“I love you. Oh, my precious lady, I loved you from that first moment when I saw you in your father-in-law’s house. I knew then you were the woman I had been waiting for all my life. I can’t tell you how I know that this is different from anything I have ever felt before, but it is different.”
“How?”
“Look at me!”
She threw back her head and then his lips found her half-open mouth. He thought, as he kissed her, that this was the first time he had ever realised what a kiss could mean.
Never before had any woman evoked such emotion within him. He felt himself tremble as he held her and he was for a moment almost faint with the violence of his desire.
“I love you.”
And because there seemed no other words that could be said at that moment, he repeated,
“I love you. I love you. I love you!”
Then, as gently as she had yielded to him, Julia drew away.
“I love you too,” she said in her soft, sweet, serious voice. “Love came to me as it came to you, the moment when we met at the reception.”
“Say it again,” his voice was hoarse, “say it again so that I can really believe it is true. Oh, Julia, say that you love me.”
“I love you.”
He thought all the beauty of the whole world lay in her face and in her voice as she spoke.
But when he would have taken her in his arms again, she said,
“No, don’t touch me yet. There is something I have to say to you.”
“What is it, my darling? God, how wonderful you are!”
She leaned back against the trunk of the tree.
Her lips, warm from his kisses, were a bright splash of colour in the pale loveliness of her face and her grey eyes were shining.
The rain was like a silver curtain shutting them out from the world so that they were alone in a secret place of their own.
“Let me kiss you again,” Prince Metternich begged.
“No, wait till I have said what I have to say,” she answered.
“Yes, what is it?”
It was hard to listen when his whole body ached for the touch of hers.
“I love you,” she said slowly, “and I believe that you love me. But love to me is very different from what is generally accepted as love by our friends.”
“How can you compare what I feel for you with anything anyone else has ever felt before?” Prince Metternich enquired.
“You have loved many women before, if all reports are true.”
“I have never loved anyone until this moment. I have told you that my love for you is different and I will swear on the Bible that is true. I have never said to another woman before that she was different from all other women, but I say it to you and I mean it.”
“I think I believe you, darling,” she said, “and if you love me as you say you do, then you will not find what I am going to ask you to do too difficult to perform.”
“What is it?” the Prince enquired. “There is nothing that you could ask of me that I would not do, nothing I would not give you. My darling, must we talk when I might be touching you? I want to possess you, I want to make you mine. I want to be sure of you as I have never wanted to be sure of any other woman.”
“And I want that, too,” she answered softly. “I want to be yours.”
“Oh, my God!”
The idea of the surrender of herself was too much for him.
He took her in his arms and covered her face with kisses. He rained them on her eyes, her lips, her cheeks. He kissed her throat where a small pulse was beating wildly and then again he crushed her mouth beneath his until it was almost impossible for either of them to breathe.
When finally she disengaged herself from his arms, her breath was coming brokenly.
There was colour in her cheeks and her breasts were moving tumultuously beneath the tight-fitting coat of her habit.
“You love me!”
He repeated the words as if he spoke of a miracle.
“Yes, I love you – but please, Clement, you must listen to me now. You are not to kiss me again until you have heard what I have to say.”
“You tempt me beyond all endurance.”
“Then I must be swift in what I have to say,” she answered with a faint smile.
“Hurry then,” he commanded, his eyes on her mouth.
“It is this,” she said. “Love to me is too great and too wonderful to be trifled with. It is, in fact, not only my body that I shall give you, but my thoughts, my feelings, my heart, my soul. I could not give that lightly to anyone who would accept it lightly. We both of us have our commitments where marriage is concerned – that is a thing apart and cannot be altered or changed – but our love is free to give or withhold. I can give you mine on one condition and one condition only.”
“What is that, my darling? “he asked fondly.
“That you give me in return,” Julia answered, “absolute fidelity, that you pledge me your heart and soul as I pledge you mine, forsaking all other women and being completely and indivisibly mine as I shall be yours.”
Chapter 9
Wanda looked round her in astonishment.
She had already grown used to seeing magnificent pomp and splendour wherever she went in Vienna, but tonight, at a fête given by the Czar in honour of his sister, everything that had happened before seemed to pale into insignificance.
The party was being held in Count Razumovsky’s Palace. The vast riding school had been converted into a ballroom and the corps de ballet had been brought from the Imperial Theatre in Moscow.
Everyone who had been invited, including Wanda, had expected to see something unusual, but even they were awestruck at the magnificence with which everything was presented that evening.
It was difficult for anyone to surpass the fêtes already given.
The Metternich Ball, where the guests sat down to supper in a grove of orange trees, Baron Arnstein’s, where flowers covered the walls and staircases and Lord Castlereagh’s great Gala Ball, where his Lordship danced a Scottish reel and her Ladyship wore her husband’s Order of the Garter in her hair, had already created a precedent that it was hard to rival.
