Dazzle - The Complete Unabridged Trilogy

by Judith Gould

  They were alone in the empty examining room. The doctor who had adjusted Schmarya's new wooden leg had left several minutes earlier.

  Senda took a deep breath and forced the words out of her lungs. 'In that case, he says he won't be able to help you.'

  He turned his back on the hospital window. 'The Prince this,' he grunted irritably, 'the Prince that. Suddenly the two of you are as thick as thieves.'

  She blushed and bit down on her lip. 'I'm only trying to help you,' she said. 'Is there something wrong with that?'

  'And him? I suppose His Highness,' Schmarya said sarcastically, 'wants what's best for me too?' He leered at her.

  'Why shouldn't he?'

  'I'd like to know what he's getting out of being so damned helpful! Doesn't it strike you as suspicious?'

  'Suspicious?' she repeated softly, gazing down into her lap. 'Why would it?'

  He stalked the length of the room, the wooden leg thumping stiffly on the floor. The left leg of his hospital pyjamas had been cut off several inches below the crotch in order to facilitate the bulky leather straps and buckles of the prosthesis. The ugly contraption was bare and Senda winced as she looked at it. Somehow the leather boot which encased the bottom part of the artificial leg made it even worse, somehow obscene. As if it were a travesty of a real leg.

  'Stop playing games with me!' Angrily Schmarya kicked out at a chair with his prosthesis and sent it toppling on its back. 'You think I've lost my brains along with my leg?'

  Senda cringed. It occured to her that this was no longer the Schmarya she had known and loved. The Schmarya she had given her heart so selflessly to had died three days after the ball, and it seemed as if an even angrier—and more pitiful— man had taken his place.

  She wriggled forward on her chair and clasped and unclasped her hands in agitation. 'Schmarya, can't you be reasonable?' she urged. 'Must you always be so pig-headed? Why . . . why are you unwilling to see that this is for the best? All you'll have to do is travel to Finland and wait for me there. It's just a hundred and thirty kilometres across the gulf. I'll follow with Tamara in a few days' time and join you. From there we can go anywhere we want—Europe, England, America, even Palestine! What's so difficult about that?'

  He scowled. 'All I want to know is, why can't we leave together?'

  She shut her eyes and sighed. 'Because . . . because it's . . . well, it's easier this way.'

  He gave a bark of a laugh. 'In other words, we've got to sneak out of the country separately because His High and Mighty doesn't want us to be together, is that it? Because he wants to come between us. He's hoping to keep you here. That's what you're really trying to tell me, isn't it?'

  She bit her lip and hesitated. Vaslav had never put it that way, but she had to admit that it was an unspoken tactic on Vaslav's part. What other reason would there be for the gown, the ball invitation, the apartment, and now the house? Why would he have pulled so many strings to get Schmarya transferred from the jail to the hospital? She was realist enough to know that he hadn't done any of these things to satisfy any altruistic urge. He wanted her. It was as simple as that. And he'd had her—several times now. She had two necklaces and a diamond-and-aquamarine bracelet to show for it. Yes, he wanted her. Wanted her all to himself. Yet, when Vaslav had told her that Schmarya must not remain in Russia much longer, his argument had made perfect sense. Altogether too many legal papers had been filed against him. So many newspaper articles had involved him, had virtually passed sentence on him. If it had merely been an arrest report, that could easily have been mislaid and destroyed. So, too, if it had been the police who had caught him. But the Okhrana? The secret police? They were virtually a law unto themselves. She knew it had been no easy matter for Vaslav to have Schmarya transferred to the hospital, stolen, as it were, right out from under their fingers. Even here, in the hospital, the Okhrana regularly came to check to make certain he had not escaped.

  But if Schmarya managed to get to Finland—with Vaslav's help, of course, since the necessary travel papers had to be in order—then he could travel on from there.

  And if he was stubborn enough to stay in Russia? Then he would have to face the music, and it promised to be a far-from-pretty tune: in all likelihood, the melody was certain to be a death song.

  She sighed deeply to herself. The ice she was treading was treacherously thin, and if she made one wrong move it would be Schmarya, not her, who would inevitably face disaster. His blood would be on her hands as surely as if she'd killed him herself.

