Flight to Verechenko (15 page)

‘Don't spill soil over
my
carpets,' the Princess said grimly, ‘Lorraine or otherwise.'

‘The French President reviewed the troops,' Alexis said enthusiastically. ‘Over sixty thousand men and all of them ready to fight!'

‘There will be nothing left of Austria,' the Baroness said happily. ‘Nothing at all!'

‘And what has Austria done to you?' the Princess asked crushingly. ‘You really are a fool, Lena.'

Lena shook her head, a curl disentangling itself and spiralling down over one ear. ‘If I am a fool, so is everyone else, Dagmar. Everyone wants war.' Catherine shivered. Like Maria, the thought of war was abhorrent to her.

‘If there is going to be war it's not going to interfere with my name day,' the Princess said resolutely.

‘Have the invitations gone out yet, Lena?'

‘A ball?' Kiril asked incredulously. ‘ We can't have a ball now!'

‘Why not? We've had a ball on my name day for the past seventy years. I see no reason to change the habit of a lifetime because of a passing excitement in the Balkans.

‘If we invite all the Embassy staff we will get all the news. Together with the Cunninghams that will be enough. No disrepect Eleanor, but I don't want to be over-run with Britons. Life is grim enough as it is.'

The next few days were a hectic rush. There was the ball to prepare for and also a formal banquet to attend with the Tsar and Tsarina in attendance. Catherine wore the emerald tiara and necklace, while the Princess was resplendent in a breathtaking display of diamonds. For the first time Catherine saw the Tsarina and was startled to see the lines of suffering on the still beautiful face.

Two days later she accompanied the Princess and Kiril to review the troops. It was blisteringly hot and the Princess complained volubly throughout, threateninig to leave for the Crimea the minute the review was over. Kiril never left Catherine's side, pointing out name after name of Russian nobility, impatient to be able to announce to them that Eleanor was to be his wife. A vast army of white picture-hats and parasols turned simultaneously as the Imperial party arrived, the Tsar galloping by the side of the Tsarina's carriage, followed by a brilliant escort of Grand Dukes and aides.

‘Pretty girls,' the Princess said gruffly at the sight of the two elder Grand Duchesses in a carriage with their mother. ‘ This is what the people want. Spectacle and pageantry.'

At the end of the afternoon, as the sun dipped in a blaze of flame, the Tsar gave the signal for the evening prayer. Thousands and thousands of people uncovered their heads as the band played a hymm and the Pater was recited in a loud voice. In that moment of stillness, as the people prayed for the Tsar and for Russia, Catherine felt her throat tighten and saw the Princess reach for a handkerchief and hastily dab at her eyes. ‘Magnificent,' the Baroness said reverently. ‘Magnificent. Did you ever see such fighting men? What chance Germany now!'

At the palace scores of rooms were opened and aired for overnight guests, the beds made up with fine linen sheets embroidered with the Princess's initials and family coat-of-arms. The footmen spent hours polishing the ballroom floor, skating across it with large dusters tied to their feet till the surface shone like glass. The gardeners planted hydrangeas around the balconies, transporting barrow loads of plants into the ballroom itself so that it resembled an indoor garden. Kiril was still determined to announce their engagement on the evening of the ball, and as every day passed Catherine was still no nearer a decision.

She was sitting by the goldfish pool, her hand trailing in the water as she tried to decide what to do. Quick footsteps sounded in the distance and she turned her head, catching her breath as Dominic strode towards her. It was the first time he had paid her any attention in weeks. As he drew nearer she felt her heart begin to beat in slow, thick strokes and she had an irresistible urge to run away.

He looked down at her, his eyes inscrutable. ‘ I am going to Petersburg to catch the excitement. Would you like to join me?'

It was the first time he had ever requested her company. She knew that she should refuse, but found herself asking weakly.

‘What excitement?'

‘A declaration of war is imminent and I want to be there when it is announced.' He paused, a suspicious quirk at the corner of his mouth. ‘Perhaps you would prefer to walk the streets of St Petersburg alone?'

‘That remark is quite unjustified,' Catherine said, springing to her feet, her eyes hot with scalding tears.

‘It is,' he said gravely. ‘I have it on very good authority from Princess Dagmar that your reputation is above reproach.'

