The Passion and the Flower

by Barbara Cartland

  Lokita gave a little cry.

  “Andy!”

  With what was obviously an effort Miss Anderson laid her hand over Lokita’s.

  “Don’t be unhappy, my dearest,” she said. “I have done what had to be done and I was afraid that I would die before I could tell you the truth. Now I am released from my vow of silence.”

  Lokita looked up at her wide-eyed and Miss Anderson explained,

  “It was a vow that I gave to your mother and to your father and, thank God, I have been able to keep it.”

  Her voice was low but clear.

  After a moment she went on speaking to the Prince.

  “You have, I know, wondered who Lokita is and why there was so much secrecy about her. Well, now I can tell you. She is the daughter of Lord Leightonstone and Her Imperial Highness Princess Natasha!”

  The Prince gave an exclamation.

  “Can you possibly mean – my cousin?”

  Miss Anderson nodded her head.

  “Your cousin, Your Highness, daughter of the Grand Duke Boris.”

  The Prince stared at her incredulously.

  “How can that be possible – ?”

  Miss Anderson put up her hand to silence him and then slowly with difficulty she began to speak.

  Sometimes her voice was so faint that the two men had to bend forward so as not to miss a word.

  At other times it was as if some hidden strength within her gave her an inner power to speak clearly and almost forcefully.

  It had all begun in 1847 when the Princess Natasha, one of the most beautiful girls at the Russian Court, had fallen in love with an unimportant young Diplomat at the British Embassy called Michael Leighton.

  They had met secretly and by some extraordinary good fortune no one in the Winter Palace had any idea of what was happening.

  Only Princess Natasha’s Governess, Miss Anderson, who had looked after her since she was quite small, had been aware that her love for the young Englishman and his for her was becoming uncontrollable.

  Czar Nicholas ruled his relatives and his whole Court not only with a rod of iron but with a cruelty that made them all desperately afraid of him.

  Because she was terrified that Princess Natasha would betray herself, Miss Anderson had agreed that they should leave St. Petersburg and go to Odessa where the Grand Duke had built a Palace in the new Province of Bessarabia.

  Even Miss Anderson had not known of the Princess’s plan that, when they were only fifty miles from the Capital, Michael Leighton should join them.

  They were married in a small village by a Priest who had no idea of the Princess’s position and Royal blood.

  They had travelled on together and the journey, from being one of weariness and difficulties, had become weeks of unbelievable happiness and joy.

  When they reached the peace and beauty of Odessa and were alone in the Grand Duke’s Palace with only the faithful serfs to know what was happening, it was a Paradise on earth to the lovers.

  Never had Miss Anderson known two people to be so happy or so wildly and overwhelmingly in love.

  The excuse of ill-health that had enabled Princess Natasha to seek the warm sunshine of the South also served Michael Leighton.

  He excused himself from his Diplomatic duties on the plea of illness and it seemed to Miss Anderson that no one remembered the two young people or cared what had become of them.

  Natasha’s father, the Grand Duke, had recently taken a new wife who was jealous of her stepdaughter and was glad to be rid of her.

  There was therefore no one to ask questions or interfere and, when the following year Lokita was born, Miss Anderson became her only Godparent.

  “You must look after Lokita as you have looked after me, Andy,” the Princess Natasha had said in her soft voice, “and because she is born of love perhaps one day she will be as happy as I am.”

  Because they were so desperately in love the Princess and her husband left Lokita to Miss Anderson to look after and were content to be alone with each other for most of the time.

  Then one day, one terrifying day that would always be engraved on Miss Anderson’s mind, a servant whom they trusted arrived post haste from St. Petersburg.

  He had ridden by day and by night to reach them and was, he told them, only a little ahead of the Cheka or Secret Police.

  As she listened to what he had to say. Miss Anderson realised that all along they had been living in a fool’s Paradise.

  It was inevitable that sooner or later the Czar or those who toadied to him would become suspicious.

  What they learnt now with growing horror was that someone had put the idea into the Czar’s head that his cousin and relative, Princess Natasha, was not alone.

  The Secret Police had orders to kill immediately any man who might be found with her and there would be no question of his being able to ask for mercy or justice.

  Frantic with fear not only for her husband but for her child, Princess Natasha insisted that he and Lokita should leave that very night in a ship that was sailing from Odessa to Constantinople.

  Miss Anderson said that she would go with them.

  Carrying the baby in her arms she left the villa, unable because of her tears to see the face of the girl she had loved and taught ever since she was a small child.

  The agony of parting was almost too much for Michael Leighton, but he knew that he had to save his daughter’s life.

  They left Constantinople as quickly as possible for Cannes in the South of France where Michael Leighton had arranged with Natasha to communicate with him.

  He waited for a month before he received a letter. Then it came to him through the British Consul, who had received it in the Diplomatic Bag from the British Embassy in St. Petersburg.

  When he read what his wife had written to him, Michael Leighton had nearly gone mad.

  The Czar had made Natasha return to St. Petersburg because he had arranged for her marriage with the Grand Duke Frederick of Krasnick.

