Seconds later, she turned and ran back up the path toward the palace.
Chapter Twenty-two
She had gone only a few steps up the path when she saw Katia running toward her from the palace. In a moment she was grasped tightly in the girl’s loving arms.
“Marika! Where did you go? I have been so…” Katia stopped short, seeing Black Jake like a frightful apparition just ahead. For a moment, she forgot about the child whose discovered absence had terrified her and sent her running from one part of the great palace to another and finally out into the palace grounds with a growing sense of panic. She clutched Mary to her now and stared, unabashedly, at the incongruous figure of Alexei Romanov’s black bodyguard dressed in the familiar attire of a Russian peasant but with something so distinctly alien about him—apart from the color of his skin—that she felt herself to be in the presence of a man to whom even the words fear and love would have no meaning.
During the early days in Muscovy when she had been recovering from her ordeal in the priest’s hole, Katia had caught a distant glimpse of Black Jake and nothing more. And her heart and thoughts had been so full of Alexei that even had she stood face to face with Black Jake she might not have seen him as clearly as she did that late summer afternoon in the Romanov park. Later she would be surprised that she felt no fear of him despite his alien coloring and fierce half-wild face. Instead, she saw and would remember always his eyes: keen, curious and, in their dark depths, sorrowful. She realized suddenly that she had been staring like a child at an exhibition. She blushed and, in response to something clearly though inexpressibly noble in the strange man, she dropped a curtsey before hurrying away with her hand grasped tightly in Mary’s.
Jake watched them go and then stood for some moments in the path, deep in thought. This chance encounter in the palace grounds had provided the key he had sought to understanding his master’s recent strange behavior. He knew at once that it was this vibrant dark-haired girl who had brought Alexei back to St. Petersburg and not, as he would have had Jake believe, his sense of duty and loyalty to Russia. By the standards of European society, he recognized her beauty, but there was something else that made a far stronger impression. Katia had a fawnlike quality that touched him with its vulnerability.
Long ago, in a time Jake tried not to remember, there had been a girl with merry eyes, a humorous piquant mouth and dusty blue-black skin like velvet. She was from the north of the island and had been brought back to Jake’s fire by a raiding party. Among his people such raids for women were a common occurrence and necessary to provide wives for the young men. The girl had been angry and sullen when Mooragooray brought her to Jake’s fire, and for several days she cooked his food and shared his pallet without speaking anything but insults. The older men in Jake’s tribe had advised him to beat her into pleasant submission, but the truth was that Jake rather liked her spitfire nature; and her fine young body—high breasted and ample hipped—had been too beautiful to scar with a whipping vine. The old women found such gentleness remarkable in a chief, but Jake was held in great honour by all his people and so no one spoke against him though he intercepted looks of disapproval from time to time. After some weeks the girl became accustomed to her new life. Her mother, she later told Jake, had been a captive and her grandmother too. It was the way of things in a harsh and underpopulated land. She accepted Jake, and in time he knew she loved him.
These memories brought a stab of sweet pain to Black Jake. Theirs had been a pairing unlike any other he had known. After her arrival he fought more fiercely and hunted more bravely for kangaroo and possum, risking his life time and time again in nearness to the white settlements. Then came a season when he was gone for the passage of many nights, and when he returned to his tribe he found their sleeping place littered with the bodies of his people. They lay like refuse; the vultures and wild dogs scattered when he entered the clearing. He saw old women, children, young boys who had tried to fight against the white man’s superior weapons but with their spears and waddys were hopelessly outclassed. At first he had not been able to believe his senses. He had been certain that their hiding place was secure from the enemy, too wild and remote for discovery. With growing rage and pain he recognized Mooragooray’s woman and his two boys and then, near the rocks that had provided shelter and a measure of privacy, he found his love, her torn and mutilated body only barely recognizable in the dim forest light.