  She had to make him see the light. Somehow, she had to cut through his deliberately naive baiting. There was no time to waste on that.

  But his accusation had hit all too close to home. Although she railed against his suspicions—he was totally wrong in assuming she wanted him out of her way—she had to admit he had been right on one count.

  She did not dare jeopardize his chances for escape by letting Vaslav know she was planning to flee as well. Under no circumstances must Vaslav suspect that. For if he did, she was certain that he would not be willing to help Schmarya.

  'Well!' Schmarya had been watching her silently, and now he stomped toward her with his ungainly gait, his weight on his good leg. He looked down at her. 'Is that question so difficult that you've got to search for an answer? I would think a simple yes or no would suffice.'

  She lifted her head to meet his eyes. 'It . . . it was never discussed,' she said stiffly.

  'You make me sick!' he said contemptuously.

  She flushed and pressed her lips tightly together.

  He began to stomp madly around the room, his wooden leg thumping. 'I must admit, it's a fine little plot the two of you have hatched. I'm damned if I stay, and I'm damned if I leave.'

  'Why is that? I think it's all rather simple.'

  'Why?' He stopped pacing and stared at her. 'Because if I leave first, then you won't have to follow me, will you? You can always stay behind, be detained for any number of convenient excuses.'

  'That's not true!' she cried heatedly, jumping to her feet. 'I will follow you.' She shook her head in disbelief. 'Schmarya, what's happened between us that makes you not want to believe me? I'd go to the ends of the earth with you!'

  His lips curled into a grim smile. 'Why would you want to do that?'

  She held his gaze, her eyes growing moist. 'Because I love you,' she whispered simply.

  He threw back his head and roared with laughter. 'That's rich!' he sputtered. 'By God, that's really rich!'

  She stared at him. 'I don't understand what's so funny,' she said quietly. 'Would you care to share the joke?'

  The hysterical laughter died in his throat. 'You want to hear a joke, I'll tell you one!' His eyes became narrowed slits and he fumbled with the drawstring of his pyjama bottoms, yanking them down. There was only a small bandage taped to his groin now, since his wound was healing, but it emphasized the terrible loss he had sustained. 'There,' he said hoarsely. 'There's your joke.'

  She laid a hand on his arm. 'That's not everything, Schmarya, and you know it,' she said softly. 'So we can't have another child. We don't need another child. Tamara is all we need. She gives enough love to last us several lifetimes. And she needs and loves you. You don't know how terribly she misses you. She asks about you all the time. I wish you'd at least see her. Why make her suffer for something she's far too young and innocent to understand?'

  He turned away from her and pulled the trousers back up. 'And you?' His voice sounded strangled. 'What does this do to your needs?'

  She shrugged. 'What about them?'

  He whirled on her. 'Tell me that this doesn't make a difference,' he said bitterly, gesturing at his groin.

  She shook her head. 'You know it doesn't,' she said quietly. 'I love you, Schmarya . . . not just a piece of your anatomy. I love everything about you.' Her voice broke.

  She thought: I must be patient with him. I must show only my love for him, never pity. Then perhaps in time the anguish which racks him so relentlessl
y will lessen, and the healing process can finally begin.

  She knew she was making excuses for him, but didn't he deserve them?

  'Schmarya, listen,' she said urgently. 'What's happened has happened. I know it's unpleasant—'

  'Unpleasant! That's a slight understatement.'

  She sighed again and started over, her voice a little stronger. 'I know it's dreadful, but much as we'd like to, we can't change what has happened. What we need to do now is to deal with it, to cope with it and try to rebuild our lives and prove we can go on despite everything. Can't you see we have to? For both our sakes, and Tamara's. Schmarya, please.' The words came out in a rush. 'We have to go on living! You must believe me when I say what they did to you hurts more than anything that has ever happened to us.' Her vision blurred with tears. 'But the way I feel about you?' She shook her head. 'It doesn't make a bit of difference. If anything, I love you all the more.'

