Falling Stars

by Anita Mills

  Townsend studied her for a moment, then smiled. “Apparently you are more in fashion than you thought.”

  To her utter surprise, he took the chair beside her. “Are you quite certain this is not a wager?” she asked. “I mean, I cannot think, you—”

  “Actually, I am merely waiting for someone.”

  “Oh.”

  He leaned back, resting his head against the French paper on the wall. “However, if I were you, I should not waste my time throwing my cap over the windmill for the dashing Count Volsky. He won’t be here very long.”

  Her back stiffened. “I am not so green as to set my cap for the first gentleman to waltz with me, my lord,” she retorted coldly.

  “That would be me, Kate—and, no, it wouldn’t do you any good if you did. My salad days,” he declared definitely, “are far from over.”

  His manner infuriated her. “Bell Townsend, if I lived in medieval times and discovered I was promised to you, I should rather have shaved my head and taken religious orders,” she told him with feeling.

  “Ah, there you are, mon ami!” For a moment, Katherine thought Madame Malenkov addressed her, but it was Bellamy Townsend’s hand the woman took. He rose as she held out her dance card. “I am promised to you this time, n ‘est ce pas?”

  Just then, Kate caught sight of Alexei Volsky standing by her sister, and her spirits plummeted. Why did he have to notice Claire also? Just once, she would like to be the one with the triumphs to tell. But it would not happen—once Claire exerted herself to flirt with a gentleman, he never looked at Kate again. And tonight, she could not bear it.

  She found her brother lounging along the opposite wall, a glass of wine punch in his hand. His face was flushed, either from dancing or drink. He raised his glass to her.

  “To the Russians, Katie!”

  It was drink. “Harry, I should like to go home.”

  He blinked. “Waltzed twice—saw you with my own eyes—the Jersey remarked it. Dash it, but now’s not—”

  “My head aches abominably.”

  “Wouldn’t know it by—” He stopped and peered more closely at her. “Do look peaked.”

  “Please, Harry.”

  He downed the wine and set the empty glass on a passing tray. “Well, not much left but supper, anyway,” he conceded. “Party’s a crashing bore. Tell you what—get Mama and Claire, and I’ll set you down on my way to White’s.”

  She shook her head. “Claire won’t want to go. Perhaps Lord Hargrove could be persuaded to take her.”

  “Can’t send her off alone with him.”

  “Mama can go with them, can’t she?”

  He digested that for a moment, then nodded. “Wait here, and I’ll tell them. Ten to one, Mama will be like a cat over cream at the thought. Anything to nudge Hargrove along, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  In the carriage, she pulled her shawl tightly about her shoulders and leaned back, closing her eyes, hoping her brother did not mean to tease her. A silence, broken only by the rattle of the iron-clad wheels on the cobbled street, descended. It was not until they were nearly home that Harry spoke up.

  “Volsky asked me about you.”

  “And I suppose you hinted he should dance with me,” she muttered.

  “No. Why would you say a thing like that?”

  “I don’t need pity, Harry. And I know you must have asked Bell Townsend.”

  He blinked. “No—got that all wrong, Kate. It wasn’t me, I swear it. Just as surprised as you, if you want the truth. Can’t say I wasn’t glad, though, ‘cause it ain’t your fault you don’t take. If Mama would leave you be—”

  “She cannot make me taller—and she cannot make me pretty.”

  “He inquired as to how old you are, by the by.”

  “Don’t be absurd. He knows precisely how old I am.”

  “Not Bell. Volsky.”

  Somehow that was a lowering thought. “So now he knows I am but one step from being an ape-leader.”

  “It wasn’t like that at all.”

  “Harry, don’t you fun with me, for you are not the least bit amusing!”

  “You must have a devil of a headache,” he murmured sympathetically.

  “It is getting worse.” She leaned her head against the coolness of the door pane. “Much worse.”

  “You ought to go to bed as soon as you get home. Maybe Peg can do something for it.”

  She sat up abruptly. “Oh, lud—don’t tell her, I pray you, for the last time she burned feathers. It was weeks before the smell left my pillows.”

  He was silent again, and this time she could scarce stand it. Finally, her own resolve not to discuss the dashing Russian crumbled.