A madness filled him then, and his cry tore the fabric of the bush silence. The cockatoos screamed and rose from the trees, clouding the sky with color; the feral dogs whimpered and skulked away. His eyes streaming tears, Jake turned from the scene, wailing with grief and a fury too monstrous to contain, and ran back through the bush toward the white settlements. A week and a day later he was caught by soldiers and taken to Hobart Town. He was to be hanged in the square, but the Englishman, Collins, paid a high price for his life. He who had been a chief was now a slave and separated from his people forever.
At the edge of the courtyard, Katia stopped and knelt beside Mary. “I went into the nursery to kiss you. Your bed was empty and I thought…” Katia would not say what horrible thoughts had crossed her mind. For one instant she had imagined that Mary’s disappearance was the work of Oleg Romanov. Some nights earlier, he had spoken to her of another of his “object lessons”; and for a moment she had been certain that he had taken the child away somewhere.
Katia embraced Mary and wept against her fine golden hair. “He hasn’t hurt you. You’re alright. Thank God, my darling Marika. Thank God.”
She heard footsteps behind her, stood, whirled and protected the child behind her skirts. But the man before her was not Oleg Romanov. It was Alexei. Tears filled her eyes. “I thought you were…”
“Who?” Alexei had been on his way to Jake when he saw Katia, her arms around the child, her shoulders shaking with grief. “Are you alright, Katiana? Of whom are you afraid?” He stared deeply into her eyes hoping to penetrate to whatever strange power possessed her, but she turned away.
“I weep for happiness, my Lord.” Her words were almost honest, but what had begun as tears of relief and gladness at finding the child had become a welling up of shame and sorrow as soon as she saw Alexei. The palace was huge. They could live there together for weeks and yet never set eyes on one another; she could pretend that he was dead or had never existed until this moment when his handsome face, the concern in his voice, brought everything rushing back to her: the love, the fear, the shame.
His strong fingers gripped her shoulder. “Turn around, Katia. Do you hate me so much you cannot bear to see my face?”
“Oh no, my lord!” She turned to him, her warm moist lips trembling with intensity. “It is as I told you,” she struggled to compose herself. “I was weeping with relief. Mary wandered out into the park without a companion, and I thought I had lost her.”
For the first time, Alexei noticed the child staring up at him. He had heard of her from Princess Elizabeth who had led him to believe that the little girl was a kind of half-wit. Immediately, Alexei knew that this was not true. She might be impassive and silent but she was no more mentally askew than Black Jake. In a rush, he felt a great sorrow and crouched beside the child.
“She’s very lovely, Katia.” He was thinking of the children he would never have, of the hungry longing he sometimes experienced for a family. He glanced up at Katia who was looking down at him. He caught her off guard, and he saw on her face an expression of love that seemed to include both him and the child as well.
“Katia,” he said, standing up, his hand raised to touch her face. The courtyard was busy with Oleg Romanov’s servants, but Alexei didn’t care. He wanted Katia. Wanted her with a desire that engulfed him like a tide whenever he saw her. “All is not over between us. It cannot be. I see by your face that you are no more satisfied than I.”
A hundred thoughts flashed across Katia’s mind in the space of an instant. She loved him but she must not! If he knew he would
despise her! He was Elizabeth’s lover!
Her voice was hard. “Not satisfied, my lord? I am sure the Princess Elizabeth would be greatly distressed to hear that!”
“She means nothing to me, Katia. Surely you realize that? Who has poisoned your mind against me? Is it Oleg?”
Before he could stop her, she turned and hurried away from him. He called after her once as she had done that long ago day beside the sleigh train; but as he had ignored her cry that day, she ignored his now and left him alone, staring after the door through which she had entered the palace.
She had not answered his question, the one he most feared to ask. Had Oleg poisoned her against him? Was it possible that she and his cousin…He would not think of it. The thought disgusted and repelled him too much. Besides, it was illogical. No one as sweet and loving as Katiana Danova would become involved with scum like Oleg Romanov; and even if such a thing were possible, he would never keep her in his own palace, the home he shared with Princess Elizabeth. Elizabeth would never tolerate such a situation. Alexei weighed audibly. He had convinced himself that whatever troubled Katia and made her reject him, it was not his cousin.