  Natasha told Michael that she had pleaded with the Czar saying that she could not marry a man she did not love, but he had merely ordered her to do as she was told.

  As Michael Leighton knew only too well, if everyone did not obey the Czar the moment he commanded it, he either sent them to Siberia or worse had them certified insane.

  Natasha had no choice. To reveal that she was already married would have been to sign Michael and Lokita’s death warrants.

  It was Miss Anderson who finally persuaded the distraught and despairing young man that the best thing he could do was to go back to work.

  He had returned to London and had been appointed first to the British Embassy in Rome and then later to Brussels.

  And it was Miss Anderson who decided that it would be best for Lokita if they made their home in Paris.

  She knew that it would be all too easy for people to learn details of a young Diplomat’s private life in Italy, in Belgium and indeed in any Capital with the exception of Paris.

  There, where every man whatever his profession was expected to have a liaison of some sort, no one would think it in the least extraordinary if a house on the outskirts of the Bois de Boulogne belonged to a young Englishman.

  Michael Leighton rose rapidly in the Diplomatic world. He was knighted before he died and became Lord Leightonstone.

  Only Miss Anderson knew how cruelly he suffered at the thought of the woman he loved with all his heart being married to another man.

  Just once was Natasha able to see Lokita and that was after she had been the Grand Duchess of Krasnick for over five years. She let Michael Leighton know that she was going alone to Odessa for a holiday.

  What it must have meant for her to see her real husband again and for Michael to hold her in his arms was impossible to describe.

  As Miss Anderson’s voice faltered and there was a sudden mist of tears in her eyes, those listening to her knew how emotional that meeting had been after the yacht had anchored in Odessa Harbour late one night. />
  The Grand Duchess of Krasnick had died when Lokita was fourteen, but still there was need for secrecy.

  Czar Nicholas had in 1855 been succeeded by his more liberally-minded son, Alexander II.

  There was no longer the fear of the Secret Police finding out about Lokita and murdering both her and her father as would have happened in the past, but the Grand Duke was still alive and there could be a scandal that would affect the Monarchy of his country and Natasha’s.

  Miss Anderson had therefore been tied to her vow, but she had known that her life was ebbing to a close and that she must protect Lokita’s future.

  Desperately she had tried to marry her to Lord Marston, feeling that if she was married to an Englishman as her mother had been at least she would be safe from the type of dissolute men who would pursue her only for her beauty.

  What she had not anticipated was that Lokita like her mother would fall wildly and overwhelmingly in love the moment she saw the man who was meant for her by Fate.

  Frantically Miss Anderson had tried to fight both the Prince and Lokita!

  But now, as she came to the end of her story, her voice very weak and hardly audible, there was a smile on her lips.

  “Now you know the truth,” she asked the Prince, “can you put things right for Lokita – in the future?”

  The Prince bent forward to take Miss Anderson’s hand in his.

  “I can only thank you,” he said in his deep voice,” for all the love and all the care you have given Lokita. I know that, when he hears what has happened, the Czar will grant us permission to marry. I will devote my life to her and leave for Russia tonight.”

  He bent his head and kissed Miss Anderson’s hand and he felt that for a moment her fingers tightened on his.

  Then she turned her face towards Lokita’s and even as she did so there came a little gasp from between her lips and her body seemed to sag against the pillows.

  For a moment even Lord Marston did not understand what had happened and then Lokita gave a cry that seemed to ring out in the room.

  “Andy! Andy!”

  It was the cry of a child who was lost in the dark.

  Then the Prince’s arms were round her, holding her, comforting her.

  Chapter Seven

  “I remember it – I do remember it!” Lokita exclaimed.

  She was standing on the deck of the yacht as it moved into Odessa Bay and Lord Marston standing beside her smiled at her excitement.

  The Harbour was certainly very beautiful in the sunshine and beyond it they could see the Colleges, the Opera House and the fine new buildings that had been built by Prince Voronzov when he had become Governor-General of New Russia and Bessarabia.

  He had been sent by the Czar to the South to create a new Province and it was only then that his brilliant powers of organisation were realised.

  No architect could have had a finer terrain for his plans and with the repopulation of the desolate steppe country North of the Black Sea and the introduction of steam navigation the land around Odessa flourished.

  As they came towards the beautiful City, Lord Marston had told Lokita how the Prince had imported English cattle and caused numbers of French viniculturists to stock and supervise the New Crimean vineyards.

  She had been deeply interested in everything Lord Marston said because it was impossible for her thoughts to wander even for a few minutes from anything that concerned the Prince.

  All the time they had travelled from Paris to Odessa it had seemed to Lord Marston that her love and her beauty increased together day by day, until he wondered if it was possible for there to be a lovelier woman in the whole of the world.

  The Prince had kept his promise to Miss Anderson and had left for Russia almost immediately after her death.

  It was Lord Marston who had supervised the funeral and had comforted not only Lokita but also Marie and Serge.

  It was when they had come back from the little English Cemetery that he told Lokita what the Prince’s plans were for her.