But Count Razumovsky, on behalf of the Czar, was determined that the Russian Ball should be the talk of Vienna, at least until another and richer host provided an even more fantastic entertainment.
The guests had, of course, heard whispers of what was to be provided for their delectation. The Baroness had been told on good authority that everyone at supper was to receive a plateful of cherries that had come from the Imperial gardens at St. Petersburg at the cost of a gold piece for each and every cherry.
Strawberries had been brought from the Royal gardens of England, grapes from Burgundy, truffles from Périgord, oysters from Ostend and oranges from Palermo.
People had chattered so much about what they were to receive that it might have been expected that most of them would be disappointed. On the contrary, blasé though they might be from so much entertainment, the Nobility of Europe were amazed and delighted at what they found in the Razumovsky Palace.
Wanda had felt almost unbearably excited ever since the invitation had come for the Baroness and herself.
“I was afraid that I might be forgotten,” she said, as the Baroness held out the huge invitation card.
“I should think there was no fear of that,” the old lady replied drily.
“I could not be sure,” Wanda answered, trying to speak calmly while her heart hammered in her breast that he had not forgotten.
She had not heard from the Czar for the past week and it seemed to her as if the days had never gone so slowly or seemed so long.
She would feel again those fierce demanding kisses on her mouth that he had given her before she had wrenched herself from his arms and run sobbing down the corridors of the Palace.
Why, she asked herself not once but a thousand times, had they quarrelled and been so ill at ease with each other during those precio
us moments together?
Had it been her fault?
She could not answer that question because she could not really understand what had happened.
Why had he been incensed with her, why had there been that sharp edge to his voice that had not been there that first night?
Young though she was in years, she was woman enough to know that she attracted him as he attracted her.
She could feel it in the magnetism that seemed to join them together so strongly, so unmistakably that there was no need to express it in words.
She had only to stand near him to realise that her heart was beating in unison with his. Why, then, had he been so strange? What had she done to upset him? Why had she seemed at times to detect something akin to disgust in his tone?
Then his silence!
That had been harder to bear than anything else. She had lain awake night after night, longing and yearning for some explanation, some word that would tell her that he had not forgotten or dismissed her forever from his life.
She had not believed until now that anyone could suffer so much or that suffering could be so painful. It was hard to disguise her feelings and her anguish from the Baroness and she thought at times that the old lady guessed her secret.
“No, you have not been forgotten, child,” the Baroness remarked drily. “But don’t count on keeping the favour of Princes. They breathe a more rarefied air than we ordinary mortals and, when it suits them, they use their omnipotence an as excuse for breaking every rule of normal civilised behaviour.”
“Some are not like that, I am sure,” Wanda answered.
“How are we to know?” the Baroness asked with a shrug of her shoulders. “And what can it matter to us who must not be deeply concerned with their lives?”
The Baroness was trying to warn her, but Wanda was determined not to listen and not to acknowledge what her heart told her was the truth.
“There are several eligible young men who are interested in you at the moment,” the Baroness went on. “The Comte de la Garde-Chambonas paid you many charming compliments when he was talking to me last night and the Comte de Rochchouart has asked if you will ride with him tomorrow morning. He is a nephew of the Duc de Richelieu and a most excellent parti as you must undoubtedly realise.”
“He is conceited and a bore,” Wanda said in a small voice.
The Baroness shook her head.
“All men are that when one knows them well,” she answered, “but the comforts of a good marriage are not to be ignored for that reason of for any other.”
Wanda gave a little laugh.
“I don’t believe you are half as cynical as you pretend,” she said.
The Baroness’ face softened.
Wanda was very lovely with the afternoon sun bringing out the fiery lights in her hair with her blue eyes dancing and her red lips parted over her white teeth.
“You will follow your heart, child, I can see that. Be careful where it takes you.”
“You understand really – I know you understand.”
Wanda was even surer of that on the evening of the ball, when the Baroness was at particular pains to see that she looked more beautiful than she had ever done before.
She wore a puff-sleeved, low-cut white tulle gown over a sheath of white satin. The Baroness let her choose leaf green gloves embroidered in silver and shoes to match, while for her hair, worn without powder, there was a garland of water-lily buds with leaves the same shade as her gloves. She carried in her hand the beautifully-painted fan that had been sent to replace the one that Richard had broken.
“You’ll be the belle of the ball,” the Baroness told her, but Wanda had shaken her head.
“Not while Princess Katharina Bagration is there,” she said and knew, as she spoke, the first pangs of jealousy.
She had seen Katharina in attendance on the Czar at every party. Two nights ago she had watched them together at the opera and the beauty of the older woman, with her fair hair and heavy-lidded oriental eyes, had swept away Wanda’s newly found conceit about herself as if it were the burnt ashes of a very small fire.