But he must know the reason before he left for England. He and Katia had begun something and it must be finished before his mind would be easy. If he did not know the truth, once and for all, he knew he would spend the rest of his life wondering and longing for the convent girl. He continued to stare after her for some time; then, shaking himself slightly like a watchman who has drifted into unwanted sleep, he turned and walked away from the palace.
From her noisy bedroom overlooking the courtyard, Natasha Filippovna had watched the whole scene. Now she closed the curtains and threw herself across the satin-covered bed, her body wracked by sobs. It was all so much worse than she had realized! It was terrible enough that Katia and her foul cousin were…She could not even think the word ‘lovers.’ But now Natasha Filippovna realized that Alexei cared for her as well and that Katia returned his affection.
Caught between two cousins who hated one another with the fierceness of wild beasts, what chance was there for Katiana Danova, what chance for Natasha Kalino? Between sobs she was moaning over and over the same words, “It isn’t my fault. I did the best I could.” But in her heart, she knew that she was lying to herself. Her greed, her self-indulgence, had brought about this terrible triangle that could only end in pain for everyone.
“I did the best I could!” But she had not. She should have lied to Oleg long ago and never come to Petersburg with him. She should have resisted his devil temptations of a merry life, finery, rich food and all the indulgences that had corrupted her will and made her a party to unspeakable sin.
The coverlet beneath her face was wet with tears. She snuffled noisily and stirred herself, reaching for the jewel encrusted hand mirror beside the bed. She stared at her reflection, hardly able to believe what her eyes told her.
‘I am old,’ she thought. The face in the mirror no longer bore any resemblance to the young Nikki Kalino who had made a bargain with a Romanov princess, nor even to the Natasha Filippovna of a few months before. Pain and guilt had scoured her features with ugly lines; and as she peered, searching for some glimmer of her youth, she read the creases as a palmist tells the future from a hand. She saw her own death lined there and the damnation of her soul.
Chapter Twenty-three
The Masquerade Ball was held early that season. Though the air was clear, cold and dry, the ground had not yet frozen. As she and Oleg alighted from their carriage, Katia looked up and saw the vast sweep of stars overhead like an arbor strung with silver fireflies. The Winter Palace seemed like a star itself with all the lights of St. Petersburg reflected in its thousands of window panes.
In the crowded street around the palace, the gathered yantchiki filled the time while their privileged masters and mistresses danced and intrigued, by playing a noisy game of ball in and out among the parked carriages. For a moment, Katia was snared by a dusty memory of childish games played in the convent gardens; tag and hideaway. She envied the yantchiki their simple pleasures.
“Come along, Katia,” Oleg told her. “Your interest in the common folk is laudable, to be sure. But we must not tarry too long or we will lose the full effect of our entrance. Besides, I have spent far too much gold on these costumes to waste them on yantchiki and their accompanying vermin.” His hand firmly on her elbow, Oleg guided Katia up the broad marble steps of the brilliantly illuminated outer staircase. In the lofty domed entry with its pink and gold Rococco ceiling, their cloaks were taken by servants in red and gold livery.
“Nervous, my dear?” Oleg enquired as they waited to be announced. “You have no call to be. The city will adore you.”
“The society of St. Petersburg does not impress me, Your Highness,” Katia replied haughtily. It seemed incredible that Oleg should expect any experience to alarm or unnerve her after all she had been through at his hands. She told herself that this masquerade ball, this presentation to society—unofficial though it was—was simply the closing event in another day of her captivity.
Then she heard their fantasy identities announced.
“My Lords and Ladies, may I present…” The Majordomo had a monstrous booming voice that hushed the conversation in the ballroom. Hundreds of curious eyes looked up. There was a gasp. “…the Queen of Ice and her escort, Fire.”
