Katerina's Secret

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘We mustn’t quarrel about it,’ she said.

  ‘The English officer is a guest at the hotel, and Celeste’s most cherished friend. He was gassed in the war. That’s dreadful, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not as dreadful as a prowler who might have been prowling because he’s an agent of your enemies. If they suspect you’re here, if he was trying to get a good look at you—’

  ‘He did not get a good look,’ she said, ‘he saw nothing of me. I concealed myself as soon as I glimpsed him. Boris Sergeyovich, you’ll permit Celeste to bring her English friend, won’t you? He’s only staying at the hotel for the winter. He’ll come, and then go. So one more friend, please, just one?’

  It was not wholly a wish for another friend, he thought. There was something else, something perhaps to do with the longing of a woman who had never known the love of a man. That was dangerous. But she had been denied ordinary communication with people for years. An Englishman with crippled lungs, a friend of the entirely charming young French girl, perhaps that need not be very dangerous.

  ‘I must protect you, Katerina Pyotrovna, yes,’ he said, ‘but can’t bring myself to starve you. It’s I who have a weak heart, not you. But you’ve never asked for the impossible, nor made my responsibilities too difficult, although sometimes I’ve suffered a little worry. Very well, invite him to call. In two days. With the girl.’

  Her expressive eyes were quite moist with gratitude.

  ‘I’m sure it will not put me at risk,’ she said. ‘I’m sure we’re sometimes too sensitive about the dangers of recognition. There can only be a few people outside our own country who know me.’

  ‘Our sensitivity, Katerina Pyotrovna, is something that tells us the world can be a very small one at times.’

  ‘Yes, I agree,’ she said, ‘but I am in need of friends, friends who will be a pleasure to me, not a danger. These two friends, Celeste and the Englishman.’

  ‘Merely a pleasure?’ he said, watching her.

  ‘That is all,’ said Katerina Pyotrovna. But her heart and her blood were already affected, and had Dr Kandor felt her pulse at that moment, he would have found a flutter, a flutter that had nothing to do with physical weakness, but with emotion.

  A note arrived at the hotel, delivered by a servant and addressed to Mlle Celeste Michel.

  Dear Celeste,

  I am happy to tell you that Dr Kandor has diagnosed an improvement in my condition. Therefore, if you wish, you may bring Monsieur Somers to see me in two days’ time, on Thursday at two thirty. I hope your mama will be able to spare you the time. I shall not assume that Monsieur Somers has nothing else to do, of course, but if he would like to call then I shall receive both of you with pleasure.

  I am, your most affectionate friend

  Katerina Pyotrovna.

  Chapter Five

  The click of billiard balls made Rosamund Knight open the door and walk in. At the table, Colonel Brecht was practising a few shots. He straightened up. Rosamund, gowned in shimmering green, was not disposed to retreat.

  ‘Good evening, Colonel Beck,’ she said.

  The colonel coughed.

  ‘Ah, good evening, madame. It’s – ah – Brecht, Colonel Brecht.’ He made a stiff bow.

  ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you,’ she said.

  ‘No – not at all – I am waiting for Herr Somers.’

  Edward appeared then. His dinner jacket was sleek on his lean frame. He smiled at Rosamund, full-bosomed in her gown and her bare shoulders lightly powdered. She looked extremely handsome.

  ‘Rosamund, you’re here to play billiards?’ said Edward.

  ‘I looked in,’ she said.

  Colonel Brecht cleared his throat.

  ‘Naturally, if you’d like a cue – ?’ It was an awkward invitation.

  ‘You’ve arranged a game with Colonel Beck?’ she enquired of Edward.

  ‘An after-dinner perambulation at slow speed around the table to a hundred up,’ said Edward, ‘but if you’d care to take alternate shots with me, then do join us.’ He whispered in her ear, ‘Brecht, Rosamund, not Beck.’

  ‘I’ll watch, if I may,’ said Rosamund.

  ‘But do you play?’

  ‘A little,’ she smiled. ‘My husband taught me.’

  ‘Good,’ said Edward, ‘then you shall play the winner. Are you game?’

  Rosamund’s smile was a little wicked. She essayed a glance at Colonel Brecht. He was standing at attention, eyes fixed on the tip of his cue.

  ‘If that’s agreeable to both of you, I accept,’ she said.