  “As soon as you feel like travelling,” he said, “we are journeying to Marseilles where his yacht will be waiting for us.”

  “Where are we going?” Lokita asked and her eyes, which had been dull with weeping, had a new light in them.

  “Somewhere you have been twice before in your life, although I doubt if you will remember much about it,” Lord Marston replied with a smile.

  “Odessa!”

  Lokita had hardly been able to breathe the word.

  Lord Marston nodded.

  “The Prince has a Palace there, but he has not spent much time in it in the last few years.”

  “Odessa!” Lokita said almost beneath her breath and Lord Marston knew that she connected it not only with her father whom she had loved so deeply but also with her mother.

  They had, however, stayed on in Paris for a short while so that Lokita could buy clothes.

  On her behalf Lord Marston was in touch with her father’s Solicitor and found that there was quite a large sum of money waiting to be claimed and an allowance that would be paid to her every month.

  It was very small compared to what the Prince had already settled on her when he had arranged their pretended marriage.

  Lord Marston, however, did not refer to this, but merely told Lokita that she could spend any sum she wished and he would arrange the payments.

  She had gone to Worth’s because no one else in Paris had such imagination or could create the fairy-like quality in his gowns that Lokita portrayed in her dancing.

  From the first moment she met the famous English couturier he had concentrated all his brilliance on creating a frame for her unusual beauty.

  Worth had just decreed that the crinoline, which had lasted for eight years, was to disappear and now the gowns were swept to the back and the materials of fragile lace, tulle and satin were particularly becoming to Lokita.

  Because she was choosing gowns that she would wear for the man she loved, she was not only patient during the long fittings, but when it was finished gave every gown she wore a mystique that no other woman could have achieved.

  Looking at her now with her fair hair glinting in the brilliant sunshine, the pale green gown she wore echoing the green of her eyes. Lord Marston thought that, if the Prince was an exceptional personality, Lokita was no less outstanding.

  He had loved the Prince ever since they had been boys together and he knew that in Lokita his friend had found someone not only worthy of him, but who would develop the deep potential in his character that was still dormant.

  “Can we go ashore?” Lokita asked eagerly.

  “We must wait for our instructions,” Lord Marston replied with a smile.

  At every Port they had stopped at on their way to Odessa, there had been letters from the Prince with flowers and gifts for Lokita.

  She was so eager to hear from him that whatever time of day or night they arrived, however early in the morning, she was always on deck waiting for the messenger who she knew would be standing on the quay.

  The letters came to them by express train, but to Lokita they were as exciting and romantic as if they had been conveyed by horses galloping over wild uninhabited country.

  She almost expected to see the messenger gallop into the quayside standing up in the stirrups, the reins held in his teeth, and flourishing a kindjal or shashka in each hand.

  It was the way, Lokita knew, the Caucasian guards known as the ‘Furious Eagles’ showed off their wonderful feats of horsemanship and Lord Marston had described to her how he had seen the Prince ride with his troops in just such a manner.

  The letters when she received them, however they were conveyed, brought a flush to her cheeks and a happiness to her eyes that gave her a new beauty.

  Never had she thought to receive such eloquent love letters written with such force and power that it made her feel as if the Prince was beside her speaking the words in his deep voice which made her heart vibrate to his.

  Not o
nly his letters but the flowers that waited for her in an almost overwhelming profusion held a special message that only she could understand.

  Star-shaped orchids, pure lilies, roses in bud, tuberoses, jasmine and white lilac, they all meant something to her personally and the Prince spoke to her through them.

  There were presents too, such as she had never dreamt she might possess, rows of pearls, small and perfect, which seemed to glow translucent against her skin.

  Three little diamond brooches fashioned like butterflies in a case with nothing flamboyant about them such as the one he had offered her before they had met, but exquisite in every detail, all masterpieces in miniature.

  At one Port of Call there was a small birdcage and the bird that sang when a small lever was pressed. It had been made by a Master hand of precious jewels.

  Now the yacht was tied up against the quay, the gangplank let down and, resplendent in the Prince’s livery, a messenger came on board.

  Before he could present what he held in his hand Lokita asked impulsively,

  “You have a letter from His Highness?”

  “It is here, Knyieza,” he answered addressing her in the same way that Serge had always done.

  He gave a large envelope into Lokita’s hand and then bowing presented another to Lord Marston.

  Lokita ran into the Saloon so that she could be alone.

  Her heart was beating and her fingers were trembling as she opened the envelope.

  She had expected a long letter, but there were only a few words.

  “Tonight, my darling, my love, my star whom I worship, we shall be one.

  Ivan.”

  She kissed the letter and pressed it against her breast.

  She was standing, her face radiant with happiness as Lord Marston came into the Saloon.

  “He is here!” Lokita cried before he could speak. “Can we go ashore and see him now?”

  “I have been given very detailed instructions as to what we are to do,” Lord Marston replied, “and I think the Prince is obeying the old superstition that a bridegroom should not see his bride on their Wedding day before they meet at the altar.”