I opened my eyes. I sat up, wincing as I did. My head was clear. I was ravenously hungry. Cold silver rays of sunlight streamed through the windows, and I saw the whitewashed walls and the low, beamed ceiling and marble fireplace and realized I must be in an inn. Shabby but exquisite rugs were scattered over the polished hardwood floor, faded pink and blue flowers against a worn gray background, and a lovely bouquet of blue and purple flowers sat on the bedside table in a thick white bowl. The fire had gone out. The room was chilly. I was wearing a white silk nightgown inset with rows of fragile lace, the garment damp, clinging to my body. I had never seen it before.
The door opened. The girl I had dreamed about earlier came into the room, but she was no apparition now. She was quite real, as lovely and exotic as I had dreamed, now wearing a gown of golden brown brocade embroidered with flowers in shimmering gold thread. Bodice, hem and the wrists of the long, tight sleeves were trimmed with glossy golden brown fur. She was carrying a tray, and those lovely eyes widened with surprise when she saw me sitting up.
“Are you feeling better?” she inquired in careful English.
“I—I don’t know—”
“I have very little English. Do you speak French?”
I nodded, shivering. The girl frowned.
“Oh, dear,” she exclaimed in French. “The fire has gone out. The room is freezing. You’ll catch a chill.”
Setting the tray down on the table beside the bowl of flowers, she hurried over to the fireplace. Although she was clearly aristocratic and had undoubtedly been pampered by servants all her life, she lighted the fire with a brisk efficiency, poking the logs until the flames were crackling nicely. I shivered, pulling the linen sheets and heavy lilac counterpane around me, resting my shoulders against the soft pillows.
“Where—where am I?” I asked.
My voice sounded weak and faint. Although my French was fluent, it took a great effort to enunciate the words properly. The girl turned, putting the heavy iron poker aside.
“You’re in an inn,” she replied. “My uncle and I found you after—just after the accident. We heard the noise of the crash, heard the driver yell. There was a curve in the road, so we couldn’t see, and by the time our coach got there the—your coach was demolished and the horses were running wild. They had broken free, and one—one of them—”
The girl hesitated, eyes dark as she remembered. “One of them was badly injured,” she continued. “My uncle had to shoot it. The other three were unharmed.”
“Ogilvy?” I whispered.
“The driver was apparently thrown clear of the wreckage. He—his neck was broken. He is dead. I—I’m very sorry, miss.”
My eyes were damp. I could feel salty tears. The girl came over to me and took my hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
“You must try to—try not to be upset,” she said quietly.
“It was my fault. I—I wanted him to hurry. I wanted to—”
I couldn’t finish the sentence. The girl squeezed my hand again and then wiped my tears away. I sighed, trying to control the emotions welling up inside.
“You had been thrown out of the coach. You were crumpled up on the road, completely unconscious. Two of our servants put you into our coach, and then we brought you here and summoned a doctor. He examined you carefully and determined that there were no broken bones. He—he wasn’t sure there weren’t other injuries. He’s been returning to check on you every day.”
“How—how long have I been here?”
“A week and three days,” she replied. “I’ve been taking care of you, giving you soup and water, changing your bedclothes. I—my uncle wanted to go on to London, but I felt responsible for you.”
“A week—I’ve been here a week and three days?”
“You’ve been very, very ill, miss. The doctor made his last call yesterday. There are no internal injuries, he said, there would have been symptoms by this time, but he told us you would need several more days of rest before it would be safe for you to travel.”
“I—”
Jeremy. Jeremy. I had to get to Jeremy. Panic rose and I tried to get out of bed. Scalding waves of pain swept over me. My whole body seemed to shriek in agony. The girl eased me back down onto the pillows, alarmed, and I sobbed as the black clouds enveloped me once more. I heard her speaking to me, her voice a distant murmur, and I felt something warm passing my lips, gliding down my throat. I knew nothing more for a very long time.