  The German took a silk handkerchief from the inside pocket of his dinner jacket and courteously dusted a chair for her close to the scoreboard. She murmured polite thanks, then sat with her eyes on the green baize of the table.

  Colonel Brecht broke off, leaving his white and the red in baulk, close together. Edward very neatly brought his ball back up the table, hit the red and gently kissed the white.

  ‘Bravo,’ said Rosamund.

  Colonel Brecht coughed. Edward smiled. Rosamund, who knew gentlemen did not encourage comments from spectators, gazed innocently into nowhere. Edward made a break of nineteen. Rosamund rose and put up his score. Colonel Brecht retaliated with a break of twelve. Edward, pacing himself, chalked up a dawdling eleven. Colonel Brecht failed. Edward failed. The colonel, concentrating, put some neat cannons together, plus a couple of reds, and compiled a useful twenty-six. Rosamund kept the scoreboard moving. Edward executed a difficult in-off red that made Rosamund call bravo again. Colonel Brecht raised his eyebrows. Rosamund looked at her feet, and Edward suddenly realized that for all her Edwardian majesty she had an impish streak. She was teasing Franz Brecht, and Franz was shuffling his feet.

  Edward’s score advanced to ninety-three. Colonel Brecht, with a break of twenty-three, advanced to ninety-seven. Edward collected two cannons, fluffed a third and left the German with an easy red to put down for the game. It lay only three inches from a corner pocket. But the colonel’s shot was a disaster. The red, limply struck, hit the corner of the pocket and gently rolled back in much the same position.

  Edward, left with three balls in line, tried a cannon off the cushion, striking the colonel’s ball first. It failed. Again Colonel Brecht was left with an easy red to pocket. Again he missed. Rosamund emitted a delicate cough. Colonel Brecht, slightly flushed, stood back. Edward smiled. He was on to the German now. Franz Brecht was backing away from the prospect of taking on the intimidating Rosamund. The retired soldier was actually shy. Edward felt he must tell Celeste. He and Celeste enjoyed a good gossip.

  He himself only needed to put the red down for the game. But his white was closed off from the red, as it had been before. He made his shot, striking the colonel’s ball just enough to send it so close to the red that it was simply not possible for the German to miss putting it down this time.

  ‘Himmel,’ breathed the colonel, ‘was that a shot, my friend?’

  ‘Yes, a badly played one,’ said Edward. ‘It’s left you with a sitter.’

  With an air of resignation, Colonel Brecht pocketed the red.

  ‘Well played,’ said Rosamund. She rose coolly to her feet and selected a cue from the rack. ‘I now have the honour, sir?’ she said to the colonel.

  ‘Ah – you need not feel you must,’ he said.

  ‘In honour, sir, I’m committed,’ said Rosamund.

  Edward was fascinated. Damned if Celeste isn’t right, he thought, damned if these two aren’t actually taken with each other. The atmosphere between them was positively electric. Extraordinary.

  ‘Well, it’s worked out well enough for me,’ he said. ‘I need a rest.’

  Colonel Brecht cleared his throat. Rosamund chalked her cue. Politely, the German offered her the choice of plain or spot white. Rosamund chose spot and broke off, handling her cue smoothly and leaving the red and white generously positioned for her opponent to open his account with a cannon. He bent stiffly to the task of consolidation, but
lost himself with some uncertain cue work when his score was ten. Edward sensed he was a bundle of nerves. Poor old devil, there he was, a retired bachelor with a distinguished war record, and as sensitive as a wallflower in the presence of the composed Rosamund. Perhaps he had been glad to hide himself away from women in the Brandenburg Grenadiers. Up against an English war widow in a game of billiards, he was flushed and awkward, but full of glances.

  Rosamund was obviously aware of it. From a civil, polite and distant attitude, she had advanced to the attack. She moved handsomely around the table, her green gown clasping her figure, and Edward saw that the colonel hardly knew where to look as, bending over her cue, she displayed the deep valley of a most noble bosom. And she was no mean exponent of the game, specializing in dropping her ball in-off the red with smooth efficiency. And from time to time both balls disappeared into the corner pockets.

  ‘Well played, madam.’ The colonel made the comment a little hoarsely as her score reached fifty, while his was only twenty-nine. Rosamund, finishing her break, left him well positioned. He gathered himself together and set about redeeming himself. Edward watched with glimmers of pleasure in his eyes. Rosamund was quite the coolest of women, the handsome colonel tugging at his moustache between shots.

