The Passion and the Flower

by Barbara Cartland

  “We are to be – married – today!”

  Lokita could hardly breathe the words.

  “This evening,” Lord Marston answered, “and, judging by the boxes that are being carried aboard, the Prince has sent you a number of presents.”

  “I only want him,” Lokita said almost beneath her breath, but Lord Marston heard.

  “From what he wrote to me he is as impatient as you are.”

  “Oh, Hugo!” Lokita exclaimed, “Do you think my gown is beautiful enough? Suppose when he sees me again he is disappointed?”

  “I don’t think you need worry about that,” Lord Marston replied, remembering that the Prince’s words had seemed almost to burn the paper.

  Despite the fact that it seemed to Lokita a very long time before eventually they could go ashore, there was a great deal to do.

  The Prince’s presents she found included jewellery that left her breathless.

  There was for her to wear at her Wedding a Russian tiara designed in the traditional style that was like a halo encircling her head from one ear to the other.

  It was fashioned of stars set with diamonds and to wear round her neck there was a necklace in the same design.

  As if he had anticipated that the jewels she would wear would be magnificent, Mr. Worth’s design for Lokita’s Wedding gown had been comparatively simple.

  Of the finest lace it revealed the soft curves of her figure so that from the front she looked like a Grecian goddess and at the back there was a long train frothing out in soft frills surmounted by a large bow of white satin.

  It made Lokita look very young and very ethereal, but when her jewels were added she looked resplendent and, as Lord Marston told her – Royal.

  “That is in fact what you are,” he said.

  She looked at him enquiringly and he explained,

  “The Czar has not only given his permission for you to marry the Prince but by a special Ukaze to the Senate you have been given the name and rank of Princess Lokita Kurievski. It is, of course, a name in your mother’s family.”

  Lokita clasped her hands together.

  It was difficult to explain even to Lord Marston how much this meant to her.

  She had felt, because her existence had been secret for so long, that the Prince was marrying beneath him, someone of no account, someone his family would condescend to.

  But now she was acknowledged in her own right and she knew that she could hold her head high and not be ashamed of her background.

  It had been exciting and in some ways a relief to know that in fact, as her father’s daughter, she was the Honourable Lokita Leighton, a name that until now she had never been able to use. But she was now also a Princess, the equal of the man she was to marry.

  And, although she told herself that where the Prince was concerned it was not of any consequence, it would affect her status in Russia and, she told herself with a little blush, it would make things easier for their children when they had them.

  Finally Lokita, fussed over by Marie, was ready and she went into the Saloon where Lord Marston was waiting for her and sipping a glass of champagne as he did so.

  He too was looking unusually handsome and resplendent and Lokita’s eyes widened at the sight of him.

  She had never before seen him in his Diplomatic uniform.

  With his silk stockings, his knee breeches and his gold embroidered coat he looked as her father had when sometimes he had left the little house in the Bois de Boulogne to go to the British Embassy or to the Tuileries.

  Then she had been left behind, but now this evening she was to step into a new world, a world that never before had she even crossed the threshold into.

  “You look very lovely, Lokita,” Lord Marston smiled.

  “Do – I really?” she asked.

  He knew that she was not fishing for compliments, but anxious that she would be in every way perfection for the man who would be waiting for her.

  “I cannot believe that anywhere in the world there could be a more beautiful bride!”

  The veil Lokita wore did not cover her face, but hung from her tiara over her hair at the back and reached to the floor.

  It seemed almost to envelop her like a cloud and Lord Marston was sure that the Prince would feel that she was in reality a Goddess come down from the sky to be his bride.

  He gave a glass of champagne into Lokita’s hand.

  “Drink a little,” he advised, “because although it will not be a long service it will be, I am sure, something of an ordeal.”

  “All I am thinking of is that I shall see – Ivan,” Lokita murmured.

  “I am sure he is thinking the same thing,” Lord Marston declared.

  As if she suddenly remembered, Lokita then said,

  “In case I overlook it later, Hugo, I want to thank you now for all your kindness to me. No one could have been more understanding or more marvellous than you have been.”

  Lord Marston smiled again.

  “I have been wondering, as we travelled here together, whether it was a compliment or an insult that Ivan trusted me to be alone with you.”

  Lokita gave a little laugh.

  “He knew that you are his good friend and that I could never look at any man except for him.”

  She paused and her eyes were very soft as she went on,

  “But, although my heart belongs to Ivan, there is a special place in it which is always yours.”

  The way she spoke was moving and Lord Marston lifted her hand to his lips.

  “I am only hoping,” he said, “although I feel it is optimistic to do so, that one day I will find a wife who is not only as lovely but also as sweet as you.”

  “Oh, Hugo, I hope so!”

  They smiled at each other and then Lord Marston picked up the wrap that went with Lokita’s gown and put it over her shoulders.

  The heat of the day had passed, but it was still very warm and the sun glinted on the roofs and spires of Odessa turning them to burnished gold.