The pigeon was cooing loudly, a pleasant, peaceful sound that gradually penetrated the silent darkness. I stirred, and when I opened my eyes I could see him prancing on the window sill outside, pearl gray feathers silver in the early morning light. I knew that it was morning, but I had no idea how many days might have passed. My body felt stiff and ached all over, but the ache was dull and there was no real pain, not even when I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. I stood up. A wave of dizziness besieged me. I gripped the headboard, closing my eyes as a million tiny needles seemed to jab my skin.
The sensation passed. My head cleared. I was weak, but all the clouds had gone and I was fully conscious for the first time. Catching sight of myself in the mirror across the room, I saw that I was wearing another unfamiliar nightgown, pale yellow satin. My face was drawn, my coppery red hair damp with perspiration, and the sapphire blue eyes that gazed back at me were dark and disturbed. Staggering across the room, I found a large white bowl and a pitcher of water behind a worn blue silk screen. I washed my face as the sunlight grew stronger. The pigeon had flown away, but geese were honking in the courtyard below and a cow was lowing in a nearby pasture. As I emptied the last of the water into a bowl, I heard a vehicle of some sort entering the courtyard, harness jangling, wheels crunching noisily over the cobbles.
“You’re out of bed,” the girl said.
I turned. I hadn’t heard her come into the room. She was wearing white this morning, the thin, long sleeved frock embroidered with delicate blue and violet flowers, a blue satin sash around her slender waist. Although exquisite, the garment was foreign in style, unlike any I had ever seen. Her golden brown hair was neatly brushed, her young face lovely yet disturbed.
“We must get you back into bed,” she said. “You shouldn’t be—”
“I’m fine,” I told her. My voice was crisper than I had intended it to be.
“Perhaps—perhaps it’s all right. The doctor said you should build your strength.”
“Is this your nightgown?”
She nodded. “I’m smaller than you, not so tall, but the nightgowns are cut very full in Russia.”
“You’re Russian?”
“I’m Lucie Orlov. My uncle is Count Gregory Orlov.”
“I’m Marietta Danver,” I said.
“‘Marietta’—it is a beautiful name. It suits you.”
“Why—thank you.”
“Do you remember the conversation we had a few days ago, Miss Danver?”
“I—I vaguely remember you telling me about the—the accident. Ogilvy was killed and I was thrown clear and—” I paused, the horror sweeping over me again.
“You were very fortunate,” Lucie said. “The coach was demolished. You could have been killed yourself. We were very concerned about you. I’m so relieved to see you feeling better. I imagine you would like something to eat.”
“I would also like a bath and some proper clothes.”
“Your trunks are downstairs,” she told me. “My uncle sent two of the men back for them after we brought you here to the inn. I’ll have them brought up. Would you like to eat before or after your bath?”
“I’ll eat after.”
The girl nodded again and left the room. A few minutes later the door was opened and two strapping men came in carrying my trunks. Both wore high black boots and odd-looking blue velvet livery with thick silver braid at shoulders and chest, and both were well over six feet tall, the towering black fur hats atop their heads making them seem even taller. Faces broad-boned and sullen
, muscles bulging beneath the velvet, they set the trunks down beneath the window and left the room without so much as glancing at me. I put another log on the fire and jabbed at it with the poker, still weak but feeling more clear-headed by the minute.
The two men returned a short while later carrying a large white porcelain tub adorned with strangely shaped orange and blue flowers. The colors were extremely vivid, each petal outlined in gold. The tub obviously did not belong to the innkeeper, I thought, watching them set it down behind the shabby blue silk screen. Three more men, identically attired, as powerfully built and sullen, came with towels, soap, sponge and pails of water. None of them looked at me as the tub was filled, as towels, soap and sponge were arranged on the table. One of them said something in a rumbling, guttural voice, speaking in Russian, and then they all trooped out, the last one shutting the door.