Never she thought, could she emulate the grace and elegance of Princess Katharina, apart from the fact that her beauty was in itself unique and quite unchallengeable.
She had not been able to see very clearly into the Czar’s box, but she thought that he had seemed amused and delighted with Katharina, talking with her in an animated manner and there was, Wanda thought miserably, something almost possessive in his attitude.
She had wept that night bitter tears into her pillow, trying to pretend to herself that she was lonely and homesick, but knowing the truth even while she would not admit it in so many words.
The next day there had been a military parade.
She had stood on the outskirts of the great crowd while the soldiery formed a huge double square and the Sovereigns came riding onto the ground on horseback.
The Czar, in his green uniform covered with decorations, had drawn great cheers from the tightly packed onlookers.
Wanda had felt her eyes prick with tears. He was so fine, so noble that she felt he was indeed, as the Baroness had said, a being from another world.
She could hardly bear to leave the house in case a message arrived while she was out.
But the days went by and there was nothing, just the aching fear in her heart that she might never hear from him again.
Now at the ball tonight she would be near him.
She had no eyes for the Russian dancers who opened the ball. She was not even interested in the lottery, which, in the latest fashion, provided rich and beautiful prizes for those among the guests who were lucky enough to draw a winning number.
She was looking all the time at only one person, hoping among the thousands of people assembled in the vast ballroom that he, too, was looking at her.
His great height and his white uniform covered with decorations made him outstandingly conspicuous. She could see him moving among his guests, but try as she might, there seemed to be no way that she could draw near to him.
She longed to appeal to the Baroness, but the old lady had found some cronies of her own and was seated comfortably by the ballroom floor, watching the dancers and criticising them with a caustic tongue.
By now Wanda knew many people in Vienna and she found no lack of partners.
Her beauty, her lack of sophistication and her quite undisguised enthusiasm made her an instantaneous success wherever the Baroness had taken her.
The Comte de Rochchouart, who was spoken of as a spoiled social lion, was very assiduous in his attentions, but Wanda hardly heard what he said and, when she danced with him, she was trying all the time to watch the Czar at the other end of the room.
It seemed to her that the hours passed slowly. The corps de ballet made their appearance dressed as gipsies and performed exotic sensuous dances that were greeted with great enthusiasm.
Wanda could see the Czar applauding them, while Katharina stood beside him, entrancingly lovely with a tiara of roses in her hair instead of one of jewels as was worn by all the other women.
She felt in that moment that she could not bear to watch him anymore.
He was not looking for her, not interested in the despair which made her turn away from the voluptuous excitement of a group of Russian dancers portraying an impassioned courtship.
She walked towards the end of the room where off the brilliantly lit arena there were little alcoves, curtained and decorated with exotic flowers where two people, if they wished, could sit in almost complete seclusion.
She must find somewhere where she could be alone, Wanda thought, conscious that her head as well as her heart was aching, while she felt as if she was empty of everything save her own misery.
No one seemed to notice that she had left the throng of onlookers.
Everyone’s eyes were on the whirling gyrating bodies of the dancers.
She stood for a moment with her hand on the curtain of one of the alcove
s and looked back. The Czar must have moved, she thought, for she could not see him.
Then she felt a hand grasp her wrist and she uttered a little cry of fear as she was pulled sharply backwards.
The curtain fell behind her over the entrance to the alcove and she found herself in darkness.
There was the acrid smell of candles that had just been snuffed and then, as strong fingers tightened on her wrist, she was no longer afraid.
She knew who was there, who had pulled her from the ballroom into the darkness and she gave a little cry of sheer joy.
“Hush!” his voice said sternly. “We don’t want anyone to come to the rescue.”
“You did see me then!”
Her voice was breathless.
“I have been watching you all the evening,” he answered.
“That is not true,” she replied, “but how glad I am that you have not forgotten me!”
“Did you really think I could forget?”
“I was hoping and praying that I might hear from you. Oh dear! I suppose I ought not to say that to you, but I am no good at pretending.”
“I’m not good at it either,” he answered. “We were very stupid the other night.”
“Don’t let us think about it,” Wanda begged.
He was very near to her, but he had not touched her save for that first moment when he had pulled her by the wrist into the alcove.
Now that her eyes were accustomed to the dimness, she could just see the vague outline of him, his broad shoulders, the proud carriage of his head.
She looked up at him, conscious that both their voices had died away and there seemed to be nothing else to say, but she could hear his breathing and knew her own breath was coming quickly through her parted lips.
“You are looking very lovely,” he said hoarsely.
“I wanted to look lovely.”
“For me?”
“You know that was the reason.”
It seemed to her that he made a sound like a groan.
“My dear, you haunt me. Do you know that everywhere I go I find myself looking for you? Looking for your little face with those blue eyes that make me think of an English sky, for your red lips. Have you forgotten the last time I kissed you? Why did you run away?”
The Enchanted Waltz Page 13