  Lord Marston walked with Lokita down the gangplank and there waiting for them was a troika not only elaborately carved, painted and gilded but also decorated with flowers.

  It was drawn by four magnificent horses with flowers in their manes and garlands round their necks.

  “How pretty!” Lokita exclaimed breathlessly.

  As Lord Marston helped her into it, the crowd that had gathered on the quayside cheered and wished her good luck.

  “I can understand everything they are saying to me,” Lokita said excitedly.

  She had been studying Russian during the voyage and had talked with Serge for several hours every day.

  It was obvious, Lord Marston thought, that she had an aptitude for languages, which was not surprising.

  At the same time Russian was complicated and difficult, especially with the various dialects, and he himself had always been grateful for the fact that the Russian aristocracy invariably spoke French to each other.

  But Russian was to Lokita part of the Prince and she was determined to be exceedingly proficient in everything concerned with him.

  The troika drove off at a speed that was characteristic and now they could see flowers everywhere and dominating everything were the tall, lofty, romantic cypress trees.

  The first two had been planted by the Empress Catherine on her journey with Prince Potemkin to her Southern possessions. From these trees were grafted all the many cypress groves and alleys which had come to be typical of the Crimean landscape.

  They passed through the City and now they were out in what Lord Marston had always thought of as a fabled land, radiant and improbable.

  They drove along the coast. Then suddenly, rising one hundred and fifty feet sheer above the Black Sea, Lokita saw The Palace, its roofs and towers gleaming above the trees encircling it.

  At the sight of it she drew in her breath and Lord Marston could understand that she was moved by the beauty of it, as indeed he was.

  Silhouetted against the gle
aming gold and crimson of the setting sun it had a splendour and at the same time a beauty that made it seem to have been transported straight from a tale of The Arabian Nights.

  Now the troika, moving at an almost incredible speed, swept in through some great gates and up a broad drive that was bordered with brilliant flowers and shrubs in every colour.

  Then there were pillars and marble steps and The Palace seemed overpoweringly magnificent and yet it had a charm that was somehow intimate and inescapable.

  There were rows of liveried servants and a Major Domo resplendent with gold braid to escort them.

  The marble, lapis-lazuli, onyx, jasper and malachite of the interior of The Palace and its treasures were almost obscured by masses of white flowers.

  It was all enormously impressive and Lord Marston felt Lokita’s hand trembling a little on his arm as they followed the Major Domo through halls and down wide corridors.

  Then there was the sound of music through the open doors of a Chapel and the aroma of incense.

  A servant came forward to hand Lokita a bouquet and she took it from him, dropping her eyes as if she was suddenly shy and a little afraid of what lay ahead.

  Lord Marston covered her hand on his arm with his in a gesture of reassurance and then very slowly they moved forward into the Chapel.

  The music seemed to swell into a paean of thanksgiving. There were the seven gleaming silver sanctuary lamps, a blinding array of candles, flowers, the Priests’ embroidered vestments and ikons.

  Lokita raised her eyes to the Prince.

  He was waiting for them at the altar steps and Lord Marston, who had seen the Prince in many different uniforms, had never seen him look so magnificent.

  He wore the long becoming tunic, clasped high at the neck, which was traditionally Russian, but it was white and white fox fur encircled the hem of it where it reached his hips.

  His breast blazed with decorations that gave him an authority and an air of importance that was awe-inspiring.

  Yet Lokita looking at him was conscious only that he was there and that she loved him.

  She saw the fire in his eyes and knew that he had hungered and longed for her in the days they had been apart, which at times had seemed interminable.

  The Service began and then Lokita knew as they said their marriage vows that they were encompassed about with those they loved and who still loved them.

  She felt that her father and mother were beside her and that Ivan’s mother was with him and, as the Priest joined them in marriage, they were there and the whole Chapel was filled with love and the Blessing of God.

  They clasped the burning candles, the two crowns were held over their heads and finally they were blessed by God and the Church.

  Then, when the Prince drew Lokita down the short aisle and back into The Palace, everyone disappeared except him and they were alone.

  He did not speak, he merely took her into a room that was circular in shape and decorated with the star orchids that meant so much to both of them.

  The delicate flowers covered the table, climbed up the walls and hung in wreaths from the ceiling.

  The Prince drew out a chair so that she could sit down at the table and then he sat beside her and his eyes gazed into hers.

  “My – wife!”

  He said the words beneath his breath and yet she heard them.

  There was the music of violins, but they could not see the musicians. The servants who brought them food wore white.

  Lokita had no idea what she ate and drank, she only knew that her whole being was throbbing because the Prince was beside her and even if they spoke commonplaces to each other every word had an inner meaning so that her heart spoke to his heart, her soul to his soul.

  Afterwards she remembered nothing he said in actual words.

  Yet she felt that she told him her whole life story until they had met and how she had missed him and longed for him during what had seemed to her to be a voyage centuries long from Marseilles to Odessa.

  At last the meal was finished and the servants withdrew and they were alone.