  The scores advanced. When Rosamund was eighty-one, her opponent was seventy-two. She approached the table, bent over her cue, causing the colonel to hastily lift his eyes elsewhere, and smoothly proceeded to reel off six in-offs in succession. That put her score on ninety-nine.

  Now what? thought Edward. Is she going to demoralize him?

  She missed her next shot.

  ‘Good gracious,’ she said.

  ‘Bad luck,’ said Edward. She glanced at him and caught the smile on his face.

  ‘It’s hardly a matter for levity, Edward,’ she said.

  ‘I agree. There’s thunder and lightning in the air.’

  ‘Thunder and lightning?’ said Rosamund. ‘It’s only a game of billiards.’ She caught the colonel’s eye. He was waiting politely for the conversation to finish. ‘Pray proceed, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Colonel Brecht. He ran up a break of twenty-one, bringing his total to ninety-three. But Rosamund only needed to score to win the game. The red ball was nicely placed for her to execute one of her fluent in-offs. Much to Edward’s amusement, she elected to go for a cannon instead, a much more difficult shot. She played it well, however. Her ball struck the white firmly, and with topspin applied glided on, narrowly passing the red.

  ‘Well played,’ said Colonel Brecht, ‘and thank you, madam, for an excellent game.’

  ‘No, I missed the cannon,’ said Rosamund.

  She could, thought Edward, have easily pocketed her ball off the red. She might have got the cannon. Instead, she had missed it with beautiful finesse. Damn me, he thought, if she isn’t going to let him beat her.

  ‘Your ball just stroked the red,’ said the colonel.

  ‘No, no,’ said Rosamund, ‘it missed.’

  ‘I’m happy to concede the cannon,’ he murmured.

  ‘We’ll refer to Mr Somers,’ said Rosamund. ‘Edward, was it a cannon or not?’

  Edward, frankly keen to see how they would resolve it themselves, said, ‘It may have been, it may not have been. It was all too much of a whisker for me, and I declare myself undecided.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Rosamund smoothly, ‘I claim a miss. It’s your shot, Colonel Beck.’

  ‘Ah – I – ’

  ‘Please proceed,’ said Rosamund.

  The colonel gave in and with the balls nicely set up rattled off three cannons. Edward sat rooted, for they were both on ninety-nine now. And damned if the colonel didn’t miss his next shot, a simple pot.

  Rosamund gazed in haughty disbelief at him as he straightened up. He coughed. Edward laughed. The colonel tugged his moustache. Rosamund’s proud bosom quivered.

  ‘You’re laughing, Edward,’ she said.

  ‘I should think I am,’ said Edward. ‘Why not call it an honourable draw?’

  ‘If Colonel Beck—’

  ‘Now, Rosamund.’ Edward’s smile was reproving.

  ‘Names confuse me,’ said Rosamund, ‘but very well, if Colonel Brecht is willing to call it a draw, so am I.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said the colonel, tugging his moustache, ‘Thank you for the game, madam. Ah – would you care – may I suggest a cognac for all of us in the lounge?’

  ‘You’re very kind,’ said Rosamund, ‘but if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I shall now retire to my bed. Goodnight.’ She picked up her evening bag and sailed in splendour from the room.

  Colonel Brecht took his handkerchief out and dabbed his brow.

  ‘Heavens,’ he said.

  ‘The ice is broken,’ said Edward, ‘do you realize that?’

  ‘I realize it all too well, my friend, for I’m sinking beneath it. What an extraordinary woman.’

  ‘Magnificent,’ said Edward. ‘Noble.’

  ‘Ah, yes – quite so. Shall we enjoy a cognac, then?’

  There were several other guests in the lounge, enjoying conversation. Edward and Colonel Brecht did not intrude on them. They found comfortable armchairs in the larger well-furnished room, and Celeste brought them their cognac. She slipped a note into Edward’s hand. He read it. It was the little note from the countess.

  ‘I’m delighted, Celeste,’ he said, ‘please accept for me.’

  ‘Oh, I will, m’sieur, and Mama is permitting me to go too. We aren’t too busy, you see.’

  There were ten guests in the hotel, a comfortable number for this time of the year.