‘I presume that without the Princess's reference you would not deign to be seen with me in public,' Catherine retorted, angry sparks flashing in her eyes.

‘Of course not.' His voice was smooth but she knew he was laughing at her. ‘But as I
did
rescue you from a fate worse than death, the least you can do is to be courteous enough to accompany me.'

‘I assume Amelia Cunningham is otherwise engaged at the moment,' Catherine said icily.

‘Regretfully so.'

Despite her anger she felt her nerves begin to throb as his eyes held hers unflinchingly.

‘Are you coming or not? The war will be announced, fought and over if we debate the subject any longer.'

‘Yes,' Catherine said, despising herself for her weakness and cursing herself for a fool. ‘After all,' she smiled sweetly, ‘ a war isn't declared every day and sacrifices must be made.'

‘The sacrifice being my company?' A cynical eyebrow rose quizzically.

Catherine did not deign to reply. There was a slight frown on his face as he stared down at her and then he escorted her to where the Vishnetski landau waited.

‘Are you always so uncommunicative?' he asked, his body so near to hers that she could feel its heat, the strength of his thigh muscles as he walked closely at her side. ‘It's unbecoming in a red-head.'

‘My hair isn't red: it's titian,' Catherine snapped, wishing he would not hold her arm in such intimate closeness.

He stopped walking and turned her round slowly, standing very close to her so that she could feel his breath upon her cheek. The expression in his eyes as he gazed down at her made her heart race.

‘It's red,' he said and this time there was no mockery in his eyes, ‘and very beautiful.' He reached out a hand and touched her face tenderly. She turned away from him and said, in a strangled voice.

‘Is war
really
going to be declared?'

‘Any minute. The streets are full of expectant crowds. Why do you always so persistently change the subject? I tell you your hair is beautiful and you ask me about war.'

‘If I took every word you have said to me at its face value, I would have had grounds for slander,' Catherine said tartly, recovering her equilibrium with difficulty.

He laughed, and his face no longer looked harsh or forbidding. ‘Surely I have made apologies enough? After all, it was late and it was dark and under the circumstances …'

‘I am well aware of what you thought in the circumstances and have no desire to discuss the subject further.'

‘I see I still have to make amends,' he said, his grasp firm as he handed her into the landau.

She sat opposite him stiffly, her eyes avoiding his.

The minute they left the Vishnetski estate and headed towards the bridge they could hear the roar of the distant crowds. Scores of hurrying people massed the road, heading for the centre of the city.

‘Is it war?' Dominic shouted to a man clutching a pile of broadsheets.

‘Yes, thank God!' came the reply and he thrust a smudged black-printed paper into Dominic's outstretched hand.

The Imperial double eagle headed the page and at the foot was the signature of the Minister of War.

‘I can't believe it,' Catherine said aghast. ‘Is Britain at war too? Shouldn't we go back and tell the Princess and Maria?'

‘They will learn soon enough. Let's follow the crowd to the Winter Palace. This is history, Eleanor, and we are going to be part of it.'

The restraint between them ebbed away as they were caught up in the excitement of the crowds running alongside their carriage.

As they neared the Neva the crowds were so dense that the landau was hemmed in, rocking perilously.

‘Take the carriage back to the palace,' Dominic shouted to the coachman. Then with a grin that transformed his handsome face, ‘We'll go the rest of the way on foot!'

He sprang from the carriage, putting both hands round her waist to swing her to the ground. In that split second, with his face so close to hers, the sun burnishing his black curls to shining jet, the full mobile mouth laughing up at her, Catherine felt her whole being respond. She put her arms around his neck, feeling as carefree as the cheering crowds who surrounded them, not objecting as he seized her hand and they joined the swarming mass, jostling its way towards the Winter Palace.

Through the noise and confusion the bells of Kazan Cathedral began to boom and then the mellower bells of St Isaac's, the bells of the Nevsky Monastery. Total strangers shouted greetings, shaking hands vigorously, slapping backs. Paper streamers were thrown from windows and alleys and in small squares full-scale parties were in progress.

‘To the Palace Square!' a man cried, holding a young child by its hand. ‘ The Tsar is coming! To the Palace Square!'

Jammed in a jubilant crowd, Dominic's arm protectively round her, they laughed and gasped their way down to the quay.

