath.
'. . .The tears I saw you shed for me, your anxiety over my health, your mysterious visits during my illness . . . your honesty. Your enthusiasm. Everything about you led me to see in you the one I had been calling to from the depths of my loud solitude—'
From the box above her right came the abrupt claps of lone applause. Startled, she stopped in mid-sentence, took a few steps backward, and looked up. The Prince, dressed in a beautifully tailored charcoal Edwardian suit, was stepping from behind one of the swag curtains. The top half of him seemed suspended in midair; his face was in deep shadow. But his eyes, brilliant and concentrated, conveyed his emotional keenness. Otherwise, his face was carefully composed in an unemotional mask.
'That was quite an extraordinary soliloquy,' he said softly in the well-modulated speech of the upper class. 'As a rule, I am not taken with theatrical performances. Most of them bore me, put me to sleep, and if they don't, I nevertheless find it difficult to suspend my sense of reality sufficiently to be transported into a world of make-believe. However, you have entranced me. You are quite the consummate actress.'
Senda bowed her head slightly. 'Your Highness is too kind. It is not I who should take credit for having entranced you, but Monsieur Dumas. Surely it was his writing which appealed to you, not I.'
'On the contrary, madam. You do yourself a great injustice. You are a very gifted young actress.' The Prince paused, poising his fingertips on the gilded railing of the box. 'For a moment you actually made me believe that you were the ill-fated Marguerite Gautier. My heart went out to you.' He stared at her steadily. 'And if you will forgive me for speaking the truth, you are extraordinarily beautiful as well.'
She locked eyes with him. Despite the shadows, his luminous gaze was so powerful, so penetrating, that she found herself blushing. 'That is the magic of theatre, your Highness. It is all an illusion. Greasepaint. Costumes. Sets.' She gestured elegantly around the stage.
'Ah, but my eyes do not deceive me.' He smiled and wagged an admonishing finger at her. 'Your beauty is no illusion.'
She was silent. His intense gaze seemed peculiarly hypnotic, and burned with a fierce fire. She forced herself to look slightly to his left to avoid the focus of those unsettling, glittering eyes.
'Beauty,' she murmured, 'is only in the eye of the beholder.'
He half-smiled. 'If you say so, so be it.' For a long, uncomfortable moment he was silent, staring down at her so intently that she could feel the heat of his gaze. For some reason, she felt the beginnings of a deeply rooted fear knotting her insides.
Finally he broke the lengthy silence. 'In any case, you are the lady of the camellias. I can feel it in my heart. That was not playacting I was watching.' He shook his head. 'The emotions were very real. Far too real to have merely been an illusion.'
She turned away and nervously paced the stage as he drew back into the shadows. She could hear his footsteps echoing on the marble steps as he left the box. Somehow she knew he had not finished saying what he had started. Nor was he leaving; he was on his way to the stage. To her.
She tightened her lips across her teeth, wishing he would go away. Compliments usually filled her with glowing warmth, but the Prince's words of praise had had the opposite effect. Surely he had ulterior motives, was leading up to something. But what? And why did he make her feel awkward, like a blushing schoolgirl?
She took a series of deep breaths to steady her nerves and waited until he leapt onstage and towered prepossessingly over her. She flinched as he reached out without warning, held her chin in his hand, and raised her face to his. Her eyes shone richly in the spotlights. 'You have the most incredible emerald eyes,' he murmured slowly. 'It is my sincere wish that you remain in St. Petersburg for the entire season.'
Flustered, she stepped back and looked down at the script in her hands. She was gripping it so tightly that her knuckles were white. 'Your Highness.' Her voice was so thick she had to clear her throat before continuing. 'Your Highness, we are but a humble theatre troupe touring the provinces and cities. We go wherever there is an opportunity to perform. The morning after the Princess's party, we will have to depart.'
'For where?' His look was keen with real interest, but his smile mocked. 'Parts known. Or unknown?'
She dimpled at the effort of summoning a suitable reply. 'Wherever work beckons.'
'It beckons here,' said the Prince. 'You see, you really have no choice. I demand that you remain here.'
A sudden chill, caused in part by his temerity, in part by his self-assurance, rippled up and down her spine like fingers strumming the width of a harp. Much as she tried to convey force, her voice trembled as she spoke. 'Your Highness, I'm afraid I must continue rehearsing to be prepared for tomorrow's performance. Otherwise—'
'I will leave in a moment,' he said softly. 'In the meantime, I beg you to hear me out. I do not wish to boast, but the Princess and I wield considerable influence in this city. I am certain we can arrange for your troupe to perform here for the entire season. There are many private theatres in the various palaces, quite a few public theatres begging for use, and a shortage of entertainers. Such an opportunity should be a godsend for what you call a humble troupe searching for work. Especially since I personally guarantee to pay for every empty seat.' He paused. 'For the entire season, I might add.'