  'You pity me,' he snapped, turning away. 'That's not love. You're feeling sorry for me. You're only humouring me. Patronizing me. You don't really want me. Not anymore.'

  'But I do.

  'Then prove it.'

  'P-prove it?' she stammered.

  That crazy light was dancing in his eyes again. 'Make love to me.' He waggled a finger for her to come closer. 'Now.'

  'Schmarya,' she begged, beginning to cry, 'don't do this to us. I know you've gone through a lot—'

  'You were the one who said it doesn't make any difference,' he reminded her in a chilly tone. 'Now I want you to prove it. You can start by getting undressed.'

  A sudden cold fright chilled her to her very bones. 'You're crazy!' she hissed. Her eyes holding his gaze, she started to back away from him, edging carefully toward the door.

  'So you don't really want to do it, do you?' He began to take a step toward her for each of her steps backward. He leaned his head toward her. 'This has all just been a lot of talk, hasn't it?'

  This can't be happening! she told herself. What's gotten into him?

  'Schmarya . . .' Her voice had taken on a warning tone.

  Without warning, his hand flashed out and he grabbed a fistful of her hair, jerking her head up and pulling her closer. Her scalp felt as if it were on fire, and she stifled a cry of pain.

  He glared at her, his own face inches from hers. 'Now let's see how much you love me,' he whispered, every word punctuated by a spray of spittle.

  Her face suddenly drained of colour, and her unblinking eyes were wide with fright. Her heart thundered so loud it was impossible for her to think. Then her trembling fear gave way to icy anger. 'Let me go,' she demanded.

  He burst into high-pitched, maddened laughter and tugged harder on her hair.

  She winced, but fought the impulse to flay at his arm. 'Schmarya, not like this,' she said quietly, gritting her teeth. 'It will only destroy what little we have left.'

  'What's wrong? Do you want to get out of it already?'

  She struggled to pull away from him, but he held tight. Then, still clutching her clump of hair with one hand, he whirled her around, slashed his hand across her back, and tore wildly at the pearl buttons of her dress. They popped from the fabric, raining iridescently down at her feet and scattering over the floor. Then he tugged her dress down to her knees and attacked her petticoat with the same savage fury. When she stood naked, her clothes gathered about her legs, he twisted her around to face him. He fumbled with his drawstring.

  Hatred blazed in her narrowed eyes.

  'Are you through behaving like an animal?' she asked coldly. 'I think it's time that I left.'

  The fight had suddenly gone out of him, his demeanour now that of a pathetic, broken man. She wondered whether he would ever heal from this. He was silent while she slipped into her clothes and put on her coat. When she reached the door, his strangled voice stopped her. 'How long will it take to get my papers in order?'

  'A few days,' she answered stiffly. 'Perhaps a week.'

  He seemed to consider that. 'All right,' he said finally, nodding.

  'Schmarya . . .'

  'I think you were right,' he said softly, tears streaming down his face. 'I should leave as soon as possible.'

  She stood there, her feet rooted to the spot, her hand frozen on the cold door handle. 'Where will you go?'

  He shrugged. 'Who knows? Palestine, probably.'

  She nodded, her eyes immeasurably full of sorrow, her soul implacably sad. Only after she shut the door of the room behind her did she crumble. Forcing herself to move down the hall, she cried for the loss of her first and only love.

  Five days later Senda walked slowly toward the glass-windowed front door of the hospital and looked out. Schmarya was outside, gripping the iron railing as he awkwardly negotiated the front steps, his wooden leg swinging stiffly in an arc with every step he took.

  She didn't move. She could only stand motionless, her heart pierced by a stiletto stab of pain as she watched his distorted image through the wavy glass, watched yet another part of her life draw to a close.

  At least he'd agreed to flee Russia. At least his life would be spared.

  But at what a cost.

  She sighed painfully to herself as he was helped into the sleigh that would whisk him to the harbour and the ferry bound for Helsinki from which he would go on to . . . where? Then the sleigh driver climbed up onto his seat, snapped the reins, and the sleigh jingled off into the steel-grey morning.