  “How old is he?”

  “Thirty.”

  “I knew it for a hum! I should scarce call that old.”

  “I should hope not. I’ll be there next year, and so will Bell.” He leaned forward slightly. “You know, what with Bell and Volsky dancing with you, things might be better now.”

  “Harry, you are disguised.”

  “Remarked—I swear it.” He looked out the window briefly, then back to her. “In any event, we are home.”

  Opening his own door, he jumped down, then went around the front of the coach to wrench hers. “Catching her by her waist, he lifted her out easily. “There. You know, tomorrow I’m going to tell Mama to buy you something with a little color.”

  “She won’t agree.” Standing on tiptoe, she brushed a quick kiss against his cheek. “Good night, Harry—you are quite the best of brothers.”

  Once inside the house, she hurried to her chamber, undressed quickly, and slipped into bed. Lying there, she clasped her arms over her breasts and tried to relive every minute of her waltz with Alexei Volsky. For this one night, for a few brief moments, she had felt almost pretty. But as her mind began to wander in that hazy world before sleep, it was Bellamy Townsend’s handsome face that floated before her, Bellamy Townsend’s gray eyes that teased her, telling her she was green.

  Katherine pulled her pillow over her head and tried to ignore the persistent pounding on her door. She’d spent an utterly miserable night, tossing and turning, plagued by wild, utterly impossible dreams. When it became obvious that the knocking was not going to stop, she rolled over and called out crossly, “I pray you will go away, for I am still abed!”

  The door opened, and her sister slipped inside. “Kate, you cannot mean to sleep all day.”

  “I have the headache,” Katherine muttered.

  “Still? Then perhaps you ought to have Peg burn some feathers for you. The last time—”

  “The last time the smell made it worse.”

  Clarissa moved closer to peer into Katherine’s face. “You did not partake of the wine last night, did you? Mama would not—”

  “Of course not!”

  “Well, I daresay when you are up and about, it will go away.” Having afforded all the sympathy she had, Clarissa plopped down on the end of the bed and began regaling Kate with her triumphs. “You left far too early, you know. I vow it was the most exciting party of the Season! Only fancy—I danced with all the Russians—except that hatman—and the czar, of course.”

  “Hetman,” Katherine corrected her. “Platov’s title is hetman.”

  “Except the Cossack then. Really, Kate, but what does it matter how he is called? Now—where was I?”

  “Dancing.”

  “One would think you do not wish to hear the best of all,” the younger girl declared peevishly, throwing up her hands. “It would serve you right if I didn’t tell you!” When Katherine did not respond, Clarissa leaned forward. “I danced with Count Volsky—and—oh Kate!—I vow he is nearly as handsome as Bellamy Townsend!”

  “If you danced with all of them, I expect you did,” Katherine responded dryly. “Really, Claire, but I do have the headache.”

  Ignoring that, the younger girl continued to chatter eagerly. “Anyway, he is quite taken with me—I could tell it
!”

  “I expect he was.” Not wishing to hear more of Alexei Volsky, Katherine tried to turn the conversation away from him. “What of Hargrove? Did he bring you and Mama home?”

  “Actually, he was quite pleased to do it.”

  “And I trust Mama was in alt over that?”

  “She toad-ate him all the way home.” Not to be denied, Clarissa returned to the exciting part of her story. “But we were speaking of Count Volsky, Kate.”

  “And the rest of the Russians who stood up with you, no doubt.”

  “Oh, everyone danced with me! I vow I was the toast of the evening! There was Ponsonby—and Palmerston—even Brummell himself!”

  “And Lord Hargrove—Mama would not have you forget him, for I think she has quite fixed her hopes there.”

  Clarissa tossed her head, practicing the effect, then made a face at Kate. “Now he tried to get me to waltz thrice with him!” Giggling like a schoolgirl, she confided, “He was ever so jealous of Count Volsky, I swear it.”

  “Well, he cannot be blamed, for you have certainly led him on full half the Season.”

  “Kate! I did no such thing!”

  “Well, if you didn’t, you are a shameless flirt.”

  The younger girl stared for a moment, then recovered. “I shall consider that envy merely,” she declared haughtily. “Just because you came home with some megrim—”

  “Caused by boredom.”

