Katerina's Secret (6 page)

‘Nothing, m'sieur, nothing at all.'

Edward smiled at her demure look.

‘Celeste, what's happened to Pierre, your gardener?'

‘Oh, he's retired, Edward.' His name came blithely to her lips. ‘We've a new gardener. Gregory. He's a White Russian, and has been with us for two months. Mama is most pleased with him. Poor Pierre grew too
gnarled and bent for the work, and retired quite happily.'

‘I see,' said Edward. ‘Well, I miss old gnarled and bent Pierre, and whenever you see him in the village, tell him so. What does he enjoy most in his retirement?'

‘His pipe and tobacco,' said Celeste.

‘Then I'll walk into the village and buy some.'

‘I'll ask Mama if I can come with you,' said Celeste.

‘I shall enjoy your company,' said Edward. He did not tell her that the new gardener, Gregory, was the running man. The matter was something to be thought about, for it did seem as if there was a mystery indeed surrounding the exquisite woman who could not receive visitors and whose villa was guarded by a high wall.

‘M'sieur—'

‘Celeste, your countess has a companion, hasn't she? A dark, bearded man?'

‘He's her doctor.'

‘Her own personal physician?'

‘Yes.'

‘I've heard of royalty having personal physicians attached to their households, but not countesses.'

‘It's pleasing to know you're so interested in Madame,' said Celeste.

‘Boris Sergeyovich?'

Dr Boris Kandor eyed Katerina Pyotrovna with the wariness of a man who knew her strengths and his own weaknesses. He knew her resilience, her resolution and her beguilement. Her smile at times was enough to melt the walls of Troy. She had been spirited and fascinating as a girl, the most fearless of the daughters. As a woman she was a superb creature. And she was right in what she so often said. She would wither away without doubt unless she was fulfilled. But how could she find fulfilment unless she went into the world outside? And if she did that, the world would come to know her and she would lose her beautiful head. Her enemies would lop it off.

‘You're going to ask me to make another concession, Katerina Pyotrovna.'

‘I only wish to have one more friend,' she said, ‘only one more. Then I'll ask for nothing else.'

‘Life is sweet, even for people in our situation,' said Dr Kandor. ‘We're locked away, yes, but not in a grey prison or a hovel. We have a house, a sky and a sun. Neither of us would
willingly exchange this for a running troika, a frozen trail and the sounds of the red wolves. So, one more friend, that's what you wish now. And next month, another one.'

‘No,' she said, ‘I promise. Let me have two friends, sweet Celeste and an English officer, crippled by the war.'

‘What mad request is this?'

‘It isn't madness, dear friend and protector. Nor do you think so. You're frowning because you want to hide your pleasure in the idea. You remember Riga and the British warship which took us and other refugees aboard, risking the lives of their sailors to save so many of us from the Bolsheviks. You've had a soft spot for the British since then.'

‘For their brave sailors,' muttered Dr Kandor. ‘Who is this English officer? Have you met him? If so, how?'

‘Oh, Boris Sergeyovich, shame on you to imply that during your occasional absences I venture to creep out of this place to meet people.' Katerina Pyotrovna shook her head. ‘You know that isn't true.'

‘You ventured outside yesterday.'

‘But not behind your back. And only to take a little walk in the wood. You were there too.'

‘I was there, yes,' said the doctor, ‘but not
with you. I was on the track of a prying man, whom I'm still uneasy about.'

‘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.

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.