Katia’s costume was designed to be both alluring and breathtakingly beautiful while still somewhat respectable. Oleg did not care to upset or displease the Czar with the least hint of impropriety. And he had been right when he guessed that Katia’s beauty would be enhanced by the simple elegance of the kaftan designed for her in silver net. It was worn over an underdress of sheer cashmere embroidered in silver thread. It was a flimsy clinging gown with the neckline cut almost as low as an undergarment. Through the diamond bright net of the kaftan, her supple young body was softly outlined as she descended the stairs. Around her throat and filling the space between her breasts were chains of white gold and diamonds. Her fingers sparkled with gems; her arms were ringed with glitter. She held a mask before her on a diamond encrusted stick. The mask itself was covered with flashing crystals; and on either side, upswings of silver-tipped feathers brought from the orient concealed her face entirely.
Oleg, as her escort, Fire, wore close-fitting leggings of brilliant crimson velvet. His shirt, billowy and full-sleeved like a gypsy dancer’s, was made of satin the colour of fire. Over this he wore a wide swirling cape of matching brocade and gold work. The mask that concealed his true identity was constructed of amber shards fashioned to represent tongues of flame arching up and around his face.
They made a magnificent couple. Even Katia could admit that. On the surface, they appeared to be the perfection of Russia—handsome, well-built, arrogantly sure of themselves—but beneath this facade was an ugly truth Katia now imagined she saw in everyone everywhere. All the men in the ballroom were as deceitful and insensitive as Alexei, cruel and greedy as Oleg. The women were like herself, like Nikki and Princess Elizabeth: frightened, envious, worried, bitter. It gave her a sense of personal power to know this truth about people. She told herself that now no one would ever be able to hurt or disappoint her again.
Her beringed hand, raised gracefully to eye level, rested lightly on Oleg’s as they slowly descended the sweeping arc of staircase into the ballroom. Safely concealed behind her plumed mask, Katia surveyed the room; while the costumed men below—the imitation Greek gods, the kings of fantasy and history, the harlequins, the jesters, the rakes and mythic satyrs—watched her with brightening eyes. She wondered how many of them would volunteer to help if she told them she was Prince Oleg’s captive. She thought not many would be brave enough. But supposing one did, what would he expect from her in return? Katia knew the answer well enough by now. They were all the same; some men were simply more successful at disguising their true natures. Like Alexei.
She looked for him among the knights in
silver chain mail, bejeweled residents of Olympus and Valhalla, men in uniforms, robes, masks made heavy with gold and gems. She saw Ivan the Terrible dressed as if for his coronation surrounded by a wood sprite draped in amber weeds, a French queen, a pirate lady.
There he was! Katia could not repress a smile. Only Alexei would dare attend the Czar’s masquerade unmasked and in peasant dress this year when the Czar was notoriously touchy. Before she could stop herself, she thought, ‘How handsome he is!’ Beside the jeweled opulence of the other revellers, Alexei’s dark trousers of plaited leather, the embroidered and appliquéd sheepskin vest, were rough and a bit uncouth. But he exuded a sure masculinity that made all the other men in the room effeminate by contrast.
Compared to Alexei, Oleg was a preposterous plumed cock. And she? She was a frozen bird of paradise who melted a little when she let her gaze linger a moment on Alexei’s mouth to watch the way he formed his words. Then she reminded herself that he was speaking to Elizabeth Romanov, the pirate lady. He was her lover. Alexei Romanov was as treacherous as any man. The more so because he hid it so well when he wanted to.
As Oleg and Katia reached the foot of the stairs, the orchestra began a waltz; and she was swept away in Oleg’s arms. They turned and dipped in ever-widening circles around the polished wood floor, weaving among the other couples, sparkling like two fabulous gems in the light of dozens of crystal and gold chandeliers and scores of jeweled sconces.
Oleg, though an excellent dancer, did not care for the pastime. When the orchestra began a gavot, he insisted that they leave the floor. Reluctantly, Katia accompanied him. A dozen men might have begged to be her partner, but Oleg kept her close beside him at all times.
The Frost And The Flame Page 21