  “Well, if you had not sat there like some sort of Antidote, I daresay somebody might have taken pity on you.”

  “I don’t want anybody’s pity.”

  Not wanting to lose the opportunity to crow over her greatest triumph, Clarissa leaned to pat Kate’s hand. “Of course you do not,” she murmured soothingly. “Believe me, I should like nothing better than to see you suitably settled.”

  “As Mama will not require that I be fired off first, I fail to see why,” Katherine murmured mildly.

  “Goose! You are my only sister, after all.”

  “Claire-”

  “Well, I daresay it does not signify. I expect you will get some sort of offer this year. There is Mr. Thurgood—”

  “I am not going to be anyone’s fourth wife, Claire.”

  “Well, I daresay that does not signify just now, anyway.” Clarissa’s lovely face took on the look of a cat after cream. “Only fancy—he took me in to sup!”

  The knot in Kate’s stomach tightened. “Who?”

  “Why Count Volsky, of course! And he has such address!”

  “How nice for you,” Kate said without enthusiasm.

  “We were but six seats from His Imperial Highness—six seats from the czar, Kate! He must be quite rich, don’t you think?”

  “If he is autocrat of all the Russias, I expect he is.”

  “I wasn’t speaking of the czar!” Clarissa snapped, irritated. “I meant Volsky! Usually you are not such a slow-top.”

  “I expect it is the headache.”

  “Yes, well, I sat between him and Count Platov. Kate, I think he has a particularity for me!”

  “Somehow I cannot quite envision you in a Cossack hut, Claire.”

  “Not the hetman, ninny! Volsky! You are a slow-top!”

  Katherine sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “I should not refine too much on a dance with Count Volsky.” She managed a slightly lopsided smile. “After all, I expect he danced with everyone. Indeed, but even I waltzed with him.”

  The younger girl gave a squeal of triumph. “I knew it! You are as jealous as Hargrove! And a dance is not of the same particularity as supper!”

  Kate rose and reached for her wrapper. “No, I am not so foolish as to think a waltz meant anything.” Tying it around her, she moved to ring for her maid. “Do you stay to drink your morning chocolate with me?” she asked mildly.

  “Lud. no! I had mine ages ago. I vow I could not sleep for thinking of him!”

  Her back to her sister, Kate murmured, “Hargrove?”

  “You know very well whom I meant!” Claire retorted. “Lord Hargrove is a crashing bore!” She flounced toward the door. Stopping there, she turned back. “I can fix his interest, you know,” she declared smugly. And there was no doubt whom she meant. With that, she left.

  While Katherine waited for Peg to come up, she took a chair to the window and sat down. It did no good to tell herself that her sister’s flighty barbs did not hurt. She had but to look at a fellow for Claire to get him. It was not fair in the least. Her one consolation was that Volsky would leave—and soon, and she would not have to see an ignominious repetition of the pattern. Then she recalled Bell Townsend and wondered why she’d forgotten to mention him also. Now that would have taken the wind from her sister’s sails.

  “I brung yer chocolate—and I took leave ter put yer breakfast with it, miss.”

  “Just leave it on the table.”

  “Ye ain’t blue-deviled, are ye?”

  “No—I have the headache.”

  The maid set the tray down and came closer. “Well, ye do look a bit hagged,” she decided. “Maybe ye ought ter get back ter bed. I can tell yer mama—”

  “I daresay it will go away after I have eaten.” Katherine stood up and glanced down from the window. What she saw made her heart nearly stop. “Just go on, Peg—I’ll call you when I am done.”

  “But I ain’t set it out fer ye, and—”

  “Go on. I can tend to it for myself.”

  Muttering that “Miss Kate is out o’ reason cross ter-day, and ’tis a shame, it is, for the sun’s shining,” Peg left.

  But Katherine wasn’t attending her. Below, Madame Malenkov and Count Volsky stepped from an exceedingly smart landau. The Russian nobleman’s head was bare, and his black hair shone in the morning sun. He was in full uniform, with his hussar hat tucked beneath one arm. His black boots had a shine that would have shamed Beau Brummell. As he mounted the steps, Kate forced her gaze to his sister. The curled brim of the lovely widow’s green hat showed her auburn hair to advantage. As Kate stared, they disappeared inside.