She raised her head and met his gaze. 'With all due respect, your Highness wouldn't, by any chance, be making advances to me? For if you are, I'm afraid I must warn you ahead of time. It is a waste of your time as well as mine.'
A fire flared within his eyes, then died as quickly as it had appeared. 'You are an actress.'
'And the mother of the child you saw me carrying.'
'And a widow.'
'Widows,' she said firmly, 'are not necessarily loose women.'
'Perhaps not.' He was smiling directly at her. 'But a star?' he asked, his voice a whisper. 'I have it within my power to make you the toast of St. Petersburg. You can have all Russian society worshipping at your feet.'
She stared at him, her heart beating wildly. There was something predatory, almost satanic, about the hypnotic glint of his eyes and the amused self-assurance of his manner. How tempting it was to listen to his soft-spoken promises. Yet how angry they made her also. How dared he think she could be so easily swayed!
Now her eyes flashed. 'Your Highness,' she said unsteadily, 'I think enough has been said. I don't think I would care for the way'—she swallowed the lump blocking her throat—'the way I would have to repay you for the favours of which you speak.' She lowered her lashes and sucked on her lower lip. 'Now I think I had best continue to rehearse.'
'Ah, but I do admire spirit. So, you are under the impression that I am trying to buy you.' His face was so close to hers that she could feel the warmth of his breath.
'Are you?' Despite her defiant voice, she rather enjoyed this badinage.
'What do you think?'
She looked shaken. 'I think,' she murmured, 'that this conversation has gone far enough.'
He smiled. Not unpleasantly. 'But you have no idea what I was about to propose.'
'I think that is obvious,' she countered crisply, her face suddenly flaming red.
He was silent for a moment. 'So you cannot be bought for the sake of your troupe. Very well. However, long experience tells me that everyone has a price. Only the currency changes from one person to the next.' He shook his head again. 'Those eyes ... so expressive ... so haunting ... as though they have seen much suffering. You attract me, that is no secret.' He paused. 'And I intend to have you.'
Her voice was hushed. 'I'm sorry, your Highness, but I'm not on the auction block.'
'Not for your troupe perhaps. But these?' He reached into his jacket and took out a long, slim velvet case. He held it out to her.
She shook her head and instinctively drew back, as from a snake.
'You have not looked inside,' he said. 'Perhaps the contents will change your mind. There is much more from where these'—he held up the case—'came.'
'No,' she said quickly, adding quietly but firmly, 'no, thank you.'
'You owe it to yourself, and to me, to look at least.'
Sighing, she took the case and opened it slowly. Then she let out a gasp. The necklace was a length of huge square-cut stones the colour of her eyes surrounded by icelike baguettes. Shakily she snapped the case shut and thrust it at him. 'I don't want it!' she hissed, turning away.
Shrugging, he slipped the case back into his pocket. 'That is today,' he said equably. 'Perhaps in time you will change your mind.' He smiled tightly.
'I . . . I'm afraid I won't. Change my mind.'
He nodded. 'I see that neither jewels nor a season of bookings can sway you,' he said. 'I was mistaken. You must forgive me. You are far too beautiful and talented—and independent—to be bought so easily. You are not interested in materialistic gain.'
She turned to him, her eyes unwavering. 'Your Highness, only two things matter to me,' she said with soft frankness. 'My career, at which I must work and achieve with my own God-given talent, and my daughter, whom I want to make proud of me. Since my husband's death three years ago, I have had no other ambitions.'
He was staring raptly at her.
She turned away and took a few steps across the stage.
His voice was the merest whisper, but it carried the force of a physical blow. 'Then the child is not your husband's,' he said matter-of-factly.
She whirled on him, her face suddenly ashen.
'The child is too young.' His deceptively lazy lapis lazuli eyes deepened to twin pools of dark indigo. 'I should have known. There is someone else.'
A stab of fear clutched her insides, twisting her stomach into a tight knot.
'Indeed, it seems you were right.' His voice was cool and dignified. 'It is time you continued rehearsing your lines.' He smiled. 'You are an actress, and a fine one at that. I expect a remarkable performance tomorrow.'
'Yes, your Highness.' She curtsied formally, careful to avoid his gaze. 'I trust I will not disappoint you.'
'You have already disappointed me,' he said softly. 'But I am the Prince Vaslav Danilov. A very rich, very powerful, and very determined man. You will find I do not generally take no for an answer.'
Her cheeks stung hotly, as though she had been slapped.
He stood poised at the edge of the stage for a moment, as if pausing between lines to gauge his invisible audience. 'And in the end, no matter what it takes, I always get what I want.'
She looked up sharply then, but he was a mere fleeting shadow. Then she heard footsteps echoing, the sound of a door closing, and, finally, silence. She knew she was alone in the theatre.