The sun burned down relentlessly on their heads, Catherine's parasol long since lost in the crush. On the glittering sheet of water, a mass of yachts and skiffs, sailboats and rowing boats waited in a fever of excitement for the arrival of the Tsar from Peterhof. Flags streamed from masts, the decks were crammed with sweltering spectators, the bridges and quays a teeming mass of singing, cheering humanity. Then there was such a roar that the very ground seemed to shake.

‘Is that the Tsar?' Catherine gasped, crushed to Dominic's chest. ‘Oh, I can't see!'

He grinned and lifted her bodily off her feet and over the heads of the crowd Catherine could see the Tsar and Tsarina leave their yacht and step onto the quay at the Palace Bridge. Banners were unfurled, icons waved and cheer after cheer rolled over the small figure in army uniform and the straight-backed woman in a gleaming white dress. A crush of people burst forward, frantically trying to touch the Tsar's hand and kiss his feet.

‘We need to get to the front of the palace,' Dominic shouted to her. ‘He'll be making a speech. Hold tight!'

All of Russia had the same idea. Forcefully Dominic shouldered his way through the crowd, holding Catherine tightly by the hand, shielding her with his body when the crush threatened to swamp her entirely. High above them the balcony had been draped in red velvet and as far as the eye could see a cheering crowd surged and swayed. Then, just as Catherine thought she could stand on her feet no longer, the Tsar appeared on the balcony and she was submerged in noise. Roar after roar rolled over the giant square, echoing from the glittering walls of the Palace, across the Neva, spreading like wildfire the length and breadth of Russia.

Overcome with emotion the Tsar bowed his head and the crowd stumbled to its knees, fervently singing the Imperial Anthem.

They sang with such faith and hope that tears came to Catherine's eyes. Russia was at war and Russia would win. It was an exhilarating thought. Dominic's arm tightened round her so that she could feel the strong, steady beat of his heart next to hers. She raised her face to his, and in the centre of Palace Square, surrounded by hundreds and thousands of cheering Russians, he bent his head to hers and kissed her, long and lingeringly.

This time he did not swing on his heel and leave her. Her lips parted softly beneath his, her arms crept shyly round his neck. Slowly he raised his head, their eyes holding. They could have been on a desert island instead of the centre of one of the largest crowds Europe had ever seen. She was held so close to his chest that she could feel the heavy slam of his heart.

‘I don't know what I am going to do about you,' he said, his voice thick and strangely unsteady, and then, when she clung to him weakly, he bent his head and kissed her again with burning ferocity.

Catherine could no more have restrained herself from responding than ceased to breathe.

He wound his fingers in her hair so that the careful hairstyle Vilya had created came tumbling down around her shoulders.

‘I have been every kind of a fool, Eleanor. Will you forgive me?' he asked with a depth of feeling in his voice that startled her.

‘You thought I was a fallen woman,' she said shakily.

Something hot flickered at the back of his eyes. ‘Then the least I could have done was reclaim you.' His arms circled her shoulders. ‘Let's get out of this crush before we suffocate.'

The sun beat down mercilessly as they struggled through the sweltering crowd, dazzling their eyes as they finally squeezed out of the worst of the crush, leaning weakly against the walls of the Cathedral.

‘I feel as if I have been in a war myself,' Catherine said, trying to neaten her crumpled dress and dishevelled hair, her hand trembling violently.

He lifted a tendril of hair away from her face. ‘You look very beautiful.'

Kiril told her that a hundred times a day. It had never sent shivers down her spine or made it difficult for her to breathe.

‘We need to talk,' he said, the warmth of his touch spreading through her like fire.

Hand in hand they made their way between jubilant groups of soldiers to the cool serenity of the English church.

Stepping across the threshold was like stepping into another world. Instead of incense there was the familiar smell of polished wood. Instead of icons and statues, the quiet dignity of Anglicanism. They could have been in any church in any English village. The organ played a familiar hymn. She reached for a hymn book. The pews in front were filled with elderly ladies in a variety of splendid hats. Here and there a young head bowed decorously, neat buns signifying a governess. Bowing to events, the next hymn was slightly more marching and military, but that was the only concession the English church was making to the outbreak of Russia's war with Germany.