Count Orlov must be extremely wealthy to have so many servants, I mused as I removed the yellow satin nightgown. The gold outlining the brilliant blue and orange flowers on the tub was genuine, I noted, and as I stepped into the water I was amazed to find that the inside of the tub was completely covered with the same gold gilt. The water was hot, steaming lightly as I sank down into it. The pale lilac soap was scented with an elusive fragrance vaguely suggestive of faded violets, and the lather it made was thick and creamy, like liquid silk caressing my skin. I reveled in the luxury of it, washing myself thoroughly, washing my hair as well, relaxing as the warmth and wetness soothed my body.
There were bruises on my arms and thighs, a rather bad bruise on my right ankle, but they had all begun to fade, pale tannish mauve, barely visible. I was fortunate indeed to have survived the accident without sustaining any major injuries, even more fortunate to have been discovered so soon by Orlov and his niece. Who were they? The name Orlov seemed curiously familiar. I felt certain that I had heard it before. I frowned, thinking hard. Orlov? Orlov? It seemed to be linked in memory with some terrible act of political violence. A revolution? An assassination? It was all extremely vague. I might well be mistaken.
Running my fingers through my hair, creating a rich, silky crown of lather, I concentrated on the present. I had been here a week and three days when I first awakened and talked with Lucie Orlov, and I had no way of telling how many days had passed since. Jeremy had planned to remain in London for only a week, and then he was leaving for America. I faced that fact as calmly as possible. Something might have come up, of course. He might not have been able to book passage so soon. He might still be at The White Hart, but if he wasn’t, if he had already departed, I would follow him on the next boat. There was no need to panic. All my money had been deposited in the Bank of England, Jeremy had gone to Threadneedle Street himself to open the account, and I was a wealthy woman. I would book passage and perhaps … perhaps I would even get to America before he did.
The sound of the door opening interrupted my thoughts. I was startled to see three of the Orlov servants entering, two of them carrying more water, the third with an embroidered blue silk robe over his arm. I cried out in protest as they came around the screen, great muscular giants, faces expressionless as they surrounded the tub. Arms folded over my bosom, I ordered them to leave in a trembling voice. They paid no attention. One of them took hold of my wrist and pulled me to my feet. I tried to pull free, terrified now, but the brute held me firmly as I slipped and splashed and almost fell back into the water. He had dark blond hair and sullen brown eyes and broad, flat cheekbones, and his wide mouth curled savagely as he spoke harshly in Russian, squeezing my wrist even tighter.
I cried out as the other two men doused me with the buckets of warm water, rinsing me thoroughly, and then the blond brute hauled me out of the tub and set me on my feet. Shivering, shaken, I stood there in horror as he took up one of the enormous towels and began to dry me off. His eyes were flat and expressionless as he massaged my back and buttocks with the fluffy cloth, moving around to dry my shoulders, bosom, and stomach. Kneeling, he dried my thighs and calves, lifting first one foot, then the other, bunching the towel up around my toes. Finished, he stood up and moved away as his companion handed me the gorgeous blue silk robe. I pulled it on, my hands trembling as I tied the sash around my waist.
The blond bellowed something in Russian. The other two men nodded and picked up the tub, one at each end. Filled as it was with water, it had to be tremendously heavy, but they showed no signs of strain, carrying it from the room without spilling a single drop. The blond gave me a surly look, picked up the damp towel and followed the others into the hall. I slammed the door behind him and locked it, outraged now, fuming as I found another towel and rubbed my hair briskly. I was still furious when, twenty minutes later, I unlocked the door to let Lucie in. My hair was dry, brushed to a gleaming coppery sheen, and I was wearing a bronze-and-cream-striped linen frock I had taken from one of the trunks, the full skirt belling over half a dozen thin cream linen underskirts. When she saw the expression on my face, the girl’s eyes clouded with apprehension.
“You—your cheeks are terribly pink. Is something wrong?”
“Something certainly is! I was in the middle of my bath when three of your servants came barging in here. They jerked me out of the tub and poured water all over me and then—then one of them dried me off!”
Lucie saw no reason whatsoever for my alarm. “The job wasn’t done satisfactorily?” she inquired.