  The Prince sat back in his carved armchair surmounted with a cross and lifted a glass to his lips.

  “I have dreamt of seeing you here,” he said softly, “as my wife and my love, knowing that we have a whole lifetime in front of us.”

  “What did the Czar – say?” Lokita questioned.

  She supposed that it was a question she should have asked before, but somehow it had seemed unimportant.

  “His Majesty was very understanding,” the Prince answered, “and now there is always a position for you at Court, not only as my wife but as your mother’s daughter.”

  “There will be no – scandal?”

  The Prince shook his head.

  “You need not be afraid of that. An explanation has been found for your presence. I don’t wish to bother you with it for the moment. I want only to talk about us.”

  His voice deepened on the last words and now Lokita’s eyes fell before his because she was feeling shy.

  “We have so many important things to say to each other,” the Prince said. “Shall we go where we can talk without being distracted? Where I have made, my beautiful darling, a special place for you and for our love?”

  Lokita looked at him enquiringly and he rose from the table holding out his hand and she put hers in it.

  There was a long French window in the room opening onto the garden.

  The Prince drew aside the lace curtains that covered it and Lokita stepped out onto the terrace to find that the sun had sunk below the horizon and there was only a faint glow of crimson left.

  It was dusk and the stars were just coming out in the sable of the sky overhead and the garden was full of mystical shadows and music.

  It was the music Lokita recognised as belonging to gypsies with none of the wild high notes of their violins but the tinkle of cymbals and the melody of the accordions.

  Then, as she stood there beside the Prince, her hands resting for a moment on the stone balustrade, suddenly as if at some given signal the garden came to life.

  Lights began to glow in the distance and to flow nearer and nearer in a strange way which she had been told by Lord Marston was something that had been achieved in the gardens inside the Winter Palace.

  But this was outside and it was impossible to think that anything could be more beautiful as she realised gradually that the whole garden in front of her was planted with arum lilies and they were lit from beneath.

  Now she could see that the flowering shrubs that encircled the rest of the garden were all white – everything was white and pure and had, Lokita knew, a special meaning for them both.

  “It is – lovely! So very – very lovely!” she enthused.

  “Like you, my precious flower,” the Prince answered, “and tonight as there is no Russian party like the one you missed in Paris, I have created a background for your beauty and perfection.”

  She looked up at him with a little smile and he said almost fiercely,

  “You are perfect – perfect as no other woman has ever been. As I have told you before, there are no words for me to tell you what you mean to me.”

  Lokita felt herself tremble because of the passion beneath his words and how he drew her along the terrace and down the wide steps into the garden.

  They moved to music that made her feel as if she danced on air through the fragrant lilies and she thought that they were like an enchanted sea and that they themselves were enchanted.

  They walked among the illuminated blooms through the shrubs to where at the far end of the garden out of sight of the house there was a small white pavilion.

  It was not made of marble as she might have expected, but of a special precious stone that had been quarried in the Urals and was so rare and so beautiful that it reminded her immediately of the petals of a star orchid.

  The Prince drew her inside and she saw that in the centre of the pavilion was a large room with only three wall
s and where the fourth should have been there was only the night.

  Below it was a sheer drop to the sea and the vista in front was of the horizon merging with the sky and it was impossible to know where one began and the other ended.

  For the moment Lokita was spellbound by what she saw in front of her. Then she realised that the room, like the one where they had dined, was decorated with white flowers, but these were not orchids but roses and tuberoses, the flowers of passion.

  The only piece of furniture in the room was a huge couch, covered with white petals. From the ceiling above their heads every few seconds more petals soft and scented floated like a message of love to the ground.

  The scent of the flowers combined with the music that throbbed in Lokita’s head made her feel more excited than she had ever felt in her whole life.

  The light, which was hidden and dim, came from behind the walls, but was just strong enough for Lokita to see the Prince’s face and the expression in his eyes.

  As she turned to look at him, the words she was about to say died on her lips and she could only feel that without even moving she reached out towards him and became a part of him.

  “I love you!” the Prince said hoarsely. “How am I to tell you how much I love you and how much you mean to me?”

  “I am so – afraid that I am dreaming,” Lokita whispered. “Only a dream could be so beautiful and – you would be there.”

  “I am here!” the Prince said.

  Slowly and, as if he forced himself to be very gentle, he put out his arms and drew her to him.

  He looked down into her eyes, but he did not kiss her as she had expected. Instead he took the diamond tiara and the veil from her head and threw them carelessly onto the ground amongst the petals.

  He undid her necklace and then raised his hands to pull the pins from her fair hair so that it fell over her shoulders. As it did so, she felt him draw in his breath.

  “This is how I have wanted to see you,” he said. “This is how I want you and I have never been so afraid in my whole life as I was when I thought I had lost you.”

  “We have not lost each other,” Lokita murmured. “We are – married and I am your – wife.”

  She said it almost wonderingly, conscious of the ring that encircled her finger and finding it hard to believe that now she really had a name and an identity.