  Senda glanced down at the envelope in her hand. Schmarya had refused the money she had tried to give him to get beyond Helsinki. He had stonily accepted the travel papers, the one way ticket across the gulf, and the sleigh ride. He wouldn't take anything else.

  For nearly an hour she stood there, unable to move, and then she sank down onto a hard waiting-room bench. She had always believed that their love could survive anything, that they would weave their lives together to infinity and beyond. But this was where their love had finally gone.

  Chapter 18

  The hot Crimean sun shone brilliantly, dappling the emerald waters of the Black Sea below with millions of silver knife points. Senda sat on the breezy terrace wearing a wide-brimmed ivory silk hat which matched the loose-fitting brocaded tunic she wore over a long skirt of chestnut silk. She watched Inge leading Tamara toward the steep steps cut into the rock leading to the tiny private beach below. 'Be careful!' Senda called out.

  Inge waved, acknowledging the warning. 'Are you sure you don't want to come?' she called back.

  'No, I have to stay close by.' Senda sat back, crossed her arms behind her head, and gazed contentedly out over the balustrade.

  The breeze quickened, lifting the soft ends of her hair, curling the hem of her skirt and tunic, raising the brim of her hat.

  Paradise, she thought.

  Oh, what a perfectly dreamy summer it was turning out to be. She had loved Livadia from the instant she had arrived seven days earlier. Inge had come on ahead two weeks before that with Tamara, and she had looked forward to being reunited with them. Naturally, their being together made the vacation all the sweeter, but even had she been alone, Livadia would have enchanted her. It was a stupendous natural setting, with spectacular craggy cliffs plunging into the warm sea, lavish palaces tucked away among the flower-fragrant hills, and strawberry-sheathed slopes where even a blind man had to do little more than reach down to pluck a handful of the luscious fresh fruit at random.

  Now, relaxing in the sun, she knew it had been a good idea to come. The past six months had been torturous, with hardly a moment to herself, and now that she could relax, she realized how much she had needed the break. Her ten performances on the way from Moscow—five at Kiev, and then five at Odessa—had been total triumphs. The two theatres had pulled out all the stops for their august guest star, and it warmed her to know that her reputation had preceded her.

  She was abruptly brought out of her dreamy recollections by the shrill ringing of the telephone inside the villa. For a moment she turned around and stared at the ho
use, unsure whether to go in and answer it. At any moment, she was expecting Vaslav's swift motor launch to round the little promontory from the Danilov Palace, and then, while it docked at the stone jetty of the neighbouring villa, she would have to hurry along the footpath to meet him halfway.

  She stood up and glanced down at the sea. The launch was not yet in sight.

  The telephone continued its insistent jangling.

  She rushed inside to answer the shrill rings. 'Hello?'

  It was Vaslav. 'I've been detained,' he said without preamble. 'Something has come up. I had better stay here and keep trying to get in touch with the Czar. I've been trying to reach him for some time, but he is on the Standart. The Imperial family is taking their annual two-week cruise along the Finnish coast, so it might be hours before I finally get him. Don't wait for me; do whatever you want.'

  So she would not see him today. Just as well, she thought. She would spend the rest of the day with Tamara. But her curiosity had been aroused. She wondered what had happened. It had to be important for Vaslav to interrupt His Imperial Majesty's vacation.

  'It's something serious, isn't it?' she asked, a note of worry creeping into her voice.

  'It could very well be,' the Prince said cautiously. 'The people I have spoken to are shrugging it off, but I am not so sure that's wise. Which is why I have to get in touch with the Czar. Someone has to apprise him of the serious repercussions the incident might have.'

  'Vaslav, what has happened?' she asked.

  He paused, then said quietly, 'Archduke Ferdinand.'

  'The Hapsburg prince?'

  'Yes. The heir to the throne ... or he was.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'He and his wife were assassinated in Sarajevo.'

  'Oh, no.' Senda was startled. The news, despite his calm delivery, caused a chill of dread to ripple along her spine. She had a sudden premonition of chaos and death.

  'What. . . what does this mean?' she whispered.

  'That is what I have to talk with the Czar about. War is my guess. Everyone else thinks not, and I'm afraid that is the opinion his advisers will try to push on the Czar.'