  Breakfast of rolls, croissants and coffee was served in the light and airy dining room the following day, the tables covered with their morning cloths of white. Red tablecloths were used for dinner.

  Not all guests were down yet. Present were Colonel Brecht, Edward, Rosamund, a retired American doctor, Martin K. Bush, an anonymous-looking silver-haired couple who spoke to nobody and rarely to each other, but smiled vaguely at all, and a slim, dapper man. A new guest, he was fair-haired and amiable, although his sharply-pointed nose was rather at odds with his agreeable air. Another guest entered the room, a lady in her thirties, whose silver-grey costume set off her brunette richness and put a neat, tidy outline on her figure. She glided past the dapper, eager-nosed gentleman rather as if he weren’t there, but said a cheerful good-morning to everyone else. She eyed Edward with interest and selected a table next to his.

  Edward gave her a smile, then returned to the notes he was scanning over his coffee. They were notes covering the first chapter of his assignment. It was time he began to seriously concentrate, to remember he was not exactly on holiday. Usually, he got down to work without difficulty. Things were a little different this year.

  Celeste, coming to refill his cup, whispered to him, ‘That lady is from Paris, m’sieur, and arrived last night. A designer of theatrical costumes. But I think she’s looking for a little flirtation.’

  ‘Who is?’ he asked absently. ‘Oh, yes.’

  The lady in question, Estelle Dupont, once breakfast was served to her, consumed it with as much relish as she devoured the front page of the Nice Gazette. On the other side of the dining room, Rosamund went through her meal with an air of aloof graciousness, like a woman who accepted the presence of other guests but hoped they would not spoil the moment by talking to her. She had no glances for Colonel Brecht, and for his part he too seemed solely interested in his food and coffee. Only the dapper gentleman, Monsieur Valery, appeared eager to communicate, smiling encouragingly whenever he managed to catch someone’s eye.

  Edward scanned on. Mademoiselle Dupont, finishing her breakfast, came to her feet and moved from her table. Edward looked up as she passed.

  ‘Bonjour, m’sieur,’ she said with a smile quite vivacious.

  ‘Bonjour,’ said Edward.

  An attractive creature.

  He stopped on his way back to his room
five minutes later to speak to Celeste, catching her on her way from the kitchen with a fresh pot of coffee.

  ‘Little angel and light of my life,’ he said, ‘you were right.’

  ‘What about, m’sieur?’

  ‘About Colonel Brecht and Madame Knight,’ he whispered. ‘She’s begun a fencing match with him.’

  ‘A fencing match?’

  ‘Fascinating,’ murmured Edward.

  ‘You mean it’s an opening engagement between two people not yet aware they’re falling in love?’ she whispered.

  ‘Who knows, my infant, who knows?’

  ‘Oh, by now I’m in a fever of interest,’ she breathed.

  ‘Let it be only a light fever,’ said Edward, ‘for I don’t think developments are going to be too dramatic. A little delicious, perhaps, but nothing one could compare with an earthquake.’

  ‘Oh, m’sieur,’ she smiled, ‘you are a lovely man.’

  Edward was at work by the summer house twenty minutes later, the morning sunshine warm and mellow. His breathing was easy, his lungs appreciative of the clarity of the air. He concentrated successfully, perhaps because the knowledge that he had been invited to call on the countess tomorrow had induced mental relaxation. His pencil raced over the paper. The silver-haired couple wandered out and did a quiet turn or two around the garden before disappearing. Then Rosamund emerged. She found a seat on the far edge of the lawn, where she sat reading, putting aside her hat and parasol to let the sun finger her chestnut hair.

  Colonel Brecht appeared a few minutes later. Edward watched him eyeing Rosamund, deep in a book. He advanced casually in her direction. He paused midway, uncertainty taking hold of him. Rosamund looked up.

  ‘Good morning, madam, good morning,’ he said, and gazed hard at flowering shrubs.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Rosamund.

  ‘Ah – yes,’ said the colonel, turned left and advanced on Edward. ‘Another beautiful day, my friend.’

  ‘Quite beautiful,’ said Edward.

  ‘You’re writing, I see.’

  ‘I think I should, you know. I have to earn my pay.’

  ‘I won’t interrupt,’ said the colonel. ‘I’ll take a brisk stroll.’