  She could hear Clarissa running up the back stairs, ordering Peg to find their mother’s dresser quickly. She could not face Count Volsky “looking like the veriest wreck!” Kate’s already low spirits plummeted, and she considered going back to bed. They had not come to call on her, anyway.

  Galena Malenkova’s warm voice carried upward, followed by the deeper, yet softer sound of Alexei Volsky’s. Kate listened as her mama directed them into the front saloon. Apparently, the Russians did not know that they were supposed to merely leave cards in the tray in the hall, that it was too early to be actually received. And equally apparent, her mother did not care, for her voice betrayed her excitement. Everyone was enamored of all Russians, Kate reflected almost sourly. By nightfall, every female Lady Winstead knew would be apprised of this signal honor. The only thing better would be if Czar Alexander himself had come with them.

  Reluctantly, Kate turned to her chocolate. This morning it was too thick and too sweet. Setting it back on her tray, she covered it with a napkin to hide from Peg that she had not drunk it. Well, let Mama and Claire toad-eat them—she herself did not intend to go down. It would be quite enough to listen to her sister boast of this newest conquest when they were gone.

  Peg slipped through the door, scarce able to hide her excitement, then blurted out, “They are asking fer ye, miss! And her ladyship said I was ter fetch ye directly down,” she added. She stopped. “Ye ain’t dressed.”

  “Of course not!” Kate retorted crossly. Almost as soon as she spoke, she was contrite. “Oh, Peg, I’m sorry—it is not your fault that I am not quite the thing today.”

  “Ye ain’t going ter let her steal the march on ye, are ye?” the woman demanded.

  “Look at me—I cannot go down,” Kate protested. “I cannot show to advantage beside her.”

  “Humph! Seems ter me ye ain’t going to have ter—they asked for you, not her.”

  “There must be a mista
ke—they have the names confused, I expect.” For a moment, she was torn, then Claire’s words echoed in her mind. I can fix his interest, you know. “Tell Mama to advise them I have the headache,” she said dully. “Perhaps another day.”

  “Here now, missy—what’s this?” Lady Winstead stepped into the room and surveyed Kate. She winced visibly, then declared, “You’ll do no such thing, Katherine! I myself can scarce credit it, but Madame Malenkov insists they are come to take you up—something about a promised trip to St. James Park.”

  “St. James Park?” Kate repeated blankly. “Oh—I collect they wish to see the flowers.”

  “There are flowers everywhere,” her mother replied sourly. “You will make yourself presentable immediately and come down.”

  “Mama, I have the headache!”

  “I don’t care if both limbs are broken,” Lady Winstead snapped. “This is your chance to be seen with them, and you’ll not let it pass, missy!”

  “They cannot bring me into fashion, Mama!” Kate wailed. “They are leaving!”

  “I’ll have none of this missish behavior—not now, Katherine.” With that, her mother turned and walked away.

  Kate stared after her. Volsky had come to see her? There had to be a mistake. Or else she’d misled him last night into thinking that St. James Park had to be seen. That must be the case.

  “Ain’t no time fer woolgathering, miss,” Peg said, cutting into Kate’s thoughts. “Miss Clarissa ain’t going ter be ready ere she can make ’em wait, don’t ye know?”

  Kate turned around and untied her wrapper. Slowly, it sank into her consciousness—Volsky had come to see her, not her sister. And Claire was not yet down. Claire was not yet down. “Fetch a walking dress, Peg,” she ordered, tearing at the buttons on her night rail, feeling a certain urgency.

  “Which one?”

  “It does not matter—none of them becomes me in the least.”

  Pulling the nightgown over her head and letting it fall to the floor, Kate reached for her zona. Her fingers worked frantically at the laces, tightening and tying them. She had to hurry. Quickly, she put on her stockings and rolled them at her knees, knotting them there. Peg presented her with her best slip, and she fairly dived into it, then turned to take the dress. It was pale blue lustring, plainly cut, and no doubt it made her look even plainer than she was, but there was no time to waste choosing another. As she fastened the small buttons at the neck, she glimpsed herself in the mirror, and her resolve deserted her.