“Satisfactorily!”
“Vladimir doesn’t know his own strength. Sometimes he rubs too hard when he’s using the towel. I’ve scolded him about it time and again. I fear my uncle will have to discipline him.”
“You mean—” I was momentarily speechless. “You mean they—they attend you in the bath, too?”
“But of course,” she replied, puzzled by my dismay, and then understanding dawned. “Oh, I see, your English customs are perhaps different. You are peculiarly—what is the word?—modest, I believe.”
“You might say that!” I snapped.
“But there is no need to be,” she explained. “They are merely servants.”
That seemed to explain everything as far as she was concerned. These Russians were certainly different, I reflected, trying my best to see the humor of the situation. Lucie smiled a shy smile and stepped back to gaze admiringly at my frock, taking in the long, tight sleeves, the plunging neckline and form-fitting bodice and swelling skirt.
“It’s lovely,” she remarked. “So simple and yet so elegant. The clothes I have are so—so Russian.”
“Your frock is beautiful.”
“It is—how you say?—old-fashioned? I hope to buy a complete new wardrobe before I return to Russia. Perhaps you will help me select it.”
“I’d be delighted to, if there’s time.”
“Please do not be embarrassed, but I must tell you—you are perhaps the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.” She extended the compliment hesitantly, eyes lowered demurely, but I could tell it was completely sincere. “Your hair is like copper fire, so rich and lustrous, your features are those of a grand English lady without—without the haughty coldness, and your eyes are so blue, like sapphires.”
“You’re very kind, Lucie.”
“I would so like to be beautiful myself,” she confessed.
“But you are!” I protested.
Lucie shook her head sadly. “I have the features of my Mongolian ancestors who invaded Russia centuries ago, the slanted eyes, the too-high cheekbones. In Russia this is a sign of low caste. My father was a grand aristocrat, but my mother—”
She cut herself short and smiled another shy smile that begged me to forgive her for being so personal. At that moment the door opened and the blond giant entered, standing aside as four other servants trooped in bearing an ebony table inlaid with gold and mother-of-pearl, two chairs, a silver tray, linen cloth and napkins. I watched in some dismay as the table was set with gorgeous white porcelain china banded with rich royal blue and etched with gold, as silver tableware was placed an
d heavy silver lids removed to reveal a dazzling display of food. When the task was completed, the four men stood at attention and the blond, Vladimir, inspected their work with a savage expression. Satisfied, he growled an order in Russian and all five men marched out.
I stared at the plate of fluffy yellow eggs, the kippered herring and thick slices of juicy ham, the steamed mushrooms and crisp curls of bacon. There was a plate of scones, a rack of thin toast, jars of thick, clotted cream, strawberry preserves and marmelade, the pièce de résistance a mound of glistening pearl gray caviar surrounded by finely chopped onion and minced boiled egg. Lucie looked at the array with barely concealed disgust.
“Our chef prepared this meal for you,” she explained. “He travels with us, of course. The English food is abominable, no?”
“Usually,” I agreed.
“The innkeeper explained eggs and herring and that barbarous ham would be appropriate for an English lady. You really consume such fare?”
“I intend to eat every bite.”
“I will have a bit of caviar to keep you company. Vladimir will bring the coffee in a short while.”
We sat down at the table and Lucie sighed as I heaped my plate with eggs and bacon and ham. She watched me eat with disbelief, as though I were committing an act of defilement, but that didn’t deter me. I had rarely been so hungry, and as Lucie indifferently nibbled a piece of toast spread with caviar, I ate heartily. Vladimir appeared with an ornate silver pot and filled two delicate cups with dark, aromatic coffee. I piled clotted cream and strawberry preserves on a scone as he left the room.
“How many servants do you have?” I asked.
“Only twenty with us,” she confessed. “My uncle believes one should travel in simple style. There are just four coaches besides our carriage, carrying the barest minimum of necessities.”
“Like the bath tub and this table and china,” I said.
Love Me, Marietta Page 64