She shuddered and took a deep breath. She could not remember ever having felt quite so frightened of anyone in her entire life.
Outside in the hallway, Count Kokovtsov slipped silently out of a doorway and caught up with the Prince. The dour Count had to hurry to keep pace with his cousin. Overhead, the cold glitter of chandeliers of fruit-shaped rock crystal flashed and seemed to fly past with the speed of storm clouds; underfoot, the richly inlaid marqueterie seemed to rush toward them, gleaming mirrorlike and crackling with every step. The Prince did not look at his cousin. 'So you heard it all?' he asked grimly, his eyes focused straight ahead.
The Count's face assumed a hurt expression. 'You know me better than to accuse me of eavesdropping, Vaslav,' he said innocently. 'What need have I to do that?'
'Sometimes I wonder. And the answers I come up with, cousin dear, are not very pleasant.'
A vein in Count Kokovtsov's tall, domed forehead twitched with anger. 'I had just arrived when you came rushing out,' he said. 'Even had I wanted to, which I certainly did not, there would hardly have been the time to overhear anything.' He sniffed disdainfully, 'Besides, you yourself instructed me to thoroughly search the theatre troupe's belongings. It was my understanding that you wished to be informed immediately if I found anything unusual.'
The Prince stopped walking. 'And did you?'
The Count's thin lips curled into a smile of satisfaction. 'I have discovered two things that are decidedly of interest. First, a loaded pistol. An unimportant-enough item, considering the actors are itinerants constantly on the road. But I asked myself: Why a pistol? Why not a rifle? That in itself strikes me as rather suspicious. The answer, of course, is that a pistol is far more easily concealed than a rifle. But the second item— or items I should say— it is they which truly worry me.' Count Kokovtsov paused dramatically for effect.
'Well, out with it, man!'
Count Kokovtsov's twisted lips widened into a compressed smile. 'What do you say to ten sticks of dynamite?'
'What!' Prince Vaslav took a deep breath.
'You heard correctly. Ten sticks of dynamite.' Count Kokovtsov shook his head lugubriously and rubbed his elongated hands together. 'I am afraid my worst fears have been borne out. This acting troupe, which you so generously—and unsuspectingly—invited into your home, seems to be a cover for other, far more sinister activities.'
'Mordka Vyauheslavich, sometimes even you manage to surprise me,' the Prince said calmly. 'You constantly see anarchists and assassins lurking behind every bush.'
'Perhaps,' Mordka Vyauheslavich Kokovtsov conceded acidly, 'but if you kept more in touch with what is going on around you, maybe you would do likewise. You would find it wise to do so, instead of chasing after every actress you see.'
'That is enough!' the Prince snapped. His eyes blazed menacingly. 'I have turned a blind eye on you and your stableboys and footmen long enough!'
'Touché.' The Count sighed and made a fluttery gesture with his hands. 'Far be it from me to cast stones in that department. However, I strongly suggest that you toss this particular troupe out of the house. Immediately.
'
The Prince considered this in silence. Neither a fool nor an alarmist, he had to concede that his cousin was for once right on all counts. Obviously there was at least one terrorist among the theatre troupe. This could only cause him terrible trouble—at the very least, a sense of agitation and foreboding—until the troupe was gone. But then his mind's eye conjured up those magical, glittering emerald eyes of the lady of the camellias. She was a young goddess if there ever was one, and surely with enough surveillance and caution . . .
His mind made up, a tight smile crossed his lips. 'Noooo . . . 'he said slowly, 'the entire troupe will stay.'
'And the dynamite?' Count Kokovtsov hissed. 'Surely we're not to condone—'
'Do as I say, Mordka,' the Prince cut in wearily. 'I know what I am doing.'
'I certainly hope so, because whatever misfortune descends on us as a result of this is upon your head alone,' his cousin replied grimly. 'I am washing my hands of this entire affair.'
'No, you are not. In fact, your stealth will come in very handy. I want every member of the troupe kept under constant surveillance and the pistol and dynamite watched around the clock. It is up to you to make certain they are not touched. Have whoever tries to get to them arrested. If you must, requisition extra policemen and guards. Meanwhile, we will let the troupe perform at the soiree tomorrow as if nothing is out of the ordinary. The day after, they will be gone anyway.'
'But . . . but half of St. Petersburg society will be here tomorrow!' the Count sputtered. 'Perhaps even the Czar and Czarina!'
'Then it is your responsibility to see that nothing tragic happens. You are capable of doing that, I presume?'
The Count's eyes flashed fire, then died to dull embers. He nodded unhappily.
'Good. It is settled then. Now, do as you've been told. Meanwhile, I have other things to occupy myself with. Oh . . .' The Prince reached into his pocket and handed the jewellery case to the Count. 'Return this to Fabergé.'